The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 41, April 10, 1841

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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 41, April 10, 1841

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 41, APRIL 10, 1841 ***

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

NUMBER 41.

SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 1841.

VOLUME I.

KILLYMOON, COUNTY OF TYRONE,

THE RESIDENCE OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL W. STEWART

The subject which we have chosen as an embellishment to our present number, is a view of one of the most aristocratic residences in the province of Ulster, or, as we might perhaps say, in all Ireland. It is therefore deserving of a place in our topographical illustrations from its own importance; but we confess that it is not on that account only that we have thus selected it for illustration, and that, even if its attraction had been less, it would still have paramount claims on our notice, as the residence, when delicate health permits, of one of the best of landlords, and most estimable and accomplished gentlemen in his native province. Such, at least, is the impression made on our mind from all that we have ever heard of Colonel Stewart’s private character; and it is only, therefore, in harmony with what might be expected of such a proprietor, that the enjoyment of the beauty and magnificence which nature and art have conjointly contributed to create at Killymoon should not be restricted to himself or friends, but be freely extended without solicitation to all ranks of the community, whom indeed he may justly and proudly class under the same denomination.

Killymoon House, or Castle, as it is popularly called, is situated in the immediate vicinity of Cookstown, and on the north bank of the Ballinderry or Kildress river, a beautiful stream which winds through the demesne. It was erected for the father of the present proprietor by the celebrated English architect Mr Nash, and cost, it is said, no less a sum than £80,000.

Like that of most architectural compositions of Mr Nash, the general effect of Killymoon is at once imposing and picturesque. Its form is that of a parallelogram; the north and east sides, which are the principal architectural fronts, and contain the chief apartments, being but little broken in their surfaces, and forming two sides of the square; while the remaining sides, which contain the offices, are of an irregular ground-plan, and are much hidden by trees. The east, or principal front, which is that represented in our wood-cut, has a large circular tower nearly at its centre, and is terminated at its northern angle by an octagon tower of inferior height, but otherwise equal dimensions; and the north front, extending from the octagon tower above mentioned, has a square tower at its west extremity, with which is connected, in a nearly continuous line, a structure in the style of a Gothic chapel, having stained glass windows, and buttresses intervening, and a belfry at its western termination: this portion of the building, however, is used as a library, and is the only part remaining of the original mansion which existed on the estate when the ancestor of Colonel Stewart purchased it from the Earl of Tyrone, and which was subsequently destroyed by an accidental fire. The north or entrance front is adorned with a porch leading into a small vestibule, and thence into the hall, which is of great size, and is terminated by a stone staircase having two return flights leading to a corridor which communicates with the bed-chambers. This hall also communicates by doors with the several portions of the building below, those on the west side leading to the servants’ rooms, and those on the east to the state apartments, which consist of a breakfast parlour, dining-room, ante-room, and drawing-room, all of which are of noble proportions, and their woodwork of polished oak.

It will be seen from the preceding description that the general character of this building is that of a castle; and we may add, that the details of its architecture are for the most part those popularly but erroneously called Saxon. But, like most modern structures of this kind, it has but little accurate resemblance to an ancient military fortress, and its architectural details present that capricious medley of styles of various ages, ecclesiastical, domestic, and military, so commonly found in modern buildings of this description. Such an incongruous amalgamation of styles, however, in an architectural composition, is, it must be confessed, not very consistent with refined taste, and cannot be too strongly reprobated; but it has existed for a considerable time, and will unfortunately continue till architects become skilful antiquaries as well as tasteful artists, and their employers acquire such an accurate judgment and knowledge of art as will enable them to form a correct opinion of the capabilities of those they employ, and not take their estimate of them, as now, from fashion or popular reputation.

The demesne attached to this noble residence ranks second to none in Tyrone in extent, the beauty of many of its features, and the fineness of its timber. The Kildress river, which passes through it, is crossed about the centre of the demesne by a picturesque bridge of five arches; and from this point the most favourable views of the surrounding scenery are to be had. Looking northwards, the sloping banks of the river, at the opposite sides of an extensive meadow, are thickly planted with larch, fir, beech, and ash, from the midst of which, an aged oak is here and there seen to rise above its younger and less aspiring companions; and, looking westward, the turrets of the castle overtop the deep masses of foliage which cluster round it on every side. In like manner, to the east, the river winds its way through a tract of rich meadow land, the banks of which are fringed with sallows and thorn trees; and to the south, the grounds slope gently up from the river, and present detached groups of elms and oaks of the most luxuriant character. The views in this demesne are indeed such as might naturally be expected in conjunction with a mansion of such magnificence, and will, as we are persuaded, not create a feeling of disappointment in the minds of any, whether artist or pleasure tourist, who may be led by our remarks to visit them.

P.

THE SPANISH MOTHER.

During that dark and ill-recorded period in which Spain was little more than a field of battle between the Moors and the Christians, the Sanchos of Navarre held the most conspicuous rank among the peninsular potentates, and Sanchez “el Mayor” was the most conspicuous of the Sanchos. Besides the throne of Navarre, he had succeeded to the royalty of Arragon, and the sovereignty of Castile was the dower of his queen. He had married the beauteous Elvira Muna early in life; and before he had reached the full prime of manhood, two of his sons, Garcia and Gonsalo, were able to bear the panoply of a knight; and a third, Fernando, a boy of thirteen, was sighing for the day to come when he too should have the spur upon his heel and the sword upon his thigh. Another son, also, King Sancho boasted of, but not by Donna Elvira. In his very first battle he had been taken prisoner by a Moorish captain of high rank, and confined in a dreary dungeon many days and nights, until at length his escape was effected by means of the daughter of his conqueror, a maiden of exquisite beauty named Caya, who had seen him, and fallen in love with him. This Moorish girl the generous young prince would gladly have married, if the political or religious laws of Navarre would have permitted him; but he tried to persuade himself and her, that, under such circumstances, the tie which bound them together after their flight from her father’s fortress would be nearly as sacred as if it were a conjugal one. The offspring of their love was a boy, whom Sancho named Ramiro, and who grew up with the king’s legitimate children. Caya too—it was the custom of those days—lived at court, and was paid respect and honour besides, as the deliverer of the country’s hope. She had abjured, at least outwardly, her Moslem creed, and, for the sake of her son, whom she tenderly loved, conformed in all respects to the customs of her adopted one. In truth, however, she was a quiet, unpretending creature, who never said or did anything to the injury of anyone with malice prepense, and not being feared, was not hated. Even Elvira herself, hateful to Caya for giving her no reasonable cause for jealousy since her marriage with Sancho (which was a mere matter of state policy), made the Moorish woman the confidante of most of her joys and sorrows. And many were the sorrows of that gentle queen. Sancho had ever been indifferent towards her, though she repaid his coldness with devoted attachment. He was, besides, continually away at the wars, in imminent danger from the chances of battle, while she, at home, was ever mourning over the neglect of her lord and the disobedience of her children. Garcia had made, before his twentieth year, no fewer than three different attempts to excite a revolt in Ribagorza during the absence of the king, impatient as he was to seize the reins of command. Gonsalo, cunning as a fox, and darkly-working as a mole, was continually endeavouring, by secret machinations, to render the people of Navarre discontented with the government of his mother and her councillors; and even the child Fernando had exhibited signs of a rebellious nature, and was but too apt to listen to the dangerous instructions of his brothers. Elvira, therefore, was greatly to be pitied, debarred, as she thus found herself, from all the joys which she naturally yearned for as a wife and a mother. If Caya was an ambitious woman, as most of her nation were, or if she had cherished, under an outward show of meekness and contentedness, thoughts and purposes of bringing about by means of her opportunities the establishment of the Moorish dynasty in Christian Spain, she might have drawn hope of success in her schemes from the dissensions of the royal family; at least she might have sought in them some excuse for making her darling Ramiro a sharer in one of those arbitrary partitions of the Spanish kingdoms which the barbarous notions of the times rendered of frequent recurrence. But Caya was gifted with too noble a mind to seek any advantage, however tempting, by unworthy means. She still fondly loved the chivalrous prince with whom she fled from a cruel father’s roof, and with whom, for a few happy, happy years, she had forgotten the pleasant olive groves of Grenada, under the wild pine forests and glaciers of the Pyrenees. She sincerely compassionated the sorrows of Elvira, and therefore the afflicted queen had a safe and steady friend in her generous rival. Let the reader “judge with knowledge” these two women in their affection for one another—

In those old, romantic days,

Mighty were the soul’s commandments

To support, restrain, or raise!

Their rivalry was of the forbearing kind which existed between the two wives of that old crusader mentioned in the Orlandus of Kenelin Henry Digby, and which the first poet of our day[1] has thought it worth his while to embalm for all eternity in his “Armenian Lady’s Love.” But Elvira had another trusty friend in Sancho’s “master of the horse,” whom he was wont to leave behind him as deputy when he went to the wars. Don Pedro Sesse was a faithful minister and a merciful viceroy. A gallant soldier in his youth, he was an enemy to treachery and to everything that tended to infringe the laws of chivalry. He it was who had frustrated the designs of Garcia and Gonsalo, and had therefore earned their hatred. Elvira looked to him as her best guide and protector amidst the sorrows of her lot.

In this state was the kingdom of Navarre, when the news came of a great victory gained by Sancho over the Moors of Corduba, a place at that time the metropolis of Moorish Spain. As this event was considered a decisive blow to the hopes entertained by the Moors of obtaining possession of Castile, which was their principal object, Sancho’s speedy return, after an absence of several years, was anticipated at home, and great were the preparations made for his triumphal entry to the fortress of Najara, where was the royal palace and the residence of the chief nobility. In the midst of these preparations, however, matters took place which turned the palace into a scene of mourning and dismay.

Don Pedro had a beautiful daughter named Blanca, whom the unprincipled Garcia had long but vainly tried to influence by his dishonourable proposals. The virtuous Blanca repelled his advances with proper scorn; and when at length he found that he could not obtain her willing consent, he determined to carry her off by violence. An opportunity soon arrived. Blanca was sitting alone one day in her garden, enjoying the loveliness of the prospect that stretched from the terrace-foot to the summits of the distant mountains, when Garcia, who had been waiting for a favourable moment, seized her in his arms, and bore her away towards a spot where he had horses and attendants ready for the accomplishment of his villanous project. Before the maiden was out of the reach of aid from such as might be disposed to assist her, her shrieks were heard by Ramiro, who happened to be sauntering near the place. He was at her side in an instant with his drawn sword in his hand.

“Ruffian, desist!” exclaimed he, with wrath in his voice and eye, as, passing his left arm round the waist of Blanca, he waved his armed right hand before the ravisher’s face; “though thou bearest my father’s blood in thy degenerate veins, it shall dye the turf at our feet, if thou loosest not hold of this maiden.”

“Away! base-born hound—half-Spaniard, away! and dare not to thwart me in my pleasure,” cried Garcia, foaming with rage and disappointment.

Ramiro answered not, but, freeing the frighted girl by a dexterous manœuvre from the grasp of Garcia, and placing himself between them, he struck the latter with the flat side of his weapon, as if he thought him unworthy of a severer blow, though the fire of his royal blood tingled in his cheeks at the insult.

Garcia quailed before the lofty scorn of Ramiro, and he shouted to his attendants to come to his aid.

“Now, for my father’s kingdom I would not let thee escape, dastard as thou art!” said Ramiro, as he strode up to Garcia and forced him to defend himself. In a moment Ramiro was standing over his prostrate and bleeding antagonist with his sword lifted for the death-blow. As he was about to strike in self-defence, hearing the rapid step of Garcia’s assistants, he saw that they were already panic-struck at the sight of their fallen master, and were turning back in flight. Staying his hand, he said,

“Rise, Garcia—for thy father’s sake I spare thee. Thou wilt henceforth avoid the son of the Moorish Caya.” Then taking the lady Blanca, who was fainting with the effects of her terror, once again in his arms, he bore her into the house of Don Pedro, and left the vanquished ravisher in pain of body and mortification of heart.

“Tell me, lady,” said Ramiro, as he leant over the form of the reviving Blanca, “how art thou? Assure me that I leave thee well and happy.”

“Leave me not yet, noble Ramiro,” said Blanca sweetly. “How can I sufficiently repay thee for thy valiant protection?—all I can imagine would be too poor a recompense!”

“Oh, not too poor, dear Blanca,” said Ramiro passionately, “is the gift thou canst bestow: give me thy love, if one who hath the stain of Moorish lineage may hope to deserve it, and I will bless the opportunity that gave thee to my arms.”

Blanca only blushed in answer. She knew Ramiro had loved her long before, and that he was honoured and esteemed by her father. The lovers plighted their troth to each other that hour, and felt themselves worthy of one another.

The ferocious temper and evil heart of Garcia left him no repose until he had matured a scheme of vengeance to effect the ruin of Ramiro, if possible, before the return of his father. All the more violent means he rejected, as he was unwilling to compass so important an event except by plausible pretexts. He therefore determined to work upon the fears of Elvira, and as far as possible to arouse her jealousies. Having first simulated a show of repentance for his past ill treatment, which he did so well as effectually to deceive the unsuspicious queen, he next informed her that a secret correspondence had been carried on between Caya and the king during the whole period of the last expedition, forged proofs of which he showed her; and insinuated that Caya had succeeded in making the king promise to put Ramiro in possession of the fairest portion of his dominions, to the exclusion of Elvira’s offspring. This latter stratagem did not succeed so well with Elvira, and she openly told him she had too great faith in Caya’s friendship for her to believe she would seek to deprive her of her queenly prerogative, or her children of their just rights. Garcia for a long time continued to follow up his plan by these insinuations and others of a similar kind, but when he found he was playing a wrong game, he could no longer conceal his rage, and he warned Elvira not to oppose him in his attempts to get rid of Ramiro, with a sincerity which the unhappy woman well knew was unaffected.

Garcia’s first step was a demand that a council of the nobility should be held to determine upon a matter to be brought forward by him, at which council the queen should preside in person. This being granted, he formally accused Ramiro of having attempted his assassination, exhibited his wound, and produced his attendants, who had been suborned by him, to testify to the truth of the accusation. Ramiro was then summoned to answer to the grave charge of having attempted the life of the heir to the crown—a crime for which death by torture was the punishment in Navarre. Ramiro defended himself by narrating the circumstance of his encounter with Garcia simply as it occurred, along with the cause which led to it; and the beautiful Blanca shrank not from appearing before the court and the nobles, to bear witness for her betrothed. Several of the nobles, however, who were in the interest of Garcia and the abettors of his projects, declared that the testimony of Blanca was not sufficient to clear Ramiro of the imputation, and demanded that judgment should be given against him. Don Pedro, who had been aware of the true facts of the case, burning as he was with resentment against Garcia, besought of the queen, for the sake of justice, and as a punishment due to a rebellious and unnatural son, that Garcia, on the contrary, should be made to plead against the charge of having offered violence to the daughter of the king’s vicegerent. Elvira was about to decree that Garcia’s charge had not been substantiated, when she caught the eye of the accusant fixed upon her with a look of demoniac malignity which chased the blood from her cheek, and made her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth. Her fortitude was nearly deserting her, and her love of justice giving way to her fear of Garcia’s cruel revenge, when a stir was heard at the entrance of the court, and Caya, with disordered dress, dishevelled hair, and eyes of fire, rushed up to the foot of the tribunal, and throwing herself on her knees on the marble step, clasped the feet of Elvira, and looked up into the queen’s face without speaking a word.

“What does this Moorish devil in our hall of justice?” said Garcia, in a stern voice: “remove her.”

No one stirred, for all were intently watching the scene. Caya still knelt without speaking, looking up to the queen’s face; but now the large tears were gathering in her eyes, under their jet-black lashes, and now they rolled down upon her dark cheek, which was no longer lustrous with the hue which Sancho in his youthful years had loved to look upon.

Elvira gently stooped her head towards the suppliant, and was about to speak to her, when Garcia, with increased vehemence in his tone, again demanded her removal, and Elvira, shudderingly, drew back.

“Oh, listen not to him!” at length gasped Caya; “heed not his cruel voice. Thou wilt not give my boy to his bloody vengeance; thou wilt not put his precious limbs upon the wheel; thou wilt not tear his manly sinews with red-hot pincers! Oh, queen, give me back my Ramiro!”

“Nay, Caya, what will become of me?—there is misery before me whichever way I turn!” said Elvira, as she saw Garcia approaching.

“Stand back!” shouted Caya, springing to her feet, and speaking to Garcia; then turning to Elvira,

“I charge thee let him not touch me—if thou valuest the life of thy son, admonish him to beware of hurting a hair of the Moorish woman’s head, or of that of her child: and not of my child alone—of the child of Sancho of Navarre. And thee, too, Elvira. I charge to beware how thou givest over to judgment the offspring of thy lord! Hast thou no pity, Elvira? Look not to Garcia—look to me. Dear Elvira (and here Caya ventured to take the queen’s hand), pity thy poor Caya, thy servant, and Sancho’s servant, who never willingly offended thee. Thou wilt—I see thou wilt. I am thy friend once more—thy sister!” she whispered, as her tears flowed upon the neck of the subdued Elvira, and she clasped her to her bosom.

The queen, then, confirmed in her decision by the assenting looks and murmurs of the lord deputy and the majority of the council, declared Ramiro guiltless of the crime imputed to him, and the assembly broke up.

“Caya,” said Elvira, as they retired together, “I have done much for thee this day. I have leaned towards thy child against my own. I have made an enemy of the fruit of my own womb for the sake of a rival in my husband’s love.”

“For the sake of truth and justice thou hast done it,” replied Caya, “and thou shalt have thy reward.”

“Thou knowest not what it is to fight against the temptations which nature puts in our path—pray that thou mayest not know them.”

“I have had a victory many times over such,” said Caya, “or thou wouldst not now be queen. Perchance other such temptations may arise—and oh, Elvira, be sure they shall not overcome me.”

Caya spoke prophetically, but even she could not have guessed how soon or to what an extent her constancy was to be tried.

Garcia left the council maddened with rage, and burning with thoughts of vengeance, not only against Ramiro, who had supplanted him in his love, and Pedro, who had been made deputy, principally with the intent that he should watch and counteract his villanies, but against Elvira and Caya, and even Blanca. Some faint outlines of a design either to cut off Sancho himself, and usurp the whole of his father’s possessions, or at least compel him to share the sovereignty with him, began also to connect themselves together in his thoughts. In short, he was determined that he should accomplish the ruin of all, and that some blow should be struck instantly, for Sancho was already on his way to Navarre.

A circumstance, of trifling moment in itself, furnished him with sufficiently plausible means of entering at once upon his plan. Sancho had taken in fight from a Moorish chieftain a most beautiful horse, which in a short time became such a favourite with him, that, fearing some accident would deprive him of the noble steed amidst the perils of war, he had sent him home to Elvira, with strict injunctions that no one should be suffered to mount him in his absence. These injunctions were forgotten by the queen, who suffered Don Pedro to use the animal occasionally. This fact Garcia laid hold of to sustain him in accusing the queen of adultery with Don Pedro, and he announced to the nobles his intention of so doing on the arrival of his father.

Sancho had been six years away, and had heard of nothing in the interim from Navarre that was not calculated to diminish the little love he ever felt for Elvira, and increase the romantic attachment he felt towards Caya. Ramiro, the offspring of that attachment, he loved beyond all his sons for his nobleness of nature and person, and he secretly wished for some excuse for distinguishing him above the others. For those six years he had been sojourning in the scenes of Caya’s childhood, where every thing reminded him of her, and of his early amour; and as it would only have been of a piece with the practices of royalty in even later and more civilised times to have divorced himself from Elvira, he must not be over-harshly dealt with if he confessed to himself that he would be happier to find her dead than living on his return. What his thoughts were, therefore, may be guessed, when, as the gates of Najara were flung open for his entrance, he was met with the intelligence that his queen and her alleged paramour were conspiring against his honour, his kingdom, and his life!

Sancho could imagine no possible motive by which Garcia might be actuated in preferring his accusation, ignorant as the king was of what had lately occurred, so he at once ordered the queen to be arrested, and to be brought to trial in the Cortes of the kingdom. The unhappy Elvira was not allowed even to see her lord on his return, but was thrown into a dungeon, as was also Pedro, until the preparations for the trial were complete.

When the day arrived, Elvira and Pedro were led prisoners into that hall of justice in which they had so lately sat as judges. Elvira cast a mournful and reproachful look towards Sancho, who sat cold and severe upon his chair of state, but he did not notice her. She was so thin, and pale, and wretched-looking, that the very officials of the court wept at the sight of her; while those to whom she had been kind and merciful in her day of power, groaned audibly as they surmised the event of the trial. She was placed on a seat in the centre of the hall, and the preliminaries were at once proceeded with.

Garcia first came forward, and repeated his accusation, adding a tissue of circumstances calculated to confirm his statement. When he had finished, an officer desired the queen to defend herself against his testimony.

“If I had been unfaithful to Sancho,” said she, “it was before thy birth, Garcia; for neither a gleam of Sancho’s goodness, nor a feature of his face, has descended to thee! Some devil betrayed me in my dreams, and left me his image to nurse at my bosom, and bring up at my knee.”

“Is this thy answer?” said Garcia, with a bitter smile; “this reviling of the first-born of thy king will not save thee from the stake.”

“The stake!” shrieked Elvira, “and is it to this thou bringest me?” And then rising, and standing before Garcia, she continued—“Man—for son I cannot call thee now—how canst thou be so cruel? Is there no voice in a mother’s misery to touch thy heart?”

Garcia answered not, but desired the officer to proceed and summon the next witness. The officer called out the name of Gonsalo!

Not alone Elvira, but the whole court were surprised to see the king’s second son presenting himself as his mother’s accuser. Gonsalo had a new series of alleged facts to produce. He had been allured by the promises of Garcia, and his avarice and love of power outweighed whatever feelings of reluctance he might otherwise have experienced. His courage failed him, however, as he perceived those looks of aversion among the spectators which it required more firmness than he possessed to disregard; and having closed his testimony, he was slinking away, in order to escape the glance of Elvira, when she called him back, and catching his hand, addressed him:—

“What have I done to thee, Gonsalo, that thou shouldst blast my fame and take away my life? I would not injure a hair of thy head! Three times I snatched thee from the grave before thy childhood was past, when thou wert ailing. I lost strength and sleep and beauty while bending over thy cradle. I would I had been in my grave before thou sawest the light! I will not curse thee—I will not even beg thy pity; but when thou hast children of thine own, thou mayest guess what thou hast made me suffer, and that will be curse enough—go!”

“The infante Don Fernando, appear!” cried the officer.

A pang, as if her brain had been pierced with a fiery needle, smote the wretched mother as the boy answered to his name. A loud buzz of disapprobation ran through the assembly, and Sancho himself seemed as if he could bear the unnatural scene no longer; but intense curiosity now prevailed with all, and overcame every other feeling. A dead silence ensued while Fernando stood confronting the queen.

He was a pale, light-haired lad, with exceedingly soft blue eyes, which he inherited from the pure stock of the Gothic sovereigns of Spain, descending to him unbroken from that glorious time when Pelayo swayed the strongest European sceptre, before Tarik led his conquering bands from Africa. His ringlets streamed down his shoulders as he bent his head and crossed his small white hands upon his breast in token of reverence towards the king. As he appeared there in the graceful dress suited to his years, he looked more like a creature of dreams, when holy imaginations colour them, than a false witness against his own mother. Elvira looked at him for full a minute without moving or speaking, until at length his innocent-looking beauty gave birth to some vague confidence in her that he was not coming to destroy her, but perhaps the contrary. The moment this feeling took possession of her, she bounded forward with a shriek of delight, and flinging herself on the ground before him, she clasped his knees, and letting her head sink between her arms, she endeavoured to stay so, while she wept for the first time since she entered the hall. Fernando, however, drew back violently, and disengaged himself from her embrace. The queen looked up at him half-vacantly as he did so; and then she arose, and in a solemn though flattering voice she said,

“What art thou going to do or to say, Fernando? They may take me away to the stake and burn me, if thou beliest me now, for thy crime will be worse torture to me than any they can inflict!”

“Speak, Fernando,” said the king.

Fernando trembled and hesitated, but a motion from Garcia caught his eye and emboldened him to go on. He told that he had seen Elvira giving to Don Pedro Sesse, from the royal stables, that favourite steed which the king had ordered should be ridden by none but himself.

Sancho’s brow flushed with sudden anger when he heard this. “Elvira! Pedro!” said he, “is this true?”

“It is true,” said Elvira, “but I alone am guilty! Pedro knew not of thy command. As I live, he did not. Let me suffer, oh, Sancho, for this one fault, but pardon the innocent!”

“She prays for pardon for her paramour!” cried Garcia, exultingly; “what other proof is needful?”

“Hast thou aught more to declare?” said the king to Fernando, in a tone of displeasure.

Again the boy trembled, and looked towards Garcia, whose eagle eye was like a guilty spell upon him.

“Let him look at the queen as he speaks,” said Sancho.

The boy turned towards his mother, but his cheek reddened as he did so, and he cast his eyes towards the ground without speaking.

“Speak on!” said the king.

“He will not speak!” said Elvira; “he will not make a liar of Nature, who is telling the truth for him in his cheeks and eyes! Look, monsters, the tears are coming to his eyes. Oh holy drops, ye should be treasured among saintly relics—ye shall be balm to these parched and thirsty lips!” And here the queen bent to the earth, and kissed the tear-drops on the ground, which had fallen from Fernando’s eyes.

“Fernando, speak!” said Garcia.

In a voice broken by sobs and terror, Fernando began to say that he had seen Don Pedro stealing by night to the queen’s chamber, when he was interrupted by Elvira, who again clung to him with frantic earnestness.

“Thou sawest it not! Oh, say thou sawest it not! My boy, the heavy wrath of God will fall upon thee if thou dost not unsay this fearful falsehood. I am not cursing thee, but I would avert the curse. Thou MUST unsay it. It is not possible mine own flesh could all rebel against me. What is it has bewitched thee, Fernando, to do what devils would leave undone? Dost thou know what thou art doing to me? They will burn thy poor mother in the market-place for an adulteress! Thou wilt give thy mother to die in the torments of the damned—thy mother, that never crossed thee in thy ways—that fed thee with the milk of her breasts—that rejoiced in thy beauty. Oh, my God! oh, my God! have pity upon me, and soften this boy’s heart!” said she, looking up for a moment, and then coaxingly fawning upon Fernando, with a faint smile upon her features. She continued—“My child! my pretty boy Fernando! wilt thou not unsay those wicked words? Ah, let me kiss thee, and say I forgive thee, and we shall be mother and son together for the rest of our days in some far off place out of the ways of these people. I will love thee better than they, Fernando. They are killing thy soul now, and they will kill thy body after, as they are killing mine, if thou dost not hearken to me. Oh, that I might have life and length of days, only to be away with thee where I could look into thy blue eyes and play with thy golden curls from morning till night. Oh, child, have mercy upon me!”

“Mother!” cried Fernando, throwing himself upon the queen’s neck, “forgive me, and I will unsay all!”

Elvira wound her arms about the infante’s form, kissed him without saying a word, and fainted at his feet.

“Her artifices have prevailed with the boy,” said Garcia, with ill-dissembled rage, “but the testimony of others is not to be thus overborne.”

“Wilt thou enter the lists against her champion, if any dare to defend her with his sword?” said the king.

Garcia was silent.

“If thou wilt not,” said Sancho, “Elvira shall be declared innocent, and her accusers traitors.”

“Let her champion appear, then,” replied Garcia. “What my tongue asserts, my sword shall ever prove. There lies my guage,” and he threw his glove into the centre of the floor.

But in all that crowded assembly there was not one who came forward to take up the guage of Garcia. They all pitied the queen, and believed her innocent, but the dread of the future tyrant was too powerful a motive to keep them, so far at least, on his side.

“At the end of three days,” said the king, “if no champion appear for the queen, she shall perish by the flames, and with her, her alleged paramour.”

The lists were prepared, and at the noon of the second day a knight in bright silver armour, whose name was unknown, appeared in the queen’s defence. His vizor was drawn over his face, and his device gave no clue to the curious. The whole court was assembled to witness the combat, and Elvira occupied a seat nearest to the side at which her champion appeared. The signal was given, and the contest commenced. It was soon decided. The unknown knight quickly unhorsed his antagonist, and after a brief struggle with the sword, Garcia fell to the earth desperately wounded.

“Confess the innocence of the queen,” said the unknown knight, in a voice which struck Garcia to the soul, “or thou diest on the spot.”

“She is innocent!” feebly articulated Garcia, as he writhed in the agony of his wounds.

Taking up the sword of his vanquished adversary, the unknown cavalier brought it to the feet of Elvira, and then, gracefully bending on one knee, he lifted the vizor from his casque, and for the first time the queen knew that she had been indebted for life and the preservation of her fair fame to the son of the king by her Moorish rival.

“Madam,” said Ramiro, “not to me alone, but to Caya thy friend, thy thanks are due. Thou hast been a sister to her—let me be a son to thee.”

Elvira could only weep her thanks.

We find in Mariana, and also in Rodrigo of Toledo, that Sancho of Navarre, at his death, partitioned his kingdom thus:—To his eldest son Garcia he left Navarre and Biscay; to Gonsalo he left Ribagorza; to Fernando, Castile; and Arragon to a natural son named Ramiro. This was that Ramiro of whom mention is made in the preceding narrative. But we do not find in any of the old authors (and much we wonder that any event connected with so curious and touching a piece of history could have escaped them) that this same Ramiro enjoyed the lordship of Arragon with Blanca, the beautiful and virtuous daughter of the cavalier Don Pedro Sesse.

R. M.

[1] Wordsworth.

ON THE IMPORTANCE OF SELECTING CLEAN FLAX SEED.

In recent numbers of the Penny Journal, Martin Doyle has published two valuable papers upon the necessity of selecting good seed, and I would wish to call the attention of the cultivators of flax, who form so numerous a body amongst the small farmers of the north and west of Ireland, to the absolute necessity of attending to the seed of that plant, and not to purchase the cheaper seed that is sometimes offered to them, in preference to that which, although rather more expensive, is yet free from the seeds of a very noxious weed which are usually mixed with the cheaper flax-seed. The weed to which I refer is one of those curious plants, which, from their peculiar structure, are unable to draw their nourishment directly from the earth, but are obliged to feed themselves by sucking the juices of other plants, and thus destroying them, or weakening them so greatly as to prevent their producing a crop that will repay the cultivator for his labour and expense. In the case of the flax, the weed grows from seeds deposited in the earth with the seed of the flax, and at first appears as a slender pale thread, twisting about in different directions until it meets with one of the stems of the flax, when it immediately twists itself round it, and produces curious little knobs upon its inner side, which pierce the outer coat or bark of the stalk of the flax, and suck from it the juices which it has drawn from the ground, and prepared for its own nourishment. The root of the weed then withers away, but the weed itself commences its most rigorous growth, for until it had obtained a victim upon which to feed, it had been unable to produce any thing except the slender fibre that I have already mentioned, and would have soon died if it had not succeeded in seizing upon the flax. Its stem then increases in thickness, and, twisting round all the flax plants that it can reach, it receives enough of nourishment to produce its flowers, which form pretty little yellowish white heads, of about half the size of a nut, consisting of numerous small flowers so placed together as closely to resemble a small mulberry in form and appearance, although not in colour. This weed is called Dodder, or by botanists Cuscuta epilinum, and is commonly to be found in flax-fields in several parts of England and Scotland, but is happily less frequent in Ireland, although I have seen it (in 1840) in the county of Mayo. In England it often quite destroys the crop, and I understand that such was the case a few years since in the neighbourhood of Westport and Newport, county Mayo.

I have now to point out the way to avoid this pest. It is found that the seed of flax obtained from America is quite free from it, but that it is nearly always very plentiful in seed from Odessa and other parts of Russia. Now, the Russian seed is cheaper than that from America, and so the poor people are tempted to buy the former in preference to the latter, although, by following an opposite course, they would escape the risk of loss which results from the use of seed which is mixed with seeds of the dodder.

This I consider as a remarkable proof of the necessity of obtaining clean seed rather than cheap, and deserves in my opinion to be made generally known throughout Ireland by means of the Penny Journal. I conclude by saying to all cultivators of flax, When buying your seed, always ask for that from America, and do not be tempted by the cheaper but dirty seed from Russia, as by doing this you will avoid the most destructive weed to which the crop is liable.

C. C. B.

ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

BY JOHN O’DONOVAN.

First Article.

It has for a long time appeared to me a desirable object, as regards the history of Ireland and the information of the Irish people, to communicate to the public a correct account of the origin and signification of the proper names, tribe names, and surnames of the people of Ireland; more especially as some of the popular writers of the last century have misled them generally into the most erroneous notions with regard to these classes of names. The errors of these writers have not only been adopted by the usually shallow compilers of county surveys, county histories, and other topographical works down to the present time, but also to some extent by writers of a higher order and greater learning and research, as Lanigan and Moore. Indeed, strange as the fact may seem, it is nevertheless unquestionable that there are very few in the country whose ideas upon this subject are consonant with the truth; and hence, upon most occasions on which an Irishman adopts an anglicised form of his Christian name and surname, the effect of the alteration is such as completely to conceal, and not unfrequently to misrepresent, their original orthography and meaning. On this account it becomes unavoidably necessary for me, before I enter upon the series of articles which I propose furnishing on this subject, to exhibit and expose the ignorance of those writers to whom I have alluded, and whose theories have produced so erroneous an impression upon the minds of the Irish people; and to this object I purpose to devote the present introductory paper.

The fallacies which I have to expose were unknown to the Irish people until towards the close of the last century; the writers of an earlier period having been too well informed to lead their readers into error. But their works being for the most part in a dead language, and very rarely to be met with, they ceased to have an influence on the public mind, and left the way open for a new race of writers, very ignorant of the ancient language and history of Ireland, to impose their crude theories upon the uninstructed reader. A society of such persons, of whom General Vallancey, Mr Beauford,[2] and Dr Ledwich, were the most active, was formed for the purpose of giving to the public a series of essays on the antiquities, ancient literature, and topography of Ireland; and the result of their joint labours made its appearance in a work published periodically under the title of “Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis,” and since popularly called Vallancey’s Collectanea. These gentlemen, however, after a time found that their systems had nothing in common, each considering the other as insufficiently informed on the subjects treated of, and I think, with justice; for, as I trust I shall be able to show on a future occasion, all were alike ignorant of the matters they professed perfectly to understand. But though the labours of these gentlemen contributed generally to the propagation of erroneous theories on the subject, it was a work of Mr Beauford’s, published in No. II of the Collectanea, which, treating more immediately of this subject, has had the greatest influence on the popular mind; an influence less owing to any celebrity attached to his own name than to that of Vallancey, whose sanction and approbation this work is generally supposed to have received. With this writer originated the novel theory that the names of tribes and families in Ireland, as usual among the Saxons and Normans, were derived from earlier appellations of the territories and localities which they occupied. To establish this hypothesis he adopts a process of etymological investigation unparalleled in the annals of antiquarian research. In the first place, he takes the liberty of dividing the words into as many parts as he thinks proper; secondly, he makes such changes in the vocables thus obtained as he finds convenient to his purpose; thirdly, he gives each of these words new meanings of his own; and lastly, he places the tribes whose names he thus explains in localities which many of them never occupied.

As the errors of this writer, though so long before the public, have never been sufficiently exposed, I shall here undertake the task, by the exhibition of a few examples of his process of investigation, taken without selection, and given as a fair specimen of the whole. It will be necessary for me, however, in fairness, to quote in the first instance the author’s own account of the theory which he has put forward to account, in his novel manner, for the origin of the names of men and tribes in Ireland.

“On the increase of population and the introduction of agriculture, these wandering tribes were under the necessity of confining themselves to certain permanent districts; which districts were generally denominated either from their situation or quality of the soil, and from which also the inhabitants obtained their collective appellation; whence, in the most ancient Irish poems and histories, we frequently find clan and slioght added to the name of the country, to signify the inhabitants; as clan Cuilean, slioght Breoghain, and slioght Gae; wherefore the children and race of any division were the invariable names by which the ancient Hibernian septs were distinguished from the remotest antiquity, and not, as frequently asserted, the children and descendants of their respective leaders.”

Again, “The chiefs of every district were elected from the elder branches of the dynasts; and the kings of the principalities from the senior chief of the subordinate districts, who on their advancement to the dignity obtained the name of the district or clan over which they presided; it being an universal custom amongst all the Celtic tribes to denominate the noblesse, with their other appellations, from the place of their residence; a custom in some measure yet retained in the Highlands of Scotland. The variety of names used by the ancient Irish have occasioned great confusion in their history; for before the tenth century surnames were not hereditary, and prior to the establishment of the Christian religion in this country no person was distinguished by one permanent nomination. It is true, during their pagan state every child at his birth received a name generally from some imaginary divinity under whose protection he was supposed to be; but this name was seldom retained longer than the state of infancy, from which period it was generally changed for others arising from some perfection or imperfection of the body, the disposition and qualities of the mind, achievements in war or the chace, the place of birth, residence, &c. so that it frequently happened that the same person was distinguished by several appellations. Our ancient historians, not properly attending to this, have committed great errors in relating the transactions of early periods, by asserting the same action to be performed by several different people, which in reality was performed by one only, thereby throwing their history and antiquities into too distant a period. A similar error has also been committed by not considering the dignitary names of the chiefs, who on their election to the government constantly obtained the name appertaining to the clan over whom they presided, or rather that of the district. These dignitary names becoming in the tenth century hereditary and family distinctions, created new difficulties to genealogists of latter ages.”—Collectanea, vol. iii, p. 257.

Now, it will be very easy to prove that these assertions are wholly erroneous, and are mere conjectures, unsupported either by history or etymology. In the first place, the three instances above given to show that the words clan and slioght were prefixed to the names of territories among the Irish, instead of supporting the author’s assumption, go to prove the very contrary, for in the first two instances the names adduced are not names of territories, but of men; and with regard to the third instance, there was no such name among the ancient Irish, and it is a pure fabrication of Beauford’s own imagination! As for his assertion that in the time of paganism every child at his birth received a name generally from some imaginary divinity under whose protection he was supposed to be, it is another pure fabrication; there is no authority in any of our ancient documents that men were called after their pagan deities, except in three instances, in the darkest period of Irish history; and even from these it does not appear that such names were given immediately after the birth of the individuals referred to, but that they assumed them after having arrived at the age of maturity. These instances are to be met with in ancient Irish MSS. concerning the history of the Tuatha De Dananns, a colony said to have preceded the Scoti in Ireland, at a period now generally believed to be beyond the reach of authentic history; but granting that what has been handed down to us concerning this colony is authentic, it does not follow from any thing stated that even among them every child at his birth received a name from a divinity under whose protection he was placed; for the sum of what has been handed down to us on this subject is, that on the arrival of the Scotic or Milesian colony in Ireland the Tuatha De Dananns were governed by three kings, who were distinguished by surnames derived from the names of the gods whom they worshipped. Thus, one of those kings, whose real name was Eochy, was, it is said, usually styled Mac Greine, because he worshipped the sun; the second, whose proper name was Eathur, was called Mac Cuill, because he worshipped the hazel tree, for I suppose men generally lived on nuts in his time; and the third, whose proper name was Teathur, was called Mac Ceachta, i.e. son of the plough, for he worshipped that useful implement as his god! We have no instance of men having been named after pagan deities but these three, and I venture to say that they are not sufficient to establish Beauford’s hypothesis. But a stronger argument than this can be urged against his theory, namely, that among all the pagan names of men which have been preserved by our authentic annalists, not one appears to be called after a pagan deity; and if it had been a general custom to call children after such deities, it might be expected that at least a few of them would have been transmitted. Since, then, they have not been transmitted, how, I would ask, did Mr Beauford discover that such a custom had ever existed? It is true that after the establishment of Christianity in the fifth century, the descendants of the pagan Irish who entered into holy orders, or into the monastic state, had their pagan names sometimes changed, as we learn from the lives of the saints of the primitive Irish church, but no documents now remain to prove, or even suggest, that such a change had been made previous to the introduction of Christianity. It is undeniable that cognomens, epithets, or sobriquets, were frequently added to the first name from some warlike exploit, or from some perfection or imperfection of body, colour of hair, or disposition of mind; but this continued to be the custom in Christian times, and still continues so, but no authority has been discovered even to suggest that any change of the original pagan name had occurred previous to the introduction of Christianity; and we find that even long after that period many distinguished Irish bishops, abbots, and other ecclesiastics, bore the names of their pagan ancestors.

It is also a groundless assumption that the chief changed his name for that of the territory after his election to the government, or that the names of either the clan or district became surnames or family names in the tenth century. Can any one believe that Brian was the name of the territory of the O’Briens before the establishment of the name O’Brien? Was Donnell the name of the territory of the O’Donnells previous to the tenth century? Was Niall the name of the principality of the O’Neills?

So much then for Mr Beauford’s general theory as put forward in the introduction to his work. I shall now proceed to show the equal fallacy of the etymological processes by which he attempts to sustain his theoretical assumptions in the work itself; namely, that the names of Irish tribes and families were derived from the situations and natural features of the territories they inhabited.

1. “CLANN CUILEAN, or the race or children of the corner of the water; called also Hy na mor, or the district of the sea; the chiefs of which were denominated Mac na mor aois, the sons of the elders of the sea, by contraction Macnamara,” &c.

Now, what will be thought of all this etymological induction, when it can be proved from history that clann Cuileain signifies the race of Cullen?

The Cuilean or Cullen from whom this tribe took their name is found in the pedigree of Mac Namara, within the authentic period of Irish history, for he flourished in the eighth century, a period to which our authentic annals reach with perfect historical certainty. Let us then see how this meaning “children of the corner of the water” is obtained from the compound clann Cuileain. Apparently by a very simple process, thus; clann means descendants, cuil means corner, and ean water; but regular as this process appears, it is nevertheless utterly fallacious, for the word clann means children or descendants relatively to an ancestor, not to a locality; and though the name Cuileain (now anglicised Cullen or Collins) when cut in two, would apparently make the words cuil and ean, still the word is not compounded of cuil, a corner, and ean, water, for the first syllable is short, and the last syllable is a diminutive termination of the same power with the Latin ulus, as in the compounds campulus, colliculus, catulus; and the word cuilean, whether taken as a common noun substantive or as a proper name, is synonymous with the Latin catulus, or Catullus.

The next assertion above made, that clann Cuileain was also called Hy na mor, is untrue, for the name Hy na mor had never any existence except in Mr Beauford’s fancy; and even if it had, the meaning given for it would not be correct, for hy does not properly mean district, nor does mor mean sea. The assertion that the chiefs of clann Cuileain were called Mac na mor aois is also untrue, for the name was never so written by any one except Mr Beauford. They were uniformly called Mic Conmara, as being the descendants of Cu-mara, who was chief of the clann Cuileain in the tenth century; and the name Cumara, signifying hero of the sea, was first given to a chief of this family, from his being an expert seaman, not from his dwelling on the sea, for the clann Cuileain or Mac Namaras were not located on the sea, or near the sea, but in an inland territory in the south-east of the county of Clare.

2. “CINEAL EOGHEAN, or Cean all Eoghain, from cean thuath oll Eogh-an, pronounced Connal Owen, or the principal division of the northern county of the Oll or Bolgæ, an ancient district in the province of Ulster, comprehending originally the present counties of Tyrone, Armagh, Donegal, and part of the county of Derry, being the ancient divisions of Eirgal or Orgall,” &c.

Here the name Cineal Eoghain, which had been translated genus Eoghain, i.e., race or progeny of Eoghan, by all the early Irish writers, is made to signify the principal division of the northern county of the Oll or Bolgæ. Let us examine how this interpretation has been wrested from Cineal Eoghain. In the first place, he spells the name incorrectly, though we cannot see that he gains any point by doing so; next he takes asunder what he conceives to be its component parts, first metamorphosing the word Cineal, which is cognate with the Latin genus and the English kind, kindred, into Cean all, which he made to signify “principal division,” and resolving Eoghan, a man’s name, into Eogh-an, to make it signify I know not what; but as the four vocables thus obtained would not answer his purpose, he took the liberty of adding one more of his own coining, thus making five distinct words of the two original ones. But even allowing that these five vocables are legitimately obtained from the two original ones, I have still a further objection to them, for they do not grammatically coalesce, or bear the meaning he affixes to them, as there is no word among the five to express principal division or county. And granting further that the five words thus formed could really bear the signification he gives them, it would not follow that the name Cineal Eoghain is so compounded, while in opposition to the testimony of all authentic history; and we have the testimony of all the authentic Irish annals, the lives of the Irish apostle, and of the most ancient genealogical books, to prove that the great northern race called Cineal Eoghain took that appellation from their great ancestor Eoghan (the son of Niall of the Nine Hostages), who was contemporary with St Patrick, as did a neighbouring race that of Cineal Conaill, from Eoghan’s brother, Conall Gulban.

But the supporters of Mr Beauford’s system may say that although it may be true that the Cineal Eoghain took their appellation from their ancestor Eoghan, still that this EOGHAN may have taken his name from the territory over which he ruled. I answer, that this does not bear even the semblance of probability, for we have the authority of Cormac’s Glossary for asserting that the proper name Eoghan (still used as a man’s name in every part of Ireland, and anglicised Owen and Eugene) was understood by the ancient Irish literati to signify the good offspring, or the goodly born, and this looks much more probable than the signification which Mr Beauford wrings from it, for the Irish had many other names similarly compounded, as Finghin (now Florence), meaning the fair offspring; Coemhghin (now Kevin), the beautiful offspring, &c. Thus it appears that Beauford’s derivation of the tribe name of Cineal Eoghain is a mere etymological phantasy, unsupported by history or etymology. I have also to mention that the extent he gives to the territory of this tribe is too great, for it never comprised the one-fourth part of the present county of Donegal, or any part of Armagh.

But I am exceeding the space allowed me for this article, and must defer the remaining examples till next number.

[2] Let not the reader confound this Beauford with the author of the ecclesiastical map of Ireland, for the latter was Dr Beaufort, and his works are distinguished for their accuracy.

LETHE: AN ALLEGORY.

BY J. U. U.

Has it e’er crossed thy fancy to explore

The mystery of that old forgetful river

In which the Shade, permitted to renew

Its servitude to clay, went down to drink

Oblivion of itself and all it was;

A dread completion of the work of Death!

Now lend a patient hearing, and I’ll tell thee

—Thou wilt receive it as a wayward dream—

The course of this old river. Know it glides

Beneath thy steps, with lapse invisible,

For but by glimpses mortals may behold it;

And these seem far too glorious for one thought

Of dull oblivion ever to intrude

On the rapt vision. Not a shadow there

From gloomy Hades clouds the living light

That glances gaily down the rippling stream.

But past description’s power, ’tis loud and bright

With trumpet voices, and with silken sails

Full-blown with Fortune’s breath; while from the bank

Hope lifts her siren strain, and bids them speed

For ever on to happy isles afar.

And every ripple teems with springing thoughts—

In one sense faithful to the Samian’s creed—

A constant iteration of old fancies

As if the wise and fools of time came back

With their old dreams; forgetful of experience.

There system swells on system, bubbles gay,

Conventions, empires, powers, authorities,

Song’s intellectual fabric, pictures, modes,

Those myriad lights, the glory and the glitter

Which make that current gaily beautiful.

And so it rolls, in its magnificence

Tumbling and sparkling up into the sun

Like an eternal thing: buoyant and bright

Beneath the airs of Heaven that murmur mirth

And hope, and life, and pauseless interest.

While on its living course no spot is seen

That is not far too bright and glorious

For the approach of grim decay, or that

More mighty and more terrible shadow Death

To find a cave to lurk in…

… Thou wilt say,

This is not Lethe, whose dull waters glide

Sunless among the silent fields of death,

Oblivion’s formless valley. Yet attend—

Mark well the course of each bright-crested wave:—

As it rolls by, the gallant barks it bore

Are vanished, and have left no trace, as if

They never had existence. Though for ever

New shadows fast emerge into the Sun

(So like the last, that scarce one notes the change),

And take a look of immortality,

Incredulous of the Past, blind to the Future;

Not knowing whence they come, from what they are,

Or whither tend. Alas, the stream

With all that went before, is lost below

In dim Oblivion’s world: It were a dream

Most fleeting and fantastic, were there not

A chain of awful consequence that binds

What has been, with what must be. Death and Life,

The Past, the Present, and the Future, are

But names bestowed on one perpetual stream,

In different provinces beneath the Crown

Of Him who is the source from whence all comes

And to whom all returns—we see no more

But as the gazer from some narrow bridge

Looks down upon the waters, when beneath

They come from far, and so pass, and are gone.

THE DOMESTIC MAN.—There is no being of the masculine gender whom “the sex” so heartily despise as the domestic man. He is an anomaly—a sort of half-way house between the sexes—a concentration of weaknesses—a poor driblet of humanity—a vile caudle-drinker—an auditor of laundress’s bills—an inquisitor of the nursery—a fellow that likes his bed warmed, and takes note of the decay of carpets—a reader of works on “cookery” and a “treatise on teething”—a pill bolter—a man that buys his wife’s gowns and his children’s dresses—a scolder of maid-servants—a frequenter of the kitchen—a person who can tell you the price of treacle, and how long a mop should last—a gazer at butchers’ windows—a consumer of ginger wine—a slop eater—a market visitor—a tea maker—Faugh! He looks like the aborigine of a bed-room. He is lean and bilious—delights in black gaiters and a brown greatcoat. He gives his little bandy-legged child a walk in the Park, where he is taken for a brother of one of the nursery maids in delicate health. He entertains his visitors with his discoveries of the tricks of bakers and the machinations of grocers—ennuies them to death with long stories about bad bread, and “coffee without adulteration.” He always knows what is to be for dinner, what remains in the larder—and employs his gigantic intellect in considering the best mode of cooking it. He is naturally fretful and peevish, and in cold weather has a helplessness of aspect peculiar to himself. These men never look like Englishmen. They never acquire that manly bluff appearance which is the character of our nation. God knows what is the matter with them, but they always seem out of sorts. Their features are sharp—their voices are effeminate, and they are nearly all of them “troubled with colds.” The business of life with them is to regulate the affairs of housekeeping—their tastes, habits, thoughts, and rivalries, are womanish. Their conversation is about “poor Mrs” this, and “poor Lady” that—antiquated matrons, with whom they occasionally compare notes in matters of condolence—yet who have enough of the spirit of their sex in them to despise their male coadjutor, and in their souls they think “poor Mr” so-and-so the greatest bore alive. They are always complaining; if not positively unwell themselves—a case of rare occurrence—some of their family is sure to be so—or, if all that should fail, then, at least, a dish has been broken, and there is always a number of standing grievances ready to be produced when occasion requires. “Well, heaven help them!” as Shakspeare says, “for they are sad fools.” They live a long time, these fellows, but they die at last—all the pills and possets in the world will not avert death. The passenger who sees the hearse and mutes, thinks some rational being has died—the stranger, who reads the tombstone, thinks that a man moulders below. But are they deceived? We think so.—COURT GAZETTE.

PETRARCH’S OPINION OF MONEY.—He who expends it properly, is its master; he who lays it up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it, a slave; and he who adores it, an idolator.

The whole of human virtue may be reduced to speaking the truth always, and doing good to others.

Many an acknowledged truth was once a controverted dogma; the basis of every science has been considered a fundamental error.

Truth is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy dispatch of business. It creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to issue in a few words.—Spectator.

Let us hope the best rather than fear the worst, and believe that there never was a right thing done, or a wise one spoken in vain, although the fruit of them may not spring up in the place designated, or at the time expected.

George II., being informed that an impudent printer was to be punished for having published a spurious King’s speech, replied, that he hoped the punishment would be of the mildest sort, because he had read both, and as far as he understood either of them, he liked the spurious speech better than his own.

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

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Table of Contents

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

KILLYMOON, COUNTY OF TYRONE, THE RESIDENCE OF LIEUTENANT-COLONEL W. STEWART

THE SPANISH MOTHER.

ON THE IMPORTANCE OF SELECTING CLEAN FLAX SEED.

ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

First Article.

LETHE: AN ALLEGORY.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE