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in the ghastly neaments or the deau une features of the unfortunate prophetess, Elizabeth Orton.

THE HERDSMAN

BY P. McTEAGUE, Esq.

WE can scarcely refer to a poet, ancient or modern, who has not touched his lyre in celebration of the shepherd's useful and honourable occupation. If

"The fold stands empty in the drowned field,

And crows are fatten'd with the murrain flock,"

the slothful shepherd is alone to blame (might perhaps have been added). If, on the contrary, the eye of the vigilant herdsman has foreseen the impending calamities of floods and tempests, and in the hour of peril provided a secure retreat for his cattle, he not only rises in his own estimation, but advances in the opinion of his employer. HE IS A MAN TO BE DEPENDED UPON,-the greatest encomium we can bestow upon a servant.

How beautifully has Virgil described the various cares which devolve to the lot of the shepherd! Nor does our own immortal Shakspeare fail to praise the faithful guardian of the flock:

"The shepherd's homely curds,

His cold thin drink, out of his leather bottle;
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade;
All which, secure and sweetly, he enjoys."

Wherever we go-almost in every land, we still see before us the well-known characteristics of the tranquil shepherd; whose deadliest weapon is his crook, and fiercest associate his faithful dog. In times of cruel warfare his is the occupation of peace; and, amidst the changes and chances of states and empires, his state, and his empire, remain unaltered. In the sweet words of Sir Henry Wotton:

who

"Nor wars are seen,

Unless upon the green

Two harmless lambs are butting one another;

Which done, both bleating run each to his mother;

And wounds are never found,

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.”

There is only one young unhappy scapegrace that ever I heard of says a word against this most honourable calling,---and that is Master Norval; who, after stripping a certain audacious freebooter of his arms (which was all very well in its way), thought proper to turn up his nose, and exclaim that he (forsooth),

"Disdained the shepherd's slothful life!"

That such words should have been ever written by a Scotchman! That such words should have been ever repeated by a child of the Grampians!

"A purty piece of impudence," as our hero, Paddy Morony, would have said, were he now "to the fore." "Faix! anything in the wide world but that same. Slothful, indeed! Show me a slothful herdsman, and I'll show you an ill-conditioned flock."

But, poor fellow! where is he? Where is Paddy Morony, the

pride of shepherds, and the boast of the whole barony of Burrin, in the sweet county of Clare?

Alas! poor Paddy, thou art gone!-but not for ever. Thy good deeds, thy love of truth, the remembrance of thy neighbourly acts, thy social harmless mirth,-all these will survive in the remembrance of those who love to cherish the name and service of an HONEST MAN. Thy Great Shepherd will provide for thee!

Well do I remember Paddy Morony, as among the wild valleys and craggy pastures of Burrin he led forth his flocks and herds, with the step, and almost with the pride, of a patriarch. To the casual visiter of this wild part of Ireland everything looks bleak and barren enough. As a sea, struck by the wand of an enchanter, on a sudden turned to stone, so do the wilds of Burrin show how fearfully Nature must have been convulsed before she composed herself here to rest; yet, to those better acquainted with the nutritive quality of the herbage interspersed among these rocks, and its plentiful intermixture with the finest clover, trefoil, and yarrow, as also with the mildness and healthiness of its climate, it will not be surprising that immense flocks of sheep are annually reared in this barony, besides numerous herds of black cattle.

In proportion as a country is rocky and precipitous, increased vigilance is of course required, particularly when an early fall of snow occurs; but this is rare in Burrin, though in 1807 great losses were sustained. For few can provide any store of hay, except for that portion of a flock which it is designed to fatten for the spring,and in that year many sheep were overwhelmed in the snow, and, singular to say, several were found again in a very tolerable state of health, after being actually buried three weeks!

Many a time have I walked a mile or two out of my way with my dogs and gun, just to stumble upon Paddy Morony. When I first knew him he was about sixty-five years of age, a fine, hale, vigorous man, with a keen eye and native step. He was as upright as a dart; but the uprightness of his body was not half so beautiful as the uprightness of his mind. His wife was an excellent woman of her class, and they had reared a large family with great credit.

At the period of which I am speaking he was in a comparative state of independence; but in his youth he had served a gentleman of old family and high character in a distant part of the county which I often visited, and from a friend of mine still living there,-(a worthy bachelor of the old school,) I had the following anecdote of Morony. I wish I could give it with half the naïveté and racy Hibernicisms of my good open-hearted old friend, Mr. Terence Coffy, who used to take great delight in repeating the stories and anecdotes of days bygone, and certainly never told them so well as when the parlour-fire burnt clear and bright, and the signal was given to replenish our glasses with a fresh supply of hot whisky punch.

Often, indeed, have I pressed him hard to write out a few of these stories; but he would only laugh at me, and observe, "That writing and reading were quite different sorts of accomplishments, and should never be mentioned together in the same breath.-Well, Mr. M'Teague!" he would exclaim, "the weather is cold and black, and, happen what will, I'm bound to take care of you. Come, draw nearer the fire. Now I hope you're in the way to be comfortable? Will you try the old potheen this evening, or will you stick to the