ble at an act of "justice to Ireland?" Tom at all events cared little for the distance; and, going at a slapping pace, he made Kilkenny in six hours. I pass the itinerary. He started at six in the morning, and arrived somewhat foot-worn, but full not only of bread, but of wine (for wine was to be found on country roadsides in Ireland in those days), in the ancient city of Saint Canice about noon. Tom refreshed himself at the Feathers, kept in those days by a man named Jerry Mulvany, who was supposed to be more nearly connected with the family of Ormond than the rites of the church could allow; and having swallowed as much of the substantial food and the pestiferous fluid that mine host of the Feathers tendered him, the spirit of inquisitiveness, which, according to the phrenologists, is developed in all mankind, seized paramount hold of Tom. Tom-? ay, Tom it must be, for I really cannot recollect his other name. If there be a guide-book to the curiosities of Kilkenny, the work has escaped my researches. Of the city it is recorded, however, that it can boast of fire without smoke, air without fog, and streets paved with marble. And there's the college, and the bridge, and the ruins of St. John's abbey, and St. Canice, and the Nore itself, and last, not least, the castle of the Ormonds, with its woods and its walks, and its stables and its gallery, and all the rest of it, predominating over the river. It is a very finelooking thing indeed; and, if I mistake not, John Wilson Croker, in his youth, wrote a poem to its honour, beginning with "High on the sounding banks of Nore," every verse of which ended with "The Castle," in the manner of Cowper's "My Mary," or Ben Jonson's "Tom Tosspot." If I had the poem, I should publish it here with the greatest pleasure; but I have it not. I forget where I saw it, but I think it was in a Dublin Magazine of a good many years ago, when I was a junior sophister of T. C. D. Let the reader, then, in the absence of this document, imagine that the poem was infinitely fine, and that the subject was worthy of the muse. As the castle is the most particular lion of the city, it of course speedily attracted the attention of Tom, who, swaggering in all the independence of an emancipated footman up the street, soon found himself at the gate. "Rearing him self thereat," as the old ballad has it, stood a man basking in the sun. He was somewhat declining towards what they call the vale of years in the language of poetry; but by the twinkle of his eye, and the purple rotundity of his cheek, it was evident that the years of the valley, like the lads of the valley, had gone cheerily-o! The sun shone brightly upon his silver locks, escaping from under a somewhat tarnished cocked-hatguarded with gold lace, the gilding of which. had much deteriorated since it departed from the shop of the artificer; and upon a scarlet waistcoat, velvet certainly, but of reduced condition, and in the same situation as to gilding as the hat. His plumb-coloured breeches were unbuckled at the knee, and his ungartered stockings were on a downward progress towards his unbuckled shoes. He had his hands,-their wristswere garnished with unwashed ruffles,—in his breeches pockets; and he diverted himself with whistling "Charley over the water," in a state of quasi-ruminant quiescence. Nothing could be plainer than that he was a hanger-on of the castle off duty, waiting his time until called for, when of course he was to appear before his master in a more carefully arranged costume. Ormond Castle was then, as I believe it is now, a show-house, and the visitors of Kilkenny found little difficulty in the admission; but, as in those days purposes of political intrusion might be suspected, some shadow at least of introduction was considered necessary. Tom, reared in the household of a schoolmaster, where the despotic authority of the chief extends a flavour of its quality to all his ministers, exhilarated by the walk, and cheered by the eatables and drinkables which he had swallowed, felt that there was no necessity for consulting any of the usual points of etiquette; if indeed he knew that any such things were in existence. “I say," said he, "old chap! is this castle to be seen? I'm told it's a show; and if it is, let's have a look at it." "It is to be seen," replied the person addressed, "if you are properly introduced." "That's all hum!" said Tom. "I know enough of the world, though I've lived all my life in Clonmell, to know that a proper introduction signifies a tester. Come, my old snouty, I'll stand all that's right if you show me over it. Can you do it?" "Why," said his new friend, "I think I can; because, in fact, I am "Something about the house, I suppose. Well, though you've on a laced jacket, and I only a plain frieze coat, we are both brothers of the shoulder-knot. I tell you who I am. Did you ever hear of Chaytor the Quaker, the schoolmaster of Clonmell?" "Never." "Well, he's a decent sort of fellow in the propria quæ maribus line, and gives as good a buttock of beef to anybody that gets over the threshold of his door as you'd wish to meet; and I am his man, his valley de sham, head gentleman Gentleman usher?" "No, not usher," responded Tom indig nantly: "I have nothing to do with ushers; they are scabby dogs of poor scholards, sizards, half-pays, and the like; and all the young gentlemen much prefer me-but I am his fiddleus Achates, as master Jack Toler calls me, that's a purty pup who will make some fun some of these days, his whacktotum, head-cook, and dairy-maid, slush, and butler. What are you here?" 66 'Why," replied the man at the gate, “I am a butler as well as you." "Oh, then we're both butlers; and you could as well pass us in. By coarse, the butler must be a great fellow here; and I see you are rigged in the cast clothes of my lord. Isn't that true?" "True enough: he never gets a suit of clothes, that it does not fall to my lot to wear it; but if you wish to see the castle, I think I can venture to show you all that it contains, even for the sake of our being two butlers." It was not much sooner said than done. Tom accompanied his companion over the house and grounds, making sundry critical observations on all he saw therein,-on painting, architecture, gardening, the sublime and beautiful, the scientific and picturesque, in a manner which I doubt not much resembled the average style of reviewing those matters in what we now call the best public instructors. "Bum-looking old ruffians," observed Tom, on casting his eyes along the gallery containing the portraitures of the Ormonds. "Look at that fellow there all battered up in iron; I wish to God I had as good a church as he would rob!" "He was one of the old earls," replied his guide, in the days of Henry the Eighth; and I believe he did help in robbing churches." "I knew it by his look," said Tom: "and "Plenty." "But you won't get into a scrape? Honour above all; I'd not like to have you do it unless you were sure, for the glory of the cloth." The pledge of security being solemnly offered, Tom followed his companion through the intricate passages of the castle until he came into a small apartment, where he found a most plentiful repast before him. He had not failed to observe, that, as he was guided through the house, their path had been wholly uncrossed, for, if anybody accidentally appeared, he hastily withdrew. One person only was detained for a moment, us. and to him the butler spoke a few words in | perhaps the old fellow himself might hear some unknown tongue, which Tom of course set down as part of the Jacobite treason pervading every part of the castle. "Gad!" said he, while beginning to lay into the round of beef, "I am half inclined to think that the jabber you talked just now to the powder-monkey we met in that corridor was not treason, but beef and mustard; an't I right?" "Quite so. "Fall to, then yourself. By Gad! you appear to have those lads under your thumb for this is great eating. I suppose you often rob my lord ?-speak plain, for I myself rob ould Chaytor the schoolmaster; but there's a long difference between robbing a schoolmaster and robbing a lord. I venture to say many a pound of his you have made away with." A great many indeed. I am ashamed to say it, that for one pound he has lost by anybody else, he has lost a hundred by me. Ashamed, indeed! This is beautiful beef. But let us wash it down. By the powers! is it champagne you are giving me? Well, I never drank but one glass of it in my life, and that was from a bottle that I stole out of a dozen which the master had when he was giving a great dinner to the father of the boys just before the Christmas holidays the year before last. My service to you. By Gor! if you do not break the Ormonds, I can't tell who should." "Nor I. Finish your champagne. else will you have to drink?" "Have you the run of the cellar ?” Certainly." What "Why, then, claret is genteel; but the little I drank of it was mortal cold. Could you find us a glass of brandy?" "Of course;" and on the sounding of a bell there appeared the same valet who had been addressed in the corridor; and in the same language some intimation was communicated, which in a few moments produced a bottle of Nantz, rare and particular, placed before Tom with all the emollient appliances necessary for turning it into punch. "By all that's bad," said the Clonmellian butler, "but ye keep these fellows to their knitting. This is indeed capital stuff. Make for yourself. When you come to Clonmell, ask for me-Tom-at old Chaytor's, the Quaker schoolmaster, a few doors from the Globe. This lord of your's, I am told, is a bloody Jacobite : here's the Hanover succession! but we must not drink that here, for "Nothing is more probable." "Well, then mum's the word." I'm told he puts white roses in his dog's ears, and drinks a certain person over the water on the tenth of June; but no matter, this is his house, and you and I are drinking his drink,-so, why should we wish him bad luck? If he was hanged, of course I'd go to see him, to be sure; would not you?" "I should certainly be there." By this time Tom was subdued by the champagne and the brandy, to say nothing of the hot weather; and the spirit of hospitality rose strong upon the spirit of cognac. His new friend gently hinted that a retreat to his gîte at the Feathers would be prudent; but to such a step Tom would by no means consent unless the butler of the castle accompanied him to take a parting bowl. With some reluctance the wish was complied with, and both the butlers sallied forth on their way through the principal streets of Kilkenny, just as the evening was beginning to assume somewhat of a dusky hue. Tom had, in the course of the three or four hours passed with his new friend, informed him of all the private history of the house of Ormond, with that same regard to veracity which in general characterizes the accounts of the births, lives, and educations of persons of the higher classes, to be found in fashionable novels and other works drawn from the communications of such authorities as our friend Tom; and his friend offered as much commentary as is usually done on similar occasions. Proceeding in a twirling motion along, he could not but observe that the principal persons whom they met bowed most respectfully to the gentleman from the castle; and, on being assured that this token of deference was paid because they were tradesmen of the castle, who were indebted to the butler for his good word in their business, Tom's appreciation of his friend's abilities in the art of "improving" his situation was considerably enhanced. He calculated that if they made money by the butler, the butler made money by them; and he determined that on his return to Clonmell he too would find tradesfolks ready to take hats off to him in the ratio of pedagogue to peer. The Kilkenny man steadied the Clonmell man to the Feathers, where the latter most potentially ordered a bowl of the best punch. The slipshod waiter stared; but a look from "Shall I, my "Yes," said the person addressed," whatever he likes." เ "Well," said Tom, as Mulvany left the room, "if I ever saw anything to match that. Is he one of the tradespeople of the castle? This does bate everything. And, by dad, he's not unlike you in the face, neither! Och! then, what a story I'll have when I get back to Clonmell." “Well, Tom," said his friend, "I may perhaps see you there; but good-bye for a moment. I assure you I have had much pleasure in your company." 46 'He's a queer fellow, that," thought Tom, "and I hope he'll be soon back. It's a pleasant acquaintance I've made the first day I was in Kilkenny. Sit down, Mr. Mulvany," said he, as that functionary entered, bearing a bowl of punch, "and taste your brewing.' To which invitation Mr. Mulvany acceded, nothing loth, but still casting an anxious eye towards the door. "That's a mighty honest man," said Tom. "I do not know what you mane," replied the cautious Mulvany (for "honest man in those days was another word for Jacobite). "I mane what I say," said Tom; "he's just showed me over the castle, and gave me full and plenty of the best of eating and drinking. He tells me he's the butler." "And so he is, you idiot of a man!" cried Mulvany. "He's the Chief Butler of Ireland." "And James Fitzjames was Scotland's King." the recollection of what he had been saying for the last three hours. Waiting for no further explanation, he threw up the window (they were sitting on a ground-floor), and leaving Mr. Mulvany to finish the bowĺ as he pleased, proceeded at a hand-canter to Clonmell, not freed from the apparition of Lord Ormond before he had left Kilcash to his north; and nothing could ever again induce him to wander in the direction of Kilkenny, there to run the risk of meeting with his fellow-butler, until his lordship was so safely bestowed in the family vault as to render the chance of collision highly improbable. Such is my Il Bondocani. TOO MUCH CREDIT. T. C. D. Mr. Keene, a shrewd and thrifty farmer of Allenborough owned a large flock of sheep, and one autumn, when it came housing time, he was greatly annoyed upon missing a number of his finest muttons, among them three or four wethers, which he had raised and fattened for his own table. He was sure it was not the work of dogs, and the most he could do was to await further developments. On the following spring, when his sheep were turned out to pasture, he instituted a careful watch, and ere long he detected Tom Stickney, a neighboring farmer, in the act of pilfering a sheep; but he made no noise about it. Stickney was a man well to do and Keene did not care to expose him. Autumn came again, and on counting up his flock, Mr. Keene found eight sheep missing. He made out a bill in due form to Thomas Stickney for the eight sheep, and presented it. Stickney choked and stammered, but did not back down. Like a prudent man he paid the bill and pocketed the receipt. Another spring time came, and Mr. Keene's sheep were again turned out. Another autumn came, and the farmer again took an account of his stock, and this time fifteen sheep were missing. As before he made out the bill to Tom Stickney for the whole number missing; but this time Tom objected. "It is too much of a good thing," said he, All the potations pottle-deep, the road-"Fifteen sheep! why, bless your soul, I side drinking, the champagne, the cognac, haven't had a fifth part of 'em." the punch at the Feathers, vanished at once from Tom's brain to make room for Mr. Keene was inexorable. "There is the bill," said he, "and I have made it out in good faith. I have made no fuss when my sheep have been missing, because I deemed your credit good and sufficient." "Well," groaned Tom with a big gulp, "I suppose I must pay, but," he added emphatically, "we'll close that account from this time. You have given me too much credit altogether; some other rascal has been stealing on the strength of it." EASILY FLATTERED. There was once a Scotch drover, who, though he could neither read nor write, had nevertheless made a large fortune by sheep farming, and was open to any degree of flattery, as to his abilities in this department of labor. A purchaser, knowing his weakness, and anxious to work himself into his good graces, ventured one evening to remark: "I am of the opinion, sir, that you are a greater man than even the Duke of Wellington!" "Hoot, toot!" replied the sheep farmer, modestly, hanging his head with a pleased smile, and taking a large pinch of snuff, "that's too much, too much by far,-by far." But his guest, after expatiating for a while upon the great powers of his host in collecting and concentrating upon a southern market a flock of sheep, suggested the question: "Could the Duke of Wellington have done that?" The sheep farmer thought a little, snuffled, and replied, "The Duke of Wellington was, no doubt, a clever man; very, very clever, I believe. They tell me he was a good soger; but then d'ye see, he had reasonable men to deal with,-captains, and majors, and generals, that could understand him, every one of them, both officers and men; but I am not sure, after all, if he could manage, say twenty thousand sheep, beside black cattle, that could not understand one word he said, Gaelic or English, and bring every hoof o' them to Falkirk Tryst? I doot it, I doot it,-but I have done that!" The inference was evident. AN English judge, Baron Alderson, on being asked to give his opinion as to the proper length of a sermon, replied: "Twenty minutes, with a leaning to the side of mercy." THE COURTIN'. 66 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown, A fireplace filled the room's one side, With half a cord o' wood in There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None could n't quicker pitch a ton, Nor drow a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spellsHed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, All is, he could n't love 'em. But long 'o her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, She thought no voice hed such a swing |