LITMIR.BIZ

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de holy Joseph be an yez, and relieve de maimed; de prayers and blessins of all de Saints on dem that assists de suffering!” And there were pilgrims, some with heads venerable enough for the canvass of an old master, with flowing beards, and relics hung round their necks, objects of worship which failed not to create sentiments of devotion in the passers-by. But among these many sights and sounds, each calculated to appeal to different classes and ages of the motley mass, one object appeared to engross a more than ordinary share of attention; and although certainly not of a nature to draw marked notice elsewhere, was here sufficiently strange and uncommon to become actually a spectacle. This was neither more nor less than an English groom, who, mounted upon a thorough-bred horse, led another by the bridle, and slowly paraded backwards and forwards, in attendance on his master.

      “Them’s the iligant bastes, Darby,” said one of the bystanders, as the horses moved past. “A finer pair than that I never seen.”

      “They’re beauties, and no denying it,” said the other; “and they’ve skins like a looking-glass.”

      “Arrah, botheration t’ yez! what are ye saying about their skins?” cried a third, whose dress and manner betokened one of the jank of a small farmer. “‘Tis the breeding that’s in ‘em; that’s the raal beauty. Only look at their pasterns; and see how fine they run off over the quarter.”

      “Which is the best now, Phil?” said another, addressing the last speaker with a tone of some deference.

      “The grey horse is worth two of the dark chesnut,” replied Phil oracularly.

      “Is he, then!” cried two or three in a breath. “Why is that, Phil?”

      “Can’t you perceive the signs of blood about the ears? They’re long, and coming to a point – ”

      “You’re wrong this time, my friend,” said a sharp voice, with an accent which in Ireland would be called English. “You may be an excellent judge of an ass, but the horse you speak of, as the best, is not worth a fourth part of the value of the other.” And so saying, a young and handsome man, attired in a riding costume, brushed somewhat rudely through the crowd, and seizing the rein of the led horse, vaulted lightly into the saddle and rode off, leaving Phil to the mockery and laughter of the crowd, whose reverence for the opinion of a gentleman was only beneath that they accorded to the priest himself.

      “Faix, ye got it there, Phil!” “‘Tis down on ye he was that time!” “Musha, but ye may well get red in the face!” Such and such-like were the comments on one who but a moment before was rather a popular candidate for public honours.

      “Who is he, then, at all?” said one among the rest, and who had come up too late to witness the scene.

      “‘Tis the young Mr. Leslie, the landlord’s son, that’s come over to fish the lakes,” replied an old man reverentially.

      “Begorra, he’s no landlord of mine, anyhow,” said Phil, now speaking for the first time. “I hould under Mister Martin, and his family was here before the Leslies was heard of.” These words were said with a certain air of defiance, and a turn of the head around him, as though to imply, that if any one would gainsay the opinion, he was ready to stand by and maintain it. Happily for the peace of the particular moment, the crowd were nearly all Martins, and so, a simple buzz of approbation followed this announcement. Nor did their attention dwell much longer on the matter, as most were already occupied in watching the progress of the young man, who, at a fast swinging gallop, had taken to the fields beside the lake, and was now seen flying in succession over each dyke and wall before him, followed by his groom. The Irish passion for feats of horsemanship made this the most fascinating attraction of the fair; and already, opinions ran high among the crowd, that it was a race between the two horses, and more than one maintained, that “the little chap with the belt” was the better horseman of the two. At last, having made a wide circuit of the village and the green, the riders were seen slowly moving down, as if returning to the fair.

      There is no country where manly sports and daring exercises are held in higher repute than Ireland. The chivalry that has died out in richer lands still reigns there; and the fall meed of approbation will ever be his, who can combine address and courage before an Irish crowd. It is needless to say, then, that many a word of praise and commendation was bestowed on young Leslie. His handsome features, his slight but well-formed figure, every particular of his dress and gesture, had found an advocate and an admirer; and while some were lavish in their epithets on the perfection of his horsemanship, others, who had seen him on foot, asserted, “that it was then he looked well entirely.” There is a kind of epidemic character pertaining to praise. The snow-ball gathers not faster by rolling, than do the words of eulogy and approbation; and so now, many recited little anecdotes of the youth’s father, to shew that he was a very pattern of landlords and country gentlemen, and had only one fault in life, – that he never lived among his tenantry.

      “‘Tis the first time I ever set eyes on him,” cried one, “and I hould my little place under him twenty-three years come Michaelmas.”

      “See now then, Barney,” cried another, “I’d rather have a hard man that would stay here among us, than the finest landlord ever was seen that would be away from us. And what’s the use of compassion and pity when the say would be between us? ‘Tis the Agent we have to look to.”

      “Agent! ‘Tis wishing them, I am, the same Agents! Them’s the boys has no marcy for a poor man: I’m tould now” – and here the speaker assumed a tone of oracular seriousness that drew several listeners towards him – “I’m tould now, the Agents get a guinea for every man, woman, and child they turn out of a houldin.” A low murmur of indignant anger ran through the group, not one of whom ventured to disbelieve a testimony thus accredited.

      “And sure when the landlords does come, devil a bit they know about us – no more nor if we were in Swayden; didn’t I hear the ould gentleman down there last summer, pitying the people for the distress. ‘Ah,’ says he, it’s a hard sayson ye have, and obliged to tear the flax out of the ground, and it not long enough to cut!’”

      A ready burst of laughter followed this anecdote, and many similar stories were recounted in corroboration of the opinion.

      “That’s the girl takes the shine out of the fair,” said one of the younger men of the party, touching another by the arm, and pointing to a tall young girl, who, with features as straight and regular as a classic model, moved slowly past. She did not wear the scarlet cloak of the peasantry, but a large one of dark blue, lined with silk of the same colour; a profusion of brown hair, dark and glossy, was braided on each side of her face, and turned up at the back of the head with the grace of an antique cameo. She seemed not more than nineteen years of age, and in the gaze of astonishment and pleasure she threw around her, it might be seen how new such scenes and sights were to her.

      “That’s Phil Joyce’s sister, and a crooked disciple of a brother she has,” said the other; “sorra bit if he’d ever let her come to the ‘pattern’ afore to-day; and she’s the raal ornament of the place now she’s in it.”

      “Just mind Phil, will ye! watch him now; see the frown he’s giving the boys as they go by, for looking at his sister. I wouldn’t coort a girl that I couldn’t look in the face and see what was in it, av she owned Ballinahinch Castle,” said the former.

      “There now; what is he at now?” whispered the other; “he’s left her in the tent there: and look at him, the way he’s talking to ould Bill; he’s telling him something about a fight; never mind me agin, but there’ll be wigs on the green’ this night.”

      “I don’t know where the Lynchs and the Connors is to-day,” said the other, casting a suspicious look around him, as if anxious to calculate the forces available in the event of a row. “They gave the Joyces their own in Ballinrobe last fair. I hope they’re not afeard to come down here.”

      “Sorra bit, ma bouchai,” said a voice from behind his shoulder; and at the same moment the speaker clapped his hands over the other’s eyes: “Who am I, now?”

      “Arrah! Owen Connor; I know ye well,” said the other; “and His yourself ought not to be here to-day. The ould father of

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