ith it none of that relief to the peasantry which usually makes
autumn so welcome. On the contrary, the failure of the potato crop,
especially in its quality, as well as that in the grain generally, was
not only the cause of hunger and distress, but also of the sickness
which prevailed. The poor were forced, as they too often are, to dig
their potatoes before they were fit for food; and the consequences were
disastrous to themselves in every sense. Sickness soon began to appear;
but then it was supposed that as soon as the new grain came in, relief
would follow. In this expectation, however, they were, alas! most
wofully disappointed. The wetness of the summer and autumn had soured
and fermented the grain so lamentably, that the use of it transformed
the sickness occasioned by the unripe and bad potatoes into a terrible
and desolating epidemic. At the period we are treating of, this awful
scourge had just set in, and was beginning to carry death and misery in
all their horrors throughout the country. It was no wonder, then, that,
at the dance we are describing, there was an almost complete absence of
that cheerful and light-hearted enjoyment which is, or at least which
was, to be found at such meetings. It was, besides, owing to the
severity of the evening, but thinly attended. Such a family had two
or three members of it sick; another had buried a fine young woman; a
third, an only son; a fourth, had lost the father, and the fifth, the
mother of a large family. In fact, the conversation on this occasion was
rather a catalogue of calamity and death, than that hearty ebullition of
animal spirits which throws its laughing and festive spirits into such
assemblies. Two there were, however, who, despite of the gloom which
darkened both the dance and the day, contrived to sustain our national
reputation for gayety and mirth. One of these was our friend, Sarah,
or, as she was better known, Sally M'Gowan, and the other a young fellow
named Charley Hanlon, who acted as a kind of gardener and steward to
Dick o' the Grange. This young fellow possessed great cheerfulness, and
such an everlasting fund of mirth and jocularity, as made him the life
and soul of every dance, wake, and merry-meeting in the parish. He was
quite a Lothario in his sphere--a lady-killer--and so general an admirer
of the sex, that he invariably made I love to every pretty girl he met,
or could lure into conversation. The usual consequences followed. Nobody
was