Chapter IX: Sunlight (1)

Our scene shifts back to Mrs. Grimgriskin's elegant establishment, where poor Travers' affairs are once more in a very dilapidated state, as may be inferred from the conversation now progressing.

"People as can't pay," said the now curt landlady, smoothing down an already very smooth apron, "needn't to have no objections, I think, to turn out in favor of them as can. I'm a woman of few words--very few indeed. I don't want to make myself at all disagreeable; but impossibles is impossibles, and I can't provide without I have the means to do so with."

"My good lady," interposed Travers, "do pray give me a little time; my friend Sterling has again applied to Mr. Granite"----

"Pooh! I'm sick of all such excuses; one word for all--get your trunks ready. I'd rather lose what you owe me than let it get any bigger, when there's not the remotest chance, as I can see, for its liquidation; and, dear me, how lucky--I declare there's the very truckman who came the other day. I'll tell him to stop, for I don't mind giving you all the assistance I can, conveniently with my own interest."

So saying, she hailed Tom Bobolink, who was indeed looking somewhat wistfully towards the house. He was just cogitating within his mind what excuse he could make to get into the place, and so rid himself of his unfortunate good fortune at once.

"Yon trunks, I presume from appearance, won't take a long time to get ready," said the delicate Grimgriskin. "Here, my man; just come in here," she continued, as Tom, in a state of considerable trepidation, entered the room; "this young man will have a job for you." The poor wife now joined Travers, and on inquiring the cause of the slight tumult, was told by Henry that she must prepare to seek an asylum away from the hospitable mansion which had recently afforded them a shelter.

"Come, my love," said he, with a tolerable effort at cheerfulness, "let us at once leave this mercenary woman's roof."

"Mercenary, indeed!" the landlady shrieked after them, as they entered their own room. "Because a person won't suffer themselves to be robbed with their eyes open, they're mercenary. The sooner my house is cleared of such rubbish, the better. Mercenary, indeed!" and with an indignant toss of her false curls, she flounced out of the room.

"Now for it!" cried Tom; "the coast is clear; what the deuce shall I do with it? I dare not give it openly; suppose I say I found it under the sophia. Egad, that will do famously; here goes." So saying, he plunged his hand into his bosom, and to his horror and consternation it was not there; his blood froze in his veins for an instant, then deluged him with a perfect thaw of perspiration. "Oh, miserable, miserable wretch, I've lost it, I've lost it; what is to become of me!" In vain he searched and searched; it was clean gone. "Oh, how can I face Polly again?" he groaned. "My life is made unhappy for ever; cursed, cursed luck. That ever my eyes fell upon the thing at all: ha!" a shadowy hope flitted across him, that he might have left it at home. "Could I have been so drunken a fool as to leave it behind me? if so, where is it now? At all events, I must go back as fast as I can, for if I cannot recover it, my God! I shall go mad." With a few big jumps he reached the street, and hastily mounting his truck, drove rapidly home, unmindful of the public observation his demented look and unusual haste produced.

A short time after Tom's sudden departure, which was a perfect mystery to Mrs. Grimgriskin, and also to Henry and his wife, a timid ring was heard at the hall-door, and soon Travers, to whom every sound brought increase of apprehension, trembled as he became aware of an altercation between his irate landlady and the new comers, whoever they were.

"I tell you I must see 44, the man that had the thrunks, goin' away a few days agone," said an unmistakably Irish voice, rich and round.

"Oh, if you please, ma'am," placidly continued a small, silvery one.

The dispute, however, was very suddenly cut short by the owner of the loud voice exclaiming, "Arrah, get out o' the road, you cantankerus witch of Endher," and O'Bryan and Polly rushed up the stairs without further ceremony. The door of Travers' room was flung open. "Ha! ha!" cried O'Bryan, "there he is, every inch of him; that's 44; long life to you; and it's glad I am I've found you, and glad you'll be yourself, I'm thinkin', if a trifle o' money will do yez any good."

"What's the matter with you, my friend, what do you seek from me?" demanded Travers.

"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon for breaking in upon you so suddenly," said Polly, "but have you lost any money!"

"I have, indeed," replied Henry, "a large sum; do you know anything about it?"

"Yes, sir," cried Polly, with a radiant flash of her eye. "Here it is;" handing over the wallet, with its contents, with a sigh of the greatest possible relief. "Tell me one thing, sir," she hesitatingly went on, "was it--was it--taken from you?"

"No, my good woman, it was lost by an old friend of mine, dropped, he believes, in the street."

"It was, sir, just as you say, thank Heaven for it. Yes, sir; my husband found it. Is it all there, sir? oh, pray relieve me by saying it is."

"Yes, every penny."

"Then, sir, whatever joy you may feel at its restoration cannot equal what I feel at this moment," said Polly, while the tears gushed forth unrestrainedly from her eyes.

"Here, my good woman, you must take a portion and give it to your honest husband," said Henry, handing to her a liberal amount of the sum.

"Not a shilling, sir, not a shilling," Polly firmly repeated. "I hate to look at it."

"Then would you, my friend, take some reward," continued he, addressing O'Bryan.

"Is it me? not av you were me father, I wouldn't," said the Irishman, with a look of horror. "I know where it came from; bedad I know the very soil it sprouted out of. I'll tell you how it was, sir. You see I was sittin' by myself, and, like an ungrateful blaggard as I am, instead of thankin' the blessed Heavens for the good luck that had fell a-top o' me, what should I do but wish I had a bit o' money, for to dress up my ugly anatomy, when all at once that swadge of temptation dropped on the floor before my very face."

"Don't heed him, sir, he knows not what he talks about," said Polly. "It is all as I told you, sir. My husband"----

She was interrupted by O'Bryan, who cried, "Here he comes. May I niver stir if he doesn't, skelpin' along the street in a state of disthractitude; by me sowl it's here he's coming, too."

"Yes, I know," said Henry, "he is employed, I believe, by our worthy landlady, to remove our things."

At this moment Tom burst into the room, but on seeing Polly and O'Bryan he stopped short, as if arrested by a lightning stroke. "You here, Polly? have you heard of my crime," he said, wildly: but she restrained him by gently laying her hand upon his arm.

"Yes, Tom," she said, quietly, "I know all about it, and so does this gentleman. I have restored the money."

"What?" exclaimed Bobolink, while a thrill of joy went through his frame; "is this true?"

"Hush! husband, dear, hush!" she continued; "I did as you told me, you know. I have brought and given back the lost money to its owner. You know you left it at home for me to take."

"Ah, Polly, I wish I could tell this fellow that," said Tom, laying his hand upon his heart; "but I did intend to give it back. I did, by all my hopes of happiness."

"I know you did, my dear Tom," replied Polly, earnestly. "Your true heart could not harbor a bad thought long."

"My good friend," said Travers, approaching the truckman. "Your wife has refused any reward for this honest act."

"She's right, sir, she's right," interrupted the other.

"At least you'll let me shake you by the hand, and proffer you my friendship?"

"I can't, Poll, I can't," said Tom, aside, to his wife. "I'm afraid--I'm half a scoundrel yet--I know I am; but I've learned a wholesome lesson, and while I have life I'll strive to profit by it."

Urged to it by Polly, he did, however, shake hands with Travers and his wife, just as old Sterling, his face shrouded in gloom, and Mrs. Grimgriskin, stiff and tigerish, entered the room.

"Ah, Sterling, my good old friend, rejoice with us--this honest fellow has found, and restored the money lost," said Travers, gaily; "but, how is this? you don't join in our gladness. Has that old rascal"----

"Hold!" interrupted the old clerk, in an earnest voice, and impressive manner; "Heaven has avenged your wrongs in a sudden and fearful manner. Mr. Granite is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed Henry, in a subdued tone; "with him let his misdeeds be buried. His son will perhaps be more merciful; he will inherit"----

"He has inherited--his father's fate," solemnly replied the old clerk. "Justice may slumber for a while, but retribution must come at last. You are now, by the merchant's will, his sole heir."

"Ho, ho!" thought Mrs. Grimgriskin, who had been an attentive listener, "I'm a woman of few words, but if I had been a woman of less, perhaps it would be more to my interest; but sudden millionaires are usually generous;" and so, smoothing her feline demeanor into quietude, she approached Travers.

"Allow me most sincerely to congratulate you upon your good fortune," she simpered. "Apropos, the first floor is somewhat in arrear; lovely apartments, new carpet, bath, hot water."

"Plenty of that, I'll be bail," remarked O'Bryan; "arrah, howld yer prate, Mrs. Woman-of-few-words--don't you see there's one too many here?"

"Then why don't you go, you ignorant animal," sharply suggested the other.

"Because I'm not the _one_."

Suffice it to say, Henry, with his young wife, and dear old Sterling, were soon installed in a house of their own, and, to their credit, never lost sight of the interest of Tom Bobolink and Polly, who from that day increased in content and prosperity.

As for O'Bryan, the last intimation we had of his well-doing, was the appearance of sundry gigantic street-bills, which contained the following announcement:

+------------------------+
| VOTE FOR |
| THE PEOPLES' FRIEND. |
| O'BRYAN, |
| FOR ALDERMAN. |
+------------------------+

THE TIPPERARY VENUS.

Amongst a people so simple-hearted and enthusiastic as the Irish, it is not at all surprising that a firm and implicit belief in supernal agency should be almost universal. To vivid imaginations, ever on the stretch for the romantic, yearning ever for something beyond the dull realities of commonplace existence, there is something extremely fascinating in the brain revellings of Fairy Land.

Now the Irish fairies are very numerous, and all as well classified, and their varied occupations defined and described by supernaturalists, as though they really were amongst the things that be. The "learned pundits" in such matters declare that the economy of human nature is entirely carried on through their agency. Philosophers have demonstrated the atomic vitality of the universe, and the believer in fairies simply allots them their respective places and duties in the general distribution. They tell you that every breath of air, every drop of water, every leaf and flower, teems with actual life. Myriads of tiny atomies, they say, are employed carrying on the business of existence, animal, vegetable, and atmospheric. Here are crowds of industrious little chemists, extracting dew from moonbeams, which they deliver over to relays of fairy laborers, by them to be applied to the languishing grass. The noxious exhalations of the earth are, by a similar process, gathered from decaying vegetation, and dispersed or condensed into refreshing rain. The warm sunbeams are by them brought down and scattered through the fields; it is the beautiful ministry of one class to breathe upon, and gently force open, the budding blossoms, while, another seduously warms and nurtures the ripening corn, and tends the luscious fruits. Mischievous fellows there also are, whose delight it is to try and frustrate the exertions of the workers. They travel from place to place, loaded with malign influences; blight and mildew, and all the destructive agents that blast the hopes of the agriculturist are under their control; and, with an industry nearly equal to their opponents, they employ their time in training caterpillars and other devouring insects to assist them in the work of desolation.

Many are the battles, we are informed, that occur between the two opposing classes, and it depends upon which side has the best of the contest what the result may be to the defeated object; whether they contend for the life of some delicate flower, or whether the poor farmer's toils were to be rewarded or rendered hopeless by the safety or the destruction of his entire crops.

But to leave this fanciful, and, it must be admitted, poetical theory, our business now is with an individual of a highly responsible class in the world of Fairydom--_The Leprechaun_. A most important personage he is; being the custodian of all hidden treasure, it is he who fabricates the gold within the rock-encircled laboratory. The precious gems, the diamond, sapphire, ruby, amethyst, emerald, and all the world-coveted jewels, are in the safe guardianship of the Leprechaun; and fatal it is to him when aught is discovered and torn from his grasp--for his fairy existence, his immortal essence, is lost with it; he can no longer sport through the air, invisible to mortal ken, but is compelled to take a tangible form, and to work at a degrading occupation--that of making and mending the shoes of his former fairy companions.

The experiences of the writer of this sketch in fairy lore and anecdote, were mostly gathered from a wild, Tipperary sort of cousin, some dozens of times removed, one Roderick O'Callaghan--familiarly Rory--or as, by an easy corruption, he was known "the country round," Roarin' O'Callaghan, who, in his time, had gathered them from the wilder henchmen and followers by whom he was surrounded, when, a devil-may-care gossoon, he wandered among the _Galtie mountains_, the especial pet and persecutor of the entire neighborhood.

Many and many were the mischievous pranks recorded of young Rory. I almost wish that I had begun with the determination of recounting a few of them; but, as I have set myself another task, I must defer that intention until a future opportunity. I am not at all certain still, but that my erratic nib--for I write "_currente calamo_," and without much especial method--may diverge from the grand current of narrative, and, in spite of myself, imperceptibly stray into the now interdicted by-way.

It was from Rory that I heard the strange tale I am now about to relate. Desperate boy-rivals were we, at that time, I must tell you, for the affectionate regards of a young beauty who played old Harry with the juvenile susceptibilities of the whole vicinage. Ah! now that my memory has reverted to that epoch, digression is inevitable. Lovely Polly O'Connor!--bless my soul; a sigh, even at this distant period; how very tenacious these boy-attachments are. I see her as plainly now, mentally pictured, as though in very deed she stood before me.

Both Rory and I endeavored, in the ardent enthusiasm of our fledgling passion, to give vent to the burning thoughts that flamed within us, through the lover's peculiar channel--poetry. My own extraordinary effusion I remember--his I have preserved, and although, at the time, I knew well which was best entitled to the world's consideration, I submit both productions now without a remark. They will at least serve for a description, however insufficient, of our inspiratress.

I had an immense advantage over my competitor in one instance; for, having an acquaintance in the editorial department of the local newspaper, my lucubration lent a lustre to the poets' corner, while, I am ashamed to confess, I exerted, successfully, the same influence to keep Rory's out; it was ungenerous, I own, unpardonable; but what won't a boy-rival do to clear the onward path before the impetuosity of a first love.

But here is the affair, just as it appeared in the Tipperary Gazette, headed, as I thought, with becoming modesty:

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY.

I will not venture to compare
Those flashing eyes
To sunny skies;
To threads of gold thy wealth of hair;
Thy cheek unto the rose's glow;
Thy polished brow,
To lilies glancing in the light,
Or Parian white;
Thy bosom to the virgin snow--
For these
Are weak and well-worn similes.

Thine eyes are like--like--let me see;
The violet's hue,
Reflected through
A drop of dew;
No, that won't do.
No semblance true
In ample nature can there be
To equal their intensity--
Their heavenly blue.
T'were just as vain to seek,
Through every flower to match thy glowing cheek.
No gold could shed
Such radiant glory as ensaints thy head.
Besides, I now remember,
Your golden tresses are but flattered red,
And thine are living amber,
As, when 'tis ripest through the waving corn,
The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn.

To the pale lustre of thy brow,
The lily's self perforce must bow--
The marbles cold,
And very old;
Thy bosom as the new-fallen snow
Is quite
As white,
And melts as soon with Love's warm glow.
But then,
While that receives an early stain,
Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain.

Since, to my mind,
I cannot find
A simile of any kind,
I argue hence
Thou art the sense
And spirit of all excellence;
The charm-bestowing fount, from whence
Fate doth dispense
Its varied bounties to the fair,
The loveliest of whom but share
A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare.

It will scarcely be credited, that after that brilliant compliment to Polly's charms, the little jilt, her well-fortified heart not being assailable by Parnassian pellets, looked still colder upon the suffering perpetrator. However, the persevering nature of my passion--and, indeed, it was then a real one--was not to be set aside by rebuffs. Again and again I returned to the attack, and, pen in hand, racked my unfortunate brains through all the strategy of acrostics, birth-day odes, and sonnets. It was not until some time afterwards that I discovered the real reason of my ill-success. The writing of the "Lines" was, perhaps, a pardonable liberty, but printing them was atrocious; so that, in fact, my unworthy suppression of Rory's concoctions brought its own punishment--not that he was a bit more successful than I, for, as we soon became sensibly aware, the charming, but conscienceless little coquette had even more strings to her bow than she could conveniently fiddle with; indeed, that there wasn't a decent-looking boy in the academy that she didn't encourage, or seem to encourage, so generalizing was her flirtation system.

And, after all, to _decline_ upon foxy Tom Gallagher, the more than middle-aged Dispensary doctor, a long, straggling, splay-footed disciple of Æsculapius, with a head of hair like a door-mat--that she has time and again watched and laughed her little ribs sore at, as he shuffled along the street. Ah! Polly O'Connor!

But, allow me to present to your notice Rory's poetical offering at her inexorable feet. It is, as you may perceive, ambitious, and, however I might have underrated its merits at one time, I _now_ think it smacks somewhat of the old Elizabethan relish.

Judge for yourself:

Upon some sly affair
Connubially dishonest--
Vide Lempriere--
Jupiter was _non est_.
And dame Juno thought
Scandal and écarté
Consolation brought,
So gave a little party.

Soon the Graces three
Came, in evening dresses,
Very fond of tea
They were, with water-cresses.
Venus came, and son,
Who richly did deserve a
Birching for the fun
He made of Miss Minerva.

Soon an earthly guest
Came by invitation,
And, among the rest,
Created a sensation.
My Polly 'twas, and she
Perfection so resembled,
For her sov'reignty
The Queen of Beauty trembled.

After tea there came
A gambling speculation,
Bringing with the game,
Celestial perturbation.
For my Polly, then,
Playing with discretion,
From each goddess won
All her rich possession.

Pallas lost her mind,
With wit and wisdom glowing;
Aphrodite pined
To see her beauty going.
Juno speedily
Lost her regal presence;
And the Graces three,
Lost their very essence.

On this earthly ball
My Polly thus alighted,
With the gifts of all
The goddesses united.
Is it strange that she,
Without much endeavor,
Quickly won from me
Heart and soul for ever?

These fiery manifestations, however, had not the slightest effect upon the arctic nature of the frigid Polly. To be sure, her smile was still "kindly, but frosty," to reverse the Shakespearean aphorism, and as it was dispensed with due impartiality amongst the entire school of her admirers, none were driven to immediate despair, but each flattered himself at the time being that he was the favored one. Our limited supply of pocket-money was transmuted into rings and brooches, for Polly had an inordinate, or rather, the usual predilection of her sex, for _bijouterie_, and as the rings on trees denote the number of years that have rolled over their leafy heads, so the corresponding trophies upon Polly's taper fingers, denoted the amount of her victims.

The majority of her swains began, however, to slacken in their attentions, finally dropping off one by one, until the course was left to Rory and me--praiseworthy examples of a constancy of many months, although as yet not fully known to each other. It was about this time that rumors began to reach us that old Tom Gallagher, the red-headed, rusty-jointed medico, was a constant, and it was hinted, not unwelcome visitor at Polly's father's house--by the way, I forgot to mention that the O'Connor, _père_, was the master of a Charter-house school in the town, and as very a character as such individuals almost invariably are. He had originally been a soldier, so rough, unpolished, and uncouth, that it was a serious question in the neighborhood, if pretty Polly could by any possibility be an offshoot from such a crabbed stock.

At the time of which I write, availability for the particular post assigned to favorites at court, was the last thing thought of, and the O'Connor having rendered some questionable service to the then government, either in making rebels or ensnaring them, he was rewarded with the position he occupied, although he did not possess a single requisite for that responsible situation.

Ignorant of the first principles of education, he delegated his task to subordinates, whose capacity he was incompetent to judge of. His military antecedents made him a harsh, unbending disciplinarian, and as it was in a routine of which he knew nothing whatever, he felt it incumbent upon him to make up in severity and bluster for his lack of knowledge.

But to return to Polly. When the certainty of her prodigious perfidy reached me, I imagined myself a kind of master of Ravenswood, and took to melancholy and light food for some days. Reflection and strong physic, however, soon restored me to something like equanimity, and, becoming a little better reconciled to the annoyance of life, I rushed for consolation and revenge to the poet's corner of the Tipperary Gazette. It was then and there that I produced the following solemn warning to Polly O'Connor, and all others of her sex, who, when love and a full purse are weighed together, get into the scale on the lucre side, making poor, shivering Cupid "kick the beam." It was near the 14th of February, so, in the savage expectation of crushing her heart beneath the satirical avalanche, I designated my contribution--

A VALENTINE

FOR HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.

As Plutus one day, in his chariot of gold,
Was languidly taking the air,
Looking, spite of his riches, distressingly old,
Although dressed with remarkable care;
He met with young Cupid, who, stayed in his flight
By the wealthy god's dazzling array,
Hovered joyously round on his pinions of light,
Highly pleased with the tempting display.
"Ride with me," said Plutus, "all this you may share;
Ride with me, and garments of gold you may wear."

Quite delighted, the urchin stepped into the car,
Little deeming the roads were so rough;
But, repenting his rashness, before he went far
He cried, "Stop! I've been jolted enough.
Pray excuse me, friend Plutus, though rich be the prize
You obligingly offer to me,
Your realm is the gloomy earth, mine the bright skies,
'Tis not likely that we should agree.
Farewell," said the boy, as he mounted in air,
"The heart that Gold worships, Love never can share."

Having boldly appended my own initials to this scarifying outburst, I waited patiently to watch its effect upon the false one. In a few days I saw her--she looked sad. Ha! she is touched, thought I; and, alas for the ferocity of human nature, I rejoiced in her apparent affliction. In a few moments, the sadness deepened on her brow; her lovely lashes became burdened with her pearly tears; resolution, revenge, injured feelings, all dissolved into nothing before the cruel shower. I'm not quite certain what immediately followed. I believe I flung myself enthusiastically on the carpet, before the Tipperary Niobe--beseeching her to repose her sorrows in my sympathizing bosom. At all events, I succeeded in calming her agitation, and after a delicious interview, wherein she thrilled my soul to its centre by the avowal that, however appearances might convict her of vacillation, I was, ever had been, and ever should be, the sole lord of her affections.

In that moment of blinding delirium, of course, all that had hitherto occurred was blotted from my memory as thoroughly as a damp sponge obliterates the records on a tablet of ass-skin. With the unreserved confidence of a relieved heart, she rested her cheek in dangerous proximity to my eager lips, but I had not sufficient courage to take advantage of the position. Her wonderful eyes looked sincerity and love even into the very depths of my soul. I was fascinated--bewildered--doubled up and done for, most effectually. "The evenings were now beautiful," she hinted, together with remote allusions to "soft twilight's balmy hour," setting suns, and such like delectations, until I actually summoned up courage sufficient to make an appointment to meet her

"By moonlight alone."

Nor had she any reserve while naming the particular grove where our trysting was to take place.

It was with the proud port of a conqueror that I deigned to tread the vulgar pavement after my never-to-be-forgotten interview with the Circean Polly; victory swelled within my expanding chest, like too much soup. Polly was mine; what a triumph I had achieved. I do verily believe, if, at this juncture, it were at all essential, or even could be remotely conducive to Polly's tranquillity, that I should go through the then popular amusement of hanging, I would have gone to the halter with nearly as much cheerfulness as though it were the altar; but, fortunately, I was not called upon to testify the loyalty of my devotion by asphyxiation.

Rory and I met as usual that afternoon, and I remarked that a sort of ill-concealed joy was working like an undercurrent through his features--now he would sing vociferously; anon, suddenly subside into quiet--it was very curious--I determined, however, to discover, if possible, the cause of his self-satisfaction.

"Rory," said I.

"Hallo!"

"What makes you so silent?"

"Am I silent?" he replied, bursting instantly into a merry song.

"There's something on your mind, at all events; that I know."

"May-be there is; but do you know that's exactly what I was going to say to you?"

"Is it possible?" I rejoined, as demurely as I could, but my stinging cheek betrayed me.

"Why, how you blush," he went on. "Ha! have I found you out?"

"What do you mean?" said I, in an instant changed from convict to criminal.

"You have a sweetheart."

"And so have you," I retorted, as severely as I could.

"I don't deny it," said he, laughing like mad.

"Neither do I, if it comes to that."

Now, be it understood, we had neither of us, as yet, confessed to the other the reality of the attachment we had each conceived for the divine Polly.

"You are really in love, then, Rory?"

"Oh! don't mention it," replied he. "Ocean deep, my boy; fathomless; out of soundings one instant; the next, floating nautilus-like upon the warm, tranquil bosom of an oriental lake; now, lifted upon the very top wave of lunacy, to clutch at stars; and sunk in the hollow depths of dark despair." Rory was curiously ornate in his amatory outbreaks. "What do you think?" he went on, with a dash of his hitherto confidence. "I have been at the Heliconian again."

"No!"

"Upon my life! deep draughts! inspiration. Her eyes--oh! such eyes. You've seen them; small heavens, with a sun in each; saw her to-day--all fixed, my boy; she loves me--said so, and yet my pulse didn't overflow and choke me; heart in my mouth, to be sure--but gulped it down again with a ponderous effort; going to meet her to-night, by appointment; what do you think of that, my boy? what do you think of that?"

Curious coincidence, thought I, but said nothing.

"Shall I read you what I have been doing?" said Rory, with a slightly apologetic gesture.

"Only too happy, of course," said I, mentally anathematizing him for an injudicious bore, thus to parade his flaming productions before--ahem! a writer for the press; but here is Rory's effusion; he gave me a copy.

"You must know," he premised, "that I had some misgivings about a certain elderly codger, whom I frequently discovered in tantalizing companionship with my beloved; hence my Valentine is a little suggestive."

More curious coincidences, said something within me, striking upon the ear of my heart rather alarmingly; but the great pacificator, conceit, soon quelled the emotion, and I was all absorbed in self love and delicious anticipations, when Rory cleared his throat, and read

AN ALLEGORY.

As Cupid one day, with his quiver well stored,
Fluttered round, upon wickedness bent,
Right and left, his insidious love-messengers poured,
And hearts by the hundred were shamefully scored,
To the mischievous archer's content.
'Till at last he encountered King Death on his way,
Whose arrows more fatally flew.
In vain did the emulous urchin display
All his arts, his companion still carried the day,
For his shafts were, as destiny, true.

Boy Cupid, annoyed at the other's success,
Invoked cousin Mercury's aid,
Who, having for mischief a talent no less,
Changed their quivers, so featly that neither could guess,
Such complete transposition were made.
The result, up to this very hour you may see,
For when very old folk feel love's smart,
Cupid's arrow by Death surely missioned must be;
But when youth in its loveliness sinks to decay,
Death's quiver doth furnish the dart.

Here was a startling resemblance, with a vengeance; in spite of my new-fledged confidence, and the unmistakably excellent opinion I entertained of number one, I began to feel somewhat nervous.

"How do you like it?" said Rory, evidently nettled at my inattention.

"I don't like it all."

"Eh!"

"I don't mean that; I mean--the poetry is superb--lovely--but"----

"But what? you are laboring to give vent to something, evidently--out with it, man," Rory continued, moodily.

"Well, then, since you press me," said I, "I certainly have my misgivings."

"And what about, pray?"

"May I venture to ask who the elderly person is, at whom your allegory is directed?"

"I have no objection at all," Rory replied, "if you give me your word you won't mention it again."

"Honor bright."

"Well, then, it's old Tom Gallagher, the saw-bones."

Oh! my internal machinery ceased working, for an instant; had I a girl's privilege, I should have fainted outright; it was a shock; a stunning one, and no mistake.

"What's the matter with you?" inquired Rory, seeing me gasp like a fresh-caught perch.

"Oh! Rory," I cried, grasping his hand with the sudden affection that similarity of misfortune always instigates. "Rory, my friend, did you see my Valentine in the _Tipperary Gazette_?"

"Yes, and liked it," said he, in a tone of sincerity; "but who was Plutus?"

"By all that's excruciating, old Tom Gallagher."

Rory turned as pale as a turnip.

"And the confounded little coquette who bamboozled you to day," I continued, courageously, despite of Rory's dark frown, "and who conglomerated my reasoning faculties in the same way, was Miss Polly O'Connor."

It was now Rory's turn to have his mechanism bothered.

"What do you mean?" he whispered, tremblingly.

"I mean," said I, "that this very morning, Miss Polly O'Conner swore as binding an oath as ever flashed out of a pair of eyes, or was sealed upon a pair of lips, that I was to have the fee simple of her heart for life, and to settle the affair, we are to meet this evening, at eight o'clock, in Duffy's borieen, at the little stile leading into Murphy's lane."

"Just the spot, and just the time, by Jove, that I was to be there for the same purpose," cried Rory, gnashing his teeth in a biting rage.

For a few moments, we stood silently regarding each other, and at last, broke into a violent fit of laughter; it was what old Tom himself, confound his coppery heart, would call "the crisis;" we were cured--not immediately, however--the dangerous point was passed--time and low diet did the rest.

The inhuman little savage confessed, shortly after, that she had adopted that nefarious plan, in order that, by meeting together, we might--how, she didn't care--come to some explanation with regard to the duality of our attachment, and the double duplicity of our Tipperary Venus.

And now to return--it's a long way back, but never mind. I'm riding an old hack; few that's used to such journeys. To my first intention; that is, to illustrate the position in Fairydom of the _Leprechaun_.

It is one Rory's wild tales, and, as it mightily interested me--to be sure, I was young at the time--I trust, gentle reader, it may not prove entirely devoid of attraction for you.

In the little village of Templeneiry, situated at the base of one of the Galtee mountains, whose summit looks down upon the diminutive hamlet from the altitude of two thousand feet, there dwelt a very celebrated and greatly-sought-after individual, one Terry Magra, the Piper; there wasn't a _pathern_, fair, wake, wedding, or merriment of any description, for miles round, in which he and his dhrones were not called into requisition: there wasn't a performer on that noisy, but much-loved instrument, that could at all compare with Terry; it was solemnly asserted, indeed, that his superiority was the result of fairy agency; a belief which he was not unwilling to foster and encourage, inasmuch, as it gave him a wonderful importance among the superstitious peasantry.

Now, with grief it must be recorded, Terry was too much addicted to the almost national failing, that of intoxication. Whisky was to him the universal panacea; did his sweetheart, and he had plenty of them, frown upon his tender suit, whisky banished the mortification; was his rent in arrear, and no sign of anything turning up, whisky wiped off the account, instanter; did all the ill-omened birds that flock around the head of poverty, assail him, he fired a stiff tumbler of whisky punch at them, and they dispersed.

On the whole, it was a jolly vagabond, reckless, and variegated life, that of Terry Magra; his supernatural reputation, together with the general belief in the positive existence of fairies, entertained by the community in which he exercised his pleasant vocation, rendering him a fit subject to receive any spiritual impression, howsoever removed from the common course of events.

It was one moonlight night that Terry, after having attended a grand festival in the neighborhood, brought up, as was his usual custom, at a Sheebieen house, where a few seasoned old casks, like himself, invariably "topped off" with a round of throat-raspers; here he was the Sir Oracle; the lord of the soil himself--did they ever see him, which was not at all probable, for, upon the means wrung by his agents from the poor wretches, by Providence delegated to his care--those same agents, by the way, managing to squeeze out a comfortable per-centage for themselves--he lives in London. The lord of the soil, as I said, could not be served with readier obedience, or listened to with more profound attention.

The roaring song, and joke, and fun abounded upon this occasion, and Terry improvised so wild and inspiriting a strain upon his famous pipes, that it was generally conceded, with enthusiasm tinctured with awe, that no mortal hand could have produced such astounding music.

At length, the sleepy proprietor of the place put a sudden end to the jollification, by stopping the supplies, the only way in which the Widow Brady--for I'm sorry to say it was a woman, and a decent-looking one too, who presided over this Pandora's box, where Hope forever lies imprisoned--could break up the party.

Terry, after vainly endeavoring to mollify the widow, gathered up his magic pipes, and sallied forth. Adieus were exchanged; friendly hugs, and protestations of eternal friendship passed between the stammering, roaring crowd, to be ratified hereafter, it might be, by a crack on the skull from a tough _alpieen_. At last they separated, each to find, as he could, his way home by the devious light of a clouded moon.

Now, Terry lived a smart way up the mountain, and so, with, as he said, "the sense fairly bilin' in him everywhere but his murdherin' legs," that persisted in carrying him in the opposite direction to that which his intention pointed, the contest between his will and his locomotive powers making his course somewhat irregular--our bold piper proceeded on his way, humming snatches of songs, and every now and then, by way of diversion, waking the echoes by a fierce blast from his "chanter."

Whether Terry resorted to these means for the purpose of keeping his courage from slumbering within his breast, I know not; but, inasmuch as the ground he was traversing had a general fairy repute, I think it more than likely that, notwithstanding the whisky-valor with which he had armed himself, it was not without considerable trepidation he endeavored to make his way through the enchanted precincts.

There was one isolated mound, which tradition had positively marked as a favorite resort of the "good people," and as Terry neared it, apprehension smote against his heart lustily. For the first time, he faltered. The moon, which had hitherto seemed to light him famously, shot suddenly behind a dense, black cloud, and Terry thought that blindness had fallen upon him, so black did everything appear. At the same moment, a gust of wind shook the crisp leaves of the aspen trees, with a noise like the rattling of dry bones, that sunk into his very soul. He was frightened--he couldn't go a step further. Down on his knees he fell, in the middle of the road, and, as a last resource, tried to collect himself sufficiently to mutter through the form of exorcisement used by the peasantry in similar emergencies. To his horror he discovered that he couldn't remember a syllable of the matter. He resorted to his prayers, but his traitor-memory deserted him there also.

Now his perturbation and dismay increased, for he knew by those signs that he was "fairy-struck." There was nothing left him but to run for it; but, to his yet greater terror, on endeavoring to rise from his knees, he found himself rooted to the ground like a tree; not a muscle could he move. Then--as he described it--

"The fairy bells rung like mad inside of me skull. The very brains of me was twisted about, as a washerwoman twists a wet rag; somethin' hit me a bat on the head, an' down I dropped, as dead as a herrin'."

When Terry came to himself again, the darkness had vanished, and the whole scene was glowing with the mellow softness of an eastern morning. The atmosphere was imbued with a delicious warmth, while a subdued crimson haze hung between earth and sky. The common road-stones looked like lumps of heated amber. The very dew-drops on the grass glittered like rubies, while the noisy little mountain-fall, where it broke white against the rocks, flashed and sparkled in the rosy light, like jets of liquid gold, filling the air with living gems.

"Be jabers, an' this is Fairy-land, sure enough," said Terry; "an' if the little blaggards has got anything agin' me, it's in a murdherin' bad box I am, the divil a doubt of it. I've nothin' for it, anyway, but to take it aisy." So he sat upon a large stone on the wayside, and gazed with intense admiration on the lovely scene before him, inly wondering what kind of demonstration the inhabitants of this enchanted spot would make when they discerned his audacious intrusion.

Several minutes had elapsed, and Terry heard nothing but a small, musical hum, barely discernible by the sense, which every warm current of air caused to rise and fall upon his charmed ear, in undulations of dreamy melody. Suddenly, however, his attention was directed towards a fallen leaf, which some vagrant breeze appeared to toss to and fro in merry play. For a long time he watched its eccentric movements, until at last a gust of wind lifted it up, and whirling it round and round in circling eddies, dropped it on the piece of rock where he was sitting.

Now Terry perceived a multitude of tiny creatures, ant-like, busied around the still fluttering leaf, and on stooping to examine them closely, his heart leaped like a living thing within his bosom, his breath came short and gasping, and his tongue clove to his palate.

"There they are, an' no mistake," thought he; "an' my time is come. May the blessed saints stand betune me an harm."

The crowds of atomies which he had supposed to be ants, were beings of the most exquisite human form; anon, the air grew thick with them. Some, winged like butterflies, disported around his head, and alighted upon his garments, pluming their bejewelled pinions and then darting off again.

"It's mighty quare that they don't give me a hint that I'm out of me element," thought Terry, as, emboldened by their passiveness, he gently took the leaf up in his hand, on which were dozens of them yet clustered; he held the fairy-laden leaf up to his eyes; still they kept gambolling about it; they overrun his fingers, and clambered up his sleeve, but no intimation did they give that Terry was of other material than one of the rocks by which they were surrounded; they invaded his face, examined his mouth, and peered into his eyes, yet there was no indication that his presence was acknowledged.

Resolving to test the matter at once, with an effort of courage, he rose up gradually, and looked around him; all was quiet.

"If any thing will make them spake, the pipes will," said he, bravely, and so, filling his chanter, he gave one preliminary blast, and finding that it met with no response, save from the distant echoes, that sent it sweeping back in multiplied reverberations, he commenced to play one of his most lauded planxtys; never had he satisfied himself better, but never had he exerted himself before a more unappreciative assembly; the universal fun and frolic went on as before.

His artistic self-love was sadly wounded. "The divil such a lot of stupid fairies did I ever hear tell of," said he, throwing down his pipes in disgust. "An' bad luck attend the grunt more yez'll get out o' me; such elegant music as I've been threaten yez wid, an' the never an ear cocked among the lot of yez."

"A thin, Misther Terry Magra," said the smallest possible kind of a voice, but which thrilled through the piper as though it were thunder-loud. "Shure, an' you're not goin' to concate that it's music you've been tearin' out ov them tree-stumps of yours; be the powers of war, it's a tom-cat I thought you wor squeezin' undher yer arms."

"Thank you, kindly, yer honor, for the compliment, whoever you are," replied Terry, when, on turning round to the quarter from whence the voice proceeded, he saw, sitting on the branch of a tree beside him, a diminutive piper, in all respects a perfect resemblance to himself; dressed in similar garments, even to the dilapidated _caubieen_, with an atom of a _dhudieen_ stuck in it; but what elicited his admiration most of all, was the weeny set of pipes the swaggering little ruffian carried on his arm.

"Your soul to glory," cried Terry, his excitement completely mastering his apprehension. "An' if you can blow any music out of them, I'll give in soon an' suddent."

"Howld yer prate, you ugly man, an' bad Christian," cried the little fellow; "sure, an' it's plinty of help I'll have;" with that, he put the bellows under his arm, and blew a blast that sounded like the whistle of a tom-tit in distress; a signal which was quickly answered by similar sounds, issuing from all directions; and very soon Terry saw groups of little pipers climbing up the tree until the branch was fairly alive with them, each one an exact counterpart of the first.

"May I never sin if the sowls of all the Terry Magras, past, present, an' to come, ain't to the fore, it's my belief, this minnit," said the piper, in an ecstasy of amazement.

"We must graize our elbows before we begin, boys," said Terry's friend, producing a fairy bottle.

"Here's your health, Misther Terry Magra," says the little vagabond, with a ghost of a laugh; and up went the bottle to his head.

"Here's your health, Misther Terry Magra," they all repeated, as the real mountain dew went merrily round.

"Faix, an' it's glad enough I'd be to return thanks for the favor," said Terry, "if it's a thing that I had a toothful of sperrits to join yez in; more, betoken, I'm as drouthy as a sand-bag this blessed hour."

"Never be it said that a dhry Christian should keep cotton in his mouth, while we can give him a dhrop to wash it out," said the little piper, throwing his bottle at Terry.

"Bedad, it's a _dhrop_, sure enough, that I'll be suckin' out of this," said Terry, as he regarded the tiny atom that rested in the palm of his hand. "Bad 'cess to me, if a scooped-out duck-shot wouldn't howld more nourishment. I'm obleeged to you for your good intentions, any way, but I b'leeve I won't be robbin' you this time."

"Don't be refusin' your liquor, you fool," said the piping little chap, with a wicked look out of his mites of eyes. "I'll be bound that such liquor never tickled your throat before."

"Well, rather than appear onfriendly, I'll just go through the motions; so here's jolly good luck to yez all," said Terry, raising the pellet-like material to his lips, when, to his intense satisfaction and wonder, his mouth instantly filled up, and run over, with a perfect flood of such whisky as he owned never yet had blessed his palate; again and again he repeated the experiment, and with the like delicious result.

"Hollo! there, give me back my bottle, you thief of the world; would you ruin us, entirely?" cried the little piper. "If the blaggard wouldn't drink the say dhry, I'm not here."

"By the sowl of me mother," said Terry, with a loud smack of enjoyment, "if the say was made of such stuff as that, may I never, if I wouldn't change places wid a mermaid's husband, and flourish a fish's tail all the days of my life."

"But this has nothin' to do concarnin' the music," says the fairy, "so, here goes to show you how much you know about humorin' the pipes." So saying, the whole army of pipers set up a chant, so small, and yet so exquisitely sweet and harmonious, that Terry scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of losing the slightest echo of such bewitching strains.

"What do you say to that?" inquired the little fellow, when they had finished.

"Say to it," cried Terry, flinging his hat upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight; "what the mischief can I say? Bedad, there never was a mortial had the concate so complately licked out o' him as it's been deludhed out o' me at this present writin, an' to make my words good, av there was a bit of fire near, if I wouldn't make cindhers of that murdherin' ould catherwauler ov mine, I'm a grasshopper."

"It does you credit to own up to it so readily, Terry Magra," said the head fairy, pleased enough at the compliment. "An', by the way of rewardin' you for that same, we'll give you a blast of another sort." With that they turned to and executed a jig-tune, so swiftly-fingered, so lively and irresistibly _sole_-inspiring, that, with a wild scream of delight, Terry whipped off his great coat, and jumping on the level rock, went through the varied complications of the most intricate description of Irish dance.

"Murdher alive, av I only had a partner now," he cried. "Such elegant music, an' only one to be enjoyin' it." Faster and faster played the fairy pipers, and yet more madly Terry beat time upon the stone, making the mountains resound to his vociferous shouts, until exhausted at last, he jumped off, and sunk panting on the ground.

"Oh! _tear an' aigers_!" he cried, "an' av yez have a grain of compassion in thim insignificant tiniments of yours, fairies, darlin', won't yez lend us the loan of a pull out of that same bit of a bottle, for it's the seven senses that you've fairly batthered out o' me wid that rattlin' leg-teazer of a chune."

"Wid a heart an' a half, my hayro!" said the little piper, flinging Terry the fairy-bottle; "it's you that has the parliaminthary unction for the creather, if ever a sowl had. Don't be afeard of it, it won't hurt a feather of you, no more nor wather on a duck's back."

Thus encouraged, Terry lifted his elbow considerably, before he thought it prudent to desist, the fairy liquor appearing more delicious with each gulp, when, all at once--for Terry had a tolerable share of acuteness for a piper--the thought struck him that the little schemers might have a motive in thus plying him with such potential stuff.

"If you're at all inclined for a nap, Terry, my boy," said the fairy, blandly, "there's a lovely bank of moss fornent you, that'll beat the best feather-bed at the Globe Inn, in the town of Clonmel. Stretch yourself on it, _aroon_, an' we'll keep watch over you as tindherly as av your own mother was hangin' over yer cradle."

"Ho! ho! is it there yez are, you sootherin' vagabonds," said Terry to himself. "It's off o' my guard you want to ketch me, eh?" He was determined, however, to diplomatize, so he replied, with equal politeness, "It's thankful that I am to yer honors for the invite, but I wouldn't be makin' such a hole in my manners as to let a wink come on me in such iligant company."

"Oh, well, just as you like, Terry Magra," observed the fairy, with just enough of lemon in his tone to convince Terry that his surmise was correct. "At all events, if you're not sleepy now, you soon will be," the little fellow continued, "so, when you are, you will lie down without fear. In the meantime, we must go and inform our king how famously we've amused you, and what a fine fellow you are." So saying, with a sharp little squeal of a laugh, that Terry thought carried with it a sufficiency of sarcasm, the little piper and his companions rapidly descended from their perch, and vanished from his sight.

No sooner had they departed when Terry's ears were saluted by a singularly delightful buzzing noise, that, in spite of his endeavor to resist it, caused a growing drowsiness to steal over him. The declining daylight deepened into a still more roseate hue. Once or twice his eyelids drooped, but he recovered himself with a vigorous effort.

"By the ghost of Moll Kelly," he cried, "I'm a lost mutton, as sure as eggs is chickens, if the sleep masthers me; the pipes is my only chance." So saying, he shook off the slumberous sensation, and, seizing the instrument, blazed out into a stormy attack upon "Garryowen," and, sure enough, something like a distant groan, as of disappointment, reached him at the very first snore of the chanter.