CCXXXVI.-DEFENSE OF IRISH CHARACTER.

IT has been said, (and when we were to be calumniated, what has not been said?) that Irishmen are neither fit for freedom nor grateful for favors. In the first place, I deny

that to be a favor which is a right. And in the next place, I utterly deny that a system of conciliation has ever been adopted with respect to Ireland. Try them, and, my life on it, they will be found grateful.

I think I know my countrymen. They can not help being grateful for a benefit. There is no country on the earth, where one would be conferred with more characteristic benevolence. They are, emphatically, the school-boys of the heart; a people of sympathy. Their acts spring instinctively from their passions; by nature ardent, by instinct brave, by inheritance generous. The children of impulse, they can not avoid their virtues; and to be other than noble, they must not only be unnatural but unnational.

Put my panegyric to the test. Enter the hovel of the Irish peasant. I do not say you will find the frugality of the Scotch, the comfort of the English, or the fantastic decorations of the French cottager. But I do say, within those wretched bazaars of mud and misery, you will find sensibility the most affecting, politeness the most natural, hospitality the most grateful, merit the most unconscious. Their look is eloquence, their smile is love, their retort is wit, their remark is wisdom; not a wisdom, borrowed from the dead, but that with which nature herself has inspired them; an acute observance of the passing scene, and a deep insight into the motives of its agent.

Try to deceive them, and see with what shrewdness they will detect. Try to outwit them, and see with what humor they will elude. Attack them with argument, and you will stand amazed at the strength of their expression, the rapidity of their ideas, and the energy of their gesture. In short, God seems to have formed our country like our people. He has thrown round the one its wild, magnificent,

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decorated rudeness. He has infused into the other the simplicity of genius and the seeds of virtue. He says audibly to us, "Give them cultivation."

FROM PHILLIPS.

CCXXXVII.-IRISH COURTESY.

Stranger. I HAVE lost my way, good friend. Can you assist me in finding it?

O'Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir? Ay, by my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world's end, and further too.

Str. I wish to return by the shortest route to the Black Rock.

O'Cul. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honor and O'Callaghan's own self will show you the way, and then you can't miss it, you know.

Str. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan.

O' Cal. It is never a trouble, so plaze your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.)

Str. Whither do you travel,. friend?

O' Cal. To Dublin, so plaze your honor. Sure all the world knows that Judy O'Flannagan will be married tomorrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan; and Pat, you know, is my own foster-brother: because why, we had but one nurse between us, and that was my own mother. But she died one day; the Lord rest her sweet soul! and left me an orphan, for my father married again, and his new wife was the divil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night. Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that day! For the woman's heart was as cold as a hailstone.

Str. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan?

O' Cal. Ah, your honor, and sure enough there are always reasons as plenty as pratees for being hard-hearted. And

I was no bigger than a dumpling at the time, so I could not help myself, and my father did not care to help me, and so I hopped the twig, and parted old Nick's darling. Och, may the divil find her wherever she goes. But here

I am alive and lapeing, and going to see Pat married; and faith, to do him justice, he's as honest a lad as any within ten miles of us, and no disparagement neither; and I love Pat, and I love all his family; ay, by my shoul do I, every mother's skin of them; and by the same token, I have traveled many a long mile to be present at his wedding.

Str. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than ours, I believe.

O' Cal. Indade, and you may believe that, your honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know. Och, by the powers! the time has been; but, 'tis no matter, not a single copper, at all, at all, now belongs to the family; but as I was saying, the day has been, ay, by my troth, and the night too, when the O'Callaghan's, good luck to them, held their heads up as high as the best. And though I have not a rod of land belonging to me but what I hire, I love my country, and would halve my last pratee with any poor creature that has none.

Str. Pray, how does the bride appear, Mr. O'Callaghan ? O' Cal. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she's a nate article. And then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark and as fine as a peacock; because why, she has a great lady for her godmother, long life and success to her, who has given Judy two milch cows, and five pounds in hard money; and Pat has taken as dacent apartments as any in Dublin; a nate comely parlor as you'd wish to see, just six feet under ground, with a nice beautiful ladder to go down; and all so complate and gentale; and comfortable, as a body may say.

Str. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan.

O'Cal. Faith, and you may say that, your honor. (Rubbing his hands.) Comfort is comfort, says I to Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we were all seated so cleverly around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with the dear little

grunters snoring so swately in the corner, defying wind and weather, with a dry thatch, and a sound conscience to go to sleep upon.

Str.

A good conscience makes a soft pillow.

O' Cal. Och, jewel, sure it is not the best beds that make the best slapers. For there's Kathleen and myself can sleep like two great big tops, and our bed is none of the softest; because why, we slape on the ground, and have no bed, at all, at all.

Str. It is a pity, my honest fellow, that you should ever want one. There-(giving him a guinea), good-by, Mr. O'Callaghan.

O' Cal. I'll drink your honor's health, that I will; and may God bless you and yours, as long as grass grows and water runs.

CCXXXVIII. REDMOND O'NEALE.

IN Scott's "Rokeby" the Knight of Rokeby is supposed to have been engaged as an English officer in quelling an Irish rebellion led by O'Neale, a provincial Irish king. He fell, however, into the hands of O'Neale, by whom he was treated with generosity and hospitality, and sent home safe. In the following extract, O'Neale, having, many years after, been entirely subdued, and obliged to flee, sends his grandson Redmond to his former captive, who receives and educates him as his own child.

LOUTED; bowed in an awkward, clownish way.

GRETA, a Scotch river.

YEARS sped away. On Rokeby's head
Some touch of early snow was shed;
Calm he enjoyed, by Greta's wave,
The peace which James the peaceful gave.

The chase was o'er, the stag was killed,
In Rokeby-hall the cups were filled,
And, by the huge stone chimney sate
The knight, in hospitable state.
Moonless the sky, the hour was late,
When a loud summons shook the gate;

And sore for entrance and for aid,
A voice of foreign accent prayed.

The porter answered to the call,
And instant rushed into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
His plaited hair in elf-locks spread
Around his bare and matted head;
A mantle long and loose he wore,
Shaggy with ice, and stained with gore.

He clasped a burden to his heart,
And, resting on a knotted dart,

The snow from hair and beard he shook,
And round him gazed with wildered look;
Then up the hall, with staggering pace,
He hastened by the blaze to place,
Half lifeless from the bitter air,
His load, a boy of beauty rare.
To Rokeby, next, he louted low,
Then stood erect his tale to show,
With wild majestic port and tone,
Like envoy of some barbarous throne.

"Sir Richard, lord of Rokeby, hear!
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear;
He graces thee, and to thy care
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair.
He bids thee breed him as thy son,
For Turlough's days of joy are done;
And other lords have seized his land,
And faint and feeble is his hand.
To bind the duty on thy soul,
He bids thee think on Erin's bowl!
If any wrong the young O'Neale,
He bids thee think of Erin's steel!
Now is my master's message by,
And Ferraught will contented die."

His look grew fixed, his cheek grew pale,
He sunk when he had told his tale;
For, hid beneath his mantle wide,
A mortal wound was in his side.