been consumed, and the new crop was yet unripe. Everything that could be made to support life was sought for by the starving peasantry, and many of the expedients to which they resorted in order to obtain a meal became the subjects of proverbs. Two proverbs were still current in Limerick within the memory of persons still living, referring to a strange custom in the county of Kerry, which the extremities of famine forced the starving inhabitants to adopt. These were,-The cows in Kerry know Sunday; and again,-Come July, come cabbage. In the early part of summer, when grass was plenty, and the cattle were fat, though the people were starving, the Kerry men used to bleed their cows once a week, and, mixing the blood with the animal's milk, used to boil the whole as a Sunday luxury. On weekdays they subsisted on cabbage and milk alone, a dreadful instance of the straits to which their miseries must have reduced them. But for these proverbs, worthless as they may seem, all memory of these facts in the history of Ireland might have been lost, and thus a melancholy episode in the long tale of Irish sufferings have been forgotten. The cattle, as well as the human beings, had their annual famine, and this also has been recorded in a proverb. This was, however, at a different period of the year; for the want of food was felt by the cattle in winter and the early months of spring, before the grass had begun to grow. The animals, from want of food, used to become so weak as to be unable to rise if they once lay down. In this extremity it became necessary to lift them up, for which purpose a strong rope was tied round the animal's middle, to give a good hold to a man at each side, while two others went to the head and tail, and thus the beast was raised up. The proverb on the subject is,-Let the owner go to the tail; that is to say, it is only fair that the man whose interests are most at stake should take the most disagreeable post in the operation. The language to which these proverbs belong is one of the most difficult to speak with elegance or correctness. The peasantry, however, whose native tongue it was, were rigid critics, and the slightest deviation from grammatical accuracy was sufficient to inspire contempt for the speaker. The different provinces of the island had slightly different dialects, and these are characterized in the following proverb-the last we shall bring under the notice of our readers, at least on the present occasion. A Munster man speaks with correctness, but without taste; a Leinster man speaks with taste, but without correctness; a Connaught man speaks with both; and an Ulster man with neither. In our search for the national proverbs of this island we have perceived but too clearly the rapid inroads which time and the changed circumstances of the country are making on their diminished numbers. The greater part of those "relics of the past," which we have here recorded, have been collected from those who speak the original language of the land. Few can judge of them, save through the dim and distorted medium of a translation, and of all classes of composition a proverb, whose very essence is in the words originally composing it, loses most by being transferred from one language to another. Its brevity, and any play upon words which it may contain, are completely destroyed, and in these its chief merit often lies. These "children of the people," therefore, must die with the people's language; and though, in other respects, we cannot see any reason to regret the change from Irish to English as the vernacular of the land, the old tongue will at least draw down with itself much that is peculiar, national, and noble". W. K. MANY, many ages ago, in the early history of the Aryan race, there roamed through one of the forests of Northern India a sad band of exiles, driven from the sovereignty of Hastinapura, the modern Delhi. They were the five sons of Pându, who, with their followers, were doomed to wander for twelve long years through wild-wood and desert, far away from their beautiful fatherland. The ill-luck at dice of Yudhishthira", the eldest-born, had brought this dread fate upon his kindred; and calm grave son of Dharma though he was, he could not but dwell with sorrow on the memory of the pleasant waters of his native Yamunâ (Jumna). To comfort him in his exile, and wile him from his gloomy thoughts, the sage Vrihadaçwa sang the ballad of Damayanti, which a We are indebted for a considerable portion of the materials for this paper to the labours of Dr. O'Donovan, whose great services in the ranks of Irish antiquarians cannot be too freely acknowledged. We believe that the list of Irish proverbs published by him some years ago, in the "Dublin Penny Journal," were chiefly translations from the large collection in Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy," before alluded to. a Yudhishthira, lit. "unflinching in the fight," was the eldest of the five sons of Pându, but mystically begotten by Yama or Dharma, the god of justice. tells how King Nala, reft by gambling of everything dear to him, was restored to his throne and friends by the tried affection of a loving wife. In the olden time, O Bhârata, there lived a king, Nala by name, mighty, gifted with all virtues, beautiful, skilled in horsemanship. Far above all princes he shone, like the sun in his splendour. True of speech was he, well read in the Vêdas, beloved of peerless ladies, worthy ruler of armies. Amongst the Vidarbhas dwelt the Princess Damayanti, lady of the slender waist, whose resplendent loveliness was the theme of bards in all lands. Arrayed in rich jewels, she shone among her attendants like the lightning flashing from the clouds. Nowhere was there a lady to compare with this heart-enthralling maiden, whose beauty, in the fresh spring-tide of her years, shook with rapture the minds even of the gods. Each was ever hearing the praises of the other, and so this princely pair, smitten by their mutual charms, yet unbeheld, loved ere they had met. Now, one day Nala, brooding over his passion, was rambling through the forest, when he saw a flock of golden geesc. Giving chase, he caught one, but the bird suddenly said— "Kill me not, O Râjâ! and I will so plead thy cause to Damayantî that she shall think of none but thee." So Nala released it, and all the birds, flying away, came to the city where the princess and her damsels were playing, and thus they sang to her : "Thou the pearl art of all women; Nala is of men the flower; When the worthy weds the worthy, blessings crown the marriage hour." Then Damayantî, smiling, bade them sing these words in the ears of Nala, and the birds, joyous to perform such gentle offices, sped on their happy mission to the love-sick Râjâ. From this day forth the bloom faded from the checks of the lovely princess; she drooped and pined away in lonely thought. Bhima, seeing his dear daughter thus wandering about like one bereft of reason, summoned to his palace the princes from far and near, that Damayantî might choose one of them for her husband. Nala also came; but, as he journeyed thither, the blessed gods met him, and commanded him to be the bearer of their love to Damayantì. Then the King, sore perplexed between duty and affection, entered the palace, and faithfully, though with an aching heart, laid their high behest before the princess, surrounded by her train. But she, true-hearted woman, straight replied— "O King! thee only can I choose for my husband. All that I have is thine." When at last the happy day had dawned, and all the princes, wearing fragrant garlands and bright jewels in their ears, had entered the court-yard, lo! five men, all dressed alike, each a Nala in manly beauty. Earnestly thereupon prayed the daughter of Bhima, and the gods, overcome by her strong affection, revealed the symbols of their deity, hovering above the earth, but not touching it, with eyes motionless as marble, and fresh garlands unstained by dust. Then Damayanti, modestly catching the robe of Punyaçlôka, placed upon his shoulders the wreath of flowers, and thus chose him for her husband. All, both gods and men, rejoiced, save wicked Kali; and he, ever seeking an opportunity, at length, in the twelfth year of this happy marriage, entered into Naishadha, an easy victim after holy rite of washing unperformed. Then Nala, goaded on by the evil spirit, played at dice for many months with his brother Pushkara, and lost his gold, his chariots, and his kingdom. Unheeded were the warnings of his counsellors and his citizens, and the gentle voice of his weeping wife, for the fiend overmastered him. Yet, not utterly debased was the lofty-minded Râjâ; for, though tempted to the foul deed, he had scorned to stake his much-loved consort; and he now went forth clad only in one garment, and behind him followed Bhaimi in like attire. She meanwhile had sent their children to Kundini, her native city, and thus unaccompanied, unfriended, for so ran the mandate of the tyrant, this hapless pair wandered about, living only on water and torn-up roots. Cruel were the dice, for, taking the semblance of birds, they flew away with Nala's only covering, and bitterly mocked the wretched man as he stood naked upon the earth. Then Naishadha, grieved at his wife's sufferings, pointed to the southern regions, that she might fly for refuge to her own home and kindred; but the loving soul, with tear-choked voice, answered "How can I leave thee, O my lord! alone in this savage forest? "For there is no surer medicine in man's sorest misery Than a true wife's fond affection-this is truth I tell to thee. Let us, therefore, together seek my father's house-Bhima will receive thee with honour." But the proud heart of Nala would not brook this humiliation; so they journeyed on, clad only in one robe, and at last, worn out by hunger, and thirst, and much weariness, they reached a solitary cottage. There as Damayantî, the tender and true, slept, the distracted King, pondering on her sad condition, resolved to fly from her; for he thought, "Now she will surely return to her children and father." And having found a sword, he cut their single robe in twain, and fled. But love brought back the recreant for one last fond gaze, and, groaning heavily the while, the King of the Nishadhas thus spake "Thee, my Queen! nor sun nor tempest roughly visited before; Then Nala, driven by Kali, rushed forth from the hut, but love still brought him back. Again and again he returned, swaying backwards and forwards like a swing; but the demon conquered, and the unhappy monarch fled into the dark night, leaving his faithful wife alone in the dismal forest. Hear now, O King! the sorrows of Damayantî, and her strange adventures in the forest. When the lovely lady awoke, refreshed from her slumbers, and saw not her husband, all her grief redoubled, and she burst into piteous cries, like the wild osprey robbed of her mate. "O my Nala! why hast thou so cruelly deserted me, and broken thy marriage vows? Who now, my husband, will soothe thee, when thou art brought low by hunger and weariness?" As she thus roamed wildly about, a huge, famished serpent, springing from the jungle, seized her, and would have devoured her, but a hunter, suddenly spying her peril, slew the monster with an arrow, and rescued the princess. Then he, enchanted by her face, which glittered like the full moon, proffered vows of love; but Damayantî, having thought of her husband, flashed fire from her eyes, and the false one sank lifeless to the ground, like a tree blasted by the lightning. Onward still sped the Queen through the endless forest, crowded with panthers, and wild boars, and uncouth and savage satyrs,-unhurt and fearless, for her devotion and her holy innocence were a strong shield against all manner of perils. There she beheld many rushing rivers and cataracts, and lakes whose banks resounded with the weird voices of strange birds. Many gloomy caverns, too, shuddering she viewed, and lofty mountains, whose spear-like summits glistened from afar like the banners of the mighty forest. All in turn she in her agony questioned, but none could |