That, hitherto, have made my name Yet-since 'twas thou who bad'st me go The cry was still They yield !-they yield!' They nerved, with some accursed charm, I saw thee wounded, saw thee fly,- (The shameful truth of his disgrace,) Again, within his mantle's fold, The wounded coward hid his face; (c) And nothing more shall pass between us,― She spake; and through the realms of air, S "Tis said that Venus, wont to range "None but the brave deserve the fair!" NOTES. (a) Ovid thus speaks of the result of Vulcan's exposure of his wife's infidelity: "Hoc tibi profectum, Vulcane, quod ante tegebant, Sæpe tamen demens stultè fecisse fateris, (b) Leonidas, in his beautiful epigram to Venus armed, says, Αρεος ἔντια ταῦτα τίνος χάριν, ω Κυθέρεια, Ενδίδυσαι, κινεὸν τοῦτο φέρουσα βάρος, Αὐτον "Αρη γυμνῆ γὰρ ἀφοπλίσας, εἰ δὲ λέλειπται Καὶ θεὸς, ἄνθρωποις ὅπλα μάτην ἐπάγεις. (c) The ancients were seldom guilty of making the actions of their gods inconsistent with their general character and attributes; but there seems to have been much of the Captain Bobadil in the mighty god of war, and the instance of cowardice here alluded to is not the only one recorded of him by the poets. In the wars with the Titans he showed a decided "white feather," and suffered himself to be made prisoner. AN EVENING MEDITATION. I LOVE the sound of Nature's happy voice, SIGMA. THE DEVIL AND JOHNNY DIXON. BY THE AUTHOR OF "STORIES OF WATERLOO." Arnold. Your form is man's, and yet you may be the devil. Stranger. Unless you keep company with him (and you seem scarce used to such high company) you can't tell how he approaches. The Deformed Transformed. I REMEMBER having been exceedingly amused by a book of German diablerie, in which the movements of his Satanic Majesty were faithfully and fashionably chronicled. He had chosen, it would appear, for good and cogent reasons, to revisit our earth incognito; and as potentates steal occasionally a glance at the world to see how things move in their ordinary courses, he too indulged his princely curiosity, and, selon la règle, during his travels assumed a borrowed title. I had business to transact in a very remote district of the kingdom of Connaught, and, as some delay was unavoidable, I threw a few books carelessly into my portmanteau. Among them the wild conception of Hoffmann, entitled "The Devil's Elixir," was included; and in the perusal of that strange tale, I endeavoured to amuse the tedium of as wet a day as often comes in Connemara. Bad as the morning had been, the evening was infinitely worse the wind roared through the mountains; the rain came down in torrents; and every unhappy wayfarer pushed hastily for the nearest inn. I had been an occupant of the best (and only) parlour of Tim Corrigan during the preceding week; and so unfrequent were the calls at his caravansera, that, like Robinson Crusoe, I could stroll out upon the moor, and proclaim that I was absolute over heath and "hostelrie." But, on this night, two travellers were driven to the "Cock and Punchbowl." They were bound for a fair that was to be holden on the morrow some twenty miles off; and, although anxious to lodge themselves in some more contiguous hostel, the weather became so desperate, that by mutual consent they abandoned their intention, and resolved to ensconce themselves for the night in a double-bedded room, which, fortunately for them, happened to be unoccupied in the "Cock and Punchbowl." Had their resolution to remain been doubtful, one glance at the kitchen fire would have confirmed it. There, a well-conditioned goose was twisting, on a string appended to the chimney-breast; while divers culinary utensils simmered on the blazing turf, giving sure indications that other adjuncts were to accompany the bird, and the dinner would be a substantial one. I, while taking "mine ease in mine inn," had seen the travellers arrive; and, the door being ajar, heard the "to ride or not to ride" debated. That question settled, other cares arose. "Tim," said the younger guest to the landlord, as he nodded significantly at the goose, "I'm hungry as a hawk." The host shrugged his shoulders, and, pointing to the "great chamber," where I was seated, replied in an under-tone, "There's a customer before ye, Master Johnny." "A customer!—-only one, Tim?” "Sorrow more," replied the host. 66 Why, the curse of Cromwell on ye for a cormorant!" said the traveller. Three priests, after confessing half a parish, would scarcely demolish that wabbler. I'll invite myself to dinner; and if I be not in at the dissection, it won't be Johnny Dixon's fault." "Arrah! the devil a fear of that," returned the landlord. "Your modesty nivir stopped your promotion, Shawn avourneen!*" and he of the Cock and Punchbowl laughed heartily as the traveller entered the parlour. He was a stout, middle-sized, foxy-headed fellow of some six or eight-and-twenty. His face was slightly marked with small-pox, and plain, but not unpleasing. The expression was good-humoured and intelligent; while, in the sparkle of his light blue eye, there was a pretty equal proportion of mirth and mischief. He advanced to me with perfect nonchalance; nodded as if he had known me for a twelvemonth; and, as if conferring a compliment, notified with great brevity that it was his intention to honour me with his company. No proposition could have pleased me better, and it was fortunate that I had no wish to remain alone; for, I verily believe, the traveller had already made up his mind, coute qui coute, to aid and assist in demolishing the bird that saved the Capitol. Presently the hostess announced that all preparations were complete. The traveller, who had been talking of divers affairs, rural and political, suddenly changed the conversation. "There was," he said, "an unlucky sinner outside, who like himself had been storm-stayed that evening. He was a priest's nephew, a harmless poor devil, whom the old fellow had worked like a nigger, until one sweet evening he smothered himself in poteen-punch, leaving Peter Feaghan a kettleful of gold. If he, Peter, were only let in, he would pray for me during life; and, as to eating, would be contented with the drumsticks." I laughed, and assented; and "Master Johnny" speedily produced a soft-looking, bullet-headed farmer; who, after scraping his leg across the floor, sate himself down at the corner of the table. Dinner came. I, since I breathed the keen air of Connemara, had felt a quickened appetite; but " Master Johnny" double-distanced me easily as a trencher-man, and he, in turn, could not hold a candle to the nephew of the defunct priest. Peter Feaghan was a silent and a steady workman, and I firmly believe the drumsticks were regularly skeletonized before the priest's heir was disposed to cry Hold, enough!" At last the cloth was removed; and a quart-bottle, a basin of sugar, with a jug of boiling water of enormous capacity, were set down. "What an infernal night it is!" ejaculated the younger traveller, as a gust of wind drove the hail against the window. "Were you not in luck," he continued, "that chance drove two Christian men, like Peter and me, among the mountains? Honest Tim is speechless by this hour, or he has shortened his allowance greatly since I was here last. No flirting in the house, for Mrs. Corrigan is a Carmelite, and Brideen dhut has bundled off with a peeler.‡ In short, you must Anglicè, John, my jewel. Anglice, Black Biddy. + A policeman. have got drunk in self-defence, and, for lack of company, as I have often done, drank one hand against the other." “Or," said I, " diluted the poteen with a draught of 'The Devil's Elixir."" "The Devil's Elixir !" repeated the foxy-headed traveller; “and pray what may that be?" In reply, I handed him a volume of the Prussian Counsellor; he looked at the title-page, and read the motto, " In that yeare the Deville was alsoe seene walking publiclie on the streetes of Berline." Laughing loudly, he turned to the priest's heir. 66 Holy Mary had your poor uncle Paul been in town, he would have had a shy at ould Beelzebub, or made him quit the flagway." "And who was Uncle Paul?" I inquired of the stranger. "What!" he exclaimed, in manifest astonishment, "not know that excellent and gifted churchman,-one before whom the devil shook like a whipped schoolboy?" "And was Mr. Feaghan's influence over him, surnamed 'the Morning Star,' so extraordinary ?" "The "Extraordinary you may well call it," resumed Foxy-head. very mention of Paul's name would produce an ague-fit. Many a setto they had a clear stage and no favour-and in all and every, the devil was regularly floored. There is the old house of Knockbraddigan,-for months, man, woman, or child could not close an eye. Priest, monk, and friar, all tried their hands in vain. Holy-water was expended by the gallon-masses said thrice a week-a saint's finger borrowed for the occasion, and brought all the way from Cork, -and even the stable-lantern had a candle in it, blessed by the bishop. For all these 'Clooty' did not care a button, when Father Paul toddled in, and saved the house and owner." "Indeed?" “Ay! and I'll tell you the particulars. It was the year after the banks broke-times were bad-tenants racked-and Tom Braddigan, like many a better man, poor fellow ! was cleaned out by the sheriff. Never was a shuck* sinner harder up for a few hundreds; and, to make a long story short, Hoofey came in the way, and Tom 'sould himself' regularly. I never heard the sum, but it is said that it was a large figure; and that, to give the devil his due, he never cobbled for a moment, but paid a sporting price, and came down like a man. Well, the tenure-day came round; Clooty was true to time, and claimed his customer: but Tom was awake; Paul Feaghan was at his elbow, and, as it turned out, Paul proved himself nothing but a good one. "Arrah! what do ye want here, honest man?' says the priest to the devil, opening the conversation civilly. "No offence, I suppose,' says the other, for a body to look after his own.' "None in the world,' replied Father Paul, answering him quite politely; and all the while, poor Tom shaking like a Quaker. "Mr. Braddigan,' says the devil, 'we have a long drive before us, and the carriage is waiting. Don't mind your Cotamore,† Tom;' and the eternal ruffian put his tongue in his cheek. Though the day's cold, 'pon my conscience, you shall have presently an air of the fire.' + Great-coat. * An Irish phrase, synonymous with distressed. |