has for music! Arrah!' says my mother, 'don't be cursing the cow, that gives the milk to the childher.' Yis, I will,' says my father; why shouldn't I curse sitch an unnath'ral baste?' • You oughtn't to curse any livin' that's undher your roof,' says my mother. By my sowl, thin,' says my father, she shan't be undher my roof any more; for I'll sind her to the fair this minit,' says he, ⚫ and sell her for whatever she'll bring. Go aff,' says he, Shamus, the minit you've ate your breakquest, and dhrive her to the fair.' 'Throth I don't like to dhrive her,' says I. Arrah, don't be makin' a gommagh of yourself,' says he. Faith, I don't,' says I. 'Well, like or no like,' says he, you must dhrive her.' Sure, father,' says I, 'you could take more care of her yourself.' 'That's mighty good,' says he, 'to keep a dog and bark myself;' and faith I rec❜llected the sayin' from that hour- let me have no more words about it,' says he, but be aff wid you.'

So, aff I wint, and it's no lie I'm tellin', whin I say it was sore agin my will I had any thing to do with sitch a villian of a baste. But, howsomever, I cut a brave long wattle, that I might dhrive the man-ather iv a thief, as she was, without bein' near her at all, at all.

Well, away we wint along the road, and mighty throng it wuz wid the boys and the girls, and, in short, all sorts, rich and poor, high and low, crowdin' to the fair.

'God save you,' says one to me. God save you, kindly,' says I. That's a fine baste you're dhrivin',' says he. Throth she is,' says I; though God knows it wint agin my heart to say a good word for the likes of her. It's to the fair you're goin', I suppose,' says he, 'with the baste?' (He was a snug-lookin' farmer, ridin' a purty little gray hack.) Faith, thin you're right enough,' says I, 'it is to the fair I'm goin'.' What do you expec' for her,' says he. Faith, thin myself doesn't know,' says I-and that was thrue enough, you see, bekase I was bewildered like, about the baste, intirely. 'That's a quare way to be goin' to market,' says he, and not to know what you expec' for your baste. Och,' says I-not likin' to let him suspict there was any thing wrong wid her—' Och,' says I, in a careless sort of a way, 'sure no one can tell what a baste 'll bring, antil they come to the fair,' says I, and see what price is goin'.' 'Indeed, that's nath'ral enough,' says he. • But if you wor bid a fair price before you come to the fair, sure you might as well take it,' says he. Oh, I've no objection in life,' says I. Well thin, what will you ax for her?' says he. 'Why thin, I wouldn't like to be onraysonable,' says I-(for the thruth was, you know, I wanted to get rid iv her)—and so I'll take four pounds for her,' says I, and no less. 'No less?' says he. Why

sure, that's chape enough,' says I. Throth it is,' says he; and I'm thinkin' it's too chape it is,' says he; for if there wasn't somethin' the matther, it's not for that you'd be sellin' the fine milch cow, as she is, to all appearance?' 'Indeed thin,' says I, ' upon my conscience, she is a fine milch cow.' 'Maybe,' says he, she's gone off her milk, in regard that she doesn't feed well?' Och, by this and that,' says I. 'in regard of feedin' there's not the likes of her in Ireland; so make your mind aisy, and if you like her for the money, you may have her.' 'Why, indeed, I'm not in a hurry,' says he, ‘and I'll wait till I see how they go in the fair.'

'With all my heart,' says I, purtendin' to be no ways consarned, but in throth I began to be afeared that the people was seein' somethin' unnath'ral about her, and that we'd never get rid of her, at all, at all. At last, we kem to the fair, and a great sight o' people was in it-throth you'd think the whole world was there, let alone the standin's o' gingerbread and iligant ribbins, and makins o' beautiful gownds, and pitch-and-toss, and merry-go-roun's, and tints with the best av drink in thim, and the fiddles playin' up t' incourage the boys and girls; but I never minded them at all, but detarmint to sell the thievin' rogue of a cow afore I'd mind any divarshin in life, so an I dhriv her into the thick av the fair, whin all of a suddint, as I kem to the door av a tint, up sthruck the pipes to the tune av Tattherin' Jack Welsh,' and my jew'l, in a minit, the cow cock'd her ears, and was makin' a dart at the tint.

'Oh, murther!' says I, to the boys standin' by, 'hould her,', says I, 'hould her-she ate one piper already, the vagabone, and, bad luck to her, she wants another now.'

·

Is it a cow for to ate a piper?' says one o' thim.

'Divil a word o' lie in it, for I seen his corps myself, and nothin' left but the two legs,' says I; and it's a folly to be sthrivin' to hide it, for I see she'll never lave it aff-as poor Paddy Grogan knows to his cost, Lord be marciful to him.'

'Who's that takin' my name in vain?' says a voice in the crowd; and with that, shovin' the throng a one side, who the divil should I see but Paddy Grogan, to all appearance.

'Oh, hould him too,' says I; 'keep him av me, for it's not himself at all, but his ghost,' says I; for he was kilt last night, to my sartin knowledge, every inch av him, all to his legs.'

Well, Sir, with that, Paddy—for it was Paddy himself as it kem out afther-fell a laughin', and that you'd think his sides 'ud split; and whin he kem to himself, he ups and he tould uz how it was, as I towld you already; and the likes av the fun they made av me, was beyant tellin', for wrongfully misdoubtin' the poor cow, and

layin' the blame of atin' a piper an her. So we all wint into the tint to have it explained, and by gor it took a full gallon o' sper'ts t' explain it; and we dhrank health and long life to Paddy and the cow, and Paddy played that day beyant all tellin,' and mony a one Isaid the likes was never heerd before or sence, even from Paddy himself-and av coorse the poor slandered cow was dhruv home agin, and many a queit day she had wid uz afther that; and whir she died, throth my father had sitch a regard for the poor thing, that he had her skinned, and an iligant pair of breeches made out iv her hide, and it's in the fam'ly to this day; and isn't it mighty remarkable it is, what I'm goin' to tell you now, but it's as thrue as I'm here, that from that out, any one that has thim breeches an, the minit a pair o' pipes sthrikes up, they can't rest, but goes jiggin' and jiggin' in their sate, and never stops as long as the pipes is playin' and there, there is the very breeches that's an me now, and a fine pair they are this minit.

A CHAPTER ON OLD COATS.

I LOVE an old coat. By an old coat, I mean not one of last summer's growth, on which the gloss yet lingers, shadowy, and intermittent, like a faint ray of sun-light on the counting-house desk of a clothier's warehouse in Eastcheap, but a real unquestionable antique, which for some five or six years has withstood the combined assaults of sun, dust, and rain, has lost all pretensions to starch, unsocial formality, and gives the shoulders assurance of ease, and the waist of a holiday. Such a coat is my delight. It presents itself to my mind's eye, mixed up with a thousand varying recollections, and not only shadows forth the figures, but recalls the very faces, even to the particular expression of eye, brow, or lip, of friends over whom the waters of oblivion have long since rolled. This, you will say, is strange. Granted; but mark how I deduce my analogy!

In that repository of wit, learning, and sarcasm, the "Tale of a Tub," Swift pertinently remarks, that in forming an estimate of an individual's trade or profession, one should look to his dress. The man himself is nothing: his apparel is the distinguishing characteristics; the outward and visible sign of his inward and spiritual grace. What, adds the satirist, is a lawyer, but a black wig and gown, hung upon an animated peg, like a barber's caxon on a block? What, a judge, but an apt conjunction of scarlet and white ermine, 2 к

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thrown over a similar peg, a little stouter, perhaps, and stuck on a bench? What, a dandy, but a pair of tight persuasives to corns and gentility, exuberant pantaloons, and unimpeachable coat and hat, trimly appended to a moving stick, from a yard and a half, to two yards high, grown in Bond Street, and cut down in the fulness of time in the King's Bench? What, a lord mayor, but a gold chain stuck round the neck of a plump occupier of space? What, a physician, but a black gilt-headed cane, thrust with professional gravity, under the snout-of an embodied "Memento Mori?" What, an alderman, but a furred gown and white napkin stuck beneath the triple chin of a polypetalous personification of dyspepsia?

-Caxon the barber held opinions similar to these. “Pray, Sir,” said he to the antiquary, "do not venture near the sands to-night; for when you are dead and gone, there will be only three wigs left in the village."*

If then we look to the dress-of which the coat, of course, forms the chief feature-as the criterion of a man, it is logically manifest, that the appearance of certain coats will renew the recollection of certain individuals; or suppose we substitute the word "coat" for "man," and it will be equally manifest that a certain coat is bona fide a certain man. Now, whenever I see an old coat, brown, rusty, and long waisted, with the dim metal buttons at the back sewed on so far apart, that if a short-sighted man were to stand upon the one, he could scarcely, according to the ordinary laws of probability, see over to the other; I imagine, on Swift's principle, that I see my fat city friend, Tims, who died of a lord Mayor's feast, ten years since come Martinmas. In like manner, whenever I behold a gaunt, attenuated, blue surtout, so perfectly old-fashioned in shape, that I should hardly be justified in making an affidavit before Sir Richard Birnie, that, to the best of my belief, it was younger than the Temple of the Sun at Palmyra; I think that I behold my ancient college-chum, Dickson-the cream of bachelors -the pink of politeness-the most agreeable of tipplers, who expired last year of vexation, the necessary consequence of his having been married a full fortnight to a blue stocking. Peace to his ashes -he always spoke respectfully of whisky punch!

Old coats are the indices by which a man's peculiar turn of mind may be pointed out. So tenaciously do I hold this opinion, that, in passing down a crowded thorough-fare, the Strand, for instance, I would wager odds, that in seven out of ten cases, I would tell a stranger's character and calling by the mere cut of his every-day coat. Who can mistake the staid, formal gravity of the

* Vide Sir Walter Scott's novel of The Antiquary, Vol. 1.

orthodox divine, in the corresponding weight, fulness, and healthy condition of his familiar, easy-natured flaps? Who sees not the necessities-the habitual eccentricities of the poet, significantly developed in his two haggard, shapeless old apologies for skirts, original in their genius as "Christabel," uncouth in their build as the New Palace at Pimlico? Who can misapprehend the motions of the spirit, as it slily flutters beneath the Quaker's drab? Thus, too, the sable hue of the lawyer's working coat corresponds most convincingly with the colour of his conscience; while his thrift, dandyism, and close attention to appearances, tell their own tale in the half-pay officer's smart but somewhat faded exterior.

No lover of independence ventures voluntarily on a new coat. This is an axiom not to be overturned, unlike the safety stagecoaches. The man who piques himself on the newness of such an habiliment,is-till time hath "mouldered it into beauty"—its slave. Wherever he goes, he is harassed by an apprehension of damaging it. Hence he loses his sense of independence, and becomes—a Serf! How degrading! To succumb to one's superiors is bad enough; but to be the martyr of a few yards of cloth; to be the Helot of a tight fit; to be shackled by the ninth fraction of a man; to be made submissive to the sun, the dust, the rain, and the snow; to be panic-stricken by the chimney sweep; to be scared by the dustman; to shudder at the advent of the baker; to give precedence to the scavenger; to concede the wall to a peripatetic conveyancer of eggs; to palpitate at the irregular sallies of a mercurial cart-horse; to look up with awe at the apparition of a giggling servant-girl, with a slop-pail thrust half-way out of a garret-window; to coast a gutter with a horrible anticipation of consequences; to faint at the visitation of a shower of soot down the chimney; to be compelled to be at the mercy of each and all of these vile contingencies; can any thing in human nature be so preposterous, so effeminate, so disgraceful? A truly great mind spurns the bare idea of such slavery? hence, according to the "Subaltern," Wellington liberated Spain in a red-coat, extravagantly over-estimated at sixpence, and Napoleon entered Moscow in a green one out at the elbows.

An old coat is the aptest possible symbol of sociality. An old shoe is not to be despised; an old hat, provided it have a crown, is not amiss; none but a cynic would speak irreverently of an old slipper; but were I called upon to put forward the most unique impersonation of comfort, I should give a plumper in favour of an old coat. The very mention of this luxury conjures up a thousand images of enjoyment. It speaks of warm fire-sides,-long flowing curtains-a downy arm-chair-a nicely trimmed lamp-a black cat fast asleep on the hearth-rug-a bottle of old Port (vin