prudence, and had the love of a father and an affectionate consideration for his child's future welfare to justify it. The first striking instance of this close and griping spirit appeared upon an occasion which seldom fails to open, in Ireland at least, all the warm and generous impulses of our nature. When his wife deemed it necessary to make those hospitable preparations, for their child's christening which are so usual in the country, he treated her intention of complying with this old custom as a direct proof of unjustifiable folly and extravagance-nay, his remonstrance with her exhibited such remarkable good sense and prudence, that it was a matter of extreme difficulty to controvert it, or to perceive that it originated from any other motive than a strong interest in the true welfare of their child.

“Will our wasting meat and money, an' for that matthur health and time on his christenin', aither give him more health or make us love him betther? It's not the first time, Honora, that I've heard yourself make little of some of our nabours for goin' beyant their ability in gittin' up big christenins. Dont be foolish now thin when it comes to your own turn."

The wife took the babe up, and after having gazed affectionately on its innocent features, replied to him in a voice of tenderness and reproof

The priest," replied the good man, "will do as much for the poor child as the rich-there's but one sacrament for both-anything else is waste, as I said, an' I wont give in to it. You dont considher that your way of it 'ud spend as much in one day as 'ud clothe him two or three years."

64

May I never sin this day, Fardorougha, but one 'ud think you're tired of him already. By not givin' in to what's dacent you know you'll only fret me-a thing that no man wid half a heart 'ud do to any woman supportin' a babby as I am a fretted nurse makes a child sick, as Molly Moan tould you before she went, so that it's not on my own account I'm spakin', but on his-poor weeny pet-the Lord love him! Look at his innocent purty little face, an' how can you have the heart, Fardorougha? Come avourneen

give way to me this wanst-throth if you do, you'll see how I'll nurse him-an what a darlin lump o' sugar I'll have him for you in no time!"

He paused a little at this delicate and affecting appeal of the mother, but except by a quick glance that passed from her to their child, it was impossible to say whether or not it made any impression on his heart, or in the slightest degree changed his resolution.

"It's a bad proof of love for him, Honora, to put to the bad what may an' would be sarviceable to him hereafther. You only think for the present, but I cant forget that he's to be settled in the world, an' you know yourself what poor means we have of doin' that, an' that if we begin to be extravagant an' wasteful bekase God has sent him, we may beg wid him afore long."

"There's no danger of us beggin' wid him. No," she continued, the pride of the mother having been touched, "my boy will never beg-no avourneen you never will-nor shame or disgrace will never come upon him aither. Have you no trust in God, Fardorougha?"

The next day, his wife renewed the subject with unabated anxiety, but instead of expressing any change in her favour, Fardorougha declined even to enter into it at all. An evasive reply was all she could extort from him, with an assurance that he would in a day or two communicate the resolution to which he had finally come. She perceived at once, that the case was hopeless, and after one last ineffectual attempt to bring him round, she felt herself forced to abandon it. The child, therefore, much to the mother's mortification, was baptized without a christening, unless the mere presence of the godfather and godmother,

in addition to Fardorougha's own family, could be said to constitute one.

Our readers, perhaps, are not aware that a cause of deep anxiety hitherto unnoticed by us, operated with latent power upon Fardorougha's heart. But so strong in Ireland is the beautiful superstition-if it can with truth be termed so that children are a blessing, only when received as such, that even though supported by the hardest and most shameless of all vices-avarice, Fardorougha had not nerve to avow this most unnatural source of his distress. The fact, however, was, that to a mind so constituted, the apprehension of a large family, was in itself a consideration, which he thought might at a future period of their lives, reduce both him and his to starvation and death. Our readers may remember Nogher McCormick's rebuke to him, when he heard Fardorougha allude to this, and so accessible was he then to the feeling, that on finding his heart at variance with it, he absolutely admitted his error, and prayed to God that he might be enabled to overcome it. It was therefore on the day after the baptism of young Connor, for so had the child been called after his paternal grandfather, that as a justification for his own conduct in the matter of the christening, he disclosed to his wife with much reluctance and embarrassment, this undivulged source of his fears for the future, alleging it as a just argument for his declining to be guided by her opinion.

The indignant sympathies of the mother abashed, on this occasion, the miserable and calculating impiety of the husband-her reproches were open and unshrinking, and her moral sense of his conduct just and beautiful.

"Fardorougha," said she, "I thought up to this time-to this day, that there was nothing in your heart but too much of the world-but now I'm afeard if God hasn't sed it, that the devil himself's there. You're frettin for fraid of a family, but has God sent us any but this one yit? No-an I would'nt be surprised, if the Almighty would punish your guilty heart, by making the child he gave you, a curse, instead of a blessin'-I think as it is, he has brought little pleasure to you for so far, and if your heart hardens as he grows up, it's more unhappy you'll get every day you live."

66

That's very fine talk, Honora, but to people in our condition, I cant see 'any very great blessin' in a houseful of

childre. If we're able to provide for this one, we'll have rason to be thankful widout wishin' for more."

"It's my opinion, Fardorougha, you dont love the child."

Change that opinion then, Honora, I do love the child-but there's no needcessity for blowin' it about to every one I meet. If I didn't love him, I wooldn't feel as I do about all the hardships that may be before him. Think of what a bad sason, or a failure of the craps, might bring us all to, God grant that we mayn't come to the bag and staff before he's settled in the world at all, poor thing."

"Oh very well, Pardorougha, you may make yourself as unhappy as you like; for me, I'll put my trust in the Saviour of the world for my child. If you can trust in any one better than God do so.

"Honora, there's no use in this talk— it'll do nothing aither for him or usbesides, I have no more time to discoorse about it."

He then left her, but as she viewed his dark inflexible features ere he went, an oppressive sense of something not far removed from affliction, weighed her down. The child had been asleep in her arms during the foregoing dialogue, and after his father had departed, she placed him in the cradle, and throwing the corner of her blue apron over her shoulder, she rocked him into a sounder sleep, swaying herself at the same time to and fro, with that inward sorrow, of which among the lower classes of Irish females, this motion is uniformly expressive.

It is not to be supposed, however, that as the early graces of childhood gradually expanded (as they did) into more than ordinary beauty, the avarice of the father was not occasionally encountered in its progress by sudden gushes of love for his son. It was impossible for any parent, no matter how strongly the hideous idol of mammon might sway his heart, to look upon a creature so fair and beautiful, without being frequently touched into something like affection. The fact was, that as the child advanced towards youth, the two principles we are describing nearly kept pace one with the other. That the bad and formidable passion made rapid strides, must be admitted, but that it engrossed the whole spirit of the father, is not true. The mild and gentle character of the boy-his affectionate disposition, and the extraordinary advantages of his person,

could not fail sometimes, to surprize his father into sudden bursts of affection. But these, when they occurred, where looked upon by Fardorougha, as so many proofs that he still entertained for the boy love sufficient to justify a more intense desire of accumulating wealth for his sake. Indeed, ere the lad had numbered thirteen summers, Fardorougha's character as a miser had not only gone far abroad through the neighbourhood, but was felt by the members of his own family, with almost merciless severity. From habits of honesty, and a decent sense of independence, he was now degraded to rapacity and meanness; what had been prudence, by degrees degenerated into cunning; and he who when commencing life, was looked upon only as a saving man, had now become notorious for extortion and usury.

A character such as this, among a people of generous and lively feeling like the Irish, is in every state of life the object of intense and undisguised abhorrence. It was with difficulty, he could succeed in engaging servants, either for domestic or agricultural purposes, and perhaps, no consideration, except the general kindness which was felt for his wife and son, would have induced any person whatsoever to enter into his employment. Honora and Connor, did what in them lay to make the dependents of the family experience as little of Fardorougha's griping tyranny as possible. Yet with all their kind-hearted ingenuity and secret bounty, they were scarcely able to render their situation barely tolerable. It would be difficult to find any language, no matter what pen might wield it, capable of pourtraying the love which Honora O'Donovan bore to her gentle, her beautiful, and her only son. Ah! there, in that last epithet, lay the charm which wrapped her soul in him, and in all that related to his welfare. The moment she saw that it was not the will of God to bless them with other offspring, her heart gathered about him with a jealous tenderness, which trembled into agony at the idea of his loss.

Her love for him, then multiplied itself into many hues, for he was in truth the prism, on which when it fell, all the varied beauty of its colours, became visible. Her heart gave not forth the music of a single instrument, but breathed the concord of sweet sounds, as heard from the blended me

lody of many. Fearfully different

from this were the feelings of Fardorougha, on finding that he was to be the first and the last vouchsafed to their union. A single regret, however, scarcely felt, touched even him, when he reflected that if Connor were to be removed from them, their hearth must become desolate. But then came the fictitious conscience, with its nefurious calculations, to prove that in their present circumstances, the dispensation which withheld others was a blessing to him that was given. Even Connor himself, argued the miser, will be the gainer by it, for what would my five loaves and three fishes be among so many. The pleasure, however, that is derived from the violation of natural affection, is never either full or satisfactory. The gratification felt by Fardorougha, upon reflecting that no further addition was to be made to their family, resembled that which a hungry man feels who dreams he is partaking of a luxurious banquet. Avarice, it is true, like fancy, was gratified, but the enjoyment, though rich to that particular passion, left behind it a sense of unconscious remorse, which gnawed his heart with a slow and heavy pain, that operated like a smothered fire, wasting what it preys upon, in secrecy and darkness. In plainer terms, he was not happy, but so absorbed in the ruling passion-the pursuit of wealth, that he felt afraid to analyze his anxiety, or trace to its true source the cause of his own misery.

In the mean time, his boy grew up the pride and ornament of the parish, idolized by his mother, and beloved by all that knew him. Limited and scanty was the education which his father could be prevailed upon to bestow upon him; but there was nothing that could deprive him of his natural good sense, nor of the affections which his mother's love had drawn out and cultivated. One thing was remarkable in him, which we mention with reluctance, as it places his father's character in a frightful point of view; it is this, that his love for that father, was such as is rarely witnessed, even in the purest and most affectionate circles of domestic life. But let not our readers infer either from what we have written, or from any thing we may write, that Fardorongha hated this lovely and delightful boy; on the contrary, earth contained not an object, except his His money, which he loved so well. affection for him, however, was only such as could proceed from the dregs

of a defiled and perverted heart. This is not saying much, but it is saying all. What in him was parental attachment, would in another man, to such a son, he unfeeling and detestable indifference. His heart sank on contemplating the pittance he allowed for Connor's education; and no remonstrance could prevail on him to clothe the boy with common decency. Pocket-money was out of the question, as were all those considerate indulgences to youth, that blunt when timely afforded, the edge of early anxiety to know those amusements of life, which if not iunocently gratified before passion gets strong, are apt to produce at a later period, that giddy intoxication, which has been the destruction of thousands. When Con nor, however grew up, and began to think for himself, he could not help feeling, that from a man so absolutely devoted to wealth as his father was, to receive even the slenderest proof of affection, was in this case no common manifestation of the attachment he bore him. There was still a higher and nobler motive. He could not close his cars to the character which had gone abroad of his father, and from that principle of generosity, which induces a man, even when ignorant of the quarrel, to take the weaker side, he fought his battles, until in the end, he began to believe them just. But the most obvious cause of the son's attachment we have not mentioned, and it is useless to travel into vain disquisitions, for that truth which may be found in the instinctive impulses of nature. He was Connor's father, and though penurious in every thing that regarded even his son's common comfort, he had never uttered a harsh word to him during his life, or denied him any gratification which could be had without money. Nay, a kind word, or a kind glance, from Fardorougha, fired the son's resentment against the world which traduced him; for how could it be otherwise, when the habitual defence made by him, when arraigned for his penury, was an anxiety to provide for the future welfare and independence of his son.

Many characters in life, appear difficult to be understood, but if those who wish to analyze them only consulted human nature, instead of rushing into farfetched theories, and traced with patience the effect which interest, or habit, or inclination is apt to produce

on

men of a peculiar temperament, when placed in certain situations, there

would be much less difficulty in and ing those preposterous exhibitions which run into caricature, or outrage the wildest combinations that can be formed from the common elements of humanity.

Having said thus much, we will beg our readers to suppose that young Connor is now twenty-two years of age, and request them besides, to prepare for the gloom which is about to overshadow our story.

We have already stated that Fardorougha was not only an extortioner but a usurer. Now, as some of our readers may be surprised that a man in his station of life could practise usury or even extortion to any considerable extent, we feel it necessary to inform them that there exists among Irish farmers a class of men who stand, with respect to the surrounding poor and improvident, in a position precisely analogous to that which is occupied by a Jew or money-lender among those in the higher classes who borrow, and are extravagant upon a larger scale. If, for instance, a struggling small farmer have to do with a needy landlord or an unfeeling agent, who threatens to seize or eject if the rent be not paid to the day, perhaps this small farmer is forced to borrow from one of those rustic Jews the full amount of the gale; for this he gives him at a valuation, dictated by the lender's avarice and his own distress, the oats, or potatoes, or hay, which he is not able to dispose of in sufficient time to meet the demand that is upon him. This property, the miser draws home, and stacks or houses it until the markets are high, when he disposes of it at a price which often secures for him a profit amounting to one-third, and occasionally one-half above the sum lent, upon which in the meantime, interest is accumulating. For instance, if the accommodation be twenty pounds, property to that amount at a ruinous valuation is brought home by the accommodator. This perhaps sells for thirty, thirty-five, or forty pounds, so that deducting the labour of preparing it for market, there is a gain of fifty, seventy-five, or an hundred per cent. besides, probably, ten per cent. interest, which is altogether distinct from the former. This class of persons will also take a joint bond or joint promissory note, or, in fact any collateral security they know to be valid, and if the contract be not fulfilled, they immediately pounce upon the guarantce. They will, in fact, as