ha 
1829.] 
new lights as little Stephen, that preaches in Wat 
Agar’s barn.” 
An old woman solicited, for the honour 
of God and the glory of the Virgin, a trifle 
towards burying her— 
“ Why, Molly,” said Mr. Lynch, “ you ought to 
have been buried six months since.” 
“ What, buried alive ?” said I. 
«< No—but dead and buried,” replied Mr, Lynch, 
“at least, all the preparations for the funeral 
were, to my knowledge, made last Christmas ; 
but, perhaps,” he continued, addressing the men- 
dicant, “you have not yet determined as to 
whether it is to be at Mucrus or Aghadoe.” 
** Oh, then, long life to your good honour en- 
tirely,’ ejaculated the old woman, ‘‘ and may 
every day be full of blessings, and luck, and grace 
be with you, and the widow’s blessing be upon 
you wherever you 0.” z 
** Weil, Molly,” said Mr. Lynch, “ which is it, 
Mucruss or Aghadoe you are to be buried at ?” 
*?Tis, it is the eruel hard question for a poor 
cratur like me to answer; for sure there’s my 
husband lies in Aghadoe, God be gcod to him, and 
my father, and my six brothers, Lord rest their 
sowls, at Mucruss. And sure then it would be 
only proper for me tu spend a little time with my 
father and my brothers, but then ‘tis a deal more 
natural for me to go to my poor husband.” 
“My good woman,” said I, “it appears to me 
a matter of very little consequence what becomes 
of your body after death.” 
“ Och, ’tis easy for quality like your honour to 
say so,’ she answered; “ but ’tis I that knows 
well enough, if twas buried I was at Mucruss 
along with my own people, 'tismy husband would 
be coming looking after me every night. And 
indeed, a cushla, ’tis only last Saturday week 
that lsaw my husband through my sleep, and his 
legs were all cut from the knees down, for the 
want of the shoes and stockings. So the little 
trifle I had to make a comfortable wake for my- 
self, I couldn’t find it in my heart to keep, and 
poor Paddy in waut of the shoes and stockings, so 
I bought a pair for him; and I saw him since he 
gotthem, and now he’s quite comfortable.” 
“* What, buy a pair of shoes for a dead man! 
I never heard of such a thing.” 
“May be not: why, your honour, ’twas not 
myself, you see, bought them, for sure there would 
be no use in that, but ’twas the priest, long life to 
him, took the money.” 
One legend we think we must give for 
the honour of St. Patrick— 
“By the by, Sir,” said Spillane, “ I believe 
there isa story, something about a great serpent, 
I think—do you know any thing of it, Picket?” 
“The serpent is it?’ said Picket in reply. 
*“ Sure every body has hard tell of the blessed 
Saint Patrick, and how be druve the sarpints 
and all manner of venemous things out of Iveland. 
How he ‘ bothered all the varmint, entirely. 
But for all thatthere was one ould sarpint leit, 
who was too cunning to be talked out of the 
country, and made to drown himself. Saint Pa- 
trick didn’t well know how to manage this fellow, 
who was doing great havoc ; till, at long last he 
bethonght himself, and got a stwong iron chest 
spade with nine boulés upon it, 
4 
Domestic and F oreign. 
195 
**So one fine morning, he takes a walk to 
where the sarpint used to keep; and the sarpint, 
who didn’t like the saint in the least, and small 
blame to him for that, began to hiss and show his 
teeth at him like any thing. ‘Oh,’ says Saint Pa- 
trick, says he, ‘ where’s the use of making such a 
piece of work, about a gentleman like myself 
coming tosee you. "Lis a nice house Ihave got 
made for you, agin the winter ; for I’m going to 
civilize the whole country, man and beast,’ says 
he, ‘and you can come and look at it whenever 
you please, and ’tis myself will be glad to see 
you.’ 
“The sarpint hearing such smooth words, 
thought that though Saint Patrick had drwve all 
the rest of the sarpints into the sea, he meant no 
harm to himself; so the sarpint walks fair and 
easy up to see him and the house he was speaking 
about. But when the sarpint saw the nine great 
boults upon the chest, he thought he was sould 
(betrayed), and was for making off with himself 
as fast as ever he could, 
« «Tis a nice warm house you see,’ says Sain 
Patrick, ‘ and ’tis a good friend I am to you,’ 
“© T thank you kindly, Saint Patrick, for your 
civility,’ says the sarpint, ‘ but I think it’s too 
small it is for me’—meaning it for an excuse, and 
away he was going. 
“© Too small ! says Saint Patrick, © stop, if you 
please,’ says he, ‘ you’re out in that, my boy, any 
how—I ain sure ’twill fit you completely ; and, I'll 
tell you what,’ says he, ‘ Pli bet you a gallon of 
porter,’ says he, ‘ that if you'll only try and get in 
there’ll be plenty of room for you.’ 
“The sarpint was as thirsty as could be with 
his walk, and ’twas great joy to him the thoughts 
of doing Saint Patrick out of the gallon of porter, 
so, swelling himself up as big as he could, in he 
got to the chest, all but a little bit of his tail. 
* There, now,’ says he, ‘I’ve won the gallon, for 
you see the house is too small for me, for I can’t 
get in my tail.’ When what does Saint Patrick 
do, but he comes behind the great heavy lid of the 
chest, and, putting his two hands to it, down he 
slaps it, with a bang like thunder. When the 
rogue of a sarpint saw the lid coming down, in 
went his tail, like a shot, for fear of being whip- 
ped off him, and Saint Patrick began at once to 
éoult the nine iron boulis. , 
“ * Ob, murder !—won’t you let me out, Saint 
Patrick? says the sarpint—‘I've lost the bet 
fairly ; and I'll pay you the gallon like a man.’ 
«* Let you ont, my darling,’ says Saint Pa- 
trick, ‘ to be sure I will—by all manner of means 
—but, yon see, I haveu’t time now, so you must 
wait till to-morrow. And so he took the iron 
chest, with the sarpint in it, and pitches it into 
the lake here, where it is to this hour for certain ; 
and ‘tis the sarpint struggling down at the bottom 
that makes the waves upon it. Many is the living 
man,” continued Picket, “ besides myself, has 
hard the sarpint erying out, from within the 
chest under the water, ‘Is it to-morrow yet?—Is 
it to-morrow yet?’ which, to be sure, it never can 
be: and that’s the way Saint Patrick settled the 
last of the sarpints, Sir.” 
The Hedge schoolmaster is a capital mor- 
ceau, after Mathews’s style, and which he 
could not do better than adopt. It is too 
long to quote—but as a piece of confusion, 
botheration, and effrontery, inimitable. 
2C 2 
