RORY O'MORE. CHAPTER I. THE COTTAGE OF RORY O'MORE, WITH SCENERY, MACHINERY, IN a retired district of the south of Ireland, near some wild hills and a romantic river, a small by-road led to a quiet spot, where, at the end of a little lane, or boreen, which was sheltered by some hazel-hedges, stood a cottage which in England would have been considered a poor habitation, but in Ireland was absolutely comfortable, when contrasted with the wretched hovels that most of her peasantry are doomed to dwell in. The walls were only built of mud, but then the doorway and such windows as the cabin had were formed of cut stone, as was the chimney, which last convenience is of rare occurrence in Irish cabins, a hole in the roof generally serving instead. The windows were not glazed, it is true, but we must not expect too much gentility on this point; and though the light may not be let in as much as it is the intention of such openings to do, yet if the wind be kept out the Irish peasant may be thankful. A piece of board-or, as Pat says, a wooden pane of glass-may occupy one square, while its neighbour may be brown paper, ornamented inside, perhaps, with a ballad setting forth how 'A sailor coorted a farmer's daughther That lived convaynient to the Isle of Man,' or, maybe, with a print of Saint Patrick banishing the sarpents→ or the Virgin Mary in flaring colours, that one might take for The king's daughther a come to town, With a red petticoat and a green gownd.' B But though the windows were not glazed, and there was not a boarded floor in the house, yet it was a snug cottage. Its earthen floors were clean and dry, its thatched roof was sound: the dresser in the principal room was well furnished with delf; there were two or three chairs and a good many three-legged stools a spinning-wheel, that sure sign of peace and good conduct-more than one iron pot-more than one bed, and one of those four-posted, with printed calico curtains of a most resplendent pattern: there was a looking-glass, too, in the best bedroom, with only one corner broken off and only three cracks in the middle; and that further damage might not be done to this most valuable piece of furniture-most valuable I say, for there was a pretty girl in the house who wanted it every Sunday morning to see that her bonnet was put on becomingly before she went to chapel-that no further damage might be done, I say, this inimitable looking-glass was imbedded in the wall with a framework of mortar round it, tastefully ornamented with crossbars, done by the adventurous hand of Rory O'More himself, who had a genius for handling a trowel. This came to him by inheritance, for his father had been a mason; which accounts for the cut-stone door-way, windows, and chimney of the cottage, that Rory's father had built for himself. But when I say Rory had a genius for handling a trowel, I do not mean to say he followed the trade of his father-he did not—it was a gift of nature which Rory left quite unencumbered by any trammels of art; for as for line and rule, these were beneath Rory's consideration; this the setting of the glass proved-for there was no attempt at either the perpendicular, the horizontal, or the plane; and from the last being wanting, the various portions of the glass presented different angles, so that it reflected a very distorted image of every object, and your face, if you would believe the glass, was as crooked as a ram's horn-which I take to be the best of all comparisons for crookedness. Mary O'More, however, though as innocent a girl as any in the country, did not believe that her face was very crooked: it was poor Rory who principally suffered, for he was continually giving himself most uncharitable gashes in shaving, which Rory attributed to the razor, when in fact it was the glass was in fault; for when he fancied he was going to smooth his upper lip, the chances were that he was making an assault on his nose, or cutting a slice off his chin, But this glass has taken up a great deal too much time-which, after all, is not uncommon: when people get before a glass, they are very likely to linger there longer than they ought. But I need not go on describing any more about the cottagenobody wants an inventory of its furniture, and I am neither an auctioneer nor a bailiff's keeper. I have said Rory's father was a mason. Now his mother was a widow-argal (as the gravedigger hath it), his father was dead. Poor O'More, after laying stones all his life, at last had a stone laid over him; and Rory, with filial piety, carved a crucifix upon it surmounted by the letters I.H.S. and underneath this inscription: 'Pray for the sowl of Rory O'More; Requiescat in pace.' This inscription was Rory's first effort in sepulchral sculpture, and, from his inexperience in the art, it presented a ludicrous appearance: for, from the importance Rory attached to his father's soul-or, as he had it, sowl-he wished to make the word particularly conspicuous; but, in doing this, he cut the letters so large that he did not leave himself room to finish the word, and it became divided-the word requiescat became also divided: the inscription, therefore, stood as follows: IHIS You were thus called on to pray for the Sow in one corner, while the Cat was conspicuous in the other. Such was Rory's first attempt in this way, and though the work has often made others smile, poor Rory's tears had moistened every letter of it, and this humble tombstone was garlanded with as much affection as the more costly ones of modern Père-la-Chaise: and though there were none who could read who did not laugh at the absurdity, yet they regarded Rory's feelings too much to let him be a witness of such mirth. Indeed, Rory would have resented with indignation the attempt to make the grave of his father the subject of laughter; for in no country is the hallowed reverence for father and mother more observed than in Ireland. Besides, Rory was not a little proud of his name. He was taught to believe there was good blood in his veins, and that he was descended from the O'Mores of Leinster. Then, an old schoolmaster in the district, whose pupil Rory had been, was constantly recounting to him the glorious deeds of his progenitors-or, as he called them, his 'owld anshint anshisthers in the owld anshint times'-and how he should never disgrace himself by doing a dirty turn; 'Not that I ever seen the laste sign iv it in you, ma bouchal-but there's no knowin'. And sure the divil's busy wid us sometimes, and dales in timtayshins, and lays snares for us all, as one av you'd snare a hare or ketch sparrows in a thrap; and who can tell the minit that he might be layin' salt on your tail onknowst to you, if you worn't smart?—and therefore be always mindful of your anshisters, that wor of the highest blood in Ireland, and in one of the highest places in it too, Dunamaise-I mane the rock of Dunamaise, and no less. And there is where Rory O'More, King of Leinster, lived in glory time out o' mind; and the Lords of the Pale daren't touch him-and pale enough he made them often, I go bail ;—and there he was-like an aigle on his rock, and the dirty English afeard o' their lives to go within miles iv him, and he shut up his castle as stout as a ram,' In such rhodomontade used Phelim O'Flanagan to flourish away, and delight the ears of Rory and Mary, and the widow no less. Phelim was a great character: he wore a scratch wig that had been built somewhere about the year One, and from its appearance might justify the notion that Phelim's wig-box was a dripping-pan. He had a pair of spectacles, which held their place upon his nose by taking a strong grip of it, producing thereby a snuffling pronunciation, increased by his taking of snu. indeed, so closely was his proboscis embraced by this primitive pair of spectacles, that he could not have his pinch of snuff with out taking them off, as they completely blockaded the passage, |