amounting to wire-drawing, of many of the stories. The author is not, however, prolix in the ordinary fashion of that besetting sin; a word must be coined to convey a true idea of his offences against time and ordinary patience. He is intolerably repetitive. Goethe supposed that Sir Walter Scott employed sɔme inferior hand to supply the chaff to his wheat; and till the public have the discrimination to accept the ingredients in literary composition, served up separately concocted, bulk, we acknowledge, must often supply the place of quality, if authors would live, and booksellers thrive. Our author has another fault, which amounts to sin against his own better genius. Having started a good original idea, he is not contented with running it handsomely down, but actually exhausts, worries, tears it to pieces, and then against all rules of sport, sets it up a-new for a fresh bout. His first stroke is lusty and vigorous, and tells; but he reiterates the blow, loses wind, and sinks into mere child's play at last. Our final objection to these admirable stories, extends to nearly all contemporary Irish fictions. It is to their jargon and uncouth orthography, and tiresome parrot-like repetition of some bald Irish word or phrase, regularly explained at the bottom of the page, till the pages look more like mis-pronouncing dictionaries, than compositions intended to be made descriptive or racy by the use of piquant phrases and picturesque native words, illustrating the genius of a people through their language. We humbly submit that there is neither wit, humour, nor feeling in lots of superfluous h'es, in g's lopped away, or double ees broadened into a's. Miss Edgeworth was the first sinner in this sort. Mr. Banim is by far the most flagrant. Ignorant of the spoken language of the lower classes of Ireland and Scotland, every word to which Miss Edgeworth was unaccustomed, struck her ear and her fancy as something original and wonderful; and a stray Scotch word or phrase, as forenent, childre, sorrow one! &c., &c., is as carefully set down by her, and as elaborately explained, as if two-thirds of the people of Britain were not as familiar with them as with any other words of our spoken language. It is not to national idioms we object, and still less to the strong and peculiar language in which the men of different countries, by embodying their deepest and most lively feelings, give us a sure clew to national distinctions of character, but to the corrupt and absurd orthography which overloads whole pages, and often gives an absolutely ludicrous effect to the most pathetic passages in the Irish tales. In the Scotch novels a language is spoken. We have real Scotch or English words, not barbarisms and distortions forming an unintelligible jargon. Every body knows that the Irish, like the Welsh, Bretons, and Scotch Highlanders, heave up most words of Saxon origin from the depths of their throats, as if a mill-stone were pressed upon their stomachs; and this knowledge is surely sufficient of itself without signifying the fact, by inundations of h's and of afhters, stranghers, misthresses, dhry bittherness, &c. &c. &c.. to the intolerable tedium of the reader, to say nothing of the corruption of the King's English. But these are venial transgressions, which must correct themselves shortly, were it only by the facility of imitation. There are few writers can give us Irish fictions of the same excellence as the author of Crohoore, the Nowlans, and the Traits and Stories; but thousands who very successfully copy the ivs and uds, and broad a's, and lopped and superfluous letters that are substituted for wit and humour, in the vulgar, slang Irish tales with which literature is at present overloaded. It is time, however, that we were at the business on hand. The three thick volumes of this new series, contain eleven stories, of which there are some deeply serious or tragic. The others exhibit the alternate play of the cloud and sunshine of Irish life, and in general illustrate some trait of national character. The first, the Midnight Mass, paints revenge, implacable and treacherous, as it is too frequently exhibited in Ireland. The moral depravity of the villain hero, is traced to his connexion with secret societies, and unlawful combinations. But his frank unsuspecting victim is also a member of these societies, and his sworn brother White-boy. We do not observe that this writer, who so eloquently and successfully points out the danger and guilt of those atrocious associations which are the fruitful root of much of the depravity, and many of the worst mi. series of Ireland, ever once mentions with approbation the grand moral and political regeneration which O'Connell has attempted, by converting the secret Ribbonman, the midnight incendiary and murderer, into the peaceful citizen, acting calmly and openly, but like a man resolutely determined to obtain and to preserve his rights. The late organizations appear truly formidable as political instruments, but how much more majestic, when considered as moral agencies and influences, which, if well directed, may produce the happiest effects, and which, in the worst event, must be an improvement on the anarchy and disorder that has constantly prevailed in Ireland. As we cannot enter into the story, which, like all the other tales, is more rich in character and description than incident, we give as a specimen the observation of Midnight Mass. From about eleven at "The night in question was very dark, for the moon had long disappeared; and as the inhabitants of the whole parish were to meet in one spot, it may be supposed that the difficulty was very great of traversing, in the darkness of midnight, the space between their respective residences and the place appointed by the priest for the cele bration of mass. This difficulty they contrived to surmount. night till twelve or one o'clock, the parish presented a scence singularly picturesque, and, to a person unacquainted with its causes, altogether mysterious. Over the surface of the surrounding country were scattered myriads of blazing torches, all converging to one point; whilst at a distance, in the central part of the parish, which lay in a valley, might be seen a broad focus of red light, quite stationary, with which one or more of the torches that moved across the fields mingled every moment. These torches were of bog-fir, dried and split for the occasion; all persons were accordingly furnished with them, and by their blaze contrived to make way across the country This Mass having been especially associated with festivity and enjoyment, was always attended by such excessive numbers, that the ceremony was in most parishes celebrated in the open air, if the weather were at all favourable. dead hour of the night, was wild and impressive. Being Christmas, every heart was up, and atten pocket replenished with money, if it could at all be procured. This general elevation of spirits was no where more remarkable than in contemplating the thousands of both sexes, old and young, each furnished, as before said, with a blazing flambeau of bog fir, all streaming down the mountain sides, along the roads, or across the fields, and settling at last into one broad sheet of fire. Many a loud laugh might then be heard ringing the night echo into reverberation; mirthful was the gabble in hard guttral Irish; and now and then a song from some one whose potations had been rather copious, would rise on the night breeze, to which a chorus was subjoined by a dozen with comparative ease. voices from the neighbouring groups." "When they had arrived at the cross-roads beside which the chapel was situated, the first object that presented itself so prominently as to attract observation was which he held in his hand an immense torch, formed into the figure of a cross. He Darby More, dressed out in all his paraphernalia of blanket and horn, in addition to was seated upon a stone, surrounded by a ring of old men and women, to whom he way, inasmuch as they were his own composition. A little beyond them stood Mike sang and sold a variety of Christmas carols, many of them rare curiosities in their rlance of latent humour and triumph. He did not simply confine himself to singing Reillaghan and Peggy Gartland, towards both of whom he cast from time to time a his carols; but, during the pauses of the melody, addressed the wondering and atten- "Good Christians-This is the day-howandiver, it's night now, glory be to This Darby More, the main agent in the plot, is so exquisite a rogue, "Darby More, whose person, naturally large, was increased to an enormous size by the number of coats, blankets, and bags, with which he was encumbered. A large belt, buckled round his body, contained within its girth much more of money, meal, and whiskey than ever met the eye; his hat was exceedingly low in the crown; his legs were cased in at least three pairs of stockings; and in his hand he carried a long cant, spiked at the lower end, with which he slung himself over small rivers and dikes, and kept dogs at bay. He was a devotee, too, notwithstanding the whiskey horn under his arm; attended wakes, christenings, and weddings; rubbed for the rose and king's evil, (for the varlet insisted that he was a seventh son,) cured toothaches, cholics, and head-aches by charms; but made most money by a knack which he possessed of tattooing into the naked breast the representation of Christ upon the This was a secret of considerable value, for many of the superstitious people believed that by having this stained in upon them, they would escape unnatural deaths, and be almos sure of heaven. cross. "When Darby ap, coached Reillaghan's house, he was considering the propriety of disclosing to his son the fact of his having left his rival with Peggy Gartland. He ultimately determined that it would be proper to do so; for he was shrewd enough to suspect that the wish Frank had expressed of seeing him before he left the country, was but a ruse to purchase his silence touching his appearance in the village. In this, however, he was mistaken. "God save the house!' exclaimed Darby, on entering- God save the house, an' all that's in it! God save it to the north!" and he formed the sign of the cross in * A scrofulous swelling. God save it to the south! to the aiste! and to the waiste! X Save it backwards! that direction; Save it upwards! and save it downwards! and save it forwards! Save it right! and save it left! Save it by night! save it by day! Save it here! save it there! Save it this way! an' save it that way! Save it atin'! XXX an' save it drinkin'! XXXXXXXX. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis-Amin. An' now that I've blessed the place, in the name of the nine Patriarchs, how are yees all, man, woman, and child? An' a merry Christmas to yees, says Darby More!' "Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, received a sincere welcome, was placed up near the fire, a plate filled with the best food on the table laid before him, and requested to want nothing for the asking. "Why Darby,' said Reillaghan, we expected you long ago; why didn't you come sooner ?' "The Lord's will be done! for ev'ry man has his throubles,' replied Darby, stuffing himself in the corner like an Epicure; an' why should a sinner like me, or the likes o' me, be widout thim? 'Twas a dhrame I had last night that kep me. They say, indeed, that dhrames go by contraries, but not always, to my own know. ledge.' "An' what was the dhrame about, Darby ?' inquired Reillaghan's wife. "Why, Ma'am, about some that I see on this hearth, well, an' in good health; may they long live to be so! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis-Amin! XXX "Blessed Virgin! Darby, sure it would be nothin' bad that's to happen? Would it Darby ?' "Keep yourself asy on that head. I have widin my own mind the power of makin' it come out for good-I know the prayer for it. Oxis Doxis!' XX "God be praised for that, Darby: sure it would be a terrible business, all out, if any thing was to happen. Here's Mike that was born on Whissle Monday, of all days in the year, an' you know they say that any child born on that day is to die an unnatural death. We named Mike after St. Michael, that he might purtect him.' "Make yourself asy, I say; don't I tell you I have the prayer to keep it backhach! hach!-why, there's a bit stuck in my throath, some way! Wurrah dheelish, moisten the morsel I'm atin'? Wurrah, Ma'am dear, make haste, it's goin' agin what's this! Maybe, you could give nie a sup o' dhrink-wather, or any thing to the breath wid me!' “Oh, the sorra taste o' wather, Darby,' said Owen; sure this is Christmas Eve, you know; so you see, Darby, for ould acquaintance sake, an' that you may put up an odd prayer now an' thin for us, jist be thryin' this.' Darby honoured the gift by immediate acceptance. "Well, Owen Reillaghan,' said he, you make me take more o' this stuff nor any man I know; and particularly by rason that bein given,-wid a blessin', to the ranns, an' prayers, an' holy charms-I don't think it so good; barrin', indeed, as Father Dannellan towld me, when the wind, by long fastin', gets into my stomach, -hugh! ugh!—and thin it's good for me a little of it.' in the laghan's sons, 'if it wasn't so big. What do you keep in it, Darby? "This would make a brave powdher-horn, Darby More,' observed one of Reil. Why, a villish, nothin' indeed, but a sup o' Father Donnellan's holy wather, that they say by all accounts it costs him great trouble to produce, by rason that he must fast a long time, and pray by the day, afore he gets himself holy enough to con secrate it.' "It smells like whiskey, Darby,' said the boy, without any intention, however of offending him: it smells very like poteen.' honest man have whiskey in it? Didn't he tell you what's in it? "Hould your tongue, Risthard said the elder Reillaghan; 'what 'ud make the ton a couple o' days agone; 'twas whiskey he had in it, an' it smells of it sure The gorsoon's right enough,' replied Darby? I got the horn from Barny Dal. enough, an' will, indeed, for some time longer. Och, och! the heavens be praised, I've made a good dinner! May they never know want that gave it to me! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis-Amin! XXX 6 Darby, thry this agin,' said Reillaghan, offering him another bumper. tuck. Well, here's health an' happiness to us, an' may we all meet in heaven! Risthard, hand me that horn till I be goin' out to the barn, in ordher to do somethin' Throth, an' I will, thin, for I find myself a great dale the betther of the one I for my sowl. The holy wather's a good thing to have about one." "But the dhrame, Darby ?' inquired Mrs. Reillaghan. Won't you tell it to us?' The dhrame is Darby's cunning way of giving warning of approaching mischief. We have him here again making the murderer submit to the popular ordeal. "Don't say a word. We'll take him by surprise; I'll call upon him to TOU CH THE CORPSE. Make them women-an' och its hard to expect it-make them stop clappin' their hands, an' cryin'; an' let there be a dead silence, if you can,' * "I say amin to that,' replied Darby: Oxis Doris Glorioxis! So far, that's right, if the blood of him's not an you. But there's one thing more to be done; will you walk over, undher the eye of God, AN' TOUCH THE CORPSE? Hould back, neighbours, an' let him come over alone: I an' Owen Reillaghan will stand here wid the lights, to see if the corpse bleeds.' "Give me, too, a light,' said M'Kenna's father, my son must get fair play, any way: I must be a witness myself to it, an' will, too.' "It's but rasonable,' said Owen Reillaghan; come over beside Darby an' myself: I'm willin' that your son should stand or fall by what'll happen.' "Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, immediately went, with a pale face and "When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question, he seemed as if seized by an He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had been proposed to him; his hair "Remember,' said Darby, pulling out the large crucifix which was attached to his beads, that the eye of God is upon you. If you've committed the murdher, thrimble; if not, Frank, you've little to fear in touchin' the corpse.' “He immediately walked towards the corpse, and stooping down, touched the body nearest his remains, their torches extended in the same direction, their visages exhi- who stood silent and motionless with the crucifix still extended in his hand. "That's wan'st,' said the pilgrim: 'you're to touch it three times.' "Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped again, and touched it twice in succession; but it remained still and unchanged as before. His father broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of thanksgiving to God for the vindication of his son's character which he had just witnessed. "Now!' exclaimed M'Kenna, in a loud exulting tone, you all see that I did not murdher him!' "YOU DID!" said a voice, which was immediately recognised to be that of the deceased." |