* Such is the superstition; and, as I can tell,
     faithfully is it believed.

I can only take up Owen M’Carthy at that part of the past to which my memory extends.  He was then a tall, fine-looking young man; silent, but kind.  One of the earliest events within my recollection is his wedding; after that the glimpse of his state and circumstances are imperfect; but as I grew up, they became more connected, and I am able to remember him the father of four children; an industrious, inoffensive small farmer, beloved, respected, and honored.  No man could rise, be it ever so early, who would not find Owen up before him; no man could anticipate him in an early crop, and if a widow or a sick acquaintance were unable to get in their harvest, Owen was certain to collect the neighbors to assist them; to be the first there himself, with quiet benevolence, encouraging them to a zealous performance of the friendly task in which they were engaged.

It was, I believe, soon after his marriage, that the lease of the farm held by him expired.  Until that time he had been able to live with perfect independence; but even the enormous rise of one pound per acre, though it deprived him in a great degree of his usual comforts, did not sink him below the bare necessaries of life.  For some years after that he could still serve a deserving neighbor; and never was the hand of Owen M’Carthy held back from the wants and distresses of those whom he knew to be honest.

I remember once an occasion upon which a widow Murray applied to him for a loan of five pounds, to prevent her two cows from being auctioned for a half year’s rent, of which she only wanted that sum.  Owen sat at dinner with his family when she entered the house in tears, and, as well as her agitation of mind permitted, gave him a detailed account of her embarrassment.

“The blessin’ o’ God be upon all here,” said she, on entering.

“The double o’ that to you, Rosha,” replied Owen’s wife:  “won’t you sit in an’ be atin’?—­here’s a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha.”

Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he felt no interest in her distress.  Rosha sat down at a distance, and with the corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that bitterness of feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry under the pressure of calamity.

“In the name o’ goodness, Rosha,” said Mrs. M’Carthy, “what ails you, asthore?  Sure Jimmy—­God spare him to you—­wouldn’t be dead?”

“Glory be to God! no, avourneen machree.  Och, och! but it ’ud be the black sight, an’ the black day, that ’ud see my brave, boy, the staff of our support, an’ the bread of our mouth, taken away from us!—­No, no, Kathleen dear, it’s not that bad wid me yet.  I hope we’ll never live to see his manly head laid down before us.  ’Twas his own manliness, indeed, brought it an him—­backin’ the sack when he was bringin’ home our last meldhre *