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ever he asks, and get me the letter.”—“Why, sir, I tell you he was sellin' them before my face for fourpence a-piece."
“Go back, you scoundrel! or I 'll horsewhip you; and if you're longer than an hour, I 'll have you ducked in the horsepond !"
Andy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he arrived, two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was selecting the epistles for each, from a parcel of them that lay before him on the counter ; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be served.
“I'm come for that letther,” said Andy.-"I'll attend to you by-and-by.”
“ The masther 's in a hurry."_“Let him wait till his hurry's over."
“ He'll murther me if I'm not back soon.”—“I'm glad to hear it.”
While the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these appeals for despatch, Andy's eye caught the heap of letters that lay on the counter ; so, while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going forward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap; and, having effected that, waited patiently enough until it was the great man's pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.
Then did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the postmaster, rattle along the road homeward as fast as his hack could carry him. He came into the squire's presence, his face beaming with delight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite unaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had been grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding three letters over his head, while he said “Look at that !” he next slapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the squire, saying,
- Well ! if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour the worth o' your money, any how!"
THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
Old Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall,
To market drove his wain :
With sacks of golden grain.
His station he took, but in vain did he look
For a customer all the morn;
They sold off all their corn.
Then home he went, sore discontent,
And many an oath he swore,
When they met him at the door.
Next market-day, he drove away
To the town his loaded wain : The farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off all their grain.
No bidder he found, and he stood astound
At the close of the market-day, When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone
Each man his several way.
He stalked by his load along the road;
His face with wrath was red:
In seeking his daily bread.
His face was red, and fierce was his tread,
And with lusty voice cried he:
If he'll my chapman be."
Seven hundred winters old ;
On the roots and grassy mould.
And the grass around was green,
Where it seemed as fire had been.
Had swung and bubbled there :
And the ivy stems were bare.
The stranger up-sprung : to the farmer he Aung
A loud and friendly hail,
And I 'll buy it on the nail.”
The stranger his earnest paid,
His own appointment made.
His way right merrily on:
For joy that his job was done.
His children fair he danced in the air ;
His heart with joy was big ;
He slew a sucking pig.
The faggots burned, the porkling turned
And crackled before the fire;
Of a passing ghostly friar.
He sate down at the board ;
And the humming ale out-poured.
He chirped like a bird in May;
As he journeyed home that day,
The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed,
He changed from red to pale:
To whom thou hast made thy sale !"
He crossed himself amain :
To whom thou hast sold thy grain !
away, With the corn which thou hast sold, If thou let him pay o'er one tester more
Than thy settled price in gold.”
The farmer gave vent to a loud lament,
The wife to a long outcry;
The friar alone picked every bone,
The friar was gone : the morning dawn
Appeared, and the stranger's wain Came to the hour, with six-horse power,
To fetch the purchased grain.
The horses were black: on their dewy track
Light steam from the ground up-curled ; Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke,
And their tails like torches whirled.
More dark and grim, in face and limb,
Seemed the stranger than before,
Drew up to the farmer's door.
On the stranger's face was a sly grimace,
As he seized the sacks of grain;
He tossed them on the wain.
A purse of costly mould,
Shone forth the glistering gold.
And drew it back with dread;
The supping friar had said.
was set on the silver net ;
Was snatched by his loving wife.
The farmer his waist around,
Sank through the rifted ground.
Fell in ruins on the place :
To each succeeding race.
that rent the sky At her goodman's downward flight: But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast
To see that all was right. 'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman grey,
And the gold was good and true;
To give the devil his due.”
From her fond embraces riven :
With the gold which the fiend had given.
When you cannot sell your corn ;
With hidden tail and horn.
Which is of this tale the pith,
You may sell yourself therewith.
you bring the fiend to shame, Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes,
Lock up your frugal dame.
TERENCE O'SHAUGHNESSY'S FIRST ATTEMPT
TO GET MARRIED.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
STORIES OF WATERLOo."
Yes—here I am, Terence O'Shaughnessy, an honest major of foot, five feet eleven and a half, and forty-one, if I only live till Michaelmas. Kicked upon the world before the down had blackened on my chin, Fortune and I have been wrestling from the cradle ;
;-and yet I had little to tempt the jade's malevolence. The youngest son of an excellent gentleman, who, with an ill-paid rental of twelve hundred pounds, kept his wife in Bath, and his hounds in Tipperary, my patrimony would have scarcely purchased tools for a highwayman, when in my tenth year my father's sister sent for me to Roundwood; for, hearing that I was regularly going to the devil, she had determined to redeem me, if she could.
My aunt Honor was the widow of a captain of dragoons, who got his quietus in the Low Countries some years before I saw the light. His relict had, in compliment to the memory of her departed lord, eschewed matrimony, and, like a Christian woman, devoted her few and evil days to cards and religion. She was a true specimen of an Irish dowager. Her means were small, her temper short. She was stiff as a ramrod, and proud as a field-marshal. To her, my education and future settlement in life were entirely confided, as one brief month deprived me of both parents. My mother died in a state of insolvency, greatly regretted by every body in Bath to whom she was indebted; and before her disconsolate husband had time to overlook a moiety of the card claims transmitted for his liquidation, he broke his neck in attempting to leap the pound-wall of Oranmore, for a bet of a rump and dozen. Of course he was waked, and buried like a gentleman,every thing sold off by the creditors--my brothers sent to school-and I left to the tender mercy and sole management of the widow of Captain O'Finn.
My aunt's guardianship continued seven years, and at the expiration of that time I was weary of her thrall, and she tired of my tutelage. I was now at an age when some walk of life must be selected and pursued. For any honest avocation I had, as it was universally admitted, neither abilities nor inclination. What was to be done? and how was I to be disposed of? A short deliberation showed that there was but one path for me to follow, and I was handed over to that refugium peccatorum, the army, and placed as a volunteer in a regiment just raised, with a promise from the colonel that I should be promoted to the first ensigncy that became vacant.
Great was our mutual joy when Mrs. O'Finn and I were about to part company. I took an affectionate leave of all my kindred and acquaintances, and even, in the fulness of my heart, shook hands with the schoolmaster, though in boyhood I had devoted him to the infernal gods for his wanton barbarity. But my tenderest parting was reserved for my next-door neighbour, the belle among the village beauties, and presumptive heiress to the virtues and estates of Quartermaster Mac Gawly.
Biddy Mac Gawly was a year younger than myself; and, to do her