king's Futteral, and I painted the king in oil colors, and he gave me 30 florins." We would willingly extract more of this journal, but what we have given, as much as we can afford space for, will convey a tolerable idea of its character, and peculiar sort of interest. Seven years after his return from this, in a pecuniary sense, altogether unsuccessful expedition, on the 6th of April, 1528, Albert Durer, worn out with incessant labor, and the discomforts of his home, died of a decline. Of his character as a man and an artist, we need add nothing to what has been already said, and shall conclude with an extract from a letter upon his death, written by his ever kind friend Pirkheimer to Johann Tscherte of Vienna, imperial architect; which we give for the sake of the picture it presents to us of the artist's domestic persecution, not certainly as a specimen of composition. He says: "In Albert I have truly lost one of the best friends I had in the whole world, and nothing grieves me deeper than that he should have died so painful a death, which, under God's providence, I can ascribe to nobody but his huswife, who gnawed into his very heart, and so tormented him, that he departed hence the sooner; for he was dried up to a faggot, and might nowhere seek him a jovial humor, or go to his friends. Be sides she so urged him day and night, and so hardly drove him to work, only that he might earn money and leave it to her when he should die; for she would always, as she does still, squander money privately; and Albert must have left her to the value of 6000 gulden. But nothing could satisfy her, and in brief, she alone is the cause of his death. I myself have often remonstrated with her and warned her as to her mistrustful and culpable ways, and foretold her how it would end; but I thereby gained only ill will. (The German word undank, has a peculiar signification, which neither ill will nor ingratitude express; it is literally the contrary of thanks.) For whoever loved that man, and was much with him, to him she became an enemy, which in truth grieved Albert most highly, and brought him under ground. I have not seen her since his death, or let her come near me, though I have been helpful to her in many things, but there there is no confidence. Whoever opposes her, and does not always allow her to be in the right, him she mistrusts, and forthwith becomes his enemy; therefore I like her better at a distance than about me. She and her sister are not queans; they are, I doubt not, in the number of honest, devout, and altogether God-fearing women; but a man might better have a quean, who was otherwise kindly, than such a gnawing, suspicious, quarrelsome, good woman, with whom he can have no peace or quiet, neither by day nor by night. But however that be, we must commend the thing to God, who will be gracious and merciful to the pious Albert; for, as he lived like a pious honest man, so he died a Christian and most blessed death, therefore there is nothing to fear for his salvation." We leave this word untranslated, conceiving it to be an old technical term for the equally technical, and now we believe, obsolete, vails, at a royal table. Literally, it means case, or sheath; and may have been a case containing the spoon, knife, and fork, if such luxuries as forks were then in use, for each guest. ART. IV. [Abridged from "Tait's Edinburgh Magazine," No. 11.] Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. Second It will go hard if the Irish do not beguile or flatter their fellowsubjects into some knowledge of Ireland at last. Little was the permanent attention they were able to gain 'from the people of Great Britain, till the happy device was hit upon of throwing open the castle gates, and the cabin doors, and inviting the Scotch and English to enter, hear stories tragic and mirthful, and be amused. Of the many native writers of ability who have recently assumed this filial office for Ireland, and beneficial service to humanity, there is none who lets us more freely and completely into the heart of the land than the author of the Traits and Stories. The present series of tales makes a huge stride a-head of its predecessor, though it is cumbered by the same heaviness, and liable to the same objections. The writer has tried to hold a tight rein over his inborn antipathy to Catholicism; but still it breaks forth, not ill-naturedly, for his is not the rancorous, virulent hatred of an Orangeman breathing blood and extermination, but in such fixed and steady jealousy of the influence of the priesthood, and rational disapprobation of the genius of the Catholic faith, as in the times when the Roman was the wealthy and powerful State Church might have done honor to an enlightened Protestant Reformer, but is somewhat misdirected now, and carried the length of prejudice, tending to narrow-mindedness and undue alarm. It cannot be said that the descriptions given are either libels or caricatures of the Catholic clergy and devotees; but the pictures the writer delights to present are either those of subjects naturally deformed, or of very ungainly specimens. Another great fault of this work is the extreme length amounting to wire-drawing, of many of the stories. The author is intolerably repetitive. The three thick volumes of this new series, contain eleven stories, of which there are some deeply serious or tragic. The others exhibit the alternate play of the cloud and sunshine of Irish life, and in general illustrate some trait of national character. The first, the Midnight Mass, paints revenge, implacable and treacherous, as it is too frequently exhibited in Ireland. We cannot enter into the story, but Darby More, the main agent in the plot, is so exquisite a rogue, that we must show the reader a little of him. We have met with something reminding us of him in sundry heroes,-in Gil Blas' pious friend the hermit, in Edie Ochiltree, and even in Sir John Falstaff; yet is Darby More, every inch an original Irish Gaberlunyie and voteen; somewhat sensual, it must be owned, but more arch than sly; roguish rather than knavish; flattering and friendly, though fond of power obtained by trick, stratagem, and address. "Darby More, whose person, naturally large, was increased to an enormous size by the number of coats, blankets, and bags, with which he was encumbered. A large belt, buckled round his body, contained within its girth much more of money, meal, and whiskey than ever met the eye; his hat was exceedingly low in the crown; his legs were cased in at least three pairs of stockings; and in his hand he carried a long cant, spiked at the lower end, with which he slung himself over small rivers and dikes, and kept dogs at bay. He was a devotee, too, notwithstanding the whiskey-born under his arm; attended wakes, christenings, and weddings; rubbed for the rose * and king's evil (for the varlet insisted that he was a seventh son), cured tooth-aches, colics, and head-aches by charms; but made most money by a knack which he possessed of tattooing into the naked breast the representation of Christ upon the cross. This was a secret of considerable value; for many of the superstitious people believed that by having this stained in upon them, they would escape unnatural deaths, and be almost sure of heaven. "When Darby approached Reillaghan's house, he was considering the propriety of disclosing to his son the fact of his having left his rival with Peggy Gartland. He ultimately determined that it would be proper to do so; for he was shrewd enough to suspect that the wish Frank had expressed of seeing him before he left the country, was but a ruse to purchase his silence touching his appearance in the village. In this, however, he was mistaken. "God save the house!' exclaimed Darby, on entering - God save the house, an' all that's in it! God save it to the north!' and he formed the sign of the cross in that direction; God save it to the south! to the aiste! and to the waiste! Save it upwards! and save it downwards! Save it backwards! and save it forwards! Save it right! and save it left! Save it by night! save it by day! Save it here! save it there! Save it this way! an' save it that way! Save it atin'!XXX an' save it drinkin'! × × × × × × × ×. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis-Amin. An' now that I've blessed the place, in the name of the nine Patriarchs, how are yees all, man, woman, and child? An' a merry Christmas to yees, says Darby More!' "Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, received a sincere welcome, was placed up near the fire, a plate filled with the best food on the table laid before him, and requested to want nothing for the asking. "Why Darby,' said Reillaghan, we expected you long ago; why didn't you come sooner?' "The Lord's will be done! for ev'ry man has his throubles,' replied Darby, stuffing himself in the corner like an Epicure; 'an' why should a sinner like me, or the likes o' me, be widout thim? "T was a dhrame I had last night that kep me. They say, indeed, that dhrames go by contraries, but not always, to my own knowledge.' "An' what was the dhrame about, Darby?' inquired Reillaghan's wife. "Why, Ma'am, about some that I see on this hearth, well an' in good health; may they long live to be so! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis - - Amin! "Blessed Virgin! Darby, sure it would be nothin' bad that 's to happen? Would it, Darby?' "Keep yourself asy on that head. I have widin my own mind the power of makin' it come out for good — I know the prayer for it. Oxis Doxis!'XX “God be praised for that, Darby: sure it would be a terrible business, all out, if any thing was to happen. Here's Mike that was born on Whissle Monday, of all days in the year, an' you know they say that any child born on that day is to die an unnatural death. We named Mike after St. Michael, that he might purtect him.' "Make yourself asy, I say; don't I tell you I have the prayer to keep it back hach! hach!-why, there's a bit stuck in my throat, some way! Wurrah dheelish, what 's this! Maybe, you could give me a sup o' dhrinkwather, or any thing to moisten the morsel I'm atin'? Wurrah, Ma'am dear, make haste, it's goin' agin the breath wid me!' "Oh, the sorra taste o' wather, Darby,' said Owen; 'sure this is Christmas Eve, you know; so you see, Darby, for ould acquaintance sake, an' that you may put up an odd prayer now an' thin for us, jist be thryin' this.' Darby honored the gift by immediate acceptance. "Well, Owen Reillaghan!' said he, you make me take more o' this stuff nor any man I know; and particularly by rason that bein' given, — wid a blessin', to the ranns, an' prayers, an' holy charms, I don't think it so good; barrin', indeed, as Father Danellan towld me, when the wind, by long fastin', gets into my stomach, as was the case to day, I 'm often throubled, God help me, wid a configuration in the hugh! ugh! - and thin it's good for me - a little of it.' "This would make a brave powdher horn, Darby More,' observed one of Reillaghan's sons, 'if it wasn't so big. What do you keep in it, Darby?' "Why, a villish, nothin' indeed, but a sup o' Father Danellan's holy wather, that they say by all accounts it costs him great trouble to produce, by rason that he must fast a long time, and pray by the day, afore he gets himself holy enough to consecrate it.' "It smells like whiskey, Darby,' said the boy, without any intention, however, of offending him: it smells very like poteen.' "Hould your tongue, Risthard,' said the elder Reillaghan: what 'ud make the honest man have whiskey in it? Didn't he tell you what's in it? "The gorsoon's right enough,' replied Darby? I got the horn from Barny Dalton a couple o' days agone; 't was whiskey he had in it, an' it smells of it sure enough, an' will, indeed, for some time longer. Och, Och ! the heavens be praised, I 've made a good dinner! May they never know want that gave it to me! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis-Amin!' XXX "Darby, thry this agin,' said Reillaghan, offering him another bumper. "Throth, an' I will, thin, for I find myself a great dale the better of the one I tuck. Well here's health an' happiness to us, an' may we all meet in heaven! Risthard, hand me that horn till I be goin' out to the barn, in ordher to do somethin' for my sowl. The holy wather's a good thing to have about one.' "But the dhrame, Darby?' inquired Mrs Reillaghan. 'Won't you tell it to us?? The dhrome is Darby's cunning way of giving warning of approaching mischief. We have him here again making the murderer submit to the popular ordeal. "Don't say a word. TOUCH THE CORPSE. We'll take him by surprise; I'll call upon him to Make them women - an' och its hard to expect it their hands an' cryin'; an' let there be a dead make them stop clappin' silence if you can.' * "I say amin to that,' replied Darby: Oxis Doris Glorioxis! So far, that's right, if the blood of him 's not on you. But there's one thing more to be done; will you walk over, undher the eye of God, AN' TOUCH THE CORPSE? Hould back, neighbours, an' let him come over alone: I an' Owen Reillaghan will stand here wid the lights, to see if the corpse bleeds.' "Give me too, a light,' said M'Kenna's father, my son must get fair play, any way: I must be a witness myself to it, an' will, too.' 6 It's but rasonable,' said Owen Reillaghan; 'come over beside Darby an' myself: I'm willin' that your son should stand or fall by what 'll happen.' "Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, immediately went, with a pale face and trembling steps, to the place appointed for him beside the corpse, where he took his stand. "When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question, he seemed as if scized by an inward spasm: the start which he gave, and his gaspings for breath, were visible to all present. Had he seen the spirit of the murdered man before him, his horror could not have been greater; for this ceremony had been considered a most decisive test in cases of suspicion of murder, an ordeal, indeed, to which few murderers wished to submit themselves. In addition to this we may observe, that Darby's knowledge of the young man's character was correct: with all his crimes he was weak minded and superstitious. "He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had been proposed to him; his hair became literally erect with the dread of this formidable scrutiny; his cheeks turned white, and the cold perspiration fell from him in large drops. All his strength appeared to have departed from him; he stood, as if hesitating, and even the energy necessary to stand seemed to be the result of an effort. "Remember,' said Darby, pulling out the large crucifix which was attached to his beads, 'that the eye of God is upon you. If you have committed the murdher, thrimble; if not, Frank, you 've little to fear in touchin' the corpse.' * * * * * He immediately walked towards the corpse, and stooping down touched the body with one hand, holding the gun in the other. The interest_of that moment was intense, and all eyes were strained towards the spot. Behind the corpse, at each shoulder, for the body lay against a small snow wreath, in a recumbent position, stood the father of the deceased, and the father of the accused, each wound up by feelings of a directly opposite character to a pitch of dreadful excitement. Over them, in his fantastic dress and white beard, stood the tall mendicant who held up his crucifix to Frank, with an awful menace upon his strongly marked countenance. At a little distance to the left of the body stood the other men who were assembled, having their torches held aloft in their hands, and their forms bent towards the corpse, their faces indicating expectation, dread, and horror. The female relations of the deceased stood nearest his remains, their torches extended in the same direction, their visages exhibiting the passions of despair and grief in their wildest characters, but as if arrested by some supernatural object, immediately before their eyes, that produced a new and more awful feeling than grief. When the body was touched, Frank stood as if himself bound by a spell to the spot. At length he turned his eyes to the mendicant, who stood silent and motionless with the crucifix still extended in his hand. "Are you satisfied now?' said he. "That's wanst,' said the pilgrim: 'you're to touch it three times.' "Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped again, and touched it twice in succession; but it remained still and unchanged as before. His father broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of thanksgiving to God for the vindication of his son's character which he had just witnessed. "Now!' exclaimed M'Kenna, in a loud exulting tone, 'you all see that I did not murdher him ! ` |