It is unnecessary to say, that the mirth on such occasions was convulsive. Another similar joke was also played off by him against such as he knew to be ungenerous at the collection.
“Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I’m goin’ across the counthry as far as Ned Donnelly’s, and I want you to help me along the road, as the night is dark.”
“To be sure, Mickey. I’ll bring you over as snug as if you wor on a clane plate, man alive!”
“Thank you, Paddy; throth you’ve the dacency in you; an’ kind father for you, Paddy. Maybe I’ll do as much for you some other time.”
Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, after which, he published it to the whole parish; and Paddy of course was made a standing jest for being so silly as to think that night or day had any difference to a man who could not see.
Thus passed the life of Mickey M’Rorey, and thus pass the lives of most of his class, serenely and happily. As the sailor to his ship, the sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler attached to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for he comes in contact with the best and brightest side of life and nature; and the consequence is, that their mild and mellow lights are reflected on and from himself. I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I dare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he communicated so much delight, and who often danced with a buoyant and careless heart to the pleasant notes of his fiddle. Mickey M’Rorey, farewell! Whether living or dead, peace be with you!
There is another character in Ireland essentially different from the mere fiddler—I mean the country dancing-master. In a future number of the Journal I will give a sketch of one who was eminent in his line. Many will remember him when I name Buckram-Back.
THE PASSING BELL.
BY J. U. U.
With its measured pause, and its long-drawn wail,