sant journey back to Dublin-good morning, Sir!" And so my uncle lost his agency, but perhaps saved himself: at least he was out of the way of being tempted to join in those practices which brought Fitzgerald and his miscreant associates to the gallows." Three eagles in the gardens now suggested some splendid stories, which we must reserve till our next visit: but we trust the Zoological Society will have made additions to their collection before we pay it. Account of a Pestilence that raged in Ireland in the Year 1348, as given by John Clyn, a Franciscan Friar, of Kilkenny, in his Annals. "This year, and chiefly in the months of September and October, great numbers of bishops and prelates, ecclesiastical ani religious, peers and others, and in general people of both sexes, flocked together by troops, in pilgrimage to the water of Inchmoling, insomuch that many thousands of souls might be seen there together for many days; some came on the score of levotion, but the greatest part for fear of the pestilence which raged at that time with great violence. It first broke out near Dublin at Howth and Dalkey; it almost destroyed, and laid waste the cities of Dublin and Drogheda, insomuch that in Dublin alone, from the beginning of August to Christmas, fourteen thousand souls perished. This pestilence had its first beginning as it is said, in the East, and passing through the Saracens and infidels, slew eight thousand legions of them. It seized the city of Avignon, where the Roman court then was, the January before it came among us, where the churches and cemeteries were not sufficient to receive the dead, and the pope ordered a new cemetry to be consecrated for depositing the bodies of those who died of the pestilence, insomuch that from the month of May to the translation of St. Thomas, fifty thousand bodies and upwards were buried in the same cemetery. This distemper prevailed in full force in Lent, for on the 6th day of March, eight Dominican friars died. Scarce a single person died in one house but it commonly swept away husband, wife, children, and servants, all together." The author seems to have died of this plague, and to have had a foresight of his approaching fate: for he closes his annals in 1348, thus: "But I," says he, "friar John Clyn of the Fran ciscan order of the convent of Kilkenny, have in this book written the memorable things happening in my time of which I was either an eye witness, or learned them from the relation of such as were worthy of credit, and that these notable actions might not perish by time, and vanish out of the memory of our successors, seeing the many evils that encompass us, and every symptom placed as it were under a malevolent influence expecting death among the dead until it comes, such things as I have heard delivered with veracity, and have strictly examined, I have reduced into writing; and lest the writing should perish with the writer, and the work fail with the workman, I leave behind me parchment for continuing it, if any man should have the good fortune to survive this calamity, or any one of the race of Adam should escape this pestilence, to continue what I have begun." LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND. We intend to present our readers regularly with whatever is gay and agreeable and interesting in Irish legendary lore, or mirthful and amusing in Irish stories. We cannot, therefore, better commence than by extracting from " Legends and Stories of Ireland," by our clever townsman, Mr. Lover. His little volume is already in a second edition, (indeed we believe it is nearly sold off,) and though many of our readers are doubtless well acquainted with it, we also know that many more have not been able to procure either a copy or a reading, and who, after lingering at the bookseller's window, and casting a longing look at Mr. Lover's capital pictorial ilustrations, have been obliged to pass on with a sigh that they could not get a peep into "My New Pittay-a-tees," or get their flagon filled with some of " Corney's best." The first story, King O'Toole and St. Kevin," has been given repeatedly to the public-but no matter-it is a good thingand though we cannot accompany the story with that laughn'le Cruikshank elongation of countenance which his Majesty in the volume-our readers can imagine it! 66 KING O'TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN, A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH. "By that lake, whose gloomy shore Where the cliff hangs high and steep Young St. Kevin stole to sleep."-Moore. Who has not read of St. KEVIN, celebrated as he has been by Moore in the melodies of his native land, with whose wild and impassioned music he has so intimately entwined his name? Through him, in the beautiful ballad whence the epigraph of this story is quoted, the world already knows that the sky-lark, through the intervention of the saint, never startles the morning with its joyous note in the lonely valley of Glendalough. In the same callad, the unhappy passion which the saint inspired, and the "unholy blue" eyes of Kathleen, and the melancholy fate of the heroine, by the saint's being "unused to the melting mood," are also celebrated; as well as the superstitious finale of the legend, in the spectral appearance of the love-lorn maiden. "And her ghost was seen to glide Gently o'er the fatal tide." Thus has Moore given, within the limits of a ballad, the spirit of two legends of Glendalough, which otherwise the reader might have been put to the trouble of reaching after a more round-about fashion. But luckily for those coming after him, one legend he has left to be 66 touched by a hand more unworthy"— and instead of a lyrical essence, the raw material in prose is offered, nearly verbatim as it was furnished to me by that celebrated guide and bore, Joe Irwin, who traces his descent in a direct line from the old Irish kings, and warns the public in general that "there's a power of them spalpeens sthravaigin' about, 'sthrivin' to put their comether upon the quol'ty, [quality-the Irish gentry generally call the higher orders quality,'] and callin' themselves Irwin, (knowin,' the thieves o' the world, how his name had gone far and near, as the rale guide,) for to deceive dacent people; but never to b'lieve the likes for it was only mulvatherin people they wor." my part, I promised never to put faith in any but himself; and the old rogue's self-love being satisfied, we set out to explore the wonders of Glendalough. On arriving at a small ruin, situated on the south-eastern side of the lake, my guide assumed an air of importance, and led me into the ivy-covered remains, through a small square door-way, whose simple struc ture gave evidence of its early date; a lintel of stone lay across two upright supporters, after the fashion of such reli gious remains in Ireland. For "This, Sir," said my guide, putting himself into an attitude, "is the chapel of King O'Toole av coorse y'iv often heerd o' King O'Toole your honor?" "Never," said I. "Musha, thin, do you tell me so ?" said he, " I thought all the world far and near, heerd o' King O'Toole-well, well!! but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, Sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was wonst a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that ownded the churches in the airly days." 66 Surely," said I," the churches were not in King O'Toole's time?" "Ob, by no manes, yer honor-troth it's yourself that's right enough there; but you know the place is called The Churches,' bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o' the churches iver more; and therefore, av coorse, the place bein' so called, I say that the king ownded the churches-and why not Sir, seein' 'twas his birth-right, time out o' mind beyant the flood? Well, the king you see was the right sort he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer: and the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin, aye throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that's the way it was with the king, from the crow o' the cock to the song o' the redbreast." "In this counthry, Sir," added he, speaking parenthetically in an under tone, "we think it onlooky to kill the redbreast, for the robin is God's own bird." Then, elevating his voice to its former pitch he proceeded. "Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse o' time, the king grew owld, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a huntin', no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him." Here an involuntary smile was produced by this regal mode of recreation," the royal game of goose." "Oh, you may laugh, if you like," said he, half affronted, "but it's truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin' for throut, (and not finer throut in all Ireland than the same throut,) and cotch fish an a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor king, that you'd think he'd break his sides laughin' at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so in coorse o' time the goose was the greatest pet in the country, and the biggest rogue, and divarted the king to no end, and the poor king was as happy as the day was long. So that's the way it was; and all went on mighty well, antil by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the king, and grewn stiff in his limbs, like her masther, and could'nt divart him no longer; and then it was that the poor king was lost complate, and did'nt know what in the wide world to do, seein' he was done out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blume. "Well; the king was nigh hand broken hearted, and melancholy intirely, and was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, an' thinkin' o' drownin' himself, and could'nt get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him. "God save you,' says the king, (for the king was a civilspoken gintleman, by all accounts,) God save you,' says he to the young man. "God save you kindly,' says the young man to him, back again, God save you,' says he, King O'Toole.' "Thrue for you, says the king, I am king O'Toole,' says he, prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; but how kem you to know that?' says he. "O, never mind,' says Saint Kavin. "For you see,' said old Joe, in his under tone again, and looking very knowingly, it was Saint Kavin, sure enoughthe saint himself in disguise, and no body else.' ‹ Oh never mind,' says he, I know more than that,' says he nor twice that.' "And who are you? said the king, that makes so bowld -who are you at all at all?' "Oh never you mind,' says Saint Kavin, who I am; you'll know more o' me before we part, King O'Toole, says he. "I'll be proud o' the knowledge o' your acquaintance, sir,' says the king, mighty polite. "Troth you may say that,' says Saint Kavin. And, now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he. 666 Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the king. O, no matther; I was given to undherstand it,' says Saint Kavin. "Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the king; bekase myself and my goose is private friends,' says he; and no one could tell you,' says he barrin the fairies.' "Oh thin, it was'nt the fairies,' says Saint Kavin; for I'd have you to know,' says he, that I don't keep the likes of sitch company. "You might do worse then, my gay fellow,' says the king; for it's they could show you a crock o' money, as aisy as kiss hand; and that's not to be sneezed at,' says the king, by a poor man,' says he. 666 Maybe I've a betther way of making money myself,' says the saint. "By gor,' says the king, 'barrin' you're a coiner,' says he, that's impossible!' "I'd scorn to be the like, my lord!' says Saint Kavin, mighty high, I'd scorn to be the like,' says he. "Then, what are you?' says the king, that makes money so aisy, by your own account.' "I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin. "Well, honest man,' says the king, and how is it you make your money so aisy?' "By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin. "Blur-an-ouns, is it a tinker you are?' says the king. "No,' says the saint, I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; Ive a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he-what would you say,' says he, if I made your ould goose as good as new? "My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, and,' says he-troth thin I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says he if you did the like: and I'd be behoulden to you into the bargain.' "I scorn your dirty money,' says Saint Kavin. "Faith then, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the king, lookin' up sly at the ould caubeen that Saint Kavin had on him. "I have a vow agin it,' says the Saint; and I am book sworn,' says he, never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.' "Barrin' the thrifle you can't help,' says the king, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face. "You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; but though I can't take money,' says he, I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.' "With all the veins o' my heart,' says the king, if you can do what you say.' "Thry me!' says Saint Kavin. Call down your goose here,' says he and I'll see what I can do for her.' "With that, the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapped his eyes on the goose, I'll do the job for you,' says he, King O'Toole !' "By Jaminee,' says King O'Toole, if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.' "Oh, by dad, says Saint Kavin, you must say more nor that my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me, if I do the job for you?-that's the chat,' says St. Kavin. "I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the king; isn't that fair" ness. “Divil a fairer,' says the saint; that's the way to do busiNow,' says he, this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole will you gi' me all the ground the goose Lies over, the first offer afther I make her as good as new? "I will,' says the king. "You won't go back o' your word,' says Saint Kavin. "Honor bright!' says King O' Toole, howldin' out his fist. "Honor bright, says Saint Kavin back agin, its a bargin,' says he. Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose - come here you unfortunate ould cripple,' says he and its I that 'ill make you the sportin' bird.' "With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings criss o' my crass an you, says he' markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute-and throwin' her up in the air, whew!' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, fly. in' like one of the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there, right forninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over St. Kavin's bed, (that is where St. Kavin's bed is now, but was not thin, by raison it wasn't made, but was conthrived after by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might have him alone,) and on with her under Lugduff, and round the end iv the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall (though indeed it's no watherfall at all now, but only a poor dhribble iv a thing; but if you see it in the winther, it id do your heart good, and it roaring like mad, and as white as the dhriven snow, and rowlin' down the big rocks before it, all as one as the childher playing marbles,)—and on with her thin right over the lead mines o' Luganure, (that is where the lead mines is wow, but was not thin, by raisin they wor'nt discovered, but was all goold in Saint Kavin's time.) Well over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout, and sturdy, and round the other ind av the little lake, by the churches, (that is av coorse where the churches is now, but was not thin, by raison they wor not built but aftherwards by Saint Kavin,) and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift; (and that clift in the mountain was made by Fin Ma Cool, where he cut it acrass with a big sword, that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant [giant] that darr'd him an the Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the sword first an the mountain, and cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddent, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and owld Ireland ;) well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulanass, (where I showed you the purty watherfall and by the same token, last Thursday, was a twelve. month sence, a young lady, Miss Rafferty by name, fell into the same watherfall, and was nigh hand drownded; and indeed would be to this day, but for a young man that jumped in afther her; indeed a smart slip iv a young man he was; he was out o' Francis-street, I hear, and coorted her sence, and they wor married, I'm given to undherstand; and indeed a purty couple they wor.) Well, as I said, afther flutterin' over the wood a little bit, to plaze herself, the goose flew down and lit at the fut o' the king, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, just as if she had'nt flew three perch. Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut, he patted her an' the head, and 'ma vourneen,' says he, but you are the darlint o' the world.' "And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, for makin' her the like ?" I say,' says the king, 'that nothin' bates the art o' man barrin' the bees.' And do you say no more nor that?' says St. Kavin. And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. But will you give me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says St. Kavin. I will,' says King O'Toole, and you're welkim to it,' says he, though it's the last acre I have to give.' It's well for you,' says St. Kavin, mighty sharp, for if you did'nt say that word, the devil reccave the bit o' your goose id ever fly again !' says St. Kavin. ་ "Well, whin the king was as good as his word, St. Kavin was plazed with him, and says he, King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, I only came here to thry you. You don't know me,' says he, I'm deceavin' you all out, I'm not myself at all! Blur-an-agers thin,' says the king, if you are not yourself, who are you?' I'm Saint Kavin,' said the saint, blessin' himself. Oh, queen iv heaven,' says the king, makin' the crass betune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before the saint, is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, that I've been discoorsin' all this time, without knowing it,' says he, all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon? and so you're a saint,' says the king. I am,' says Saint Kavin, the greatest of all the saints!' For Saint Kavin, you must know, Sir,' said Joe, is counted the greatest of all the saints, bekase he went to school with the prophet Jeremiah. "Well, my dear, that's the way that the place came all at wanst into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flewn round every individyal acre o' King O'Toole's property, bein' let into the saycret by St. Kavin, who was mighty cute; and the king had his goose as good as new, and the saint supported him, afther he came into his property, until the day av his death; and when he was gone, Saint Kavin gave him an illigant wake and a beautiful berrin;' and more betoken, he said mass for his soul, an' tuk care av his goose." IRISH MINSTRELSY. The Irish are enthusiastically attached to every thing connected with their native land. We believe that many who do not understand the characters of the Irish tongue will yet be glad to see them in our periodical, and if this department of our labours be approved, we will continue, from time to time, to present the most choice of the bardic remains of Ireland to our readers. The aptitude of the Irish language for lyric poetry has been often observed. The poetry of many of our songs is indeed already music without the aid of a tune. The harmony and cadence of the Scottish dialect of the English tongue have flung peculiar charms round the rural poetry of Scotland, and the language of the Italians has been deservedly celebrated for imparting these qualities to their admired productions. But let the Irish reader compare with any of them the following version of MOLLY A STORE. maire chuisle. Mhájne Chujyle! a bhláth na finne, Zhéig an ojnich n-jar ō'n Nájr, béul jr bjnne ná 'n chuach ajr bjle, drág tú me-si a' n-jargnódh báis; Nj léir damh cojngeal, clár ná fujreann, Ujadh do mheisge, a ré bheag mná; Stájd-bhean mhaiseach, mhéudujgh ar majrg, Och! zan d'fallajng ljom zo lá Shjubhal me ardach, a's zo Cionntfájle, Zo Droichead-aithe, a's air ais a nís, Zo Ceatharlach agus go Dun-Pattrujcc, Samhuil Mháire ní fhacajdh mé: Cójsdídhe árda ajr Eachrajbh bána, Marcshluagh gállda trojd fá’n mnaoj; Má d'imthigh tú, Mháire, go bh-filiidh tú slán, 'I go n-déanfadh do szájle solus gan grjan. 'S i Majre go deimhin, an Plannda breázh lejnbh, Ir réimhidhe 'r is deire d'a bh-fujl le Fághajl; a pjob mar an ljle, a rūjl mar an g-crjosdal, a gruadh is dejrze ’ná rós d'a bhreághacht: dochtújjjdhe na crujnne, a's a g-crujnnjughadh ujle, Ná'n mhór an cumas a z-cur ajr fághail, Nj lajghearradh an arrajng, atá dul tríom taryna, acht pōjzín mheala ō'd bhejljn tajs, tlajah. TRANSLATION. Oh! Mary dear! bright peerless flower, Behold me droop through each dull hour, In friends-in wine-where joy was found- But still while pleasure reigns around, The cuckoo's notes I love to hear, When summer warms the skies; That blithe bird sings her song so clear, And she sings where the sun-beams shine— Her voice is sweet-but Mary dear, Not half so sweet as thine. Our First Number is not so varied in its contents as we wished it to be, and as it is in our power to make it: yet we present it as a specimen of what we can do, leaving it to the public to decide on what we will do. We would not vainly boast, neither would we recklessly promise; but we may be permitted to say this much, that we are neither ashamed of our handiwork, nor afraid of keeping it up. It is an Irish undertaking altogether-Irish paper-Irish printing, the woodcut was done expressly for this number by an IrishmanCLAYTON and we therefore claim Irish support. The expense of producing such a periodical is great; but very moderate profits will suffice us, if our countrymen only second our endeavours to wipe off the stigma which has, we do trust falsely, been affixed to Irish spirit and to Irish literature. DUBLIN: Printed and Published by JOHN S. FOLDS, 5, Bachelor's-Walk; Sold by all Booksellers in Ireland. In Liverpool by Willmer and Smith; in Manchester by Wheeler; in Birmingham by Drake; in Edinburgh by Messrs. Chambers, and R. Grant and Son, in Glasgow by Niven, Jan. and in London by Joseph Robins, Bride Court, Fleet-street, NATIONAL EMBLEMS. WHAT will our readers think of us, when we are so very softnatured as to tell them, that the wood-cut which graces the head of our page, was not done expressly for this number? The simple truth is, that, not anticipating the unprecedented demand which exists for our first number, we did our countrymen the injustice of supposing that our sale would be but a few thousands, a circulation which would scarcely afford even an occasional good wood-cut. We have now made arrangements with Mr. Clayton for a WEEKLY SERIES of views of remarkable objects and places in Ireland; commencing next week with "DUBLIN, from the PHOENIX PARK." In our dilemma, we showed the one above to a very talented, tried, and worthy friend, a true Irishman, when he immediately exclaimed, "Oh this is capital! I will give you both a motto and a motive for it;" and shortly after he went away, the following letter was handed to us : TO THE EDITOR OF THE DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL. Sm-Your wood-cut is, to my apprehension, as full of meaning to an Irishman, as any emblematic device I have seen. It represents peculiar marks or tokens of Ireland, which are dear to my soul. I am bold to say, the Round Tower, and the Wolf Dog, belong exclusively to our country; not so I allow the Oak, or the Shamrock, or the Harp; and, we may add, the Crown. But Irish oaks and Shamrocks, and Harps, as well as Irish Dogs, are known all the world over; and small blame to me if I try to say a little about them! The Round Tower, to the right, is a prodigious puzzler to antiquarians. Quires of paper as tall as a tower, have been covered with as much ink as might form a Liffey, in accounting for their origin and use. They have been assigned to the obscene rites of Paganism-to the mystic arcana of Druidism -aid to be temples of the fire worshippers-standings of the pillar worshippers-Christian belfries-military towers of the Danish invaders-defensive retreats for the native clergy, from the sudden inroads of the ruthless Norman. But all these clever and recondite conjectures are shortly, as I understand, to be completely overthrown, and the real nature of these Round Towers clearly explained, for the first time, in a Prize Essay, presented to the ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY, by an accomplished antiquarian of our city. Sixty-five of these extraordinary constructions have been discovered and described in our island; of these, the highest and most perfect are at Dromiskin, Fertagh, Kilmacduagh, Kildare, and Kells.There are generally the marks of five or six stories in each tower; the doors are from thirteen to twenty feet from the ground, and so low, that none can enter without stooping. The one nearest to Dublin, is at Clondalkin, four miles from town-though formerly there was one in a court off Shipstreet. The most interesting one, both to the antiquarian and the lover of mountain scenery, is the one at the Seven Churches of Glendalough, within a day's drive of Dublin,-the scene of the legend given in your first number, and which if any one of your readers has not seen, he will not do himself justice, unless during the fine weather, he contrive to pay it a visit. The next of our national peculiarities is that Wolf Dog, which, with paws most contemplatively crossed, is looking abroad, and as it were scouting with his keen round eye, for the game that, alas poor Luath! is no longer to be found on hill or curragh. Ireland, though it does indeed contain many a ravenous greedy creature, is yet no longer infested with wolves. Formerly it was not so. So late as the year 1662, Sir John Ponsonby had to bring into parliament a bill to encourage the killing of wolves. Their coverts were the bogs, the mountains, and those shrubby tracts, then so abundant in the island, and which remained after the ancient woods were cut down; affording shelter, not only for the wolf, but the rap paree. The last wolf seen in Ireland was killed in Kerry in 1710. But if our country was thus once famous for wolves, she was equally noted for its peculiar enemy,-and the Irish Wolf Dog, uniting all the speed of the greyhound with the strength of the mastiff, and depending on its eye, its foot, and its wind, would hunt down the game, which the canis veltris, or scent hound, had started for it. These Irish dogs were exhibited in the fourth century, at the Circensian games at Rome; they were an article of export from our isle in the middle ages; they are mentioned in the Welsh laws of Howel Dha, as belonging exclusively to the Cambrian princes and nobility; and a great fine is noted, as to be imposed on those who should injure them. They were employed to hunt the red deer, and the platyceros, or moose deer, as well as the wolf;-but the employment being gone, the breed, though not extinct, has ceased to be common; it is rarely to be seen, though I have marked a certain, grave, solemn gentleman, parading through town with a couple of these grim creatures stalking after him, while both he and his dogs looked as if they belonged to an age long gone by. Now, the hound is couchant beside a goodly plant of trefoil. The draughtsman seemed determined that the Shamrock should be as gigantic as the dog. And why should not our favorite plant have a goodly appearance? Other countries may boast of their trefoil as well as we; but no where on the broad earth, on continent or in isle, is there such an abundance of this succulent material for making fat mutton. In winter as well as in summer, it is found to spread its green carpet over our limestone hills, drawing its verdure from the mists that sweep from the Atlantic. The seed of it is every where. Cast lime or limestone gravel on the top of a mountain, or on the centre of a bog, and up starts the shamrock, St. Patrick, when he drove all living things that had venom (save man) from the top of Croagh Patrick, had his foot planted on a Shamrock; and if the readers of your Journal will go on a pilgrimage to that most beautiful of Irish hills, they will see the Shamrock still flourishing there, and expanding its fragrant honeysuckles to the western wind. I confess I have no patience with that impudent Englishman, who wants to make us believe that our darling plant, associated as it is with our religious and convivial partialities, was not the favourite of St. Patrick, and who would substitute in the place of that badge of our faith and our nationality, a little sour puny plant of wood sorrell! This is actually attempted to be done by that stiff, sturdy Saxon, Mister Bicheno: though Keogh, Threlkeld, and other Irish botanists assert, that the Scamar oge, or Shamrog, is indeed the trefolium ripens; and Threlkeld expressly says, that "the trefoil is worn by the people in their hats upon the 17th of March, which is called SAINT PATRICK'S DAY, it being the current tradition, that by this three-leaved GRASS, he emblematically set forth the Holy Trinity. However that be, when they wet their Scamar oge, they often commit excess in liquor, which is not a right keeping a day to the Lord!" The proof the Englishman ad duces is the testimony of one Spencer, another Saxon, who, in his view of Ireland, describes the people, in a great famine, as creeping forth and flocking to a plot of Shamrocks, or watercresses, to feed on them for the time; and he also quotes an English satirist, one Wytthe, who scoffingly says of those "Who, for their clothing, in mantle goe, But we are not so easily led, Mr. Saxon; we, Irishmen, are not quite disposed to give up our favorite plant at your bidding. In time of famine, the Irish might have attempted to satisfy hunger with trefoil, as well as they did two years ago, when such a thing as sea-weed was eaten, for hunger will break through a stone wall. But do not the Welsh put leeks into their bonnets on St. David's day, and now and then they may eat their leek, as Shakespeare has it, as a relish either for an affront or for other sort of food; and small blame to an Irishman, if, when he feels that queer sensation called hunger, he chews a plant of clover! I, for one, when going into good company, would rather have my breath redolent of the honeysuckle plant, than spiced with the haut gout of garlic! Yet no Welshman would like to live upon leeks, no more than a poor Irishman would upon grass or trefoil; for there is, doubtless, as little nourishment for man in the one as the other. But to do Mr. Bicheno justice, he has another argument in favour of the wood sorrell being the favourite plant of our country, which is far more to an Irishman's mind. He says that woodsorrell, when steeped in punch, makes a better substitute for lemon than trefoil. This has something very specious in it, If any thing would do, this would. But let the Saxon do his best. Even on his own ground-even in London—he would find it very hard to convince our countrymen, settled in St. Gile's, that the oxalis acetosella, the sour, puny, crabbed woodsorrell, is the proper emblem for Ireland. No; "the Shamrock-the green Shamrock," for me! But what will I say about the Harp, the gnarled Oak, the regal Crown, the weapons of war, and of chase, that are strewed around? If any of your readers want to see a perfect specimen of an Irish harp,let them go to Trinity College Museum, and they will see there the genuine harp of Brian Boro, monarch of Ireland, who used to solace his proud and lofty spirit with this identical instrument, before he fell in his country's cause at the battle of Clontarf. To be sure it is not such a finished article as Mr. Egan of Dawson-street can supply, at the very goodly sum of a hundred and fifty guineas, and whose pedals are as complicated as the levers and articulations of the human foot. The old Irish harp was intended more for the poet than the musician, and was used as a subordinate accompaniment to the recitative of the minstrel; and who, on looking at the harp of Brian Boro, rude though it be, would not kindle into a rapture of enthusiasm, at the thought of that valiant minstrel king, and feel his spirit swelling within him, as the words rise to his recollection "His father's sword he hath girded on, Yes! though the harp be hung on Tara's walls, though it be as mute as if the soul of music had fled, there was a time when the bard made its wild notes ring to his Tyrtean strains, and roused the warrior to the strife, or awakened within him the softer emotions of love and pity! And who has not heard of Irish Oak? For though our hills and plains are now so bare of trees that they excite the admira tion of all timber-hating Yankees, as they sail along our im proved shores, yet formerly it was not so. No! It is said that Westminster Hall is roofed with oak, brought from the wood of Shillelagh and a great many of our common names are significant of oak woods. As Kildare, the wood of oak; Londonderry, the oak wood planted by Londoners; Ballinderry, the town in the oak wood At the bottom of all our bogs, and on the tops of our highest hills, roots of oak of immense size, are found; and we may fairly conclude, that though Ireland is now a denuded country, it was once the most umbrageous of the British isles. The customs of our country show that our people once dwelt under the green-wood tree; for an Irishman cannot walk or wander, sport or fight, buy or sell, comfortably, without an oak stick in his fist. If he travels, he will beg, borrow, or steal, a shillelagh; if he goes to play, he hurls with a crooked oak stick; if he goes to a fair, it is delightful to hear the sound of his cloghel-peen on the cattle's horns; if he fights, as fight he must, at market or at fair, the cudgel is brandished on high; and, as Fin Ma Coul of old, smiled grimly in the joy of battle, so his descendents shout lustily in the joy of cudgels -"Bello gaudentes-prælio ridentes!" "In ruxion delighting, "Laughing-while fighting! "Leather away with your oak sticks!" is still the privilege, the glory, and the practice of Irishmen. Nay, more, while living, their meal, their meat, and their valuables, (if they have any-of course,) are kept in oak chests, and when dying, Paddy dies quietly, if assured that he shall have a decent "berrin," be buried in an oaken coffin, and attended to the grave by a pow erful faction, well provided with oak saplings! But, Mr. Penny Editor, I am taking up too much of your room. Another time, (if this pleases you,) I will give you something about the kingly crown, the dress, the armour, and the weapons of warfare, and of chase, which adorn your woodcut; for dearly do I love every thing connected with Ireland, and as I happen to have some little knowledge of the "ould ancient times, "I may be inclined to write to you again. In the mean time, thou unmercenary patriot, I bid you farewell, leaving you my best wishes for the success of your Journal: for while others are striving to carry off our pounds, you merely want to pick up our pennies; and as reasonble people should get reasonable treatment, you may at any time bid "a penny for the thoughts" of Yours to command, TERENCE O'TOOLE. |