about Corny, and now that he had the money he knew how to spind it.
“Not many nights aftherwards—and a mighty sevare night it was—the wind was moanin’ and howlin’ outside, for all the world like as if the ghosts in the ancient ould berrin’-ground yandher beyant was discoorsin’, now whisperin’ low tellin’ their saycrets, and more times as if they war roarin’ the heads off of one another, and was goin’ to have an onmarciful fight—a terrible night entirely! Corny and the wife was lyin’ awake, listenin’ to the wondherful noises that was goin’ on in the kitchen—tap! tap! like the dead-watch, only a dale loudher. Then the pig, the craythur, would let grunts out of her that was frightful. Corny gets up and stales out to thry and see what was the matther. And what de ye think it was? Nayther more nor less than the ould Leprachaun, and he mendin’ his brogues as hard as he could lick!
“‘Why, thin, what de ye mane?’ says Corny, thryin’ to look as bould as brass, for all the heart was sinkin’ in him wud the fear; ‘what de ye mane?’ says he, ‘be raisin’ such a ruction without ryme or rason,’ says he, ‘disturbin’ a body at the dead o’ the night, ye ould thief of the world?’
“‘Thief, inyah!’ says the Leprachaun, lookin’ as cross as two sticks; ‘musha, bedad, it becomes you to call me a thief—didn’t yourself stale the goold ye built your house wud from me, and haven’t I a right to me own roof?’
“‘Oh! thin sweet bad luck attind yerself an’ all o’ yer breed!’ says Corny. ‘The curse of the crows on you an’ yer money, for pace nor aise I never had sence I laid eyes on ye!’
“And wud a sore and throubled heart he wint back to his bed, while the fairy set up a great haw! haw! of a laugh.
“Well, be Mary’s advice, the very next evenin’ he put what was remainin’ of the goold in a stockin’, and left it on the kitchen dhresser, an’ every fargin’ he could scrape together he did the same wud, for the Leprachaun haunted the house, and torminted them the live-long night until every ha’penny was paid. From that day to this the fairies never throubled them, and more nor that they thruv wondherful—everything went well wud them, and they lived happy and prosperous ever afther.
“The story got wind, and used to be tould as a quare one—and sure anyhow didn’t it take the lade?”
A SEASON OF UNREASON.
Some recent events have brought my old friend Mr. Hallam strongly before my mind. When I listened to him as the younger generation delighted to listen to one who knew so much, and who took such care to preserve a dispassionate habit of mind, he told me that he could admit nothing that was grounded on any assumption that the human race, or its work of human society, was progressive. He believed it probable that there were periods of progress, now and then, here and there; but it seemed plain to him that affairs recurred to their old position, and that there were men as wise and as good in the most ancient as in the most modern times. Whether en masse, or in regard to the best specimens of each age, it was to him very doubtful whether we got on; and indeed he considered that the evidence tended to another conclusion. I was a good deal surprised at the moment at a doctrine which I, for one, had not been in the way of hearing: and I do not, at the end of thirty years, agree in it: but I am occasionally reminded of my old friend’s exposition of his view; and the incidents of the time seem to awaken his voice again, and to set his remarkable countenance before me, with that peculiar expression which it wore when evidence reached him in confirmation of views to which he stood pledged. At this time I seem to see him watching the manifestations of unreason about social affairs which threaten to make the present year a discreditable one in the world’s annals.
We have all early read the history of the first French Revolution with inexpressible surprise, that men and women in a civilised age could be so frantic, so silly, and so devilish. We have regarded the Gordon riots of 1780 as a sort of inexplicable mistake in the course of affairs. We remember (to descend to a humbler illustration), that our mothers and our sisters could find no words to express their amazement at the folly of the women of the last century who wore hoops and powdered their hair. Mr. Hallam would have told the news that hair-powder is coming in again, and would have pointed to the crinolines of the present day, as a warning that, as the most excessive folly may recur, so the excesses of tyranny and cruelty may break out again, and that there may be religious riots as long as there are different religions. The riots, Irish and English, of this autumn would not have surprised him. I do not say that they surprise me, while yet I have no doubt whatever of the capacity for progress of the human mind in society.
It would take us too deep to explain why, in my view, it is still possible, at this time of day, to question the fact of human advancement, and in what direction we must look for the discovery of the way out of our labyrinth, or our charmed circle, in which we are always moving, whether we get on or not. My own conviction is that the discovery is made; and that it is held by some who will bequeath it to coming generations, for application as circumstances permit. The centuries may not have been wasted in bringing us up to this discovery, though it has been long in appearing: and it may be that, the right path having been found, no such question may survive for future Hallams as whether men and society improve on the whole, from one five thousand years to another.
However this may be, it ought never to be wonderful to us that epidemics of social passion should recur while we do nothing to improve the reason of each generation as it arises. We talk of education; and we enjoy talking of it, and its pleasures. Mr. Roebuck enjoyed talking of it on behalf of the peasant last year; and Lord Palmerston enjoyed talking of it on behalf of the young last week. We are all so sensible of the pleasures and advantages of intellectual acquisition and entertainment, that we are delighted to open
