The Wild Goose/Number 4
A Collection of Ocean Waifs.
Queen Cliodhna and the Flower of Erin.
A Tale of our Pagan Ancestors.
By Mushra.
Chapter 4.—Conall Age.
How genial and refreshing the glow of a autumnal evening in the genial climate of Ireland! The golden-edged clouds of the west assume shapes and forms which allow the imagination to revel in unbounded freedom, contrasting and comparing them to tower and battlement, mountain and crag: sometimes they assume the faces of long remembered friends. Now the panorama changes, and they put on the most grotesque and fantastic shapes of beasts and birds. The rich brown foliage of the woods and the yellow tint of the ripened corn contrasts strongly with the emerald sheen of the aftergrass in the fields and meadows. On such an evening, about an hour before sunset, a young man, or boy rather, (for his age might be about eighteen), was crossing one of the fords of the far-famed Munster Blackwater, about midway between the towns of Mallow and Kanturk. His appearance betokened a youth of uncommon speed and hardihood; tall, lithe and athletic for his age, with his limbs moulded in the most perfect symmetry, and an incipient black moustache beginning to shade his upper lip, he looked the very embodiment of ripening manly beauty. the twinkle of his hazel eyes and the cheery smile of his sunny lips, as he crossed the river, showed that his heart was light as his step was firm and elastic. Such was Conall Age, son to the neighbouring chieftain of Mount Ellery, who was returning home from the Sunday goal which was held on the Dunhallow side of Blackwater.
With his hurly in his hand, and whistling his favourite air of "The Red Fox," he had not proceeded more than one hundred yards from te river, when his attention was directed to a group before him in his path. Rapidly coming up, and still whistling his tune, he found them to consist of an old man, a little girl, and a dead horse. The old man appeared to be plunged in the deepest grief, and gave utterance to his feelings in loud lamentations, whilst the little girl appeared to be less affected, though her grief partook more of feeling of anger and impatience than sorrow. Conall Age, after curiously surveying them, asked what was the case of their great grief. "Oh!" said the old man, "my darling son, Cormac Art, I will never see again." "Who," said the youth, "is Cormac Art? Is he the great Kerry hurler? If so, I know him well! I played goal against him last year at Inch; and though he gained the day at that time, as I was too young to successfully compete with such a noted hurler, I intend shortly to challenge him again. But tell me what has happened to him; or are you his father?" "Yes," said the old man; and he forthwith narrated to the youth the particulars with which the reader is already acquainted. We have journeyed hither from Lough Swilly since Friday morning, and now, having arrived at so near destination, and the time rapidly drawing to a close, how can I be otherwise than overwhelmed when I find my gallant steed drop dead from sheer exhaustion and fatigue, as it is impossible for this little girl to reach the Rock in time?" Bravely has she borne the fatigues of the journey; and even for her sake I cannot help feeling grieved for our untoward accident." Conall Age listened to the old man’s story with eager attention, and at its close began to whistle "Red Fox," and turned his eyes to examine the little girl more closely than he had done at first. She was dressed as a simple little peasant girl; with a mantle thrown over her head and shoulders; but he remarked that she always kept her hands covered. She was stamping with her tiny foot on the ground with impatience as he gazed on her. "Well," said he, when he was satisfied with his surveying, "old man, you need not be much grieved at the loss of the horse, as I dare say you have many more besides; and if it is necessary that this young one should reach Cliodhna Rock before seven o’clock, I think that is not impossible, although the distance is seven good miles, and there is but three-quarters of an hour to perform it in. I do not think there is a man in Ireland at present can exceed me in running, except perhaps Cormac Art himself, and I am sure the weight of that little girl is not much, So, if she is willing that I should take her, I will engage to go to the enchatress’ stronghold with her before the time has expired. In the meantime, you can follow at your leisure, or go to my father’s castle which is only two miles distant, and wait there for our return. I would go home for a horse, but I fear too much time would be lost; besides, I hope I shall be able to do without him." The little girl immediately consented to the proposal of the youth; and he, placing his hurly under his arm, with the boss out to his breast, took her, and placing her pillion-fashion on it, told her to put her arms round his neck to steady her. Then, striking up his favourite tune, he set off rapidly in the direction of the Rock of Queen Cliodhna.
(To be continued.)
A 4th of July in America.
(Continued from our Last.)
The concert over, the discharge of fireworks was renewed with increased ardour. The din was indescribable. The hoarse and shrill cries of pop-corn, cigar, and other vendors, the braying of tin-horns, the shrieking of "the ear-piercing pipe," and the springing of rattles, mingled with the continual and stunning explosions of common crackers, double-headed crackers, India crackers, torpedoes, and tourbillons, and all other sorts of firearms, would give the indifferent looker-on one bad idea of Pandemonium. Here an individual, slightly "independent," was haranguing a laughing crowd on the "spirit of ’76", whilst he exemplified in himself the full effects of the spirits of ’56.
There a juggler and acrobat
"Amazed the gouging rustics around"
with feats of legerdemain and strength. And, in another place, unsophisticated rendancy was "taken in and done for" by card-sharpers, who, buy some mysterious manipulation, invariably made the cards turn up in their own favor. We created great diversion and some wrath by despatching fire-serpents in amongst the crowd. These igneous messengers performed the most eccentric motions, spitting fire in every direction, their tortuous course governed by no law whatever. Now some individual would be rivetted to the spot, compelled to endure the pitiless shower of sparks rained on him, and another ran hotly pursued by the merciless reptile.
Divine service was held in the different churches of the city, and was well attended, despite the allurements outside. The annual oration was eloquently delivered by Oliver Wendall Holmes, a distinguished savant, who expatiated at length on the great blessings conferred on America since it became a free and independent nation. In the afternoon, the city authorities and their guests partook of a magnificent banquet. ’Tis true, we didn’t dine as sumptuously as they, but certainly did with as much satisfaction. After dinner we witnessed some exciting boat-races in the Back Bay, a option of Boston Harbor. Some "crack" oarsmen were there from St. John’s, New Brunswick, the boatmen of which place dispute with the Haligonians the Championship of American waters. A Boston boat, called the "Maid of Erin," won the prize contested for by first-class gigs. The Public Gardens, at the south side of the Common, was the scene of a fête provided for the schoolchildren by the corporation. Paying the admission fee of six cents, we indulged in an hour’s relaxation from the outside Babel among the juvenile community, flying kites—shaped as owls, bats, butterflies &c.—and balloons, and strolling leisurely through the flowery walks, whilst we occasionally refreshed ourselves with strawberries and cream, peaches, ices, and other tempting luxuries. Some "Odds and Ends"—invitations of the "Antiques and Horribles" on a youthful scale—were sporting about, performing curious antics. I very imprudently caught hold of one of the nondescripts to ascertain what sort of stuff he was made of, when a stinging rap over the knuckles from one of his companions induced me to release him instantly. Returning to the Common, we beheld the ascent of a celebrated aeronaut in the "Young America,"—a balloon of very large dimensions, and strained our eyes watching it gradually diminishing, till at length it disappeared in the depths of the blue ether. At six o’clock the immense concourse of people sensibly decreased as the greater part of them wended their way homewards to partake of some refreshments and a little repose preparatory to witnessing the great event of the day, and the close of the entertainments,—namely the grand pyrotechnic display on the Common in the evening. As twilight approached, streams of people set in towards the Common, and my cousin and I, of course, went with the tide. Rockets were despatched roaring in the sky, and then bursting in their fiery flight into innumerable brilliant stars, returned slowly and sadly to the earth. It was a moonless night; and at nine o’clock and Limerian darkness covered the face of the Common, so that even the ignition of a lucifer match shed a light far and near, which greatly favored the display. The grand exhibition opened with a flight of a hundred rockets, followed by blue lights, Roman candles, showers of golden rain, bee-hives, pin-wheels, &c., of all shapes and the most brilliant hues. Then appeared various devices appropriate to the occasion, such as a crown, scintillating with jewels, mutating to a cap of liberty; George III., in his imperial robes changing to an equestrian statue of Washington; and a figure of Britannia, at whose feet crouched the lion, resolving into the figure of Columbia, supported by the eagle, and surrounded by thirty-one stars, with the date, 1776, and the legend "E Pluribus Unum,"—i.e., many in one,—the motto of the United States. the crowning pieced was the burning of Charleston by the British in the war of the revolution. Charleston and Bunker’s Hill were faithfully modelled. the British fleet moved up in front of the town, and opened a fierce fire of bombs and rockets, to which the Yankee batteries replied. the smoke, brilliant colored fires, stars, &c., produced by the explosions, and the appearance of the ships as they seemed to sail up towards the town, had a most magnificent effect. Finally, the town took fire, and the houses fell with a crash. One stupendous discharge of bombs, rockets and Roman candles, and all was over. Then rose one tremendous cheer that rent the sky, and made the very ground shake. Singular as it may seem, the American’s regard the battle of Bunker Hill with pride; for though defeated, they there learned that yye could fight, and that they only needed a little experience to enable them to become ultimately victorious.
My first "Fourth" in America filled me with serious reflection. What a glorious privilege, thought I, ’tis for a people to be able to enjoy themselves with unbounded license! and what unqualified praise is due to them, at the same time, for not abusing the privilege by indulging in excesses that would involve deplorable consequences! Plunging into all kinds of excitements with the zest of schoolboys, they not only enjoy themselves, but do everything in their power to render everyone else joyous and happy. Thus do the Americans commemorate their country’s natal day. That night, sadly contrasting the position of my own country with that of the proud American republic, I fervently prayed that a happier day might dawn for my own native isle of the sea.
Latest Intelligence.
By South Atlantic Telegraph Line.
Antipodes, via the poop, Yesterday.—In answer to the prayer of petition of the editor of the "Wild Goose," it has been enacted that any person found intruding on his sanctum, slates, &c., will be forthwith condemned to the "galleys"—on deck.
Nov. 30th.—The political horizon looks very stormy, as Russia, England, and all the Northern Powers, advance claims to the possession of Friesland.—(Query, Freezeland.)
Home Markets.—The Deep Sea Fishery has proved an utter failure. Fresh fish not to be had at any price. It is the tapes to form a joint-stock Company to fish the masts and spars.—Tobacco-none in market this week; There are rumours of the arrival of an abundant supply, which, we believe, will end in smoke.
Wanted.
Answers to Correspondents.
"Moses Meek" wishes to know how to account for rather unlimited use of bad language to which most sailors are addicted. Does not "Moses Meek" know that every sailor when he first goes to sea, must learn to gibe the ship. We suppose the reprehensible habit is acquired.
"Phaeton,"—Equinox, as its name implies—equine-ox—is a hybrid animal,—a horse with horns, hoof and tail of an ox. We know not where it is to be found alive, but we can show preserved specimens of its flesh every other day at dinner-time. we suppose you will next want us to catch one.
"Ben Bolt."—We believe great circle sailing is conducted much on the same principle as a journey home by a man three sheets to the wind. Substitute a ship for a man, and the whole thing is plain.
"Thirsty One."—To make lime-juice, get a very large block of limestone; place on grating; squeeze; catch juice is bucket, or barrel, or buckets if more convenient. Cork up—air-tight.
They’ll come again when south winds blow.
SATURDAY, NOV. 30, 1867.
Under the Surface.
Manifold are the impressions inspired by the vast deep, to those who look upon its restless, ever-changing surface. To some it is a source of terror, as, in its fury, it thunders and dashes—now back and sullen, anon white with the foam of rage—against the rock-bound shore. A thing of wonder and awe it is as its mountain billows sweep, with irresistible force, across its watery fields—away, column after column, tossing the strong ship from wave-top to wave-top, like a plaything of a child. To some indeed, it affords a veritable pleasure when, in its calmer moments, its placid face of green sparkles and ripples in the sun-light, and murmuring softly, it kisses the golden sand, or playfuly springs its laughing spray up into the face of the stern old gray rocks; or when calmer still it rests with its scarcely heaving bosom reflecting the heaven’s azure intensified. A thing of wonder, indeed, is the mighty ocean,—as varying as its surface are the impressions received by those who merely look upon its surface; but how much more wonderful it is to gaze down into its fathomless abysses where it presents a fair counterpart to the beauteous earth! What a contrast the stillness of its crystal depths presents to the heartless motion of its surface, fretted by the blustering winds.—Down where diver never dared, lie scenes fair beyond the picturings of the mind.—Mountains covered with impenetrable forests of marine trees, taller than the graceful palm, more knotted than the gnarled oak, where lurks the sea-monster for its prey; dells and fields of delicate sea-ferns and flowers, through which dart and play fish, like beams of green and gold, sapphire and silver light; mossy rocks, with sea-anemones set like beautiful gems; coral caves, where the mermaid decks her wavering tresses, with pearls that seem drops of light, and strings together with a thread of her golden hair shells of tint and glow richer and warmer than our fairest flowers. Holy, pure, calm, and beautiful, with its wondrous beauty and countless treasures, is the awful ocean down in its silent depths.
As with the ocean, so it is with our own ever-changing life, whether it appears to us dark and ruffled by the tempests of adversity, or calm and smiling in the soft winds of prosperity, down below the surface we must look to find depths, holy, pure, calm, and beautiful,—so also with our fellow-man: for below the surface of his troubled , passion-tossed life, if we look into the depths of heart and soul, we shall find things pure, bright, and beautiful—fresh with the impress of the creators hand—the contemplation of which will blot out the memory of all the crosses and roughnesses of superficial worldly life. Be it then our care ever to look below the surface, and we shall thus, in the words of the poet, find—
.jpg)
A Mother’s Love.
Oh! shield her well from every pain,
Her lightest wish obey;
Thou’lt never know such love again
When she has passed away.
God round her heart that fondness tied
No human power can move:
All earthly bonds are weak beside
A mother’s lasting love.
Its priceless worth though canst not tell;
Its bounds thou canst not trace;
’Tis like the mighty ocean’s swell,—
’Tis deep as endless space.
Its holy power will conquer death:
She’ll watch the from above;
Her spirit pure will guard thy path
With all her mother’s love.
Time cannot break the sacred chain,
But adds a strengthening link;
Nor can the ingrates sharpest pain
Those tender feelings sing.
Ah, no! that bond round every chord
Thy infant fingers move;
Thy mother’s heart is always stored
With deep undying love.
Then shield her well from every blast,—
Let grief not mark her brow;
Nor sorrow’s clouds her heart o’ercast,—
Her days are numbered now.
A source of peace such tender care
To thee will always prove:
Her blessing rich — her dying prayer,
Will seal thy mother’s love.
| Log. | S. Lat. | W.Long. | |||
| Nov. | 24 | 25° | 42’ | 27° | 57’ |
| " | 25 | 25 | 5 | 27 | 3 |
| " | 26 | 30 | 20 | 24 | 57 |
| " | 27 | 32 | 29 | 22 | 36 |
| " | 28 | 32 | 1 | 19 | 11 |
| " | 29 | 33 | 4 | 19 | 33 |
| " | 30 | 33° | 54’ | 17° | 46’ |
Extract translated from the family of St. Augustin on the Widow’s Son at Naim.
Over that youth restored to life rejoiced the widowed mother: over men daily raised to spiritual life rejoices Mother Church. He indeed, was bodily dead, but they in mind. His visible death was visibly lamented; their invisible death was neither enquired after, nor was it observed. One sought them out,—One who knew the dead. That One alone Knew the dead, who would make the dead live; for unless He had come to resuscitate the dead, the Apostle would not have said:—"Arise, throw who sleepest, and rise up from the dead, and Christ will enlighten thee."
But we find three dead persons visibly restored to life by our Lord,—thousands invisibly. Who can tell how many dead He restored to life visibly? For not all that He did is written: St. John says so:—"many other things Jesus did, which, if they were written, I do not think the whole world could contain the books."
Without doubt, therefore, many others were restored to life, but it is not in vain that three only are recorded: for our Lord Jesus Christ wished those things which He did exteriorly to be understood also in a spiritual sense, since the miracles which He did He did not do for the sake of miracles, but that what He did would be admirable to those who saw them, and would convey truths to those who understood them.
As he who sees excellent penmanship, but knows not how to read, praises the hand of the antiquary, admiring the beauty of the strokes; but what these strokes mean, or what they indicate, he knows not: and his eye praises, his mind perceives not.
Another both praises the skill of the artist, and takes up the sense: he, namely who can not only see (which is common to all), but can also read, which he can not do who has not learned. This they who saw the miracles of Christ, and understood not what they meant and what they indicated to those who understood them, wondered only that they were done; but others wondered at them when done, and also understood the truths inculcated by them. Such ought we be in the school of Christ.
Two days at Killarney.
(Continued from our Last.)
On the following morning our party, mounted on ponies, and furnished with a guide, proceeded to the Gap of Dunlow. The ponies, which are kept for this purpose, are allowed to roam at large on the mountains during winter and spring; thus prepared for their summer and autumn’s work, they are able to climb over rocks and mounds in perfect safety, and with the agility of a mountain goat. They are also well aware of their daily change of riders, and, if allowed, will take advantage of it; tickled with a touch of the cane, they fall in two deep, but as closely as they place their riders in rather an awkward position, rubbing their legs together, and in this way sometimes dismounting the inexperienced one: their usual mode of proceeding, when left to their own election, being in a jog-trot, and in single file.
From Killarney to Fossa the scenery is subdued, but picturesque, with Kenmare demesne skirting the road on one side, and occasionally opening to a view of the Lower Lake; Aghadoe on the other, with green firleds and orchards gradually rising from the road-side, and a fir-grove at its summit, forming a dark outline to this pretty landscape. Another road called the New Line, branches off directly to the "Gap," from which can be seen McGillicuddy’s Rocks, ascending in wild irregular grandeur, ridge over ridge, and gradually hiding their summits in the grey clouds above. As we entered the "Gap," the golden beams of the sun, which, outside, added beauty and splendour to the surrounding scene, was shut out from our view, and the passage in front appeared like the entrance to some mighty cavern. The rugged mountains, rising in some places almost perpendicular to the road, the stupendous rocks above jutting out from their bases, seeming to threaten destruction to all below, and the mountain streams pouring over rock and crag, with ceaseless noise, added to the grandeur of the entire scene. This wonderful pass extends for miles, in soe places widening out and allowing the sun to shed his bright rays on the purple mountain sides, giving a cheering aspect at intervals to the awe-inspiring work of nature. About midway we got a shot fired off from a small canon, by a mountaineer who kept it on the roadside. At first, it sent a ringing noise through the valley, and then the echo sounded in different places in such quick succession that it resembled distant peals of thunder rolling from mountain to mountain. Farther on, our attention was attracted by a song, which seemed to come from the opposite mountain. It was "The Valley lay smiling before me," accompanied by a violin. We were surprised that no performer appeared in the place where the music seemed to come from, nor could we hear it anywhere else to make us suspect it was an echo. We listened with astonishment to the mysterious notes; but after advancing about fifty yards, to a turn in the road, the music was suddenly transferred, as if by magic, to a large rock overhanging the road near us, from which it now, like enchanted air, swelled forth in beautiful harmony. There stood the performer, singing away in his native pathetic style, and accompanying himself on his violin. This was certainly the strangest and most beautiful echo of all. At several paces in the roadside, we met with groups of pretty blue-eyed girls—true specimens of the mountain maiden—with rosy cheeks and fair hair, which fell in natural profusion on their shoulders. They carried goats milk, in large wooden jugs, which they offered for sale, and, when they satisfied their suspicions as to our appearance, soem small bottles were produced, which, they said, contained the real "mountain dew, that never saw the face of a gauger." Not far from this our ponies halted, I suppose from custom, opposite a neat white-washed cottage, with a square sign-board over the door, on which we read "Kate Kearney. Licensed to sell Whisky and Porter." Outside the door was a small table covered with a white cloth, and temptingly decorated with bottles and decanters. The far-famed Kate (or rather her daughter) stood at the door with a smiling countenance, and rather inviting appearance. her dress was a neat tammin gown of native manufacture, and a cotton shawl thrown over her shoulders, a snow-white cap forming her head-dress; which gave her the appearance of a tidy Irish peasant housewife. Groups of stragglers were about the house, smoking their short black pipes, and jesting in their own witty style, each waiting to be hired, as bugler of guide. Inside the door, on a three-legged stool,sat an old piper, playing on his bag-pipes, tempting the youngsters who sat around him to a jig. At our request, they got themselves in motion, and danced the "Irish Washerwoman" in fine style, tipping the floor with heel and toe like so many drumsticks, gracefully changing places, and keeping perfect time with the music. After being helped by Kate to some goat’s milk and whisky, which was a great boon to us after our long ride, we again mounted ou ponies, well-pleased, and rode off over the rugged road which led to the end of the "Gap." At its termination a wide valley opened to our view, clothed in heather of a rich purple colour, interspersed wit swords of new-mown hay; the beautiful perfumes of both were scattered about by the breeze, and wafted along the road, which takes a sweep of about two miles along the valley, and terminates at the entrance to Lord Brandon’s grounds.
(To be continued.)
In the rose-scented breeze, at the setting of sun,
In some valley’s green bosom, where silver streams run,
Anacreaon, when merry with wine, loved to praise
The juice of the grape in harmonious lays.
When Chian and Samian sparkled and gleamed
In goblets of gold, the poet ne’er dreamed
That in ages to come man could make merry
On drink made from beets, jowsely called sherry.
From the world of spirits, if hither he flew
In guest of some nectar or pure "mountain dew,"
Should he taste what’s imbibed by the staff of her "Goose,"
He’d speed back again with all haste to the deuce!
First Steps.
In the lives of all men there is a certain point—a moment may be—fraught with influences of the most material importance and well-being. By our appreciation of that critical moment is our future path traced, and our characters formed. Our way through the world will be the same direction as that in which we cross the Rubicon. If we launch out bravely and confidently, our eyes fixed on the shore beyond, and with a manly determination to fight against wave and current, and reach the desired point,—then straight onward will be our future course; we will reach the goal with ease, and, from some peaceful haven of rest, will look back with pride and pleasure o’er the chequered track we traversed. But if, instead of crossing straight over that opening river of life, we let the eye wander to every inviting point, we will be swept with its tide far from our true landing place, and in the same direction will lie our future path. Every step we take will lead us farther and farther from Truth and Happiness; and the end will come all dark and despairing, without a solace and without a hope. "There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." Remember, the tide remains at the flood but for a few moments, and then, if ever, the successful step must be taken. Let us in imagination look into the past, and behold those whom we have known thro’ life as they stand on the brink of this stream of destiny. Let us watch their plunge,—their passage,—and their landing: see how, unconsciously almost to themselves, their "first steps" on shore are in the same direction as that in which they crossed the river; follows their various courses—some straight and unswerving,—some wavering and undecided, and other fair and joyous for a time, but leading them with peaceful rapidity to a steep and rigged precipice. Here is a youth, brave, trustful, generous, but bending beneath the crushing weight of poverty and its accompanying ills. Observe him as he faces the stream and prepares to plunge in. Does his eye wander,—does his heart quail,—or his mind waver? No; clear and bright is the glance—straight before him the look—calm and determined the mind: the dash is made and the brave youth is struggling with the waves of the world—battling bravely, on he goes—now raised on a wave, now buried in a gulf; but on still, with that fixed determined look, and that brave heart, until the shore is gained, and forward he speeds with a bright hope in the future, and the prayers of those who love him and watch him hovering o’er him with protecting wings. Onward,—gathering strength as he goes, with a holy trust that peace and rest will reward him when the race is o’er,—But back again to the surging stream. On its bank stands one whose past has been amidst sunshine and flowers. Friends are watching him, dear ones are praying for him, too: no cloud or weight ever rested on him, and life is gay or smiling before him. But see! The eye wanders o’er every bright spot as he launches forth; and little by little he is drawn down the stream; far away, amidst ephemeral beauties he reaches the shore, and on through the bright fields he wanders—sipping their sweets and lingering o’er their pleasures—till night comes with a piercing blast—the sunshine is gone—the melody has ceased—the flowers are dead,—and the thoughtless wanderer stands alone and friendless in the darkness and the desert.
Enough of allegory. We stand now on the brink of such a stream—let us not blindly be led away by deceptive appearances. necessity compels us to begin life anew amid strange faces and strange scenes. The end will certainly be in accordance with the beginning. If our "first steps" are straight on, so shall our life be. Every act and every word is a step—a step right onward or aside. Let us take the tide of the flood—"watch for opportunity and seize it." If we waver at first, we will fail before we reach the goal. there are prayers from our dear ones hovering o’er us as we go; and a firm trust in a manly heart—a strong hand,—and an honourable purpose, will guide and cheer us on, and, in the end, bring us a full and enduring reward.
How to make whisky,—take a large-sized key, whisk it rapidly though the air for about two hours; place it in a hogshead; add a proportionate quantity of water; let it ferment, then bottle, cork, and seal up for use. A wineglass full every morning, fasting, good for lockjaw.
Correspondence.
To the Editors of the "Wild Goose."
Gentlemen,
I have made bould to take up my pen and write yez a letther, tho’ I’m in dhread yez may be too grand to prent annything from a simple boy like meself. The boys takes grate pride out of yez intirely. Yez is able to rite pothry and ourty stories wid anny one—I don’t care who’s his father—this side o’ the Galtees. We—that is, the boys and meself—feel quite thankful to yez for the intherest yez takes in us, in pointin’ out how we should conduct ourselves, that we might hould up our heads as grand as anny one else in the world, and niver reflect disgrace on the ould country. ’Tis very thrue, gintlemen, that I haven’t much o’ the lerning, but what with lookin’ in te spellin’ book, and gettin’ a boy o’ the Leary’s, who knows a power o’ lernin’;—his uncle havin’ ped 21 shillins a quarther for his schoolin’, for he was intinded for a priest,—to help me out wid the big words. I don’t doubt but yez’ll say I’ve rote a mity clever letther. Now, gintelmen, I spelled out, afther a grate dale o’ throuble, the fine letther yez prenthed last week from our "valuable correspondent" as yez call him; and, gintlemen, yez not only say yez would like to hear from him agen, but yez would like to have your readers anser the abs thruse (that’s a ante word—it manes anny thing mity hard to find out) questions he axes. Now, thin, gintlemen, whin a man dars me to tread on the tale of his coat, I niver could find it in me to resist the temptation: so, if i can anser the letther rote by Misther "Deltha"—I suppose he must be a Gracian—I shall only be doin’ what the sperrits move me to do, as the Dewakers say, though, gintlemen, yoy;ll admit its very little moving power the sperrits can have that we get—God be good to us! First, then, he wants to know if yez heard about the wather famine: lave the weather out, and I’ll go bail anny Irishman could tell a grate dale about the famine. Who can ever forget it but the spalpeen whose hart has grown dead and could to the janial influences of home, and whose natheral feelins have been visphiated and corrupted by the false tachins and golden bribes of the stranger, whose hart is not so false as black as his own. As for distant parts, where man and baste perish of the drowt, mat the grate God grant that we can niver be able to tell anny thing about that! Secondly, why is Austhralia so dhry, and the ould land so humid?—which, I’m told, manes moist or damp. Austrhralia is dhry because of the grate hate of the sun, and the hot winds that blow there, which scarcely laves anny wather in the very few rivers—comparatively speakin’—that flow there. It is aisy to see that, even without the assistance of what I call natheral causes, the tears shed by the unhappy children of mother Erin for he misfothins would keep the ould country humid. Thirdly, whin your flock flies homewards—which yez will, soon and sudden, plase God—the flapping of your wings will cause all the pearly dhrops that fall from the lovely blue and black eyed craythers of colleens, and all who grieved afther your sad fate, to evaporate; and to that extent would evaporation be increased, Fourth, i think it is a sad thing to see te brown canvas dipped in the say, and again on a noble vessel, bearin’ on board exiles from Erin (condemned as common felons for loving their native land) to a far-off counthry, where even the very sky is sthrange, and from whince they may niver return to visit the home of their childhood; but I also think that God is just and merciful, and hope whispers that He may be plased to place us once more on board some gallant bark, with brown or white canvas gayly spread to the breeze, bound homeward. Fifth,—whisper gintlemen, yez ought to spake up bould, and tell him yez are able to do any mortial thing undher the sun. Sixthly and lastly (as grate scholars say), if I was able to collect the joyious clouds, tipt with rose and silver and gold and blue, and all sorts of buteful shades and colors,—where would I take them?—where would yez? Why not to that little green isle far over the say, where the hart is warmer, the sun is brighter, and the sky dearer than anny other place in the wide, wide world. The visions of my fancy—my all—my life, i would offer up at the alther of the land of my birth,—the queen of my affections, my soul’s love. And het tells is gintlemen, be the powers! that echo sez, "Garden bowers,—the fruits are ours." Echo may know a grate dale, and praps they’re his and his chum’s; but they’re not ours, as we now to our grief. Larned gintlemen like yez can refer him to what was sed by the ould ancient Latin poet called Vergil, who lived ever so long ago.[1]
I now close, gintlemen, and wish yez and all yez staff and your readers success and prosperity wherever yez may go, and a speedy return on wings of love agen to the dear ould land, which yez may niver lave agen till God calls yez to a happier and better world; and asin’ yez to join me in prayin’ God be wid thim at home. I remain, gintlemin,
Printed and published at the Office, No. 6 Mess, Intermediate Cabin, for the Editors, Messrs John Flood and J.B. O’Reilly.
- ↑ [We presume our correspondent refers to the lines commencing, "Not for yourselves, ye birds, ye build your nests." In the original—
"Sic vos non vobis, midificates aves;
Sic vos non vobis, mellificates apes, " &c.]