A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

mutato nomine de te

Fabula narratur."- Horace, Sat. i., I.

One of the greatest banes to Ireland is the light in which the people regard trade. Whilst our neigh

bours at the other side of the channel endeavour to exalt the character of their citizen and tradesman, we lower and affect to despise it Does an English tradesman amass a respectable fortune in his business, he rears his children in habits of industry-he gives them an education suitable to the condition of society in which it has pleased God to place them, and his wealth is made to minister to their comforts; whilst, also, they are made to feel the real benefits they enjoy, they are not disposed to covet those showy and unsolid acquirements which only give the gloss, but not the happiness of a higher grade. An enthusiastic Irishman, on the other hand, has scarcely begun to feel an increase in his profits, even to competency, than he forms the design of raising his family, as he calls it, from their present condition, and giving them an education that totally unfits them for moving in the class to which he belongs. His fondest daydream is to be able to retire from trade, and in his old age begin a new course of life which his early habits of industry will not permit him to enjoy; and, above all things, he wishes to settle his children in a position in which they may move about with as high a head as any aristocrat in the land.

But while there is a just cry for Irish manufacture, let us more respect the manufacturer; let us show that we believe this positive and undoubted truth, that happiness belongs not to any particular state of life that the intellectual temperate tradesman has within his reach a hoard of treasure such as Croesus never possessed. What does he want which the higher orders enjoy? Have they independence and extensive patrimonies?-he has independence too, and an honest patrimony on his hands; he has them in his skill and in his character; his wants, as well as his wishes, are more circumscribed than those of the great; but he has nevertheless his peculiar enjoyments. Happiness hereafter, thank God, will not be dispensed to any particular grade or section of mankind, neither is it here.

"With equal care the God of all does see,
And sees with equal love."

Nor can we regard it otherwise than as a sickly state of society when men become anxious to throw up their trade, and at once forget the stock from whence they spring. The go-a-head Englishman is made of different stuff. He repudiates every thing mercurial and speculative; and, unless pounds, shillings, and pence are concerned, as a tradesman, he will not understand you. This is really the right way to help forward our common country. This is the way to regenerate the land of our birth. If we be tradesmen, let us labour in our calling, and glory in it rather than despise it. If we be scientific men, let us sedulously and industriously work our problems.

If we be literary-" genus irritabile"-let us also struggle for pre-eminence, and let us feel thoroughly assured that Providence will bless honest industry and well-directed efforts; but let us follow the apostolic nodel, and "learn in whatsoever state we are, therewith to be content." We will now treat our readers to a story founded on fact, and which illustrates forcibly the lesson which we wish to inculcate : In one of the old-fashioned streets of Dublin there stands, or did lately, a large and commodious house, which served, some years back, as the concerns and dwelling of our old friend, Tom Lawrence. In early life we remember him well. He was apprenticed to a chandler, and over and over we have seen him with his pole hung with dips pacing the streets and delivering the goods to his master's customers; or, on a Sunday, habited in his best garments, and showing his unwieldy figure about the metropolis.

No person could have imagined, at this period of his unaspiring career, that we would live to see him endeavouring to push himself and his family into the sphere of fashionable life. Such, however, was the case; and, though many a clever, handsome contemporary has sunk into oblivion, this ignorant and uninteresting youth attained comparative affluence. But it must not be imagined that Tom Lawrence was present acceptation of the word, but he could read a worthless character; true he was ignorant, in the and write, and that was a high elevation on learning's ladder in those days. There was no DUBLIN JOURNAL worth reading then-no real information for meu of Tom's class and intellectual calibre. However, a liberal education was not considered necessary for the lower grades of society, or, indeed, for any grade of Irish society, at the time we speak of. Men of a with learning very little more than what immediately much higher rank than my friend contented themselves concerned their calling. Tom, notwithstanding his want of a university education, was a conscientious and an honest man; he never could be accused of having acted in his dealings with his fellow man as did not become an honourable man and a Christianand such we believed him to be. Like most Irishmen, he married, got some money with his colleen, and was fortunate otherwise in his choice. She was of a rank in his trade. Fond of money, she was also fond of similar to his own, and proved to be an able assistant show-no uncommon contradiction in the human character, and which induces a penurious habit, as in this instance, in order to acquire means to spend rugged pathway of life for some years, when an opportunity presents. They jogged on the

"Heart-linked, like doves of ancient story," and without attracting notice; and people considered Tom a man likely to drone on to the end of his days an unostentatious chandler. His business, of course, they said would be left at his death to his family, consisting of his wife, three sons, and a daughter. Such, however, was not his destiny, and the first intimation the world received of his good fortune was his taking what is technically called a bor near the city, where he repaired on Sundays and holidays, driving his family along with him in a stout

inside car.

This addition to his importance was rather considered a bad sign, and people shook their heads and said " Tom Lawrence is living beyond applicable to the Irish tradesman, who, whilst he is his means." This remark is, unfortunately, too often keeping up an outward appearance of wealth, is, perhaps, on the brink of ruin and bankruptcy; but such was not the case with our worthy friend; he was well would it have been had he remained satisfied merely reaping the rewards of honest industry-and with its results.

In a short time, he removed from the obscure street which he had hitherto inhabited, and took a house in a more respectable part of the city. He assumed now the appearance of a man well-to-do in the world, occasionally invited a friend to dinner, and sent his daughter to a fashionable boarding school: but, as this young lady is to be the heroine of our present little sketch, we should make some particular mention of her. When we first saw her, she was about twelve years of age, and youth, even with all its "purpureum lumen," could not invest with interest her heavy sallow features. Her limbs had no activity, and she dragged herself and them along as if she had been tied at the knees. We were informed by her father that she was a prodigy of learning and accomplishments. At that early age he said she was a proficient in music, dancing, and singing; she was also a perfect artiste, and, for all we know, Claude Lorraine, or Michael Angelo himself, never exhibited more precocious pictorial talent. We have no doubt, too, that the dead languages occupied a due share of her attention. Her poor father could readily believe it, for he never knew whether it was Greek or high Dutch was spoken by the ancients.

Such knowledge, however, was not necessary to his station, and he did better, perhaps, without it. As she increased in years he spared no expense in fitting her for fashionable society, and for figuring | away in the higher circles. But well would it have been for his own happiness that he had given her a useful education, and avoided those tinsel and superficial accomplishments which were above her station, and which only tended to tinge her mind with romantic views which never can be satisfied. For years we lost sight of our friend Tom. He, in the interim, having realised a large sum of money, retired from business, purchased an estate, and embraced the life of a country gentleman, for which he was every way unsuited. This change, however, brought him but little happiness, as the aristocracy of a country will seldom associate with a man that has stood behind the counter and Tom happened to locate himself just in a place where he could find no other society. He endeavoured, however, to remedy this deficiency, by seeking in his family what he could not find elsewhere. And now behold him in a new character, seated in an attempt at an elegant drawing-room beside his daughter's piano, listening with the enthusiasm of an amateur to an Italian sonata; the walls hung with hideous heads, done in cravons and chalk, drawings of roses that strongly resembled ponies, set in elaborately gilt frames, and all the furniture gorgeous and massive. He becomes at once a member of the beau monde, a man of fashion, an exquisite! The winter months were spent in Dublin, that his daughter might have the benefit of Signor and Monsieur and Meinherr so and so, who, like a pestilence, infest our metropolis, to finish the polite education of young ladies and gentlemen. A chaise was bought at Hutton's, and Dycer got orders to purchase a dashing stud. A few years rolled on, and found Tom still an unsuccessful votary at the shrine of fashion. After the last country races, he was obliged to put down his carriage as the mischievous hand of some wag had tied to each tag of the equipage, a pound of candles; and poor Tom, Lbconscious of his ornament, had spent a proud day expatiating on its beauty to several persons, pronouncing it to be good value for what he paid for it-viz., three hundred guineas. He only learned the extent of ridicule to which he had been subjected when he returned home. His daughter was now the admiration of all the ruined fortune-hunters in the country, but. as yet, no opportunity had occurred of settling her to his satisfaction. In vain were the syren notes of that voice, which he esteemed to rival the nightin

gale, stretched to the utmost compass; the ears of elder sons were deaf to its charms. Tom still never despaired, secure of her irresistible charm. It was impossible, he said, such beauty and accomplishments could be long unappreciated, and he resolutely refused every aspirant to her hand, who could not show a clear title to, at least, five hundred a year. We met about this time, during one of his migrations to the metropolis. He was as glad to see us as ever. The honest breast was still unchanged, though the manner of expressing its kindly feelings was unnatural. He made several awkward attempts at gentility, which only made the glaring want of it more visible. He invited us to spend an evening at his lodgings, and accordingly we accepted his invitation, as we were anxious to talk over old times; but, as we afterwards found, the subject was never recurred to. German and Italian books and songs, with a few French and English, were produced on the removal of the tea apparatus. We were favoured by successive selections from Rossini, Mozart, &c., which the young lady performed with much self-satisfaction. Tom sat immoveable, his eyes uplifted in ecstatic enjoyment; but to us the singing and accompaniment were alike unintelligible. The singing was a disagreeable noise emitted from the throat, with a shocking grimace and contortion of the upper lip; and we immediately vowed never to subject ourselves to such ridicule, by going into a sphere from which Providence had excluded us.

After a short time the young lady went on a visit to one of her particular friends, of whom she had many, for her's was a heart singularly formed for the sentimentalities of female friendship. Here she became acquainted with a suitor, who being sadly in want of "the circulating medium," and observing the weakness of her character, pursued a line of conduct which soon gained his object. He feigned the most ardent attachment, bestowing on her, in the most lavish manner, epithets of endearment and devoted love. She, at length, really believed herself a heroine of the first order; and, after a scene in which her passionate soi-disant inamorato held a pistol to his head and vowed he would end his miserable existence unless she became his, she consented to a secret marriage. No time was to be lost, as her visit must shortly conclude, and conducting her to a postchaise, which had been prepared previous to the threatened attempt on his life, he captured his wishedfor prize. Borne on the wings of love, they flew to the far-famed couple-beggar at Cullenswood. They returned immediately when the ceremony was performed, to her friend's house; and when Tom Lawrence came next morning to convey home Miss Matildo Lawrence, he unconsciously escorted Mrs. William Brown! The denouement of the drama was delayed until the next night. Tom had retired to bed at his usual early hour, but about midnight was awakened by a strange sound of suppressed voices, and the raising of a window in the front of his house.

The country, at the time, was greatly disturbed, and visions of Whiteboys and Ribbonmen at once presented themselves to his terrified imagination. He immediately snatched a loaded blunderbuss which always lay near his bed side, and, without further prelude, most valiantly fired in the direction of the noise. Great, indeed, was its execution. A sound followed like the falling of part of the house wall, and male and female shrieks of terror were borne on the still ear of night. Tom, more terrified than the sufferers, locked his room-door, and then determined to await the result of his valour. Presently, his servants, headed by his sons, having discovered the true cause of the disturbance, came to inform their master; but vain were all endeavours to gain admittance.

Terror rendered Tom unable to distinguish the voice of friend from foe, and the louder they shouted from the outside, the louder he shouted from the inside, to bring some one to his help. At length, his sons contrived to make themselves known, and Tom, in his shirt, and blunderbuss in hand, came forth from his fortress. Poor man! although the results were melancholy in the extreme, the previous details were ludicrous. His romantic and accomplished daughter, not content with a flight from her friend's house, must also plan a second escapade from her bed-room window. A ladder was placed against the house, on which she had just stepped. and her affectionate Billy Brown, or, as she called him, William, anxiously awaiting her descent, when Tom's blunderbuss put rather a disagreeable stop to their proceedings. Down tumbled the ladder and lady, not into the arms but on the head of her lover. Fortunately for the adventurers, the window was not very high, and the ground was soft, and but for Mr. Browne's bruises, none of the party suffered material bodily injury, but were so overpowered with mental excitement from the discharge of Tom's brass blunderbuss, that when he came down, the party lay scrambling, very much in the order in which they had

fallen.

I will here draw a veil over my friend's discomfiture

"He loved not wisely, but too well,"

and of course he experienced all those little pangs which are the offspring of disappointed hopes. He refused to see her for several weeks, notwithstanding her assurances that nothing could have tempted her to such disobedience but the idea of witnessing Mr. Browne's suicide. Parental love at length triumphed, and after seeing her again married in the parish church, he permitted her to depart with her worthless spouse. The last time we heard of Mr. and Mrs. Billy Brown was when we saw his name in the list of insolvents, and were informed that his wife was the disinterested companion of his white-washing.

THE DYING PEASANT GIRL. I sigh for a lowly quiet tomb, 'Neath the mountain's foot in sullen gloom, In the leafy dell where no human tread Would break the repose of the silent dead, 'Neath the sombre shade of the Cypress tree"Tis there my peaceful home shall be.

The turf my shroud shall wrap me there,
And spring shall prank with flow'rets fair
My mossy grave near the laughing rill,
That will ripple by round a heart that's chill,
And sing me to rest at evening wild,
Like a mother fondling her infant child.
And the birds of the bough, in a plaintive strain,
Shall lure from his home the shepherd swain;
By the sun's last ray his steps shall be led
To where I'm low in my dreamless bed,
Where my story is told in the moaning breeze,
As it heavily sighs through the willow trees.

W. H-N.

INTERNAL COMMUNICATION-MR. BIANCONI.This spirited gentleman is about to introduce a most useful piece of simple machinery, which will supersede the old-fashioned drag for steep declivities, and which cannot be surpassed for readiness of application. He is also about to extend great and valuable accommodation to the remotest west of Ireland, by the establishment of a car communication between Ballina and Belmullet- a measure which will be most beneficial to that very extensive and improving district: and we hope it will meet the cordial support of all resident gentry and landed proprietors.

IRISH LEGENDS.
THE PHOOCA.

"His haggard face was foul to see-
His mouth unmeet a mouth to be-
His eye of deadly leer;

He nought devis'd but neighbours' ill,
He wreak'd on all his wayward will,

And marr'd all goodly cheer."-SHENSTONE.

It is with feelings of melancholy and regret that we draw aside the curtain which conceals the days of our ancestors, and bring their manners and customs to light, which, like themselves, are either despised or forgotten. The farther we consider them, the more we are struck with wonder at the revolution in society this last century; changes which have made the present generation a different race and people altogether from their forefathers who In the marvellous days of antiquity preceded them. every castle had its phooka-every ferny glen its leprawhawn*—every rath its fairy host-every bush its evil spirit-every old family its particular banshee or bow-every 'squire's cellar its own cluricawn, who revelled nightly in every dainty-and, in short, there was not a spot of our Emerald Isle that had not some species of these unearthly beings peculiar to itself, whose extraordinary feats were the theme of the peasants' conversation as, after the fatigues of a winter's day, they recline by their blazing fires, surrounded by their smiling families, who listen in deathlike stillness to every sentence they utter. As a pleasing task, we shall relate a few of those old stories, as they are told by the Leinster peasantry, confident that they will be perused with pleasure by all who feel an interest in learning the state of society in its primeval, unadorned simplicity.

And first, commencing with the phooca, we shall preface our story with a brief description of it:

Phooca, pouké, pooka, (as it is pronounced by the peasantry,) or Puck, synonimous with "the evil one," is a sprite believed to be, in its original shape, nearly similar to a wolf or large mastiff, though often found like a bull, a horse, a calf, and different other animals, whose forms he can take and change in the twinkling of an eye. He is generally found in the vicinity of old castles or abbeys, where, 'tis said, he secrets himself during the day in recesses that no mortal can penetrate. At night he quits his hiding-place to divert himself on any unfortunate individual who chances to stray across his haunts, whom he torments in every possible way, although he is seldom or never known to hurt any one except such as has offended him. These he repays with tenfold severity.

But we have never learned more concerning these capricious beings than when taking a tour through the remotest parts of the county Carlow a few years ago. As we were lost in contemplation, surveying the venerable ruins of the castle of Clonmore, we encountered a tremendous shower of rain, which

obliged us to seek shelter in one of the small cabins host, a cheerful old man, whose name we afterwards that occupy the interior of that building. Our kind learned was Brien Byrne, seeing we were strangers in the place, had us seated on a boss, (as he called it.) by a huge turf fire-a luxury peculiar to the people of these parts. As we were waiting till the rain

Limericawn pronounced by the Leinster peasantry.

abated, our conversation naturally turned on the castle without, when he amused us by reciting the following tradition:

"Dear me," he began, "isn't it a pity that such ould stock as the owners of this castle should be humbled, an' their abode moulderin' away in the condition it is; 'twas a cursed day for ould Ireland that ever the strangers had anything to do wid it. Many is the poor man is out of imploymint since; no kind hand to assist himself or his family whin in the greatest misery. All our great lords and gintry have left us since, an' wid thim the anforkinate pookas."

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"The pookas!" we remarked, anxious to learn something concerning them "what about them, or why were they obliged to leave the place?" Why," said he, they ar' the ould followers of the Irish blood, who war left destitute also by their masters' fall, an' obliged to seek a home, like many of our boys, elsewhere. 'Twas the people of this castle had the respect for his pooka-throth it was so great that they had his head cut out in stone on the top of their residence; yez may see it our this, just facin' the road, an' more by token, it is the highest point of the whole building. The pooka's hole, just ander the tower, is a dark place, an' whin it stops rainin' I'll just give yez a peep into it for curosity, for 'twas there he lay every day. He was perfekly harmless, an' used to play all night wid the servants, an' assist thim at every little job they'd be doin', unless they vext him, whin, yez may be sartin, he soon found a way to be revinged on thim. Well, on the fall of the lord of this castle, an' the destruction of the whole people by Cromwell, the pooka was left a solitary bein' among the ruins, without one kind hand to look to for assistance or protection. How ever, he still remained in his hole, an' often an' often did he help the country folks in their nightly avocations, particularly in grindin' the corn with the querins, an' spinnin', by which he was permitted to injoy, unmolested, the full heat of their fires-a treat he was exceedingly fond of. Any how, things went on well with the poor pooka for many a year the ould spoke a kind word to him, and the young patted him, an' thus he past his time away, durin' which, his best an' dearest friends were droppin' one by one into the tomb, although he still remained the same. By degrees a new race sprung up altogether, by whom the memory of his old masters, an' his own origin, was intirely unknown; an' as then few would admit him inside doors at all, he suffered very much wid the cold. At length one winter set in wid great severity, the poor pooka indeavoured to seek an asylum aginst the bitin' blast, but was generally repulsed wid a mockery that his heart couldn't bear, till in his rambles one night he chanced to find a lone woman spinnin' by the light of a fine fire in the hollow of Goold glin. Takin' his sate without cermony on the other side, he supplied himself wid flax, to make himself useful I suppose, an' comminced to spin away for the bare life, durin' which the poor woman was ready to drop, to see sich a hairy brute perform work that, as she thought, only women could do. It wasn't wheels they had thin, bud what they call 'the quigall an' spindle:' the rock of flax was fixt in a belt round the waist called 'acrees,' an' drawin' out the thread wid one hand they twisted it wid the quigall an' wound it on the spindle wid a quickness truly incredible. An' fast as the good woman spun, her new companion worked twice as quick, an' at every thread he drew out he used to cry out 'ran

Querins were small mills turned with the hand, found in those days in every farmer's house, as mills were so scarce. The females generally had to grind the quantity of corn that suppled the family nightly.

cue-ue-ue-ue,' lengthenin' the 'ue' out into a long drawl as he finished on the spindle. With fear she was revetted to the spot; she could not lave the hearth-stone that night, an' the mornin' sun shone through the window before he departed, an' enabled her to retire to her bed an' taste the sweets of refreshin' sleep. As her chief depindance lay in her labour at the wheel, she could not flinch, an' for a whole month had the mortification to find 'Rancue,' as she called him, constantly arriving at the regular hour, an' satein' himself at his work so comfortable. At length, every one began to notice the change in her person-her cheeks no longer bore their ruddy appearance her whole frame was nearly worn to a thread, an' her eyes war strained to the corners watchin' the apparition opposite, spinnin' away like murther, as he made the house re-echo wid his 'rancue,' wid his belly turned to the fire. Her husband, who used to go to bed every night before her to mind the children, suspected all was not right, an' couldn't but wonder at the wasted form of the woman who was so healthy before.

"Arrah, Judy,' ses he, one evenin' as he was preparin' to go to bed, in the name of all that's wonderful, what's come over ye at all?-is it in a decay ye ar'? ar' ye fairy-struck? or is it wid the good people ye do be? tell yer own hushand, agrue, at wanst what ails ye, that he may find a rimedy afore it is too late.'

"O, Paddy honey, she faintly replied, 'if ye war to know what I suffered this month, yed pity me; there's not a night of them bud a great big hairy animal like a jackall comes in an' spins away at t'other side of the fire wid me, injoyin' the hate, an' never quits it till day-break. I was afeard to spake to him, or tell you about it afore, else he might kill me; an' that's what kep' me so long every night; I couldn't go to bed till he wint away.'

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'Well aisy,' ses Paddy, after a pause, 'I'll engage I'll settle him; d'you go to bed to night, an' I'll put on per clothes, an' spin in yer place, an' I'll soon find out what it is, or if it's flesh an' blood like ourselves.' "O, Paddy,' she cried, for goodness sake do nothin' to the poor baste; shure he'll murther ye, so he will, if ye attimpt to rise yer hand to him: do, asthore, don't be afther laivin' yer poor wife a widow, that's bad enough afore, an' the four grawls, ithout a father to care thim. O, don't molest the crathur, an' a blessin' 'ill be in yer road 'till the day of yer death.'

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Stop now,' ses he, ⚫ wid yer blatherin' this way, bud go to bed, an' ye'll see if he comes to-morrow night'- -so sayin', he put her to bed, an' havin' drest himself in her clothes, an' made down a roarin' fire, he sat down on a stool, an' began to spin, any way at all, to be shure, as he wasent used to it. So he hadn't been long there, when in walks my boyo, an' sated himself down wid/great authority at t'other side, an' stretchin' out his long hind legs acrass the hearth, made the house echo wid his rancue' as he spun away like wild fire. Paddy also done his best, an' for three long hours they staid opposite to one other, during which he kep' a sharp eye an' his hairy companion, who used to make three threads for his one wid the

greatest aise. At length the pooka threw his away, an' pulled out the greeshogue to warm himself the better, by which he lit the fire so well that he, discovered who was with him. Judge his surprise on lookin' over, an' spyin' the short black jaw of Paddy instead of the long pale one of the woman. discovery frightened him; he made an essay to reach the door, but the man had too close an eye on him, an'intercepted his retreat, an' laid on him so heavy with a

• Greeshogue-Red hot ashes.

Such a