The Collegians | Page 5

capering away to the tune of the fox-hunter's jig, on the
short grass. Some poor old women, with baskets on their arms, were
endeavouring to sell off some Patrick's crosses for children, at the low
rate of one halfpenny a piece, gilding, paint, and all. Others, fatigued
with exertion, were walking under the still leafless trees, some with
their hats, some with their coats off, jesting, laughing, and chatting
familiarly with their female acquaintances.
Mihil O'Connor, happening to see Lowry Looby among the
promenaders, glancing now and then at the dance, and whistling
Patrick's day, requested him to call his daughter out of the group, and
tell her that he was waiting for her to go home. Lowry went, and
returned to say, that Eily was dancing with a strange young gentleman
in a boating dress, and that he would not let her go until she had
finished the slip jig.
It continued a sufficient time to tire the old man's patience. When Eily
did at last make her appearance, he observed there was a flush of
mingled weariness and pleasure on her cheek, which showed that the
delay was not quite in opposition to her own inclinations. This
circumstance might have tempted him to receive her with a little

displeasure, but that honest Owen at that moment laid hold on both
father and daughter, insisting that they should come in and take supper
with his wife and himself.
This narrative of Eily's girlhood being merely introductory, we shall
forbear to furnish any detail of the minor incidents of the evening, or
the quality of Mrs. Owen's entertainment. They were very merry and
happy; so much so, that the Patrick's eve approached its termination,
before they arose to bid their host and hostess a good night. Owen
advised them to walk on rapidly in order to avoid the "Pathrick's boys"
who would promenade the streets after twelve, to welcome in the
mighty festival with music and uproar of all kinds. Some of the lads he
said, "might be playen' their thricks upon Miss Eily."
The night was rather dark, and the dim glimmer of the oil-lamps which
were suspended at long intervals over the street doors tended only in a
very feeble degree to qualify the gloom. Mihil O'Connor and his
daughter had already performed more than half their journey, and were
turning from a narrow lane at the head of Mungret-street, when a loud
and tumultuous sound broke with sudden violence upon their hearing.
It proceeded from a multitude of people who were moving in confused
and noisy procession along the street. An ancient and still honoured
custom summons the youthful inhabitants of the city on the night of
this anniversary to celebrate the approaching holiday of the patron
Saint and apostle of the island, by promenading all the streets in
succession, playing national airs, and filling up the pauses in the music
with shouts of exultation. Such was the procession which the two
companions now beheld approaching.
The appearance which it presented was not altogether destitute of
interest and amusement. In the midst were a band of musicians who
played alternately "Patrick's day," and "Garryowen," while a rabble of
men and boys pressed round them, thronging the whole breadth and a
considerable portion of the length of the street. The men had got sprigs
of shamrock in their hats, and several carried in their hands lighted
candles protected from the wasting night-blast by a simple lamp of
whited brown paper. The fickle and unequal light which those small

torches threw over the faces of the individuals who held them, afforded
a lively contrast to the prevailing darkness.
The crowd hurried forward singing, playing, shouting, laughing, and
indulging, to its full extent, all the excitement which was occasioned by
the tumult and the motion. Bedroom windows were thrown up as they
passed, and the half dressed inmates thrust their heads into the night air
to gaze upon the mob of enthusiasts. All the respectable persons who
appeared in the street as they advanced, turned short into the
neighbouring by-ways to avoid the importunities which they would be
likely to incur by a contact with the multitude.
But it was too late for our party to adopt this precaution. Before it had
entered their minds, the procession (if we may dignify it by a name so
sounding) was nearer to them than they were to any turn in the street,
and the appearance of flight with a rabble of men, as with dogs, is a
provocation of pursuit. Of this they were aware-and accordingly instead
of attempting a vain retreat, they turned into a recess formed by one of
the shop doors, and quietly awaited the passing away of this noisy
torrent. For some moments they were unnoticed; the fellows who
moved