St. Patrick's Eve. Lever Charles James

faix, dancing ‘The little bould fox;’ and may I never die in sin, if he hasn’t a step that looks for all the world as if he made a hook and eye of his legs.”

      The young man who spoke these words was in mould and gesture the very ideal of an Irish peasant of the west; somewhat above the middle size, rather slightly made, but with the light and neatly turned proportion that betokens activity, more than great strength, endurance, rather than the power of any single effort. His face well became the character of his figure; it was a handsome and an open one, where the expressions changed and crossed each other with lightning speed, now, beaming with good nature, now, flashing in anger, now, sparkling with some witty conception, or frowning a bold defiance as it met the glance of some member of a rival faction. He looked, as he was, one ready and willing to accept either part from fortune, and to exchange friendship and hard knocks with equal satisfaction. Although in dress and appearance he was both cleanly and well clad, it was evident that he belonged to a very humble class among the peasantry. Neither his hat nor his greatcoat, those unerring signs of competence, had been new for many a day before; and his shoes, in their patched and mended condition, betrayed the pains it had cost him to make even so respectable an appearance as he then presented.

      “She didn’t even give you a look to-day, Owen,” said one of the former speakers; “she turned her head the other way as she went by.”

      “Faix, I’m afeard ye’ve a bad chance,” said the other.

      “Joke away, boys, and welcome,” said Owen, reddening to the eyes as he spoke, and shewing that his indifference to their banterings was very far from being real; “‘tis little I mind what ye say, – as little as she herself would mind me,” added he to himself.

      “She’s the purtiest girl in the town-land, and no second word to it, – and even if she hadn’t a fortune – ”

      “Bad luck to the fortune! – that’s what I say,” cried Owen, suddenly; “‘tis that same that breaks my rest night and day; sure if it wasn’t for the money, there’s many a dacent boy wouldn’t be ashamed nor afeard to go up and coort her.”

      “She’ll have two hundred, divil a less, I’m tould,” interposed the other; “the ould man made a deal of money in the war-time.”

      “I wish he had it with him now,” said Owen, bitterly.

      “By all accounts he wouldn’t mislike it himself. When Father John was giving him the rites, he says, ‘Phil,’ says he, ‘how ould are ye now?’ and the other didn’t hear him, but went on muttering to himself; and the Priest says agin, ‘Tis how ould you are, I’m axing.’ ‘A hundred and forty-three,’ says Phil, looking up at him. ‘The Saints be good to us,’ says Father John, ‘sure you’re not that ould, – a hundred and forty-three?’ ‘A hundred and forty-seven.’ ‘Phew! he’s more of it – a hundred and forty-seven!’ ‘A hundred and fifty,’ cries Phil, and he gave the foot of the bed a little kick, this way – sorra more – and he died; and what was it but the guineas he was countin’ in a stocking under the clothes all the while? Oh, musha! how his sowl was in the money, and he going to leave it all! I heerd Father John say, ‘it was well they found it out, for there’d be a curse on them guineas, and every hand that would touch one of them in secla seclorum;’ and they wer’ all tuck away in a bag that night, and buried by the Priest in a saycret place, where they’ll never be found till the Day of Judgment.”

      Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the group was drawn off by seeing numbers of people running in a particular direction, while the sound of voices and the general excitement shewed something new was going forward. The noise increased, and now, loud shouts were heard, mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance of those party cries so popular in an Irish fair. The young men stood still as if the affair was a mere momentary ebullition not deserving of attention, nor sufficiently important to merit the taking any farther interest in it; nor did they swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from time to time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, leading forth one, whose bleeding temples, or smashed head, made retreat no longer dishonourable.

      “They’re at it early,” was the cool commentary of Owen Connor, as with a smile of superciliousness he looked towards the scene of strife.

      “The Joyces is always the first to begin,” remarked one of his companions.

      “And the first to lave off too,” said Owen; “two to one is what they call fair play.”

      “That’s Phil’s voice! – there now, do you hear him shouting?”

      “‘Tis that he’s best at,” said Owen, whose love for the pretty Mary Joyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of her ill-tempered brother.

      At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the screams of the women mingling with the uproar, which no longer seemed a mere passing skirmish, but a downright severe engagement.

      “What is it all about, Christy?” said Owen, to a young fellow led past between two friends, while the track of blood marked every step he went.

      “‘Tis well it becomes yez to ax,” muttered the other, with his swollen and pallid lips, “when the Martins is beating your landlord’s eldest son to smithereens.”

      “Mr. Leslie – young Mr. Leslie?” cried the three together; but a wild war-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back. “Hurroo! Martin for ever! Down with the Leslies! Ballinashough! Hurroo! Don’t leave one of them living! Beat their sowles out!”

      “Leslie for ever!” yelled out Owen, with a voice heard over every part of the field; and with a spring into the air, and a wild flourish of his stick, he dashed into the crowd.

      “Here’s Owen Connor, make way for Owen;” cried the non-combatants, as they jostled and parted each other, to leave a free passage for one whose prowess was well known.

      “He’ll lave his mark on some of yez yet!” “That’s the boy will give you music to dance to!” “Take that, Barney!” “Ha! Terry, that made your nob ring like a forty-shilling pot!” Such and such-like were the comments on him who now, reckless of his own safety, rushed madly into the very midst of the combatants, and fought’ his way onwards to where some seven or eight were desperately engaged over the fallen figure of a man. With a shrill yell no Indian could surpass, and a bound like a tiger, Owen came down in the midst of them, every stroke of his powerful blackthorn telling on his man as unerringly as though it were wielded by the hand of a giant.

      “Save the young Master, Owen! Shelter him! Stand over him, Owen Connor!” were how the cries from all sides; and the stout-hearted peasant, striding over the body of young Leslie, cleared a space around him, and, as he glanced defiance on all sides, called out, “Is that your courage, to beat a young gentleman that never handled a stick in his life? Oh, you cowardly set! Come and face the men of your own barony if you dare! Come out on the green and do it! – Pull him away – pull him away quick,” whispered he to his own party eagerly. “Tear-an-ages! get him out of this before they’re down on me.”

      As he spoke, the Joyces rushed forward with a cheer, their party now trebly as strong as the enemy. They bore down with a force that nothing could resist. Poor Owen – the mark for every weapon – fell almost the first, his head and face one undistinguishable mass of blood and bruises, but not before some three or four of his friends had rescued young Leslie from his danger, and carried him to the outskirts of the fair. The fray now became general, neutrality was impossible, and self-defence almost suggested some participation in the battle. The victory was, however, with the Joyces. They were on their own territory; they mustered every moment stronger; and in less than half an hour they had swept the enemy from the field, save where a lingering wounded man remained, whose maimed and crippled condition had already removed him from all the animosities of combat.

      “Where’s the young master?” were the first words Owen Connor spoke, as his friends carried him on the door of a cabin, hastily unhinged for the purpose, towards his home.

      “Erra! he’s safe enough, Owen,” said one of his bearers, who was by no means pleased