among the electors of a petty borough in Ireland.

For the present I shall conclude, in the hope that you may retract your recent opinions: if not, you will hear again from Rock.

P. S. I have said nothing here on your project for pensioning the Roman Catholic Clergy; that will form the subject of a future Letter.

CROFTON CROKER'S FAIRY
LEGENDS.

promise

AGREEABLY to the given in my last Gazette, I have selected from Mr. Croker's amusing volume another tale.

The Reverend Charles Bunworth was rector of Buttevant, in the county Cork, about the middle of the last century. He was a man of unaffected piety, and of sound learning; pure in heart, and benevolent in intention. By the rich he was respected, and by the poor beloved; nor did a difference of creed prevent their looking up to "the minister" (so was Mr. Bunworth called by them) in matters of difficulty and in seasons of distress, confident of receiving from him the advice and assistance that a father would afford to his children. He was the friend and the benefactor of the surrounding countryto him, from the neighbouring town of Newmarket, came both Curran and Yelverton for advice and instruction, previous to their entrance at Dublin college. Young, indigent, and inexperienced, these afterwards eminent men received from him, in addition to the advice they sought, pecuniary aid; and the brilliant career which was theirs justified the discrimination of the giver.

But what extended the fame of Mr. Bunworth far beyond the limits of the parishes adjacent to his own was his performance on the Irish harp, and his hospitable reception and entertainment of the poor harpers who travelled from house to house about the country. Grateful to their patron, these itinerant minstrels sang his praises to the tingling accompaniment of their harps, invoking in return for his bounty abundant blessings on his white head, and celebrating in their rude verses the blooming charms of his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary. It was all these poor fellows could do; but who can doubt that their gratitude was sincere, when, at the time of Mr. Bunworth's death, no less than fifteen harps were deposited on the loft of his granary,

bequeathed to him by the last members of a race which has now ceased to exist? Trifling, no doubt, in intrinsic value, were these relics; yet there is something in gifts of the heart that merits preservation; and it is to be regretted that, when he died, these harps were broken up one after the other, and used as fire-wood, by an ignorant follower of the family, who, on their removal to Cork for a temporary change of scene, was left in charge

of the house.

'The circumstances attending the death of Mr. Bunworth may be doubted by some; but there are still living credible witnesses who declare their authenticity, and who can be produced to attest most, if not all, of the following particulars.

About a week previous to his dissolution, and early in the evening, a noise was heard at the hall-door resembling the shearing of sheep; but at the time no particular attention was paid to it. It was near eleven o'clock the same night, when Kavanagh, the herdsman, returned from Mallow, whither he had been sent in the afternoon for some medicine, and was observed by Miss Bunworth, to whom he delivered the parcel, to be much agitated. At this time, it must be observed, her father was by no means considered in danger.

"What is the matter, Kavanagh ?" asked Miss Bunworth: but the poor fellow, with a bewildered look, only uttered, "The master, Miss-the master he is going from us ;" and, overcome with real grief, he burst into a flood of tears.

Miss Bunworth, who was a woman of strong nerve, inquired if any thing he had learned in Mallow induced him to suppose that her father was worse.

"No, miss," said Kavanagh; "it was not in Mallow--"

Kavanagh," said Miss Bunworth, with that stateliness of manner for which she is said to have been reinarkable, "I fear you have been drinking, which I must say I did not expect at such a time as the present, when it was your duty to have kept yourself sober;I thought you might have been trusted : what should we have done if you had broken the medicine bottle, or lost it? for the doctor said it was of the greatest consequence that your master should take it to-night. But I shall speak to you in the morning, when you are in a fitter state to understand what I say.

Kavanagh looked up with a stupidity of aspect which did not serve to remove the impression of his being

drunk, as his eyes appeared heavy and dull after the flood of tears;—but his voice was not that of an intoxicated person.

"Miss," said he, "as I hope to receive mercy hereafter, neither bit nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house: but the master

"Speak softly," said Miss Bun worth; "he sleeps, and is going on as well as we could expect.”

"Praise be to God for that, any way," replied Kavanagh; "but oh! miss, he is going from us surely-we will lose him-the master-we will lose him, we will lose him!" and he wrung his hands together.

"What is it you mean, Kavanagh?" asked Miss Bunworth.

"Is it mean?" said Kavanagh: "the Banshee has come for him, Miss; and 'tis not I alone who have heard her." "Tis an idle superstition," said Miss Bunworth.

"May be so," replied Kavanagh, as if the words" idle superstition" only sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind-" May be so," he continued; "but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along with me keening and screeching and clapping her hands, by my side every step of the way, with her long white hair falling all about her shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master's name every now and then, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she parted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the berrin ground, and, folding her cloak about her, down she sat under the tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so bitterly, that it went through one's

heart to hear it."

"Kavanagh," said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively to this remarkable relation," my father is, I believe, better; and I hope will himself soon be up, and able to convince you that all this is but your own fancy: nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you have told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your fellow-servants with the story."

'Mr. Bunworth gradually declined; but nothing particular occurred until the night previous to his death: that night both his daughters, exhausted from continual attendance and watching, were prevailed upon to seek some repose; and an elderly lady, a near relative and friend of the family, remained by the bedside of their father. The old gentleman then lay in the parlour, where he had been in the morn; ing removed at his own request, fan

cying the change would afford him relief; and the head of his bed was placed close to the window. In a room adjoining sat some male friends, and, as usual on like occasions of illness, in the kitchen many of the followers of the family had assembled.

The night was serene and moonlight-the sick man slept-and nothing broke the stillness of their melancholy watch, when the little party in the room adjoining the parlour, the door of which stood open, was suddenly roused hy a sound at the window near the bed: a rose-tree grew outside the window, so close as to touch the glass; this was forced aside with some noise, and a low moaning was heard, accompanied by clapping of hands, as if of a female in deep affliction. It seemed as if the sound proceeded from a person holding her mouth close to the window. The lady who sat by the bedside of Mr. Bunworth went into the adjoining room, and, in the tone of alarm, inquired of the gentlemen there if they had heard the Banshee. Sceptical of supernatural appearances, two of them rose hastily, and went out to discover the cause of these sounds, which they also had distinctly heard. They walked all round the house, examining every spot of ground, particularly near the window from whence the voice had proceeded; but their search was vain -they could perceive nothing; and an unbroken stillness reigned without. Yet hoping to dispel the mystery, they continued their search anxiously along the road, from the straightness of which, and the lightness of the night, they were enabled to see some distance around them; but all was silent and deserted, and they returned surprised and disappointed. How much more then were they astonished at learning that, the whole time of their absence, those who remained within the house had heard the moaning and clapping of hands even louder and more distinct than before they had gone out; and no sooner was the door of the room closed on them, than they again heard the same mournful sounds! Every succeeding hour the sick man became worse; and, when the first glimpse of the morning appeared, Mr. Bunworth expired.'

This is very good; and, that the reader may be enabled to judge of my impartial criticism, I have extracted a tale on the same subject from the Dublin and London Magazine. Read, therefore, and judge for yourself.

THE BENSHEE.

On the right-hand side of the little by-road, which conducts the traveller from the famous bog of Monela to the northern range of the Sliew-bloom mountains, stands the uninhabited mansion of a gentleman named Fitzpatrick, who has, if we believe the neighbouring peasantry, a better apology than many of his countrymen for being an absentee. The history of his family, as related by the country people, develops the superstitious notion respecting that harbinger of death-the Benshee.

The Fitzpatricks of Ossory and the Ormonds of Kilkenny were, for cen turies, deadly foes. More than one of the illustrious house of Butler were prisoners of their implacable enemies; and, in the reign of Charles the First, the celebrated Duke of Ormond completely destroyed the power of the Fitzpatricks, and annexed Durrow, their patrimony, to his own possessions, since which time that district, though nearly surrounded by the Queen's County, forms part of the county of Kilkenny.

Some ages previous to this period, one of the Butlers having overrun Lower Ossory, and, as usual, having slaughtered most of the inhabitants, the heir of the house of Fitzpatrick found refuge in the castle of O'More, the Chieftain of Leix. The chivalrous spirit of the times inculcated such elevated notions of honour, that friendship and unlimited confidence were synonymous; while the man who was admitted a guest never had his actions regarded with suspicion. Treachery was out of the question; for justice was then so summary, that life was the immediate forfeit of an unworthy action. No wonder, then, that O'More took no precaution to prevent any improper intimacy between Fitzpatrick and his only daughter-a lady who possessed, in an eminent degree, all those charms which superadd to the attractions of youth and beauty. The consequence of parental neglect on this occasion was fatal; and, as the story goes, continues yet to blast the happiness of the descendants of one of the party.

The chieftain's lovely daughter naturally attracted the attention of her father's guest, who was about her own age; and, as no restraint was

*There is an old painting in Trinity College, Dublin, representing the treacherous capture of a Duke of Ormond by the Chieftain of Leix, the friend of the Fitzpatricks.

placed upon their interviews, they soon learned to feel mutual happiness in each other's company. They were indiscreet; and, to their horror, discovered that a knowledge of their criminal conduct must soon take place, as the daughter of the chieftain was pregnant. There remained for them no expectation of pardon; for they knew with O'More nothing could palliate their crime, and that the lives of both must fall a sacrifice to his wounded honour unless they escaped from his wrath. Under these circumstances the lovers agreed to fly from Leix, and appointed an evening to meet at a lonely well, to arrange for their departure.

The unhappy lady was punctual; but Fitzpatrick was perfidious: he met her at the well, and, while in the act of caressing her, plunged a dagger into her heart! She fell a corpse; her blood tinged the water of the spring, and the faithless lover returned undiscovered to the castle. The chieftain lamented the fate of his child, but never suspected his guest; and the heir of Ossory, for a time, encountered no reproof but that of his own guilty conscience.

In a short time Fitzpatrick was restored by O'More to his possessions in Ossory, where he married, and had a numerous offspring. For twenty years he carried in his bosom the assassin's secret, and the memory of his lovely victim had nearly been forgotten, when, one night, as himself and his kerns, during an intestine war, were encamped not far from the fatal spot where he had committed murder, the awful and solemn cry of a benshee was heard to proceed from the well.

The guilty chieftain started; but, as if impelled by some supernatural power, he walked towards the spring, and distinctly saw the victim of his treachery, in her ordinary dress of white, sitting beneath the tree that shaded the well, and wringing her hands as if in an agony of grief. He had scarcely gazed on her, when she arose, redoubled her cries, and seemed to approach the place where he stood. At this moment his fears appeared to have overcome him; and, as he exclaimed Pardon, oh! pardon your murderer!' the apparition gave a hoarse scream, and vanished, like a shadow of the moon, down the valley, still keeping up the cry of the benshee, which was distinctly heard for several minutes. It had scarcely ceased when the sentinel gave the

alarm of a sudden attack, and the O'Mores in an instant were in the camp of the Fitzpatricks. The battle was long and bloody; but, ere the morning sun arose, the heroes of Leix prevailed, and the Chieftain of Ossory fell beneath the weapon of his old protector's son, confessing, ere he died, that his was the fatal hand by which the sister of the conqueror was slain.

From this time the cry of the Benshee was regularly heard at the fatal well previous to the dissolution of any of the descendants of Fitzpatrick; and, in time, it became so notorious, that the spring acquired the appellation of the Benshee's Well,' a namne which it yet retains.

No matter whether a Fitzpatrick died in war or peace, abroad or at home, the cry that foretold the sad event was to be heard at the fountain where the apparition was first seen, and where the chieftain's daughter had been so treacherously assassinated by her lover. From this circumstance it was inferred that the Benshee was nothing more nor less than the murdered lady, on whom had been imposed the melancholy duty of announcing to the descendants of her deceiver the fearful intelligence of their approaching destiny.

At

firmed in his incredulity, forgetful that none of his family had, during all this time, needed such a monitor. length a favourite daughter fell suddeniy ill, and the alarmed father filed himself, at twelve o'clock at night, for a physician. Returning with the doctor, he heard a sad and solemn cry proceed from the direction of the well, and, thinking it a trick of some one to mock his incredulity, he hastened home, seized his pistols, and hurried alone to the fountain. Cautiously casting his eyes through an aperture of the shade that protected the water during the day from the sunbeams, he saw a female figure, dressed in white, sitting on the bank, and uttering a most melancholy cry. Enraged at what he thought an attempt to terrify himself, and possibly accelerate the death of his child, he cocked his pistol, aimed at the object, and fired. A scream of superhuman force and horror, that nearly froze the blood in his veins, instantly burst upon him; and, as he turned to fly, the figure of the Benshee, all covered with blood, crossed his path, and continued, at intervals, to intercept him as he ran. When he reached home he rushed into his daughter's room, and on his entrance the sick girl screamed out See, see! oh see that beautiful lady, all covered with blood! Where, oh! where?' demanded the father. In the window, Sir,' replied the poor creature. ‘Oh! no, she's gone."

In one of the revolutions which this part of the country underwent this branch of the Fitzpatricks were expelled from Ossory, and settled in the district of O'More, where their descendant, better than half a century From that moment the patient, in ago, erected the mansion which is yet spite of the doctor's skill, continued standing. This gentleman, as a ne- to grow worse; and next day, about cessary requisite to the retention of twelve o'clock, she expired. On that his property, had embraced the re- evening, about twilight, as the afflicted formed religion; and as a Protestant father was pacing up and down one of is, in some measure, a negative papist, the walks in his garden that overhe determined to disbelieve the super-looked the avenue, he was surprised at stitious, as well as the religious, creed of his ancestors; but in nothing was he more positive than in the non-appearance of the Benshee. In vain the old retainers of his family alleged their having repeatedly heard the cry, and instanced the case of his father, who had expired in London on the very night it was last heard in Ireland. Still he was incredulous, and dared those who believed in the apparition to tell him when next the Benshee should be heard; for, if she remained the usual time at the well, he would have an opportunity of seeing and hearing her, the distance not being quite a quarter of a mile.

Years rolled on, and no Benshee was heard, when Fitzpatrick became con

hearing a noise as if a coach and horses were coming up to the house. Casting his eyes over the hedge, he distinctly saw six black headless horses, driven by a headless coachman, drawing a hearse, which regularly stopped before the hall door, and to his amazement a coffin was brought out and placed upon it, when instantly the bloody figure of the Benshee mounted upon the pall, and the hearse drove on.

When he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment he ran into the house, where, finding the corpse as he had left it, he began to suspect that his eyes had deceived him. By no means, my dear,' said his lady; that hearse follows my father's family; I saw it myself when one of my uncles

died, and you know it's quite as natural as the Benshee'

'Hold!' exclaimed Fitzpatrick, there she is, outside of the window, bloody and vindictive-looking as when I shot her! She recedes-she's gone! Heaven forefend from me her wrath; for I am sure she bodes me evil!'

His apprehensions were but too just; for next day another of his children died; and he could not stir from home any night after dark without encountering the appalling figure of the Benshee. She crossed his path whether he rode or walked, was alone or in company; till, at length, in the hope of avoiding her, he quitted the country, and passed over into England, where he soon after died.

The enraged Benshee, whose kind offices were so badly requited, was never heard to lament the approaching death of a Fitzpatrick after the night she had been fired at. In fact, her services in that way appeared to cease, as she has only since been known as the persecutor of those over whose existence she would, if properly treated, have continued to watch.

About twenty years ago the mansion of Fitzpatrick was visited by the owner, with the intention of residing in it; when, on the night of his arrival, the dreadful cry of the infuriated Benshee assailed the house, and continued to do so nightly until it was once more deserted; since which time it has been totally uninhabited.

Such is the strange relation which is familiar in the mouths of the peasantry in that part of the country where the incidents are supposed to have taken place. But the idea here given of a Benshee is by no means without exceptions; for, in some parts of the country, the apparition is described as an old man, and in others an old woman, who announce their doleful news from the ashes' corner, or from under the staircase. In general, however, the Benshee is understood to be like a beautiful young woman, who utters her melancholy cry, sometimes once, and sometimes twice, before death, near to a spring, a river, or a lake. Whether she is the friend or enemy of the family to which she is attached is not distinctly understood.

LONDON: -J. Robins and Co. Ivy Lane, Paternoster Row; J. Robins, jun. aud Co. 38, Lower Ormond Quay, Dublin; and all Booksellers, &c.

was then too much alarmed to view it in a ludicrous light.

his fleshy carcass tremble from his forehead to his knee as he laughs aloud at his own humour. At my The poor priest seemed unconfather's he was a constant guest; scious of danger, and rolled from for Rockglen was always noted side to side like a buoy in a storm. for exquisite potheen; and old I almost gave myself up for lost; Buckeen knew the way to our as the horse turned a corner we house as well as blind Dick, the declined so far over his right side; piper, who used to pay us a visit but the swiftness with which he once a week. Poor Buckeen was flew had such tenacity in it, that a fine bay horse, with as much na- we remained stuck to his back tural sagacity as an elephant. He until he came to a ford, where, knew so well the disposition of his making a sudden plunge, he got rider (and Father O'Meara never rid of his burden, and we floated walked), that whenever he met any on the water, from which we esone he stood still, unbidden, know-caped with some difficulty. ing that his master had a word for every traveller. On other occasions, when a certain elevation of spirits used to throw his rider off the centre of gravity, Buckeen, like a juggler with a sword on his chin, would humour his burden, and, by constantly shifting from one side of the road to the other, contrive to keep his charge perpendicular, notwithstanding his inclina

tion to tumble.

This night's business was the first of his misfortunes. Next day a neighbouring Protestant, going along the road, found the wallet which had fallen from under us, and, having converted the sacred utensil to unholy purposes, it came to the cars of the bishop, and Father O'Meara was suspended from the performance of all religious rites. He found an asylum in Rockglen, and recompensed my I was about nineteen when this father, for his hospitality, by supriest-ridden animal died, and Fa-perintending the education of his ther O'Meara, having purchased another, came, late one evening, to show his bargain. The priest, to use a native phrase, well understood, was pretty well I thank you, and, having drank a few tumblers, my father insisted on my riding home behind him. It was a fine moonlight night, and my business was to keep the ponderous eccle. siastic upright in his stirrups. The horse kept in a jog-trot for some time, until a sudden jirk of his burden to the right brought the spur in contact with his side; and as I was, at the same time, obliged to hold fast with my left heel in his flank, the animal resented such usage, kicked up his hinder legs, and, taking the bit in his teeth, like Gilpin's horse, fairly ran away with us.

You would have imagined, from the clatter he made on the pavement, that a hundred men were preparing to Macadamize the road; and, though I have often laughed since at the adventure, I

son. To him I owe more than a knowledge of classical learning; and I rejoice in the opportunity now afforded me of bearing testimony to the strict piety and exemplary morals of the Catholic clergy of this period. It is now the fashion, even among Catholics, to speak of these worthy men with a kind of unholy derision; but Ireland owes them much and religion more. I shall have again to mention my venerated preceptor, and show, notwithstanding some harmless failings, that the Church never had a more obedient and steadfast son, or society a more worthy member; for

'He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.'

EPIGRAM.

FORTY-SHILLING FREEHOLDERS.

case.

It would appear the disfranchis. ing clause of the Emancipation Bill is to be dropped, and, without incurring the charge of egotism, I believe I may take to myself the whole credit of defeating the impolitic measure. In my last I acquitted Mr. O'Connell of all unworthy motives, though at first I confess I regarded his encomiums on dubious friends as proofs of —— No matter; I am now willing to suppose that he was only mistaken, and this I conscientiously believe was the ! He knew not the actual condition of the poorer classes in Ireland; and how could he? Engaged in an arduous profession, and fully occupied in political affairs, he had neither leisure nor oppor. tunity to make himself acquainted with the details of the peasant's life; and I hope the mistake he has fallen into will teach him in future to act with more circumspectionto doubt his own judgment, and take the advice of his friends. Ireland cannot afford to lose his advocacy-she is too poor in friends to dispense with his patriotic labours, and therefore much is to be forgiven him. Great, indeed, should be his errors, if Irishmen could not pardon thein.

Although it is not intended to make an ex post facto law on this occasion, the destruction of the forty-shilling system is contemplated.

Against this, too, there are many objections which I shall state in a future number, when the measure assumes a tangible form, until which time I shall amuse myself with laughing at the profound ignorance of the gentlemen of the London press.' These champions of the rights of man, and of reform, have depicted the freeholders of Ireland in colours the most revolting, described them as so many brutes driven to the poll, and incapable of exerting a single trait of independence. Let them, however, look at the representation of the island, and they will find, that at least three-fourths of our mem