THE PASSING BELL.

“Oh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?”

“Oh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?”

“Oh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?”

This he did in such a manner, through the medium of the key, that the words seemed to be spoken by the instrument, and not by himself. After this was over, he would sing us, to his own accompaniment, another favourite, “There was a wee devil looked over the wall,” which generally closed that portion of the entertainment so kindly designed forus.

Upon those moments I have often witnessed marks of deepand pious feeling, occasioned by some memory of the absent or the dead, that were as beautiful as they were affecting. If, for instance, a favourite son or daughter happened to be removed by death, the father or mother, remembering the air which was loved best by the departed, would pause a moment, and with a voice full of sorrow, say, “Mickey, there isone tunethat I would like to hear; I love to think of it, and to hear it; I do, for the sake of them that’s gone—my darlin’ son that’s lyin’ low: it was he that loved it. His ear is closed against it now; but forhissake—ay, for your sake, avourneen machree—we will hear it wanst more.”

Mickey always played such tunes in his best style, and amidst a silence that was only broken by sobs, suppressed moanings, and the other tokens of profound sorrow. These gushes, however, of natural feeling soon passed away. In a few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke out again, and the lively dance went on as if their hearts had been incapable of such affection for the dead—affection at once so deep and tender. But many a time the light of cheerfulness plays along the stream of Irish feeling, when cherished sorrow lies removed from the human eye far down from the surface.

These preliminary amusements being now over, Mickey is conducted to the dance-house, where he is carefully installed in the best chair, and immediately the dancing commences. It is not my purpose to describe an Irish dance here, having done it more than once elsewhere. It is enough to say that Mickey is now in his glory; and proud may the young man be who fills the honourable post of his companion, and sits next him. He is a living storehouse of intelligence, a travelling directory for the parish—the lover’s text-book—the young woman’s best companion; for where is the courtship going on of which he is not cognizant? where is there a marriage on the tapis, with the particulars of which he is not acquainted? He is an authority whom nobody would think of questioning. It is now, too, that he scatters his jokes about; and so correct and well trained is his ear, that he can frequently name the young man who dances, by the peculiarity of his step.

“Ah ha! Paddy Brien, you’re there? Sure I’d know the sound of your smoothin’-irons any where. Is it thrue, Paddy, that you wor sint for down to Errigle Keerogue, to kill the clocks for Dan M’Mahon? But, nabuklish! Paddy, what’ll you have?”

“Is that Grace Reilly on the flure? Faix, avourneen, you can do it; devil o’ your likes Iseeany where. I’ll lay Shibby to a penny trump that you could dance your own namesake—theCalleen dhas dhun, the bonny brown girl—upon a spider’s cobweb, widout breakin’ it. Don’t be in a hurry, Grace dear, to tie the knot;I’llwait for you.”

Several times in the course of the night a plate is brought round, and a collection made for the fiddler: this was the moment when Mickey used to let the jokes fly in every direction. The timid he shamed into liberality, the vain he praised, and the niggardly he assailed by open hardy satire; all managed, however, with such an under-current of good humour, that no one could take offence. No joke ever told better than that of the broken string. Whenever this happened at night, Mickey would call out to some soft fellow, “Blood alive, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle?—I’ve broken a string.” The unthinking young man, forgetting that he was blind, would take the candle in a hurry, and fetch it to him.

“Faix, Ned. I knew you wor jist fit for’t; houldin’ a candle to a dark man! Isn’t he a beauty, boys?—look at him, girls—as cute as a pancake.”

It is unnecessary to say, that the mirth on such occasions was convulsive. Another similar joke was also played off by him against such as he knew to be ungenerous at the collection.

“Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I’m goin’ across the counthry as far as Ned Donnelly’s, and I want you to help me along the road, as the night is dark.”

“To be sure, Mickey. I’ll bring you over as snug as if you wor on a clane plate, man alive!”

“Thank you, Paddy; throth you’ve the dacency in you; an’ kind father for you, Paddy. Maybe I’ll do as much for you some other time.”

Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, after which, he published it to the whole parish; and Paddy of course was made a standing jest for being so silly as to think that night or day had any difference to a man who could not see.

Thus passed the life of Mickey M’Rorey, and thus pass the lives of most of his class, serenely and happily. As the sailor to his ship, the sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler attached to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for he comes in contact with the best and brightest side of life and nature; and the consequence is, that their mild and mellow lights are reflected on and from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I dare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he communicated so much delight, and who often danced with a buoyant and careless heart to the pleasant notes of his fiddle. Mickey M’Rorey, farewell! Whether living or dead, peace be with you!

There is another character in Ireland essentially different from the mere fiddler—I mean the country dancing-master. In a future number of the Journal I will give a sketch of one who was eminent in his line. Many will remember him when I nameBuckram-Back.

BY J. U. U.

With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,The minster bell swings on the gale,And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,That passeth away like a passing soul—Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.The minute-sound of that mourning bellIs the lord’s of the valley—the rich man’s knell:While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan—In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.The pride hath passed from his haughty brow—Where are his plans and high projects now?Another lord in his state is crowned,To level his castles with the ground;Respect and terror pass reckless on—His frowns and favours are dead and gone.Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,Mortal tongue shall forget his name:Other hands shall disperse his store—Earthly dream shall he dream no more:His chair is vacant—his way lies yon,To the formless cells of the dead and gone.Passing bell, that dost sadly flingThy wailing wave on the air of spring.There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,To tell where the parted soul is flown,To what far mansion it travels on—While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.Yet, bell of death, on the living airThy tones come bound from the house of prayer—They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trodOn a path once walked by the Son of God,Whose word of promise inviteth on,Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.

With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,The minster bell swings on the gale,And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,That passeth away like a passing soul—Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.The minute-sound of that mourning bellIs the lord’s of the valley—the rich man’s knell:While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan—In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.The pride hath passed from his haughty brow—Where are his plans and high projects now?Another lord in his state is crowned,To level his castles with the ground;Respect and terror pass reckless on—His frowns and favours are dead and gone.Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,Mortal tongue shall forget his name:Other hands shall disperse his store—Earthly dream shall he dream no more:His chair is vacant—his way lies yon,To the formless cells of the dead and gone.Passing bell, that dost sadly flingThy wailing wave on the air of spring.There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,To tell where the parted soul is flown,To what far mansion it travels on—While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.Yet, bell of death, on the living airThy tones come bound from the house of prayer—They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trodOn a path once walked by the Son of God,Whose word of promise inviteth on,Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.

With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,The minster bell swings on the gale,And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,That passeth away like a passing soul—Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.

With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,

The minster bell swings on the gale,

And saddens the vale with its solemn toll,

That passeth away like a passing soul—

Pulse after pulse still diminishing on,

Till another rings forth for the dead and gone.

The minute-sound of that mourning bellIs the lord’s of the valley—the rich man’s knell:While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan—In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.

The minute-sound of that mourning bell

Is the lord’s of the valley—the rich man’s knell:

While it swells o’er his lawns and his woodlands bright,

He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the light:

On the couch of his ease he lies stiff and wan—

In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone.

The pride hath passed from his haughty brow—Where are his plans and high projects now?Another lord in his state is crowned,To level his castles with the ground;Respect and terror pass reckless on—His frowns and favours are dead and gone.

The pride hath passed from his haughty brow—

Where are his plans and high projects now?

Another lord in his state is crowned,

To level his castles with the ground;

Respect and terror pass reckless on—

His frowns and favours are dead and gone.

Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,Mortal tongue shall forget his name:Other hands shall disperse his store—Earthly dream shall he dream no more:His chair is vacant—his way lies yon,To the formless cells of the dead and gone.

Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame,

Mortal tongue shall forget his name:

Other hands shall disperse his store—

Earthly dream shall he dream no more:

His chair is vacant—his way lies yon,

To the formless cells of the dead and gone.

Passing bell, that dost sadly flingThy wailing wave on the air of spring.There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,To tell where the parted soul is flown,To what far mansion it travels on—While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.

Passing bell, that dost sadly fling

Thy wailing wave on the air of spring.

There is no voice in thy long, wild moan,

To tell where the parted soul is flown,

To what far mansion it travels on—

While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone.

Yet, bell of death, on the living airThy tones come bound from the house of prayer—They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trodOn a path once walked by the Son of God,Whose word of promise inviteth on,Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.

Yet, bell of death, on the living air

Thy tones come bound from the house of prayer—

They speak of the Valley of Shadow, trod

On a path once walked by the Son of God,

Whose word of promise inviteth on,

Through the gate unclosed for the dead and gone.

Current Coin of China.—The only coin made in China is the tchen, orcash, as it is called in Canton. It is composed of base metal, having the date and reigning emperor’s name stamped on it. According to Gutzlaff, they had coins of this description a thousand years before our era. It is nearly as large as an old shilling. There is a square hole in the centre, to admit of a number of them being strung on a bamboo. From seven to eight hundred of these, according to the exchange, may be had for a Spanish dollar. Silver is the commercial medium of barter; it is not coined, but passes by weight, after being purified, when it is called sycee silver. It is then cast into lumps of one tael, or Chinese ounce, each, the value of which in English money is about six shillings. When decimal parts are required, it is cut. Spanish dollars are current in Canton, and they are also cut when required for lesser portions. Whenever one of these gets into the possession of a Chinese, he stamps his name on it; hence in a short time the Spanish marks become quite obliterated, and then they are called chop dollars, and are melted into sycee silver. Gold is like any other article of trade, and is not used as a medium of barter.—Dr Fulton’s Travelling Sketches in Various Countries.

BERNARD CAVANAGH.

In the hope that the narration of the following singular circumstances may attract the attention of medical and scientific men towards its extraordinary subject, we lay it before the readers of theIrish Penny Journal:—

Bernard Cavanagh is about twenty-four years of age, and now living with his parents at nearly a mile distant from the little town of Swineford, county Mayo. The parents are respectable, of reputable character, and in comfortable circumstances. They assert—indeed they have made affidavits before a magistrate of the county—that for nearly the last four years he has existed without tasting sustenance of any kind. They state also that from the 2d September 1836 to the 2d July 1840, he neither spoke nor rose from his bed except to allow it to be arranged, during which operation he never opened his mouth; and this portion of the statement is borne out to a considerable extent by the fact of his having been visited frequently, and at various periods, by persons of high respectability as well as of the lower class, on all which occasions he was observed invariably in the same position, with his hands on his breast and his eyes fixed on the window.

The night before he betook himself to bed, he knocked at the door of the priest’s house, and stated that he wished to communicate something to him; but the reverend gentleman declined admitting him, in consequence of the lateness of the hour, saying that he could impart whatever he wished to state on the morrow.

“But I will not be here to-morrow,” responded Cavanagh; and he was right: the next day he took to his bed.

In the interval between September 1836 and the present season, public attention on a limited scale was occasionally directed towards Cavanagh. But the report of his utter and continued abstinence from food was treated as a monstrous fable by every one at any distance from his immediate locality, and the extraordinary allegations respecting him were beginning to fade from general recollection, when, to the utter astonishment of every one in his neighbourhood, he arose from bed and recovered his speech and powers of moving about; since which time he continues, according to the accounts, without sustenance in any shape, and has been visited by thousands of persons from various quarters.

In boyhood, Cavanagh’s education extended barely as far as the acquirement of reading and writing; but he constantly exhibited strong marks of religious enthusiasm, often proceeding to Meelick chapel (about three miles from his residence) to one mass, and then attending another at his own parish chapel of Swineford. It is said, too, that he at one time constructed a sort of rude building for his private devotion in the open fields, and repeatedly went to prayers at meal-times in his father’s house, contenting himself withonemeal in the day, as if preparing himself for his total fast. Accordingly, since resuming his speech and motion he haunts the chapel at all hours by day and night, continuing for hours together apparently in private prayer, and generally attended by a large concourse of the peasantry, whom he addresses by fits and starts, and many of whom are naturally, under the circumstances, beginning to deem him not a human being at all, but a shadow.

He seems not inclined to speak much, though he states he has had “high visions.” His reply to the clergymen respecting his revelations and fasting, is, that he is fed by the Word; that he is not at liberty to detail his visions for the gratification of man; and that no one should judge lest he be judged.

Cavanagh is about the middle height, of a grave emaciated countenance; his motions are quite unembarrassed, and his voice is sonorous and distinct when he speaks, which is still but seldom, as he seems to utterly disregard his visitors, whatever their rank.

As we said before, he continues daily to draw thousands of the peasantry around him, who eagerly watch every word that falls from his lips, as they place implicit faith in the assertion that he has lived without any description of food for the last four years, and of course regard him as something entirely beyond the pale of ordinary humanity.Weare, however, not so easy of belief in a case so much at variance with the ordinary regulations of nature; at the same time that we are free to admit that it is hard to conceive what motive the young man or his parents could have for carrying on such an imposition, as the latter endeavoured at first to conceal the matter altogether, and, in the next place, have repeatedly refused money offered by their respectable visitors, though, in fact, their means are a good deal diminished by the hospitality extended to each successive guest; while a young sister, who has constantly attended Cavanagh since he has lain and fasted according to the statement, persists in declaring, with the strongest appearance of innocence and belief in the truth of her own assertion, that it was impossible he could have tasted any thing during any part of that time unknown to her, and that he never had.

That a person of narrow intellect and strong devotional propensities should be seized with a religious monomania, and that to a being of a weak mind and a debilitated frame strange visions should occur, is perfectly comprehensible; but that the frail materials of the human frame, which needs the nourishment of food as much as the flower requires sunshine and moisture, should endure for such a period without support, is so unprecedented in all the records of mankind, and so contradictory to the general laws of nature, that it would require the most powerful proofs indeed to convince the intelligent mind of its truth. We therefore again express our strong hope that this slight sketch may produce the effect of having Cavanagh’s case submitted to the test of eminent medical skill—a test to which the parents profess their entire willingness to assent, and thus a case of the grossest imposition be detected, and thousands of simple beings disabused, or one of the most extraordinary of nature’s anomalies be clearly ascertained and exhibited.

A.

Scene in the Theatre at Leghorn.—My time passed delightfully while I remained in Leghorn. The Russian fleet was at anchor in the Bay, commanded by Admiral O’Dwyer, a distinguished seaman, and an Irishman by birth. The Storaces and myself often went on board his ship, and were delighted by hearing the Russians chaunt their evening hymn. The melody is beautifully simple, and was always sung completely in tune by this immense body of men. There was at the same time in the harbour a privateer from Dublin, called the Fame, Captain Moore: he and his first officer Campbell were Irishmen, and had a fine set of Irish lads under them. When Storace’s benefit took place, the officers and crew who could be spared from their duty, to a man (and a famous sight it was) marched to the theatre, and almost filled the par-terre. At the end of the opera, Storace sang the Irish ballad “Molly Astore,” at the conclusion of which, the boatswain of the Fame gave a loud whistle, and the crew in a body rose and gave three cheers. The dismay of the Italian part of the audience was ludicrous in the extreme. The sailors then sang “God save the King” in full chorus, and when done, applauded themselves to the very skies: nothing could be more unanimous or louder than their self-approbation.—Reminiscences of Michael Kelly.

Truth.—Truth is the foundation of virtue. An habitual regard for it is absolutely necessary. He who walks by the light of it has the advantage of the mid-day sun; he who would spurn it, goes forth amid clouds and darkness. There is no way in which a man strengthens his own judgment, and acquires respect in society so surely, as by a scrupulous regard to truth. The course of such an individual is right on and straight on. He is no changeling, saying one thing to-day and another to-morrow. Truth to him is like a mountain landmark to the pilot: he fixes his eye upon a point that does not move, and he enters the harbour in safety. On the contrary, one who despises truth and loves falsehood is like a pilot who takes a piece of drift-wood for his landmark, which changes with every changing wave. On this he fixes his attention, and, being insensibly led from his course, strikes upon some hidden reef, and sinks to rise no more. Thus truth brings success; falsehood results in ruin and contempt.—Dr Channing.

Gaming.—I look upon every man as a suicide from the moment he takes the dice-box desperately in his hand; and all that follows in his fatal career from that fatal time is only sharpening the dagger before he strikes it to his heart.—Cumberland.

Printed and Published every Saturday byGunnandCameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London.SimmsandDinham, Exchange Street, Manchester.J. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool.J. Drake, Birmingham.M. Bingham, Broad Street, Bristol.FraserandCrawford, George Street, Edinburgh.David Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.

Printed and Published every Saturday byGunnandCameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London.SimmsandDinham, Exchange Street, Manchester.J. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool.J. Drake, Birmingham.M. Bingham, Broad Street, Bristol.FraserandCrawford, George Street, Edinburgh.David Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.

Transcriber’s Note: In the original, the date of 766 was given for the death of “Dubdainber, the son of Cormac, Abbot of Monasterboice”. Based on its order in the chronology (and cross-reference with other historical sources) this is presumed to be a misprint and has been changed to 786.

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