The above picturesque sketch represents the "busy mill" at Lissoy, better known as "Sweet Auburn—loveliest village of the plain"—the scene of Goldsmith's beautiful poem of the "Deserted Village." Lissoy, about six miles from Athlone, stands on the summit of a hill at the base of which is the mill that forms the subject of our sketch. The wheel is still turned by the water of a small rivulet, converted, now and then, by rains, into a sufficient stream. The mill is a mere country cottage, used for grinding the corn of the neighbouring peasantry, and retains many tokens of age. Parts of the machinery are, no doubt, above a century old, and are probably the very same that left their impress on the poet's memory.
A CASTLE BUILT FOR A GROAT.
The castle of Monkstown, near Cork, is reported by popular tradition to have been built in 1636, at the cost of only a groat. To explain the enigma, the following story is told:—Anastatia Goold, who had become the wife of John Archdeken, determined, while her husband was abroad, serving in the army of Philip of Spain, to give him evidence of her thrift on his return, by surprising him with a noble residence which he might call his own. Her plan was to supply the workmen with provisions and other articles they required, for which she charged the ordinary price; but, as she had made her purchases wholesale, upon balancing her accounts, it appeared that the retail profit had paid all the expenses of the structure except fourpence! The Archdekens were an Anglo-Irish family, who "degenerating" became "Hibernices quam Hiberniores"—more Irish than the Irish themselves—and assumed the name of Mac Odo, or Cody. They "forfeited," in 1688, having followed the fortunes of James II.
BATTLE OF WATER-SNAKES.
The following story is narrated by Mr. St. John, in his "Letters of an American Farmer." After describing the size and strength of some hemp-plants, around which a wild vine had formed natural arbours, he thus proceeds:—"As I was one day sitting, solitary and pensive, in this primitive arbour, my attention was engaged by a strange sort of rustling noise at some paces distance. I looked all around without distinguishing anything, until I climbed up one of my great hemp-stalks; when, to my astonishment, I beheld two snakes of a considerable length, the one pursuing the other with great celerity through a hemp-stubble field. The aggressor was of the black kind, six feet long; the fugitive was a water snake, nearly of equal dimensions. They soon met, and in the fury of their first encounter, appeared in an instant firmly twisted together; and whilst their united tails beat the ground, they mutually tried, with open jaws, to lacerate each other. What a fell aspect did they present! Their heads were compressed to a very small size; their eyes flashed fire; but, after this conflict had lasted about five minutes, the second found means to disengage itself from the first, and hurried towards the ditch. Its antagonist instantly assumed a new posture, and, half-creeping, half-erect, with a majestic mien, overtook and attacked the other again, which placed itself in a similar attitude, and prepared to resist. The scene was uncommon and beautiful; for, thus opposed, they fought with their jaws, biting each other with the utmost rage; but, notwithstanding this appearance of mutual courage and fury, the water snake still seemed desirous of retreating towards the ditch, its natural element. This was no sooner perceived by the keen-eyed black one, than, twisting its tail twice round a stalk of hemp, and seizing its adversary by the throat, not by means of its jaws, but by twisting its own neck twice round that of the water snake, he pulled it back from the ditch. To prevent a defeat, the latter took hold likewise of a stalk on the bank, and, by the acquisition of that point of resistance, became a match for his fierce antagonist. Strange was this to behold; two great snakes strongly adhering to the ground, mutually fastened together by means of the writhings which lashed them to each other, and stretched at their full length; they pulled, but pulled in vain; and in the moments of greatest exertion, that part of their bodies which was entwined seemed extremely small, while the rest appeared inflated, and now and then convulsed with strong undulations rapidly following each other. Their eyes appeared on fire, and ready to start out of their heads. At one time the conflict seemed decided; the water snake bent itself into great folds, and by that operation rendered the other more than commonly outstretched; the next minute the new struggles of the black one gained an unexpected superiority; it acquired two great folds likewise, which necessarily extended the body of its adversary in proportion as it had contracted its own. These efforts were alternate; victory seemed doubtful, inclining sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other, until at last the stalk to which the black snake was fastened suddenly gave way, and, in consequence of this accident, they both plunged into the ditch. The water did not extinguish their vindictive rage, for by their agitations I could still trace, though I could not distinguish, their attacks. They soon reappeared on the surface, twisted together, as in their first onset; but the black snake seemed to retain its wonted superiority, for its head was exactly fixed above that of the other, which it incessantly pressed down under the water, until its opponent was stifled, and sank. The victor no sooner perceived its enemy incapable of further resistance, than, abandoning it to the current, it returned to the shore and disappeared."
FATES OF THE FAMILIES OF ENGLISH POETS.
It is impossible to contemplate the early death of Byron's only child without reflecting sadly on the fates of other females of our greatest poets. Shakspeare and Milton, each died without a son, but both left daughters, and both names are now extinct. Shakspeare's was soon so. Addison had an only child—a daughter, a girl of some five or six years at her father's death. She died, unmarried, at the age of eighty or more. Farquhar left two girls, dependant on the friendship of his friend Wilkes, the actor, who stood nobly by them while he lived. They had a small pension from the Government, and having long outlived their father, and seen his reputation unalterably established, both died unmarried. The son and daughter of Coleridge both died childless. The two sons of Sir Walter Scott died without children—one of two daughters died unmarried, and the Scotts of Abbotsford and Waverley are now represented by the children of a daughter. How little could Scott foresee the sudden failure of male issue? The poet of the "Fairie Queen" lost a child when very young by fire, when the rebels burned his house in Ireland. Some of the poets had sons and no daughters. Thus we read of Chaucer's son,—of Dryden's sons,—of the sons of Burns,—of Allan Ramsey's son,—of Dr. Young's son,—of Campbell's son,—of Moore's son,—and of Shelley's son. Ben Johnson survived all his children. Some, and those amongst the greatest, died unmarried—Butler, Cowley, Congreve, Otway, Prior, Pope, Gay, Thompson, Cowper, Akenside, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, and Rogers, who lately died. Some were unfortunate in their sons in a sadder way than death could make them. Lady Lovelace has left three children—two sons and a daughter. Her mother is still alive to see, perhaps, with a softened spirit, the shade of the father beside the early grave of his only child. Ada's looks, in her later years—years of suffering, borne with gentle and womanly fortitude—have been happily caught by Mr. Henry Phillips, whose father's pencil has preserved to us the best likeness of Ada's father.