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Show i j IRISH CHARACTER SKETCHES. x j (Continued. . j The Village Weaver. lie is standing with his elbows leart- I ing on the half door, and his eyes fixed ' on the old rookery before his house. He ', is a very small man, with a' broad, I -MTiiling mouth, and the eyes, large and ' pensive, areNshadod by blue spectacles. 1 The shoulders are stooped and the tall 3 I hat, brown and creased, with age and i usage, rests on the back of the head I :tnd neck. As you gaze at at him you !. feel instinctively that the figure lean- i 4ng there is a mild and timorous man I and you would be right; for Peter Toole the weaver is the mildest and most timid man I have ever known. The ; smallest child in the village has more courage and I verily "believe that if you J gave Peter all the wealth of a Roths- i child, you could not induce him to go out alone on a dark night "at the witching witch-ing hour when graveyards yawn." He i i was a firm believer in spooks and fair- ; jes, and to him the old raths and grave yards were objects of the utmost dread, ' but most dreaded of all was the lone ; hush that stood sentry as it were upon - the high road just outside the village, j Tradition had it that three men were hanged there in the troublesome times of 179S, and Peter firmly believed in all the blood-curdling tales that were told I about that harmless old tree. His one ! topic when the neighbors called into his house at night to have a smoke and I friendly chat with him was leprechauns I spooks and fairies. Sitting on an. old-' 1 fashioned chair in the corner close to j i the fire with his elbows resting on his J t knees, and his pensive eyes fixed on ! t the blaze, he discoursed on these sub-j ; jeets, and if you were at all timorous, well, his talk would impart to your ; composition the shivers. Many a night have I sat at Phil's humble fireside and ' listened to his stories, and I well re- member the feelings of dread that ran i Through me as that old man peopled each old rath and fort and graveyard ; 'with occupants of the spirit world, and, j ah, when he came to the most tragic f part of his story, his voice would fall to a whisper and his head would turn to the door with a timorous look, which as much as said: "I would not wonder i' these spirits were outside the door now." When the time came for me to leave Peter's house, 1 would have given ! i a great deal to be at my own fireside y for the night, after such tales did not f . look inviting, to say the least, and 1. ; i ihink that my f prints of these 100 yards ; ; that separated Peters house from ' i I mine nearly broke the record. I flew, ! that's what I did. with a cold shivering . i 'f dread all over me, and my hair al- : ! ; most standing on an end. Peter never j. went outside his own door after dark-: dark-: ; f ness covered the land since the event-! event-! 1 ful night on which he paid a visit to . Phil Maguire, the tailor's house, which I ' j -was about a quarter of a mile away. ; ! . Phil Maguire grave a party to a few . j "Id cronies ot celebrate the battle of ; Benburb. Every year Phil celebrated . ' s the. overthrow of the English under ' ' ' Munroe on that historic field. i "Me ancestors fought there wud the ; grate Owen Roe O Neil, an' tonight ; i i we'll drink to their immorthial memo- - ! ' ries around me humble board." Phil I ; would say. "I would to God an' grate I' ' ' l Saint James hat the words ov the j ong wor true ov him today: : I "Owen Hoe O'Neil, our own O'Neil, He treads once more our land, ; i The sword in his hand is ov Spanish ! eteel. Bud the hand is an Irish hand." t ; And Phil, as he delivered the above, ; : ; - would career around the kitchen, in his ' excitement and, clapping the weaver on ihe back, he would say: "Tis. Peter. Iv the gineral wor back he'd make me Next in command, and Peter. I'd make yen me aide-day-kong an" wed rout ; the Saxons, horse-foot an' artillery." f Teter Toole was one of the tailor's puosts on this eventful night that I s pcak of, and whether it was - the ' speeches or the good old Irish poteen 'hat kept him beyond his usual hour of departure. I do not know, but when he did arise to go and opened the door and saw the darkness he drew back a palled and whispered to Jim Scully: I ; "Jim. avie, it's as dark as Erebus, A ; an' wud ych mind laving me at home?" i : ; . Tnil Maguire heard Toole's whisper and, rising from his seat, addressed the j ; latter thus: "Oh, ych unworthy deseendent ov the grate O'Toole. I'd blush for yeh, ii- I ' had a blush. Te're a poltroon, ' that's what yeh are, an' Ireland -wants none ov yer port in this hour ov her tribu- lahun. It shall never be said me house sheltered a coward. Go home now, wud er, Peter Toole, an' never darken me J ; dure agin," and Phil Maguire kicked down. the chair he was sitting on in his ; indignation. i i "Aisy now, wud yeh, Phil Maguire. f Ye're indignant, that's what yeh are, an' don't understand human nature, l,ud I can read it as aisy as I'd swal- Jow a P"t. ov stout," and Jim Scully knocked the ashes from h's pipe and arose from his eeat with: "I'll accompany yeh home. Peter Toole, bud afore I go. I assure this lion's lion-'s , arable assembly that the sperit never yet walked that cud frighten me noble ! frind Toole. Am I not spaking the : ' truth. Peter Toole?" as Scully gave the ; ' latter a rousing slap on the back. ' I'm not afraid ov sperits, Jim," and I - ' Poor Peter looked shiverinply to the 1 window pane. "No. no. I'm not. bud ' . ' ; in the dark I might miss my way." ' "Say no more, Peter Toole, ov course I we believe yeh, an now I'll go wud yeh - ' an' iv we meet any sperits we'll settle them between the froth an the water." ; . ' J'ni and Peter departed, having wishod their friends goodnight, and . , Mhon they were well on their way, i i Scully said: I "Toole, I never liked to pass the lone ; n"sh since the night I saw the three f mm hanging there. I'm not narvous, I te" yen. bud yet I feel a little afraid. when -we're passin' we won't look at I it. bud I'll grasp yer hand for courage." "I'd like to grasp it now, Jim, iv yeh ( Co not mind, for I feel a little wake," s and the shivering Peter drew near to Scully. 1 "We're near it now, Peter: aisy, avic, i we'll steal by on our tippy-toes, ah," I. J;nd Scully screeched out: "There they are. an', Toole, they're eomin' down from off the branches. Oh. all veh an-t an-t ; ' ' eels an' saints, prasarve me, bud I'm i a logt man." and Scully runs away as if the devil himself was after him. i Poor Toole utters a piercing shriek tnat resounds through the village, and j runs up the road in the direction of his s house as fast as his -trembling limbs t c?n carry him. It happened that Cauth Mulready's donkey was lying in the middle of the i road, thoroughly impervious to men, f ' spirits or anything else, and poor Peter! screaming and praying for aH he was J " worth, fell right across the donkey. The I donkey, roused so unexpectedly from ;i "is slumbers, gives vent to an ear- I f splitting bray, and rushes up through i ' the village, and poor Peter lies where I he has fallen in a dead faint. j - Some 'of the neighbors hearing the noise hurry out and, finding Peter stretched seemingly lifeless on the road, carry him home and placed him In bed, where he remained for full three weeks. Cauth, Peter's wife, had a time of it in pulling him through. "Father Tom tmvld me," she remarked re-marked to a neighbor, "to put on Peter a poultice bv linseed male an sweat the fright out ov him, an' I was rubbin' an' scrubbin' him' for eight days afore he showed the least signs ov life, an' what do yeh think he said to me when he got the power of speech?" "An' what did he say, Cauth.alan-nah Cauth.alan-nah ?" "He axed me as cool as yeh plaze. was he in Limbo, an' now nothin' will ever get it out ov his head bud he was, an' the villin Scully towld him yesterday yester-day he was. " 'I had a narrow escape, meself,' the villin said to me Peter, 'for two ov the sperits had me at the dure, an' only the sleeve ov me coat gave way they had me in, bud I saw yeh, Peter, there an' they had yeh chained to a pillar as big as Nelson's monument, an' how yeh got out is more than I can ever tell." " "Yis. Cauth dear, 1 was there," chimed a weak voice from the bed. "Feel me, Cauth, alanah, and tell me iv I am human, for I fear I am there still." "Git out. wud yeh. yeh omadhaun, bud wasn't I the square woman to mar ry the likes ov yeh?" and Cauth. in-her in-her indignation, hurls the dishcloth at the cat. When Phil fully recovered, the shades of night never caught him outside his door again, but seated in his wonted place near the fire, he resumed his stories sto-ries of spooks and fairies, and to the long list of his tales he added yet an-other, an-other, and the name of that other tale, dear reader, is: "When I was in Limbo." I see him this September's day working work-ing away at his shuttle in the small room of his kitchen. The children playing play-ing in the streets outside anon cease their play and gaze in through the small window with wonder expressed in their eyes at the dexterity with which he manages the cotton. Peter heeds them not, for as he works he is brooding brood-ing over poor Ireland's ills, and the following lines of Clarence Mangan burst hot from his lips: "And thou, O mighty Lord, whose wavs Are far above our humand minds to understand. Sustain us in those doleful days And never light the chain which binds our fallen land. And through the ages which may still roll sadly on. Sustain at least from darker ill the blood of Con." Poor, dear old Peter, though he dreaded dread-ed as none ever dreader "the spirits that walk o' nights." still I verilv be-Iieve be-Iieve he would brave the gleam of bayonet bay-onet and the cannon's deadly roar lor the cause of the dear old land. By Cabin. Next week: "The Village Shoemaker." |