THE SWANS OF LIR.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

After the battle of Tailltean, the Tuatha Danaans assembled together from the remotest corners of the five provinces of Ireland, in order to make arrangements for the future government of the isle. All agreed that it was better the whole country should be united under one monarch, chosen by common consent, than to continue subject to the interminable dissensions and oppressive imposts, arising from the rivalry of a number of petty sovereigns. Six candidates aspired to this supreme power, namely, Bogh Dearg, or Red Bow, of the tribe of the Deasies; Ibbreac, or the Many Colored, from the Red Stream; Lir; Fiuvar the Royal; Mioyar of the Great Burthen, so surnamed from his prodigious strength; and Aongusa Og, or young Oneas. All the rest of the Tuatha Danaans, except the six candidates, then went into council, and the determination was, to give the kingdom to Bogh Dearg, for three reasons. The first reason was, that his father had been a good man in his time; the second, that he was a good man himself; and the third, that he came of the best blood in the nation.

[Pg 31]

When Lir heard that the crown was to be given to Bogh Dearg, indignant at the choice, he returned to his own home, without waiting to see the new king inaugurated, or letting any of the assembly know that he was going, for he was convinced that the choice of the people would have fallen upon himself. Bogh Dearg, however, was proclaimed in due form, by the unanimous consent of the assembly, none of the five rejected candidates opposing his election, except Lir alone.

The ceremonies being concluded, the assembled tribes called on the new monarch to lead them in pursuit of Lir.

"Let us burn and spoil his territory," said they. "Why dares he, who never had a king in his family, presume to slight the sovereign we have chosen?"

"We will follow no such counsel," replied Bogh Dearg. "His ancestors and himself have always kept the province in which he lives in peace, and it will take nothing from my sovereignty over the Tuatha Danaans, to allow him still to hold his own possessions there."

The assembly, not fully satisfied with this reply, debated much on the course they had best take; but after much discussion, the question was allowed to rest for a time. Meanwhile an incident occurred which pressed heavily on the mind of Lir. His wife, whom he tenderly loved, fell ill and died in three nights. The report of her death, which was looked upon as a grievous loss in her own country, soon spread all over Ireland. It reached at length the ears of Bogh Dearg, and of the princes and nobles who were at his palace.

"Now," said the monarch, "if Lir were willing to[Pg 32]accede to it, I could propose a mode of redoubling the present friendship which I entertain for Lir. You all know that I have three daughters, the fairest in the kingdom, and I would praise them further, but that I am their father. I mean Aov, Aoife, and Alve, of whom Lir might choose which he pleased, to supply the place of his dead wife."

The speech of the king circulated amongst the Tuatha Danaans, and all agreed that a messenger ought to be sent to Lir in order to propose the connection, with a suitable dowry for the bride. When the ambassador arrived at the palace of Lir, he found the latter willing to accept the proposal, and, accordingly, both returned together to the royal residence of Bogh Dearg, on the shores of Lough Derg, where they were received on the part of the Tuatha Danaans with all the acclamations that even a more popular prince could expect. All parties seemed to take an interest in promoting the union.

The three daughters were sitting on chairs richly ornamented, in a hall of their father's palace. Near them sat the queen, wife of Bogh Dearg. When Lir and the monarch entered, the latter directed his attention to the three princesses, and bade him choose which he would.

"I do not know which of the three to choose," said Lir, "but the eldest is the most royal, and besides it is just that she should have precedence of the rest."

"Then," said the monarch, "that is Aov."

"Aov, then, I choose," replied Lir.

[Pg 33]

The marriage was celebrated with the magnificence becoming the rank of the parties. They remained a fortnight in the palace of the monarch, after which they went to the residence of Lir, who gave a splendid banquet on his arrival. In the progress of time Aov had twins, a son and a daughter, who were named, the one Fingula, and the other Aodh, or Eugene. In her next confinement, she gave birth to two sons, to whom were given the names of Fiacra and Cornu, but died herself, in a few days after. Lir was exceedingly grieved at her death, and, only for the love he bore his children, would almost have wished to die along with her. The tidings reached the monarch, who, together with all his household, made great lamentations for his eldest daughter, grieving more especially for the affliction which it caused to Lir.

"Nevertheless," said the monarch, "what has occurred need not dissolve the connection between Lir and us, for he can, if he please, take my second daughter, Aoife, to supply her place."

This speech, as was intended, soon found its way to Lir, who set out immediately for the palace of Bogh Dearg. The marriage was celebrated with the same splendor as on the former occasion, and Lir, after spending some time at the monarch's palace, returned to his house with Aoife, where he received her with all the love and honor which she could expect. For some time Aoife returned the same to him and to his children; and indeed any person who once saw those children could not avoid giving them all the love which any creature could receive. Frequently the old monarch came to see them to Lir's[Pg 34]house, and often took them to his own, where he would gladly keep them, but that their father could not bear to have them out of his sight. It was the custom of the Tuatha Danaans to entertain each other in succession. When they assembled at the house of Lir, the four children were the whole subject of discourse, and the chief ornament of the day, they were so fair and so winning both in their appearances and their dispositions; and even as they dispersed to their several homes, the guests were heard to speak of nothing else. Lir himself would rise every morning at daybreak, and going to the apartment in which his children lay, would lie down among them for a while. The black poison of jealousy began at length to insinuate itself into the mind of Aoife. As if the love of Lir were not wide enough to comprehend them and herself, she conceived a mortal hatred against her sister's children. She feigned illness, and remained nearly a year in that condition, totally occupied in devising in her mind some means of ruining the children.

One morning she ordered her chariot, to the great surprise of Lir, who, however, was well pleased at this sign of returning health. Aoife next desired that the four children of Lir should be placed in the chariot with her, and drove away in the direction of Bogh Dearg's house. It was much against her will that Fingula, the daughter, went into the carriage, for she had long observed the increasing coolness in the mind of her step-mother, and guessed that she had no kindly purpose in her thoughts at present. She could not, however, avoid the destiny that was prepared for her, nor escape the suffering which she was doomed to undergo.

[Pg 35]

Aoife continued her journey until she arrived at Fiondach, where dwelt some of her father's people whom she knew to be deeply skilled in the art of the Druids. Having arrived at their residence, she went into the place where they were, and endeavored to prevail on them to kill the children, telling them that their father through his affection for them had slighted her, and promising to bestow on them all the riches which they could require.

"Ah," replied the Druids, "we would not kill the children of Lir for the whole world. You took an evil thought into your mind, and left your shame behind you, when you came with such a request to us."

"Then if you will not," cried Aoife, seizing a sword which lay near, "I will avenge myself, for I am resolved they shall not live."

Saying these words, she rushed out with the drawn sword, but through her womanhood she lost her courage when she was about to strike at the children. She then returned the sword to the Druids, and said she could not kill them.

Aoife resumed her journey, and they all drove on until they reached the shores of Lough Dairvreac, on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. Here she unharnessed the horses, and desired the children to descend and bathe in the lake. They did as she bade, but when all were in the water, she took a magic wand and struck them with it one after another. One after another the forms of the beautiful children disappeared, and four white swans were seen upon the water in their stead, when she addressed them in the following words:—[Pg 36]

AOIFE.

Away, you children of the king! I have separated your lives from joy.Your people will grieve to hear these tidings, but you shall continue birds.What I have done, I have done through hatred of you, and malice to your father.

Away, you children of the king! I have separated your lives from joy.

Your people will grieve to hear these tidings, but you shall continue birds.

What I have done, I have done through hatred of you, and malice to your father.

THE CHILDREN.

We, left here on the waters, must be tossed from wave to wave.

In the mean time Lir, returning to his palace, missed his children, and finding Aoife not yet come home, immediately guessed that she had destroyed them, for he likewise had observed her jealousy. In the morning he ordered his chariot to be prepared, and, following the track of his wife, travelled along until he came to the Lake of the Speckled Oak, when the children saw the chariot approaching, and Fingula spoke as follows:—

By yon old Oak, whose branches hoarWave o'er Lough Dairvreac's lonely shore,Bright in the morn, a dazzling lineOf helms and silver targets shine;Speed, brethren dear, speed towards the shelving strand,'Tis royal Lir himself who leads the shining band.

By yon old Oak, whose branches hoar

Wave o'er Lough Dairvreac's lonely shore,

Bright in the morn, a dazzling line

Of helms and silver targets shine;

Speed, brethren dear, speed towards the shelving strand,

'Tis royal Lir himself who leads the shining band.

Lir came to the brink of the water, and when he heard the birds conversing, as they drew nigh, in human language, he asked them how they became endowed with that surprising gift.

"Know, Lir," replied Fingula, "that we are your four children, who, through the frantic jealousy of our[Pg 37]step-mother, and our own mother's sister, have been reduced to this unhappy condition."

"Are there any means," asked the wretched father, "by which you can ever be restored to your own forms again?"

"None," replied Fingula; "there is no man in existence able to effect that change, nor can it ever take place until a woman from the south, named Deocha, daughter of Ingri, the son of Black Hugh, and a man from the north, named Lairgnean, the son of Colman, shall occasion our deliverance in the time ofThe Tailgean,[A]when the Christian faith and charity shall come into Ireland."

When Lir and his attendants heard these words, they uttered three doleful cries.

"Are you satisfied," said Lir, "since you retain your speech and reason, to come and remain with us?"

"It is not in our power to do so," replied Fingula, "nor are we at liberty to commit ourselves to the hands of man, until what I have told you shall have come to pass. But in the mean time we possess our speech and our mental faculties as fully as ever, and are moreover endowed with one additional quality, which is that we can sing the most melodious airs that the world has ever heard, and there is no mortal that would not feel a pleasure in listening to our voices. Remain with us for this night, and you shall hear our music."

When Lir had heard these words, he ordered his[Pg 38]followers to unharness their steeds, and they remained during the whole night on the strand, listening to the music of the birds, until all were lulled to sleep by the enchanting melody, excepting Lir alone. In the morning Lir arose from the bank on which he lay, and addressed his children in the following words:—

In vain I stretch my aching limbsAnd close my weeping eyes,In vain my children's moonlight hymnsFor me alone arise.'Tis morn again, on wave and strand,My children, we must part;A word that like a burning brandFalls on your father's heart.O had I seen this fatal hour,When Lir's malignant queenFirst sought his old paternal tower,This hour had never been!As thus between the shore and youThe widening waters grow,So spreads my darkening spirits throughThe sense of cureless woe.

In vain I stretch my aching limbs

And close my weeping eyes,

In vain my children's moonlight hymns

For me alone arise.

'Tis morn again, on wave and strand,

My children, we must part;

A word that like a burning brand

Falls on your father's heart.

O had I seen this fatal hour,When Lir's malignant queenFirst sought his old paternal tower,This hour had never been!As thus between the shore and youThe widening waters grow,So spreads my darkening spirits throughThe sense of cureless woe.

O had I seen this fatal hour,

When Lir's malignant queen

First sought his old paternal tower,

This hour had never been!

As thus between the shore and you

The widening waters grow,

So spreads my darkening spirits through

The sense of cureless woe.

Lir departed from the lake, and, still following the track of Aoife, came to the palace of the Ard-Righ, or Chief King, as Bogh Dearg was entitled. The monarch welcomed him, but complained of his not having brought his children as usual.

"Alas, poor that I am!" said Lir, "it is not I who would keep my children from your sight, but Aoife yonder, once your darling, and the sister of their mother,[Pg 39]who has had them transformed into four swans, and abandoned them on the Lake of the Speckled Oak. They have been seen in that place by a great multitude of our people, who have heard the story from themselves, for they retain their speech and reason as before."

The monarch started at these words, and, looking on Aoife, immediately became convinced that Lir had spoken the truth. He began to upbraid his daughter in a rough and angry tone.

"Malicious as you were," said he, "you will suffer more by this cruel deed than the children of Lir, for they in the progress of time will be released from their sufferings, and their souls will be made happy in the end."

He then asked her into what shape of all living creatures she would least like to be transformed.

"Speak," said he, "for it is not in your power to avoid telling the truth."

Aoife, thus constrained, replied with a horrible look and tone, that there was no form which she more abhorred than that of a Deamhain Eidhir, or Demon of the Air.

"That form, then," said the monarch, "shall soon be yours"; and while he said so, he took a magic collar and laid it on her. Immediately losing her own shape, she flew away, shrieking, in that of a foul Spirit of the Air, in which she continues to this day, and will to the end of time, according to her deserts.

Soon afterwards, the monarch and the Tuatha Danaans went to the Lake of the Speckled Oak and encamped upon its shores, listening to the music of the birds. The Sons of Mile, likewise, came thither from every part of[Pg 40]Ireland, and formed an encampment in the same place, for there never was music comparable to that of those swans. Sometimes they related their mournful story, sometimes they would answer the questions proposed to them by the people on shore, and talk familiarly with their relatives and friends, and at others they sung, both by day and night, the most delightful music that was ever heard by human ear; so that the listeners on shore, notwithstanding the grief and uneasiness in which they continued, enjoyed as sweet sleep, and arose as fresh and vigorous, as if they had been resting in their accustomed beds at home. The two multitudes of the Sons of Mile, and of the Tuatha Danaans, thus remained in their respective encampments during the space of thirty years. At the end of that time, Fingula addressed her brethren as follows:—

"Are you ignorant, my brothers, that but one night is left of the time which you were to spend upon the lake?"

On hearing this, the three brethren grew very sorrowful, and uttered many plaintive cries and sounds of grief; for they were almost as happy on that lake, enjoying the company of their friends and relatives, talking with them and answering their questions, as they would have been in their own home; more especially, when compared to the grief they felt on leaving it for the wild and stormy sea that lies to the north of Ireland. Early in the morning they came as close to the brink of the lake as they could, and spoke to their father and their friends, to all of whom they bade a mournful farewell, repeating those pitiful lines that follow:[Pg 41]—

Receive, O royal sage, our last farewell,Thou of the potent spell!And thou, O Lir, deep skilled in mystic lore—We meet—we meet no more!The sum complete of our appointed hours,We leave your happy bowers.Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'erWe meet, we meet no more!Forever now to human converse lost,On Moyle's wild waters tost,Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail,To weave a mournful tale.Three lingering ages on the northern mainTo waste in various pain.Three lingering ages in the stormy westTo heave on ocean's breast.Sad is our doom, dear friends, on wintry seasThrough many a year to freeze,—Harsh brine and rocks, with horrid sea-weed brownFor Lir's soft beds of down!No more the joy of Lir's paternal breast,Early we part unblest!A power unseen commands that we forsakeLone Dairvreac's peaceful lake.Rise from the wave, companions of my fear,Rise, brethren dear!Bright wave and pebbly beach and echoing dell,Farewell, a last farewell!And you, dear friends, who throng the leafy shore,We meet—we meet no more!

Receive, O royal sage, our last farewell,

Thou of the potent spell!

And thou, O Lir, deep skilled in mystic lore—

We meet—we meet no more!

The sum complete of our appointed hours,

We leave your happy bowers.

Farewell, dear friends, till time itself is o'er

We meet, we meet no more!

Forever now to human converse lost,

On Moyle's wild waters tost,

Our doom till day, and night, and seasons fail,

To weave a mournful tale.

Three lingering ages on the northern main

To waste in various pain.

Three lingering ages in the stormy west

To heave on ocean's breast.

Sad is our doom, dear friends, on wintry seas

Through many a year to freeze,—

Harsh brine and rocks, with horrid sea-weed brown

For Lir's soft beds of down!

No more the joy of Lir's paternal breast,

Early we part unblest!

A power unseen commands that we forsake

Lone Dairvreac's peaceful lake.

Rise from the wave, companions of my fear,

Rise, brethren dear!

Bright wave and pebbly beach and echoing dell,

Farewell, a last farewell!

And you, dear friends, who throng the leafy shore,

We meet—we meet no more!

Having ended those verses, the swans took wing and, arising lightly on the air, continued their flight until they[Pg 42]reached the Sruih na Maoile, or the Sea of Moyle, as those waters were called which flowed between Ireland and Scotland. Their departure occasioned deep sorrow to all who witnessed it, and they had a law proclaimed throughout the kingdom, that any one, from the king to the peasant, who should kill a swan, let his power be as great as it might, should meet with certain death. In the mean time, the children of Lir found that they had made an unhappy change of place. When they saw the broad wild ocean around them, they grew cold and hungry, and began to fall into despair, thinking that all they ever suffered was nothing until they were sent to these seas. They remained on the waters until one night it began to freeze very hard.

"My loving brothers," said Fingula, "we make very unwise provision against the coming night if we do not keep close together; and lest by any mischance we should lose sight of each other, let us appoint a place where we may meet again as soon as it may be in our power."

"In that case, dear sister," said the three brothers, "let us meet at the Carrig na Roin (or the Rock of the Seals), for that is a place with which we are all acquainted."

They continued thus until about the middle of the night. The wind then increased to a storm, the waters arose, and the mountains of brine as they rolled and broke around them sparkled in the gloom as if they had taken fire. So great was the tempest that the children of Lir were separated by the waves. All were scattered far and wide, nor could one tell whither any of the three others had been driven. At length it abated[Pg 43]a little of its violence, the deep became more settled, and Fingula found herself alone. Not being able to see her brethren anywhere around, she felt the deepest anxiety of mind, and at length broke forth into the following words:—

Heart-broken o'er these seas I glide,My frozen wings together clinging:No more along the stormy tideI hear my brethren singing.Three lingering ages, marked by woes,Since first we left Lone Dairvreac's waterBreak, break, my heart, and give reposeTo Lir's unhappy daughter.Beloved alike, O loved so well,That made your sister's breast your pillow.Tell me, my wandering brethren, tell,Where roam you o'er the billow?Hid by what rocks or secret caves,That wont beneath my wings to slumber,I fear the dead will leave their graves,Ere time restore our number.Tossed by the surge and sleety stormAt random o'er this briny water;Woe, woe to all who share the formOf Lir's unhappy daughter.

Heart-broken o'er these seas I glide,My frozen wings together clinging:No more along the stormy tideI hear my brethren singing.

Heart-broken o'er these seas I glide,

My frozen wings together clinging:

No more along the stormy tide

I hear my brethren singing.

Three lingering ages, marked by woes,Since first we left Lone Dairvreac's waterBreak, break, my heart, and give reposeTo Lir's unhappy daughter.

Three lingering ages, marked by woes,

Since first we left Lone Dairvreac's water

Break, break, my heart, and give repose

To Lir's unhappy daughter.

Beloved alike, O loved so well,That made your sister's breast your pillow.Tell me, my wandering brethren, tell,Where roam you o'er the billow?

Beloved alike, O loved so well,

That made your sister's breast your pillow.

Tell me, my wandering brethren, tell,

Where roam you o'er the billow?

Hid by what rocks or secret caves,That wont beneath my wings to slumber,I fear the dead will leave their graves,Ere time restore our number.

Hid by what rocks or secret caves,

That wont beneath my wings to slumber,

I fear the dead will leave their graves,

Ere time restore our number.

Tossed by the surge and sleety stormAt random o'er this briny water;Woe, woe to all who share the formOf Lir's unhappy daughter.

Tossed by the surge and sleety storm

At random o'er this briny water;

Woe, woe to all who share the form

Of Lir's unhappy daughter.

Fingula remained that night on the Rock of the Seals. At sunrise the next morning, looking out in every direction along the water, she saw Cornu coming towards[Pg 44]her with head drooping, and feathers drenched with spray, so cold and feeble that he could not answer her questions. Fingula received him lovingly under her wings, and said:—

"If Eugene were with us now, our condition would be tolerable."

Not long after she saw Eugene coming towards her, with a drooping head, and wings hanging to the ground, and she welcomed him, and put him under the feathers of her breast. Immediately after she saw Fiacra approaching, and she then removed Cornu from beneath her right wing and placed him under her left, and put Fiacra beneath her right wing, where Cornu had been before. She then settled her feathers about them, and said:—

"Severe, my dear brothers, as you have found the last night, you must yet see many more as bad."

The children of Lir continued for a long time in the same condition on the Sruih na Maoile, until one night they suffered so much from the cold and wind and snow, that nothing they had hitherto felt was comparable to it; which made Fingula utter the following words:—

Hard is our life and sharp with ill,My brethren dear;The snow so thick, the wind so chill,The night so drear.We strive to keepSad concert in our songs of pain,But the wild deep,Relentless, mars the rising strain.[Pg 45]Vainly we soothe our aching heartsWith converse sweet,Wave after wave, high heaving, partsOur union meet.Ah, doom severe!Harsh was our mother's vengeful will,Ah, brethren dear,Hard is our life, and sharp with ill.

Hard is our life and sharp with ill,

My brethren dear;

The snow so thick, the wind so chill,

The night so drear.

We strive to keep

Sad concert in our songs of pain,

But the wild deep,

Relentless, mars the rising strain.

Vainly we soothe our aching heartsWith converse sweet,Wave after wave, high heaving, partsOur union meet.Ah, doom severe!Harsh was our mother's vengeful will,Ah, brethren dear,Hard is our life, and sharp with ill.

Vainly we soothe our aching hearts

With converse sweet,

Wave after wave, high heaving, parts

Our union meet.

Ah, doom severe!

Harsh was our mother's vengeful will,

Ah, brethren dear,

Hard is our life, and sharp with ill.

They remained for a year on the Sea of Moyle, when one night, as they were on the Rock of the Seals, the waters congealed around them with the cold; and as they lay on the rock, their feet and wings were frozen to it, so that they could not move a limb. When at length, after using what strength remained in their bodies, they succeeded in getting free, the skin of their feet, and the innermost down of their breasts, and the quills of their wings, remained clinging to the icy crag.

"Woe to the children of Lir!" said Fingula, "mournful is our fate to-night, for when the salt water pierces into our wounds, we shall be pained to death"; and she sung these lines:—

Sad is our hap this mournful night,With mangled feet and plumage bleeding;Our wings no more sustain our flight,Woe comes to linked woe succeeding.Ah, cruel was our step-dame's mind,When hard to nature's sweet emotion,She sent us here 'mid wave and wind,To freeze on Moyle's relentless ocean.The wild sea-foam that strews the shore,The weeds those briny waves engender,[Pg 46]For past delights are all our store,Though fostered once in regal splendor.Rise, sister of three brethren dear,Let custom dull the edge of anguish,In hollow rock or cavern drear,By doom unrighteous, bound to languish.

Sad is our hap this mournful night,

With mangled feet and plumage bleeding;

Our wings no more sustain our flight,

Woe comes to linked woe succeeding.

Ah, cruel was our step-dame's mind,

When hard to nature's sweet emotion,

She sent us here 'mid wave and wind,

To freeze on Moyle's relentless ocean.

The wild sea-foam that strews the shore,The weeds those briny waves engender,[Pg 46]For past delights are all our store,Though fostered once in regal splendor.Rise, sister of three brethren dear,Let custom dull the edge of anguish,In hollow rock or cavern drear,By doom unrighteous, bound to languish.

The wild sea-foam that strews the shore,

The weeds those briny waves engender,

For past delights are all our store,

Though fostered once in regal splendor.

Rise, sister of three brethren dear,

Let custom dull the edge of anguish,

In hollow rock or cavern drear,

By doom unrighteous, bound to languish.

Leaving the Rock of the Seals, they alighted again on the waters of Moyle, where the sharp brine pierced them keenly, although they strove to keep their feet under their wings as closely as they could. They continued to suffer thus, until their feathers grew, and the wounds of their feet were healed. They used frequently to go as near the shore as they could, on that part of the Irish coast which looks towards Scotland, and every night they came together to Moyle, which was their constant place of rest. One day as they drew nigh the shore of Bama, to the north, they saw a number of chariots and horsemen, splendidly arrayed, with horses richly caparisoned, approaching from the west.

"Do you observe that brilliant company, you sons of Lir?" said Fingula.

"We know not who they are," replied her brethren, "but they seem to be Irish; whether of the Sons of Mile, or the Tuatha Danaans, it is impossible for us to conjecture."

They drew close to the shore, in order to observe more accurately. When the horsemen saw them coming, they hastened towards them, until they came within speaking distance. The persons of note who were amongst them were Aodh Aithiosatch, or Merry Hugh, and Feargus Fithcall (of the Complete Armor), the two sons of Bogh[Pg 47]Dearg the Monarch, and the third part of his bodyguard. The children of Lir inquired how the Tuatha Danaans were, and especially Lir and Bogh Dearg, with their friends and dependants.

"They are all well in their respective homes," replied the horsemen. "At present, it is true, they are in your father's palace, partaking of a splendid banquet, in health and joy, knowing no other want than that of your absence, and their ignorance of your place of abode, since you left the Lake of the Speckled Oak."

"Evil has been our life since then," said Fingula, "for neither we nor any other creature, that we have heard of, ever suffered so much as we have done, since we came to the waters of Moyle"; and she uttered the following words:—

We four are well,Though in keen want and sombre grief we dwell.Happy are theyWho sit in Lir's bright hall, and share his banquet gay.Rich food and wineFor them in sparkling gold and silver shine;While far awayHis children shiver in the hungry spray!We, who of yoreOn dainties fared, and silken garments wore,Now all our fare,Cold sand, and bitter brine, for wax and honey rare;Our softest bed,The crag that o'er those surges lifts its head;Oft have we laidOur limbs on beds of tenderest down arrayed.[Pg 48]Now must we lie,On Moyle's rough wave, with plumage seldom dry;A pageant rareOft bore us to our grandsire's palace fair.Ah, mournful change!Now with faint wings these dreary shores I range.O'er Moyle's dark tide,Plume touching plume, we wander side by side;Sharing no moreThe joys that cheered our happy hearts of yore;The welcome mild,That on our grandsire's kingly features smiled;Lir's counsel meet,And fond paternal kiss, that made the morning sweet.

We four are well,

Though in keen want and sombre grief we dwell.

Happy are they

Who sit in Lir's bright hall, and share his banquet gay.

Rich food and wine

For them in sparkling gold and silver shine;

While far away

His children shiver in the hungry spray!

We, who of yore

On dainties fared, and silken garments wore,

Now all our fare,

Cold sand, and bitter brine, for wax and honey rare;

Our softest bed,

The crag that o'er those surges lifts its head;

Oft have we laid

Our limbs on beds of tenderest down arrayed.

Now must we lie,

On Moyle's rough wave, with plumage seldom dry;

A pageant rare

Oft bore us to our grandsire's palace fair.

Ah, mournful change!

Now with faint wings these dreary shores I range.

O'er Moyle's dark tide,

Plume touching plume, we wander side by side;

Sharing no more

The joys that cheered our happy hearts of yore;

The welcome mild,

That on our grandsire's kingly features smiled;

Lir's counsel meet,

And fond paternal kiss, that made the morning sweet.

The horsemen returned soon after to the house of Lir, and told the principal men of the Tuatha Danaans where they had seen the birds, and the dialogue they had held together.

"We cannot assist them," they replied, "but we are well pleased to hear that they live, for they will be restored to their former shape, after a long time has elapsed."

The children of Lir, meantime, returned northwards to the Sea of Moyle, where they remained until their time in that place had expired. Then Fingula spoke to her brothers, and said:—

"It is time for us to depart from hence, for the period appointed for us to remain here is at an end"; and she added these verses:—

At length we leave this cheerless shore,Unblest by summer's sunshine splendid;[Pg 49]Its storm for us shall howl no more,Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.Three hundred sunless summers past,We leave at length this loveless billow;Where oft we felt the icy blast,And made the shelving crag our pillow.Still on our lingering night of pain,Far distant beams the dawn of gladness;Light ease beside the western mainAwaits our long accustomed sadness.Long must we haunt that billowy shore,Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid,But here our numbered years are o'er,Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.

At length we leave this cheerless shore,

Unblest by summer's sunshine splendid;

Its storm for us shall howl no more,

Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.

Three hundred sunless summers past,

We leave at length this loveless billow;

Where oft we felt the icy blast,

And made the shelving crag our pillow.

Still on our lingering night of pain,Far distant beams the dawn of gladness;Light ease beside the western mainAwaits our long accustomed sadness.Long must we haunt that billowy shore,Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid,But here our numbered years are o'er,Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.

Still on our lingering night of pain,

Far distant beams the dawn of gladness;

Light ease beside the western main

Awaits our long accustomed sadness.

Long must we haunt that billowy shore,

Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid,

But here our numbered years are o'er,

Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.

After that time the children of Lir left the Sea of Moyle, and flew until they came to the most westerly part of the ocean. They were there for a long time, suffering all kinds of hardship, until they happened to see a man, a tiller of the ground, who used often to watch them when they came near the shore, and took great pleasure in listening to their music. He told the people on the coast of what he had seen, and spread the tidings of the prodigy far and near. However, the same tale remains to be repeated, for the children of Lir never suffered so much before or after as they did on that very night, after the husbandman had seen them; the frost was so keen, and the snow coming so thick upon the wind. The waters all congealed into ice, so that the woods and the sea were of one color. Their feet stuck to the ground, leaving them unable to move, and they began to utter the most lamentable cries, while Fingula[Pg 50]comforted, and strove to persuade them not to grieve, but in vain; and she repeated these lines:—

Sad are my suffering brethren's piercing cries,This dreary night!Sharp drives the snow shower, o'er the moonless skies,With ceaseless flight!Where'er they search the frost-bound ocean o'er,On solid ice their thirsty beaks are ringing,Nor on the wintry shoreFresh water laves their plumes, nor bubbling fount is springing.O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coastTheir being gave,And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host,Through the deep wave!Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes,Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending,In thy great might arise,And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending.

Sad are my suffering brethren's piercing cries,

This dreary night!

Sharp drives the snow shower, o'er the moonless skies,

With ceaseless flight!

Where'er they search the frost-bound ocean o'er,

On solid ice their thirsty beaks are ringing,

Nor on the wintry shore

Fresh water laves their plumes, nor bubbling fount is springing.

O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coastTheir being gave,And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host,Through the deep wave!Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes,Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending,In thy great might arise,And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending.

O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coast

Their being gave,

And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host,

Through the deep wave!

Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes,

Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending,

In thy great might arise,

And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending.

"Brothers," said Fingula, "confide in Him who made heaven, and the elements, the earth with all its fruit, and the sea with all its wonders, and you will find comfort and relief."

"We do confide in him," they answered.

"And I confide with you," said Fingula, "in the only being who is full of knowledge and of pity." They remained on the Oraas Domhnan (Deep Seas) until their time was fulfilled, when Fingula said:—

"It is time for us to go to Fioncha, where Lir and his people dwell, and our people also."

"We are well content to do so," replied they; and[Pg 51]all proceeded together somewhat joyfully, until they came to Fioncha. They found the place where their father's palace had stood, and all around it, without either house or inhabitants, but everything looking dreary and dull. They saw smoke at a distance, and the four came towards it, and uttered three mournful cries, and Fingula repeated these words:—

A mournful wonder is this place to me,Which once I knew so well!Not even the trace of that loved home I see,Where Lir was wont to dwell.Nor hound, nor steed, nor lord nor lady bright,Nor welcome spoken!Since I have lived to see this mournful sight,My heart is broken.This was not in our father's time of old,A loveless, lightless waste,Without a cup the sparkling wine to hold,Or princely guest to taste.The home where oft we hailed each joyous mornIs bleak and lonely!And nothing left to us, its heirs forlorn,Save memory only.Now do I know the deep devouring graveHolds all who once were dear!Sad was our life on Moyle's tempestuous wave,But keener grief is here.Low rustling grass, and winds that sadly blowThrough dry leaves creeping!And he who should his cherished darlings know,Forever sleeping!

A mournful wonder is this place to me,

Which once I knew so well!

Not even the trace of that loved home I see,

Where Lir was wont to dwell.

Nor hound, nor steed, nor lord nor lady bright,

Nor welcome spoken!

Since I have lived to see this mournful sight,

My heart is broken.

This was not in our father's time of old,A loveless, lightless waste,Without a cup the sparkling wine to hold,Or princely guest to taste.The home where oft we hailed each joyous mornIs bleak and lonely!And nothing left to us, its heirs forlorn,Save memory only.

This was not in our father's time of old,

A loveless, lightless waste,

Without a cup the sparkling wine to hold,

Or princely guest to taste.

The home where oft we hailed each joyous morn

Is bleak and lonely!

And nothing left to us, its heirs forlorn,

Save memory only.

Now do I know the deep devouring graveHolds all who once were dear!Sad was our life on Moyle's tempestuous wave,But keener grief is here.Low rustling grass, and winds that sadly blowThrough dry leaves creeping!And he who should his cherished darlings know,Forever sleeping!

Now do I know the deep devouring grave

Holds all who once were dear!

Sad was our life on Moyle's tempestuous wave,

But keener grief is here.

Low rustling grass, and winds that sadly blow

Through dry leaves creeping!

And he who should his cherished darlings know,

Forever sleeping!

[Pg 52]

The children of Lir remained in the place where their father and their ancestors had lived, and where they had themselves been nursed and educated, and late at night they began to sing most melodious music. In the morning they took wing and flew until they came to Inis Gluaire Breanain, and they began to sing there; so that all the birds of the country that could swim came to that place, which was called Lochan na Heanlaithe (or the Lake of the Birds). They continued in that condition for a long time, until the Christian doctrine was preached in those countries, when St. Patrick came to Ireland, and St. Macaomh Og came to Inis Gluaire Breanain. The first night he came there the children of Lir heard the sound of the bell ringing near them, and were greatly rejoiced. They hastened towards the place from whence they heard the bells, and the three sons of Lir made such speed that they left Fingula by herself.

"What is the matter with you, dear brethren?" said Fingula.

"We cannot tell," they replied, "we know not how to account for the heavenly music we have heard."

"I will explain it to you," said she; "that is the bell of Macaomh Og, and it is by him you shall be released from your pain and trouble, and you shall be comforted"; and she said these lines:—

List, list to the sound of the anchoret's bell,Rise, children of Lir, from the wave where ye dwell,Uplift your glad wings and exult as ye hear,And give thanks, for the hour of your freedom is near.He merits our duty, the Mighty to saveFrom the rock and the surge, from the storm and the wave.[Pg 53]Who clings to his doctrine with constant endeavor,His grief shall be turned into glory forever.Past moments of anguish, forever farewell!List, children of Lir, to the sound of the bell.

List, list to the sound of the anchoret's bell,

Rise, children of Lir, from the wave where ye dwell,

Uplift your glad wings and exult as ye hear,

And give thanks, for the hour of your freedom is near.

He merits our duty, the Mighty to save

From the rock and the surge, from the storm and the wave.

Who clings to his doctrine with constant endeavor,

His grief shall be turned into glory forever.

Past moments of anguish, forever farewell!

List, children of Lir, to the sound of the bell.

The children of Lir were listening to the music of the bell until the saint had finished his prayers.

"Let us now," said Fingula, "sing our own music to the great Ruler of the heavens and the earth"; and they sung the most melodious strains of praise and adoration. Macaomh Og was listening, and in the morning early he came to the Lake of the Birds. Coming close to the shore, he asked them, were they the children of Lir?

"We are, indeed," they answered.

"I am most thankful to hear it," said he, "for it was to relieve you that I was sent to this island, rather than to any other part of Ireland."

On hearing these words the children of Lir came to the shore, and depended on his word. He took them down to his residence, where they remained listening to his instructions and joining in his devotions day after day. Macaomh Og sent for a craftsman and desired him to make two silver chains, which he accordingly did. One of them he put between Eugene and Fingula, and the other between Cornu and Fiacra.

The king who governed Conact at that time was named Lairgnean, the son of Colman (the same of whom Fingula had spoken to her father on the Lake of the Speckled Oak), and his queen's name was Deocha, the daughter of Ingri, son of Black Hugh. Deocha came to hear of the wonderful birds, and, being seized with a violent desire of possessing them, requested the king to procure them for[Pg 54]her. He replied that he could never persuade himself to ask Macaomh Og to give them up. Deocha, enraged at his refusal, declared that she never again would spend a night within the palace of Glairgnea, as the king's residence was called, unless she got the swans; and, leaving the palace, she travelled to Kill da Luadh (now called Killaloe) and took up her abode at her own home. When Lairgnean found her so resolute, he sent a messenger three several times for the birds, but could not obtain them. Then he came himself to Macaomh Og, and asked him if it were true he had refused his messengers.

"It is true," answered Macaomh Og.

"Then," said the king, "it is true, likewise, that I will take them with me whether you are willing or otherwise."

As he said this he rushed toward the altar near which they stood, and seized the two chains which coupled them together. No sooner had he done so, than the swans lost their plumage, their beautiful feathers disappeared, and the three sons of Lir appeared three withered old men, with their bones seeming to project through their skin; while Fingula, instead of the graceful swan that sung such enchanting strains, became an old shrivelled hag, fleshless and bloodless. The King let fall the chains, and returned home, while Macaomh Og uttered many lamentations after the birds, and pronounced a malediction on Lairgnean. Fingula then said:—

"Come hither, holy father, and give us baptism, for we are as much concerned at parting with you as you in parting with us. You are to bury us together in this manner. Place Cornu and Fiacra at my back, and place[Pg 55]Eugene before me"; and she again said, "Baptize us, holy father, and make us happy."

After that they departed this life, and the children of Lir were buried by Macaomh Og as Fingula had desired. He raised the earth in the form of a tomb, and placed a stone over them, on which he carved their names in the Ogham character, and wept bitterly above their grave. It is thought that their souls went to heaven. For Lairgnean, who was the immediate cause of their death, Macaomh Og predicted his fate in the following lines:—

Ill shoot of Colman's royal line,The malison of heaven is thine,The grief which thou hast caused to mine,Thine own cold heart shall feel,Thou whose unholy zealHath left me on this isle forlorn,My cherished darlings' loss to mourn.And she whose soul, in evil strong,Hath prompted this unfeeling wrong,To early dust consigned, shall longHer fruitless rapine wail,A shivering spectre pale!The malison of heaven is thine,Ill shoot of Colman's royal line!

Ill shoot of Colman's royal line,

The malison of heaven is thine,

The grief which thou hast caused to mine,

Thine own cold heart shall feel,

Thou whose unholy zeal

Hath left me on this isle forlorn,

My cherished darlings' loss to mourn.

And she whose soul, in evil strong,Hath prompted this unfeeling wrong,To early dust consigned, shall longHer fruitless rapine wail,A shivering spectre pale!The malison of heaven is thine,Ill shoot of Colman's royal line!

And she whose soul, in evil strong,

Hath prompted this unfeeling wrong,

To early dust consigned, shall long

Her fruitless rapine wail,

A shivering spectre pale!

The malison of heaven is thine,

Ill shoot of Colman's royal line!

Not long after, Lairgnean and his wife died a sudden death, according to the prediction of Macaomh Og, which concludes the history of the Swans of Lir.

[Pg 56]

BY JAMES GREENWOOD.

At about nine o'clock on the evening of Monday the —th instant, a neat but unpretentious carriage might have been seen turning cautiously from the Kennington Road into Princes Road, Lambeth. The curtains were closely drawn, and the coachman wore an unusually responsible air. Approaching a public house, which retreated a little from the street, he pulled up; but not so close that the lights should fall upon the carriage door, not so distant as to unsettle the mind of any one who chose to imagine that he had halted to drink beer before proceeding to call for the children at a juvenile party. He did not dismount, nor did any one alight in the usual way; but any keen observer who happened to watch his intelligent countenance might have seen a furtive glance directed to the wrong door,—that is to say, to the door of the carriage which opened into the dark and muddy road. From that door emerged a sly and ruffianly figure, marked with every sign of squalor. He was dressed in what had once been a snuff-brown[Pg 57]coat, but which had faded to the hue of bricks imperfectly baked. It was not strictly a ragged coat, though it had lost its cuffs,—a bereavement which obliged the wearer's arms to project through the sleeves two long inelegant inches. The coat altogether was too small, and was only made to meet over the chest by means of a bit of twine. This wretched garment was surmounted by a "bird's-eye" pocket-handkerchief of cotton, wisped about the throat hangman fashion; above all was a battered billy-cock hat, with a dissolute drooping brim. Between the neckerchief and the lowering brim of the hat appeared part of a face, unshaven, and not scrupulously clean. The man's hands were plunged into his pockets, and he shuffled hastily along in boots, which were the boots of a tramp indifferent to miry ways. In a moment he was out of sight, and the brougham, after waiting a little while, turned about and comfortably departed.

This mysterious figure was that of the present writer. He was bound for Lambeth Workhouse, there to learn by actual experience how casual paupers are lodged and fed, and what the "casual" is like, and what the porter who admits him, and the master who rules over him; and how the night passes with the outcasts whom we have all seen crowding about workhouse doors on cold and rainy nights. Much has been said on the subject,—on behalf of the paupers, on behalf of the officials; but nothing by any one who, with no motive but to learn and make known the truth, had ventured the experiment of passing a night in a workhouse and trying what it actually is to be a "casual."

The day had been windy and chill,—the night was[Pg 58]cold; and therefore I fully expected to begin my experiences among a dozen of ragged wretches squatting about the steps and waiting for admission. But my only companion at the door was a decently dressed woman, whom, as I afterwards learnt, they declined to admit until she had recovered from a fit of intoxication from which she had the misfortune to be still suffering. I lifted the big knocker and knocked; the door was promptly opened, and I entered. Just within, a comfortable-looking clerk sat at a comfortable desk, ledger before him. Indeed, the spacious hall in every way was as comfortable as cleanliness and great mats and plenty of gaslight could make it.

"What do you want?" asked the man who opened the door.

"I want a lodging."

"Go and stand before the desk," said the porter; and I obeyed.

"You are late," said the clerk.

"Am I, sir?"

"Yes. If you come in you'll have a bath, and you'll have to sleep in the shed."

"Very well, sir."

"What's your name?"

"Joshua Mason, sir."

"What are you?"

"An engraver." (This taradiddle I invented to account for the look of my hands.)

"Where did you sleep last night?"

"Hammersmith," I answered—as I hope to be forgiven.

[Pg 59]

"How many times have you been here?"

"Never before, sir."

"Where do you mean to go to when you are turned out in the morning?"

"Back to Hammersmith, sir."

These humble answers being entered in a book, the clerk called to the porter, saying, "Take him through. You may as well take his bread with you."

Near the clerk stood a basket containing some pieces of bread of equal size. Taking one of these, and unhitching a bunch of keys from the wall, the porter led me through some passages all so scrupulously clean that my most serious misgivings were laid to rest. Then we passed into a dismal yard. Crossing this, my guide led me to a door, calling out, "Hillo! Daddy, I've brought you another!" Whereupon Daddy opened unto us, and let a little of his gaslight stream into the dark where we stood.

"Come in," said Daddy, very hospitably. "There's enough of you to-night, anyhow! What made you so late?"

"I didn't like to come in earlier."

"Ah! that's a pity, now, because you've missed your skilley (gruel). It's the first night of skilley, don't you know, under the new Act?"

"Just like my luck!" I muttered dolefully.

The porter went his way, and I followed Daddy into another apartment, where were ranged three great baths, each one containing a liquid so disgustingly like weak mutton broth that my worst apprehensions crowded back. "Come on, there's a dry place to stand on up at this[Pg 60]end," said Daddy, kindly. "Take off your clothes, tie 'em up in your hank'sher, and I'll lock 'em up till the morning." Accordingly I took off my coat and waistcoat, and was about to tie them together, when Daddy cried, "That ain't enough; I mean everything." "Not my shirt, sir, I suppose?" "Yes, shirt and all; but there, I'll lend you a shirt," said Daddy. "Whatever you take in of your own will be nailed, you know. You might take in your boots, though,—they'd be handy if you happened to want to leave the shed for anything; but don't blame me if you lose 'em."

With a fortitude for which I hope some day to be rewarded, I made up my bundle (boots and all), and the moment Daddy's face was turned away shut my eyes and plunged desperately into the mutton broth. I wish from the bottom of my heart my courage had been less hasty, for hearing the splash, Daddy looked round and said, "Lor, now! there was no occasion for that; you look a clean and decent sort of man. It's them filthy beggars" (only he used a word more specific than "filthy") "that want washing. Don't use that towel: here's a clean one! That's the sort! and now here's your shirt" (handing me a blue striped one from a heap), "and here's your ticket. No. 34 you are, and a ticket to match is tied to your bundle. Mind you don't lose it. They'll nail it from you if they get a chance. Put it under your head. This is your rug: take it with you."

"Where am I to sleep, please, sir?"

"I'll show you."

And so he did. With no other rag but the checked shirt to cover me, and with my rug over my shoulder,[Pg 61]he accompanied me to the door at which I entered, and, opening it, kept me standing with naked feet on the stone threshold, full in the draught of the frosty air, while he pointed out the way I should go. It was not a long way, but I would have given much not to have trodden it. It was open as the highway,—with flag-stones below and the stars overhead, and, as I said before, and cannot help saying again, a frosty wind was blowing.

"Straight across," said Daddy, "to where you see the light shining through. Go in there, and turn to the left, and you'll find the beds in a heap. Take one of 'em and make yourself comfortable." And straight across I went, my naked feet seeming to cling to the stones as though they were burning hot instead of icy cold (they had just stepped out of a bath you should remember), till I reached the space through which the light was shining, and I entered in.

No language with which I am acquainted is capable of conveying an adequate conception of the spectacle I then encountered. Imagine a space of about thirty feet by thirty feet enclosed on three sides by a dingy whitewashed wall, and roofed with naked tiles, which were furred with the damp and filth that reeked within. As for the fourth side of the shed, it was boarded in for (say) a third of its breadth; the remaining space being hung with flimsy canvas, in which was a gap two feet wide at top, widening to at least four feet at bottom. This far too airy shed was paved with stone, the flags so thickly incrusted with filth that I mistook it first for a floor of natural earth. Extending from one end of my bedroom to the other, in three rows, were certain iron[Pg 62]"cranks" (of which I subsequently learnt the use), with their many arms raised in various attitudes, as the stiffened arms of men are on a battle-field. My bedfellows lay among the cranks, distributed over the flag-stones in a double row, on narrow bags scantily stuffed with hay. At one glance my appalled vision took in thirty of them,—thirty men and boys stretched upon shallow pallets, with but only six inches of comfortable hay between them and the stony floor. These beds were placed close together, every occupant being provided with a rug like that which I was fain to hug across my shoulders. In not a few cases two gentlemen had clubbed beds and rugs and slept together. In one case (to be further mentioned presently) four gentlemen had so clubbed together. Many of my fellow-casuals were awake,—others asleep or pretending to sleep; and shocking as were the waking ones to look upon, they were quite pleasant when compared with the sleepers. For this reason, the practised and well-seasoned casual seems to have a peculiar way of putting himself to bed. He rolls himself in his rug, tucking himself in, head and feet, so that he is completely enveloped; and, lying quite still on his pallet, he looks precisely like a corpse covered because of its hideousness. Some were stretched out at full length; some lay nose and knees together; some with an arm or a leg showing crooked through the coverlet. It was like the result of a railway accident; these ghastly figures were awaiting the coroner.

From the moral point of view, however, the wakeful ones were more dreadful still. Tousled, dirty, villanous, they squatted up in their beds, and smoked foul pipes,[Pg 63]and sang snatches of horrible songs, and bandied jokes so obscene as to be absolutely appalling. Eight or ten were so enjoying themselves,—the majority with the check shirt on, and the frowzy rug pulled about their legs; but two or three wore no shirts at all, squatting naked to the waist, their bodies fully exposed in the light of the single flaring jet of gas fixed high up on the wall.

My entrance excited very little attention. There was a horse-pail three parts full of water standing by a post in the middle of the shed, with a little tin pot beside it. Addressing me as "old pal," one of the naked ruffians begged me to "hand him a swig," as he was "werry nigh garspin." Such an appeal of course no "old pal" could withstand, and I gave him a potful of water. He showed himself grateful for the attention. "I should lay over there, if I was you," he said, pointing to the left side of the shed; "it's more out of the wind than this 'ere side is." I took the good-natured advice, and (by this time shivering with cold) stepped over the stones to where the beds of straw-bags were heaped, and dragged one of them to the spot suggested by my naked comrade. But I had no more idea of how to arrange it than of making an apple-pudding; and a certain little discovery added much to my embarrassment. In the middle of the bed I had selected was a stain of blood bigger than a man's hand! I did not know what to do now. To lie on such a horrid thing seemed impossible; yet to carry back the bed and exchange it for another might betray a degree of fastidiousness repugnant to the feelings of my fellow-lodgers, and possibly excite sus[Pg 64]picion that I was not what I seemed. Just in the nick of time in came that good man Daddy.

"What! not pitched yet?" he exclaimed; "here, I'll show you. Hallo! somebody's been a bleedin'! Never mind; let's turn him over. There you are, you see! Now lay down, and cover your rug over you."

There was no help for it. It was too late to go back. Down I lay and spread the rug over me. I should have mentioned that I brought in with me a cotton handkerchief, and this I tied round my head by way of a nightcap; but not daring to pull the rug as high as my face. Before I could in any way settle my mind to reflection, in came Daddy once more to do me a further kindness and point out a stupid blunder I had committed.

"Why, you are a rummy chap!" said Daddy. "You forgot your bread! Lay hold. And look here, I've brought you another rug; it's perishing cold to-night." So saying he spread the rug over my legs and went away. I was very thankful for the extra covering, but I was in a dilemma about the bread. I couldn't possibly eat it; what then was to be done with it? I broke it, however, and in view of such of the company as might happen to be looking, made a ferocious bite at a bit as large as a bean, and munched violently. By good luck, however, I presently got half-way over my difficulty very neatly. Just behind me, so close indeed that their feet came within half a yard of my head, three lads were sleeping together.

"Did you hear that, Punch?" one of them asked.

"'Ear what?" answered Punch, sleepy and snappish.

"Why, a cove forgot his toke! Gordstruth! you wouldn't ketch me a forgettin' mine."

[Pg 65]

"You may have half of it, old pal, if you're hungry", I observed, leaning upon my elbows.

"Chuck it here, good luck to yer!" replied my young friend, starting up with an eager clap of his dirty hands.

I "chucked it here," and slipping the other half under the side of my bed, lay my head on my folded arms.

It was about half past nine when, having made myself as comfortable as circumstances permitted, I closed my eyes in the desperate hope that I might fall asleep, and so escape from the horrors with which I was surrounded. "At seven to-morrow morning the bell will ring," Daddy had informed me, "and then you will give up your ticket and get back your bundle." Between that time and the present full nine long hours had to wear away.

But I was speedily convinced that, at least for the present, sleep was impossible. The young fellow (one of the three who lay in one bed, with their feet to my head) whom my bread had refreshed, presently swore with frightful imprecations that he was now going to have a smoke; and immediately put his threat into execution. Thereupon his bedfellows sat up and lit their pipes too. But O, if they had only smoked,—if they had not taken such an unfortunate fancy to spit at the leg of a crank, distant a few inches from my head,—how much misery and apprehension would have been spared me. To make matters worse, they united with this American practice an Eastern one; as they smoked they related little autobiographical anecdotes,—so abominable that three or four decent men who lay at the farther end of the shed were so provoked that they threatened, unless the talk abated in filthiness, to get up and stop it by main force.[Pg 66]Instantly the voice of every blackguard in the room was raised against the decent ones. They were accused of loathsome afflictions, stigmatized "as fighting men out of work" (which must be something very humiliating, I suppose), and invited to "a round" by boys young enough to be their grandsons. For several minutes there was such a storm of oaths, threats, and taunts,—such a deluge of foul words raged in the room,—that I could not help thinking of the fate of Sodom; as, indeed, I did several times during the night. Little by little the riot died out, without any the slightest interference on the part of the officers.

Soon afterwards the ruffian majority was strengthened by the arrival of a lanky boy of about fifteen, who evidently, recognized many acquaintances, and was recognized by them as "Kay," or perhaps I should write it "K." He was a very remarkable-looking lad, and his appearance pleased me much. Short as his hair was cropped, it still looked soft and silky; he had large blue eyes, set wide apart, and a mouth that would have been faultless but for its great width; and his voice was as soft and sweet as any woman's. Lightly as a woman, too, he picked his way over the stones towards the place where the beds lay, carefully hugging his cap beneath his arm.

"What cheer, Kay?" "Out again, then, old son!" "What yer got in yer cap, Kay?" cried his friends; to which the sweet voice replied, "Who'll give me a part of his doss (bed)? —— my —— eyes and limbs if I ain't perishin'! Who'll let me turn in with him for half my toke (bread)?" I feared how it would be! The hungry young fellow who had so readily availed himself of[Pg 67]half my "toke" snapped at Kay's offer, and after a little rearrangement and bed-making, four young fellows instead of three reposed upon the hay-bags at my head.

"You was too late for skilley, Kay. There's skilley now, nights as well as mornin's."

"Don't you tell no bleeding lies," Kay answered, incredulously.

"Blind me, it's true. Ain't it, Punch?"

"Right you are!" said Punch, "and spoons to eat it with, that's more! There used to be spoons at all the houses, one time. Poplar used to have 'em; but one at a time they was all nicked, don't you know." ("Nicked" means "stolen," obviously.)

"Well, I don't want no skilley, leastways, not to-night," said Kay. "I've had some rum. Two glasses of it; and a blow out of puddin',—regler Christmas plum-puddin'. You don't know the cove as give it me, but, thinks I this mornin' when I come out, blessed if I don't go and see my old chum. Lordstruth! he was struck! 'Come along,' he ses, 'I saved you some puddin' from Christmas.' 'Whereabouts is it?' I ses. 'In that box under my bed,' he ses, and he forks it out. That's the sort of pal to have! And he stood a quarten, and half a ounce of hard-up (tobacco). That wasn't all, neither; when I come away, ses he, 'How about your breakfus?' 'O, I shall do,' ses I. 'You take some of my bread and butter,' he ses, and he cuts me off four chunks buttered thick. I eat two on 'em comin' along."

"What's in your cap, Kay?" repeated the devourer of "toke."

"Them other two slices," said Kay; generously adding,[Pg 68]"There, share 'em amongst yer, and somebody give us a whiff of 'bacca."

Kay showed himself a pleasant companion,—what in a higher grade of society is called "quite an acquisition." He told stories of thieves and thieving, and of a certain "silver cup" he had been "put up to," and that he meant to nick it afore the end of the week, if he got seven stretch (? seven years) for it. The cup was worth ten quid (? pounds), and he knew where to melt it within ten minutes of nicking it. He made this statement without any moderation of his sweet voice; and the others received it as serious fact. Nor was there any affectation of secrecy in another gentleman, who announced, with great applause, that he had stolen a towel from the bath-room; "And s' help me, it's as good as new; never been washed mor'n once!"

"Tell us a 'rummy' story, Kay," said somebody; and Kay did. He told stories of so "rummy" a character that the decent men at the farther end of the room (some of whom had their own little boys sleeping with them) must have lain in a sweat of horror as they listened. Indeed, when Kay broke into a "rummy" song with a roaring chorus, one of the decent men rose in his bed and swore that he would smash Kay's head if he didn't desist. But Kay sang on till he and his admirers were tired of the entertainment. "Now," said he, "let's have a swearing club! you'll all be in it?"

The principle of this game seemed to rest on the impossibility of either of the young gentlemen making half a dozen observations without introducing a blasphemous or obscene word; and either the basis is a very sound[Pg 69]one, or for the sake of keeping the "club" alive the members purposely made slips. The penalty for "swearing" was a punch on any part of the body, except a few which the club rules protected. The game was highly successful. Warming with the sport, and indifferent to punches, the members vied with each other in audacity; and in a few minutes Bedlam in its prime could scarcely have produced such a spectacle as was to be seen on the beds behind me. One rule of the club was that any word to be found in the Bible might be used with impunity, and if one member "punched" another for using such a word, the error was to be visited upon him with a double punching all round. This naturally led to much argument; for in vindicating the Bible as his authority, a member became sometimes so much heated as to launch into a flood of "real swearing," which brought the fists of the club upon his naked carcass as quick as hail.

These and other pastimes beguiled the time until, to my delight, the church chimes audibly tolled twelve. After this the noise gradually subsided, and it seemed as though everybody was going to sleep at last. I should have mentioned that during the story-telling and song-singing a few "casuals" had dropped in, but they were nothabitués, and cuddled down with their rugs over their heads without a word to any one.

In a little while all was quiet, save for the flapping of the canvas curtain in the night breeze, the snoring, and the horrible, indescribable sound of impatient hands scratching skins that itch. There was another sound of very frequent occurrence, and that was the clanking of the tin pannikin against the water-pail. Whether it is in the[Pg 70]nature of workhouse bread or skilley to provoke thirst is more than my limited experience entitles me to say, but it may be truthfully asserted that once at least in the course of five minutes might be heard a rustling of straw, pattering of feet, and then the noise of water dipping, and then was to be seen at the pail the figure of a man (sometimes stark naked) gulping down the icy water as he stood upon the icy stones.

And here I may remark that I can furnish no solution to this mystery of the shirt. I only know that some of my comrades were provided with a shirt, and that to some the luxury was denied. I may say this, however, that none of the little boys were allowed one.

Nearly one o'clock. Still quiet and no fresh arrival for an hour or more. Then suddenly a loud noise of hobnailed boots kicked at a wooden gate, and soon after a tramping of feet and a rapping at Daddy's door, which, it will be remembered, was only separated from our bedroom by an open paved court.

"Hallo!" cried Daddy.

"Here's some more of 'em for you,—ten of 'em!" answered the porter, whose voice I recognized at once.

"They'll have to find beds, then," Daddy grumbled, as he opened his door. "I don't believe there are four beds empty. They must sleep double, or something."

This was terrible news for me. Bad enough, in all conscience, was it to lie as I was lying; but the prospect of sharing my straw with some dirty scoundrel of the Kay breed was altogether unendurable. Perhaps, however, they were not dirty scoundrels, but peaceable and decent men, like those in the farther corner.

[Pg 71]

Alas for my hopes! In the space of five minutes in they came at the rent in the canvas,—great hulking ruffians, some with rugs and nothing else, and some with shirts and nothing else, and all madly swearing because, coming in after eleven o'clock, there was no "toke" for them. As soon as these wrathful men had advanced to the middle of the shed they made the discovery that there was an insufficient number of beds,—only three, indeed, for ten competitors.

"Where's the beds? D' ye hear, Daddy? You blessed, truth-telling old person, where's the beds?"

"You'll find 'em. Some of 'em is lying on two, or got 'em as pillows. You'll find 'em."

With a sudden rush our new friends plunged among the sleepers, trampling over them, cursing their eyes and limbs, dragging away their rugs; and if by chance they found some poor wretch who had been tempted to take two beds (or bags) instead of one, they coolly hauled him out and took possession. There was no denying them and no use in remonstrating. They evidently knew that they were at liberty to do just as they liked, and they took full advantage of the privilege.

One of them came up to me, and shouting, "I want that, you ——," snatched at my "birdseye" nightcap and carried it off. There was a bed close to mine which contained only one occupant, and into this one of the new-comers slipped without a word of warning, driving its lawful owner against the wall to make room. Then he sat up in bed for a moment, savagely venting his disappointment as to "toke," and declaring that never before in his life had he felt the need of it so much.[Pg 72]This was my opportunity. Slipping my hand under my bed, I withdrew that judiciously hoarded piece of bread and respectfully offered it to him. He snapped at it with thanks.

By the time the churches were chiming two matters had once more adjusted themselves, and silence reigned, to be disturbed only by drinkers at the pail, or such as, otherwise prompted, stalked into the open yard. Kay, for one, visited it. I mention this unhappy young wretch particularly, because he went out without a single rag to his back. I looked out at the rent in the canvas, and saw the frosty moon shining on him. When he returned, and crept down between Punch and another, he muttered to himself, "Warm again! O my G-d! warm again!"

I hope, Mr. Editor, that you will not think me too prodigal of these reminiscences, and that your readers will understand that, if I write rather boldly, it is not done as a matter of taste. To me it seems quite worth while to relate with tolerable accuracy every particular of an adventure which you persuaded me ("ah! woful when!") to undertake for the public good.

Whether there is a rule which closes the casual wards after a certain hour I do not know; but before one o'clock our number was made up, the last-comer signalizing his appearance with a grotesquepas seul. His rug over his shoulders, he waltzed into the shed, waving his hands, and singing in an affected voice, as he sidled along,—

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