It is utterly impossible for any one but an Irishman fully to comprehend the extravagance to which the spirit of Irish humour is often carried, and that even in circumstances where one would suppose it ought least to be expected. In other countries the house of death is in reality the house of mourning, and so indeed it is also in Ireland, where domestic grief is felt with a power that reaches to the uttermost depths of the heart. But then in Ireland this very fullness of sorrow, unlike that which is manifested elsewhere, is accompanied by so many incongruous associations, apparently incompatible with, or rather altogether opposed to, the idea of affliction, that strangers, when assured of such an anomalous admixture of feelings, can scarcely bring themselves to believe in their existence. I have said that in Ireland the house of death is without doubt the house of mourning; but I must not conceal the additional fact, that it is also, in consequence of the calamity which has occurred, the house of fun; and of fun, too, so broad, grotesque, and extravagant, that in no other condition of society, even in Ireland, is there anything to be found like it. This no doubt may appear a rather startling assertion, but it is quite true.

why the neighbours and acquaintances of the deceased flock at night to hold Wakes-the merriest of all merry meetings-frequently in the very house where he or she lies dead, is simply that the sense of the bereavement may be mitigated by the light-hearted amusements which are enacted before their eyes. The temperament of the Irish, however, is strongly susceptible of the extremes of mirth and sorrow, and our national heart is capable of being moved by the two impulses almost at the same moment. Many a time I have seen a widow sitting over the dead body of an affectionate husband, amidst her desolate orphans, so completely borne away by the irresistible fun of some antic wag, who acted as Master of the Revels, that she has been forced into a fit of laughter that brought the tears to her eyes. Often has the father-the features of the pious and chaste mother of his children composed into the mournful stillness of death before him-been, in the same manner, carried into a fit of immoderate mirth on contemplating the inimitable drolleries exhibited in Boxing the Connaughtman,' or the convulsive fun of the Screw-pin Dance.' The legends and tales and stories that are told at Irish wakes all bear the impress of this mad extravagance; and it is because I am now about to relate one of them, that I have deemed it expedient to introduce it to my readers by this short but necessary preface. Those who peruse it are not to imagine that I am gravely writing it in my study; but that, on the contrary, they are sitting in the chimney-corner, at an Irish wake, and that some droll Senachie, his face lit up into an expression of broad farcical humour, is proIn-ceeding somewhat as follows :—

And now many of my sagacious readers will at once set about accounting for such a singular combination of mad mirth and profound sorrow. Let them, however, spare their metaphysics, for I will save thein a long process of reasoning on the subject, by stating, that all this clatter of laughter and comic uproar proceeds from a principle that does honour to Paddy's heart-I mean sympathy with those whom the death of some dear relative has thrown into affliction. deed no people sympathize more deeply with each other than the Irish, or enter more fully into the spirit that prevails, whether it be one of joy or sorrow. The reason, then,

VOL. III, NO. XVII.

"Moll Roe Rafferty was the son-daughther I mane-of ould Jack Rafferty, who was remarkable for a habit he had of always wearing his head undher his hat; but in

M

She found him out in many quare things, widout doubt; but whether it was owin' to that or not I wouldn't undhertake to say, for fraid I'd tell a lie.

deed the same family was a quare one, as | his head that she could see round a corner. every body knew that was acquainted wid them. It was said of them-but whether it was thrue or not I wont undhertake to say, for 'fraid I'd tell a lie-that whenever they didn't wear shoes or boots they always went barefooted; but I hard aftherwards that this was disputed, so rather than say anything to injure their caracther, I'll let that pass, as Condy did the dicken.* Now ould Jack Rafferty had two sons, Paddy and Molly-hut! what are you all laughing at ? -I mane a son and daughter, and it was generally believed among the neighbours, that they were brother and sisther, which you know might be thrue or it might not; but that's a thing that, wid the help o' goodness, we have nothing to say to. Throth there was many ugly things put out on them that I don't wish to repate, such as that neither Jack nor his son Paddy ever walked a perch widout puttin' one foot afore the other, like a salmon; an' I know it was whispered about, that whinever Moll Roe slep', she had an out of the way custom of keepin' her eyes shut. If she did, however, God forgive her -the loss was her own; for sure we all know that when one comes to shut their eyes they can't see as far before them as another.

"Moll Roe was a fine bouncin' girl, large and lavish, wid a purty head o' hair on her like scarlet, that bein' one of the raisons why she was called Roe or red; her arms an' cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an' her saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face. Her fists-for, thank goodness, she was well sarved wid them too-had a strong simularity to two thumpin' turnips, reddened by the sun; an' to keep all right and tight, she had a temper as fiery as her head-for, indeed, it was well known that all the Rafferties were warm-hearted. Howandiver, it appears that God gives nothing in vain, and of course the same fists, big and red as they were, if all that is said about them is thrue, were not so much given to her for ornament as use. At laist, takin' them in connexion wid her lively temper, we have it upon good autority, that there was no danger of their getting blue-moulded for want of practice. She had a twist, too, in one of her eyes that was very becomin' in its way, and made her poor husband, when she got him, take it into

Well, begad, anyhow, it was Moll Roe that was the dilsy; and as they say that marriages does be sometimes made in heaven, so did it happen that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty, the Lord guard us, was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep Christmas day, the blagard, except what they call "ould style." Gusty was rather goodlookin' when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; and indeed it was purty well known that-accordin' as the talk went-it was in nightly meetings that they had an opportunity of becomin' detached to one another. The quensequence was, that in due time both families began to talk very seriously as to what was to be done. Moll's brother, Pawdien O'Rafferty, gave Gusty the best of two choices. What they were it's not worth spaikin' about; but at any rate one of them was a poser, an' as Gusty knew his man, he soon came to his senses. Accordianly everything was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed that they should be spliced by the Rev. Samuel M'Shuttle, the Prosbytarian parson, on the following Sunday.

Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighbourhood betune a black-mouth an' a Catholic, an' of coorse there was strong objections on both sides aginst it; an', begad, only for one thing it would never 'a' tuck place at all. At any rate, faix, there was one of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairy-man, who could cure all complaints wid a sacret he had, and as he didn't wish to see his niece marrid upon sich a fellow, he fought bittherly aginst the match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the marriage barrin' him, an' of coorse the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together.

"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty's, where the priest, Father M'Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther M'Shuttle, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for to tell the thruth it

"Arra why, Harry? Why, avick?' "Why, the sun 's in the suds and the moon in the high Horicks; there's a clipstick comin' an, an' there you're both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out and cross yourselves three times in the name o' the four Mandromarvins, for as Why,' said he, if ever a pot tuck it prophecy says:-Fill the pot, Eddy, super-into its head to dance a jig, and this did. naculum- -a blazing star 's a rare spectacu- Thundher and sparables, look at it !' lum. Go out both of you and look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's in -off!'

fend you. It wasn't us-no, in throth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursue him if you wish, but spare a woman like me; for, whisper, dear, I'm not in a condition to be frightened-throth I'm

not.'

"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in it, and that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her.

"Plase your honour,' said Jack, she only spaiks the truth. You don't know what harm you might do here; an', upon my voracity, we both feels much obliged to your honour for your quietness. Faith, it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentlemanly pudden all out, you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the dam' rogue, is your mark; he's jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be me song, your dancin'-masther did his duty, any how. Thank your honour! God speed you, an' may you never meet wid a priest, parson, or alderman in your thravels!'

I've the neighbours to back an' support me,' says Jack.

"This was agreed to, and Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden, while Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an' divle sich a chase ever was seen. Catholics, Prodestans, an' Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed as I said, an' bad end to the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, and there a prod was made at it; but off it went, an' some one as aiger to get a slice, at it on the other side got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabaloo out of him you might hear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade that made him look nine ways at

wanst.

"Where is it goin'? asked one.

It's goin' to mass,' replied a second. "Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared Then it's a Catholic pudden,' exclaimed a to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, third-′ down wid it.' 'No,' said a fourth, and as the house was directly on the road- it's above superstition; my life for you, it's side, turned down towards the bridge, the on its way to meeting. Three cheers for it, very way that ould Harry went. It was if it turns to Carntaul.' Prod the sowl out very natural of coorse that Jack and Katty of it, if it's a Prodestan',' shouted the others; should go out to see how it intended to thra-if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. vel; and, as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin' the road. This was a fact. And when Jack and his wife were seen followin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.

666

Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, a hagur, will you tell us what it manes ?'

666

Why, replied Katty, 'be the vestments, it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's now hot-foot pursuin'-,' here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's name,'some one or other that surely put pistrogues an it.'*

6

"This was enough; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, found his courage comin' back to him, so says he to Katty, 'go home,' says he, an' lose no time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want our own to dress the rest o' the dinner; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork, for divle resave the morsel of that same pudden will escape till I let the wind out of it, now that

* Put it under fairy influence.

We'll have no Prodestan puddens here.'

"Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin' to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praichin-house, an' in an instant all parties were in an uproar aginst it as a Methodist pudden. It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices, an' by this an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day, or we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where's your pitchforks?'

"The divle purshue the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, an' jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before all their eyes as light as an eggshell.'

"Now, it so happened, that a little below this place, the demesne wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so findin' there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home again, every man,