mercifully this poor thing died, there were people
found who still looked upon its carcase as a
property, who stuffed or preserved it in some
way known to themselves, and brought it
here again, ghastly and dead, stuck it in an
attitude dressed up like a dancer, and showed
it unchecked—not in a miserable booth at a
fair, not in the back regions of Bethnal-green
or Whitechapel, but in the best part of this
great and civilised city, at the best season of the
year 1862, when London was especially full of
cultivated and educated persons.—Some littleness
in this, somewhere?

THE MURDER OF THE SHEAS.

IN 1821, a man named Gorman rented a
farm among the wild mountains of Tipperary,
from the Sheas, and the Sheas rented it from
somebody else. They were not satisfied with
Gorman "for a tenant, but ejected him in the
winter quarter. Gorman vowed to be revenged.
He was in appearance the ideal of a bold and
ferocious villain; he was gigantic in stature,
with large features, ferocious eyes, a mouth
like a wild beast, altogether a face hardly
human, except for a look of diabolical cunning
which was its prevailing expression. No sooner
was he ejected from his holding, than he joined
one Mayer, the chief of a gang of ruffians
who were the terror of the country round
about, and had perpetrated all manner of
atrocities, but justice had never yet been roused
against them. Mayer promised Gorman to
revenge him upon the Sheas, for the insult they
had put upon him. The Sheas were quite
aware that there was evil intended against them,
for they laid in a quantity of arms and ammunition,
and fortified their house. All the
neighbourhood were quite aware that mischief was
brewing, but it never entered into the head of
any one to apply for protection to the lawful
authorities.

There was a small miserable public-house of
evil repute, amongst the mountains, kept by a
man named Kelly and his wife. It was much
frequented by Mayer and his gang. Kelly was
in league with the gang; his wife was a dark
silent woman, accustomed to deeds of violence,
and to look ruffians in the face every day. She
had the reputation of having been an "unfortunate
woman" before she married Kelly, and they
did not live comfortably together. On Monday
night, the 20th of November, 1821, Mayer came
to Kelly's house, and going into an inner room
began to melt some lead and cast bullets in a
mould. Mrs. Kelly knew they were to kill the
Sheas. She had a cousin who was servant
to the Sheas. Moved by a blind emotion of
compassion she went up to Mayer and begged
him not to harm the Sheas. He did not
reply, but went on with his work. Whilst
Mrs. Kelly was trying to get some word out
of him, a young woman entered the outer
room, named Kate Muhaly. She was Mrs.
Kelly's cousin, who lived with the Sheas as
servant: she had been married some months, and
was expecting her first confinement. As soon
as Mayer saw who it was, he left his bullets and
came forward to speak to her; they were old
acquaintances. Mayer, on her entrance, had
become quite pleasant and lively, and made
himself as agreeable as he knew how. Poor Kate
Muhaly, a simple sort of girl, thought no harm
of him, and became very communicative. Mayer
wanted to ascertain whether the Sheas were well
on their guard, and what means of defence they
had provided? This important information Kate
Muhaly gave, without any suspicion of the
mischief she was doing. She told him everything
he wanted to know, about the house, the number
of the family, the arms they possessed, and
everything they would have wished to keep from
the knowledge of their enemies; but how could
a poor good girl suspect an old acquaintance, and
her own cousin's friend, of any evil intention in
asking questions? At last, after Mayer had
learned all he wanted, and after a great deal of
pleasant laughing and joking, enlivened by a cup
of tea and a drop of whisky, Kate Muhaly took
her leave, and returned home. When she was
gone, Mrs. Kelly again entreated Mayer not to
take away any life, or at any rate to promise he
would not harm her cousin, Kate Muhaly; this
Mayer readily promised; he desired Mrs. Kelly
to feel easy, for that no ill should come to her
cousin. He said this, for fear she should give
any warning to save her cousin, and so put the
Sheas on their guard. That very night Mrs.
Kelly was unable to sleep, for thinking of Mayer
and the mischief he was evidently meaning. She
did not know when it was to be, but she was too
anxious to sleep. She did not dare to speak to
her husband, for he was in league with Mayer
and his gang. When he was asleep, Mrs. Kelly
rose softly, and wrapping herself in his coat,
went softly out of the house and took her way
to Mayer's cottage. It was a fine night for the
time of year, and there was a moon. When
she reached the door of Mayer's cottage, she
heard a number of voices in eager consultation.
Suddenly the door opened. Mrs. Kelly crouched
behind some bushes; if she had been seen, she
would certainly have been murdered without
hesitation; as it was, the party passed on in
half-military array, without suspecting that they
were watched. She distinctly saw and recognised
eight of the gang; they were all armed,
and one of them carried two lighted pieces of turf,
which he kept alive by blowing, upon them from
time to time. Mrs. Kelly then understood the
nature of the mischief they were intending.
Scarcely able to stand for terror, she nevertheless
continued to follow them at a distance, over
fields and fences and broken ground, until she
reached a bill which overlooked the glen where
the farmstead of the Sheas stood, and whence
she could see everything. She was not without
a hope that Mayer would still keep his word
about sparing her cousin. Suddenly a bright
light burst from the thatch of the farm-house;
another flame broke out on the opposite side;
the house was enveloped in flames, and the whole
glen was lighted up in the glare. Shrieks, cries,
entreaties for mercy, rose from the burning house
—shrieks and cries that were responded to by yells