THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
| Number 32. | SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 1841. | Volume I. |
HANDSOME KATE KAVANAGH.
In that fertile district of the county Wexford, the barony ofForth, distinguished for its comfortable cottages and generalgood husbandry, lived Dennis Costigan, a rich farmer. Hisfarm was large, well stocked, and in high condition; his dwelling-housewas furnished as a farmer’s house should be, andit was as cleanly and neat as it was commodious. His wifewas tidy, notable, and good-tempered, and his three childrenwere such as would please a father—well-formed in personand virtuous in mind. Then, should not our friend DennisCostigan have been a happy man? He would have been soperhaps—for there is ever to be a stumbling block in our roadto happiness—but that the first object that glared upon hiseyes in each morning’s sun was the white low cottage of hisnext neighbour Miles Kavanagh. Yet that cottage was not anugly feature in the landscape. It was small and low, but aswhite as the whitest lime could make it; it was neatly thatchedtoo, and its small casements were never broken or patched.A few honeysuckles and roses crept up its walls, and it wassurrounded by a hedge of hazels and sallows, that lent it anair of comfort and seclusion. Its owner, at least, thought it apretty spot, and that he was a happy man indeed to possessit and its two or three adjoining acres; and as he trimmed hishedges, and looked pleasantly on all around—the fruits of hisindustry and labour—he little thought that any one couldlook upon his cot and farm with other eyes than those of admiration;and least of all that he, or aught of his, was thesource of care or annoyance to his wealthier neighbour. Andwhy did wealthy Dennis Costigan glance lowringly on thishumble tenement? Was it that, like his betters, he thought apoor man’s dwelling always an unsightly object? and that,like many a grasping spirit, all land convenient to his ownwas misappropriated if not in his possession? It was not so.Dennis Costigan envied no man his possessions. He was aright specimen of a farmer, independent, upright, honest, andindustrious, contented with what providence had given him,and willing to help a neighbour with purse and hand if required.And if he did grumble a little, and turn away his eyesquickly as if in pain, from the cottage we have mentioned,[Pg 250]many another father with hopeful sons would do the same, forit contained a gem that would grace the proudest castle inIreland—beautiful, charming, innocent Kate Kavanagh, butwho had no fortune.
One fine morning in August, farmer Costigan sallied forthat the head of a regiment of reapers armed for the destructionof a large field of wheat, but scarcely had he got outsidehis yard when he missed two of his most efficient men—histwo sons.
“Where can those gorsoons ov mine be, boys?” inquiredhe of the reapers. “In the arms ov Murphy, to be sure,”answered a little shrill-piped fellow, the crack orator of thecountry, which, and the circumstance of his name being alike,procured him the cognomen of “Counsellor Shiel.” “In thearms ov Murphy, to be sure, afther thrippin’ it all night onthe light funtastic toe with that flower ov Forth an’ belle ovthe barony, Kate Kavanagh.”
“Arrah, can’t ye speak in plain English, man?” thundered thefarmer with kindling eyes—the