-

beauty, and of riches, that there flashed upon my eyes? Suffice it. There was gold, glittering, fascinating gold — gold, the ignis fatuus of this benighted world, gold, the apple of man's eye, lying in ravishing profusion about the place; nor were there wanting to consummate the wily scheme - the bright-eyed and insinuating daughters of Eve, to coax man on as of old to taste the damning fruit.

'What wonder, then, that I, who had never seen, had never dreamt of anything half as gorgeous, should have been gulled by the glowing baits around me, or that, bewildered with the dazzling sight, I should have allowed myself to be inveigled into play.

"I need not tell you that at the beginning I was most timid and most cautious at the game. However, I won the first few stakes, and grew more venturesome, played higher and higher on each fresh coup, while each new game served only to increase my already bulky gains. But the tables at length were turned, and Misfortune, with its attendant, Desperation, pressed hard upon me. I lost-and lost-and lost-and lost again-until at last I started from my chair, deprived of the only means we had to eke existence out for the next three months-a very beggar.

"Starvation I could have suffered by myself without a groan; but to see you in your old age, my dearest mother, and you in your youth, my poor, loved Blanche, writhing with the pangs of excruciating want, to perceive you dragged slowly from me by the iron hand of hunger to the tomb, would have been maddening-would have been intolerable.

I

"Racked by such thoughts I stopped unwittingly before a table where sat two of Chance's sternest fanatics worshipping their senseless idol. They had staked five hundred francs upon the game. watched their play to the end, and when I saw the winner grasp his heavy gains, I thought it wanted but one such stroke of luck to retrieve my lost fortune. The idea was too strong for my weak soul to wrestle with, and -O mother! mother!-I hardly dare to tell you what it pushed me on to do. But I was mad-desperately mad!-overwhelmed with ruin, and, like one drowning, ready to catch at any straw cast before me.

"I had two thousand francs of my master's in my pocket, and can you believe it -oh, no! no! you never can believe that I,— I whom you, from my very cradle, toiled to teach that honesty could make the poor man the rich man's peer, could so abuse your care as to appropriate those two thousand francs to my own accursed purposes. But I was crazed with desperation,- blinded with the glare of ruin, and knew not what I did; and so, like an idiot, like a villain, with my master's money in my hand, I went, and gamed once

more.

"I cast five hundred of the sum upon the table. We played. I lost. A second five hundred strewed the board. Again we played. Again I lost. A third five hundred backed the ensuing game. Once more we played. Once more I lost. The fourth, the last five hundred, with a desperate hand I flung into the pool. One other time we played. One other time I lost. My only hope was gone! Ruin stared me in the face!

"Frenzied with my fate, I rushed from out the place. But,

where to go? Ah! where? Home?-never! I dare not show my guilty face to you. To the country?-pshaw ! let me fly to the remotest spot of earth, will not Rumour, with her hundred tongues, be sure to hunt me out. No-no! there is but one safe, quiet place of refuge for me now, and that is the grave-the silent grave!

"Death-inextricable, eternal Death, then, is my stern resolve. One other half-hour, and this breathing form will be a lifeless mass. And yet, great God! what agony - what bitter-racking agony is it to rend-irreparably rend asunder all the tender ties that bind us to this poor existence! to say 'farewell' for ever and ever to all the darling beings that make this paltry life most precious to our hearts, Oh! my dear mother! my loved my much loved Blanche, how does my poor soul writhe again to leave ye-ye! its only care, its only joy, its only glimpse of heaven, and, moreover, to leave ye thus! But there is no alternative. It must-it must be done. So farewell! for ever fare ye well!-Eugene.'”

The aged Count could say no more. Sorrow, deep, overwhelming sorrow, stifled his discourse. The tears trickled quickly down his furrowed cheeks, and loud and fast the sobs came gurgling from his breast. He struggled violently to overcome the sturdy anguish, and at length (still sobbing between each word,) resumed his doleful tale.

"What my feelings were after reading this wretched letter, human tongue can never disclose, nor human mind conceive. Suffice it. Let the strong grief that now almost suffocates me at the mere remembrance of the thing, give you some faint idea of the rigid agony I must have then endured. At first I thought to follow my poor victim to the tomb; but deliberation bade me live, and by repentance-deep and absorbing repentance— strive to expunge, if possible, the crime from out my soul.

"Such has ever been the steadfast, anxious object of my life. Not an ear but thine, not even his mother's, has ever listened to the melancholy history of that young man's death. Many, and most bitter have been the tears which I have shed over his grave. His mother, who ever believed her darling son had fallen by some robber's hand, I made my strictest care while living; and when she died— she died beseeching blessings on my head. His sister, Blanche, I spared no means of mine to cure of her disease, and ultimately made her partner of my rank and fortune. My whole days have I devoted to charity, and prayers for the soul of poor Eugene, and I trust by a few more years of rigid penitence yet to be able, ere I die, to atone for all.

"And, now," emphatically added the sorrowful old Count, "I pray you let this be a warning to you, young man. Hoard it in your heart; and, when you think again of play, remember-oh! remember, THE TALE OF THE MORGUE!"

THE WHISKEY."

No wonder that our Irish boys should be so free and frisky,
For St. Patrick was the very man who first invented whiskey.

National Song-"St. Patrick was a Gentleman."

To attempt a description of Dublin, or indeed of any part of Ireland, without devoting a chapter to the whiskey, would really be criticising the play, and forgetting the chief performer;" for, as it will be seen before this paper is read through, the whiskey is the chief performer in Ireland; and though political opinion is the cause of much excitement, religious opinion of more, yet the whiskey exceeds them both, and is stronger than all.

"There are some things," says an Irishman, " that must be treated with extreme delicacy, and one of them is a potato." If I might be allowed to add "a rider" to the remark, I should say, "and another is the whiskey;"-first, because it is the great "Dictator" of Ireland, being the cause of more wit, merriment, and laughter, poverty, wretchedness, and crime, than all the other exciting causes of the green Isle put together; and secondly, because next to the love of life is an Irishman's love of whiskey, and it is doubtful whether the former does not depend in a great measure upon the latter. "Sure, where's the Irishman that doesn't love the crathur' before any other licker in the world, barring the holy wather?” And it is undoubtedly because the honour of "inventing" whiskey is considered by an Irishman the greatest which could be bestowed on any man, that that honour has been conferred upon St. Patrick. "The force of flattery could no further go"-even in the land of Blarney Stone. The whiskey of Ireland is peculiar to the country. It is not smoky like that of Scotland, and it is stronger than any that can be procured out of the country, since it is several degrees above the proof allowed in London, and it is not permitted to be exported until reduced to a certain degree of strength. Scotch whiskey is strong enough, but the Irish exceeds it, and this, too, notwithstanding all the adulteration it undergoes. A story is told of the Scotch whiskey that deserves to be mentioned. A Scotch pedlar, stopping at a whiskey shop on the mountains, called for a naggin of the spirit, which he proceeded to drink neat. Wad yer na like water with it, sir?" said the serving girl. "Na, na, lassie," said the pedlar; "the man that 's na satisfied with the water that's in it already must be unco hard to please." In Ireland the taste of whiskey is so well known, that it would be equally difficult to impose upon the consumer. The best spirit is procured from malt, of which an immense quantity is consumed annually for distillation. In colour the spirit resembles very light sherry, and possesses a peculiar odour, which, like all others, must be experienced to be understood. There is another kind of whiskey, the "poteen," or "mountain dew," the whole of which, I believe, is illicitly distilled. It is of a lighter colour than the former, and possesses a smoky flavour, highly prized by connoisseurs, but very disagreeable to a person who tastes it for the first time. These are the two species of the spirit so renowned in song and story for its potential effects upon the people; but it is in another form that its use is universal in Ireland, and its qualities more

66

THE WHISKEY.

highly prized. This is whiskey punch. The "crathur" is too strong to be drunk neat; it is therefore invariably used, except by the lowest class of dram-drinkers, in the form of punch. This word will mislead an Englishman, unless explained. Unlike the famous punch of England, there is little mystery in the manufacture of this potion. It is no mixture of villanous compounds, it requires no apprenticeship to understand its manufacture, and it can be brewed equally well by the boy just come of age as by the old fox-hunter or villagedoctor. It is, in truth, no more than what a Londoner would call by the plain name of "whiskey and water" hot, but which, for reasons unknown to me, has been honoured with the fine-sounding name of "punch" in this country. The word "whiskey" in Irish means "water." The etymology of poteen and punch I cannot pretend to explain.

The strongest evidence that can be given of the national love of whiskey, is its use by all classes of society. Unlike the various wines and spirits of England, the mere names of which will almost inform the hearer of the class by whom they are used; for who does not connect an idea of the lower orders with "gin," of sailors with grog," of wealthy citizens with "port and sherry," - of the élite with "claret,"--and of fashionable rakes with "champagne ;"—unlike these "degrees of spirit," the favourite beverage of all classes in Ireland is punch; so that to say that a man drinks punch, is merely understood as meaning that he is not a member of a Temperance Society it conveys no idea of his rank or station. Rich and poor are alike its admirers; and, unfortunately, the latter are attached to it but too strongly. "You well know," says Martin Doyle, in his Hints to Small Farmers on Temperance and Morals, "that on almost every occasion on which people meet for business or pleasure, the whiskey-bottle is made a party; that neither wake nor funeral is without it; and that the solemnity of the grave is sometimes disturbed by its polluting presence. Is there a christening or a marriage without it? Is there a fair or a patron without it? Is there a single bargain concluded, a cow or a pig bought or sold in a market or a fair, without the whiskey-bottle being introduced before the payment?" And with the better classes its use is equally general. At what Irish gentleman's table are not "the materials" for punch introduced after dinner? —if not before the ladies have retired, certainly after they have gone. And it might be added, what real Irish gentleman is there who would not prefer a glass of whiskey-punch before the finest wines of the Continent? Indeed, when well made, it is a most agreeable mixture. It possesses none of the fiery and burning qualities of Hollands; and when taken to excess, if the spirit is pure, it causes but little of the nausea that invariably follows a debauch with wine. There are therefore good grounds for the national partiality, and some excuse for the enormous consumption of the spirit. Before alluding to the latter subject, however, a few instances of the love the people have for it may be interesting.

usque

The Irish, from time immemorial, have been famed for their baugh, or whiskey; and in the collection of ancient Irish songs lately published by Mr. Hardiman, called "Irish Minstrelsy," being an attempt to effect for Irish literature what the " Percy Reliques" have accomplished for our own, there is the following characteristic effu

sion of an ancient admirer of the whiskey. It is an address of an Irish Bard to the Spirit of Usquebaugh, and is remarkable as much for its truth as the fervour of its sentiment. The song is entitled

THE LIQUOR OF LIFE.

The Bard addresses Whiskey

Why, liquor of life! do I love you so,
When in all our encounters you lay me low?
More stupid and senseless I everyday grow-
What a hint, if I'd mend by the warning!
Tatter'd and torn you 've left my coat,
I've not a cravat to save my throat;
Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat!

If you'll cheer me again in the morning.

The Whiskey replies—

When you've heard prayers on Sunday next,
With a sermon besides, or at least the text,
Come down to the alehouse-however your vex'd,

And though thousands of cares assail you;
You'll find tippling there. Till morals mend,
A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end,
The jar shall be near you, and I'll be your friend,
And give you a kead mille faulte.*

The Bard resumes his address

You're my soul and my treasure without and within,
My sister, and cousin, and all my kin—

'Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin;

But all other enjoyment is vain, love!

My barley-ricks all turn to you,——

My tillage, my plough, and my horses too,-
My cows and my sheep, they have bid me adieu !
I care not while you remain, love!

Come "vein of my heart," then come in haste,
You 're like ambrosia, my liquor and feast,
My forefathers all had the very same taste
For the genuine dew of the mountain.
Oh! Usquebaugh, I love its kiss,
My guardian spirit I think it is,

Had my christening-bowl been filled with this,
I'd have swallowed it, were it a fountain.

Many 's the quarrel and fight we've had,
And many a time you've inade me mad;
But while I've a heart it can never be sad,

When you smile at me full on the table.
Surely you are my wife and my brother,
My only child, my father and mother,
My outside coat,-I have no other :

Och! I'll stand by you while I'm able.

This is a song of great antiquity, and Mr. D'Alton, by whom it is translated from the original Irish, thinks it was the composition of one of the many wandering minstrels who, with their harp upon their shoulder, roamed through the country in olden time, depending on the good feeling and love of the peasantry, and the benefactions

* A hundred thousand welcomes.