diff options
Diffstat (limited to '35891-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 35891-h/35891-h.htm | 16111 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 35891-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 76405 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 35891-h/images/img005.jpg | bin | 0 -> 196781 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 35891-h/images/img006.jpg | bin | 0 -> 13056 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 35891-h/images/img007.jpg | bin | 0 -> 4746 bytes |
5 files changed, 16111 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/35891-h/35891-h.htm b/35891-h/35891-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9079adf --- /dev/null +++ b/35891-h/35891-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16111 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" /> + + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Humours of Irish Life by Various Authors. + </title> + + <style type="text/css"> + + body { margin-left: 12%; margin-right: 12%; text-align: justify; } + p { margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; text-indent: 1em; line-height: 1.4em;} + p.c { margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; text-indent: 1em; padding-left: 1em; line-height: 1.4em;} + p.noind { margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; text-indent: 0; } + + h2,h3,h4 { text-align: center; } + hr { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; width: 70%; height: 5px; background-color: #dcdcdc; border:none; } + hr.art { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 40%; height: 5px; background-color: #778899; + margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 6em } + hr.foot {margin-left: 2em; width: 16%; background-color: black; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 0; height: 1px; } + hr.full {width: 100%} + hr.short {width: 20%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; height: 2px;} + + table.ws {white-space: nowrap; border-collapse: collapse; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; + margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + table.reg { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; clear: both;} + table.reg td { white-space: normal; text-indent: -1.5em; margin-left: 1.5em; padding-bottom: 0.5em;} + table.nobctr { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; border-collapse: collapse; } + table.flt { border-collapse: collapse; } + table.pic { margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; } + table.math0 { vertical-align: middle; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; border-collapse: collapse;} + table.math0 td {text-align: center;} + table.math0 td.np {text-align: center; padding-left: 0; padding-right: 0;} + + table.reg p {text-indent: 1em; margin-left: 1.5em; text-align: justify;} + table.reg td.tc5p { padding-left: 2em; text-indent: 0em; white-space: normal;} + table.nobctr td, table.flt td { white-space: normal; } + table.pic td { white-space: normal; text-indent: 1em; padding-left: 2em; padding-right: 1em;} + table.nobctr p, table.flt p {text-indent: -1.5em; margin-left: 1.5em;} + table.pic td p {text-indent: -1.5em; margin-left: 1.5em;} + + td { white-space: nowrap; padding-right: 0.3em; padding-left: 0.3em;} + td.norm { white-space: normal; } + td.denom { border-top: 1px solid black; text-align: center; padding-right: 0.3em; padding-left: 0.3em;} + + td.tcc { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: center; vertical-align: top;} + td.tccm { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: center; vertical-align: middle;} + td.tccb { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: center; vertical-align: bottom;} + td.tcr { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: right; vertical-align: top;} + td.tcrb { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: right; vertical-align: bottom;} + td.tcrm { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: right; vertical-align: middle;} + td.tcl { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: left; vertical-align: top;} + td.tcl1 { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 2em; text-align: left; vertical-align: top;} + td.tclb { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: left; vertical-align: bottom;} + td.tclm { padding-right: 0.5em; padding-left: 0.5em; text-align: left; vertical-align: middle;} + td.vb { vertical-align: bottom; } + + .caption { font-size: 0.9em; text-align: center; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 1em; padding-right: 1em;} + .caption1 { font-size: 0.9em; text-align: left; padding-bottom: 1em; padding-left: 3em; padding-right: 2em;} + + td.lb {border-left: black 1px solid;} + td.ltb {border-left: black 1px solid; border-top: black 1px solid;} + td.rb {border-right: black 1px solid;} + td.rb2 {border-right: black 2px solid;} + td.tb, span.tb {border-top: black 1px solid;} + td.bb {border-bottom: black 1px solid;} + td.bb1 {border-bottom: #808080 3px solid; padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;} + td.rlb {border-right: black 1px solid; border-left : black 1px solid;} + td.allb {border: black 1px solid;} + td.cl {background-color: #e8e8e8} + + table p { margin: 0;} + + a:link, a:visited, link {text-decoration:none} + + .aut {text-align: right; margin-top: -1em; margin-right: 1em;} + .center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + .center1 {text-align: center; text-indent: 0; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} + .grk {font-style: normal; font-family:"Palatino Linotype","New Athena Unicode",Gentium,"Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif;} + + .f80 {font-size: 80%} + .f90 {font-size: 90%} + .f150 {font-size: 150%} + .f200 {font-size: 200%} + .chap {font-size: 170%; color: #c11B17} + .chap1 {font-size: 110%; background-color: #edc672} + .chap2 {font-size: 110%; color: #c11B17} + + .sp {position: relative; bottom: 0.5em; font-size: 0.75em;} + .sp1 {position: relative; bottom: 0.6em; font-size: 0.75em;} + .su {position: relative; top: 0.3em; font-size: 0.75em;} + .su1 {position: relative; top: 0.5em; font-size: 0.75em; margin-left: -1.2ex;} + .spp {position: relative; bottom: 0.5em; font-size: 0.6em;} + .suu {position: relative; top: 0.2em; font-size: 0.6em;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + .scs {text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: small-caps;} + .ov {text-decoration: overline} + .cl {background-color: #f5f5f5;} + .bk {padding-left: 0; font-size: 80%;} + .bk1 {margin-left: -1em;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 5%; text-align: right; font-size: 10pt; + background-color: #f5f5f5; color: #778899; text-indent: 0; + padding-left: 0.5em; padding-right: 0.5em; font-style: normal; } + span.sidenote {width: 8em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: 1.7em; margin-right: 2em; + font-size: 85%; float: left; clear: left; font-weight: bold; + font-style: italic; text-align: left; text-indent: 0; + background-color: #f5f5f5; color: black; } + .note {margin-left: 2em; margin-right: 2em; font-size: 0.9em; } + .fn { position: absolute; left: 12%; text-align: left; background-color: #f5f5f5; + text-indent: 0; padding-left: 0.2em; padding-right: 0.2em; } + span.correction {border-bottom: 1px dashed red;} + + div.poemr { margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em;} + div.poemr p { margin-left: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; } + div.poemr p.s { margin-top: 1.5em; } + div.poemr p.i05 { margin-left: 0.4em; } + div.poemr p.i1 { margin-left: 1em; } + div.poemr p.i2 { margin-left: 2em; } + div.poemr p.i10 { margin-left: 8em; } + + .figright1 { padding-right: 1em; padding-left: 2em; padding-top: 1.5em; text-align: center; } + .figleft1 { padding-right: 2em; padding-left: 1em; padding-top: 1.5em; text-align: center; } + .figcenter {text-align: center; margin: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 1.5em;} + .figcenter1 {text-align: center; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 2em;} + .figure {text-align: center; padding-left: 1.5em; padding-right: 1.5em; padding-top: 1.5em; padding-bottom: 0;} + .bold {font-weight: bold; } + + div.minind {text-align: justify;} + div.condensed, div.condensed1 { line-height: 1.3em; margin-left: 3%; margin-right: 3%; font-size: 95%; } + div.condensed1 p {margin-left: 0; padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;} + div.condensed span.sidenote {font-size: 90%} + + div.list {margin-left: 0;} + div.list p {padding-left: 4em; text-indent: -2em;} + div.list1 {margin-left: 0;} + div.list1 p {padding-left: 5em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .rib {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} + .pt05 {padding-top: 0.5em;} + .pt1 {padding-top: 1em;} + .pt2 {padding-top: 2em;} + .ptb1 {padding-top: 1em; padding-bottom: 1em;} + td.prl {padding-left: 10%; padding-right: 7em; text-align: left; vertical-align: top;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Humours of Irish Life, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Humours of Irish Life + +Author: Various + +Editor: Charles L. Graves + +Release Date: April 17, 2011 [EBook #35891] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Chris Curnow and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center pt2"><img style="width:450px; height:690px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div class="center f150" style="width: 8em; margin: auto; border: solid 3px #909090; padding: 1em;"> +HUMOURS OF<br /> +: IRISH LIFE : +</div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter" colspan="2"><img style="width:600px; height:978px" src="images/img005.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcl f80"><i>Drawn by</i>]</td> +<td class="tcr f80">[<i>Geo. Morrow</i></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="caption" colspan="2">Frank Webber wins the wager</td></tr></table> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="pt2 f200 center" style="color: #993300;"> +HUMOURS<br /> +OF IRISH LIFE</p> + +<p class="pt2 center" style="font-size: 110%; letter-spacing: 0.2em;">WITH AN INTRODUCTION<br /> +BY CHARLES L. GRAVES, M.A.</p> + +<div class="center pt2"><img style="width:150px; height:176px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/img006.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="pt2 center" style="font-size: 120%; letter-spacing: 0.2em;">NEW YORK:<br /> +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY<br /> +PUBLISHERS</p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div class="center f90" style="width: 15em; margin: auto; border: solid 3px #909090; padding: 1em;"> +<p class="sc">Printed by The<br /> +Educational Company<br /> +of Ireland Limited<br /> +at The Talbot Press<br /> +Dublin</p></div> + +<div class="center"><img style="width:150px; height:97px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/img007.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="chap center">Introduction.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">The</span> first of the notable humorists of Irish life was +William Maginn, one of the most versatile, as well as +brilliant of Irish men of letters.</p> + +<p>He was born in Cork in 1793, and was a classical +schoolmaster there in early manhood, having secured +the degree of LL.D. at Trinity College, Dublin, when +only 23 years of age. The success in “Blackwood’s +Magazine” of some of his translations of English verse +into the Classics induced him, however, to give up +teaching and to seek his fortunes as a magazine writer +and journalist in London, at a time when Lamb, +De Quincey, Lockhart and Wilson gave most of their +writings to magazines.</p> + +<p>Possessed of remarkable sparkle and finish as a writer, +considering with what little effort and with what +rapidity he poured out his political satires in prose and +verse, and his rollicking magazine sketches, it was no +wonder that he leaped into popularity at a bound. He +was the original of the Captain Shandon of Pendennis +and though Thackeray undoubtedly attributed to him +a political venality of which he was never guilty, whilst +describing him during what was undoubtedly the latter +and least reputable period in his career, it is evident that +he considered Maginn to be, as he undoubtedly was, +a literary figure of conspicuous accomplishment and +mark in the contemporary world of letters.</p> + +<p>Amongst his satiric writings, his panegyric of Colonel +Pride may stand comparison even with Swift’s most +notable philippics; whilst his Sir Morgan O’Doherty +was the undoubted ancestor of Maxwell’s and Lever’s +hard drinking, practical joking Irish military heroes, +and frequently appears as one of the speakers in Professor +Wilson’s “Noctes Ambrosianae,” of which the doctor +was one of the mainstays.</p> + +<p>Besides his convivial song of “St. Patrick,” his +“Gathering of the Mahonys,” and his “Cork is an +Eden for you, Love, and me,” written by him as genuine +“Irish Melodies,” to serve as an antidote to what he +called the finicking Bacchanalianism of Moore, he +contributed, as Mr. D. J. O’Donoghue conclusively +proves, several stories, including “Daniel O’Rourke,” +printed in this volume, to Crofton Croker’s “Fairy +Legends and Traditions of Ireland,” first published +anonymously in 1825—a set of Folk Tales full of a +literary charm which still makes them delightful reading. +For just as Moore took Irish airs, touched them up +and partnered them with lyrics to suit upper class +British and Irish taste, so Croker gathered his Folk +Tales from the Munster peasantry with whom he was +familiar and, assisted by Maginn and others, gave them +exactly that form and finish needful to provide the +reading public of his day with an inviting volume of +fairy lore.</p> + +<p>Carleton and the brothers John and Michael Banim, +besides Samuel Lover, whose gifts are treated of elsewhere +in this introduction, followed with what Dr. +Douglas Hyde rightly describes as Folk Lore of “an +incidental and highly manipulated type.”</p> + +<p>A more genuine Irish storyteller was Patrick Kennedy, +twice represented in this volume, whose “Legendary +Fictions of the Irish Celt” and “Fireside Stories of +Ireland” were put down by him much as he heard them +as a boy in his native county of Wexford, where they had +already passed with little change in the telling from +the Gaelic into the peculiar Anglo-Irish local dialect +which is markedly West Saxon in its character.</p> + +<p>His lineal successor as a Wexford Folklorist is Mr. +P. J. McCall, one of whose stories, “Fionn MacCumhail +and the Princess” we reproduce, and a woman Folk +tale teller, Miss B. Hunt, adds to our indebtedness +to such writers by her recently published and delightful +<i>Folk Tales of Breffny</i> from which “McCarthy of +Connacht” has been taken for these pages.</p> + +<p>We have also the advantage of using Dr. Hyde’s +“The Piper and the Puca,” a foretaste, we believe, of the +pleasure in store for our readers in the volume of Folk +Tales he is contributing to “Every Irishman’s Library” +under the engaging title of “Irish Saints and Sinners.”</p> + +<p>In a survey of the Anglo-Irish humorous novel of +recent times, the works of Charles Lever form a +convenient point of departure, for with all his limitations +he was the first to write about Irish life in such a +way as to appeal widely and effectively to an English +audience. We have no intention of dwelling upon him +at any length—he belongs to an earlier generation—but +between him and his successors there are points both +of resemblance and of dissimilarity sufficient to make +an interesting comparison. The politics and social +conditions of Lever’s time are not those of the present, +but the spirit of Lever’s Irishman, though with modifications, +is still alive to-day.</p> + +<p>Lever had not the intensity of Carleton, or the fine +humanity of Kickham, but he was less uncompromising +in his use of local colour, and he was, as a rule, far more +cheerful. He had not the tender grace or simplicity +of Gerald Griffin, and never wrote anything so moving +or beautiful as “The Collegians,” which will form a +special volume of this Library, but he surpassed him in +vitality, gusto, exuberance and knowledge of the world.</p> + +<p>Overrated in the early stages of his career, Lever paid +the penalty of his too facile triumphs in his lifetime, +and his undoubted talents have latterly been depreciated +on political as well as artistic grounds. His +heroes were drawn, with few exceptions, from the +landlord class or their faithful retainers. The gallant +Irish officers, whose Homeric exploits he loved to +celebrate, held commissions in the British army. Lever +has never been popular with Nationalist politicians, +though, as a matter of fact no one ever exhibited the +extravagance and recklessness of the landed gentry in +more glaring colours. And he is anathema to the +hierophants of the Neo-Celtic Renascence on account +of his jocularity. There is nothing crepuscular about +Lever; you might as well expect to find a fairy in a +railway station.</p> + +<p>Again, Lever never was and never could be the novelist +of literary men. He was neither a scholar nor an artist; +he wrote largely in instalments; and in his earlier +novels was wont to end a chapter in a manner that +rendered something like a miracle necessary to +continue the existence of the hero: “He fell lifeless +to the ground, the same instant I was felled to the earth +by a blow from behind, and saw no more.” In +technique and characterisation his later novels show a +great advance, but if he lives, it will be by the spirited +loosely-knit romances of love and war composed in the +first ten years of his literary career. His heroes had no +scruples in proclaiming their physical advantages and +athletic prowess; Charles O’Malley, that typical Galway +<i>miles gloriosus</i>, introduces himself with ingenuous egotism +in the following passage:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I rode boldly with fox-hounds; I was about the best shot +within twenty miles of us; I could swim the Shannon at Holy +Island; I drove four-in-hand better than the coachman himself; +and from finding a hare to cooking a salmon, my equal could not +be found from Killaloe to Banagher.”</p> +</div> + +<p>The life led by the Playboys of the West (old style) +as depicted in Lever’s pages was one incessant round +of reckless hospitality, tempered by duels and practical +joking, but it had its justification in the family annals +of the fire-eating Blakes and Bodkins and the records +of the Connaught Circuit. The intrepidity of Lever’s +heroes was only equalled by their indiscretion, their +good luck in escaping from the consequences of their +folly, and their susceptibility. His womenfolk may be +roughly divided into three classes; sentimental heroines, +who sighed, and blushed and fainted on the slightest +provocation; buxom Amazons, like Baby Blake; and +campaigners or adventuresses. But the gentle, sentimental, +angelic type predominates, and finds a perfect +representative in Lucy Dashwood.</p> + +<p>When Charles O’Malley was recovering from an +accident in the hunting field, he fell asleep in an easy-chair +in the drawing-room and was awakened by the +“thrilling chords of a harp”:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“I turned gently round in my chair and beheld Miss Dashwood. +She was seated in a recess of an old-fashioned window; the pale +yellow glow of a wintry sun at evening fell upon her beautiful hair, +and tinged it with such a light as I have often since then seen in +Rembrandt’s pictures; her head leaned upon the harp, and, as +she struck its chords at random, I saw that her mind was far +away from all around her. As I looked, she suddenly started from +her leaning attitude, and, parting back her curls from her brow, +she preluded a few chords, and then sighed forth, rather than +sang, that most beautiful of Moore’s melodies—</p> + +<p class="center">‘She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.’</p> + +<p class="noind">Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling, +met my astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell +one by one down my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and +when she ceased, I hid my head between my hands and sobbed +aloud.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Lever’s serious heroines, apart from the fact that they +could ride, did not differ in essentials from those of +Dickens, and a sense of humour was no part of their +mental equipment. The hated rival, the dark-browed +Captain Hammersly, was distinguished by his “cold +air and repelling <i>hauteur</i>,” and is a familiar figure in +mid-Victorian romance. Lever’s sentiment, in short, +is old-fashioned, and cannot be expected to appeal +to a Feminist age which has given us the public school +girl and the suffragist. There is no psychological +interest in the relations of his heroes and heroines; +Charles’s farewell to Lucy is on a par with the love +speeches in “The Lyons Mail.” There is seldom any +doubt as to the ultimate reunion of his lovers; we are +only concerned with the ingenuity of the author in +surmounting the obstacles of his own invention. He was +fertile in the devising of exciting incident; he was always +able to eke out the narrative with a good story or song—as +a writer of convivial, thrasonic or mock-sentimental +verse he was quite in the first class—and in his earlier +novels his high spirits and sense of fun never failed.</p> + +<p>In his easy-going methods he may have been influenced +by the example of Dickens—the Dickens of the “Pickwick +Papers”—but there is no ground for any charge of +conscious imitation, and where he challenged direct +comparison—in the character of Mickey Free—he +succeeded in drawing an Irish Sam Weller who falls +little short of his more famous Cockney counterpart. +For Lever was a genuine humorist, or perhaps we +should say a genuine comedian, since the element +of theatricality was seldom absent. The choicest +exploits of that grotesque Admirable Crichton, Frank +Webber, were carried out by hoaxing, disguise, or +trickery of some sort. But the scene in which Frank +wins his wager by impersonating Miss Judy Macan +and sings “The Widow Malone” is an admirable +piece of sustained fooling: admirable, too, in its way is +the rescue of the imaginary captive in the Dublin drain. +As a delineator of the humours of University life, Lever +combined the atmosphere of “Verdant Green” with +the sumptuous upholstery of Ouida. Here, again, +in his portraits of dons and undergraduates Lever +undoubtedly drew in part from life, but fell into his +characteristic vice of exaggeration in his embroidery. +Frank Webber’s antics are amusing, but it is hard to +swallow his amazing literary gifts or the contrast between +his effeminate appearance and his dare-devil energy.</p> + +<p>While “Lord Kilgobbin”—which ran as a serial in +the “Cornhill Magazine” from October, 1870, to March, +1872—was not wholly free from Lever’s besetting sin, +it is interesting not only as the most thoughtful and carefully +written of his novels, but on account of its political +attitude. Here Lever proved himself no champion +<i>à outrance</i> of the landlords, but was ready to admit that +their joyous conviviality was too often attended by gross +mismanagement of their estates. The methods of Peter +Gill, the land steward, are shown to be all centred in +craft and subtlety—“outwitting this man, forestalling +that, doing everything by halves, so that no boon came +unassociated with some contingency or other by which +he secured to himself unlimited power and uncontrolled +tyranny.” The sympathy extended to the rebels of +’98 is remarkable and finds expression in the spirited +lines:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Is there anything more we can fight or can hate for?</p> + <p class="i2">The ‘drop’ and the famine have made our ranks thin.</p> +<p class="i05">In the name of endurance, then, what do we wait for?</p> + <p class="i2">Will nobody give us the word to begin?”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">These must have been almost the last lines Lever ever +wrote, unless we accept the bitter epitaph on himself:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“For sixty odd years he lived in the thick of it,</p> +<p class="i05">And now he is gone, not so much very sick of it,</p> +<p class="i05">As because he believed he heard somebody say,</p> +<p class="i05">‘Harry Lorrequer’s hearse is stopping the way.’”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">The bitterness of the epitaph lies in the fact that it was +largely true; he had exhausted the vein of rollicking +romance on which his fame and popularity rested. +For the rest the charge of misrepresenting Irish life is +met by so judicious a critic as the late Dr. Garnett with +a direct negative:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“He has not actually misrepresented anything, and cannot be +censured for confining himself to the society which he knew; nor +was his talent adapted for the treatment of such life in its melancholy +and poetic aspects, even if these had been more familiar to him.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Of the humorous Irish novelists who entered into +competition with Lever for the favour of the English-speaking +public in his lifetime, two claim special notice—Samuel +Lover and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. Lover +has always been bracketed with Lever, whom he +resembled in many ways, but he was overshadowed +by his more brilliant and versatile contemporary. Yet +within his limited sphere he was a true humorist, and +the careless, whimsical, illogical aspects of Irish character +have seldom been more effectively illustrated than by +the author of ‘Handy Andy,’ and ‘The Gridiron.’ +Paddy, as drawn by Lover, succeeds in spite of his +drawbacks, much as Brer Rabbit does in the tales of +Uncle Remus. His mental processes remind one of +the story of the Hungarian baron who, on paying a +visit to a friend after a railway journey, complained of +a bad headache, the result of sitting with his back to +the engine. When his friend asked, “Why did not +you change places with your <i>vis-à-vis</i>?” the baron +replied, “How could I? I had no <i>vis-à-vis</i>.” Lover’s +heroes “liked action, but they hated work”: the +philosophy of thriftlessness is summed up to perfection +in “Paddy’s Pastoral”:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Here’s a health to you, my darlin’,</p> +<p class="i05">Though I’m not worth a farthin’;</p> +<p class="i05">For when I’m drunk I think I’m rich,</p> +<p class="i05">I’ve a featherbed in every ditch!”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>For all his kindliness Lover laid too much stress on +this happy-go-lucky fecklessness to minister to Irish self-respect. +His pictures of Irish life were based on limited +experience; in so far as they are true, they recall and +emphasise traits which many patriotic Irishmen wish +to forget or eliminate. An age which has witnessed +the growth of Irish Agricultural Co-operation is intolerant +of a novelist who for the most part represents his countrymen +as diverting idiots, and therefore we prefer to +represent him in this volume by “The Little Weaver,” +one of those mock heroic tales in which Irishmen have +excelled from his day to that of Edmund Downey. No +better example could be given of his easy flow of humour +in genuine Hiberno-English or of his shrewd portraiture +of such simple types of Irish peasant character.</p> + +<p>The case of Le Fanu is peculiar. His best-known +novels had no specially characteristic Irish flavour. +But his sombre talent was lit by intermittent flashes of +the wildest hilarity, and it was in this mood that the +author of “Uncle Silas” and “Carmilla” wrote “The +Quare Gandher” and “Billy Malowney’s Taste of +Love and Glory,” two of the most brilliantly comic +extravaganzas which were ever written by an Irishman, +and which no one but an Irishman could ever have +written.</p> + +<p>There is no Salic Law in letters, and since the deaths +of Lever and Le Fanu the sceptre of the realm of Irish +fiction has passed to women. But the years between +1870 and 1890 were not propitious for humorists, and the +admirable work of the late Miss Emily Lawless, who had +already made her mark in “Hurrish” before the latter +date, does not fall within the present survey. The same +remark applies to Mrs. Hartley, but there is a fine sense +of humour in the delicate idylls of Miss Jane Barlow, +twice represented in this volume.</p> + +<p>By far the most widely read Irish novelist between +1880 and 1900 was the late Mrs. Hungerford, the +author of “Molly Bawn” and a score of other blameless +romances which almost rivalled “The Rosary” in +luscious sentimentality. The scenes of her stories +were generally laid in Ireland, and the stories themselves +were almost invariably concerned with the courtship +of lovely but impecunious maidens by eligible and +affluent youths. No one in Mrs. Hungerford’s novels ever +seemed to have any work to do. The characters lived in +a paradise of unemployment, and this possibly accounts +for Mrs. Hungerford’s immense popularity in America, +where even the most indolent immigrants become infected +with a passion for hard work. In the quality of gush +she was unsurpassed, but her good nature and her frank +delight in her characters made her absurdity engaging. +Sentiment was her ruling passion; she did no more +than scrape the surface of Irish social life; and she had +no humour but good humour. But she had not enough +of literary quality to entitle her work to rank beside that +of the other women writers represented in this volume.</p> + +<p>The literary partnership of Miss Edith Somerville and +Miss Violet Martin—the most brilliantly successful +example of creative collaboration in our times—began +with “An Irish Cousin” in 1889. Published over the +pseudonyms of “Geilles Herring” and “Martin Ross,” +this delightful story is remarkable not only for its promise, +afterwards richly fulfilled, but for its achievement. +The writers proved themselves the possessors of a strange +faculty of detachment which enabled them to view +the humours of Irish life through the unfamiliar eyes +of a stranger without losing their own sympathy. They +were at once of the life they described and outside it. +They showed a laudable freedom from political +partisanship; a minute familiarity with the manners +and customs of all strata of Irish Society; an unerring +instinct for the “sovran word;” a perfect mastery of +the Anglo-Irish dialect; and an acute yet well-controlled +sense of the ludicrous. The heroine accurately describes +the concourse on the platform of a small country station +as having “all the appearance of a large social gathering +or <i>conversazione</i>, the carriages being filled, not by those +who were starting, but by their friends who had come to +see them off.” When she went to a county ball in +Cork she discovered to her dismay that all her partners +were named either Beamish or Barrett:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Had it not been for Willy’s elucidation of its mysteries, I should +have thrown away my card in despair. ‘No; not <i>him</i>. That’s +<i>Long</i> Tom Beamish! It’s <i>English</i> Tommy you’ve to dance with +next. They call him English Tommy because, when his Militia +regiment was ordered to Aldershot, he said he was ‘the first of his +ancestors that was ever sent on foreign service.’... I carried +for several days the bruises which I received during my waltz with +English Tommy. It consisted chiefly of a series of short rushes, +of so shattering a character that I at last ventured to suggest a +less aggressive mode of progression. ‘Well,’ said English Tommy +confidentially, ‘ye see, I’m trying to bump Katie,’ pointing to a +fat girl in blue. ‘She’s my cousin, and we’re for ever fighting.’”</p> +</div> + +<p>As a set-off to this picture of the hilarious informality +of high life in Cork twenty-five years ago, there is a +wonderful study of a cottage interior, occupied by a +very old man, his daughter-in-law, three children, two +terriers, a cat, and a half-plucked goose. The conversation +between Willy Sarsfield—who foreshadows Flurry +Knox in “Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.” by his +mingled shrewdness and <i>naiveté</i>—and Mrs. Sweeny +is a perfect piece of realism.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Mrs. Sweeny was sitting on a kind of rough settle, between the +other window and the door of an inner room. She was a stout, +comfortable woman of about forty, with red hair and quick blue +eyes, that roved round the cabin, and silenced with a glance the +occasional whisperings that rose from the children. ‘And how’s +the one that had the bad cough?’ asked Willy, pursuing his +conversation with her with his invariable ease and dexterity. +‘Honor her name is, isn’t it?’—‘See, now, how well he remembers!’ +replied Mrs. Sweeny. ‘Indeed, she’s there back in the room, lyin’ +these three days. Faith, I think ’tis like the decline she have, +Masther Willy.’—‘Did you get the Doctor to her?’ said Willy. +‘I’ll give you a ticket, if you haven’t one.’—‘Oh, indeed, Docthor +Kelly’s afther givin’ her a bottle, but shure I wouldn’t let her put it +into her mouth at all. God-knows what’d be in it. Wasn’t I afther +throwin’ a taste of it on the fire to thry what’d it do, and Phitz! +says it, and up with it up the chimbley! Faith, I’d be in dread +to give it to the child. Shure, if it done that in the fire, what’d +it do in her inside?—‘Well, you’re a greater fool than I thought you +were,’ said Willy, politely.—‘Maybe I am, faith,’ replied Mrs. +Sweeny, with a loud laugh of enjoyment. ‘But, if she’s for dyin’, +the crayture, she’ll die aisier without thim thrash of medicines; +and if she’s for livin’, ’tisn’t thrusting to them she’ll be. Shure, +God is good, God is good——’—‘Divil a betther!’ interjected +old Sweeny, unexpectedly. It was the first time he had spoken, +and having delivered himself of this trenchant observation, he +relapsed into silence and the smackings at his pipe.”</p> +</div> + +<p>But the tragic note is sounded in the close of “An +Irish Cousin”—Miss Martin and Miss Somerville have +never lost sight of the abiding dualism enshrined in +Moore’s verse “Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes”—and +it dominates their next novel, “Naboth’s Vineyard,” +published in 1891, a sombre romance of the Land +League days. Three years later they reached the summit +of their achievement in “The Real Charlotte,” which +still remains their masterpiece, though easily eclipsed +in popularity by the irresistible drollery of “Some +Experiences of an Irish R.M.” To begin with, it does +not rely on the appeal to hunting people which in their +later work won the heart of the English sportsman. +It is a ruthlessly candid study of Irish provincial and +suburban life; of the squalors of middle-class households; +of garrison hacks and “underbred, finespoken,” +florid squireens. But secondly and chiefly it repels +the larger half of the novel-reading public by the fact +that two women have here dissected the heart of one +of their sex in a mood of unrelenting realism. While +pointing out the pathos and humiliation of the thought +that a soul can be stunted by the trivialities of personal +appearance, they own to having set down Charlotte +Mullen’s many evil qualities “without pity.” They +approach their task in the spirit of Balzac. The book, +as we shall see, is extraordinarily rich in both wit and +humour, but Charlotte, who cannot control her ruling +passion of avarice even in a death chamber, might have +come straight out of the pages of the <i>Comédie Humaine</i>. +Masking her greed, her jealousy and her cruelty under +a cloak of loud affability and ponderous persiflage, she +was a perfect specimen of the <i>fausse bonne femme</i>. Only +her cats could divine the strange workings of her mind:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“The movements of Charlotte’s character, for it cannot be said to +possess the power of development, were akin to those of some amphibious +thing whose strong darting course under the water is only +marked by a bubble or two, and it required almost an animal instinct +to note them. Every bubble betrayed the creature below, as well as +the limitations of its power of hiding itself, but people never thought +of looking out for these indications in Charlotte, or even suspected +that she had anything to conceal. There was an almost blatant +simplicity about her, a humorous rough-and-readiness which, +joined to her literary culture, proved business capacity, and her +dreaded temper, seemed to leave no room for any further aspect, +least of all of a romantic kind.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Yet romance of a sort was at the root of Charlotte’s +character. She had been in love with Roddy Lambert, +a showy, handsome, selfish squireen, before he married +for money. She had disguised her tenderness under +a bluff <i>camaraderie</i> during his first wife’s lifetime, and +hastened Mrs. Lambert’s death by inflaming her +suspicions of Roddy’s fidelity. It was only when +Charlotte was again foiled by Lambert’s second marriage +to her own niece that her love was turned to gall, and she +plotted to compass his ruin.</p> + +<p>The authors deal faithfully with Francie FitzPatrick, +Charlotte’s niece, but an element of compassion mingles +with their portraiture. Charlotte had robbed Francie +of a legacy, and compounded with her conscience by +inviting the girl to stay with her at Lismoyle. Any +change was a god-send to poor Francie, who, being an +orphan, lived in Dublin with another aunt, a kindly but +feckless creature whose eyes were not formed to perceive +dirt nor her nose to apprehend smells, and whose ideas +of economy was “to indulge in no extras of soap or +scrubbing brushes, and to feed her family on strong tea +and indifferent bread and butter, in order that Ida’s and +Mabel’s hats might be no whit less ornate than those +of their neighbours.” In this dingy household Francie +had grown up, lovely as a Dryad, brilliantly indifferent +to the serious things of life, with a deplorable Dublin +accent, ingenuous, unaffected and inexpressibly vulgar. +She captivates men of all sorts: Roddy Lambert, who +lunched on hot beefsteak pie and sherry; Mr. Hawkins, +an amorous young soldier, who treated her with a +bullying tenderness and jilted her for an English heiress; +and Christopher Dysart, a scholar, a gentleman, and the +heir to a baronetcy, who was ruined by self-criticism +and diffidence. Francie respected Christopher and +rejected him; was thrown over by Hawkins, whom +she loved; and married Roddy Lambert, her motives +being “poverty, aimlessness, bitterness of soul and +instinctive leniency towards any man who liked her.” +Francie had already exasperated Charlotte by refusing +Christopher Dysart: by marrying Lambert she dealt +a death-blow to her hopes and drove her into the path +of vengeance.</p> + +<p>But the story is not only engrossing as a study of +vulgarity that is touched with pathos, of the vindictive +jealousy of unsunned natures, of the cowardice of the +selfish and the futility of the intellectually effete. It +is a treasure-house of good sayings, happy comments, +ludicrous incidents. When Francie returned to Dublin +we read how one of her cousins, “Dottie, unfailing +purveyor of diseases to the family, had imported +German measles from her school.” When Charlotte, +nursing her wrath, went to inform the servant at Lambert’s +house of the return of her master with his new wife, the +servant inquired “with cold resignation” whether it +was the day after to-morrow:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“‘It is, me poor woman, it is,’ replied Charlotte, in the tone of +facetious intimacy that she reserved for other people’s servants. +‘You’ll have to stir your stumps to get the house ready for them.’—‘The +house is cleaned down and ready for them as soon as they +like to walk into it,’ replied Eliza Hackett, with dignity, ‘and if +the new lady faults the drawing-room chimbley for not being swep, +the master will know it’s not me that’s to blame for it, but the sweep +that’s gone dhrilling with the Mileetia.’”</p> +</div> + +<p>Each of the members of the Dysart family is hit off +in some memorable phrase; Sir Benjamin, the old +and irascible paralytic, “who had been struck down on +his son’s coming of age by a paroxysm of apoplectic +jealousy “; the admirable and unselfish Pamela with her +“pleasant anxious voice”; Christopher, who believed +that if only he could “read the ‘Field,’ and had a more +spontaneous habit of cursing,” he would be an ideal +country gentleman; and Lady Dysart, who was “a +clever woman, a renowned solver of acrostics in her society +paper, and a holder of strong opinions as to the prophetic +meaning of the Pyramids.” With her “a large yet +refined bonhomie” took the place of tact, but being an +Englishwoman she was “constitutionally unable to +discern perfectly the subtle grades of Irish vulgarity.” +Sometimes the authors throw away the <i>scenario</i> for a +whole novel in a single paragraph, as in this compressed +summary of the antecedents of Captain Cursiter:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Captain Cursiter was ‘getting on’ as captains go, and he was +the less disposed to regard his junior’s love affairs with an indulgent +eye, in that he had himself served a long and difficult apprenticeship +in such matters, and did not feel that he had profited much by his +experiences. It had happened to him at an early age to enter +ecstatically into the house of bondage, and in it he had remained with +eyes gradually opening to its drawbacks until, a few years before, +the death of the only apparent obstacle to his happiness had brought +him face to face with its realisation. Strange to say, when this +supreme moment arrived, Captain Cursiter was disposed for further +delay; but it shows the contrariety of human nature, that when he +found himself superseded by his own subaltern, an habitually +inebriated viscount, he committed the imbecility of horsewhipping +him; and finding it subsequently advisable to leave his regiment, +he exchanged into the infantry with the settled conviction that +all women were liars.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Nouns and verbs are the bones and sinews of style; +it is in the use of epithets and adjectives that the artist is +shown; and Miss Martin and Miss Somerville never +make a mistake. An episode in the life of one of +Charlotte’s pets—a cockatoo—is described as occurring +when the bird was “a sprightly creature of some twenty +shrieking summers.” We read of cats who stared +“with the expressionless but wholly alert scrutiny of +their race”; of the “difficult revelry” of Lady Dysart’s +garden party when the men were in a hopeless minority +and the more honourable women sat on a long bench in +“midge-bitten dulness.” Such epithets are not +decorative, they heighten the effect of the picture. +Where adjectives are not really needed, Miss Martin +and Miss Somerville can dispense with them altogether +and yet attain a deadly precision, as when they describe +an Irish beggar as “a bundle of rags with a cough in it,” +or note a characteristic trait of Roddy Lambert by +observing that “he was a man in whom jealousy took the +form of reviling the object of his affections, if by so doing +he could detach his rivals”—a modern instance of +“displiceas aliis, sic ego tutus ero.” When Roddy +Lambert went away after his first wife’s funeral we learn +that he “honeymooned with his grief in the approved +fashion.” These felicities abound on every page; +while the turn of phrase of the peasant speech is caught +with a fidelity which no other Irish writer has ever +surpassed. When Judy Lee, a poor old woman who had +taken an unconscionable time in dying was called by +one of the gossips who had attended her wake “as nice +a woman as ever threw a tub of clothes on the hills,” +and complimented for having “battled it out well,” +Norry the Boat replied sardonically:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Faith, thin, an’ if she did die itself she was in the want of it; +sure, there isn’t a winther since her daughther wint to America +that she wasn’t anointed a couple of times. I’m thinking the people +th’ other side o’ death will be throuncin’ her for keepin’ them +waitin’ on her this way.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Humour is never more effective than when it emerges +from a serious situation. Tragedy jostles comedy in +life, and the greatest dramatists and romancers have +made wonderful use of this abrupt alternation. There +are many painful and diverting scenes in “The Real +Charlotte,” but none in which both elements are blended +so effectively as the story of Julia Duffy’s last pilgrimage. +Threatened with eviction from her farm by the covetous +intrigues of Charlotte, she leaves her sick bed to appeal +to her landlord, and when half dead with fatigue falls +in with the insane Sir Benjamin, to be driven away with +grotesque insults. On her way home she calls in at +Charlotte’s house, only to find Christopher Dysart +reading Rossetti’s poems to Francie FitzPatrick, who +has just timidly observed, in reply to her instructor’s +remark that the hero is a pilgrim, “I know a lovely song +called ‘The Pilgrim of Love’; of course, it wasn’t the +same thing as what you were reading, but it was awfully +nice, too.” This interlude is intensely ludicrous, but +its cruel incongruity only heightens the misery of what +has gone before and what follows.</p> + +<p>“The Silver Fox,” which appeared in 1897, need not +detain us long, though it is a little masterpiece in its +way, vividly contrasting the limitations of the sport-loving +temperament with the ineradicable superstitions +of the Irish peasantry. Impartial as ever, the authors +have here achieved a felicity of phrase to which no other +writers of hunting novels have ever approached. +Imagination’s widest stretch cannot picture Surtees +or Mr. Nat Gould describing an answer being given +“with that level politeness of voice which is the distilled +essence of a perfected anger,” or comparing a fashionable +Amazon with the landscape in such words as these:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Behind her the empty window framed a gaunt mountain peak, +a lake that frittered a myriad of sparkles from its wealth of restless +silver, and the gray and faint purple of the naked wood beyond +it. It seemed too great a background for her powdered cheek and +her upward glances at her host.”</p> +</div> + +<p>But the atmosphere of “The Silver Fox” is sombre, +and a sporting novel which is at once serious and of a +fine literary quality must necessarily appeal to a limited +audience. The problem is solved to perfection in +“Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.,” a series of +loosely-knit episodes which, after running a serial +course in the “Badminton Magazine,” were republished +in book form towards the close of 1899. There is only +one chapter to cloud the otherwise unintermittent +hilarity of the whole recital. The authors have dispensed +with comment, and rely chiefly on dialogue, incident, and +their intimate and precise knowledge of horses, and horse-copers +of both sexes. An interested devotion to the +noble animal is here shown to be the last infirmity of +noble minds, for old Mrs. Knox, with the culture of a +<i>grande dame</i> and the appearance of a refined scarecrow, +went cub-hunting in a bath chair. In such a company +a young sailor whose enthusiasm for the chase had been +nourished by the hirelings of Malta, and his eye for points +probably formed on circus posters, had little chance of +making a good bargain at Drumcurran horse fair:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“‘The fellow’s asking forty-five pounds for her,’ said Bernard +Shute to Miss Sally; ‘she’s a nailer to gallop. I don’t think it’s too +much.’—‘Her grandsire was the Mountain Hare,’ said the owner +of the mare, hurrying up to continue her family history, ‘and he +was the grandest horse in the four baronies. He was forty-two years +of age when he died, and they waked him the same as ye’d wake a +Christian. They had whisky and porther—and bread—and a piper +in it.’—‘Thim Mountain Hare colts is no great things,’ interrupted +Mr. Shute’s groom, contemptuously. ‘I seen a colt once that was +one of his stock, and if there was forty men and their wives, and they +after him with sticks, he wouldn’t lep a sod of turf.’—‘Lep, is it!’ +ejaculated the owner in a voice shrill with outrage. ‘You may lead +that mare out through the counthry, and there isn’t a fence in it +that she wouldn’t go up to it as indepindent as if she was going to +her bed, and your honour’s ladyship knows that dam well, Miss +Knox.’—‘You want too much money for her, McCarthy,’ returned +Miss Sally, with her air of preternatural wisdom. ‘God pardon +you, Miss Knox! Sure a lady like you knows well that forty-five +pounds is no money for that mare. Forty-five pounds!’ He +laughed. ‘It’d be as good for me to make her a present to the gentleman +all out as take three farthings less for her! She’s too grand +entirely for a poor farmer like me, and if it wasn’t for the long, +weak family I have, I wouldn’t part with her under twice the +money.’—‘Three fine lumps of daughters in America paying his +rent for him,’ commented Flurry in the background. ‘That’s +the long, weak family.’”</p> +</div> + +<p>The turn of phrase in Irish conversation has never +been reproduced in print with greater fidelity, and there +is hardly a page in the book without some characteristic +Hibernianism such as “Whisky as pliable as new milk,” +or the description of a horse who was a “nice, flippant +jumper,” or a bandmaster who was “a thrifle fulsome +after his luncheon,” or a sweep who “raised tallywack +and tandem all night round the house to get at the +chimbleys.” The narrative reaches its climax in the +chapter which relates the exciting incidents of Lisheen +races at second-hand. Major Yeates and his egregious +English visitor Mr. Leigh Kelway, an earnest Radical +publicist, having failed to reach the scene, are sheltering +from the rain in a wayside public-house where they are +regaled with an account of the races by Slipper, the +dissipated but engaging huntsman of the local pack of +hounds. The close of the meeting was a steeplechase +in which “Bocock’s owld mare,” ridden by one Driscoll, +was matched against a horse ridden by another local +sportsman named Clancy, and Slipper, who favoured +Driscoll, and had taken up his position at a convenient +spot on the course, thus describes his mode of encouraging +the mare:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“‘Skelp her, ye big brute!’ says I. ‘What good’s in ye that +ye aren’t able to skelp her?’... Well, Mr. Flurry, and gintlemen,... +I declare to ye when owld Bocock’s mare heard thim roars +she stretched out her neck like a gandher, and when she passed +me out she give a couple of grunts and looked at me as ugly as a +Christian. ‘Hah!’ says I, givin’ her a couple o’ dhraws o’ th’ +ash plant across the butt o’ the tail, the way I wouldn’t blind her, +‘I’ll make ye grunt!’ says I, ‘I’ll nourish ye!’ I knew well she +was very frightful of th’ ash plant since the winter Tommeen +Sullivan had her under a sidecar. But now, in place of havin’ any +obligations to me, ye’d be surprised if ye heard the blaspheemious +expressions of that young boy that was riding her; and whether it +was over-anxious he was, turning around the way I’d hear him +cursin’, or whether it was some slither or slide came to owld +Bocock’s mare, I dunno, but she was bet up against the last +obstackle but two, and before you could say ‘Shnipes,’ she was +standin’ on her two ears beyant in th’ other field. I declare to +ye, on the vartue of me oath, she stood that way till she reconnoithered +what side Driscoll would fall, an’ she turned about then +and rolled on him as cosy as if he was meadow grass!’ Slipper +stopped short; the people in the doorway groaned appreciatively; +Mary Kate murmured ‘The Lord save us’—‘The blood was druv +out through his nose and ears,’ continued Slipper, with a voice +that indicated the cream of the narration, ‘and you’d hear his +bones crackin’ on the ground! You’d have pitied the poor boy.’—‘Good +heavens!’ said Leigh Kelway, sitting up very straight in +his chair. ‘Was he hurt, Slipper?’ asked Flurry, casually. ‘Hurt +is it?’ echoed Slipper, in high scorn, ‘killed on the spot!’ He +paused to relish the effect of the <i>denouement</i> on Leigh Kelway. +‘Oh, divil so pleasant an afthernoon ever you seen; and, indeed, +Mr. Flurry, it’s what we were all sayin’, it was a great pity your +honour was not there for the likin’ you had for Driscoll.’”</p> +</div> + +<p>Leigh Kelway, it may be noted, is the lineal descendant +of the pragmatic English under-secretary in “Charles +O’Malley,” who, having observed that he had never +seen an Irish wake, was horrified by the prompt offer +of his Galway host, a notorious practical joker, to +provide a corpse on the spot. But this is only one +of the instances of parallelism in which the later writers +though showing far greater restraint and fidelity to +type, have illustrated the continuance of temperamental +qualities which Lever and his forerunner Maxwell—the +author of “Wild Sports of the West”—portrayed in +a more extravagant form. On the other hand it would +be impossible to imagine a greater contrast than that +between Lever’s thrasonical narrator heroes and Major +Yeates, R.M., whose fondness for sport is allied to a +thorough consciousness of his own infirmities as a +sportsman. There is no heroic figure in “Some +Experiences of an Irish R.M.,” but the characters are +all lifelike, and at least half-a-dozen—“Flurry” Knox, +his cousin Sally, and his old grandmother, Mrs. Knox, +of Aussolas, Slipper, Mrs. Cadogan, and the incomparable +Maria—form as integral a part of our circle of acquaintance +as if we had known them in real life. “The Real +Charlotte” is a greater achievement, but the R.M. is +a surer passport to immortality.</p> + +<p>The further instalment of “Experiences,” published +a few years later did not escape the common lot of +sequels. They were brilliantly written, but one was +more conscious of the excellence of the manner than in +any of their other works. The two volumes of short +stories and sketches published in 1903 and 1906 under +the titles of “All on the Irish Shore” and some “Irish +Yesterdays” respectively show some new and engaging +aspects of the genius of the collaborators. There is +a chapter called “Children of the Captivity,” in which +the would-be English humorist’s conception of Irish +humour is dealt with faithfully—as it deserves to be. +The essay is also remarkable for the passage in which +they set down once and for all the true canons for the +treatment of dialect. Pronunciation and spelling, as +they point out, are, after all, of small account in its +presentment:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“The vitalising power is in the rhythm of the sentence, the turn +of phrase, the knowledge of idiom, and of, beyond all, the attitude +of mind.... The shortcoming is, of course, trivial to those +who do not suffer because of it, but want of perception of word +and phrase and turn of thought means more than mere artistic +failure, it means want of knowledge of the wayward and shrewd +and sensitive minds that are at the back of the dialect. The very +wind that blows softly over brown acres of bog carries perfumes +and sounds that England does not know; the women digging the +potato-land are talking of things that England does not understand. +The question that remains is whether England will ever understand.”</p> +</div> + +<p>The hunting sketches in these volumes include the +wonderful “Patrick Day’s Hunt,” which is a masterpiece +in the high <i>bravura</i> of the brogue. Another is +noticeable for a passage on the affection inspired by +horses. When Johnny Connolly heard that his mistress +was driven to sell the filly he had trained and nursed so +carefully, he did not disguise his disappointment:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“‘Well, indeed, that’s too bad, miss,’ said Johnny comprehendingly. +‘There was a mare I had one time, and I sold her +before I went to America. God knows, afther she went from me, +whenever I’d look at her winkers hanging on the wall I’d have to cry. +I never seen a sight of her till three years afther that, afther I +coming home. I was coming out o’ the fair at Enniscar, an’ I was +talking to a man an’ we coming down Dangan Hill, and what was +in it but herself coming up in a cart! An’ I didn’t look at her, good +nor bad, nor know her, but sorra bit but she knew me talking, an’ +she turned into me with the cart. ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ says she, and she +stuck her nose into me like she’d be kissing me. Be dam, but I had +to cry. An’ the world wouldn’t stir her out o’ that till I’d lead her +on meself. As for cow nor dog nor any other thing, there’s nothing +would rise your heart like a horse!’”</p> +</div> + +<p>And if horses are irresistible, so are Centaurs. That is +the moral to be drawn from “Dan Russel the Fox,” +the latest work from the pen of Miss Somerville and Miss +Martin, in which the rival claims of culture and foxhunting +are subjected to a masterly analysis.</p> + +<p>The joint authors of the “R.M.” have paid forfeit +for achieving popularity by being expected to repeat +their first resounding success. Happily the pressure +of popular demand has not impaired the artistic excellence +of their work, though we cannot help thinking that if +they had been left to themselves they might have given +us at least one other novel on the lines of “The Real +Charlotte.” Their later work, again, has been subjected +to the ordeal, we do not say of conscious imitation, but +of comparison with books which would probably have +never been written or would have been written +on another plan, but for the success of the “R.M.” +To regard this rivalry as serious would be, in +the opinion of the present writer, an abnegation +of the critical faculty. But we have not yet done with +Irish women humorists. Miss Eleanor Alexander, the +daughter of the Poet Archbishop of Armagh and his +poet wife has given us in her “Lady Anne’s Walk,” a +volume of a <i>genre</i> as hard to define as it has been easy to +welcome, at times delicately allusive, now daringly funny—an +interblending of tender reminiscences and lively +fancy, reminding us perhaps most of old Irish music +itself with its sweet, strange and sudden changes of +mood. Humorous contrasts of the kind will be found +in the chapter entitled “Old Tummus and the Battle +of Scarva,” printed in these pages.</p> + +<p>Another woman contestant for humorous literary +honours was the late Miss Charlotte O’Conor Eccles, +represented in this volume by the moving story of +“King William.” Her “Rejuvenation of Miss +Semaphore” and “A Matrimonial Lottery” achieved +popularity by their droll situations and exuberant fun, +but her “Aliens of the West” contained work of much +finer quality. She lets us behind the shutters of Irish +country shop life in a most convincing manner, and the +characters drawn from her Toomevara are as true to +type as those of Miss Barlow. The disillusionment +of Molly Devine “The Voteen,” with her commonplace, +not to say vulgar surroundings, on her return from the +convent school with its superior refinements, her refusal +to marry so-called eligible, but to her, repulsive suitors, +encouraged by her mother and stepfather and her final +resolve to become a nun in order to escape further +persecution of the kind, is told with convincing poignancy. +A variant of this theme is treated with even more power +and pathos in “Tom Connolly’s Daughter,” a story +which we should like to see reprinted in separate form as +it sets one thinking furiously, and its general circulation +might do much to correct the love and marriage relations +between young people in provincial Ireland.</p> + +<p>And yet a final name has to be added to the long roll +of Irishwomen who have won distinction as writers of +fiction, beginning with Miss Edgeworth whose Irish +writings will receive separate treatment in a volume in +“Every Irishman’s Library” at the hands of Mr. Malcolm +Cotter Seton. Championed by Canon Hannay himself, +who furnishes a genial, whimsical, provocative introduction +to her “The Folk of Furry Farm,” Miss Purdon +there describes what, from the point of view of romance, +is a new part of Ireland, for West Leinster is a land +more familiar to fox-hunters than to poets. Miss +Purdon has plenty of independence, but it is not the +frigid impartiality of the student who contemplates +the vagaries and sufferings of human nature like a +connoisseur or collector. She shows her detachment +by giving us a faithful picture of Irish peasant society +without ever once breathing a syllable of politics, or +remotely alluding to the equipment and machinery of +modern life. The <i>dramatis personæ</i> are all simple folk, +most of them poor; the entire action passes within a +radius of a few miles from a country village; and only +on one occasion, and at second hand do we catch so much +as a glimpse of “the quality.” Throughout, Miss +Purdon relies on the turn of the phrase to give the spirit +of the dialect, and uses only a minimum of phonetic +spelling.</p> + +<p>That is the true and artistic method. But Miss Purdon +is much more than a collector or coiner of picturesque +and humorous phrases. She has a keen eye for character, +a genuine gift of description and a vein of pure and +unaffected sentiment; indeed, her whole volume is +strangely compounded of mirth and melancholy, +though the dominant impression left by its perusal +is one of confidence in the essential kindliness of Irish +nature, and the goodness and gentleness of Irish women.</p> + +<p>But so far, the only formidable competitor Miss Martin +and Miss Somerville have encountered is the genial +writer who chooses to veil his identity under the +freakish pseudonym of “George A. Birmingham.” +Canon Hannay—for there can be no longer any breach +of literary etiquette in alluding to him by his real name—had +already made his mark as a serious or semi-serious +observer of the conflicting tendencies, social and +political, of the Ireland of to-day before he diverged +into the paths of fantastic and frivolous comedy. “The +Seething Pot,” “Hyacinth,” and “Benedict Kavanagh” +are extremely suggestive and dispassionate studies of +various aspects of the Irish temperament, but it is enough +for our present purpose to note the consequences of a +request addressed to Canon Hannay by two young ladies +somewhere about the year 1907 that he would “write a +story about treasure buried on an island.” The fact is +recorded in the dedication of “Spanish Gold,” his +response to the appeal, and the first of that series of +jocund extravaganzas which have earned for him the +gratitude of all who regard amusement as the prime +object of fiction.</p> + +<p>The contrast between his methods and those of the +joint authors discussed above is apparent at every turn. +He maintains the impartiality which marked his serious +novels in his treatment of all classes of the community, +but it is the impartiality not of a detached and self-effacing +observer, but of a genial satirist. His knowledge +of the Ireland that he knows is intimate and precise, and +is shown by a multiplicity of illuminating details and an +effective use of local colour. But the co-operation of non-Irish +characters is far more essential to the development +of his plots than in the case of the novels of Miss +Somerville and Miss Martin. The mainspring of their +stories is Irish right through. Canon Hannay depends on +a situation which might have occurred just as well in +England or America, while employing the conditions +of Irish life to give it a characteristic twist or series of +twists. Even his most notable creation, the Reverend +Joseph John Meldon, is too restlessly energetic to be +an altogether typical Irishman, to say nothing of his +unusual attitude in politics: “Nothing on earth would +induce me to mix myself up with any party.” An +Irishman of immense mental activity, living in Ireland, +and yet wholly unpolitical is something of a freak. +Again, while the tone of his books is admirably clean and +wholesome, and while his frankly avowed distaste for +the squalors of the problem novel will meet with general +sympathy, there is no denying that his treatment of the +“love interest” is for the most part perfunctory or even +farcical. Again, in regard to style, he differs widely +from the authors of the “R.M.” Their note is a vivid +conciseness; his the easy charm of a flowing pen, always +unaffected, often picturesque and even eloquent, never +offending, but seldom practising the art of omission.</p> + +<p>But it is ungrateful to subject to necessarily damaging +comparisons an author to whom we owe the swift passage +of so many pleasant hours. It might be hard to find +the exact counterpart of “J.J.” in the flesh, but he is +none the less an unforgettable person, this athletic, +exuberant, unkempt curate, unscrupulous but not +unprincipled, who lied fluently, not for any mean +purpose, but for the joy of mystification, or in order to +carry out his plans, or justify his arguments. His strange +friendship with Major Kent, a retired English officer, +a natty martinet, presents no difficulties on the principle +of extremes meeting, and thus from the start we are +presented with the spectacle of the reluctant but helpless +Major, hypnotised by the persuasive tongue of the +curate, and dragged at his heels into all sorts of grotesque +and humiliating adventures, and all for the sake of a +quiet life. For “J.J.’s” methods, based, according +to his own account, on careful observation and a proper +use of the scientific imagination, involve the assumption +by his reluctant confederate of a succession of entirely +imaginary roles.</p> + +<p>But if “J.J.” was a trying ally, he was a still more +perplexing antagonist, one of his favourite methods of +“scoring off” an opponent being to represent him to be +something other than he really was to third persons. +When the process brings the curate and the Major +into abrupt conflict with two disreputable adventurers, +he defends resort to extreme methods on grounds of +high morality. Burglary, theft and abduction become +the simple duty of every well-disposed person when +viewed as a necessary means of preventing selfish, +depraved and fundamentally immoral people from +acquiring wealth which the well-disposed might otherwise +secure.</p> + +<p>“J.J.’s” crowning achievement is his conquest of +Mr. Willoughby, the Chief Secretary, by a masterly +vindication of his conduct on the lines of Pragmatism: +“a statement isn’t a lie if it proves itself in actual practice +to be useful—it’s true.” “J.J.” only once meets his +match—in Father Mulcrone, the parish priest of Inishmore, +who sums up the philosophy of government in his +criticism of Mr. Willoughby’s successor: “A fellow that +starts off by thinking himself clever enough to know what’s +true and what isn’t will do no good for Ireland. A +simple-hearted innocent kind of man has a better chance.”</p> + +<p>Needless to say, the rival treasure-hunters, both of +them rogues, are bested at all points by the two padres, +while poetic justice is satisfied by the fact that the treasure +falls into the adhesive hands of the poor islanders, and +“J.J.’s” general integrity is fully re-established in the +epilogue, where, transplanted to an English colliery +village, he devotes his energies to the conversion of +agnostics, blasphemers and wife-beaters.</p> + +<p>The extravagance of the plot is redeemed by the +realism of the details; by acute sidelights on the tortuous +workings of the native mind, with its strange blending +of shrewdness and innocence; by faithful reproductions +of the talk of those “qui amant omnia dubitantius loqui” +and habitually say “it might” instead of “yes.” And +there are delightful digressions on the subject of relief +works, hits at the Irish-speaking movement, pungent +classifications of the visitors to the wild West of Ireland, +and now, and again, in the rare moments when the +author chooses to be serious, passages marked by fine +insight and sympathy. Such is the picture of Thomas +O’Flaherty Pat, the patriarch of the treasure island:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“An elderly man and five out of the nine children resident on the +island stood on the end of the pier when Meldon and the Major +landed. The man was clad in a very dirty white flannel jacket and +a pair of yellowish flannel trousers, which hung in a tattered fringe +round his naked feet and ankles. He had a long white beard and +grey hair, long as a woman’s, drawn straight back from his forehead. +The hair and beard were both unkempt and matted. But the man +held himself erect and looked straight at the strangers through great +dark eyes. His hands, though battered and scarred with toil were +long and shapely. His face had a look of dignity, of a certain calm +and satisfied superiority. Men of this kind are to be met with here +and there among the Connacht peasantry. They are in reality +children of a vanishing race, of a lost civilisation, a bygone culture. +They watch the encroachments of another race and new ideas with +a sort of sorrowful contempt. It is as if understanding and despising +what they see around them, they do not consider it worth while to +try to explain themselves; as if, possessing a wisdom of their own, +an æsthetic joy of which the modern world knows nothing, they are +content to let both die with them rather than attempt to teach them +to men of a wholly different outlook upon life.”</p> +</div> + +<p>The element of extravaganza is more strongly marked +in the plot of “The Search Party,” which deals with the +kidnapping of a number of innocent people by an anti-militant +anarchist who has set up a factory of explosives +in the neighbourhood of Ballymoy. “J.J.” does not +appear <i>in propriâ personâ</i>, but most of his traits are to +be found in Dr. O’Grady, an intelligent but happy-go-lucky +young doctor. The most attractive person in +the story, however, is Lord Manton, a genially cynical +peer with highly original views on local government and +the advantages of unpopularity. Thus, when he did +not want Patsy Devlin, the drunken smith, to be elected +inspector of sheep-dipping, he strongly supported his +candidature for the following reasons:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“There’s a lot of stupid talk nowadays about the landlords +having lost all their power in the country. It’s not a bit true. They +have plenty of power, more than they ever had, if they only knew +how to use it. All I have to do if I want a particular man not to be +appointed to anything is to write a strong letter in his favour to the +Board of Guardians or the County Council, or whatever body is doing +the particular job that happens to be on hand at the time. The +League comes down on my man at once, and he hasn’t the ghost of +a chance.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Excellent, too, is the digression on the comparative +commonness of earls in Ireland, where untitled people +tend to disappear while earls survive, though they are +regarded much as ordinary people. Canon Hannay +makes great play as usual with the humours of Irish +officialdom, and his <i>obiter dicta</i> on the mental outlook of +police officers are shrewd as well as entertaining. +District-Inspector Goddard had undoubted social gifts, +but he was an inefficient officer, being handicapped by +indolence and a great sense of humour. There is something +attractive, again, about Miss Blow, the handsome, +resolute, prosaic young Englishwoman whose heroic +efforts to trace her vanished lover are baffled at every +turn. Everybody in Ballymoy told her lies, with the +result that they seemed to her heartless and cruel when +in reality they wished to spare her feelings. Others of +the <i>dramatis personæ</i> verge on caricature, but the story +has many exhilarating moments.</p> + +<p>Exhilarating, too, is “The Major’s Niece,” which is +founded on an extremely improbable <i>imbroglio</i>. So +precise and business-like a man as Major Kent was not +likely to make a mistake of seven or eight years in the +age of a visitor especially when the visitor happened to +be his own sister’s child. However, the initial improbability +may be readily condoned in view of the entertaining +sequel. “J.J.” reappears in his best form, +Marjorie is a most engaging tomboy, and the fun never +flags for an instant. But much as we love “J.J.,” +we reluctantly recognise in “The Simpkins Plot” +that you can have too much of a good thing, and +that a man who would be a nuisance as a neighbour +in real life is in danger of becoming a bore in a novel. +At the same time the digressions and irrelevancies are +as good as ever. It is pleasant to be reminded of such +facts as that wedding cake is invariably eaten by the +Irish post office officials, or to listen to Doctor +O’Donoghue on the nutrition of infants:</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“You can rear a child, whether it has the whooping cough +or not, on pretty near anything, so long as you give it enough of +whatever it is you do give it.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Canon Hannay excels in the conduct of an absurd +or paradoxical proposition, but he needs a word of +friendly caution against undue reliance on the mechanism +of the practical joke. Perhaps his English cure has +demoralized “J.J.,” but we certainly prefer him as he +was in Inishgowlan, convinced by practical experience +that he would rather do any mortal thing than try to +mind a baby and make butter at the same time.</p> + +<p>Of Canon Hannay’s later novels, two demand special +attention and for widely different reasons. In “The +Red Hand of Ulster,” reverting to politics—politics, +moreover, of the most explosive kind—he achieved the +well-nigh impossible in at once doing full justice to the +dour sincerity of the Orange North, and yet conciliating +Nationalist susceptibilities. In “The Inviolable +Sanctuary,” he has shown that a first-rate public-school +athlete, whose skill in pastime is confined to ball games +cuts a sorry figure alongside of a chit of a girl who can +handle a boat. This salutary if humiliating truth is enforced +not from any desire to further Feminist principles—Canon +Hannay’s attitude towards women betrays no +belief in the equality of the sexes—but because he cannot +be bothered with the sentimentality of conventional +love-making. It may be on this account that he more +than once assigns a leading role to an ingenuous young +Amazon into whose ken the planet of love will not swim +for another four or five years.</p> + +<p>During the last thirty years the alleged decadence of +Irish humour has been a frequent theme of pessimistic +critics. Various causes have been invoked to account +for the phenomenon, which, when dispassionately +considered, amounted to this, that the rollicking novel +of incident and adventure had died with Lever. So, for +the matter of that, had novels of the “Frank Fairleigh” +type, with their authors. The ascendancy of Parnell and +the régime of the Land League did not make for gaiety, +yet even these influences were powerless to eradicate +the inherent absurdities of Irish life, and the authors of +the “R.M.” entered on a career which has been a +triumphal disproval of this allegation as far back as 1889. +At their best they have interpreted normal Irishmen +and Irishwomen, gentle and simple, with unsurpassed +fidelity and sympathy. But to award them the supremacy +in this <i>genre</i> both as realists and as writers does not +detract from the success won in a different sphere by +Canon Hannay. His goal is less ambitious and aim is +less unfaltering, but as an improvisor of whimsical +situations and an ironic commentator on the actualities +of Irish life he has invented a new form of literary +entertainment which has the double merit of being at +once diverting and instructive.</p> + +<p>But as we believe this volume will sufficiently show, +though these three novelists have so far transcended +the achievements of contemporary writers on Irish life, +they are being followed at no long distance by younger +writers, for whom they have helped to find a public +and in whose more mature achievements they may have +to acknowledge a serious literary rivalry. We have +dealt with the women writers to be found in this new +group. It remains for us to criticise the work of the men +who belong to it.</p> + +<p>Mr. John Stevenson, otherwise Pat Carty, whose +Rhymes have been so charmingly set to music by Sir +Charles Stanford, and so delightfully sung by Mr. +Plunket-Greene, possesses a whimsical gift, both in prose +and verse, which gives fresh evidence of the awakening +of an Ulster school of humorists. His “Boy in the +Country” is descriptive of a child’s companionship +in the country with farmers and their wives and servants, +his falling under the spell of a beautiful lady whose +romance he assists like a true young cavalier, and his +association with that formidable open-air imp, Jim, +a little dare-devil poacher and hard swearer, who sailed +his boats with strips cut from his shirt tails and could +give a canting minister as good as he got, instead of +cowering under his preachment. The manners and +customs of the farming class in the “Nine Glens of +Antrim” could not be more simply and humorously +told, and when the author divagates into such sketches +as “The Wise Woman and the Wise Man,” and breaks +into occasional verse faithfully descriptive of his natural +surroundings, he is equally delightful.</p> + +<p>Of course, he is not as old a craftsman as Mr. Shan +Bullock, whose dry drollery has given the readers of +his novels and stories so much pleasure, and whose serious +purpose and close observation of Northern Irish character +are so well recognised by all serious students of Irish +life. He is represented in the volume by “The Wee +Tea-Table,” a life-like sketch taken from his “Irish +Pastorals.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Frank Mathew, whose first literary work +was his biography of his illustrious grand-uncle Father +Mathew, has also written some admirable stories of Irish +life, which appeared in “The Idler,” and have been +collected in a volume called “At the Rising of the Moon.” +“The Last Race,” by which he is represented in this +volume, will give our readers a good taste of his graphic +quality.</p> + +<p>Mr. Padric Colum will speak for himself on Irish +fiction in his introduction to an edition of Gerald Griffin’s +“Collegians,” which is to form part of this series of +Irish volumes. His finely distinctive literary style +and intimate knowledge of Irish peasant life so clearly +exhibited in his poems, plays and stories, is shown in these +pages by that remarkable sketch of “Maelshaughlinn +at the Fair,” written with the elemental abandon of +Synge himself.</p> + +<p>Finally, in absolute contrast with Mr. Colum’s idealistic +work, comes the humorous realism of Lynn Doyle’s +pictures of the Ulster Peasantry. But their efforts to +over-reach one another, their love of poaching, and +their marriage operations, afford the author of “Ballygullion” +a congenial field for the display of his observation, +his high spirits, and his genuine sense of the +ridiculous. His comedy of “The Ballygullion Creamery +Society” which fitly concludes this volume, is good, +hearty, wholesome fun, and we only trust, in Ireland’s +best interests, that its official stamp, a wreath of shamrocks +and orange lilies—is not merely an unlikely if amiable +suggestion, but is yet to have its counterpart in reality.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Preface.</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">The</span> fiction of which this volume consists is in part +fabulous in character, in part descriptive of actual +Irish life upon its lighter side.</p> + +<p>The Heroic stories and Folk-tales are, on chronological +grounds, printed early in the book and are then followed +by extracts from the writings of the Irish novelists +of the first half and third quarter of the 19th Century—Maginn, +Lever, Lover, and LeFanu.</p> + +<p>Then come the writers who have made their mark in +recent times, such as Miss Jane Barlow, the authors +of “Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.,” and Canon +Hannay, and lastly those of a new school amongst whom +may be named Mr. Padraic Colum, “Lynn Doyle,” +and Miss K. Purdon.</p> + +<p>This may be said to be the general order of the +contents of “Humours of Irish Life.” But where +artistic propriety, suggesting contrasts of local colour +and changes of subject, has called for it, a strict chronological +sequence has been departed from; yet enough +of it remains to enable the critic to observe what we +believe to be a change for the better, both in the taste +and technique of these Irish stories and sketches, as time +has gone by.</p> + +<p>It remains for us to express our cordial obligations +to the following authors and publishers for the use of +copyright material. To Messrs. Macmillan and Miss +B. Hunt for the story of “McCarthy of Connacht,” +from “Folk Tales of Breffny”; to Canon Hannay +and Messrs. Methuen for chapters from “Spanish +Gold” and “The Adventures of Dr. Whitty,” entitled +“J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary,” and “The +Interpreters”; to Mr. H. de Vere Stacpoole and +Mr. Fisher Unwin for “The Meet of the Beagles,” +from the novel of “Patsy”; to Miss O’Conor Eccles +and Messrs. Cassell for “King William,” a story in +the late Miss Charlotte O’Conor Eccles’s “Aliens +of the West”; to Miss Eleanor Alexander and Mr. +Edward Arnold for “Old Tummus and the Battle +of Scarva,” from “Lady Anne’s Walk,” and to the +same publisher and to Mr. John Stevenson for a +chapter entitled “The Wise Woman” from “A Boy in +the Country”; to Messrs. James Duffy and Sons +for Kickham’s Story of “The Thrush and the +Blackbird”; to Mr. William Percy French for “The +First Lord Liftenant”; to Mr. Frank Mathew for +“Their Last Race,” from his volume “At the rising of +the Moon”; to Miss K. Purdon for a chapter entitled +“The Game Leg,” from her novel “The Folk of Furry +Farm,” and to its publishers, Messrs. James Nisbet and +Co. Ltd.; to Dr. Douglas Hyde for his Folk-tale of +“The Piper and the Puca”; to Martin Ross and Miss +E. Œ. Somerville and Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., +for the use of two chapters—“Trinket’s Colt” and “The +Boat’s Share”—from “Some Experiences of an Irish +R.M.” and “Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.” +respectively; to Mr. Shan Bullock for “The Wee Tea +Table,” from his “Irish Pastorals”; to Miss Jane +Barlow and Messrs. Hutchinson for “Quin’s Rick,” +from “Doings and Dealings,” and for “A Test of +Truth,” from “Irish Neighbours”; to Mr. Padraic +Colum for his sketch “Maelshaughlinn at the Fair,” +from his “A Year of Irish Life,” and to the publishers +of the book, Messrs. Mills and Boon, Ltd.; to its author, +“Lynn Doyle,” and its publishers, Maunsel & Co., for +“The Ballygullion Creamery,” from “Ballygullion”; +and to Mr. P. J. McCall and the proprietors of “The +Shamrock” for the story “Fionn MacCumhail and the +Princess.”</p> + +<p>Finally, acknowledgment is due to the courtesy of the +Proprietors and Editor of “The Quarterly Review” +for leave to incorporate in the Introduction an article +which appeared in the issue of that periodical for June, +1913.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">CONTENTS</p> + +<table class="ws" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="tcr f80" colspan="3">PAGE</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Daniel O’Rourke</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Dr. Maginn</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Adventures of Gilla na Chreck an Gour</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Patrick Kennedy</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page9">9</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Little Weaver of Duleek Gate</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Samuel Lover</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page18">18</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Fionn MacCumhail and the Princess</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Patrick J. McCall</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page30">30</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Kildare Pooka</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Patrick Kennedy</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page38">38</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Piper and the Puca</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page42">42</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">McCarthy of Connacht</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>B. Hunt</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page46">46</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>William Carleton</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page58">58</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Frank Webber’s Wager</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Charles Lever</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page72">72</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Sam Wham and the Sawmont</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page82">82</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Darby Doyle’s Voyage to Quebec</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Thomas Ettingsall</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page84">84</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Bob Burke’s Duel</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Dr. Maginn</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page92">92</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Billy Maloney’s Taste of Love and Glory</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page105">105</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">A Pleasant Journey</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Charles Lever</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page123">123</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Battle of Aughrim</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>William Carleton</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page131">131</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Quare Gander</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page139">139</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Thrush and the Blackbird</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Charles J. Kickham</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page148">148</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Their Last Race</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Frank Mathew</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page154">154</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The First Lord Liftinant</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>William Percy French</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page159">159</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Boat’s Share</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>E. Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page167">167</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl">“<span class="sc">King William</span>”</td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Charlotte O’Conor Eccles</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page179">179</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Quin’s Rick</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Jane Barlow</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page200">200</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Maelshaughlinn at the Fair</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Padraic Colum</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page213">213</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Rev. J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>George A. Birmingham</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page220">220</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Old Tummus and the Battle of Scarva</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Eleanor Alexander</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page235">235</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Game Leg</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>K. F. Purdon</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page244">244</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">Trinket’s Colt</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>E. Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page258">258</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Wee Tea Table</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Shan Bullock</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page276">276</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Interpreters</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>George A. Birmingham</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page290">290</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">A Test of Truth</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>Jane Barlow</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page307">307</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Wise Woman</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>John Stevenson</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page314">314</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">The Meet of the Beagles</span></td> <td class="tcr"><i>H. de Vere Stacpoole</i></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page324">324</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl cl"><span class="sc">The Ballygullion Creamery Society, Limited</span></td> <td class="tcr cl"><i>Lynn Doyle</i></td> <td class="tcr cl"><a href="#page336">336</a></td></tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">AUTHORS REPRESENTED</p> + +<table class="ws" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="tcr f80" colspan="2">PAGE</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Alexander, Eleanor</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page235">235</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Barlow, Jane</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page200">200</a>, <a href="#page307">307</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Birmingham, George A.</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page220">220</a>, <a href="#page290">290</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Bullock, Shan</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page276">276</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Carleton, William</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page58">58</a>, <a href="#page131">131</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Colum, Padraic</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page213">213</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Doyle, Lynn</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page336">336</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Eccles, Charlotte O’Conor</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page179">179</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Ettingsall, Thomas</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page84">84</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Ferguson, Sir Samuel</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page82">82</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">French, William Percy</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page159">159</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Hunt, B.</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page46">46</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Hyde, Douglas</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page42">42</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Kennedy, Patrick</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page9">9</a>, <a href="#page38">38</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Kickham, Charles Joseph</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page148">148</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page105">105</a>, <a href="#page139">139</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Lever, Charles</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page72">72</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Lover, Samuel</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page18">18</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Maginn, Dr.</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page1">1</a>, <a href="#page92">92</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Mathew, Frank</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page154">154</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">McCall, Patrick J.</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page30">30</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Purdon, K. F.</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page244">244</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Somerville, E. Œ. and Ross, Martin</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page258">258</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Stacpoole, H. de Vere</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page324">324</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl"><span class="sc">Stevenson, John</span></td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page314">314</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>1</span></p> + +<p class="pt2 f200 center" style="color: #993300;"> +HUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Daniel O’Rourke.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From Crofton Croker’s “Fairy Legends and Traditions of +the South of Ireland.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Dr. Maginn (1793-1842).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">People</span> may have heard of the renowned adventures +of Daniel O’Rourke, but how few are there who know +that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was +neither more nor less than his having slept under the +walls of the Phooka’s tower. I knew the man well: +he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill. He told me his +story thus:—</p> + +<p>“I am often axed to tell it, sir, so that this is not the +first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from +beyond foreign parts; and sure enough there was a +dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle +and simple, high and low, rich and poor. Well, we +had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we +ate, and we drunk, and we danced. To make a long +story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing +as tipsy almost. And so, as I was crossing the stepping-stones +of the ford of Ballyasheenogh, I missed my foot, +and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought +I, ‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began +swimming, swimming, swimming away for dear life, +till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never +the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>2</span></p> + +<p>“I wandered, and wandered about there, without +knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into +a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, +or your lady’s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning +her), and I looked east and west, and north and +south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, +bog, bog. I began to scratch me head, and sing the +Ullagone—when all of a sudden the moon grew black, +and I looked up, and saw something for all the world +as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could +not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, +and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but +an eagle? So he looked at me in the face, and says he +to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he, ‘how do you do?’ +‘Very well, I thank you sir,’ says I; ‘I hope you’re +well’; wondering out of my senses all the time how +an eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings +you here, Dan?’ says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says +I: ‘only I wish I was safe home again.’ ‘Is it out +of the island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis, +sir,’ says I. ‘Dan,’ says he, ‘though it is very improper +for you to get drunk on Lady-day, yet, as you are a +decent, sober man, who ‘tends Mass well, and never +flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the +fields—my life for yours,’ says he, ‘so get on my back +and grip me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you +out of the bog.’ ‘I am afraid,’ says I, ‘your honour’s +making game of me; for who ever heard of riding +horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of +a gentleman,’ says he, putting his right foot on his +breast, ‘I am quite in earnest: and so now either take +my offer or starve in the bog—besides, I see that your +weight is sinking the stone.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>3</span></p> + +<p>“It was true enough, as he said, for I found the stone +every minute going from under me. ‘I thank your +honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll +take your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the +back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the +throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I +knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up, +dear knows how far he flew. ‘Why, then,’ said I +to him—thinking he did not know the right road home—very +civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely: +‘sir,’ says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with +humble submission to your better judgment, if you’d +fly down a bit, you’re now just over my cabin, and I +could be put down there, and many thanks to your +worship.’</p> + +<p>“‘Arrah, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? +Look down in the next field, and don’t you see two men +and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be +shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I +picked off a cowld stone in a bog.’ Well, sir, up he +kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to +fly down, and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are +you going, sir?’ says I to him. ‘Hold your tongue, +Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and don’t +be interfering with the business of other people.’</p> + +<p>“At last where should we come to, but to the moon +itself. Now, you can’t see it from this, but there is, +or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out +of the side of the moon, this way’ (drawing the figure +thus on the ground with the end of his stick).</p> + +<p>“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long +fly; I had no notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And, my lord, sir,’ +said I, ‘who in the world axed you to fly so far—was it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>4</span> +I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop +half-an-hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’ +says he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, +and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is +it sit down on the moon?’ said I; ‘is it upon that +little round thing, then? why, sure, I’d fall off in a +minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits; +you are a vile deceiver, so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ +said he; ‘you can catch fast hold of the reaping hook +that’s sticking out of the side of the moon, and ‘twill +keep you up.’ ‘I won’t, then,’ said I. ‘May be not,’ +said he, quite quiet. ‘But if you don’t, my man, I shall +just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send +you down to the ground, where every bone in your +body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a +cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a +fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ever to have come along +with the likes of you’; and so, giving him a hearty +curse in Irish, for fear he’d know what I said, I got off +his back, with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, +and sat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold +seat it was, I can tell you that.</p> + +<p>“When he had me fairly landed, he turned about on +me, and said, ‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ +said he; ‘I think I’ve nicked you fairly now. You +robbed me nest last year’ (’twas true enough for him, +but how he found it out is hard to say), ‘and in return +you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon +the moon like a cockthrow.’</p> + +<p>“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you +brute, you?’ says I. ‘You ugly, unnatural baste, and +is this the way you serve me at last?’ ’Twas all to no +manner of use; he spread out his great, big wings, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>5</span> +burst out laughing, and flew away like lightning. I +bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and +bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he +went, and I never saw him from that day to this—sorrow +fly away with him! You may be sure I was in +a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the +bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the +middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had +not been opened for a month before—I suppose they +never thought of greasing ‘em, and out there walks—who +do you think, but the man in the moon himself? +I knew him by his bush.</p> + +<p>“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ says he; +‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, thank your honour,’ +said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’ ‘What brought +you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how it was.</p> + +<p>“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch +of snuff, when I was done, ‘you must not stay here.’</p> + +<p>“‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much against my will I’m +here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s your +business,’ said he; ‘Dan, mine is to tell you that you +must not stay, so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m +doing no harm,’ says I, ‘only holding on hard by the +reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ ‘That’s what you must +not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I ask +how many you are in family, that you would not give +a poor traveller lodging; I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re +troubled with strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a +long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, Dan,’ says he; ‘but +you’d better let go the reaping hook.’ ‘And with your +leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more +you bids me, the more I won’t let go;—so I will.’ +‘You had better, Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>6</span> +little fellow,’ says I, taking the whole weight of him +with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two words +to that bargain; and I’ll not budge, but you may if +you like.’ ‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; +and back he went, giving the door such a great bang +after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought +the moon and all would fall down with it.</p> + +<p>“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with +him, when back again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver +in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs +to the handle of the reaping hook that was keeping me +up, and whap! it came in two. ‘Good morning to +you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when +he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle +in my hand; ‘I thank you for your visit, and fair +weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not time to make +any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, +and rolling, and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘This +is a pretty pickle,’ says I, ‘for a decent man to be seen +at this time of night: I am now sold fairly.’ The word +was not out of my mouth when, whizz! what should +fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the +way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, or else, how +should they know me? The ould gander, who was +their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, +‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The same,’ said I, not a bit +daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time +used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I knew him +of ould. ‘Good morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel +O’Rourke; how are you in health this morning?’ +‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you kindly,’ drawing my +breath, for I was mighty in want of some. ‘I hope +your honour’s the same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>7</span> +Daniel,’ says he. ‘You may say that, sir,’ says I. +‘And where are you going all the way so fast?’ said +the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, +and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way +in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up +to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me +out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you: put out your +hand and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’</p> + +<p>“‘Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,’ +says I, though all the time I thought within myself that +I don’t much trust you; but there was no help, so I +caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other +geese flew after him as fast as hops.</p> + +<p>“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came +right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape +Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. +‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought it best +to keep a civil tongue in my head, any way, ‘fly to land +if you please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said +he, ‘for a while, because, you see, we are going to Arabia.’ +‘To Arabia!’ said I; ‘that’s surely some place in +foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose: why, then, +to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, +whist, you fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you +Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carbery +as one egg is like another, only there is a little more sand +there.’</p> + +<p>“Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding +so beautiful before the wind; ‘Ah! then, sir,’ +said I, ‘will you drop me on the ship if you please?’ +‘We are not fair over her,’ said he. ‘We are,’ said I. +‘We are not,’ said he; ‘If I dropped you now you +would go splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>8</span> +‘I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so +let me drop now, at once.’ ‘If you must, you must,’ +said he; ‘there, take your own way,’ and he opened +his claw, and, ‘deed, he was right—sure enough, I came +down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down +to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then for +ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself +after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in the face, +and never the word did he say, but, lifting up his tail, +he splashed me all over again with the cold, salt water +till there wasn’t a dry stitch on my whole carcase; and +I heard somebody saying—’twas a voice I knew, too—‘Get +up, you drunken brute, off o’ that’; and with that +I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water +which she was splashing all over me—for, rest her +soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear +to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. +‘Get up,’ said she again: ‘and of all places in the parish +would no place sarve your turn to lie down upon but +under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy +resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure enough I +had: for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with +eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders, +and whales driving me through bogs, and up to the +moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. +If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before +I’d lie down in the same spot again, I know that.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>9</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Adventures of Gilla na Chreck +an Gour.</p> + +<p class="center">(THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT SKIN).</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Patrick Kennedy (1801-1873).</p> + +<p class="center">(Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect.)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Long</span> ago a poor widow woman lived down by the +iron forge near Enniscorthy, and she was so poor, she +had no clothes to put on her son; so she used to fix +him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm +ashes about him; and, accordingly, as he grew up, +she sunk the pit deeper. At last, by hook or by crook, +she got a goat-skin and fastened it round his waist, +and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the +street. So, says she to him next morning, “Tom, you +thief, you never done any good yet, and you six-foot +high, and past nineteen; take that rope and bring me a +<i>bresna</i> from the wood.” “Never say’t twice, mother,” +says Tom; “here goes.”</p> + +<p>When he had it gathered and tied, what should come +up but a big <i>joiant</i>, nine-foot high, and made a lick of +a club at him. Well become Tom, he jumped a-one +side and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack he +gave the big fellow he made him kiss the clod. “If +you have e’er a prayer,” says Tom, “now’s the time to +say it, before I make <i>brishe</i> of you.” “I have no +prayers,” says the giant, “but if you spare my life I’ll +give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin +you’ll win every battle you ever fight with it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>10</span></p> + +<p>Tom made no bones about letting him off; and as +soon as he got the club in his hands he sat down on the +bresna and gave it a tap with the kippeen, and says, +“Bresna, I had a great trouble gathering you, and run +the risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to +carry me home.” And, sure enough, the wind of the +word was all it wanted. It went off through the wood, +groaning and cracking till it came to the widow’s door.</p> + +<p>Well, when the sticks were all burned Tom was sent +off again to pick more; and this time he had to fight +with a giant with two heads on him. Tom had a little +more trouble with him—that’s all; and the prayers <i>he</i> +said was to give Tom a fife that nobody could help +dancing to when he was playing it. <i>Begonies</i>, he made +the big faggot dance home, with himself sitting on it. +Well, if you were to count all the steps from this to +Dublin, dickens a bit you’d ever arrive there. The next +giant was a beautiful boy with three heads on him. +He had neither prayers nor catechism no more nor +the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green ointment +that wouldn’t let you be burned, nor scalded, +nor wounded. “And now,” says he, “there’s no more +of us. You may come and gather sticks here till little +Lunacy Day in harvest without giant or fairy man to +disturb you.”</p> + +<p>Well, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and +used to take a walk down the street in the heel of the +evening; but some of the little boys had no more manners +nor if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their +tongues at Tom’s club and Tom’s goat-skin. He +didn’t like that at all, and it would be mean to give one +of them a clout. At last, what should come through +the town but a kind of bellman, only it’s a big bugle +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>11</span> +he had, and a huntsman’s cap on his head, and a kind +of painted shirt. So this—he wasn’t a bellman, and I +don’t know what to call him—bugleman, maybe—proclaimed +that the King of Dublin’s daughter was so +melancholy that she didn’t give a laugh for seven years, +and that her father would grant her in marriage to +whoever would make her laugh three times. “That’s +the very thing for me to try,” says Tom; and so, +without burning any more daylight, he kissed his +mother, curled his club at the little boys, and set off +along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.</p> + +<p>At last Tom came to one of the City gates and the +guards laughed and cursed at him instead of letting him +through. Tom stood it all for a little time, but at last +one of them—out of fun, as he said—drove his <i>bagnet</i> +half an inch or so into his side. Tom did nothing +but take the fellow by the scruff of his neck and the +waistband of his corduroys and fling him into the canal. +Some ran to pull the fellow out, and others to let manners +into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; +but a tap from his club sent them headlong into the +moat or down on the stones, and they were soon begging +him to stay his hands.</p> + +<p>So at last one of them was glad enough to show +Tom the way to the Palace yard; and there was the +King and the Queen, and the princess in a gallery, +looking at all sorts of wrestling and sword-playing, +and <i>rinka-fadhas</i> (long dances) and mumming, all +to please the princess; but not a smile came over her +handsome face.</p> + +<p>Well, they all stopped when they seen the young +giant, with his boy’s face and long, black hair, and his +short, curly beard—for his poor mother couldn’t afford +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>12</span> +to buy razhurs—and his great, strong arms and bare +legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from +his waist to his knees. But an envious, wizened <i>basthard</i> +of a fellow, with a red head, that wished to be married +to the princess, and didn’t like how she opened her eyes +at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very +snappishly. “My business,” says Tom, says he, +“is to make the beautiful princess, God bless her, +laugh three times.” “Do you see all them merry +fellows and skilful swordsmen,” says the other, “that +could eat you up without a grain of salt, and not a mother’s +soul of ‘em ever got a laugh from her these seven years?” +So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the bad man +aggravated him till he told them he didn’t care a pinch +of snuff for the whole bilin’ of ‘em; let ‘em come on, +six at a time, and try what they could do. The King, +that was too far off to hear what they were saying, asked +what did the stranger want. “He wants,” says the +red-headed fellow, “to make hares of your best men.” +“Oh!” says the King, “if that’s the way, let one of +‘em turn out and try his mettle.” So one stood forward, +with sword and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom. He +struck the fellow’s elbow with the club, and up over their +heads flew the sword, and down went the owner of it on +the gravel from a thump he got on the helmet. Another +took his place, and another and another, and then half-a-dozen +at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and +bodies rolling over and over, and themselves bawling +out that they were kilt, and disabled, and damaged, +and rubbing their poor elbows and hips, and limping +away. Tom contrived not to kill anyone; and the +princess was so amused that she let a great, sweet laugh +out of her that was heard all over the yard. “King of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>13</span> +Dublin,” says Tom, “I’ve the quarter of your +daughter.” And the King didn’t know whether he was +glad or sorry, and all the blood in the princess’s heart +run into her cheeks.</p> + +<p>So there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was +invited to dine with the royal family. Next day Redhead +told Tom of a wolf, the size of a yearling heifer, that used +to be <i>serenading</i> (sauntering) about the walls, and eating +people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would +give the King to have it killed. “With all my +heart,” says Tom. “Send a jackeen to show me +where he lives, and we’ll see how he behaves to a +stranger.”</p> + +<p>The princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked +a different person with fine clothes and a nice +green <i>birredh</i> over his long, curly hair; and besides, +he’d got one laugh out of her. However, the King gave +his consent, and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf +was walking in the palace yard, and Tom a step or two +behind, with his club on his shoulder, just as a shepherd +would be walking after a pet lamb. The King and +Queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the +officers and people of the court that were <i>padrowling</i> +about the great bawn, when they saw the big baste +coming in gave themselves up, and began to make +for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, +as if he was saying, “Wouldn’t I enjoy a breakfast +off a couple of yez!” The King shouted out, “O +Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf +and you must have all my daughter.” But Tom didn’t +mind him a bit. He pulled out his flute and began +to play like vengeance; and dickens a man or boy in +the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>14</span> +wolf himself was obliged to get on his hind legs and +dance <i>Tatther Jack Walsh</i> along with the rest. A good +deal of the people got inside and shut the doors, the way +the hairy fellow wouldn’t pin them; but Tom kept +playing, and the outsiders kept shouting and dancing, +and the wolf kept dancing and roaring with the pain +his legs were giving him; and all the time he had his +eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest. +Wherever Redhead went the wolf followed, and kept +one eye on him and the other on Tom, to see if he would +give him leave to eat him. But Tom shook his head, +and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped +dancing and bawling and the wolf dancing and roaring, +one leg up and the other down, and he ready to drop +out of his standing from fair tiresomeness.</p> + +<p>When the princess seen that there was no fear of anyone +being kilt, she was so divarted by the stew that +Redhead was in that she gave another great laugh; +and well become Tom, out he cried, “King of Dublin, +I have two quarters of your daughter.” “Oh, quarters +or alls,” says the King, “put away that divel of a wolf +and we’ll see about it.” So Gilla put his flute in his +pocket, and, says he, to the baste that was sittin’ on his +currabingo ready to faint, “Walk off to your mountains, +my fine fellow, and live like a respectable baste; and if +ever I find you come within seven miles of any town—.” +He said no more, but spit in his fist, and gave a flourish +of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted: he put +his tail between his legs and took to his pumps without +looking at man or mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor +stars ever saw him in sight of Dublin again.</p> + +<p>At dinner everyone laughed except the foxy fellow; +and, sure enough, he was laying out how he’d settle +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>15</span> +poor Tom next day. “Well, to be sure!” says he, +“King of Dublin, you are in luck. There’s the Danes +moidhering us to no end. D—— run to Lusk wid ‘em +and if anyone can save us from ‘em it is this gentleman +with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin’ on the +collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand +before it.” “So,” says Tom to the King, “will you +let me have the other half of the princess if I bring you +the flail?” “No, no,” says the princess, “I’d rather +never be your wife than see you in that danger.”</p> + +<p>But Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about +how shabby it would look to reneague the adventure. +So he asked him which way he was to go, and Redhead +directed him through a street where a great many bad +women lived, and a great many shibbeen houses were +open, and away he set.</p> + +<p>Well, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight +of the walls of Hell; and, bedad, before he knocked +at the gates, he rubbed himself over with the greenish +ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little imps +popped their heads out through the bars, and axed him +what he wanted. “I want to speak to the big divel +of all,” says Tom; “open the gate.”</p> + +<p>It wasn’t long till the gate was <i>thrune</i> open, and the +Ould Boy received Tom with bows and scrapes, and +axed his business. “My business isn’t much,” says +Tom. “I only came for the loan of that flail that I +see hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin +to give a thrashing to the Danes.” “Well,” says the +other, “the Danes is much better customers to me; +but, since you walked so far, I won’t refuse. Hand +that flail,” says he to a young imp; and he winked the +far-off eye at the same time. So, while some were +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>16</span> +barring the gates, the young devil climbed up and took +down the iron flail that had the handstaff and booltheen +both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond +was grinning to think how it would burn the hands off +of Tom, but the dickens a burn it made on him, no more +nor if it was a good oak sapling. “Thankee,” says +Tom; “now, would you open the gate for a body and +I’ll give you no more trouble.” “Oh, tramp!” says +Ould Nick, “is that the way? It is easier getting inside +them gates than getting out again. Take that tool from +him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup.” So +one fellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but +Tom gave him such a welt of it on the side of his head +that he broke off one of his horns, and made him roar +like a divil as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but +he gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they +didn’t forget for a while. At last says the ould thief of +all, rubbing his elbows, “Let the fool out; and woe +to whoever lets him in again, great or small.”</p> + +<p>So out marched Tom and away with him without +minding the shouting and cursing they kept up at him +from the tops of the walls. And when he got home to the +big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and +racing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his +story told, he laid down the flail on the stone steps, and +bid no one for their lives to touch it. If the King +and Queen and princess made much of him before they +made ten times as much of him now; but Redhead, +the mean scruff-hound, stole over, and thought to +catch hold of the flail to make an end of him. His +fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of him +as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept +flinging his arms about and dancing that it was pitiful +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>17</span> +to look at him. Tom run at him as soon as he could +rise, caught his hands in his own two, and rubbed them +this way and that, and the burning pain left them before +you could reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between +the pain that was only just gone, and the comfort he was +in, had the comicalest face that ever you see; it was +such a mixerumgatherum of laughing and crying. +Everyone burst out a-laughing—the princess could not +stop no more than the rest—and then says Gilla, or +Tom, “Now, ma’am, if there were fifty halves of you +I hope you will give me them all.” Well, the princess +had no mock modesty about her. She looked at her +father, and, by my word, she came over to Gilla, and put +her two delicate hands into his two rough ones, and I +wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!</p> + +<p>Tom would not bring the flail into the palace. You +may be sure no other body went near it; and when the +early risers were passing next morning they found two +long clefts in the stone where it was, after burning itself +an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far.</p> + +<p>But a messenger came in at noon and said that the +Danes were so frightened when they heard of the flail +coming into Dublin that they got into their ships and +sailed away.</p> + +<p>Well, I suppose before they were married Gilla got +some man like Pat Mara of Tomenine to larn him the +“principles of politeness,” fluxions, gunnery, and fortifications, +decimal fractions, practice, and the rule-of-three +direct, the way he’d be able to keep up a conversation +with the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time +larning them sciences, I’m not sure, but it’s as sure as +fate that his mother never more saw any want till the end +of her days.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>18</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Little Weaver of Duleek +Gate.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Legends and Stories of Ireland.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Samuel Lover (1791-1868.)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">There</span> was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in +Duleek here, hard by the gate, and a very honest, industherous +man he was. He had a wife, an’ av coorse, +they had childre, and small blame to them, so that the +poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to +the bone a’most to get them the bit and the sup, and +the loom never standin’ still.</p> + +<p>Well, it was one mornin’ that his wife called to him, +“Come here,” says she, “jewel, and ate your brekquest, +now that it’s ready.” But he never minded her, but wint +an workin’. “Arrah, lave off slavin’ yourself, my +darlin’, and ate your bit o’ brekquest while it is hot.”</p> + +<p>“Lave me alone,” says he, “I’m busy with a pattern +here that is brakin’ my heart,” says the waiver; “and +antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won’t quit.”</p> + +<p>“You’re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, +Thady,” says the poor wife; “and it’s a heavy handful +I have of you when you are cruked in your temper; +but, stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow +cowld, and not a one o’ me ‘ill ax you agin;” and with +that off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was +mighty crabbed, and the more the wife spoke to him the +worse he got, which, you know, is only nath’ral. Well, +he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout +and what would you think, but whin he looked at it, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>19</span> +it was as black as a crow—for, you see, it was in the +heighth o’ summer, and the flies lit upon it to that degree +that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.</p> + +<p>“Why, thin,” says the waiver, “would no place +sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz +are, you dirty bastes?” And with that, he lifted +his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o’ +stirabout, and killed no less than three score and tin +flies at the one blow, for he counted the carcases one by +one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.</p> + +<p>Well, he felt a powerful sperit risin’ in him, when he +seen the slaughter he done, at one blow; and not a +sthroke more work he’d do that day, but out he wint +and was fractious and impident to every one he met, +and was squarin’ up into their faces and sayin’, “Look +at that fist! that’s the fist that killed three score and tin +at one blow—Whoo!”</p> + +<p>With that all the neighbours thought he was crack’d, +and the poor wife herself thought the same when he +kem home in the evenin’, afther spendin’ every rap he +had in dhrink, and swaggerin’ about the place, and +lookin’ at his hand every minit.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, an’ your hand is very dirty, sure enough, +Thady, jewel,” says the poor wife. “You had betther +wash it, darlin’.”</p> + +<p>“How dar’ you say dirty to the greatest hand in +Ireland?” says he, going to bate her.</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s nat dirty,” says she.</p> + +<p>“It is throwin away my time I have been all my life,” +says he, “livin’ with you at all, and stuck at a loom, +nothin’ but a poor waiver, when it is Saint George or the +Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the siven +champions of Christendom.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>20</span></p> + +<p>“Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,” +says the wife, “sure, what’s that to uz?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t put in your prate,” says he, “you ignorant +sthrap,” says he. “You’re vulgar, woman—you’re +vulgar—mighty vulgar; but I’ll have nothin’ more to +say to any dirty, snakin’ thrade again—sorra more +waivin’ I’ll do.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Thady, dear, and what’ll the children do then?”</p> + +<p>“Let them go play marvels,” says he.</p> + +<p>“That would be but poor feedin’ for them, Thady.”</p> + +<p>“They shan’t want feedin’?” says he, “for it’s a +rich man I’ll be soon, and a great man, too.”</p> + +<p>“Usha, but I’m glad to hear it, darlin’—though I +dunno how it’s to be, but I think you had betther go +to bed, Thady.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk to me of any bed, but the bed o’ glory, +woman,” says he, lookin’ mortial grand. “I’ll sleep +with the brave yit,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, an’ a brave sleep will do you a power o’ +good, my darlin,” says she.</p> + +<p>“And it’s I that will be a knight!” says he.</p> + +<p>“All night, if you plaze, Thady,” says she.</p> + +<p>“None o’ your coaxin’,” says he. “I’m detarmined +on it, and I’ll set off immediately, and be a knight arriant.”</p> + +<p>“A what?” says she.</p> + +<p>“A knight arriant, woman.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” says she.</p> + +<p>“A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,” says he; +“going round the world for sport, with a soord by his +side, takin’ whatever he plazes for himself; and that’s +a knight arriant,” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours +the next day, and he got an owld kittle from one, and a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>21</span> +saucepan from another, and he took them to the tailor, +and he sewed him up a shuit o’ tin clothes like any +knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and that he was +very particular about, bekase it was his shield, and he +went to a friend o’ his, a painter and glazier, and made +him paint an his shield in big letthers:—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1"> +“I’M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,<br /> +THAT KILL’D THREE SCORE AND TIN<br /> +AT A BLOW.”</p> + +<p>“When the people sees that,” says the waiver to +himself, “the sorra one will dar for to come near me.”</p> + +<p>And with that he towld the wife to scour out the small +iron pot for him, “for,” says he, “it will make an +illegent helmet;” and when it was done, he put it an +his head, and his wife said, “Oh, murther, Thady, +jewel; is it puttin’ a great, heavy, iron pot an your +head you are, by way iv a hat?”</p> + +<p>“Sartinly,” says he, “for a knight arriant should +always have a weight on his brain.”</p> + +<p>“But, Thady, dear,” says the wife, “there’s a hole +in it, and it can’t keep out the weather.”</p> + +<p>“It will be the cooler,” says he, puttin’ it an him; +“besides, if I don’t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a +wisp o’ sthraw, or the like o’ that.”</p> + +<p>“The three legs of it look mighty quare, stickin’ +up,” says she.</p> + +<p>“Every helmet has a spike stickin’ out o’ the top of +it,” says the waiver, “and if mine has three, it’s only +the grandher it is.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” says the wife, getting bitter at last, “all I +can say is, it isn’t the first sheep’s head was dhress’d +in it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>22</span></p> + +<p>“Your sarvint, ma’am,” says he; and off he set.</p> + +<p>Well, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a +field hard by, where the miller’s horse was grazin’, that +used to carry the ground corn round the counthry. +“This is the identical horse for me,” says the waiver; +“he’s used to carryin’ flour and male, and what am I +but the flower o’ shovelry in a coat o’ mail; so that the +horse won’t be put out iv his way in the laste.”</p> + +<p>So away galloped the waiver, and took the road to +Dublin, for he thought the best thing he could do was +to go to the King o’ Dublin (for Dublin was a great place +thin, and had a King iv its own). When he got +to the palace courtyard he let his horse graze about the +place, for the grass was growin’ out betune the +stones; everything was flourishin’ thin in Dublin, +you see. Well, the King was lookin’ out of his dhrawin’-room +windy, for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; +but the waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint +over to the stone sate, undher the windy—for, you see, +there was stone sates all round about the place, for the +accommodation o’ the people—for the King was a dacent +obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over +and lay down an one o’ the seats, just undher the King’s +windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he took care +to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an +it. Well, my dear, with that the King calls out to one +of the lords of his coort that was standin’ behind him, +howldin’ up the skirt of his coat, accordin’ to rayson, +and, says he: “Look here,” says he, “what do you +think of a vagabone like that, comin’ undher my very +nose to sleep? It is thrue I’m a good king,” says he, +“and I ‘commodate the people by havin’ sates for them +to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and contimplation +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>23</span> +of seein’ me here, lookin’ out a’ my dhrawin’-room +windy, for divarsion; but that is no rayson they are to +make a hotel o’ the place, and come and sleep here. +Who is it, at all?” says the King.</p> + +<p>“Not a one o’ me knows, plaze your majesty.”</p> + +<p>“I think he must be a furriner,” says the King, +“because his dhress is outlandish.”</p> + +<p>“And doesn’t know manners, more betoken,” says +the lord.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go down and circumspect him myself,” says +the King; “folly me,” says he to the lord, wavin’ +his hand at the same time in the most dignacious manner.</p> + +<p>Down he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; +and when he wint over to where the waiver was lying, +sure the first thing he seen was his shield with the big +letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, “This +is the very man I want.”</p> + +<p>“For what, plaze your majesty?” says the lord.</p> + +<p>“To kill the vagabone dhraggin’, to be sure,” says +the King.</p> + +<p>“Sure, do you think he could kill him,” says the +lord, “when all the stoutest knights in the land wasn’t +aiquil to it, but never kem back, and was ate up alive +by the cruel desaiver?”</p> + +<p>“Sure, don’t you see there,” says the king, pointin’ +at the shield, “that he killed three score and tin at one +blow; and the man that done that, I think, is a match +for anything.”</p> + +<p>So, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck +him by the shouldher for to wake him, and the waiver +rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and the King says +to him, “God save you,” said he.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>24</span></p> + +<p>“God save you kindly,” says the waiver, purtendin’ +he was quite unknownst who he was spakin’ to.</p> + +<p>“Do you know who I am,” says the king, “that you +make so free, good man?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” says the waiver, “you have the +advantage o’ me.”</p> + +<p>“To be sure, I have,” says the king, moighty high; +“sure, ain’t I the King o’ Dublin?” says he.</p> + +<p>The waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst +the King, and, says he, “I beg your pardon for the +liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I hope you’ll excuse +it.”</p> + +<p>“No offince,” says the King; “get up, good man. +And what brings you here?” says he.</p> + +<p>“I’m in want of work, plaze your riverence,” says +the waiver.</p> + +<p>“Well, suppose I give you work?” says the king.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,” says the +waiver.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” says the King. “You killed three +score and tin at one blow, I understan’,” says the King.</p> + +<p>“Yis,” says the waiver; “that was the last thrifle +o’ work I done, and I’m afraid my hand ‘ill go out o’ +practice if I don’t get some job to do at wanst.”</p> + +<p>“You shall have a job immediately,” says the King. +“It is not three score and tin or any fine thing like that; +it is only a blaguard dhraggin that is disturbin’ the +counthry and ruinatin’ my tinanthry wid aitin’ their +powlthry, and I’m lost for want of eggs,” said the King.</p> + +<p>“Och, thin, plaze your worship,” says the waiver, +“you look as yellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks +this minit.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,” says the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>25</span> +King. “It will be no trouble in life to you; and I +am sorry that it isn’t betther worth your while, for he +isn’t worth fearin’ at all; only I must tell you that he +lives in the County Galway, in the middle of a bog, +and he has an advantage in that.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t value it in the laste,” says the waiver, +“for the last three score and tin I killed was in a soft +place.”</p> + +<p>“When will you undhertake the job, thin?” says +the King.</p> + +<p>“Let me at him at wanst,” says the waiver.</p> + +<p>“That’s what I like,” says the King, “you’re the very +man for my money,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Talkin’ of money,” says the waiver, “by the same +token, I’ll want a thrifle o’ change from you for my +thravellin’ charges.”</p> + +<p>“As much as you plaze,” says the King; and with the +word he brought him into his closet, where there was an +owld stockin’ in an oak chest, bursting wid goolden +guineas.</p> + +<p>“Take as many as you plaze,” says the King; and +sure enough, my dear, the little waiver stuffed his tin +clothes as full as they could howld with them.</p> + +<p>“Now I’m ready for the road,” says the waiver.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” says the King; “but you must have a +fresh horse,” says he.</p> + +<p>“With all my heart,” says the waiver, who thought +he might as well exchange the miller’s owld garron for +a betther.</p> + +<p>And maybe it’s wondherin’ you are that the waiver +would think of goin’ to fight the dhraggin afther what he +heerd about him, when he was purtendin’ to be asleep, +but he had no sich notion, all he intended was—to fob +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>26</span> +the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains +and a good horse. But, you see, cute as the waiver was, +the King was cuter still, for these high quality, you see, +is great desaivers; and so the horse the waiver was an +was learned on purpose; and sure, the minit he was +mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the sorra toe +he’d go but right down to Galway. Well, for four days +he was goin’ evermore, until at last the waiver seen a +crowd o’ people runnin’ as if owld Nick was at their +heels, and they shoutin’ a thousand murdhers, and +cryin’—“The dhraggin, the dhraggin!” and he couldn’t +stop the horse nor make him turn back, but away he +pelted right forninst the terrible baste that was comin’ up +to him; and there was the most nefaarious smell o’ +sulphur, savin’ your presence, enough to knock you +down; and, faith, the waiver seen he had no time to +lose; and so threwn himself off the horse and made to +a three that was growin’ nigh-hand, and away he +clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit +had he to spare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful +rage, and he devoured the horse body and bones, in +less than no time; and then began to sniffle and scent +about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye on him, +where he was, up in the three, and, says he, “You +might as well come down out o’ that,” says he, “for I’ll +have you as sure as eggs is mate.”</p> + +<p>“Sorra fut I’ll go down,” says the waiver.</p> + +<p>“Sorra care I care,” says the dhraggin; “for you’re +as good as ready money in my pocket this minit, for +I’ll lie undher this three,” says he, “and sooner or later +you must fall to my share;” and sure enough he sot +down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail afther +a heavy brekquest he made that mornin’ (for he ate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>27</span> +a whole village, let alone the horse), and he got dhrowsy +at last, and fell asleep; but before he wint to sleep +he wound himself all round about the three, all as one +as a lady windin’ ribbon round her finger, so that the +waiver could not escape.</p> + +<p>Well, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, +by the snorin’ of him—and every snore he let out of +him was like a clap o’ thunder—that minit the waiver +began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox; +and he was very nigh hand the bottom when a thievin’ +branch he was dipindin’ an bruck, and down he fell +right a top o’ the dhraggin; but, if he did, good luck +was an his side, for where should he fall but with his +two legs right acrass the dhraggin’s neck, and my jew’l, +he laid howlt o’ the baste’s ears, and there he kept his +grip, for the dhraggin wakened and endayvoured for to +bite him, but, you see, by rayson the waiver was behind +his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he +endayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could +he stir the waiver; and though he shuk all the scales +an his body, he could not turn the scale agin the waiver.</p> + +<p>“Och, this is too bad, intirely,” says the dhraggin; +“but if you won’t let go,” says he, “by the powers o’ +wildfire, I’ll give you a ride that’ll astonish your siven +small senses, my boy”; and, with that, away he flew +like mad; and where do you think he did fly?—he flew +sthraight for Dublin. But the waiver, bein’ an his +neck, was a great disthress to him, and he would rather +have had him an inside passenger; but, anyway, he +flew till he kem slap up agin the palace o’ the king; +for, bein’ blind with the rage, he never seen it, and he +knocked his brains out—that is, the small trifle he had, +and down he fell spacheless. An’ you see, good luck +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>28</span> +would have it, that the King o’ Dublin was looking +out iv his dhrawin’-room windy, for divarshin, that day +also, and whin he seen the waiver ridin’ an the fiery +dhraggin (for he was blazin’ like a tar barrel) he called +out to his coortyers to come and see the show.</p> + +<p>“Here comes the knight arriant,” says the King, +“ridin’ the dhraggin that’s all a-fire, and if he gets into +the palace, yiz must be ready wid the fire ingines,” +says he, “for to put him out.”</p> + +<p>But when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they +all run downstairs and scampered into the palace yard +for to circumspect the curiosity; and by the time they +got down, the waiver had got off o’ the dhraggin’s +neck; and runnin’ up to the King, says he—</p> + +<p>“Plaze, your holiness, I did not think myself worthy +of killin’ this facetious baste, so I brought him to yourself +for to do him the honour of decripitation by your own +royal five fingers. But I tamed him first, before I +allowed him the liberty for to dar’ to appear in your +royal prisince, and you’ll oblige me if you’ll just make +your mark with your own hand upon the onruly baste’s +neck.” And with that, the King, sure enough, dhrew +out his swoord and took the head aff the dirty brute, +as clane as a new pin.</p> + +<p>Well, there was great rejoicin’ in the coort that the +dhraggin was killed; and says the King to the little +waiver, says he—</p> + +<p>“You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would +be no use for to knight you over agin; but I will make +you a lord,” says he “and as you are the first man I +ever heer’d tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be +called Lord Mount Dhraggin’,” says he.</p> + +<p>“And where’s my estates, plaze your holiness?” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>29</span> +says the waiver, who always had a sharp look-out afther +the main chance.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I didn’t forget that,” says the King. “It is +my royal pleasure to provide well for you, and for that +rayson I make you a present of all the dhraggins in the +world, and give you power over them from this out,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“Is that all?” says the waiver.</p> + +<p>“All!” says the king. “Why, you ongrateful +little vagabone, was the like ever given to any man +before?”</p> + +<p>“I believe not, indeed,” says the waiver; “many +thanks to your majesty.”</p> + +<p>“But that is not all I’ll do for you,” says the king, +“I’ll give you my daughter, too, in marriage,” says +he.</p> + +<p>Now, you see, that was nothin’ more than what was +promised the waiver in his first promise; for, by all +accounts, the King’s daughter was the greatest dhraggin +ever was seen.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>30</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Fionn MacCumhail and the +Princess.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Shamrock.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Patrick J. McCall (1861—).</p> + +<p class="center">(In Wexford Folk Speech.)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Wance</span> upon a time, when things was a great’le betther +in Ireland than they are at present, when a rale king +ruled over the counthry wid four others undher him +to look afther the craps an’ other indhustries, there lived +a young chief called Fan MaCool.</p> + +<p>Now, this was long afore we gev up bowin’ and scrapin’ +to the sun an’ moon an’ sich like raumash (nonsense); +an’ signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’ +Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that +med things quare enough betimes for iverywan.</p> + +<p>Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he +kem to the command, an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, +too—there was nothin’ too hot or too heavy for him; +an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was the +mischief entirely wid the colleens. Nothin’ delighted +him more than to disguise himself wid an ould coatamore +(overcoat) threwn over his showlder, a lump ov +a kippeen (stick) in his fist and he mayanderin’ about +unknownst, rings around the counthry, lookin’ for fun +an’ foosther (diversion) ov all kinds.</p> + +<p>Well, one fine mornin’, whin he was on the shaughraun, +he was waumasin’ (strolling) about through Leinster, +an’ near the royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a +mighty throng ov grand lords and ladies, an’, my dear, +they all dressed up to the nines, wid their jewels shinin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>31</span> +like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the +tinkle ov a deeshy (small) mountain strame over the +white rocks. So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over +to see what was the matther.</p> + +<p>Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ +a race-meetin’ or faysh (festival)—somethin’ like what +the quality calls ataleticks now! There they were, +jumpin’, and runnin’, and coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov +fun, enough to make the trouts—an’ they’re mighty +fine leppers enough—die wid envy in the river benaith +them.</p> + +<p>The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled +betune the trumauns an’ brushna (elder bushes and +furze) could hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks +they wor at. Peepin’ out, he seen, jist forninst him +on the other bank, the prencess herself, betune the +high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’ +geersha (girl) with gold hair like the furze an’ cheeks +like an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ +an’ clappin’ her hands an’ turnin her head this a-way +an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid this wan an’ that wan, an’ +commiseratin’, moryah! (forsooth) the poor gossoons that +failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her well, an’ +whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their +knees an’ jumped up over another wan as high as their +chins, the great trial ov all kem on. Maybe you’d +guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t +if I gev you a hundhred guesses! It was to lep the +strame, forty foot wide!</p> + +<p>List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan +heerd them tellin’ that whichever ov them could manage +it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he wud get the +Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>32</span> +be med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, +her father, cocked his toes an’ looked up through the +butts ov the daisies at the shky. Well, whin Fan h’ard +this, he was put to a nonplush to know what to do! +With his ould duds on him, he was ashamed ov his +life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the whole +wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe +as he watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. +But no one of them was soople enough for the job, an’ +they kep on tumblin’, wan afther the other, into the +strame; so that the poor prencess began to look sorryful +whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a colyeen (curls) +a yard long—an’ more betoken he was a boy o’ the Byrnes +from Imayle—jist tipped the bank forninst her wid +his right fut, an’ then twistin’, like a crow in the air +scratchin’ her head with her claw, he spraddled wide +open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in +a mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ +gev a screech like an aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king +started, the ladies all screamed, an’ Fan was surrounded. +In less than a minnit an’ a half they dragged me bould +Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to +the king himself.</p> + +<p>“What ould geochagh (beggar) have we now?” sez +the king, lookin’ very hard at Fan.</p> + +<p>“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, +as cool as a frog.</p> + +<p>“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ +him, “ye’ll have to jump the sthrame yander for +freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me ladies,” sez he, +“an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.</p> + +<p>“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan, lettin’ +on (pretending) he was afeered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>33</span></p> + +<p>“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; +for he thought, ye see, Fan would be drowned.</p> + +<p>“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld +chap gev him a rap on the knuckles wid his specktre +(sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry up, or he’d get the +ollaves (judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres’n or +the Marshals—I forgets which—it’s so long gone by!</p> + +<p>Well, Fan peeled off his coatamore, an’ threw away his +bottheen ov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big +body an’ his long arums an’ legs like an oak tree, couldn’t +help remarkin’ to her comrade, the craythur—</p> + +<p>“Bedad, Cauth (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman +is a fine bit of a bouchal (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the +arumy (army) he ought to be,” sez she, lookin’ at him +agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.</p> + +<p>So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, +jist pulled two lusmores (fox-gloves) an’ put them +anunder his heels; for thim wor the fairies’ own +flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’ he, ov +coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an +ould lenaun (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed +him when he was a little stand-a-loney.</p> + +<p>Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little +creepie (three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he +landed like a thrish jist at the fut ov the prencess; an’ +his father’s son he was, that put his two arums around +her, an’ gev her a kiss—haith, ye’d hear the smack +ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned +like a corncrake, an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ +at last he ordhered the bowld beggarman off to be +kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuck off weskit an’ +seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>34</span> +chap became delighted, for he knew thin he had the +commandher ov Airyun (Erin) for a son-in-law.</p> + +<p>“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez +he, seein’ the collar. “Begonny’s,” sez he, “you’re +no boccagh (beggar) anyways!”</p> + +<p>“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as +a cocksparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” +for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.</p> + +<p>“Ay lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ +round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ +us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ +now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ +jump back agen afore you gets me daughter for puttin’ +on (deceiving) us in such a manner.”</p> + +<p>“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must +have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up +he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king +got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were croosheenin’ +an’ colloguin’ (whispering and talking), an’ +not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the +moon, when who comes up but the Prence of Imayle, +afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay too.</p> + +<p>“Well, avochal (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry +yet?” an’ the Prencess laughed like a bell round a +cat’s neck.</p> + +<p>“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez +the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid +all your prate!”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not” sez he.</p> + +<p>“You couldn’t whistle and chaw oatenmale,” sez +the Prence ov Imayle, in a pucker. “Are you any +good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>35</span></p> + +<p>“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round +like to a cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.</p> + +<p>“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; +an’ be all accounts he was a great hand at cruistin +(throwing).</p> + +<p>“Here goes pink,” sez he, an’ he ups with a stone, +as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in the air like a cannon +ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top ov the Three +Rock Mountain.</p> + +<p>“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another +clochaun (stone) an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the +first.</p> + +<p>“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ +he done his best, an’ managed to send another finger +stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ sure, the three stones +are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.</p> + +<p>“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as +big as a hill, “I’m sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t +help it,” sez he, lookin’ over at the Prencess Maynish, +an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two big men, +an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a +child. “Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like +a windmill, “and now put on your spectacles,” +sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through +the air like a peggin’-top, over the other three clochauns, +and then across Dublin Bay, an’ scrapin’ the nose off +ov Howth, it landed with a swish in the say beyant it. +That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s Eye now!</p> + +<p>“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know +where that went to, at all, at all! what direct did you +send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had it in view, till it +went over the say,” sez he.</p> + +<p>“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>36</span> +pass that, for I can’t see where you put it, even—good-bye +to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his heel an’ makin’ +off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!” +An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to +fret, an I understand shortly afther he died ov a broken +heart; an’ they put a turtle-dove on his tombstone to +signify that he died for love; but I think he overstrained +himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther here nor there +with me story!</p> + +<p>“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King +Garry, wantin’ to see more sport; for he tuk as much +delight in seein’ the like as if he was a lad ov twenty.</p> + +<p>“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, +“but I’ll have to take the girl over with me this time!” +sez he.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeered ov her life +he might stumble an’ that he’d fall in with her; an’ then +she’d have to fall out with him—“take me father with +you,” sez she; an’ egonnys, the ould king thought +more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take +the will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ +went on; an’ maybe that wasn’t the grand blow-out. +But I can’t stay to tell yous all the fun they had for a +fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into kinks ov +laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than was +good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot +himself.</p> + +<p>“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” +sez he, as grand as you like—“an’ a long life to you, an’ +a happy wife to you—an’ a great many ov them!” sez +he, like he’d forgot somethin’.</p> + +<p>Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides +like the p’yates, unless the prencess, an’ she got as red +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>37</span> +in the face as if she was churnin’ in the winther an’ the +frost keepin’ the crame from crackin’; but she got +over it like the maisles.</p> + +<p>But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as +the evenin’s gettin’ forrard I’ll stop; so put down the +kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and the Prencess Maynish +didn’t live happy together—that we may!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>38</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Kildare Pooka.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Patrick Kennedy.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Mr. H—— H——</span>, when he was alive, used to live +a good deal in Dublin, and he was once a great while +out of the country on account of the “ninety-eight” +business. But the servants kept on in the big house +at Rath—all the same as if the family was at home. +Well, they used to be frightened out of their lives, after +going to their beds, with the banging of the kitchen +door and the clattering of fire-irons and the pots and +plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so +long keeping one another in heart with stories about +ghosts and that, when—what would have it?—the little +scullery boy that used to be sleeping over the horses, +and could not get room at the fire, crept into the hot +hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, +sorra fear him, but he fell dead asleep.</p> + +<p>Well and good. After they were all gone, and the +kitchen raked up, he was woke with the noise of the +kitchen door opening, and the tramping of an ass in the +kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see +but a big ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo +and yawning before the fire. After a little he looked +about him, and began scratching his ears as if he was +quite tired, an’, says he, “I may as well begin first as last.” +The poor boy’s teeth began to chatter in his head, for, +says he, “Now he’s going to ate me”; but the fellow +with the long ears and tail on him had something else +to do. He stirred the fire, and then brought in a pail +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>39</span> +of water from the pump, and filled a big pot that he put +on the fire before he went out. He then put in his +hand—foot, I mean—into the hot hearth, and pulled out +the little boy. He let a roar out of him with fright. But +the pooka only looked at him, and thrust out his lower +lip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched +him into his pew again.</p> + +<p>Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard +the boil coming on the water, and maybe there wasn’t +a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on the dresser, that he +didn’t fetch and put into the pot, and wash and dry +the whole bilin’ of ‘em as well as e’er a kitchen maid +from that to Dublin town. He then put all of them up +on their places on the shelves; and if he didn’t give +a good sweepin’ to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then +he comes and sits fornent the boy, let down one of +his ears, and cocked up the other, and gave a grin. The +poor fellow strove to roar out, but not a <i>dheeg</i> (sound) ud +come out of his throat. The last thing the pooka done +was to rake up the fire and walk out, giving such a slap +o’ the door, that the boy thought the house couldn’t +help tumbling down.</p> + +<p>Well, to be sure, if there wasn’t a hullabuloo next +morning when the poor fellow told his story! They +could talk of nothing else the whole day. One said +one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy scullery +girl said the wittiest thing of all. “Musha,” says she, +“if the pooka does be cleaning up everything that way +when we are asleep, what should we be slaving ourselves +for doing his work?” “<i>Sha gu dheine</i>” (yes, indeed), +says another, “them’s the wisest words you ever said, +Kauth; it’s meeself won’t contradict you.”</p> + +<p>So said, so done, not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>40</span> +of water that evening, and not a besom was laid on the +floor, and everyone went to bed after sundown. Next +morning everything was as fine as fine in the kitchen, +and the Lord Mayor might eat his dinner off the flags. +It was great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, +and everything went on well till a foolhardy gag of a +boy said he would stay up one night and have a chat with +the pooka. He was a little daunted when the door was +thrown open and the ass marched up to the fire.</p> + +<p>“And then, sir,” says he, at last, picking up courage, +“if it isn’t taking a liberty, might I ax you who you +are, and why you are so kind as to do a half a day’s work +for the girls every night?” “No liberty at all,” says +the pooka, says he: “I’ll tell you and welcome. I +was a servant in the time of Squire H——‘s father, and +was the laziest rogue that was ever clothed and fed, +and done nothing for it. When my time came for the +other world, this is the punishment was laid on me to +come here and do all this labour every night, and then +go out in the cold. It isn’t so bad in the fine weather; +but if you only knew what it was to stand with your +head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight +to sunrise on a bleak winter night.” “And could we do +anything for your comfort, my poor fellow?” says +the boy. “Musha, I don’t know,” says the pooka: +“but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me +to keep the life in me them long nights.” “Why, then, +in truth, we’d be the ungratefullest of people if we didn’t +feel for you.”</p> + +<p>To make a long story short, the next night the boy +was there again; and if he didn’t delight the poor pooka, +holding a fine, warm coat before him, it’s no matther! +Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got into the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>41</span> +four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and +belly, and he was so pleased he walked up to the glass +to see how he looked. “Well,” says he, “it’s a long +lane that has no turning. I am much obliged to you +and your fellow servants. You have made me happy +at last. Good night to you.”</p> + +<p>So he was walking out, but the other cried, “Och! +sure you’re going too soon. What about the washing +and sweeping?” “Ah, you may tell the girls that they +must now get their turn. My punishment was to last +till I was thought worthy of a reward for the way I +done my duty. You’ll see me no more.” And no +more they did, and right sorry they were for having been +in such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>42</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Piper and the Puca.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “An Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Douglas Hyde (1860—).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">In</span> the old times there was a half-fool living in Dunmore, +in the County Galway, and though he was excessively +fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one +tune, and that was the “Black Rogue.” He used to +get a deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used +to get sport out of him. One night the Piper was +coming home from a house where there had been a +dance, and he half-drunk. When he came up to a little +bridge that was by his mother’s house, he squeezed +the pipes on, and began playing the “Black Rogue.” +The Puca came behind him, and flung him on his own +back. There were long horns on the Puca, and the +Piper got a good grip of them, and then he said:—</p> + +<p>“Destruction on you, you nasty beast; let me home +I have a tenpenny piece in my pocket for my mother, +and she wants snuff.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind your mother,” said the puca, “but +keep your hold. If you fall you will break your neck +and your pipes.” Then the Puca said to him, “Play +up for me the ‘Shan Van Vocht.’”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know it,” said the Piper.</p> + +<p>“Never mind whether you do or you don’t,” said the +Puca. “Play up, and I’ll make you know.”</p> + +<p>The Piper put wind in his bag, and he played such +music as made himself wonder.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, you’re a fine music-master,” says +the Piper, then; “but tell me where you’re bringing me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>43</span></p> + +<p>“There’s a great feast in the house of the Banshee, +on the top of Croagh Patric to-night,” says the Puca, +“and I’m for bringing you there to play music, and, +take my word, you’ll get the price of your trouble.”</p> + +<p>“By my word, you’ll save me a journey, then,” says +the Piper, “for Father William put a journey to Croagh +Patric on me because I stole the white gander from +him last Martinmas.”</p> + +<p>The Puca rushed him across hills and bog and rough +places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric.</p> + +<p>Then the Puca struck three blows with his foot, +and a great door opened, and they passed in together +into a fine room.</p> + +<p>The Piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, +and hundreds of old women sitting round about it.</p> + +<p>The old woman rose up and said, “A hundred thousand +welcomes to you, you Puca of November. Who +is this you have with you?”</p> + +<p>“The best Piper in Ireland,” says the Puca.</p> + +<p>One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, +and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what +should the Piper see coming out but the white gander +which he had stolen from Father William.</p> + +<p>“By my conscience, then,” says the Piper, “myself +and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one +wing, and I gave that to Red Mary, and it’s she told the +priest I stole his gander.”</p> + +<p>The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, +and the Puca said, “Play up music for these ladies.”</p> + +<p>The Piper played up, and the old women began +dancing, and they danced till they tired. Then the +Puca said to pay the Piper, and every old woman drew +out a gold piece and gave it to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>44</span></p> + +<p>“By the tooth of Patric,” says he, “I’m as rich as +the son of a lord.”</p> + +<p>“Come with me,” says the Puca, “and I’ll bring you +home.”</p> + +<p>They went out then, and just as he was going to ride +on the Puca, the gander came up to him and gave him +a new set of pipes.</p> + +<p>The Puca was not long until he brought him to +Dunmore, and he threw the Piper off at the little bridge, +and then he told him to go home, and says to him, “You +have two things now that you never had before—you +have sense and music.” The Piper went home, and he +knocked at his mother’s door, saying, “Let me in, I’m +as rich as a lord, and I’m the best Piper in Ireland.”</p> + +<p>“You’re drunk,” says the mother.</p> + +<p>“No, indeed,” says the Piper, “I haven’t drunk a +drop.”</p> + +<p>The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold +pieces, and, “Wait, now,” says he, “till you hear the +music I play.”</p> + +<p>He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there +came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland +were screeching together. He wakened all the neighbours, +and they were all mocking him, until he put on +the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for +them; and after that he told them all he had gone +through that night.</p> + +<p>The next morning, when his mother went to look at +the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves +of a plant.</p> + +<p>The Piper went to the priest and told him his story, +but the priest would not believe a word from him, until +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>45</span> +he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the +ganders and the geese began.</p> + +<p>“Leave my sight, you thief,” says the priest.</p> + +<p>But nothing would do the Piper till he put the old +pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.</p> + +<p>He buckled on his old pipes, and played melodious +music, and from that day till the day of his death there +was never a Piper in the County Galway was as good +as he was.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>46</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">M‘Carthy of Connacht.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Folk Tales of Breffny.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By B. Hunt.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">There</span> was a fine young gentleman the name of +M‘Carthy. He had a most beautiful countenance, and for +strength and prowess there was none to equal him in the +baronies of Connacht. But he began to dwine away, +and no person knew what ailed him. He used no food +at all and he became greatly reduced, the way he was +not able to rise from his bed and he letting horrid groans +and lamentations out of him. His father sent for three +skilled doctors to come and find out what sort of disease +it might be, and a big reward was promised for the cure.</p> + +<p>Three noted doctors came on the one day and they +searched every vein in young M‘Carthy’s body, but +they could put no name on the sickness nor think of a +remedy to relieve it. They came down from the room +and reported that the disease had them baffled entirely.</p> + +<p>“Am I to be at the loss of a son who is the finest boy +in all Ireland?” says the father.</p> + +<p>Now one of the doctors had a man with him who +was a very soft-spoken person, and he up and says:</p> + +<p>“Maybe your honours would be giving me permission +to visit the young gentleman. I have a tongue on me +is that sweet I do be drawing the secrets of the world +out of men and women and little children.”</p> + +<p>Well, they brought him up to the room and they left +him alone with M‘Carthy. He sat down beside the bed +and began for to flatter him. The like of such conversation +was never heard before.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>47</span></p> + +<p>At long last he says, “Let your Lordship’s honour +be telling—What is it ails you at all?”</p> + +<p>“You will never let on to a living soul?” asks +M‘Carthy.</p> + +<p>“Is it that I’d be lodging an information against a +noble person like yourself?” says the man.</p> + +<p>With that, the young gentleman began telling the +secrets of his heart.</p> + +<p>“It is no disease is on me,” says he, “but a terrible +misfortune.”</p> + +<p>“’Tis heart scalded I am that you have either a sorrow +or a sickness, and you grand to look on and better to +listen to,” says the other.</p> + +<p>“It is in love I am,” says M‘Carthy.</p> + +<p>“And how would that be a misfortune to a fine lad +like yourself?” asks the man.</p> + +<p>“Let you never let on!” says M‘Carthy. “The way +of it is this: I am lamenting for no lady who is walking +the world, nor for one who is dead that I could be +following to the grave. I have a little statue which has +the most beautiful countenance on it that was ever +seen, and it is destroyed with grief I am that it will never +be speaking to me at all.”</p> + +<p>With that he brought the image out from under his +pillow, and the loveliness of it made the man lep off +the chair.</p> + +<p>“I’d be stealing the wee statue from your honour +if I stopped in this place,” says he. “But let you take +valour into your heart, for that is the likeness of a lady +who is living in the world, and you will be finding her +surely.”</p> + +<p>With that he went down to the three doctors and the +old man who were waiting below. For all his promises +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>48</span> +to young M‘Carthy, he told the lot of them all he was +after hearing. The doctors allowed that if the +gentleman’s life was to be saved he must be got out of +his bed and sent away on his travels.</p> + +<p>“For a time he will be hopeful of finding her,” +says the oldest doctor. “Then the whole notion +will pass off him, and he seeing strange lands and great +wonders to divert him.”</p> + +<p>The father was that anxious for the son’s recovery +that he agreed to sell the place and give him a big handful +of money for the journey.</p> + +<p>“It is little I’ll be needing for myself from this out, +and I an old man near ripe for the grave,” says he.</p> + +<p>So they all went up to the room and told young +M‘Carthy to rise from his bed and eat a good dinner, +for the grandest arrangements out were made for his +future and he’d surely meet the lady. When he seen that +no person was mocking him he got into the best of +humour, and he came down and feasted with them.</p> + +<p>Not a long time afterwards he took the big handful +of money and set out on his travels, bringing the statue +with him. He went over the provinces of Ireland, +then he took sea to England, and wandered it entirely, +away to France with him next, and from that to every +art and part of the world. He had the strangest +adventures, and he seen more wonders than could ever +be told or remembered. At the latter end he came +back to the old country again, with no more nor a coin +or two left of the whole great fortune of money. The +whole time he never seen a lady who was the least like +the wee statue; and the words of the old doctor were +only a deceit for he didn’t quit thinking of her at all. +M‘Carthy was a handsome young gentleman, and if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>49</span> +it was small heed he had for any person he met it was +great notice was taken of him. Sure it was a queen, +no less, and five or six princesses were thinking long +thoughts on himself.</p> + +<p>The hope was near dead in his heart, and the sickness +of grief was on him again when he came home to Ireland. +Soon after he landed from the ship he chanced to come +on a gentleman’s place, and it a fine, big house he never +had seen before. He went up and inquired of the +servants if he would get leave to rest there. He was given +a most honourable reception, and the master of the house +was well pleased to be entertaining such an agreeable +guest. Now himself happened to be a Jew, and that is +the why he did not ask M‘Carthy to eat at his table, +but had his dinner set out for him in a separate room. +The servants remarked on the small share of food he +was using, it was scarcely what would keep the life in +a young child; but he asked them not to make any +observation of the sort. At first they obeyed him, yet +when he used no meat at all on the third day, didn’t +they speak with their master.</p> + +<p>“What is the cause of it at all?” he says to M‘Carthy. +“Is the food in this place not to your liking? Let +you name any dish you have a craving for, and the cook +will prepare it.”</p> + +<p>“There was never better refreshment set before an +emperor,” says M‘Carthy.</p> + +<p>“It is civility makes you that flattering,” answers +the Jew. “How would you be satisfied with the meat +which is set before you when you are not able to use any +portion of it at all?”</p> + +<p>“I doubt I have a sickness on me will be the means +of my death,” says M‘Carthy. “I had best be moving +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>50</span> +on from this place, the way I’ll not be rewarding your +kindness with the botheration of a corpse.”</p> + +<p>With that the master of the house began for to speak +in praise of a doctor who was in those parts.</p> + +<p>“I see I must be telling you what is in it,” says +M‘Carthy. “Doctors have no relief for the sort of +tribulation is destroying me.”</p> + +<p>He brought out the statue, and he went over the whole +story from start to finish. How he set off on his travels +and was hopeful for a while; and how despair got hold of +him again.</p> + +<p>“Let you be rejoicing now,” says the Jew, “for it +is near that lady you are this day. She comes down to +a stream which is convenient to this place, and six +waiting maids along with her, bringing a rod and line for +to fish. And it is always at the one hour she is in it.”</p> + +<p>Well, M‘Carthy was lepping wild with delight to +hear tell of the lady.</p> + +<p>“Let you do all I’m saying,” the Jew advises him. +“I’ll provide you with the best of fishing tackle, and do +you go down to the stream for to fish in it, too. Whatever +comes to your line let you give to the lady. But say +nothing which might scare her at all, and don’t follow +after her if she turns to go home.”</p> + +<p>The next day M‘Carthy went out for to fish; not a +long time was he at the stream before the lady came +down and the six waiting maids along with her. Sure +enough she was the picture of the statue, and she had the +loveliest golden hair ever seen.</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy had the luck to catch a noble trout, and he +took it off the hook, rolled it in leaves, and brought it +to the lady, according to the advice of the Jew. She was +pleased to accept the gift of it, but didn’t she turn home +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>51</span> +at once and the six waiting maids along with her. When +she went into her own house she took the fish to her +father.</p> + +<p>“There was a noble person at the stream this day,” +she says, “and he made me a present of the trout.”</p> + +<p>Next morning M‘Carthy went to fish again, and he +seen the lady coming and her six waiting maids walking +behind her. He caught a splendid fine trout and brought +it over to her; with that she turned home at once.</p> + +<p>“Father,” says she, when she went in, “the gentleman +is after giving me a fish which is bigger and better nor +the one I brought back yesterday. If the like happens +at the next time I go to the stream I will be inviting the +noble person to partake of refreshment in this place.”</p> + +<p>“Let you do as best pleases yourself,” says her father.</p> + +<p>Well, sure enough, M‘Carthy got the biggest trout +of all the third time. The lady was in the height of +humour, and she asked would he go up to the house +with her that day. She walked with M‘Carthy beside +her, and the six waiting maids behind them. They +conversed very pleasantly together, and at last he found +courage for to tell her of how he travelled the world +to seek no person less than herself.</p> + +<p>“I’m fearing you’ll need to set out on a second journey, +the way you will be coming in with some other one,” +says she. “I have an old father who is after refusing +two score of suitors who were asking me off him. I +do be thinking I’ll not be joining the world at all, unless +a king would be persuading himself of the advancement +there is in having a son-in-law wearing a golden crown +upon his head. The whole time it is great freedom I +have, and I walking where it pleases me with six waiting +maids along with me. The old man has a notion they’d +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>52</span> +inform him if I was up to any diversion, but that is not +the way of it at all.”</p> + +<p>“It is funning you are, surely,” says M‘Carthy. +“If himself is that uneasy about you how would it be +possible you’d bring me to the house to be speaking +with him?”</p> + +<p>“He is a kindly man and reasonable,” says she, +“and it is a good reception you’ll be getting. Only +let you not be speaking of marriage with me, for he +cannot endure to hear tell of the like.”</p> + +<p>Well, the old man made M‘Carthy welcome, and he +had no suspicion the two were in notion of each other. +But didn’t they arrange all unbeknownt to him, and plan +out an elopement.</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy went back to the Jew, and he told him all. +“But,” says he, “I am after spending my whole great +fortune of money travelling the territory of the world. +I must be finding a good situation the way I’ll make +suitable provision for herself.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be in the least distress,” says the Jew. “I +did not befriend you this far to be leaving you in a bad +case at the latter end. I’ll oblige you with the loan of +what money will start you in a fine place. You will +be making repayment at the end of three years when +you have made your profit on the business.”</p> + +<p>The young gentleman accepted the offer, and he fair +wild with delight. Moreover, the Jew gave himself +and the lady grand assistance at the elopement, the way +they got safe out of it and escaped from her father, +who was raging in pursuit.</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy was rejoicing surely, and he married to a +wife who was the picture of the statue. Herself was in +the best of humour, too, for it was small delight she +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>53</span> +had in her own place, roaming the fields or stopping +within and six waiting maids along with her. A fine, +handsome husband was the right company for her like. +They bought a lovely house and farm of land with the +money which was lent by the Jew; and they fixed all +the grandest ever was seen. After a while M‘Carthy +got a good commission to be an officer, the way nothing +more in the world was needful to their happiness.</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy and his lady had a fine life of it, they lacking +for no comfort or splendour at all. The officer’s +commission he had brought himself over to England +from time to time, and the lady M‘Carthy would mind +all until he was home. He saved up what money was +superfluous, and all was gathered to repay the loan +to the Jew only for a few pounds.</p> + +<p>Well, it happened that M‘Carthy went to England, +and there he fell in with a droll sort of a man, who was +the best company. They played cards together and they +drank a great power of wine. In the latter end a dispute +came about between them, for they both claimed to have +the best woman.</p> + +<p>“I have a lady beyond in Ireland,” says M‘Carthy, +“and she is an ornament to the roads when she is passing +alone. But no person gets seeing her these times, and +that is a big misfortune to the world.”</p> + +<p>“What’s the cause?” asks the Englishman.</p> + +<p>“I’d have a grief on me to think another man might +be looking on her and I not standing by,” says M‘Carthy. +“So she gives me that satisfaction on her promised word: +all the time I do be away she never quits the house, +and no man body is allowed within.”</p> + +<p>The Englishman let a great laugh out of him at the +words.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>54</span></p> + +<p>“You are simple enough!” says he. “Don’t +you know rightly when you are not in it, herself will be +feasting and entertaining and going on with every +diversion?”</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy was raging at the impertinence of him, +and he offered for to fight.</p> + +<p>“What would that be proving?” says the Englishman. +“Let you make a powerful big bet with myself that I +will not be able for to bring you a token from your +lady and a full description of her appearance.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll be winning the money off you, surely!” says +M‘Carthy.</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” says the Englishman. “I’m not in +the least uneasy about it, for I’m full sure it’s the truth +I’m after speaking of how she does be playing herself +in your absence.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll find me in this place and you coming back.” +says M‘Carthy. “Let you be prepared with the money +to have along with you.”</p> + +<p>The Englishman took ship to Ireland, and he came +to the house of the lady M‘Carthy. Herself was in the +kitchen making a cake, and she seen the man walking +up to the door. Away she run to the parlour, and in +the hurry she forgot the lovely pearl ring she took off +her finger when she began at the cooking. Well, he +found the door standing open, and he seen the ring +on the kitchen table. It was easy knowing it was no +common article would be in the possession of any one +but the mistress of the house. What did the lad do, +only slip in and put it in his pocket. With that the +waiting maid came and asked his business, the lady +M‘Carthy was after sending her down.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>55</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, no business at all,” says he. “But I am weary +travelling and I thought I might rest at this place.”</p> + +<p>He began for to flatter the girl and to offer her bribes, +and in the latter end he got her to speak. She told him +all what the mistress of the house was like; how she +had a mole under her right arm, and one on her left +knee. Moreover she gave him a few long golden hairs +she got out of the lady’s comb.</p> + +<p>The Englishman went back to M‘Carthy, brought +him the tokens, and demanded the payment of the bet. +And that is the way the poor gentleman spent the money +he had saved up for the Jew.</p> + +<p>M‘Carthy sent word to his wife that he was coming +home, and for her to meet him on the ship. She put +her grandest raiment upon her and started away at once. +She went out to the ship and got up on the deck where +she seen her husband standing. When she went over +to him he never said a word at all, but he swept her aside +with his arm the way she fell into the water. Then he +went on shore full sure he had her drowned.</p> + +<p>But there was another ship coming in, and a miller +that was on her seen the lady struggling in the sea. He +was an aged man, yet he ventured in after her and he +saved the poor creature’s life.</p> + +<p>Well, the miller was a good sort of a man and he had +great compassion for herself when she told him her +story. She had no knowledge of the cause of her +husband being vexed with her, and she thought it hard +to believe the evidence of her senses that he was after +striving to make away with her. The miller advised +the lady M‘Carthy to go on with the ship, which was +sailing to another port, for maybe if she went home +after the man he would be destroying her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>56</span></p> + +<p>When the ship came into the harbour the news was +going of a great lawsuit.</p> + +<p>The miller heard all, and he brought word to the lady +that M‘Carthy was in danger of death.</p> + +<p>“There are three charges against him,” says the +miller. “Your father has him impeached for stealing +you away, and you not wishful to be with him: that is +the first crime.”</p> + +<p>“That is a false charge,” says she, “for I helped for +to plan the whole elopement. My father is surely +saying all in good faith, but it is a lie the whole time.”</p> + +<p>“A Jew has him accused for a sum of money he +borrowed, and it was due for repayment: that is the +second crime,” says the miller.</p> + +<p>“The money was all gathered up for to pay the debt,” +says the lady. “Where can it be if M‘Carthy will not +produce it?”</p> + +<p>“The law has him committed for the murder of +yourself: and that is the third crime,” says the miller.</p> + +<p>“And a false charge, too, seeing you saved me in that +ill hour. I am thinking I’d do well to be giving evidence +in a court of law, for it’s maybe an inglorious death +they’ll be giving him,” says she.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that what he laid out for yourself?” asks the +miller.</p> + +<p>“It is surely, whatever madness came on him. But +I have a good wish for him the whole time.”</p> + +<p>“If that is the way of it we had best be setting out,” +says he.</p> + +<p>The lady and the miller travelled overland, it being +a shorter journey nor the one they were after coming +by sea. When they got to the court of law wasn’t the +judge after condemning M‘Carthy; and it was little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>57</span> +the poor gentleman cared for the sentence of death was +passed on him.</p> + +<p>“My life is bitter and poisoned on me,” says he; +“maybe the grave is the best place.”</p> + +<p>With that the lady M‘Carthy stood up in the court +and gave out that she had not been destroyed at all, +for the miller saved her from the sea.</p> + +<p>They began the whole trial over again, and herself +told how she planned the elopement, and her father +had no case at all. She could not tell why M‘Carthy +was wishful to destroy her, and he had kept all to himself +at the first trial. But by degrees all was brought to +light: the villainy of the Englishman and the deceit +was practised on them by him and the servant girl.</p> + +<p>It was decreed that the money was to be restored +by that villain, and the Jew was to get his payment out +of it.</p> + +<p>The lady M‘Carthy’s father was in such rejoicement +to see his daughter, and she alive, that he forgave herself +and the husband for the elopement. Didn’t the three +of them go away home together and they the happiest +people who were ever heard tell of in the world.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>58</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen.</p> + +<p class="center sc">By William Carleton (1794-1869).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">“Moll Roe Rafferty</span>, the daughter of ould Jack Rafferty, +was a fine, young bouncin’ girl, large an’ lavish, wid a +purty head of hair on her—scarlet—that bein’ one of +the raisons why she was called Roe, or red; her arms +and cheeks were much the colour of her hair, an’ her +saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever +was on a face.</p> + +<p>“Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was the +dilsy. It happened that there was a nate vagabone in +the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid +beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. +Gusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, +and wouldn’t keep Christmas Day, except what they +call ‘ould style.’ Gusty was rather good-lookin’, +when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow, +they got attached to each other, and in the end everything +was arranged for their marriage.</p> + +<p>“Now this was the first marriage that had happened +for a long time in the neighbourhood between a +Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there was of the +bride’s uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who +could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as +he didn’t wish to see his niece married to sich a fellow, +he fought bitterly against the match. All Moll’s +friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin’ +him, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I +said, that they were to be dove-tailed together.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>59</span></p> + +<p>“Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, +went to Mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they +were to join one another in Jack Rafferty’s, where the +priest, Father McSorley was to slip up afther Mass +to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Mister +McShuttle, who was to marry them, company. +Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an’ +his wife, who stopped to dress for dinner, for, to tell +the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe +if all was known, too, Father McSorley was to give them +a cast of his office over and above the ministher, in +regard that Moll’s friends were not altogether satisfied +at the kind of marriage which McShuttle could give them. +The sorrow may care about that—splice here, splice +there—all I can say is that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin’ +to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, +the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts, ‘Blood and blunder-bushes, +what are yez here for?’</p> + +<p>“‘Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?’</p> + +<p>“‘Why, the sun’s in the suds, and the moon in the +high Horricks; there’s a clip-stick comin’ on, and there +you’re both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain +mether. Go out an’ cross yourselves three times in +the name o’ the four Mandromarvins, for, as the prophecy +says:—‘Fill the pot, Eddy, supernaculum—a blazin’ +star’s a rare spectaculum.’ Go out, both of you, an’ +look at the sun, I say, an’ ye’ll see the condition he’s in—off!’</p> + +<p>“Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, +and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were +both got on a stile beside the house to see what was +wrong in the sky.</p> + +<p>“‘Arrah, what is it, Jack?’ says she, ‘can you see +anything?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>60</span></p> + +<p>“‘No,’ says he, ‘sorra the full of my eye of anything +I can spy, barrin’ the sun himself, that’s not visible, +in regard of the clouds. God guard us! I doubt +there’s something to happen.’</p> + +<p>“‘If there wasn’t, Jack, what’d put Harry, that knows +so much, in that state he’s in?’</p> + +<p>“‘I doubt it’s this marriage,’ says Jack. ‘Betune +ourselves, it’s not over an’ above religious of Moll to +marry a black-mouth, an’ only for—; but, it can’t +be helped now, though you see it’s not a taste o’ the +sun is willing to show his face upon it.’</p> + +<p>“‘As to that,’ says his wife, winkin’ with both eyes, +‘if Gusty’s satisfied with Moll, it’s enough. I know +who’ll carry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime +let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?’</p> + +<p>“Well, they accordingly went in, and put this question +to him, ‘Harry, what’s wrong, ahagur? What is it +now, for if anybody alive knows ’tis yourself?’</p> + +<p>“‘Ah,’ said Harry, screwin’ his mouth wid a kind +of a dry smile, ‘The sun has a hard twist o’ the colic; +but never mind that, I tell you, you’ll have a merrier +weddin’ than you think, that’s all’; and havin’ said +this, he put on his hat and left the house.</p> + +<p>“Now, Harry’s answer relieved them very much, +and so, afther callin’ to him to be back for dinner, Jack +sat down to take a shough o’ the pipe, and the wife +lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin’ it in +the pot to be boiled.</p> + +<p>“In this way things went on well enough for a while, +Jack smokin’ away an’ the wife cookin’ an’ dressin’ +at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin’, I said, +contently at the fire, thought he could persave an odd +dancin’ kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a +good deal.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>61</span></p> + +<p>“‘Katty,’ says he, ‘what in the dickens is in this +pot on the fire?’</p> + +<p>“‘Nerra a thing but the big pudden. Why do you +ax?’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘Why,’ says he, ‘if ever a pot tuk it into its head +to dance a jig, this did. Thunder and sparbles, look +at it!’</p> + +<p>“Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot +bobbin’ up an’ down, and from side to side, jiggin’ it +away as merry as a grig; an’ it was quite aisy to see that +it wasn’t the pot itself, but what was inside it, that +brought about the hornpipe.</p> + +<p>“‘Be the hole o’ my coat,’ shouted Jack, ‘there’s +somethin’ alive in it, or it would niver cut sich capers!’</p> + +<p>“‘Begorra, there is, Jack; something sthrange +entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what’s to +be done?’</p> + +<p>“Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in +prime style, and afther a spring that’d shame a dancin’ +masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden +itself, hoppin’ as nimble as a pea on a drum-head about +the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed +herself. Jack shouted and Katty screamed. ‘In the +name of goodness, keep your distance; no one here +injured you!’</p> + +<p>“The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack +lepped first on a chair, and then on the kitchen table, +to avoid it. It then danced towards Katty, who was +repatin’ her prayers at the top of her voice, while the +cunnin’ thief of a pudden was hoppin’ an’ jiggin’ it +around her as if it was amused at her distress.</p> + +<p>“‘If I could get a pitchfork,’ says Jack, ‘I’d dale +wid it—by goxty, I’d thry its mettle.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>62</span></p> + +<p>“‘No, no,’ shouted Katty, thinkin’ there was a +fairy in it; ‘let us spake it fair. Who knows what +harm it might do? Aisy, now,’ says she to the pudden; +‘aisy, dear; don’t harm honest people that never meant +to offend you. It wasn’t us—no, in troth, it was ould +Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursue him, +if you wish, but spare a woman like me!’</p> + +<p>“The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, +and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the +wife, believin’ there was a fairy in it, an’ that spakin’ +it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft +word as well as her.</p> + +<p>“‘Plase your honour,’ said Jack, ‘she only spakes +the truth, an’ upon my voracity, we both feels much +obliged to you for your quietness. Faith, it’s quite +clear that if you weren’t a gentleman pudden, all out, +you’d act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your +mark; he’s jist down the road there, and if you go fast +you’ll overtake him. Be my song, your dancin’-masther +did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God +speed you, and may you niver meet wid a parson or +alderman in your thravels.’</p> + +<p>“Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the +hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was +directly on the roadside, turned down towards the +bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It was +very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go +and see how it intended to thravel, and as the day was +Sunday, it was but natural too, that a greater number of +people than usual were passin’ the road. This was a +fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin’ +the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up +and after it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>63</span></p> + +<p>“‘Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will +you tell us what it manes?’</p> + +<p>“‘Why,’ replied Katty, ‘it’s my big pudden that’s +bewitched, an’ it’s out hot pursuin’—here she stopped, +not wishin’ to mention her brother’s name—‘someone +or other that surely put pishrogues (a fairy spell) an it.’</p> + +<p>“This was enough; Jack, now seein’ he had assistance, +found his courage comin’ back to him; so says he to +Katty, ‘Go home,’ says he, ‘an’ lose no time in makin’ +another pudden as good, an’ here’s Paddy Scanlan’s +wife Bridget says she’ll let you boil it on her fire, as +you’ll want our own to dress for dinner; and Paddy +himself will lend me a pitchfork, for pursuin’ to the morsel +of that same pudden will escape, till I let the wind out +of it, now that I’ve the neighbours to back an’ support +me,’ says Jack.</p> + +<p>“This was agreed to, an’ Katty went back to prepare +a fresh pudden, while Jack an’ half the townland pursued +the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, +and all possible description of instruments. On the +pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish +miles an hour, an’ sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, +Prodestants, and Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, +as I said, an’ bad end to the thing but its own activity +could save it. Here it made a hop, there a prod was +made at it, but off it went, and someone, as eager to get +a slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of +the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, +got a prod backwards that brought a hullabulloo +out of him that you might hear at the other end of the +parish. One got a slice of the scythe, another a whack +of a flail, a third a rap of the spade, that made him +look nine ways at wanst.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>64</span></p> + +<p>“‘Where is it goin’?’ asked one. ‘My life for you, +it’s on its way to meeting. Three cheers for it, if it +turns to Carntaul!’ ‘Prod the sowl out of it if it’s +a Prodestan,’ shouted the others; ‘if it turns to the left, +slice it into pancakes. We’ll have no Prodestan’ +puddens here.’</p> + +<p>“Begad, by this time the people were on the point +of begginnin’ to have a regular fight about it, when, +very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little +by-lane that led towards the Methodist praychin’-house, +an’ in an instant all parties were in an uproar +against it as a Methodist pudden. ‘It’s a Wesleyan,’ +shouted several voices; ‘an’ by this an’ by that, into +a Methodist chapel it won’t put a foot to-day, or we’ll +lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where’s +your pitchforks?’</p> + +<p>“The divil pursuin’ to the one of them, however, +ever could touch the pudden, and jist when they +thought they had it up against the gravel of the Methodist +chapel, begad, it gave them the slip, and hops over to +the left, clane into the river, and sails away before their +eyes as light as an egg-shell.</p> + +<p>“Now, it so happened that a little below this place +the demesne wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up +to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; +and so, findin’ there was a stop put to their pursuit +of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and +child of them, puzzled to think what the pudden was at +all, what it meant, or where it was goin’. Had Jack +Rafferty an’ his wife been willin’ to let out the opinion +they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin’ it, there is +no doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated +by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>65</span> +sense enough, howaniver, to keep that to themselves, +for Harry, bein’ an ould bachelor, was a kind friend to +the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of +talk about it—some guessin’ this, an’ some guessin’ that—one +party sayin’ the pudden was of their side, and +another denyin’ it, an’ insisting it belonged to them, +an’ so on.</p> + +<p>“In the meantime, Katty Rafferty for ‘fraid the dinner +might come short, went home and made another pudden +much about the same size as the one that had escaped, +an’ bringing it over to their next neighbour, Paddy +Scanlan’s, it was put into a pot, and placed on the fire +to boil, hopin’ that it might be done in time, espishilly +as they were to have the ministher, who loved a warm +slice of a good pudden as well as e’er a gentleman in +Europe.</p> + +<p>“Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were +made man an’ wife, an’ no two could be more lovin’. +Their friends that had been asked to the weddin’ were +saunterin’ about in the pleasant little groups till dinner-time, +chattin’ an’ laughin’; but, above all things, +sthrivin’ to account for the figaries of the pudden; for, +to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through +the whole parish.</p> + +<p>“Well, at any rate, dinner-time was drawin’ near, +and Paddy Scanlan was sittin’ comfortably wid his +wife at the fire, the pudden boilin’ before their eyes +when in walks Harry Connolly in a flutter, shoutin’ +‘Blood and blunder-bushes, what are yez here for?’</p> + +<p>“‘Arrah, why, Harry—why, avick?’ said Mrs. +Scanlan.</p> + +<p>“‘Why,’ said Harry, ‘the sun’s in the suds, an’ the +moon in the high Horricks! Here’s a clipstick comin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>66</span> +on, an’ there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about +to rain mether! Go out, both of you, an’ look at the +sun, I say, an’ ye’ll see the condition he’s in—off!’</p> + +<p>“‘Ay, but, Harry, what’s that rowled up in the tail +of your cothamore (big coat)?’</p> + +<p>“‘Out wid yez,’ says Harry, ‘an’ pray against the +clipstick—the sky’s fallin’!’</p> + +<p>“Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife +got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry’s +wild, thin face and piercin’ eyes; so out they went to +see what was wonderful in the sky, an’ kep lookin’ in +every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin’ +the sun shinin’ down wid great good-humour, an’ not +a single cloud in the sky.</p> + +<p>“Paddy an’ the wife now came in laughin’ to scould +Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag in his way when +he wished. ‘Musha, bad scran to you, Harry—’ +and they had time to say no more, howandiver, for, +as they were goin’ into the door, they met him comin’ +out of it, wid a reek of smoke out of his tail like a limekiln.</p> + +<p>“‘Harry,’ shouted Bridget, ‘my sowl to glory, but +the tail of your cothamore’s afire—you’ll be burned. +Don’t you see the smoke that’s out of it?’</p> + +<p>“‘Cross yourselves three times,’ said Harry, without +stoppin’ or even lookin’ behind him, ‘for as the prophecy +says, Fill the pot, Eddy—’ They could hear no more, +for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something +a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone +might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare +faces he was forced to make as he went along.</p> + +<p>“‘What the dickens is he carryin’ in the skirts of +his big coat?’ asked Paddy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>67</span></p> + +<p>“‘My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stolen +the pudden,’ said Bridget, ‘for it’s known that many +a sthrange thing he does.’</p> + +<p>“They immediately examined the pot, but found that +the pudden was there, as safe as tuppence, an’ this +puzzled them the more to think what it was he could be +carryin’ about with him in the manner he did. But +little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin’!</p> + +<p>“Well, anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was +ready an’ no doubt but a fine gatherin’ there was to +partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the +Methodist praycher—a divilish stretcher of an appetite +he had, in throth—on his way to Jack Rafferty’s, +an’ as he knew he could take the liberty, why, he insisted +on his dining wid him; for, afther all, in thim days +the clergy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin’ +among one another not all at one as now—but no matther. +Well, they had nearly finished their dinner, when Jack +Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but jist +as he spoke, in it came, as big as a mess-pot.</p> + +<p>“‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope none of you will +refuse tastin’ a bit of Katty’s pudden; I don’t mane the +dancin’ one that took to its thravels to-day, but a good, +solid fellow that she med since.’</p> + +<p>“‘To be sure we won’t,’ replied the priest. ‘So, +Jack, put a thrifle on them three plates at your right +hand, and send them over here to the clargy, an’ maybe,’ +he said, laughin’—for he was a droll, good-humoured +man—‘maybe, Jack, we won’t set you a proper example.’</p> + +<p>“‘Wid a heart an’ a half, your riverence an’ gintlemen; +in throth, it’s not a bad example ever any of you set us +at the likes, or ever will set us, I’ll go bail. An’ sure, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>68</span> +I only wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we’re +humble people, gintlemen, an’ so you can’t expect to +meet here what you would in higher places.’</p> + +<p>“‘Betther a male of herbs,’ said the Methodist +praycher, ‘where pace is—’ He had time to go no +further, however; for, much to his amazement, the +priest an’ the ministher started up from the table, jist +as he was going to swallow the first mouthful of the +pudden, and, before you could say Jack Robinson, +started away at a lively jig down the floor.</p> + +<p>“At this moment a neighbour’s son came runnin’ +in, and tould them that the parson was comin’ to see +the new-married couple, an’ wish them all happiness; +an’ the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he +made his appearance. What to think he knew not, +when he saw the ministher footin’ it away at the rate of +a weddin’. He had very little time, however, to think; +for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist +praycher, an’, clappin’ his fists in his sides, chimes +in in great style along wid him.</p> + +<p>“‘Jack Rafferty,’ says he, and, by the way, Jack +was his tenant, ‘what the dickens does all this mane?’ +says he; ‘I’m amazed!’</p> + +<p>“‘Then not a particle o’ me can tell you,’ says Jack; +‘but will your reverence jist taste a morsel o’ pudden, +merely that the young couple may boast that you ait +at their weddin’; ‘for sure, if you wouldn’t, who +would?’</p> + +<p>“‘Well,’ says he, to gratify them, I will; so, just +a morsel. But, Jack, this bates Banagher,’ says he +again, puttin’ the spoonful of pudden into his mouth; +‘has there been drink here?’</p> + +<p>“‘Oh, the divil a spudh,’ says Jack, ‘for although +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>69</span> +there’s plenty in the house, faith, it appears the gentlemen +wouldn’t wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I +can make nothin’ o’ this.’</p> + +<p>“He had scarcely spoken when the parson, who was +an active man, cut a caper a yard high, an’ before you +could bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work +dancin’, as if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible +for me to tell you the state the whole meetin’ was in +when they see this. Some were hoarse wid laughin’; +some turned up their eyes wid wondher; many thought +them mad; and others thought they had turned up +their little fingers a thrifle too often.</p> + +<p>“‘Be Goxty, it’s a burnin’ shame,’ said one, ‘to see +three black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early +hour!’” ‘Thunder an’ ounze, what’s over them all?’ +says others; ‘why, one would think they were bewitched. +Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! +An’ as for the Recthor, who would think he could handle +his feet at sich a rate! Be this, an’ be that, he cuts the +buckle, an’ does the threblin’ step aiquil to Paddy +Horaghan, the dancin’-masther himself! An’ see! +Bad cess to the morsel of the parson that’s not too hard +at “Pease upon a Trancher,” and it upon a Sunday, +too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun’s in yez, afther all—whish! +more power to yez!’</p> + +<p>“The sorra’s own fun they had, an’ no wondher; +but judge of what they felt when all at once they saw ould +Jack Rafferty himself bouncin’ in among them, an’ +footin’ it away like the best of them. Bedad, no play +could come up to it, an’ nothin’ could be heard but +laughin’, shouts of encouragement, an’ clappin’ of hands +like mad. Now, the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair, +where he had been carvin’ the pudden, ould Harry +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>70</span> +Connolly come over and claps himself down in his place, +in ordher to send it round, of coorse; an’ he was scarcely +sated when who should make his appearance but Barney +Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent +for early in the day, but, bein’ from home when the +message for him came, he couldn’t come any sooner.</p> + +<p>“‘Begorra’ says Barney, ‘you’re airly at the work, +gintlemen! But what does this mane? But divel +may care, yez shan’t want the music, while there’s a +blast in the pipes, anyhow!’ So sayin’ he gave them +“Jig Polthogue,” and afther that, “Kiss my Lady” in his +best style.</p> + +<p>“In the manetime the fun went on thick and threefold, +for it must be remembered that Harry, the ould knave, +was at the pudden; an’ maybe, he didn’t sarve it about +in double-quick time, too! The first he helped was +the bride, and before you could say chopstick she was +at it hard and fast, before the Methodist praycher, who +gave a jolly spring before her that threw them all into +convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind +soon to find partners for the rest; an’, to make a long +story short, barrin’ the piper an’ himself, there wasn’t +a pair of heels in the house but was busy at the dancin’ +as if their lives depended on it.</p> + +<p>“‘Barney,’ says Harry, ‘jist taste a morsel o’ this +pudden; divil the sich a bully of a pudden ever you ett. +Here, your sowl! thry a snig of it—it’s beautiful!’</p> + +<p>“‘To be sure I will,’ says Barney. ‘I’m not the boy +to refuse a good thing. But, Harry, be quick, for you +know my hands is engaged, an’ it would be a thousand +pities not to keep them in music, an’ they so well inclined. +Thank you, Harry. Begad, that is a fine pudden. +But, blood an’ turnips! what’s this for?’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>71</span></p> + +<p>“The words was scarcely out of his mouth when he +bounced up, pipes an’ all, and dashed into the middle of +the party. ‘Hurroo! your sowls, let us make a night +of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your +reverence!—turn your partner—heel and toe, ministher. +Good! Well done, again! Whish! Hurroo! Here’s +for Ballyboulteen, an’ the sky over it!’</p> + +<p>“Bad luck to sich a set ever was seen together in this +world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, +wasn’t come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat’ +an’ fury of the dance, what do you think comes hoppin’ +in among them but another pudden, as nimble an’ +merry as the first! That was enough; they had all +heard of it—the ministhers among the rest—an’ most +of them had seen the other pudden, an’ knew that there +must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, +in it comes, to the thick o’ them; but the very appearance +of it was enough. Off the three clergymen danced, and +off the whole weddiners danced, afther them, everyone +makin’ the best of their way home, but not a sowl of +them able to break out of the step, if they were to be +hanged for it. Troth, it wouldn’t lave a laff in you to +see the parson dancin’ down the road on his way home, +and the ministher and Methodist praycher cuttin’ the +buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. +To make short work of it, they all danced home at last +wid scarce a puff of wind in them; and the bride an’ +bridegroom danced away to bed.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>72</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Frank Webber’s Wager.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Charles O’Malley.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Charles Lever (1806-1872).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">I was</span> sitting at breakfast with Webber, when Power +came in hastily.</p> + +<p>“Ha, the very man!” said he. “I say, O’Malley, +here’s an invitation for you from Sir George to dine +on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand civil things +about his not having made you out, regrets that he was +not at home when you called yesterday, and all that.”</p> + +<p>“By the way,” said Webber, “wasn’t Sir George +Dashwood down in the West lately? Do you know +what took him there?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Power, “I can enlighten you. He got +his wife west of the Shannon—a vulgar woman. She +is now dead, and the only vestige of his unfortunate +matrimonial connexion is a correspondence kept up +with him by a maiden sister of his late wife’s. She +insists upon claiming the ties of kindred upon about +twenty family eras during the year, when she regularly +writes a most loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing +the latest information from Mayo, with all particulars +of the Macan family, of which she is a worthy member. +To her constant hints of the acceptable nature of certain +small remittances the poor General is never inattentive; +but to the pleasing prospects of a visit in the flesh from +Miss Judy Macan, the good man is dead.”</p> + +<p>“Then, he has never yet seen her?”</p> + +<p>“Never, and he hopes to leave Ireland without that +blessing?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>73</span></p> + +<p>“I say, Power, and has your worthy General sent me +a card for his ball?”</p> + +<p>“Not through me, Master Frank. Sir George must +really be excused in this matter. He has a most attractive, +lovely daughter, just at that budding, unsuspecting +age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions; +and where, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the +chance of a casual meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, +Master Frank Webber?”</p> + +<p>“A very strong case, certainly,” said Frank; “but +still, had he confided his critical position to my honour +and secrecy, he might have depended on me; now, +having taken the other line, he must abide the consequences. +I’ll make fierce love to Lucy.”</p> + +<p>“But how, may I ask, and when?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll begin at the ball, man.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I thought you said you were not going?”</p> + +<p>“There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I +had not been invited.”</p> + +<p>“Then, of course,” said I, “Webber, you can’t +think of going, in any case, on my account.”</p> + +<p>“My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. +I not only shall go, but I intend to have most particular +notice and attention paid me. I shall be prime favourite +with Sir George—kiss Lucy—”</p> + +<p>“Come, come! this is too strong.”</p> + +<p>“What do you bet I don’t? There, now, I’ll give +you a pony a-piece, I do. Do you say done?”</p> + +<p>“That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked +downstairs for your pains; are those the terms of your +wager?” inquired Power.</p> + +<p>“With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, +and am not kicked downstairs for my pains.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>74</span></p> + +<p>“Then I say, done!”</p> + +<p>“And with you, too, O’Malley?”</p> + +<p>“I thank you,” said I, coldly; “I’m not disposed +to make such a return for Sir George Dashwood’s +hospitality as to make an insult to his family the subject +of a bet.”</p> + +<p>“Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss +Dashwood will not refuse my chaste salute. Come, +Power, I will give you the other pony.”</p> + +<p>“Agreed,” said he. “At the same time, understand +me distinctly—that I hold myself perfectly eligible +to winning the wager by my own interference; for, if +you do kiss her, I’ll perform the remainder of the +compact.”</p> + +<p>“So I understand the agreement,” said Webber, and +off he went.</p> + +<p>I have often dressed for a storming party with less +of trepidation than I felt on the evening of Sir George +Dashwood’s ball. It was long since I had seen Miss +Dashwood; therefore, as to what precise position I +might occupy in her favour was a matter of great doubt in +my mind, and great import to my happiness.</p> + +<p>Our quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a +seat, when Sir George came hurriedly up, his face +greatly flushed, and betraying every semblance of +high excitement.</p> + +<p>“Read this,” said he, presenting a very dirty-looking +note.</p> + +<p>Miss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a +moment’s silence, burst out a-laughing, while she said, +“Why, really, papa, I do not see why this should put +you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a +character, as her note evinces; but after a few days——’,</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>75</span></p> + +<p>“Nonsense, child; there’s nothing in this world I +have such a dread of as this—and to come at such a time! +O’Malley, my boy, read this note, and you will not feel +surprised if I appear in the humour you see me.”</p> + +<p>I read as follows:—</p> + +<p>“Dear brother,—When this reaches your hand I’ll +not be far off. I’m on my way up to town, to be under +Dr. Dease for the ould complaint. Expect me to tea; +and, with love to Lucy, believe me, yours in haste,</p> + +<p class="rib">“Judith Macan.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if +you have a spare bed, perhaps you could prevail upon +Father Magrath to stop, too.”</p> + +<p>I scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the +end of this very free-and-easy epistle, when at last I +burst forth in a hearty fit, in which I was joined by Miss +Dashwood.</p> + +<p>“I say, Lucy,” said Sir George, “there’s only one +thing to be done. If this horrid woman does arrive, +let her be shown to her room, and for the few days of +her stay in town, we’ll neither see nor be seen by anyone.”</p> + +<p>Without waiting for a reply he was turning away, +when the servant announced, in his loudest voice, +“Miss Macan.”</p> + +<p>No sooner had the servant pronounced the magical +name than all the company present seemed to stand +still. About two steps in advance of the servant was +a tall, elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk, +with enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. +Her hair was powdered and turned back, in the fashion +of fifty years before. Her short, skinny arms were bare, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>76</span> +while on her hands she wore black silk mittens; a pair +of green spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most +piercing pair of eyes, to whose effect a very palpable +touch of rouge on the cheeks certainly added brilliancy. +There she stood, holding before her a fan about the size +of a modern tea-tray, while at each repetition of her name +by the servant she curtseyed deeply.</p> + +<p>Sir George, armed with the courage of despair, forced +his way through the crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, +bid her welcome to Dublin. The fair Judy, +at this, threw her arms about his neck, and saluted him +with a hearty smack, that was heard all over the +room.</p> + +<p>“Where’s Lucy, brother? Let me see my little +darling,” said the lady, in a decided accent. “There +she is, I’m sure; kiss me, my honey.”</p> + +<p>This office Miss Dashwood performed with an effort +at courtesy really admirable; while, taking her aunt’s +arm, she led her to a sofa.</p> + +<p>Power made his way towards Miss Dashwood, and +succeeded in obtaining a formal introduction to Miss +Macan.</p> + +<p>“I hope you will do me the favour to dance next set +with me, Miss Macan?”</p> + +<p>“Really, Captain, it’s very polite of you, but you +must excuse me. I was never anything great in quadrilles: +but if a reel or a jig——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear aunt, don’t think of it, I beg of you!”</p> + +<p>“Or even Sir Roger de Coverley,” resumed Miss +Macan.</p> + +<p>“I assure you, quite equally impossible.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’m certain you waltz,” said Power.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>77</span></p> + +<p>“What do you take me for, young man? I hope +I know better. I wish Father Magrath heard you ask +me that question; and for all your laced jacket——”</p> + +<p>“Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn’t mean to offend +you; I’m certain he——”</p> + +<p>“Well, why did he dare to—(sob, sob)—did he +see anything light about me, that he—(sob, sob, +sob)—oh, dear! oh, dear! is it for this I came up from +my little peaceful place in the West?—(sob, sob, sob)—General, +George, dear; Lucy, my love, I’m taken +bad. Oh, dear! oh, dear! is there any whiskey +negus?”</p> + +<p>After a time she was comforted.</p> + +<p>At supper later on in the evening, I was deep in +thought when a dialogue quite near me aroused me +from my reverie.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, now! don’t, I tell ye; it’s little ye know +Galway, or ye wouldn’t think to make up to me, +squeezing my foot.”</p> + +<p>“You’re an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a +woman suit my fancy before.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says——”</p> + +<p>“Who’s he?”</p> + +<p>“The priest; no less.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! bother him.”</p> + +<p>“Bother Father Magrath, young man?”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, Judy, don’t be angry; I only means +that a dragoon knows rather more of these matters than +a priest.”</p> + +<p>“Well, then, I’m not so sure of that. But, anyhow, +I’d have you to remember it ain’t a Widow Malone +you have beside you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>78</span></p> + +<p>“Never heard of the lady,” said Power.</p> + +<p>“Sure, it’s a song—poor creature—it’s a song they +made about her in the North Cork when they were +quartered down in our county.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you’d sing it.”</p> + +<p>“What will you give me, then, if I do?”</p> + +<p>“Anything—everything—my heart—my life.”</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t give a trauneen for all of them. Give +me that old green ring on your finger, then.”</p> + +<p>“It’s yours,” said Power, placing it gracefully upon +Miss Macan’s finger; “and now for your promise.”</p> + +<p>“Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song +has one, and here it is.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Macan’s song!” said Power, tapping the table +with his knife.</p> + +<p>“Miss Macan’s song!” was re-echoed on all sides; +and before the luckless General could interfere, she +had begun:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>Who lived in the town of Athlone,</p> + <p class="i10">Alone?</p> +<p>Oh! she melted the hearts</p> +<p>Of the swains in them parts,</p> +<p>So lovely the widow Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>So lovely the Widow Malone.</p> + +<p class="s">“Of lovers she had a full score,</p> + <p class="i10">Or more;</p> +<p>And fortunes they all had galore,</p> + <p class="i10">In store; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>79</span></p> +<p>From the Minister down</p> +<p>To the Clerk of the Crown,</p> +<p>All were courting the Widow Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>All were courting the Widow Malone.</p> + +<p class="s">“But so modest was Mrs. Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">’Twas known</p> +<p>No one ever could see her alone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>Let them ogle and sigh,</p> +<p>They could ne’er catch her eye,</p> +<p>So bashful the Widow Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>So bashful the Widow Malone.</p> + +<p class="s">“Till one Mr. O’Brien from Clare,—</p> + <p class="i10">How quare,</p> +<p>It’s little for blushing they care,</p> + <p class="i10">Down there,</p> +<p>Put his arm round her waist,</p> +<p>Gave ten kisses, at laste,—</p> +<p>‘Oh,’ says he, ‘you’re my Molly Malone,’</p> + <p class="i10">My own;</p> +<p>‘Oh,’ says he, ‘you’re my Molly Malone.’</p> + +<p class="s">“And the widow they all thought so shy,</p> + <p class="i10">My eye!</p> +<p>Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh;</p> + <p class="i10">For why?</p> +<p>But ‘Lucius,’ says she,</p> +<p>‘Since you’ve now made so free,</p> +<p>You may marry your Mary Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>You may marry your Mary Malone.’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>80</span></p> +<p>“There’s a moral contained in my song,</p> + <p class="i10">Not wrong;</p> +<p>And, one comfort, it’s not very long,</p> + <p class="i10">But strong;</p> +<p>If for widows you die,</p> +<p>Larn to kiss, not to sigh,</p> +<p>For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone,</p> + <p class="i10">Ohone!</p> +<p>Oh! they’re very like Mistress Malone.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Never did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan’s.</p> + +<p>“I insist upon a copy of ‘The Widow,’ Miss Macan,” +said Power.</p> + +<p>“To be sure; give me a call to-morrow—let me see—about +two. Father Magrath won’t be at home,” said +she, with a coquettish look.</p> + +<p>“Where pray, may I pay my respects?”</p> + +<p>Power produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan +wrote a few lines, saying, as she handed it—</p> + +<p>“There, now, don’t read it here before all the people; +they’ll think it mighty indelicate in me to make an +appointment.”</p> + +<p>Power pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss +Macan’s carriage was announced.</p> + +<p>When she had taken her departure, “Doubt it who +will,” said Power, “she has invited me to call on her +to-morrow—written her address on my card—told me +the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!” +At these words he pulled forth the card, and handed it +to a friend.</p> + +<p>Scarcely were the eyes of the latter thrown upon the +writing, when he said, “So, this isn’t it, Power!”</p> + +<p>“To be sure it is, man. Read it out. Proclaim +aloud my victory.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>81</span></p> + +<p>Thus urged, his friend read:—</p> + +<p>“Dear P.,—Please pay to my credit—and soon, +mark ye—the two ponies lost this evening. I have done +myself the pleasure of enjoying your ball, kissed the lady, +quizzed the papa and walked into the cunning Fred +Power.—Yours,</p> + +<p class="rib sc">“<span class="sc">Frank Webber</span>.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“‘The Widow Malone, Ohone!’ is at your service.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>82</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Sam Wham and the Sawmont.</p> + +<p class="center sc">By Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810-1886).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">“Knieving trouts”</span> (they call it tickling in England) +is good sport. You go to a stony shallow at night, +a companion bearing a torch; then, stripping to the +thighs and shoulders, wade in, grope with your hands +under the stones, sods, and other harbourage, till you +find your game, then grip him in your “knieve” and +toss him ashore.</p> + +<p>I remember, when a boy, carrying the splits for a +servant of the family, called Sam Wham. Now, Sam +was an able young fellow, well-boned and willing, a +hard headed cudgel player, and a marvellous tough +wrestler, for he had a backbone like a sea serpent—this +gained him the name of the Twister and Twiner. He +had got into the river, and with his back to me was +stooping over a broad stone, when something bolted +from under the bank on which I stood, right through +his legs. Sam fell with a great splash on his face, but +in falling jammed whatever it was against the stone. +“Let go, Twister!” shouted I; “’Tis an otter, he will +nip a finger off you.” “Whist!” sputtered he, as he +slid his hand under the water. “May I never read +a text again if he isna a sawmont wi’ a shoulther like +a hog!” “Grip him by the gills, Twister,” cried I. +“Saul will I!” cried the Twiner; but just then there +was a heave, a roll, a splash, a slap like a pistol-shot: +down went Sam, and up went the salmon, spun like +a shilling at a pitch-and-toss, six feet into the air. I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>83</span> +leaped in just as he came to the water, but my foot +caught between two stones, and the more I pulled +the firmer it stuck. The fish fell into the spot shallower +than that from which he had leaped. Sam saw the +chance, and tackled to again; while I, sitting down in +the stream as best I might, held up my torch, and cried, +“Fair play!” as, shoulder to shoulder, through, out, +and about, up and down, roll and tumble, to it they went, +Sam and the salmon. The Twister was never so twined +before. Yet, through cross-buttocks and capsizes innumerable, +he still held on; now haled through a pool; +now haling up a bank; now heels over head; now +head over heels; now, head over heels together, doubled +up in a corner; but at last stretched fairly on his back, +and foaming for rage and disappointment; while the +victorious salmon, slapping the stones with its tail, +and whirling the spray from its shoulders at every roll, +came boring and snoring up the ford. I tugged and +strained to no purpose; he flashed by me with a snort, +and slid into deep water. Sam now staggered forward +with battered bones and pilled elbows, blowing like +a grampus, and cursing like nothing but himself. He +extricated me, and we limped home. Neither rose for +a week; for I had a dislocated ankle, and the Twister +was troubled with a broken rib. Poor Sam! He had +his brains discovered at last by a poker in a row, and +was worm’s meat within three months; yet, ere he died, +he had the satisfaction of feasting on his old antagonist, +who was man’s meat next morning. They caught him +in a net. Sam knew him by the twist in his tail.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>84</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Darby Doyle’s Voyage to +Quebec.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Dublin Penny Journal,” 1832.</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Thomas Ettingsall (17——1850).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">I tuck</span> the road one fine morning in May, from +Inchegelagh, an’ got up to the Cove safe an’ sound. +There I saw many ships with big broad boords fastened +to ropes, every one ov them saying “The first vessel +for Quebec.” Siz I to myself, those are about to run +for a wager; this one siz she’ll be first, and that one +siz she’ll be first. I pitched on one that was finely +painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who +shou’d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould +townsman ov my own.</p> + +<p>“Och, is it yoorself that’s there, Ned?” siz I; “are +ye goin’ to Amerrykey?”</p> + +<p>“Why, an’ to be shure,” sez he; “I’m <i>mate</i> ov +the ship.”</p> + +<p>“Meat! that’s yer sort, Ned,” siz I; “then we’ll +only want bread. Hadn’t I betther go and pay my +way?”</p> + +<p>“You’re time enough,” siz Ned; “I’ll tell you +when we’re ready for sea—leave the rest to me, Darby.”</p> + +<p>“Och, tip us your fist,” siz I; “you were always +the broath of a boy; for the sake ov ould times, Ned, +we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a bite to ate.”</p> + +<p>Many’s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to +leave it all to him, and how comfortable he’d make +me on the voyage. Day afther day we spint together, +waitin’ for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>85</span> +grow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther +dinner:—</p> + +<p>“Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow—you’d +betther go on boord an’ pay your way.”</p> + +<p>“Is it jokin’ you are, Ned?” siz I; “shure you tould +me to leave it all to you.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Darby,” siz he, “you’re for takin’ a rise out +o’ me. But I’ll stick to my promise; only, Darby, +you must pay your way.”</p> + +<p>“O, Ned,” says I, “is this the way you’re goin’ to +threat me after all? I’m a rooin’d man; all I cou’d +scrape together I spint on you. If you don’t do something +for me, I’m lost. Is there no place where you +cou’d hide me from the captin?”</p> + +<p>“Not a place,” siz Ned.</p> + +<p>“An’ where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin’ +up out ov?”</p> + +<p>“O, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo’s +stow’d.”</p> + +<p>“An’ is there no other place?” siz I.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” siz he, “where we keep the wather casks.”</p> + +<p>“An’ Ned,” siz I, “does anyone live down there?”</p> + +<p>“Not a mother’s soul,” siz he.</p> + +<p>“An’ Ned,” siz I, “can’t you cram me down there, +and give me a lock ov straw an’ a bit?”</p> + +<p>“Why, Darby,” siz he (an’ he look’d mighty pittyfull), +“I must thry. But mind, Darby, you’ll have to hide +all day in an empty barrel, and when it comes to my +watch, I’ll bring you down some prog; but if you’re +diskiver’d, it’s all over with me, an’ you’ll be put on a +dissilute island to starve.”</p> + +<p>“O Ned,” siz I, “leave it all to me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>86</span></p> + +<p>When night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, +among the barrels; and poor Ned every night brought +me down hard black cakes an’ salt meat. There I lay +snug for a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to +me:—</p> + +<p>“Now, Darby, what’s to be done? we’re within +three days’ sail ov Quebec; the ship will be overhauled, +and all the passengers’ names call’d over.”</p> + +<p>“An’ is that all that frets you, my jewel,” siz I; +“just get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an’ a bare +ham bone, and that’s all I’ll ax.”</p> + +<p>So Ned got them for me, anyhow.</p> + +<p>“Well, Ned,” siz I, “you know I’m a great +shwimmer; your watch will be early in the morning; +I’ll just slip down into the sea; do you cry out ‘There’s +a man in the wather,’ as loud as you can, and leave all +the rest to me.”</p> + +<p>Well, to be sure, down into the sea I dropt without +as much as a splash. Ned roared out with the hoarseness +of a brayin’ ass—</p> + +<p>“A man in the sea, a man in the sea!”</p> + +<p>Every man, woman, and child came running up out +of the holes, and the captain among the rest, who put +a long red barrel, like a gun, to his eye—I thought he +was for shootin’ me! Down I dived. When I got my +head over the wather agen, what shou’d I see but a +boat rowin’ to me. When it came up close, I roared +out—</p> + +<p>“Did ye hear me at last?”</p> + +<p>The boat now run ‘pon the top ov me; I was gript +by the scruff ov the neck, and dragg’d into it.</p> + +<p>“What hard look I had to follow yees, at all at all—which +ov ye is the masther?” says I.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>87</span></p> + +<p>“There he is,” siz they, pointin’ to a little yellow man +in a corner of the boat.</p> + +<p>“You yallow-lookin’ monkey, but it’s a’most time for +you to think ov lettin’ me into your ship—I’m here +plowin’ and plungin’ this month afther you; shure +I didn’t care a thrawneen was it not that you have my +best Sunday clothes in your ship, and my name in your +books.”</p> + +<p>“An’ pray, what is your name, my lad?” siz the +captain.</p> + +<p>“What’s my name! What i’d you give to know?” +siz I, “ye unmannerly spalpeen, it might be what’s +your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your mouth—ay, +Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own +it at home or abroad!”</p> + +<p>“An’, Mr. Darby Doyle,” siz he, “do you mean to +persuade us that you swam from Cork to this afther +us?”</p> + +<p>“This is more ov your ignorance,” siz I—“ay, an’ +if you sted three days longer and not take me up, I’d +be in Quebec before ye, only my purvisions were out, +and the few rags of bank notes I had all melted into +paste in my pocket, for I hadn’t time to get them changed. +But stay, wait till I get my foot on shore; there’s ne’er +a cottoner in Cork iv you don’t pay for leavin’ me to the +marcy ov the waves.”</p> + +<p>At last we came close to the ship. Everyone on board +saw me at Cove but didn’t see me on the voyage; to be +sure, everyone’s mouth was wide open, crying out, +“Darby Doyle!”</p> + +<p>“It’s now you call me loud enough,” siz I, “ye +wouldn’t shout that way when ye saw me rowlin’ like +a tub in a mill-race the other day fornenst your faces.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>88</span> +When they heard me say that, some of them grew +pale as a sheet. Nothin’ was tawked ov for the other +three days but Darby Doyle’s great shwim from Cove +to Quebec.</p> + +<p>At last we got to Ammerykey. I was now in a quare +way; the captain wouldn’t let me go till a friend of his +would see me. By this time, my jewel, not only his +friends came, but swarms upon swarms, starin’ at poor +Darby. At last I called Ned.</p> + +<p>“Ned, avic,” siz I, “what’s the meanin’ ov the boords +acrass the stick the people walk on, and the big white +boord up there?”</p> + +<p>“Why, come over and read,” siz Ned. I saw in great +big black letters:—</p> + +<p class="pt1 center">THE GREATEST WONDHER IN THE WORLD!!!<br /> + TO BE SEEN HERE,</p> + +<p class="center">A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!<br /> + He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!<br /> +Proved on oath by ten of the crew and twenty passengers.<br /> + Admittance Half a Dollar.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“Ned,” siz I, “does this mean your humble sarvint?”</p> + +<p>“Not another,” siz he.</p> + +<p>So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and +jump, gets over to the captain, who was now talkin’ to +a yallow fellow that was afther starin’ me out ov +countenance.</p> + +<p>“Ye are doin’ it well,” said I. “How much money +have ye gother for my shwimmin’?”</p> + +<p>“Be quiet, Darby,” siz the captain, and he looked +very much frickened. “I have plenty, an’ I’ll have +more for ye iv ye do what I want ye to do.”</p> + +<p>“An’ what is it, avic?” siz I.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>89</span></p> + +<p>“Why, Darby,” siz he, “I’m afther houldin a wager +last night with this gintleman for all the worth ov my +ship, that you’ll shwim against any shwimmer in the +world; an’, Darby, if ye don’t do that, I’m a gone +man.”</p> + +<p>“Augh, give us your fist,” siz I; “did ye ever hear +ov Paddies dishaving any man in the European world +yet—barrin’ themselves?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Darby,” siz he, “I’ll give you a hundred +dollars; but, Darby, you must be to your word, and +you shall have another hundred.”</p> + +<p>So sayin’, he brought me down to the cellar.</p> + +<p>“Now, Darby,” siz he, “here’s the dollars for +ye.”</p> + +<p>But it was only a bit of paper he was handin’ me.</p> + +<p>“Arrah, none ov yer tricks upon thravellers,” siz I; +“I had betther nor that, and many more ov them, +melted in the sea; give me what won’t wash out of my +pocket.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Darby,” siz he, “you must have the real +thing.”</p> + +<p>So he reckoned me out a hundred dollars in goold. +I never saw the like since the stockin’ fell out ov the +chimly on my aunt and cut her forred.</p> + +<p>“Now, Darby,” siz he, “ye are a rich man, and ye +are worthy of it all.”</p> + +<p>At last the day came that I was to stand the tug. +I saw the captain lookin’ very often at me. At last—</p> + +<p>“Darby,” siz he, “are you any way cow’d? The +fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down +watherfalls an’ catharacts.”</p> + +<p>“Can he, avic?” siz I; “but can he shwim up +agenst them?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>90</span></p> + +<p>An’ who shou’d come up while I was tawkin’ to the +captain but the chap I was to shwim with, and heard all +I sed. He was so tall that he could eat bread an’ butther +over my head—with a face as yallow as a kite’s foot.</p> + +<p>“Tip us the mitten,” siz I, “mabouchal,” siz I; +“Where are we going to shwim to? What id ye think if +we swum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope?”</p> + +<p>“I reckon neither,” siz he.</p> + +<p>Off we set through the crowds ov ladies an’ gintlemen +to the shwimmin’ place. And as I was goin’ I was +thript up by a big loomp ov iron struck fast in the ground +with a big ring to it.</p> + +<p>“What d’ye call that?” siz I to the captain, who +was at my elbow.</p> + +<p>“Why, Darby,” siz he, “that’s half an anchor.”</p> + +<p>“Have ye any use for it?” siz I.</p> + +<p>“Not in the least,” siz he; “it’s only to fasten +boats to.”</p> + +<p>“Maybee you’d give it to a body,” siz I.</p> + +<p>“An’ welkim, Darby,” siz he; “it’s yours.”</p> + +<p>“God bless your honour, sir,” siz I, “it’s my poor +father that will pray for you. When I left home the +creather hadn’t as much as an anvil but what was sthreeled +away by the agint—bad end to them. This will be +jist the thing that’ll match him; he can tie the horse +to the ring while he forges on the other part. Now, +will ye obleege me by gettin’ a couple ov chaps to lay +it on my shoulder when I get into the wather, and I +won’t have to be comin’ back for it afther I shake hands +with this fellow.”</p> + +<p>Oh, the chap turned from yallow to white when he +heard me say this. An’ siz he to the gintleman that +was walkin’ by <i>his</i> side—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>91</span></p> + +<p>“I reckon I’m not fit for the shwimmin’ to-day—I +don’t feel <i>myself</i>.”</p> + +<p>“An’, murdher an’ Irish, if you’re yer brother, +can’t you send him for yerself, an’ I’ll wait here till +he comes. An’ when will ye be able for the shwim, +avic?” siz I, mighty complisant.</p> + +<p>“I reckon in another week,” siz he.</p> + +<p>So we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow +went home, took the fever, then began to rave. “Shwim +up catharacts!—shwim to the Keep ov Good Hope!—shwim +to St. Helena!—shwim to Keep Clear!—shwim +with an anchor on his back!—oh! oh! oh!”</p> + +<p>I now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother +up my winners; and here I sit undher my own hickory +threes, as independent as anny Yankee.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>92</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Bob Burke’s Duel.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Tales from Blackwood.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Dr. Maginn.</p> + +<div class="list sc"> +<p>How Bob Burke, after Consultation with Wooden-Leg +Waddy, Fought the Duel with Ensign Brady +for the sake of Miss Theodosia MacNamara, +Supposed Heiress to her Old Bachelor Uncle, +Mick MacNamara of Kawleash.</p> +</div> + +<p class="noind pt1"><span class="chap1 sc">“At</span> night I had fallen asleep fierce in the determination +of exterminating Brady; but with the morrow, +cool reflection came—made probably cooler by the +aspersion I had suffered. How could I fight him, when +he had never given me the slightest affront? To be +sure, picking a quarrel is not hard, thank God, in any +part of Ireland; but unless I was quick about it, he +might get so deep into the good graces of Dosy, who +was as flammable as tinder, that even my shooting him +might not be of any practical advantage to myself. +Then, besides, he might shoot me; and, in fact, I was +not by any means so determined in the affair at seven +o’clock in the morning as I was at twelve o’clock at +night. I got home, however, dressed, shaved, etc., +and turned out. ‘I think,’ said I to myself, ‘the best +thing I can do, is to go and consult Wooden-Leg Waddy; +and, as he is an early man, I shall catch him now.’ The +thought was no sooner formed than executed; and in +less than five minutes I was walking with Wooden-Leg +Waddy in his garden, at the back of his house, by the +banks of the Blackwater.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>93</span></p> + +<p>“Waddy had been in the Hundred-and-First, and had +seen much service in that distinguished corps.</p> + +<p>“Waddy had served a good deal, and lost his leg +somehow, for which he had a pension besides his half-pay, +and he lived in ease and affluence among the Bucks +of Mallow. He was a great hand at settling and arranging +duels, being what we generally call in Ireland a judgmatical +sort of man—a word which, I think, might be +introduced with advantage into the English vocabulary. +When I called on him, he was smoking his meerschaum, +as he walked up and down his garden in an old undressed +coat, and a fur cap on his head. I bade him good +morning; to which salutation he answered by a nod, +and a more prolonged whiff.</p> + +<p>“‘I want to speak to you, Wooden-Leg,’ said I, ‘on +a matter which nearly concerns me,’ to which I received +another nod, and another whiff in reply.</p> + +<p>“‘The fact is,’ said I, ‘that there is an Ensign Brady +of the 48th Quartered here, with whom I have some +reason to be angry, and I am thinking of calling him +out. I have come to ask your advice whether I should +do so or not. He has deeply injured me, by interfering +between me and the girl of my affection. What ought +I to do in such a case?’</p> + +<p>“‘Fight him, by all means,’ said Wooden-Leg Waddy.</p> + +<p>“‘But the difficulty is this—he has offered me no +affront, direct or indirect—we have no quarrel whatever—and +he has not paid any addresses to the lady. +He and I have scarcely been in contact at all. I do not +see how I can manage it immediately with any propriety. +What then can I do now?’</p> + +<p>“‘Do not fight him, by any means,’ said Wooden-Leg +Waddy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>94</span></p> + +<p>“‘Still, these are the facts of the case. He, whether +intentionally or not, is coming between me and my +mistress, which is doing me an injury perfectly equal +to the grossest insult. How should I act?’</p> + +<p>“‘Fight him by all means,’ said Wooden-Leg Waddy.</p> + +<p>“‘But then, I fear if I were to call him out on a +groundless quarrel, or one which would appear to be +such, that I should lose the good graces of the lady, +and be laughed at by my friends, or set down as a +dangerous and quarrelsome companion.’</p> + +<p>“‘Do not fight him, by any means,’ said Wooden-Leg +Waddy.</p> + +<p>“‘Yet, as he is a military man, he must know enough +of the etiquette of these affairs to feel perfectly confident +that he has affronted me; and the opinion of the military +man, standing, as of course, he does, in the rank and +position of a gentleman, could not, I think, be overlooked +without disgrace.’</p> + +<p>“‘Fight him, by all means,’ said Wooden-Leg Waddy.</p> + +<p>“‘But then, talking of gentlemen, I own he is an +officer of the 48th, but his father is a fish-tackle seller +in John Street, Kilkenny, who keeps a three-halfpenny +shop, where you may buy everything from a cheese +to a cheese-toaster, from a felt hat to a pair of brogues, +from a pound of brown soap to a yard of huckaback +towels. He got his commission by his father’s retiring +from the Ormonde Interest, and acting as whipper-in +to the sham freeholders from Castlecomer; and I am, +as you know, of the best blood of the Burkes—straight +from the De Burgos themselves—and when I think of +that I really do not like to meet this Mr. Brady.’</p> + +<p>“‘Do not fight him, by all means,’ said Wooden-Leg +Waddy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>95</span></p> + +<p>“‘Why,’ said I, ‘Wooden-Leg, my friend, this is +like playing battledore and shuttlecock; what is knocked +forward with one hand is knocked back with the other. +Come, tell me what I ought to do.’</p> + +<p>“‘Well,’ said Wooden-Leg, taking the meerschaum +out of his mouth, ‘in dubiis auspice, etc. Let us decide +by tossing a halfpenny. If it comes down ‘head,’ +you fight—if ‘harp’ you do not. Nothing can be +fairer.’</p> + +<p>“I assented.</p> + +<p>“‘Which,’ said he, ‘is it to be—two out of three, as +at Newmarket, or the first toss to decide?’</p> + +<p>“‘Sudden death,’ said I, ‘and there will soon be an +end of it.’</p> + +<p>“Up went the halfpenny, and we looked with anxious +eyes for its descent, when, unluckily, it stuck in a gooseberry +bush.</p> + +<p>“‘I don’t like that,’ said Wooden-Leg Waddy, ‘for +it’s a token of bad luck. But here goes again.’</p> + +<p>“Again the copper soared to the sky, and down it +came—Head.</p> + +<p>“‘I wish you joy, my friend’ said Waddy; ‘you +are to fight. That was my opinion all along; though +I did not like to commit myself. I can lend you a +pair of the most beautiful duelling-pistols ever put +into a man’s hand—Wogden’s, I swear. The last time +they were out, they shot Joe Brown, of Mount Badger, +as dead as Harry the Eight.’</p> + +<p>“‘Will you be my second?’ said I.</p> + +<p>“‘Why, no,’ replied Wooden-leg, ‘I cannot; for +I am bound over by a rascally magistrate to keep the +peace, because I nearly broke the head of a blackguard +bailiff, who came here to serve a writ on a friend of mine, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>96</span> +with one of my spare legs. But I can get you a second +at once. My nephew, Major Mug, has just come to me +on a few days’ visit, and, as he is quite idle it will give +him some amusement to be your second. Look up at +his bedroom—you see he is shaving himself.’</p> + +<p>“In a short time the Major made his appearance, +dressed with a most military accuracy of costume. +There was not a speck of dust on his well-brushed blue +surtout—not a vestige of hair, except the regulation +whiskers, on his closely-shaven countenance. His hat +was brushed to the most glossy perfection—his boots +shone in the jetty glow of Day and Martin. There was +scarcely an ounce of flesh on his hard and weather-beaten +face, and as he stood rigidly upright, you would +have sworn that every sinew and muscle of his body +was as stiff as whipcord. He saluted us in military +style, and was soon put in possession of the case. +Wooden-Leg Waddy insinuated that there were hardly, +as yet, grounds for a duel.</p> + +<p>“‘I differ,’ said Major Mug, ‘decidedly—the grounds +are ample. I never saw a clearer case in my life, and I +have been principal or second in seven-and-twenty. +If I collect your story rightly, Mr. Burke, he gave you +an abrupt answer in the field, which was highly derogatory +to the lady in question, and impertinently rude +to yourself?’</p> + +<p>“‘He certainly,’ said I, ‘gave me what we call a +short answer; but I did not notice it at the time, and he +has since made friends with the young lady.’</p> + +<p>“‘It matters nothing,’ observed Major Mug, ‘what +you may think, or she may think. The business is +now in my hands, and I must see you through it. The +first thing to be done is to write him a letter. Send out +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>97</span> +for paper—let it be gilt-edged, Waddy,—that we may +do the thing genteelly. I’ll dictate, Mr. Burke, if you +please.’</p> + +<p>“And so he did. As well as I can recollect, the note +was as follows:—</p> + +<p class="rib">“‘Spa-Walk, Mallow, June 3, 18—</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“‘Eight o’clock in the morning.</p> + +<p>“‘Sir,—A desire for harmony and peace, which has +at all times actuated my conduct, prevented me, yesterday, +from asking you the meaning of the short and contemptuous +message which you commissioned me to +deliver to a certain young lady of our acquaintance +whose name I do not choose to drag into a correspondence. +But, now that there is no danger of its disturbing +anyone, I must say that in your desiring me to +tell that young lady she might consider herself as d——d, +when she asked you to tea after inadvertently riding over +you in the hunting field, you were guilty of conduct +highly unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman, and +subversive of the discipline of the hunt. I have the +honour to be, sir,</p> + +<p class="rib">“‘Your most obedient humble servant,<br /> +“‘<span class="sc">Robert Burke</span>.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“‘P.S.—This note will be delivered to you by my +friend, Major Mug, of the 3rd West Indian; and you +will, I trust, see the propriety of referring him to another +gentleman without further delay.’</p> + +<p>“‘That, I think, is neat,’ said the Major. ‘Now, +seal it with wax, Mr. Burke, with wax—and let the seal +be your arms. That’s right. Now direct it.’</p> + +<p>“‘Ensign Brady?’</p> + +<p>“‘No—no—the right thing would be, ‘Mr. Brady, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>98</span> +Ensign, 48th Foot,’ but custom allows ‘Esquire,’ that +will do.—‘Thady Brady, Esquire, Ensign, 48th Foot, +Barracks, Mallow.’ He shall have it in less than a +quarter of an hour.’</p> + +<p>“The Major was as good as his word, and in about +half-an-hour he brought back the result of his mission. +The Ensign, he told us, was extremely reluctant to +fight, and wanted to be off on the ground that he meant +no offence, did not even remember having used the +expression, and offered to ask the lady if she conceived +for a moment he had any idea of saying anything but +what was complimentary to her.</p> + +<p>“‘In fact,’ said the Major, ‘he at first plumply +refused to fight; but I soon brought him to reason. +‘Sir,’ said I, ‘you either consent to fight or refuse to +fight. In the first case, the thing is settled to hand, +and we are not called upon to inquire if there was an +affront or not—in the second case, your refusal to comply +with a gentleman’s request is, of itself, an offence for +which he has a right to call you out. Put it, then, on +the grounds, you must fight him, it is perfectly indifferent +to me what the grounds may be; and I have only +to request the name of your friend, as I too much respect +the coat you wear to think that there can be any other +alternative.’ This brought the chap to his senses, and +he referred me to Captain Codd, of his own regiment, +at which I felt much pleased, because Codd is an intimate +friend of my own, he and I having fought a duel three +years ago in Falmouth, in which I lost the top of this +little finger, and he his left whisker. It was a near touch, +he is as honourable a man as ever paced a ground; and +I am sure that he will no more let his man off the field +until business is done than I would myself.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>99</span></p> + +<p>“I own,” continued Burke, “I did not half relish +this announcement of the firm purpose to our seconds; +but I was in for it, and could not get back. I sometimes +thought Dosy a dear purchase at such an expense; but +it was no use to grumble. Major Mug was sorry to say +that there was a review to take place immediately at which +the Ensign must attend, and it was impossible for him +to meet me until the evening; ‘but,’ he added, ‘at this +time of the year it can be of no great consequence. +There will be plenty of light till nine, but I have fixed +seven. In the meantime you may as well divert yourself +with a little pistol practice, but do it on the sly, as, +if they were shabby enough to have a trial it would not +tell well before the jury.’</p> + +<p>“Promising to take a quiet chop with me at five, +the Major retired, leaving me not quite contented with +the state of affairs. I sat down and wrote a letter to +my cousin, Phil Burdon, of Kanturk, telling him what +I was about and giving directions what was to be done +in the case of any fatal event. I communicated to him +the whole story—deplored my unhappy fate in being +thus cut off in the flower of my youth—left him three +pairs of buckskin breeches—and repented my sins. +This letter I immediately packed off by a special +messenger, and then began a half-a-dozen others, of +various styles of tenderness and sentimentality, to be +delivered after my melancholy decease. The day +went off fast enough, I assure you; and at five the Major, +and Wooden-Leg Waddy, arrived in high spirits.</p> + +<p>“‘Here, my boy,’ said Waddy, handing me the +pistols, ‘here are the flutes; and pretty music, I can tell +you, they make.’</p> + +<p>“‘As for dinner,’ said Major Mug, ‘I do not much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>100</span> +care; but, Mr. Burke, I hope it is ready, as I am rather +hungry. We must dine lightly, however, and drink +not much. If we come off with flying colours, we may +crack a bottle together by-and-by; in case you shoot +Brady, I have everything arranged for our keeping out +of the way until the thing blows over—if he shoots you, +I’ll see you buried. Of course, you would not recommend +anything so ungenteel as a prosecution? No. +I’ll take care it shall appear in the papers, and announced +that Robert Burke, Esq., met his death with becoming +fortitude, assuring the unhappy survivor that he heartily +forgave him, and wished him health and happiness.’</p> + +<p>“‘I must tell you,’ said Wooden-Leg Waddy, ‘it’s +all over Mallow and the whole town will be on the +ground to see it. Miss Dosy knows of it, and she is +quite delighted—she says she will certainly marry the +survivor. I spoke to the magistrate to keep out of the +way, and he promised that, though it deprived him of +a great pleasure he would go and dine five miles off—and +know nothing about it. But here comes dinner, +let us be jolly.’</p> + +<p>“I cannot say that I played on that day as brilliant +a part with the knife and fork as I usually do, and did +not sympathise much in the speculations of my guests, +who pushed the bottle about with great energy, recommending +me, however, to refrain. At last the Major +looked at his watch, which he had kept lying on the table +before him from the beginning of dinner—started up—clapped +me on the shoulder, and declaring it only +wanted six minutes and thirty-five seconds of the time, +hurried me off to the scene of action—a field close +by the castle.</p> + +<p>“There certainly was a miscellaneous assemblage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>101</span> +of the inhabitants of Mallow, all anxious to see the duel. +They had pitted us like game-cocks, and bets were +freely taken as to the chances of our killing one another, +and the particular spots. One betted on my being hit +in the jaw, another was so kind as to lay the odds on my +knee. The tolerably general opinion appeared to +prevail that one or other of us was to be killed; and +much good-humoured joking took place among them +while they were deciding which. As I was double +the thickness of my antagonist, I was clearly the favourite +for being shot, and I heard one fellow near me say, +‘Three to two on Burke, that he’s shot first—I bet in +tenpennies.’</p> + +<p>“Brady and Codd soon appeared, and the preliminaries +were arranged with much punctilio between our +seconds, who mutually and loudly extolled each other’s +gentleman-like mood of doing business. Brady could +scarcely stand with fright, and I confess that I did +not feel quite as Hector of Troy, or the Seven Champions +of Christendom are reported to have done on similar +occasions. At last the ground was measured—the +pistols handed to the principals—the handkerchief +dropped—whiz! went the bullet within an inch of my +ear—and crack! went mine exactly on Ensign Brady’s +waistcoat pocket. By an unaccountable accident, there +was a five shilling piece in that very pocket, and the ball +glanced away, while Brady doubled himself down, +uttering a loud howl that might be heard half-a-mile +off. The crowd was so attentive as to give a huzza for +my success.</p> + +<p>“Codd ran up to his principal, who was writhing +as if he had ten thousand colics, and soon ascertained +that no harm was done.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>102</span></p> + +<p>“‘What do you propose,’ said he to my second—‘What +do you propose to do, Major?’</p> + +<p>“‘As there is neither blood drawn nor bone broken,’ +said the Major, ‘I think that shot goes for nothing.’</p> + +<p>“‘I agree with you,’ said Captain Codd.</p> + +<p>“‘If your party will apologise,’ said Major Mug, +‘I’ll take my man off the ground.’</p> + +<p>“‘Certainly,’ said Captain Codd, ‘you are quite +right, Major, in asking the apology, but you know that +it is my duty to refuse it.’</p> + +<p>“‘You are correct, Captain,’ said the Major; ‘I then +formally require that Ensign Brady apologise to Mr. +Burke.’</p> + +<p>“‘I, as formally, refuse it,’ said Captain Codd.</p> + +<p>“‘We must have another shot then,’ said the Major.</p> + +<p>“‘Another shot, by all means,’ said the Captain.</p> + +<p>“‘Captain Codd,’ said the Major, ‘you have shown +yourself in this, as in every transaction of your life, +a perfect gentleman.’</p> + +<p>“‘He who would dare to say,’ replied the Captain, +‘that Major Mug is not among the most gentleman-like +men in the service, would speak what is untrue.’</p> + +<p>“Our seconds bowed, took a pinch of snuff together, +and proceeded to load the pistols. Neither Brady nor +I were particularly pleased at these complimentary +speeches of the gentlemen, and, I am sure, had we been +left to ourselves, would have declined the second shot. +As it was, it appeared inevitable.</p> + +<p>“Just, however, as the process of loading was completing, +there appeared on the ground my cousin Phil +Purdon, rattling in on his black mare as hard as he +could lick—</p> + +<p>“‘I want to speak to the plaintiff in this action—I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>103</span> +mean, to one of the parties in this duel. I want to speak +to you, Bob Burke.’</p> + +<p>“‘The thing is impossible, sir,’ said Major Mug.</p> + +<p>“‘Perfectly impossible, sir,’ said Codd.</p> + +<p>“‘Possible or impossible is nothing to the question,’ +shouted Purdon; ‘Bob, I must speak to you.’</p> + +<p>“‘It is contrary to all regulation,’ said the Major.</p> + +<p>“‘Quite contrary,’ said the Captain.</p> + +<p>“Phil, however, persisted, and approached me: +‘Are you fighting about Dosy Mac?’ said he to me, +in a whisper.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes,’ I replied.</p> + +<p>“‘And she is to marry the survivor, I understand?’</p> + +<p>“‘So I am told,’ said I.</p> + +<p>“‘Back out, Bob, then; back out, at the rate of a +hunt. Old Mick MacNamara is married.’</p> + +<p>“‘Married!’ I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“‘Poz,’ said he. ‘I drew the articles myself. He +married his housemaid, a girl of eighteen; and,’ here +he whispered.</p> + +<p>“‘What,’ I cried, ‘six months!’</p> + +<p>“‘Six months,’ said he, ‘an’ no mistake.’</p> + +<p>“‘Ensign Brady,’ said I, immediately coming forward, +‘there has been a strange misconception in this +business. I here declare, in presence of this honourable +company, that you have acted throughout like a man of +honour, and a gentleman; and you leave the ground +without a stain on your character.’</p> + +<p>“Brady hopped three feet off the ground with joy +at the unexpected deliverance. He forgot all etiquette, +and came forward to shake me by the hand.</p> + +<p>“‘My dear Burke,’ said he, ‘it must have been a +mistake: let us swear eternal friendship.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>104</span></p> + +<p>“‘For ever,’ said I. ‘I resign you Miss Theodosia.’</p> + +<p>“‘You are too generous,’ he said, ‘but I cannot +abuse your generosity.’</p> + +<p>“‘It is unprecedented conduct,’ growled Major Mug. +‘I’ll never be second to a Pekin again.’</p> + +<p>“‘My principal leaves the ground with honour,’ +said Captain Codd, looking melancholy, nevertheless.</p> + +<p>“‘Humph!’ grunted Wooden-Leg Waddy, lighting +his meerschaum.</p> + +<p>“The crowd dispersed much displeased, and I fear +my reputation for valour did not rise among them. +I went off with Purdon to finish a jug at Carmichael’s, +and Brady swaggered off to Miss Dosy’s. His renown +for valour won her heart. It cannot be denied that I +sunk deeply in her opinion. On that very evening +Brady broke his love, and was accepted. Mrs. Mac. +opposed, but the red-coat prevailed.</p> + +<p>“‘He may rise to be a general,’ said Dosy, ‘and be +a knight, and then I will be Lady Brady.’</p> + +<p>“‘Or, if my father should be made an earl, angelic +Theodosia, you would be Lady Thady Brady,’ said the +Ensign.</p> + +<p>“‘Beautiful prospect!’ cried Dosy, ‘Lady Thady +Brady! What a harmonious sound!’</p> + +<p>“But why dally over the detail of my unfortunate +loves? Dosy and the Ensign were married before the +accident which had befallen her uncle was discovered; +and if they were not happy, why, then, you and I may. +They have had eleven children, and, I understand, he +now keeps a comfortable eating-house close by Cumberland +Basin, in Bristol. Such was my duel with Ensign +Brady of the 48th.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>105</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Billy Malowney’s Taste of +Love and Glory.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Purcell Papers.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Let</span> the reader fancy a soft summer evening, the +fresh dews falling on bush and flower. The sun has +just gone down, and the thrilling vespers of thrushes +and blackbirds ring with a wild joy through the saddened +air; the west is piled with fantastic clouds, and clothed +in tints of crimson and amber, melting away into a wan +green, and so eastward into the deepest blue, through +which soon the stars will begin to peep.</p> + +<p>Let him fancy himself seated upon the low mossy +wall of an ancient churchyard, where hundreds of grey +stones rise above the sward, under the fantastic branches +of two or three half-withered ash-trees, spreading their +arms in everlasting love and sorrow over the dead.</p> + +<p>The narrow road upon which I and my companion +await the tax-cart that is to carry me and my basket, +with its rich fruitage of speckled trout, away, lies at his +feet, and far below spreads an undulating plain, rising +westward into soft hills, and traversed (every here and +there visibly) by a winding stream which, even through +the mists of evening, catches and returns the funeral +glories of the skies.</p> + +<p>As the eye traces its wayward wanderings, it loses them +for a moment in the heaving verdure of white-thorns +and ash, from among which floats from some dozen rude +chimneys, mostly unseen, the transparent blue film of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>106</span> +turf smoke. There we know, although we cannot +see it, the steep old bridge of Carrickdrum spans the +river; and stretching away far to the right the valley +of Lisnamoe; its steeps and hollows, its straggling +hedges, its fair-green, its tall scattered trees, and old +grey tower, are disappearing fast among the discoloured +tints and blaze of evening.</p> + +<p>Those landmarks, as we sit listlessly expecting the +arrival of our modest conveyance, suggest to our companion—a +bare-legged Celtic brother of the gentle craft, +somewhat at the wrong side of forty, with a turf-coloured +caubeen, patched frieze, a clear brown complexion, dark-grey +eyes and a right pleasant dash of roguery in his +features—the tale, which, if the reader pleases, he is +welcome to hear along with me just as it falls from the +lips of our humble comrade.</p> + +<p>His words I can give, but your own fancy must supply +the advantages of an intelligent, expressive countenance, +and what is, perhaps, harder still, the harmony of his +glorious brogue, that, like the melodies of our own +dear country, will leave a burden of mirth or of sorrow +with nearly equal propriety, tickling the diaphragm +as easily as it plays with the heart-strings, and is in itself +a national music that, I trust, may never, never—scouted +and despised though it be—never cease, like the lost tones +of our harp, to be heard in the fields of my country, +in welcome or endearment, in fun or in sorrow, stirring +the hearts of Irishmen and Irish women.</p> + +<p>My friend of the caubeen and naked shanks, then, +commenced, and continued his relation, as nearly +as possible, in the following words:—</p> + +<p>Av coorse ye often heerd talk of Billy Malowney, +that lived by the bridge of Carrickadrum. “Leumarinka” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>107</span> +was the name they put on him, he was sich a +beautiful dancer. An’ faix, it’s he was the rale sportin’ +boy, every way—killin’ the hares, and gaffin’ the +salmons, an’ fightin’ the men, an’ funnin’ the women, +and coortin’ the girls; an’, be the same token, there +was not a colleen inside iv his jurisdiction but was +breakin’ her heart wid the fair love iv him.</p> + +<p>Well, this was all pleasand enough, to be sure, while +it lasted; but inhuman beings is born to misfortune, +an’ Bill’s divarshin was not to last always. A young +boy can’t be continually coortin’ and kissin’ the girls +(an’ more’s the pity) without exposin’ himself to the +most eminent parril; an’ so signs an’ what should +happen Billy Malowney himself, but to fall in love at +last wid little Molly Donovan, in Coolamoe.</p> + +<p>I never could ondherstand why in the world it was +Bill fell in love wid her, above all the girls in the country. +She was not within four stone weight iv being as fat +as Peg Brallaghan; and as for redness in the face, +she could not hould a candle to Judy Flaherty. (Poor +Judy! she was my sweetheart, the darlin’, an’ coorted +me constant, ever entil she married a boy of the Butlers; +an’ it’s twenty years now since she was buried under +the ould white-thorn in Garbally. But that’s no +matther!).</p> + +<p>Well, at any rate, Molly Donovan tuck his fancy +an’ that’s everything! She had smooth brown hair—as +smooth as silk—an’ a pair iv soft coaxin’ eyes—an’ +the whitest little teeth you ever seen; an’, bedad, she +was every taste as much in love wid himself as he was.</p> + +<p>Well, now, he was raly stupid wid love: there was +not a bit of fun left in him. He was good for nothin’ +an airth bud sittin’ under bushes, smokin’ tobacky, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>108</span> +and sighin’ till you’d wonder how in the world he got +wind for it all.</p> + +<p>An’, bedad, he was an illigant scholar, moreover +an’, so signs by, it’s many’s the song he made about her; +an’ if you’d be walkin’ in the evening, a mile away +from Carrickadrum, begorra you’d hear him singing +out like a bull, all across the country, in her praises.</p> + +<p>Well, ye may be sure, ould Tim Donovan and the +wife was not a bit too well plased to see Bill Malowney +coortin’ their daughter Molly; for, do ye mind, she was +the only child they had, and her fortune was thirty-five +pounds, two cows, and five illigant pigs, three iron pots, +a skillet, an’ a trifle iv poultry in hand; and no one +knew how much besides, whenever the Lord id be plased +to call the ould people out of the way into glory!</p> + +<p>So, it was not likely ould Tim Donovan id be fallin’ +in love wid poor Bill Malowney as aisy as the girls did; +for, barrin’ his beauty, an’ his gun, an’ his dhudheen, +an’ his janious, the divil a taste of property iv any sort +or description he had in the wide world!</p> + +<p>Well, as bad as that was, Billy would not give in that +her father and mother had the smallest taste iv a right +to intherfare, good or bad.</p> + +<p>“An’ you’re welcome to rafuse me,” says he, “whin’ +I ax your lave,” says he; “an’ I’ll ax your lave,” says +he, “whenever I want to coort yourselves,” says he; +“but it’s your daughter I’m coortin’ at the present,” +says he, “an’ that’s all I’ll say,” says he; “for I’d a +soon take a doase of salts as be discoursin’ ye,” says +he.</p> + +<p>So it was a rale blazin’ battle betune himself and the +ould people; an’, begorra, there was no soart iv +blaguardin’ that did not pass betune them; an’ they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>109</span> +put a solemn injection on Molly again seein’ him or +meetin’ him for the future.</p> + +<p>But it was all iv no use. You might as well be pursuadin’ +the birds agin flying, or sthrivin’ to coax the +stars out of the sky into your hat, as be talking common +sinse to them that’s fairly bothered and burstin’ wid +love. There’s nothin’ like it. The toothache and +colic together id compose you betther for an argyment +than itself. It leaves you fit for nothin’ bud nansinse.</p> + +<p>It’s stronger than whisky, for one good drop iv it +will make you drunk for one year, and sick, begorra, +for a dozen.</p> + +<p>It’s stronger than the say, for it’ll carry you round +the world an’ never let you sink, in sunshine or storm; +an’, begorra, it’s stronger than Death himself, for it is +not afeard iv him, bedad, but dares him in every shape.</p> + +<p>Bud lovers has quarrels sometimes, and, begorra, +when they do, you’d a’most imagine they hated one +another like man and wife. An’ so, signs an’, Billy +Malowney and Molly Donovan fell out one evening +at ould Tom Dundon’s wake; an’ whatever came betune +them, she made no more about it but just draws her +cloak round her, and away wid herself and the sarvant-girl +home again, as if there was not a corpse, or a fiddle, +or a taste of divarsion in it.</p> + +<p>Well, Billy Malowney follied her down the boreen, +to try could he deludher her back again; but, if she +was bitther before, she gave it to him in airnest when +she got him alone to herself, and to that degree that he +wished her safe home, short and sulky enough, an’ +walked back again, as mad as the devil himself, to the +wake, to pay respect to poor Tom Dundon.</p> + +<p>Well, my dear, it was aisy seen there was something +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>110</span> +wrong wid Billy Malowney, for he paid no attintion +for the rest of the evening to any soart of divarsion but +the whisky alone; an’ every glass he’d drink it’s what +he’d be wishing the divil had the woman, an’ the worst +iv bad luck to all soarts iv courting, until, at last, wid +the goodness iv the sperits, an’ the badness iv his temper, +an’ the constant flusthration iv cursin’, he grew all as +one as you might say almost, saving your presince, +bastely drunk!</p> + +<p>Well, who should he fall in wid, in that childish +condition, as he was deploying along the road almost +as straight as the letter S, an’ cursin’ the girls, an’ roarin’ +for more whisky, but the recruiting-sargent iv the +Welsh Confusileers.</p> + +<p>So, cute enough, the sargent begins to convarse +him, an’ it was not long until he had him sitting in +Murphy’s public-house, wid an elegant dandy iv punch +before him, an’ the king’s money safe an’ snug in the +lowest wrinkle of his breeches pocket.</p> + +<p>So away wid him, and the dhrums and fifes playing, +an’ a dozen more unforthunate bliggards just listed +along with him, an’ he shakin’ hands wid the sargent, +and swearin’ agin the women every minute, until, be +the time he kem to himself, begorra, he was a good ten +miles on the road to Dublin, an’ Molly and all behind +him.</p> + +<p>It id be no good tellin’ you iv the letters he wrote +to her from the barracks there, nor how she was breaking +her heart to go and see him just wanst before he’d go; +but the father and mother would not allow iv it be no +manes.</p> + +<p>An’ so in less time than you’d be thinkin’ about it, +the colonel had him polished off into a rale elegant +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>111</span> +soger, wid his gun exercise, and his bagnet exercise, +and his small sword, and broad sword, and pistol and +dagger, an’ all the rest, an’ then away wid him on +board a man-a-war to furrin parts, to fight for King +George agin Bonypart, that was great in them times.</p> + +<p>Well, it was very soon in everyone’s mouth how +Billy Malowney was batin’ all before him, astonishin’ +the ginerals, and frightenin’ the inimy to that degree, +there was not a Frinchman dare say parley voo outside +of the rounds iv his camp.</p> + +<p>You may be sure Molly was proud iv that same, though +she never spoke a word about it; until at last news kem +home that Billy Malowney was surrounded an’ +murdered be the Frinch army, under Napoleon Bonypart +himself. The news was brought by Jack Bryan +Dhas, the pedlar, that said he met the corporal iv the +regiment on the quay iv Limerick, an’ how he brought +him into a public-house and thrated him to a naggin, +and got all the news about poor Billy Malowney out +iv him while they war dhrinkin’ it; an’ a sorrowful +story it was.</p> + +<p>The way it happened, accordin’ as the corporal tould +him, was jist how the Dook iv Wellington detarmined +to fight a rale tarin’ battle wid the Frinch, and Bonypart +at the same time was aiqually detarmined to +fight the divil’s own scrimmidge wid the British foorces.</p> + +<p>Well, as soon as the business was pretty near ready +at both sides, Bonypart and the general next undher +himself gets up behind a bush, to look at their inimies +through spy-glasses, and thry would they know any iv +them at the distance.</p> + +<p>“Bedad!” says the gineral, afther a divil iv a long +spy, “I’d bet half a pint,” says he, “that’s Billy +Malowney himself,” says he, “down there,” says he.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>112</span></p> + +<p>“Och!” says Bonypart, “do you tell me so?” +says he—“I’m fairly heart-scalded with that same +Billy Malowney,” says he; “an’ I think if I wanst +got shut iv him, I’d bate the rest of them aisy,” says +he.</p> + +<p>“I’m thinking so myself,” says the general, says he; +“but he’s a tough bye,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Tough!” says Bonypart, “he’s the divil,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Begorra, I’d be better plased,” says the gineral, +says he, “to take himself than the Duke iv Willinton,” +says he, “an’ Sir Edward Blakeney into the bargain,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“The Duke of Wellinton and Gineral Blakeney,” +says Bonypart, “is great for planning, no doubt,” +says he; “but Billy Malowney’s the boy for action,” +says he—“an’ action’s everything, just now,” says he.</p> + +<p>So with that Bonypart pushes up his cocked hat, +and begins scratching his head, and thinking and considherin’ +for the bare life, and at last says he to the +gineral:</p> + +<p>“Gineral Commandher iv all the Foorces,” says he, +“I’ve hot it,” says he: “ordher out the forlorn hope,” +says he, “an’ give them as much powdher, both glazed +and blasting,” says he, “an’ as much bullets, do ye +mind, an’ swan-dhrops an’ chainshot,” says he, “an’ +all soorts iv waipons an’ combustables as they can +carry; an’ let them surround Bill Malowney,” says he, +“an’ if they can get any soort iv an advantage,” says +he, “let them knock him to smithereens,” says he, +“an’ then take him presner,” says he; “an’ tell all the +bandmen iv the Frinch army,” says he, “to play up +‘Garryowen,’ to keep up their sperits,” says he, “all +the time they’re advancin’. And you may promise +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>113</span> +them anything you like in my name,” says he; “for, +by my sowl, I don’t think it’s many iv them ‘ill come +back to throuble us,” says he, winkin’ at him.</p> + +<p>So away with the gineral, an’ he ordhers out the +forlorn hope, an’ tells the band to play, an’ everything +else, just as Bonypart desired him. An’ sure enough +whin Billy Malowney heerd the music where he was +standin’ taking a blast of the dhudheen to compose +his mind for murdherin’ the Frinchmen as usual, being +mighty partial to that tune intirely, he cocks his ear +a one side, an’ down he stoops to listen to the music; +but, begorra, who should be in his rare all the time +but a Frinch grannideer behind a bush, and seeing +him stooped in a convenient forum, bedad he let flies +at him straight, and fired him right forward between +the legs an’ the small iv the back, glory be to God! +with what they call (saving your presence) a bum-shell.</p> + +<p>Well, Bill Malowney let one roar out iv him, an’ +away he rolled over the field iv battle like a slitther +(as Bonypart and the Duke iv Wellington, that was +watching the manoeuvres from a distance, both consayved) +into glory.</p> + +<p>An’ sure enough the Frinch was overjoyed beyant +all bounds, an’ small blame to them—an’ the Duke of +Wellington, I’m toult, was never all out the same man +sinst.</p> + +<p>At any rate, the news kem home how Billy Malowney +was murdhered by the Frinch in furrin parts.</p> + +<p>Well, all this time, you may be sure, there was no +want iv boys comin’ to coort purty Molly Donovan; +but one way ar another, she always kept puttin’ them +off constant. An’ though her father and mother was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>114</span> +nathurally anxious to get rid of her respickably, they +did not like to marry her off in spite iv her teeth.</p> + +<p>An’ this way, promising one while and puttin’ it off +another, she conthrived to get on from one Shrove +to another, until near seven years was over and gone from +the time when Billy Malowney listed for furrin sarvice.</p> + +<p>It was nigh hand a year from the time whin the news +iv Leum-a-rinka bein’ killed by the Frinch came home, +an’ in place iv forgettin’ him, as the saisins wint over, +it’s what Molly was growin’ paler and more lonesome +every day, antil the neighbours thought she was fallin’ +into a decline; and this is the way it was with her whin +the fair of Lisnamoe kem round.</p> + +<p>It was a beautiful evenin’, just at the time iv the reapin’ +iv the oats, and the sun was shinin’ through the red +clouds far away over the hills iv Cahirmore.</p> + +<p>Her father an’ mother, an’ the biys an’ girls, was all +away down in the fair, and Molly sittin’ all alone on the +step of the stile, listenin’ to the foolish little birds +whistlin’ among the leaves—and the sound of the mountain-river +flowin’ through the stones an’ bushes—an’ +the crows flyin’ home high overhead to the woods iv +Glinvarlogh—an’ down in the glen, far away, she could +see the fair-green iv Lisnamoe in the mist, an’ sunshine +among the grey rocks and threes—an’ the cows +an’ horses, an’ the blue frieze, an’ the red cloaks, an’ +the tents, an’ the smoke, an’ the ould round tower—all +as soft an’ as sorrowful as a dhrame iv ould times.</p> + +<p>An’ while she was looking this way, an’ thinking iv +Leum-a-rinka—poor Bill iv the dance, that was sleepin’ +in his lonesome glory in the fields of Spain—she began +to sing the song he used to like so well in the ould times:</p> + +<p class="center">“Shule, shule, shule a-roon;”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>115</span></p> + +<p class="noind">an’ when she ended the verse, what do you think but +she heard a manly voice just at the other side iv the +hedge, singing the last words over again!</p> + +<p>Well she knew it; her heart fluttered up like a little +bird that id be wounded, and then dhropped still in her +breast. It was himself. In a minute he was through +the hedge and standing before her.</p> + +<p>“Leum!” says she.</p> + +<p>“Mavourneen cuishla machree!” says he; and +without another word they were locked in one +another’s arms.</p> + +<p>Well, it id only be nansinse for me thryin’ to tell +ye all the foolish things they said, and how they looked +in one another’s faces, an’ laughed, an’ cried, an’ +laughed again; and how, when they came to themselves’ +and she was able at last to believe it was raly Billy himself +that was there, actially holdin’ her hand, and lookin’ +in her eyes the same way as ever, barrin’ he was browner +and boulder, an’ did not, maybe, look quite as merry +in himself as he used to do in former times—an’ +fondher for all, an’ more lovin’ than ever—how he +tould her all about the wars wid the Frinchmen—an’ +how he was wounded, and left for dead in the field of +battle, bein’ shot through the breast, and how he was +discharged, an’ got a pinsion iv a full shillin’ a day—and +how he was come back to live the rest iv his days in +the sweet glen iv Lisnamoe, an’ (if only she’d consint) +to marry herself in spite iv them all.</p> + +<p>Well, ye may aisily think they had plinty to talk +about, afther seven years without seeing one another; +and so signs on, the time flew by as swift an’ as pleasant +as a bird on the wing, an’ the sun wint down, an’ the +moon shone sweet, yet they didn’t mind a ha’port +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>116</span> +about it, but kept talkin an’ whisperin’, an’ whisperin’ +an’ talkin’; for it’s wondherful how often a tinder-hearted +girl will bear to hear a purty boy tellin’ her +the same story constant over an’ over; ontil at last, +sure enough, they heerd the ould man himself comin’ +up the boreen, singin’ the “Colleen Rue”—a thing +he never done barrin’ whin he had a dhrop in; an’ +the misthress walkin’ in front iv him an’ two illigant +Kerry cows he just bought in the fair, an’ the sarvint +biys dhriving them behind.</p> + +<p>“Oh, blessed hour!” says Molly, “here’s my +father.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll spake to him this minute,” says Bill.</p> + +<p>“Oh, not for the world,” says she; “he’s singin’ +the ‘Colleen Rue,’” says she, “and no one dar raison +with him,” says she.</p> + +<p>“An’ where’ll I go?” says he, “for they’re into +the haggard an top iv us,” says he, “an’ they’ll see +me iv I lep through the hedge,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Thry the pig-sty,” says she, “mavourneen,” says +she, “in the name iv God,” says she.</p> + +<p>“Well, darlint,” says he, “for your sake,” says he, +“I’ll condescend to them animals,” says he.</p> + +<p>An’ wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, +it was too late—the pigs was all gone home, and the +pig-sty was as full as the Birr coach wid six inside.</p> + +<p>“Och! blur-an’-agers,” says he, “there is not +room for a suckin’-pig,” says he, “let alone a Christian,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“Well, run into the house, Billy,” says she, “this +minute,” says she, “an’ hide yourself antil they’re +quiet,” says she, “an’ thin you can steal out,” says +she, “anknownst to them all,” says she.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>117</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll do your biddin’,” says he, “Molly asthore,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“Run in thin,” says she, “an’ I’ll go an’ meet them,” +says she.</p> + +<p>So wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an’ +where did he hide himself bud in a little closet that +was off iv the room where the ould man and woman +slep’. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould +chair he found there convanient.</p> + +<p>Well, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them +comes into the kitchen, an’ ould Tim Donovan singin’ +the “Colleen Rue” for the bare life, an’ the rest i’ +them sthrivin’ to humour him, an doin’ exactly everything +he bid them, because they seen he was foolish +be the manes of the liquor.</p> + +<p>Well, to be sure all this kep’ them long enough, you +may be sure, from goin’ to bed, so that Billy could get +no manner iv an advantage to get out iv the house, and +so he sted sittin’ in the dark closet in state, cursin’ the +“Colleen Rue,” and wondhering to the divil whin +they’d get the ould man into his bed. An’, as if that was +not delay enough, who should come in to stop for the +night but Father O’Flaherty, of Cahirmore, that was +buyin’ a horse at the fair! An’ av course, there was +a bed to be med down for his Raverance, an’ some other +attintions; an’ a long discoorse himself an’ ould Mrs. +Donovan had about the slaughter iv Billy Malowney, +an’ how he was buried on the field of battle; an’ his +Raverance hoped he got a dacent funeral, an’ all the other +convaniences iv religion. An’ so you may suppose +it was pretty late in the night before all iv them got +to their beds.</p> + +<p>Well, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>118</span> +at all, an’ he kep’ discoorsin’ the wife about the new +cows he bought, an’ the strippers he sould, an’ so on +for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to another +he kem to talk about the pigs, an’ the poulthry, and +at last, having nothing betther to discoorse about, he +begun at his daughter Molly, an’ all the heartscald +she was to him be raisin iv refusin’ the men. An’ +at last says he:</p> + +<p>“I onderstand,” says he, “very well how it is,” +says he. “It’s how she was in love,” says he, “wid +that bliggard, Billy Malowney,” says he, “bad luck +to him!” says he; for by this time he was coming +to his raison.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” says the wife, says she, “Tim darlint, don’t +be cursin’ them that’s dead an’ buried,” says she.</p> + +<p>“An’ why would not I,” says he, “if they desarve +it?” says he.</p> + +<p>“Whisht,” says she, “an’ listen to that,” says she. +“In the name of the Blessed Vargin,” says she, “what +is it?” says she.</p> + +<p>An’ sure enough what was it bud Bill Malowney +that was dhroppin’ asleep in the closet, an’ snorin’ like +a church organ.</p> + +<p>“Is it a pig,” says he, “or is it a Christian?”</p> + +<p>“Arra! listen to the tune iv it,” says she; “sure +a pig never done the like iv that,” says she.</p> + +<p>“Whatever it is,” says he, “it’s in the room wid us,” +says he. “The Lord be marciful to us!” says he.</p> + +<p>“I tould you not to be cursin’,” says she; “bad +luck to you,” says she, “for an ommadhaun!” for +she was a very religious woman in herself.</p> + +<p>“Sure, he’s buried in Spain,” says he; “an’ it is +not for one little innocent expression,” says he, “he’d +be comin’ all that way to annoy the house,” says he.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>119</span></p> + +<p>Well, while they war talkin,’ Bill turns in the way +he was sleepin’ into an aisier imposture; and as soon +as he stopped snorin’ ould Tim Donovan’s courage riz +agin, and says he.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go to the kitchen,” says he, “an’ light a rish,” +says he.</p> + +<p>An’ with that away wid him, an’ the wife kep’ workin’ +the beads all the time, an’ before they kem back Bill +was snorin’ as loud as ever.</p> + +<p>“Oh! bloody wars—I mane the blessed saints above +us!—that deadly sound,” says he; “it’s going on as +lively as ever,” says he.</p> + +<p>“I’m as wake as a rag,” says his wife, says she, “wid +the fair anasiness,” says she. “It’s out iv the little +closet it’s comin’,” says she.</p> + +<p>“Say your prayers,” says he, “an’ hould your +tongue,” says he, “while I discoorse it,” says he. +“An’ who are ye,” says he, “in the name iv all the +holy saints?” says he, givin’ the door a dab iv a crusheen +that wakened Bill inside.</p> + +<p>“I ax,” says he, “who you are?” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, Bill did not rightly remember where in the +world he was, but he pushed open the door, an’ says +he:</p> + +<p>“Billy Malowney’s my name,” says he, “an’ I’ll +thank ye to tell me a betther,” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an’ actially +seen that it was Bill himself that was in it, he had not +strength enough to let a bawl out iv him, but he dhropt +the candle out iv his hand, an’ down wid himself on his +back in the dark.</p> + +<p>Well, the wife let a screech you’d hear at the mill +iv Killraghlin, an’—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>120</span></p> + +<p>“Oh,” says she, “the spirit has him, body an’ +bones!” says she. “Oh, holy St. Bridget—oh +Mother iv Marcy—oh, Father O’Flaherty!” says she, +screechin’ murdher from out iv her bed.</p> + +<p>Well, Bill Malowney was not a minute rememberin’ +himself, an’ so out wid him quite an’ aisy, an’ through +the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv the house, +it’s what he kem to the door iv Father O’Flaherty’s +little room, where he was jist wakenin’ wid the noise +iv the screechin’ an’ battherin’; an’, bedad, Bill makes +no more about it, but he jumps, wid one boult, clever +an’ clane into his Raverance’s bed.</p> + +<p>“What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard?” +says his Raverance. “Is that a venerable way,” says +he, “to approach your clargy?” says he.</p> + +<p>“Hould your tongue,” says Bill, “an’ I’ll do ye no +harum,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Who are you, ye schoundhrel iv the world?” says +his Raverance.</p> + +<p>“Whisht!” says he, “I’m Bill Malowney,” says +he.</p> + +<p>“You lie!” says his Raverance—for he was +frightened beyont all bearin’—an’ he makes bud one +jump out iv the bed at the wrong side, where there +was only jist a little place in the wall for a press, an’ +his Raverance could not as much as turn in it for the +wealth iv kingdoms. “You lie,” says he; “but for +fear it’s the thruth you’re tellin’,” says he, “here’s +at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints together!” +says he.</p> + +<p>An’ wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid +a Latin prayer iv the strongest description, an’, as he +said to himself afterwards, that was iv a nature that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>121</span> +id dhrive the divil himself up the chimley like a puff +iv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.</p> + +<p>“Arra, what are ye sthrivin’ to say,” says Bill, says +he; “if ye don’t hould your tongue,” says he, “wid +your parly voo,” says he, “it’s what I’ll put my thumb +on your windpipe,” says he, “an’ Billy Malowney +never wint back iv his word yet,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Thunder-an-owns,” says his Raverance, says he—seein’ +the Latin took no infect on him, at all at all, +an’ screechin’ that you’d think he’d rise the thatch +up iv the house wid the fair fright—“an’ thundher +and blazes, boys, will none of yes come here wid a +candle, but lave your clargy to be choked by a spirit +in the dark?” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, be this time the sarvint boys and the rest iv +them wor up an’ half dressed, an’ in they all run, one +on top iv another, wid pitchforks and spades, thinkin’ +it was only what his Raverance slep’ a dhrame iv the like, +by means of the punch he was afther takin’ just before +he rowl’d himself into the bed. But, begorra, whin +they seen it was raly Billy Malowney himself that was +in it, it was only who’d be foremost out agin, tumblin’ +backways, one over another, and his Raverance roarin’ +an’ cursin’ them like mad for not waitin’ for him.</p> + +<p>Well, my dear, it was betther than half an hour before +Billy Malowney could explain to them all how it raly +was himself, for begorra they were all iv them persuadin’ +him that he was a spirit to that degree it’s a +wondher he did not give in to it, if it was only to put +a stop to the argiment.</p> + +<p>Well, his Raverance tould the ould people then +there was no use in sthrivin’ agin the will iv Providence +an’ the vagaries iv love united; an’ whin they kem to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>122</span> +undherstand to a sartinty how Billy had a shillin’ a +day for the rest iv his days, begorra they took rather +a likin’ to him, and considhered at wanst how he must +hav riz out of all his nansinse entirely, or His gracious +Majesty id never have condescinded to show him his +countenance every day of his life on a silver +shillin’.</p> + +<p>An’ so, begorra, they never stopt till it was all settled—an’ +there was not sich a weddin’ as that in the counthry +sinst. It’s more than forty years ago, an’ though +I was no more nor a gossoon meself, I remimber it like +yesterday. Molly never looked so purty before, an’ +Billy Malowney was plisant beyont all hearin’, to that +degree that half the girls in it was fairly tarin’ mad—only +they would not let on—they had not him to themselves +in place iv her. An’ begorra, I’d be afeared +to tell ye, because you would not believe me, since +that blessid man Father Mathew put an ent to all soorts +of sociality, the Lord reward him, how many gallons +iv pottieen whisky was dhrank upon that most solemn +and tindher occaison.</p> + +<p>Pat Hanlon, the piper, had a faver out iv it; an’ +Neddy Shawn Heigue, mountin’ his horse the wrong +way, broke his collar-bone, by the manes iv fallin’ over +his tail while he was feelin’ for his head; an’ Payther +Brian, the horse-docther, I am tould, was never quite +right in the head ever afther; an’ ould Tim Donovan +was singin’ the “Colleen Rue” night and day for a +full week; an’, begorra the weddin’ was only the foundation +iv fun, and the beginning iv divarsion, for there +was not a year for ten years afther, an’ more, but +brought round a christenin’ as regular as the sasins +revarted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>123</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">A Pleasant Journey.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From the Confessions of Harry Lorrequer.</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Charles Lever.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">I, Harry Lorrequer</span>, was awaiting the mail coach +anxiously in the Inn at Naas, when at last there was +the sound of wheels, and the driver came into the +room, a spectacle of condensed moisture.</p> + +<p>“Going on to-night, sir,” said he, addressing me; +“severe weather, and no chance of its clearing—but, +of course, you’re inside.”</p> + +<p>“Why, there is very little doubt of that,” said I. +“Are you nearly full inside?”</p> + +<p>“Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; +made fifty inquiries at the office if he could not have +the whole inside for himself, and when he heard that one +place had been taken—yours, I believe, sir,—he seemed +like a scalded bear.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know his name, then?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and +his only luggage is two brown paper parcels, without +any ticket, and he has them inside: indeed, he never +lets them from him, even for a second.”</p> + +<p>Here the guard’s horn sounded.</p> + +<p>As I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated +myself that I was about to be housed from +the terrific storm of wind and rain that raged without.</p> + +<p>“Here’s the step, sir,” said the guard; “get in, +sir, two minutes late already.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” said I, as I half fell over the +legs of my unseen companion. “May I request leave +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>124</span> +to pass you?” While he made way for me for this +purpose, I perceived that he stooped down and said +something to the guard, who, from his answer, had +evidently been questioned as to who I was.</p> + +<p>“And how did he get here if he took his place in +Dublin?” asked the unknown.</p> + +<p>“Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four,” +said the guard, as he banged the door behind him, and +closed the interview.</p> + +<p>“A severe night, sir,” said I.</p> + +<p>“Mighty severe,” briefly and half-crustily replied +the unknown, in a strong Cork accent.</p> + +<p>“And a bad road, too, sir,” said I.</p> + +<p>“That’s the reason I always go armed,” said the +unknown, clinking at the same moment something like +the barrel of a pistol.</p> + +<p>Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my +meaning, I felt disposed to drop any further effort to +draw him out, and was about to address myself to sleep +as comfortably as I could.</p> + +<p>“I’ll just trouble ye to lean off that little parcel there, +sir,” said he, as he displaced from its position beneath +my elbow one of the paper packages the guard had already +alluded to.</p> + +<p>In complying with this rather gruff demand one of +my pocket pistols, which I carried in my breast-pocket, +fell out upon his knee, upon which he immediately +started, and asked, hurriedly: “And are you armed, +too?”</p> + +<p>“Why yes,” said I laughingly; “men of my trade +seldom go without something of this kind.”</p> + +<p>“I was just thinking that same,” said the traveller +with a half sigh to himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>125</span></p> + +<p>I was just settling myself in my corner when I was +startled by a very melancholy groan.</p> + +<p>“Are you ill, sir?” said I, in a voice of some anxiety.</p> + +<p>“You may say that,” replied he, “if you knew who +you were talking to; although, maybe, you’ve heard +enough of me, though you never saw me till now.”</p> + +<p>“Without having that pleasure even yet,” said I, “it +would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe it might. Did ye ever hear tell of Barney +Doyle?” said he.</p> + +<p>“Not to my recollection.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’m Barney,” said he, “that’s in all the newspapers +in the metropolis. I’m seventeen weeks in +Jervis Street Hospital, and four in the Lunatic, and the +sorra bit better, after all. You must be a stranger, +I’m thinking, or you’d know me now.”</p> + +<p>“Why, I do confess I’ve only been a few hours in +Ireland for the last six months.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, that’s the reason; I knew you would not be +fond of travelling with me if you knew who it was.”</p> + +<p>“Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of +meeting you.”</p> + +<p>“It’s pleasure ye call it; then there’s no accountin’ +for tastes, as Dr. Colles said, when he saw me bite +Cusack Rooney’s thumb off.”</p> + +<p>“Bite a man’s thumb off!”</p> + +<p>“Aye,” said he, with a kind of fiendish animation, +“in one chop, I wish you’d see how I scattered the +consultation;—they didn’t wait to ax for a fee.”</p> + +<p>“A very pleasant vicinity,” thought I. “And may +I ask, sir,” said I, in a very mild and soothing tone of +voice—“may I ask the reason for this singular propensity +of yours?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>126</span></p> + +<p>“There it is now, my dear,” said he, laying his hand +upon my knee familiarly, “that’s just the very thing +they can’t make out. Colles says it’s all the cerebellum, +ye see, that’s inflamed and combusted, and some of the +others think it’s the spine; and more the muscles; +but my real impression is, not a bit they know about +it at all.”</p> + +<p>“And have they no name for the malady?” said I.</p> + +<p>“Oh, sure enough they have a name for it.”</p> + +<p>“And may I ask——”</p> + +<p>“Why, I think you’d better not, because, ye see, +maybe I might be troublesome to ye in the night, +though I’ll not, if I can help it; and it might be uncomfortable +to you to be here if I was to get one of the +fits.”</p> + +<p>“One of the fits! Why, it’s not possible, sir,” +said I, “you would travel in a public conveyance in +the state you mention; your friends surely would not +permit it?”</p> + +<p>“Why, if they knew, perhaps,” slily responded +the interesting invalid—“if they knew, they might not +exactly like it; but ye see, I escaped only last night, +and there’ll be a fine hubbub in the morning when they +find I’m off; though I’m thinking Rooney’s barking +away by this time.”</p> + +<p>“Rooney barking!—why, what does that mean?”</p> + +<p>“They always bark for a day or two after they’re +bit, if the infection comes first from the dog.”</p> + +<p>“You are surely not speaking of <i>hydrophobia</i>?” +said I, my hair actually bristling with horror and consternation.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t I?” replied he; “maybe you’ve guessed it, +though.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>127</span></p> + +<p>“And you have the malady on you at present?” +said I trembling for the answer.</p> + +<p>“This is the ninth day since I took to biting,” said +he, gravely.</p> + +<p>“And with such a propensity, sir, do you think +yourself warranted in travelling in a public coach, +exposing others——”</p> + +<p>“You’d better not raise your voice that way. If +I’m roused it’ll be worse for ye, that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present +delicate state, to undertake a journey?”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said he, with a sigh, “I’ve been longing to +see the fox-hounds throw off near Kilkenny; these three +weeks I’ve been thinking of nothing else; but I’m not +sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I might be +troublesome.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” thought I, “I shall not select that morning +for my début in the field.”</p> + +<p>“I hope, sir, there’s no river or watercourse in this +road; anything else I can, I hope, control myself +against; but water—running water particularly—makes +me troublesome.”</p> + +<p>Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, +I felt the cold perspiration settling on my forehead as +I remembered that we must be within about ten or +twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to pass +a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from +him, however. He now sank into a kind of moody +silence, broken occasionally by a low, muttering noise, +as if speaking to himself.</p> + +<p>How comfortable my present condition was I need +scarcely remark, sitting vis-à-vis to a lunatic, with a +pair of pistols in his possession, who had already avowed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>128</span> +his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief, and his +inability to master it—all this in the dark, and in the +narrow limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely +room for defence, and no possibility of escape. If +I could only reach the outside of the coach I would be +happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and +lightning compared with the chance that awaited me +here?—wet through I should inevitably be: but, then, +I had not yet contracted the horror of moisture my +friend opposite laboured under. Ha! what is that?—is +it possible he can be asleep;—is it really a snore? +Ah, there it is again;—he must be asleep, surely;—now, +then, is my time, or never. I slowly let down the +window of the coach, and, stretching forth my hand, +turned the handle cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged +my legs, and by a long, continuous effort of +creeping, I withdrew myself from the seat, reached the +step, when I muttered something very like thanksgiving +to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty +I now climbed up beside the guard, whose astonishment +at my appearance was indeed considerable.</p> + +<p>Well, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than +alive, I sat a mass of wet clothes, like a morsel of black +and spongy wet cotton at the bottom of a schoolboy’s +ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my +coat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring +matter, and several long, black streaks coursed down my +“wrinkled front,” giving me very much the air of an +Indian warrior who had got the first priming of his +war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, +were I only to judge from the faces of the waiters as they +gazed on me when the coach drew up at Rice and +Walsh’s Hotel.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>129</span></p> + +<p>Cold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn +more of my late agreeable companion was strong as ever +within me. I could catch a glimpse of his back, and +hurried after the great unknown into the coffee room. +By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, +<i>à l’Anglais</i>, before the fire, and displayed to +my wandering and stupefied gaze the pleasant features +of Dr. Finucane.</p> + +<p>“Why, Doctor—Doctor Finucane,” cried I, “is it +possible? Were you, then, really the inside in the +mail last night?”</p> + +<p>“Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make +bould to ask were you the outside?”</p> + +<p>“Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by +your story about Barney Doyle, and the hydrophobia, +and Cusack Rooney’s thumb—eh?”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Finucane, “this will be the death of me. +And it was you that I drove outside in all the rain last +night? Oh, it will kill Father Malachi outright with +laughing when I tell him.” And he burst out into a +fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his +head with a poker.</p> + +<p>“Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this +practical joke of yours was contrived for my benefit and +for the purpose of holding me up to the ridicule of your +acquaintances?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing of the kind,” said Fin., drying his eyes, +and endeavouring to look sorry and sentimental. “If +I had only the least suspicion in life that it was you, I’d +not have had the hydrophobia at all—and, to tell you +the truth, you were not the only one frightened—you +alarmed me, too.”</p> + +<p>“I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>130</span></p> + +<p>“Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these +two packages of notes down to my cousin Callaghan’s +bank in Cork—fifteen thousand pounds, and when you +came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all up +with me. The guard just whispered in my ear that he +saw you look at the priming of your pistols before +getting in. Well, when you got seated, the thought +came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you +were, you would not like dying an unnatural death, +more particularly if you were an Irishman; and so I +trumped up that long story about the hydrophobia, +and the gentleman’s thumb, and dear knows what +besides; and, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration +was running down my head and face, for every time +you stirred I said to myself—Now he’ll do it. Two or +three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten +shillings in the pound, to spare my life; and once, +God forgive me, I thought it would not be a bad plan +to shoot you by ‘mistake,’ do you perceive?”</p> + +<p>“Why, I’m very much obliged to you for your +excessively kind intentions; but, really, I feel you have +done quite enough for me on the present occasion. +But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before +I go, promise me two things—to dine with us to-day at +the mess, and not to mention a syllable of what occurred +last night: it tells, believe me, very badly for both. +So keep the secret; for if these fellows of ours ever +get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army;—I’ll +never hear the end of it!”</p> + +<p>“Never fear, my boy; trust me. I’ll dine with you, +and you’re as safe as a church mouse for anything I’ll +tell them; so now, you’d better change your clothes, +for I’m thinking it rained last night.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>131</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Battle of Aughrim.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Anna Cosgrave,” an unpublished Novel.</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By William Carleton.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Many</span> of our readers will be surprised at what we +are about to relate. Nay, what is more, we fear they will +not yield us credence, but impute it probably to our +own invention; whereas we beg to assure them that it +is strictly and literally true. The period of the scene +we are about to describe may be placed in the year +1806. At the time neither party feeling nor religious +animosity had yet subsided after the ferment of the +’98 insurrection and the division between the Catholic +and Protestant population was very strong and bitter. +The rebellion, which commenced in its first principles +among the northern Presbyterians and other Protestant +classes in a spirit of independence and a love of liberty, +soon, in consequence of the influence of some bigots, +assumed the character of a civil war between the two +religions,—the most internecine description of war that +ever devastated a country or drenched it in blood.</p> + +<p>A usual amusement at the time was to reproduce the +“Battle of Aughrim,” in some spacious barn, with a +winnowing-cloth for the curtain. This play, bound +up with “The Siege of Londonderry,” was one of the +reading-books in the hedge schools of that day, and circulated +largely among the people of all religions: it had, +indeed, a most extraordinary influence among the lower +classes. “The Battle of Aughrim,” however, because +it was written in heroic verse, became so popular that +it was rehearsed at almost every Irish hearth, both +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>132</span> +Catholic and Protestant, in the north. The spirit it +evoked was irresistible. The whole country became +dramatic. To repeat it at the fireside in winter nights +was nothing: the Orangemen should act it, and show +to the whole world how the field of Aughrim was so +gloriously won. The consequence was that frequent +rehearsals took place. The largest and most spacious +barns and kilns were fitted up, the night of representation +was given out, and crowds, even to suffocation, +as they say, assembled to witness the celebrated “Battle +of Aughrim.”</p> + +<p>At first, it was true, the Orangemen had it all to themselves. +This, however, could not last. The Catholics +felt that they were as capable of patronising the drama +as the victors of Aughrim. A strong historic spirit +awoke among them. They requested of the Orangemen +to be allowed the favour of representing the Catholic +warriors of the disastrous field, and, somewhat to their +surprise, the request was immediately granted. The +Orangemen felt that there was something awkward +and not unlike political apostasy in acting the part of +Catholics in the play, under any circumstances, no +matter how dramatic. It was consequently agreed +that the Orangemen should represent the officers of +the great man on whose name and title their system +had been founded, and the Catholics should represent +their own generals and officers under the name of St. +Ruth, Sarsfield, and Colonel O’Neill. The first representation +of this well-known play took place in the town +of Au——. During the few weeks before the great night +nothing was heard but incessant repetitions and rehearsals +of the play.</p> + +<p>The fact of this enactment of the play by individuals +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>133</span> +so strongly opposed to each other both in religion and +politics excited not only an unusual degree of curiosity, +but some apprehension as to the result, especially when +such language as this was heard:—</p> + +<p>“We licked them before,” said the Orangemen, “an’ +by japers, we’ll lick them again. Jack Tait acts General +Jingle, an’ he’s the boy will show them what chance +a Papist has against a Prodestan!”</p> + +<p>“Well, they bate us at Aughrim,” said the Catholics, +“but with Tam Whiskey at our head, we’ll turn the tebles +and lick them now.”</p> + +<p>Both parties on that night were armed with swords +for the battle scene, which represented the result of the +engagement. Unfortunately, when the scene came on, +instead of the bloodless fiction of the drama they began +to slash each other in reality, and had it not been for +the interference of the audience there is no doubt that +lives would have been lost. After this, swords were +interdicted and staves substituted. The consequence, +as might have been expected, was that heads were +broken on both sides, and a general fight between Protestant +and Catholic portions of the actors and the +audience ensued.</p> + +<p>In the meanwhile the dramatic mania had become an +epidemic. Its fascination carried overt opposition +before it. A new system was adopted. The Orange +party was to be represented by staunch Catholics, all +probably Ribbonmen, and the Catholics by the rankest +and most violent Orangemen in the parish. This course +was resorted to in order to prevent the serious quarrels +with which the play generally closed. Such was the +state which the dramatic affairs of the parish had +reached when the occasion, a summer evening, arrived +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>134</span> +that had been appointed by the herculean manager, +John Tait, for the exhibition of “The Battle of Aughrim,” +in a large and roomy barn of a wealthy farmer named +Jack Stuart, in the townland of Rark.</p> + +<p>His house stood on a little swelling eminence beside +which an old road ran, and into which the little green +before the door sloped. The road, being somewhat +lower, passed close to his outhouses, which faced the +road, but in consequence of their positions a loft was +necessary to constitute the barn, so that it might be level +with the haggard on the elevation. The entrance to +the barn was by a door in one of the gables, whilst the +stable and cow-house, or byre as it was called, were +beneath the loft, and had their door open to the road. +This accurate description will be found necessary in +order to understand what followed.</p> + +<p>In preparing the barn for the entertainment, the +principal embarrassment consisted in want of seats.</p> + +<p>Necessity, however, is well-known to be the mother +of invention; and in this case that fact was established +at the expense of honest Jack Stuart. Five or six sacks +of barley were stretched length-wise on that side of the +wall which faced the road. Now, barley, although +the juice of it makes many a head light, is admitted to +be the heaviest of all grain. On the opposite side, +next the haggard, the seats consisted of chairs and forms, +some of them borrowed from the neighbours. The +curtain (i.e., the winnowing-cloth) was hung up at the +south end, and everything, so far as preparation went, +was very well managed. Of course, it was unnecessary +to say that the entertainment was free to such as could +find room, for which there was many an angry struggle.</p> + +<p>We have said that from an apprehension that the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>135</span> +heroes on both sides might forget the fiction and resort +to reality by actual fighting, it had generally been arranged +that the Catholic party should be represented by the +Orangemen, and <i>vice versa</i>; and so it was in this +instance. The caste of the piece was as follows:—</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="width: 90%;" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Baron de Ginckel (General of the English forces)</td> + <td class="tcr">Tom Whiskey.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(A perfect devil at the cudgels when sober, +especially against an Orangeman.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Marquis de Ruvigny</td> + <td class="tcr">Denis Shevlin.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">General Talmash</td> + <td class="tcr">Barney Broghan.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(A fighting Blacksmith.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">General Mackay</td> + <td class="tcr">Dandy Delaney.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(At present on his keeping—but place of birth +unknown.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Colonels Herbert and Earles</td> + <td class="tcr">Tom M‘Roarkin, +of Springstown, and +Paddy Rafferty, of +Dernascrobe.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace +unless when in a fight.)</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl pt1" colspan="2"><br /><br />The cast of the Catholic leaders was this:—<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces)</td> + <td class="tcr">Jacky Vengeance.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle +of Vinegar Hill, hence the nickname of Vengeance.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Sarsfield</td> + <td class="tcr">Big Jack Tait.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Master of an Orange Lodge.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2"> + (We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield’s immense +size is true to fact; but be this as it may, we have +it from the tradition that he was a man of prodigious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>136</span> +stature, and Jack was six feet four in height, +and strong in proportion.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">General Dorrington</td> + <td class="tcr">George Twin.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party +fights, and an Orangeman.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Colonel Talbot</td> + <td class="tcr">Lick-Papish Nelson.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl pt1">Colonel Gordon O’Neill</td> + <td class="tcr pt1">Fighting Grimes.</td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl pt1">Sir Charles Godfrey (a young English gentleman +of fortune, in love with Colonel Talbot’s +Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army)</td> + <td class="tcr pt1">Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(He fought for his customers, whether Orange or +Green, according as they came in his way.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Jemima (Colonel Talbot’s daughter)</td> + <td class="tcr">Grasey (Grace) Stuart.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert)</td> + <td class="tcr">Dolly Stuart.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Her sister, much of the same proportions.)<br /><br /></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl">Ghost</td> + <td class="tcr">Cooney Mullowney.</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcc" colspan="2">(Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)</td></tr> +</table> + +<p class="pt1">On the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, +were placed the Protestant portion of the audience, +because they were the most wealthy and consequently +the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the world—by +which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks +were deposited the “Papishes,” because they were +then the poor and the downtrodden people, so that they +and “the Prodestants” sat on opposite sides of the +barn. There were no political watch-words, no “three +cheers” for either this man or that, owing to the simple +reason that no individual present had ever seen a theatre +in his life. The only exception was that of an unfortunate +flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>137</span> +“up with the rag,” for which, as it was supposed that he +meant to turn the whole thing into ridicule, he was +kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the way, was one of +the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been +allotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of +his memory.</p> + +<p>At length the play commenced, and went on with +remarkable success. The two batches of heroes were in +high feather—King William’s party (to wit, Tom +Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that +side of the barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks +and the Papishes, and the Catholic generals ranged +with the Orange audience on the opposite side. It was +now the Ghost’s cue to enter from behind the winnowing-cloth, +but before the apparition had time to appear, the +prompter’s attention was struck by a sudden sinking +of the party on the sacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. +Yet, as it did not appear to have been felt +by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped +up in the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At +length the Ghost came out, dressed in a white sheet +his face rendered quite spectral by flour. Sir Charles +Godfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just concluded +the following words, addressed to the Ghost +himself, who in life it appeared had been his father:—</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i10">“Oh, I’ll sacrifice</p> + <p class="i1">A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe,</p> + <p class="i1">Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below.”</p> +<p>Ghost.—“Be not so rash, wild youth——”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>He had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like +the “crack of doom” was heard: one-half of the barn-floor +had disappeared! The Ghost made a step to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>138</span> +approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we +saw was his heels—his legs dressed in blue woollen +stockings and his sturdy hinder parts cased in strong +corduroys, in the act of disappearing in the abyss +beneath. Down he and the others went, and were +lodged in the cow-house below amid the warm manure.</p> + +<p>The consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror +among the safe and Protestant side of the audience, +could not be described. But the disaster proved to be +one of the most harmless for its nature that ever occurred, +for it was only destructive to property. Not a single +injury was sustained with the exception of that which +befell the Ghost, who had his arm dislocated at the +elbow. The accident now resumed a religious hue. +The Catholics charged the others with the concoction +of a Protestant plot, by putting them together on what +they called the rotten side of the house. The wrangle +became high and abusive, and was fast hastening into +polemical theology, when the <i>dramatis personæ</i> offered +to settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle +on the green. It was the scene of terrible and strong +confusion, so much so that all we can glean from our +recollection is the image of a desperate personal conflict +between the actors whose orange and green ribbons +were soon flung off as false emblems of the principles +which they had adopted only for the sake of ending the +play in a peaceable manner.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>139</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Quare Gander.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Purcell Papers.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Terence Mooney</span> was an honest boy and well-to-do—an’ +he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties, +an’ bein’ mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small +wonder he turned a good penny every harvest; but, +unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family +iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, +strivin’ to make up fortunes for the whole of them—an’ +there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any sort of description +for makin’ money out iv the farm but he was up to. +Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the +world, he always kep’ a power iv turkies, and all soarts +iv poultry; an’ he was out iv all raison partial to geese—an’ +small blame to him for that same—for twiste a year +you can pluck them as bare as my hand—an’ get a +fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable +eggs—an’ when they are too ould to lay any more, you +can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, +d’ye see,—let alone that a goose is the most manly bird +that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time, +that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin’ to +Terence, an’ sorra a place he could go serenadin’ about +the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id +be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, and +lookin’ up in his face just like any other Christian id +do; and the likes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney +an’ the gandher wor so great. An’ at last the bird was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>140</span> +so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be +plucked any more; an’ kept it from that time out for +love an’ affection; just all as one like one iv his children. +But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an’ the +neighbours begin’d to suspect the nathur and intentions +iv the gandher; an’ some iv them said it was the divil, +and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could +not but hear something of what was sayin’, and you may +be sure he was not altogether aisy in his mind about it, +an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more +ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for +Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he +was the ilegant hand at the business, and sorra a sperit +id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest; an’ +moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, +this man’s father that was. So without more about +it, he was sent for; an’ sure enough, not long he was +about it, for he kem back that very evening along wid the +boy that was sint for him; an’ as soon as he was there, +an’ tuk his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, +he bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, +he turned it this way an’ that way, to the right and to +the left, an’ straight-ways, an’ upside down, an’ when +he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney:</p> + +<p>“Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird +into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a petticoat,” +says he, “or any other convaynience round his head,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“An’ why so?” says Terence.</p> + +<p>“Becase,” says Jer, says he.</p> + +<p>“Becase what?” says Terence.</p> + +<p>“Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done—you’ll never +be aisy agin,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>141</span> +says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.</p> + +<p>An’ wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv’ it +to one iv the gossoons.</p> + +<p>“An’ take care,” says he, “don’t smother the crathur,” +says he.</p> + +<p>Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, +says he, “Do you know what that ould gandher is, +Terence Mooney?”</p> + +<p>“Sorra a taste,” says Terence.</p> + +<p>“Well, then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own +father,” says he.</p> + +<p>“It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty +pale; “how can an ould gandher be my father?” +says he.</p> + +<p>“I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer, “it’s thrue +what I tell you—it’s your father’s wandherin’ sowl,” +says he, “that’s naturally tuk pissession iv the ould +gandher’s body,” says he; “I know him many ways, +and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock +iv his eye yourself,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” says Terence, “what will I ever do, at all, at +all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him +twelve times at the laste,” says he.</p> + +<p>“That can’t be helped now,” says Jer, “it was a +sevare act, surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint +for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s +past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” +says he.</p> + +<p>“Thrue for you,” says Terence, “but how did you +come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, +“bein’ in the ould gandher?” says he.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>142</span></p> + +<p>“If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not understand +me,” says he, “without book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” +says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, +“an I’ll tell you no lies; but b’lieve me in this much,” +says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he, “an’ if +I don’t make him spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, +“I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Say no more,” says Terence, “that settles the +business,” says he; “an’ oh! is it not a quare thing,” +says he, “for a dacent, respictable man,” says he, “to +be walkin’ about the counthry in the shape iv an ould +gandher,” says he; “and, oh, murdher, murdher! +is it not often I plucked him,” says he, “an’ tundher +and turf, might not I have ate him,” says he; and wid +that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your prisince, +an’ was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.</p> + +<p>Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, +to him, quite an aisy—“Terence,” says he, “don’t be +aggravatin’ yourself,” says he, “for I have a plan composed +that’ll make him spake out,” says he, “an’ tell +what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ +mind an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther an’ to say +agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, +as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how +that we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to +market,” says he; “an’ if he don’t spake to-night,” +says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, +“put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” +says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin’,” +says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he; “an’ +my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t +spake out before he’s half way,” says he; “an’ mind,” +says he, “as soon as ever he says the first word,” says he, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>143</span> +“that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,” +says he, “an’ if his Raverance doesn’t make him ratire,” +says he, “into the flames of Purgathory,” says he, +“there’s no vartue in my charms,” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room +agin, an’ they all begined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt +mornin’ to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as +if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a notice +the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv +the Lord Liftenant; an’ Terence desired the boy +to get ready the <i>kish</i> for the poulthry “an’ to settle it +out wid hay soft and shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last +jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ‘ill get in this world,” +says he.</p> + +<p>Well, as the night was getting late, Terence was +growin’ mighty sorrowful an’ down-hearted in himself +entirely wid the notions iv what was going to happen. +An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in +bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an’ himself +and Jer Garvan sot down to it, an’ the more anasy +Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer +Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn’t an +imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t +anvinted antil short since; but sorra a much matther +it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, +let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew begin’d +to give the pledge, an’ wid the blessin’ iv timperance +to deginerate Ireland. An’ sure I have the medle +myself; an’ it’s proud I am iv that same, for abstamiousness +is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry.</p> + +<p>Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he +might as well stop, “for enough is as good as a faste,” +says he, “an’ I pity the vagabone,” says he, “that is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>144</span> +not able to conthroul his liquor,” says he, “an’ to keep +constantly inside iv a pint measure,” says he, an’ wid +that he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an’ walked out +iv the room. But he wint out the wrong door, being +a trifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether +he was standin’ on his head or his heels, or both iv them +at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into bed, where +did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, +that the boys had settled out ready for the gandher +in the mornin’; an’, sure enough, he sunk down snug +an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid +the turnin’ an’ roulin’ about in the night, not a bit iv +him but was covered up as snug as a lumper in a pittaty +furrow before mornin’.</p> + +<p>So wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war +to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; +an’ they cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the +hamper and clapped a good whisp iv hay on the top +iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, +an med the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any +harum, an’ put the hamper up on the car, wontherin’ +all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould +burd so surprisin’ heavy.</p> + +<p>Well, they wint along on the road towards Tipperary, +wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound +the same way id happen to fall in with them, for they +didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the +bewitched gandher, an’ small blame to them for that +same. But, although they wor shakin’ in their skins in +dhread iv the ould bird beginin’ to convarse them every +minute, they did not let on to one another, bud kep’ +singin’ and whistlin’, like mad to keep the dhread +out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>145</span> +betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close +by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one rut three feet +deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful +chuck goin’ through it, that wakened Terence within +the basket.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, +what are ye doin’ wid me?”</p> + +<p>“Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the +boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the +top iv a musharoon; “did ye hear anything quare +soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.</p> + +<p>“No, nor you,” says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself, +“it’s the ould gandher that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ +he’s gettin’,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Where have ye put me into,” says Terence, inside; +“let me out,” says he, “or I’ll be smothered this +minute,” says he.</p> + +<p>“There’s no use in purtending,” says the boy; “the +gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God!” says he.</p> + +<p>“Let me out, you murdherers,” says Terence.</p> + +<p>“In the name iv all the holy saints,” says Thady, +“hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Who’s that, that dar call me nicknames,” says +Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion; “let me +out, you blasphamious infiddles,” says he, “or by this +crass, I’ll stretch ye,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Who are ye?” says Thady.</p> + +<p>“Who would I be but Terence Mooney,” says he, +“It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” +says he; “let me out, or I’ll get out in spite iv yez,” +says he, “an’ I’ll wallop yez in arnest,” says he.</p> + +<p>“It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady; +“isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out,” says he.</p> + +<p>“I’m on the p’int iv suffication,” says Terence; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>146</span> +“let me out, I tell ye, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, +“for sorra a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,” says +he; an’ wid that he bigined kickin’ and flingin’ in the +hamper, and drivin’ his legs agin the sides iv it, that it +was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as +the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into +a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s +house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d +see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet in the air with the +joultin’; so it was small wondher, by the time they got +to his Raverance’s door, the breath was fairly knocked +out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin’ speechless +in the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his Raverance +kem down, they up an’ they tould him all that happened, +an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ +how he begined to spake, an’ how he confissed that he +was ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour +to advise them how to get rid iv the sperit for good an’ +all. So says his Raverance, says he:</p> + +<p>“I’ll take my booke,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale +sthrong holy bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a +rope and put it round the hamper,” says he, “an’ let it +swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he, +“an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the sperit come out +iv it,” says he.</p> + +<p>Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, an’ tuk his +booke in undher his arum, an’ the boys follied his +Raverance, ladin’ the horse, and Terence houldin’ his +whisht, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was +afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to +another gallop an’ finish him intirely. Well, as soon +as they wur all come to the bridge the boys tuk the +rope they had with them, an’ med it fast to the top iv +the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>147</span> +it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; +and his Raverance rode down to the bank iv the river, +close by, an’ begined to read mighty loud and bould +intirely.</p> + +<p>An’ when he was goin’ on about five minutes, all at +onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint +Terence, falling splash dash into the wather, an’ the ould +gandher a-top iv him; down they both wint to the +bottom wid a souse you’d hear half-a-mile off; an’ +before they had time to rise agin, his Raverance, wid a +fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, +an’ before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and +all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom. Up they all +kem agin together, gaspin’ an puffin’, an’ off down +the current with them like shot, in undher the arch iv the +bridge, till they kem to the shallow wather. The ould +gandher was the first out, an’ the priest and Terence +kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half +dhrounded: an’ his Raverance was so freckened wid +the dhroundin’ he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit, +as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better iv it for a +month. An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he said +he’d have the life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty +would not give him his will; an’ as soon as he got +quieter they all endeavoured to explain it, but Terence +consayved he went raly to bed the night before, an’ his +Raverance said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if he cotched +anyone laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip +across their shoulders; an’ Terence grew fonder an’ +fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died +in a wondherful ould age, lavin’ the gandher afther +him an’ a large family iv childer; an’ to this day the farm +is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney’s lineal legitimate +postariors.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>148</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Thrush and the Blackbird.</p> + +<p class="center sc">By Charles Joseph Kickham (1828-1882).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">A stranger</span> meeting Sally Cavanagh, as she tripped +along the mountain road, would consider her a contented +and happy young matron, and might be inclined to set +her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her +head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still +higher with a toss which had something decidedly +haughty about it. She turned up a short boreen for +the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith’s +wife, who had been very useful to her for some time +before. The smith’s habits were so irregular that his +wife was often obliged to visit the pawn office in the next +town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of Nancy +Ryan’s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable +she possessed. The new cloak, of which even a +rich farmer’s wife might feel proud, was the last thing +left. It was a present from Connor, and was only worn +on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.</p> + +<p>Loud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh +start. She stopped for a moment, and then ran forward +and rushed breathless into the smith’s house. The +first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn Gow +choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came +down with such force upon the part of Shawn Gow’s +person which happened to be the most elevated as he +bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an exclamation +between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the +air, and, striking his shins against a chair, tumbled +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>149</span> +head over heels into the corner. When Shawn found +that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw Sally +with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the +ludicrous overcame him, and, turning his face to the wall, +he relieved his feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. +It was of the silent, inward sort, however, and neither +his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any notion of the +pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending +to be “kilt” occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, +and with a fearful groan he stretched out his huge limbs +and remained motionless on the broad of his back.</p> + +<p>Sally’s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented +her from giving a thought to her husband. Great was +her astonishment then when Nancy flew at her like a +wild cat. “You kilt my husband,” she screamed. +Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best +she could with the stool. “For God’s sake, Nancy, +be quiet. Wouldn’t he have destroyed you on’y for +me?” But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. +“There’s nothing the matter with him,” Sally cried +out, on finding herself literally driven to the wall. +“What harm could a little touch of a stool on the back +do the big brute?”</p> + +<p>Nancy’s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into +another channel, for she turned round quickly, and +kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his head. +“<i>Och! Shawn, avourneen, machree</i>,” she exclaimed, +“won’t you spake to me?” Shawn condescended +to open his eyes. “Sally,” she continued, “he’s +comin’ to—glory be to God! Hurry over and hould +up his head while I’m runnin’ for somethin’ to rewive +him. Or stay, bring me the boulster.”</p> + +<p>The bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>150</span> +patient’s head; then, snatching her shawl from the +peg where it hung, she disappeared. She was back +again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with half-a-pint +of whiskey in a bottle.</p> + +<p>“Take a taste av this, Shawn, an’ ‘twill warm your +heart.”</p> + +<p>Shawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.</p> + +<p>“Nancy,” says he, “I believe, afther all, you’re +fond o’ me.”</p> + +<p>“Wisha, Shawn, achora, what else’d I be but fond +av you?”</p> + +<p>“I thought, Nancy, you couldn’t care for a divil that +thrated you so bad.”</p> + +<p>“Och, Shawn, Shawn, don’t talk that way to me. +Sure, I thought my heart was broke when I see you +sthretched there ‘idout a stir in you.”</p> + +<p>“An’ you left your shawl in pledge again to get this +for me?”</p> + +<p>“To be sure I did; an’ a good right I had; an’ sorry +I’d be to see you in want of a dhrop of nourishment.”</p> + +<p>“I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what +made a baste av me.”</p> + +<p>And Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with +a look in which hatred and fascination were strangely +blended. He turned quickly to his wife.</p> + +<p>“Will you give in it was a blackbird?” he said.</p> + +<p>“A blackbird,” she repeated, irresolutely.</p> + +<p>“Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?”</p> + +<p>Shawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage +mood.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said his wife, after some hesitation, “’twas a +blackbird. Will that plase you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>151</span></p> + +<p>“An’ you’ll never say ’twas a thrish agin?”</p> + +<p>“Never. An’ sure, on’y for the speckles on the +breast, I’d never say ’twas a thrish; but sure, you ought +to know betther than me—an’—an’—’twas a blackbird,” +she exclaimed, with a desperate effort.</p> + +<p>Shawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung +it with all his strength against the hob. The whole +fireplace was for a moment one blaze of light.</p> + +<p>“The Divil was in id,” says the smith, smiling +grimly; “an’ there he’s off in a flash of fire. I’m done +wid him, any way.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,” said +Sally.</p> + +<p>“I wish you the same, Sally, an’ a great many av +‘em. I suppose you’re goin’ to first Mass? Shawn +and me’ll wait for second.”</p> + +<p>Sally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and +proceeded on her way to the village. She met +Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also +going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, +Betty surveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of +delighted wonder.</p> + +<p>“Look at her, Tim,” she exclaimed, “an’ isn’t she +as young an’ as hearty as ever? Bad cess to me but +you’re the same Sally that danced wid the master at my +weddin’, next Thursday fortnight’ll be eleven years.”</p> + +<p>“Begob, you’re a great woman,” says Tim.</p> + +<p>Sally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing +the scene she had witnessed at the blacksmith’s.</p> + +<p>“But, Tim,” said she, after finishing the story, “how +did the dispute about the blackbird come first? I +heard something about it, but I forget it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>152</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you that, then,” said Tim. “Begob, ay,” +he exclaimed abruptly, after thinking for a moment; +“’twas this day seven years, for all the world—the year o’ +the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his haggard +the evenin’ afore, and when he went out in the mornin’ +he had a hen blackbird. He put the <i>goulogue</i><a name="fa1a" id="fa1a" href="#ft1a"><span class="sp">1</span></a> on her +nick, and tuk her in his hand; and wud’ one <i>smulluck</i> +av his finger knocked the life out av her; he walked +in an’ threw the blackbird on the table.</p> + +<p>“‘Oh, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘you’re afther ketchin’ +a fine thrish.’ Nancy tuk the bird in her hand an’ +began rubbin’ the feathers on her breast. ‘A fine +thrish,’ siz Nancy.</p> + +<p>“‘’Tisn’t a thrish, but a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.</p> + +<p>“‘Wisha, in throth, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, ‘’tis a thrish; +do you want to take the sight o’ my eyes from me?’</p> + +<p>“‘I tell you ’tis a blackbird,” siz he.</p> + +<p>“‘Indeed, then, it isn’t, but a thrish,’ siz she.</p> + +<p>“Anyway, one word borrowed another, an’ the end +av it was, Shawn flailed at her an’ gev her the father +av a batin’.</p> + +<p>“The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the +door an’ looked out.</p> + +<p>“‘God be wud this day twelve months,’ siz she, ‘do +you remimber the fine thrish you caught in the crib?’</p> + +<p>“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.</p> + +<p>“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnin’ to laugh, ‘that was a +quare blackbird.’</p> + +<p>“‘Whisht, now, Nancy, ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.</p> + +<p>“‘Och,’ siz Nancy, beginnin’ to laugh, ‘that was the +quare blackbird.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>153</span></p> + +<p>“Wud that, one word borrowed another, an’ Shawn +stood up an’ gev her the father av a batin’.</p> + +<p>“The third Christmas Day kem, an’ they wor in the +best o’ good humour afther the tay, an’ Shawn, puttin’ +on his ridin’-coat to go to Mass.</p> + +<p>“‘Well, Shawn,’ siz Nancy, I’m thinkin’ av what an +unhappy Christmas mornin’ we had this day twelve +months, all on account of the thrish you caught in the +crib, bad cess to her.’</p> + +<p>“‘’Twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.</p> + +<p>“‘Wisha, good luck to you, an’ don’t be talkin’ +foolish,’ siz Nancy; ‘an’ you’re betther not get into a +passion agin, on account av an ould thrish. My heavy +curse on the same thrish,’ siz Nancy.</p> + +<p>“‘I tell you ’twas a blackbird,’ siz Shawn.</p> + +<p>“‘An’ I tell you ’twas a thrish,’ siz Nancy.</p> + +<p>“‘Wud that, Shawn took a <i>bunnaun</i> he had <i>saisonin’</i> +in the chimley, and whaled at Nancy, an’ gev her the +father av a batin’. An’ every Christmas morning from +that day to this ’twas the same story, for as sure as the sun, +Nancy’d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me, +Sally, she’s afther givin’ in it was a blackbird?”</p> + +<p>“She is,” replied Sally.</p> + +<p>“Begob,” said Tim Croak, after a minute’s serious +reflection, “it ought to be put in the papers. I never +h’ard afore av a wrong notion bein’ got out av a woman’s +head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it +took him seven years to do id.”</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft1a" id="ft1a" href="#fa1a"><span class="fn">1</span></a> A forked stick</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>154</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Their Last Race.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “At the Rising of the Moon.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Frank Mathew (1865—).</p> + +<p class="center sc">I.—<span class="sc">The Faction Fight.</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">In</span> the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala +Valley hides in a triangle of mountains. Carrala Village +lies in the corner of it towards Loch Ina, and Aughavanna +in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a wreck +now: if you were to look for it you would see only a +cluster of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but +in those remote times, before the Great Famine, when no +English was spoken in the Valley, there was no place +more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its +men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the +countryside took his kippeen—his cudgel—from its +place in the chimney, and went out to do battle with +a good heart.</p> + +<p>Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. +There was no grander sight than Mat smashing his way +through a forest of kippeens, with his enemies staggering +back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter +sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph +and gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna +for ever!” Where his kippeen flickered in the air +his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet +him, for it was an honour to take a broken head from him.</p> + +<p>But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That +day Carrala swarmed with men—fishers from the near +coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the black lakes, or +in tiny, ragged villages under the shadow of the +mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides—every little +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>155</span> +town for miles, by river or sea-shore or mountain built, +was emptied. The fame of the Aughavanna men was +their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that every +one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against +them; Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third +corner of the valley, just where the road through the +bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it) +meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered +in force. Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was long +Mat’s rival; though smaller, he was near as deadly +in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for +it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick +himself behind with his heels in doing it.</p> + +<p>The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to +leave the more time for pleasure, and by five of the +afternoon every man was mad for the battle. Why, you +could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out +beyond the churchyard at the end of the village, it was +so packed with men—more than five hundred were there, +and you could not have heard yourself speak, for they +were jumping and dancing, tossing their caubeens, +and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf—“Hurroo +for Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!”</p> + +<p>Around them a mob of women, old men and children, +looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the +mists had crept half way down the dark mountain +walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.</p> + +<p>As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane +gave the signal. Down the village he came, rejoicing +in his strength, out between the two last houses, past the +churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked every +inch a king; his kippeen was ready, his frieze coat was +off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156" id="page156"></a>156</span> +it by the sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted—in +Irish—“Where’s the Carrala man that dare touch +my coat? Where’s the cowardly scoundrel that dare +look crooked at it?”</p> + +<p>In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his +own coat behind him, and rushed forward, with a mighty +cry “Where’s the face of a trembling Aughavanna +man?” In a moment their kippeens clashed; in +another, hundreds of kippeens crashed together, and the +grandest fight ever fought in Connemara raged over +Callanan’s Field. After the first roar of defiance the +men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout +of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds +that broke the music of the kippeens clashing and +clicking on one another, or striking home with a thud.</p> + +<p>Never was Long Mat nobler; he rushed ravaging +through the enemy, shattering their ranks and their +heads; no man could withstand him; Red Callanan of +Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five +senses out of Dan O’Shaughran, of Earrennamore, +that herded many pigs by the sedgy banks of the Owen +Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy, +that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain—never +again did Larry set the two eyes of him on his high +mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael Joyce by +a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head—who +would have dreamt that Black Michael had so +thin a skull.</p> + +<p>For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he +went down under foot. At first he was missed only +by those nearest him, and they took it for granted that +he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna +men found themselves outnumbered and driven back +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157" id="page157"></a>157</span> +to the village, a great fear came on them, for they knew +that all Ireland could not outnumber them if Mat was +to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they +were forced backwards up the street, struggling +desperately, till hardly a man of them could stand.</p> + +<p>And when the victors were shouting themselves +dumb, and drinking themselves blind, the beaten men +looked for their leader. Long Mat was prone, his forehead +was smashed, his face had been trampled into the +mud—he had done with fighting. His death was +untimely, yet he fell as he would have chosen—in a +friendly battle. For when a man falls under the hand +of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him +in creed or politics) revenge and black blood live after +him; but he who takes his death from the kindly hand +of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will, but only gentle +regret for the mishap.</p> + +<p class="center sc pt2">II. Their Last Race.</p> + +<p>When the dead had been duly waked for two days +and nights, the burying day came. All the morning +long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs by his +cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening +round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith +and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when +the Angelus bell rang across the valley from the chapel, +the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the +rough hearse, and the motley funeral—a line of carts +with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most +of them on foot—moved slowly towards Carrala. The +women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic +gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never +heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and +of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page158" id="page158"></a>158</span></p> + +<p>The Joyces, too, had waited, as was the custom, for +the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael’s funeral +was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side +of the bog. Before long either party could hear the +keening of the other, for you know the roads grow +nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either +party began to fear that the other would be there first.</p> + +<p>There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals +began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, +till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; +then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and +till everyone raced at full speed, and the rival parties +broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna abu!” “Meehul +Dhu for ever!”</p> + +<p>For the dead men were racing—feet foremost—to +the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never +did the world see such a race, never was there such +whooping and shouting. Where the roads met in +Callanan’s Field the horses were abreast; neck and neck +they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while +the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were +struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck +they reached the churchyard, and the horses jammed +in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one +another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.</p> + +<p>But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, +for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and +Long Mat Murnane won his last race. The shout +they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, +so that it has never been the same since. The victors +wrung one another’s hands; they hugged one another.</p> + +<p>“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t +been dead!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page159" id="page159"></a>159</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The First Lord Liftinant.</p> + +<p class="center sc">By William Percy French (1854—).</p> + +<p class="center sc">(As related by Andrew Geraghty, Philomath.)</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">“Essex,”</span> said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat +at breakwhist in the back parlour of Buckingham +Palace, “Essex, me haro, I’ve got a job that I think would +suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?”</p> + +<p>“I’m no great fist at jografy,” says his lordship, +“but I know the place you mane. Population, three +millions; exports, emigrants.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ve been reading the +Dublin Evening Mail and the Telegraft for some time +back, and sorra one o’ me can get at the trooth o’ how +things is goin’, for the leadin’ articles is as conthradictory +as if they wor husband and wife.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the way wid papers all the world over,” +says Essex; “Columbus told me it was the same in +Amerikay, when he was there, abusin’ and conthradictin’ +each other at every turn—it’s the way they make +their livin’. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.”</p> + +<p>“It’s addled they have me betune them,” says the +Queen. “Not a know I know what’s goin’ on. So +now, what I want you to do is to run over to Ireland, +like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.”</p> + +<p>“Is it me?” says Essex, leppin’ up off his chair. +“It’s not in airnest ye are, ould lady. Sure it’s the +hoight of the London saison. Every one’s in town, +and Shake’s new fairy piece, ‘The Midsummer’s Night +Mare,’ billed for next week.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page160" id="page160"></a>160</span></p> + +<p>“You’ll go when ye’re tould,” says the Queen, fixin’ +him with her eye, “if you know which side yer bread’s +buttered on. See here, now,” says she, seein’ him +chokin’ wid vexation and a slice o’ corned beef, “you +ought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you’ll be +at the top o’ the walk over there as vice-regent representin’ +me.”</p> + +<p>“I ought to have a title or two,” says Essex, pluckin’ +up a bit. “His Gloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, +or the like o’ that.”</p> + +<p>“How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of +Ireland sthrike you?” says Elizabeth.</p> + +<p>“First class,” cries Essex. “Couldn’t be betther; +it doesn’t mean much, but it’s allitherative, and will +look well below the number on me hall door.”</p> + +<p>Well, boys, it didn’t take him long to pack his clothes +and start away for the Island o’ Saints. It took him a +good while to get there, though, through not knowin’ +the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip +to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to +Dalkey Island. Going up to an ould man who was +sittin’ on a rock, he took off his hat, and, says he—</p> + +<p>“That’s great weather we’re havin’?”</p> + +<p>“Good enough for the times that’s in it,” says the ould +man, cockin’ one eye at him.</p> + +<p>“Any divarshun’ goin on?” says Essex.</p> + +<p>“You’re a sthranger in these parts, I’m thinkin’,” +says the ould man, “or you’d know this was a ‘band +night’ in Dalkey.”</p> + +<p>“I wasn’t aware of it,” says Essex; “the fact is,” +says he, “I only landed from England just this minute.”</p> + +<p>“Ay,” says the ould man, bitterly, “it’s little they +know about us over there. I’ll hould you,” says he, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161" id="page161"></a>161</span> +with a slight thrimble in his voice, “that the Queen +herself doesn’t know there is to be fireworks in the +Sorrento Gardens this night.” Well, when Essex heard +that, he disrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland +to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him +to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could +find. And he found plenty of them—thick as bees they +wor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. +He wrote two letters home next day—one to Queen +Elizabeth and the other to Lord Mountaigle, a playboy +like himself. I’ll read you the one to the Queen first:—</p> + +<p class="rib pt2">“Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.</p> + +<p>“Fair Enchantress,—I wish I was back in London, +baskin’ in your sweet smiles and listenin’ to your +melodious voice once more. I got the consignment +of men and the post-office order all right. I was out +all the mornin’ lookin’ for the inimy, but sorra a taste +of Hugh O’Neill or his men can I find. A policeman +at the corner o’ Nassau Street told me they wor hidin’ +in Wicklow. So I am makin’ up a party to explore +the Dargle on Easter Monda’. The girls here are +as ugly as sin, and every minute o’ the day I do be +wishin’ it was your good-lookin’ self I was gazin’ at +instead o’ these ignorant scarecrows.</p> + +<p>“Hopin’ soon to be back in ould England, I remain, +your lovin’ subject</p> + +<p class="rib">Essex.”</p> + +<p>“P.S.—I hear Hugh O’Neill was seen on the top o’ the +Donnybrook tram yesterday mornin’. If I have any +luck the head’ll be off him before you get this.</p> + +<p style="text-align: right; margin-right: 3em;">E.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page162" id="page162"></a>162</span></p> + +<p class="pt2">The other letter read this way:—</p> + +<p>“Dear Monty—This is a great place, all out. Come +over here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever +I seen, and the girls—oh! don’t be talkin’—’pon me +secret honour you’ll see more loveliness at a tay and a +supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole +of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song +to sing to a young girl who seems to be taken wid my +appearance. Her name’s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, +so he oughtn’t to find it hard. I hear Hugh O’Neill’s a +terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you’re +not lookin’. If he tries any of his games on wid me, +I’ll give him in charge. No brawlin’ for your’s truly</p> + +<p class="rib">Essex.”</p> + +<p class="pt2">Well, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months +in Dublin, purtendin’ to be very busy subjugatin’ the +country, but all the time only losin’ his time and money +widout doin’ a hand’s turn, and doin’ his best to avoid a +ruction with “Fighting Hugh.” If a messenger came +to tell him that O’Neill was camping out on the North +Bull, Essex would up stick and away for Sandycove, +where, after draggin’ the forty-foot hole, he’d write off +to Elizabeth, saying that, “owing to their suparior +knowledge of the country the dastard foe had once +more eluded him.”</p> + +<p>The Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially +as they always ended with a request to send stamps by +return, and told Essex to finish up his business and not +be makin’ a fool of himself.</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s the talk, is it,” says Essex; “very well, +me ould sauce-box” (that was the name he had for her +ever since she gev him the clip on the ear for turnin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163" id="page163"></a>163</span> +his back on her), “very well me ould sauce-box,” says +he, “I’ll write off to O’Neill this very minute, and tell +him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.”</p> + +<p>Well, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one—the +terms being—</p> + +<div class="list"> +<p>1. Hugh O’Neill to be King of Great Britain.</p> + +<p>2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there +as Viceroy of England.</p> + +<p>3. The O’Neill family to be supported by Government, +with free passes to all theatres and places of +entertainment.</p> + +<p>4. The London Markets to buy only from Irish dealers.</p> + +<p>5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelopes, directed +to H. O’Neill, and marked “private.” Cheques +crossed and made payable to H. O’Neill. Terms +cash.</p> +</div> + +<p>Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this +treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to +pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was +that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of +his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for +England.</p> + +<p>“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when +he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were +that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and +his boots that muddy, that the butler was not for littin’ +him in at the first go off, so says he, very grand; “Her +Majesty is above stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her +breakwhist.”</p> + +<p>“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an +interview,” says Essex.</p> + +<p>“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164" id="page164"></a>164</span> +to one side, “I didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; +come inside, sir; the Queen’s in the dhrawin’-room.”</p> + +<p>Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room +wid him, muddy boots and all; but not a sight +of Elizabeth was to be seen.</p> + +<p>“Where’s your misses?” says he to one of the +maids-of-honour that was dustin’ the chimbley-piece.</p> + +<p>“She’s not out of her bed yet,” said the maid, with a +toss of her head; “but if you write your message on +the slate beyant, I’ll see”—but before she had finished, +Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at the +Queen’s bedroom door.</p> + +<p>“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.</p> + +<p>“No, it’s me,—Essex. Can you see me?”</p> + +<p>“Faith, I can’t,” says the Queen. “Hould on till +I draw the bed-curtains. Come in now,” says she, +“and say your say, for I can’t have you stoppin’ long—you +young Lutharian.”</p> + +<p>“Bedad, yer Majesty,” says Essex, droppin’ on his +knees before her (the delutherer he was), “small blame +to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have a face on you +that would charm a bird off a bush.”</p> + +<p>“Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,” says the +Queen, blushin’ up to her curl-papers wid delight, +“and tell me what improvements you med in Ireland.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, I taught manners to O’Neill,” cries Essex.</p> + +<p>“He had a bad masther then,” says Elizabeth, lookin’ +at his dirty boots; “couldn’t you wipe yer feet before +ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, now,” says Essex, “is it wastin’ me time shufflin’ +about on a mat you’d have me, when I might be gazin’ +on the loveliest faymale the world ever saw.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” says the Queen, “I’ll forgive you this time, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165" id="page165"></a>165</span> +as you’ve been so long away, but remimber in future +that Kidderminster ain’t oilcloth. Tell me,” says she, +“is Westland Row Station finished yet?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,” +says Essex.</p> + +<p>“What about the Loop Line?” says she.</p> + +<p>“Oh, they’re gettin’ on with that,” says he, “only +some people think the girders a disfigurement to the city.”</p> + +<p>“Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove +to Dunlary?”</p> + +<p>“There’s talk about it, but that’s all,” says Essex; +“‘twould be an odious fine improvement to house +property, and I hope they’ll see to it soon.”</p> + +<p>“Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin’ +me men and me money. Let’s have a look at that +treaty I see stickin’ out o’ your pocket.”</p> + +<p>Well, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O’Neill +she just gev him one look, an’ jumpin’ from off the bed, +she put her head out of the window, and called out +to the policeman on duty—</p> + +<p>“Is the Head below?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell him you want him, ma’am,” says the +policeman.</p> + +<p>“Do,” says the Queen. “Hello,” says she, as a +slip of paper dhropped out o’ the dispatches. “What’s +this? ‘Lines to Mary.’ Ho! ho! me gay fella, +that’s what you’ve been up to, is it?”</p> + +<table class="reg" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i10">“Mrs. Brady</p> + <p class="i10">Is a widow lady,</p> +<p>And she has a charmin’ daughter I adore;</p> + <p class="i10">I went to court her</p> + <p class="i10">Across the water,</p> + <p class="i2">And her mother keeps a little candy-store. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166" id="page166"></a>166</span></p> + <p class="i10">She’s such a darlin’,</p> + <p class="i10">She’s like a starlin’,</p> + <p class="i2">And in love with her I’m gettin’ more and more,</p> + <p class="i10">Her name is Mary,</p> + <p class="i10">She’s from Dunlary;</p> + <p class="i2">And her mother keeps a little candy-store.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>“That settles it,” says the Queen. “It’s the gaoler +you’ll serenade next.”</p> + +<p>When Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the +button of his cuirass shook off and rowled under the +dhressin’-table.</p> + +<p>“Arrest that man,” says the Queen, when the Head-Constable +came to the door; “arrest that thrayter,” +says she, “and never let me set eyes on him again.”</p> + +<p>And, indeed, she never did, and soon after that he met +with his death from the skelp of an axe he got when he +was standin’ on Tower Hill.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page167" id="page167"></a>167</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Boat’s Share.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By E. Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">The</span> affair on the strand at Hare Island ripened, with +complexity of summonses and cross-summonses, into +an imposing Petty Sessions case. Two separate deputations +presented themselves at Shreelane, equipped +with black eyes and other conventional injuries, one +of them armed with a creelful of live lobsters to underline +the argument. To decline the bribe was of no avail: +the deputation decanted them upon the floor of the hall +and retired, and the lobsters spread themselves at large +over the house, and to this hour remain the nightmare +of the nursery.</p> + +<p>The next Petty Sessions day was wet; the tall windows +of the Court House were grey and streaming, and the +reek of wet humanity ascended to the ceiling. As I took +my seat on the bench I perceived with an inward groan +that the services of the two most eloquent solicitors +in Skebawn had been engaged. This meant that +Justice would not have run its course till heaven knew +that dim hour of the afternoon, and that that course +would be devious and difficult.</p> + +<p>All the pews and galleries (any Irish court-house might, +with the addition of a harmonium, pass presentably +as a dissenting chapel) were full, and a line of flat-capped +policemen stood like church-wardens near the door. +Under the galleries, behind what might have answered +to choir-stalls, the witnesses and their friends hid in +darkness, which could, however, but partially conceal +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168" id="page168"></a>168</span> +two resplendent young ladies, barmaids, who were +to appear in a subsequent Sunday drinking case. I +was a little late, and when I arrived Flurry Knox, +supported by a couple of other magistrates, was in the +chair, imperturbable of countenance as was his wont, +his fair and delusive youthfulness of aspect unimpaired +by his varied experiences during the war, his roving, +subtle eye untamed by four years of matrimony.</p> + +<p>A woman was being examined, a square and ugly +country-woman, with wispy fair hair, a slow, dignified +manner, and a slight and impressive stammer. I +recognised her as one of the bodyguard of the lobsters. +Mr. Mooney, solicitor for the Brickleys, widely known, +and respected as “Roaring Jack,” was in possession of +that much-enduring organ, the ear of the Court.</p> + +<p>“Now, Kate Keohane!” he thundered, “tell me +what time it was when all this was going on?”</p> + +<p>“About duskish, sir. Con Brickley was slashing the +f-fish at me mother the same time. He never said +a word but to take the shtick and fire me dead with it +on the sthrand. He gave me plenty of blood to dhrink, +too,” said the witness, with acid decorum. She paused +to permit this agreeable fact to sink in, and added, “his +wife wanted to f-fashten on me the same time, an’ she +havin’ the steer of the boat to sthrike me.”</p> + +<p>These were not precisely the facts that Mr. Murphy, +as solicitor for the defence, wished to elicit.</p> + +<p>“Would you kindly explain what you mean by the +steer of the boat?” he demanded, sparring for wind +in as intimidating a manner as possible. The witness +stared at him.</p> + +<p>“Sure, ’tis the shtick, like, that they pulls here and +there to go in their choice place.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page169" id="page169"></a>169</span></p> + +<p>“We may presume that the lady is referring to the +tiller,” said Mr. Mooney, with a facetious eye at the +Bench. “Maybe now, ma’am, you can explain to us +what sort of a boat is she?”</p> + +<p>“She’s that owld that if it wasn’t for the weeds that’s +holding her together she’d bursht up in the deep.”</p> + +<p>“And who owns this valuable property?” pursued +Mr. Mooney.</p> + +<p>“She’s between Con Brickley and me brother, an the +saine<a name="fa1b" id="fa1b" href="#ft1b"><span class="sp">1</span></a> is between four, an’ whatever crew does be in +it should get their share, and the boat has a man’s share.”</p> + +<p>I made no attempt to comprehend this, relying with +well-founded confidence on Flurry Knox’s grasp of +such enigmas.</p> + +<p>“Was Con Brickley fishing the same day?”</p> + +<p>“He was not, sir. He was at Lisheen Fair; for as +clever as he is, he couldn’t kill two birds under one slat!”</p> + +<p>Kate Keohane’s voice moved unhurried from sentence +to sentence, and her slow, pale eyes turned for an instant +to the lair of the witnesses under the gallery.</p> + +<p>“And you’re asking the Bench to believe that this +decent man left his business in Lisheen in order to +slash fish at your mother?” said Mr. Mooney, truculently.</p> + +<p>“B’lieve me, sorra much business he laves afther +him wherever he’ll go!” returned the witness. “Himself +and his wife had business enough on the sthrand when +the fish was dividing, and it is then themselves put +every name on me.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, what harm are names!” said Mr. Mooney, +dallying elegantly with a massive watch-chain.</p> + +<p>“Come, now, ma’am! will you swear you got any +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page170" id="page170"></a>170</span> +ill-usage from Con Brickley or his wife?” He leaned +over the front of his pew, and waited for the answer +with his massive red head on one side.</p> + +<p>“I was givin’ blood like a c-cow that ye’d shtab +with a knife!” said Kate Keohane, with unshaken +dignity. “If it was yourself that was in it ye’d feel the +smart as well as me. My hand and word on it, ye would! +The marks is on me head still, like the prints of dog-bites!”</p> + +<p>She lifted a lock of hair from her forehead, and exhibited +a sufficiently repellent injury. Flurry Knox leaned +forward.</p> + +<p>“Are you sure you haven’t that since the time there +was that business between yourself and the post-mistress +at Munig? I’m told you had the name of the +post-office on your forehead where she struck you with +the office stamp! Try, now, sergeant, can you read +Munig on her forehead?”</p> + +<p>The Court, not excepting its line of church-wardens, +dissolved into laughter; Kate Keohane preserved an +offended silence.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you want us to believe,” resumed Mr. +Mooney, sarcastically, “that a fine, hearty woman like +you wasn’t defending yourself!” Then, with a turkey-cock +burst of fury, “On your oath, now! What did +you strike Honora Brickley with? Answer me that +now! What had you in your hand?”</p> + +<p>“I had nothing only the little rod I had after the ass,” +answered Miss Keohane, with a child-like candour. +“I done nothing to them; but as for Con Brickley, he +put his back to the cliff and he took the flannel wrop that +he had on him, and he threw it on the sthrand, and he +said he would have blood, murdher, or f-fish!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page171" id="page171"></a>171</span></p> + +<p>She folded her shawl across her breast, a picture of +virtue assailed, yet unassailed.</p> + +<p>“You may go down now,” said “Roaring Jack,” +rather hastily, “I want to have a few words with your +brother.”</p> + +<p>Miss Keohane retired, without having moulted a +feather of her dignity, and her brother Jer came heavily +up the steps and on to the platform, his hot, wary, blue +eyes gathering in the Bench and the attorneys in one +bold, comprehensive glance. He was a tall, dark man +of about five and forty, clean-shaved, save for two +clerical inches of black whiskers, and in feature of the +type of a London clergyman who would probably +preach on Browning.</p> + +<p>“Well, sir!” began Mr. Mooney, stimulatingly, +“and are you the biggest blackguard from here to +America?”</p> + +<p>“I am not,” said Jer Keohane, tranquilly.</p> + +<p>“We had you here before us not so very long ago +about kicking a goat, wasn’t it? You got a little touch +of a pound, I think?”</p> + +<p>This delicate allusion to a fine that the Bench had +thought fit to impose did not distress the witness.</p> + +<p>“I did, sir.”</p> + +<p>“And how’s our friend the goat?” went on Mr. +Mooney, with the furious facetiousness reserved for +hustling tough witnesses.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose she’s something west of the Skelligs +by now,” replied Jer Keohane with great composure.</p> + +<p>An appreciative grin ran round the Court. The fact +that the goat had died of the kick and been “given the +cliff” being regarded as an excellent jest.</p> + +<p>Mr. Mooney consulted his notes:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page172" id="page172"></a>172</span></p> + +<p>“Well, now, about this fight,” he said, pleasantly, +“did you see your sister catch Mrs. Brickley and pull +her hair down to the ground and drag her shawl off of +her?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the witness, airily, “they had a bit of a +scratch on account o’ the fish. Con Brickley had the +shteer o’ the boat in his hand, and says he, ‘is there +any man here that’ll take the shteer from me?’ The +man was dhrunk, of course,” added Jer charitably.</p> + +<p>“Did you have any talk with his wife about the +fish?”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t tell the words that she said to me!” +replied the witness, with a reverential glance at the +Bench, “and she over-right three crowds o’ men that +was on the sthrand.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Mooney put his hands in his pockets and surveyed +the witness.</p> + +<p>“You’re a very refined gentleman, upon my word! +Were you ever in England?”</p> + +<p>“I was, part of three years.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that accounts for it, I suppose!” said Mr. +Mooney, accepting this lucid statement without a +stagger, and passing lightly on. “You’re a widower, +I understand, with no objection to consoling yourself?”</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>“Now, sir! Can you deny that you made proposals +of marriage to Con Brickley’s daughter last Shraft?”</p> + +<p>The plot thickened. Con Brickley’s daughter was my +kitchen maid.</p> + +<p>Jer Keohane smiled tolerantly. “Ah! that was a +thing o’ nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Nothing!” said Mr. Mooney, with a roar of a +tornado. “Do you call an impudent proposal of marriage +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173" id="page173"></a>173</span> +to a respectable man’s daughter nothing! That’s +English manners, I suppose!”</p> + +<p>“I was goin’ home one Sunday,” said Jer Keohane, +conversationally, to the Bench, “and I met the gerr’l +and her mother. I spoke to the gerr’l in a friendly +way, and asked her why wasn’t she gettin’ marrid, and +she commenced to peg stones at me and dhrew several +blows of an umbrella on me. I had only three bottles +of porther taken. There now was the whole of it.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brickley, from the gallery, groaned heavily and +ironically.</p> + +<p>I found it difficult to connect these coquetries with my +impressions of my late kitchenmaid, a furtive and touzled +being, who, in conjunction with a pail and scrubbing +brush, had been wont to melt round corners and into +doorways at my approach.</p> + +<p>“Are we trying a breach of promise?” interpolated +Flurry; “if so, we ought to have the plaintiff in.”</p> + +<p>“My purpose, sir,” said Mr. Mooney, in a manner +discouraging to levity, “is to show that my clients have +received annoyance and contempt from this man and his +sister such as no parents would submit to.”</p> + +<p>A hand came forth from under the gallery and plucked +at Mr. Mooney’s coat. A red monkey face appeared +out of the darkness, and there was a hoarse whisper, +whose purport I could not gather. Con Brickley, +the defendant, was giving instructions to his lawyer.</p> + +<p>It was perhaps as a result of these that Jer Keohane’s +evidence closed here. There was a brief interval +enlivened by coughs, grinding of heavy boots on the +floor, and some mumbling and groaning under the +gallery.</p> + +<p>“There’s great duck-shooting out on a lake on this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174" id="page174"></a>174</span> +island,” commented Flurry to me, in a whisper. “My +grand-uncle went there one time with an old duck-gun +he had, that he fired with a fuse. He was three hours +stalking the ducks before he got the gun laid. He lit +the fuse then, and it set to work spluttering and hissing +like a goods-engine till there wasn’t a duck within ten +miles. The gun went off then.”</p> + +<p>This useful side-light on the matter in hand was interrupted +by the cumbrous ascent of the one-legged Con +Brickley to the witness-table. He sat down heavily, +with his slouch hat on his sound knee, and his wooden +stump stuck out before him. His large monkey face +was immovably serious; his eye was small, light grey, +and very quick.</p> + +<p>McCaffery, the opposition attorney, a thin, restless +youth, with ears like the handles of an urn, took him in +hand. To the pelting cross-examination that beset +him Con Brickley replied with sombre deliberation, +and with a manner of uninterested honesty, emphasising +what he said with slight, very effective gestures of his +big, supple hands. His voice was deep and pleasant; +it betrayed no hint of so trivial a thing as satisfaction +when, in the teeth of Mr. McCaffery’s leading questions, +he established the fact that the “little rod” with which +Miss Kate Keohane had beaten his wife was the handle +of a pitch-fork.</p> + +<p>“I was counting the fish the same time,” went on +Con Brickley, in his rolling basso profundissimo, “and +she said, ‘Let the divil clear me out of the sthrand, +for there’s no one else will put me out!’ says she.”</p> + +<p>“It was then she got the blow, I suppose!” said +McCaffery, venomously; “you had a stick yourself, +I daresay?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page175" id="page175"></a>175</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. I had a stick. I must have a stick,” (deep and +mellow pathos was hinted at in the voice), “I am sorry +to say. What could I do to her? A man with a wooden +leg on a sthrand could do nothing!”</p> + +<p>Something like a laugh ran at the back of the court. +Mr. McCaffery’s ears turned scarlet and became quite +decorative. On or off a strand Con Brickley was not +a person to be scored off easily.</p> + +<p>His clumsy, yet impressive, descent from the witness +stand followed almost immediately, and was not the least +telling feature of his evidence. Mr. Mooney surveyed +his exit with the admiration of one artist for another, +and, rising, asked the Bench’s permission to call Mrs. +Brickley.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brickley, as she mounted to the platform, in +the dark and nun-like severity of her long cloak, the +stately blue cloth cloak that is the privilege of the Munster +peasant woman, was an example of the rarely-blended +qualities of picturesqueness and respectability. As +she took her seat in the chair, she flung the deep hood +back on her shoulders, and met the gaze of the court +with her grey head erect; she was a witness to be proud +of.</p> + +<p>“Now, Mrs. Brickley,” said “Roaring Jack,” urbanely, +“will you describe this interview between your daughter +and Keohane.”</p> + +<p>“It was last Sunday in Shrove, your Worship, Mr. +Flurry Knox, and gentlemen,” began Mrs. Brickley +nimbly, “meself and me little gerr’l was comin’ from +mass, and Mr. Jer Keohane came up to us and got on +in a most unmannerable way. He asked me daughter +would she marry him. Me daughter told him she +would not, quite friendly like. I’ll tell you no lie, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page176" id="page176"></a>176</span> +gentlemen, she was teasing him with the umbrella the +same time; an’ he raised his shtick and dhrew a sthroke +on her in the back, an’ the little gerr’l took up a small +pebble of a stone and fired it at him. She put the +umbrella up to his mouth, but she called him no names. +But as for him, the names he put on her was to call her ‘a +nasty, long, slopeen of a proud thing, and a slopeen of +a proud tinker.’”</p> + +<p>“Very lover-like expressions!” commented Mr. +Mooney, doubtless stimulated by the lady-like titters +from the barmaids; “and had this romantic gentleman +made any previous proposals for your daughter?”</p> + +<p>“Himself had two friends over from across the water +one night to make the match, a Sathurday it was, and they +should land the lee side o’ the island, for the wind was +a fright,” replied Mrs. Brickley, launching her tale with +the power of easy narration that is bestowed with such +amazing liberality on her class. “The three o’ them +had dhrink taken, an’ I went to shlap out the door +agin them. Me husband said then we should let them +in, if it was a Turk itself, with the rain that was in it. +They were talking in it then till near the dawning, and +in the latther end all that was between them was the +boat’s share.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by ‘the boat’s share’?” said I.</p> + +<p>“’Tis the same as a man’s share, me worshipful +gintleman,” returned Mrs. Brickley, splendidly; “it +goes with the boat always, afther the crew and the +saine has their share got.”</p> + +<p>I possibly looked as enlightened as I felt by this +exposition.</p> + +<p>“You mean that Jer wouldn’t have her unless he got +the boat’s share with her?” suggested Flurry.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page177" id="page177"></a>177</span></p> + +<p>“He said it over-right all that was in the house, and +he reddening his pipe at the fire,” replied Mrs. Brickley, +in full-sailed response to the helm. “‘D’ye think,’ +says I to him, ‘that me daughter would leave a lovely +situation, with a kind and tendher masther, for a mean, +hungry blagyard like yerself,’ says I, ‘that’s livin’ +always in this backwards place!’ says I.”</p> + +<p>This touching expression of preference for myself, +as opposed to Mr. Keohane, was received with expressionless +respect by the Court. Flurry, with an impassive +countenance, kicked me heavily under cover of the +desk. I said that we had better get on to the assault +on the strand. Nothing could have been more to +Mrs. Brickley’s taste. We were minutely instructed +as to how Katie Keohane drew the shawleen forward +on Mrs. Brickley’s head to stifle her; and how Norrie +Keohane was fast in her hair. Of how Mrs. Brickley +had then given a stroke upwards between herself and +her face (whatever that might mean) and loosed Norrie +from her hair. Of how she then sat down and +commenced to cry from the use they had for her.</p> + +<p>“’Twas all I done,” she concluded, looking like a +sacred picture, “I gave her a stroke of a pollock on them.”</p> + +<p>“As for language,” replied Mrs. Brickley, with clear +eyes, a little uplifted in the direction of the ceiling, +“there was no name from heaven or hell but she had it +on me, and wishin’ the divil might burn the two heels +off me, and the like of me wasn’t in sivin parishes! +And that was the clane part of the discoorse, yer +Worships!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Brickley here drew her cloak more closely about +her, as though to enshroud herself in her own refinement, +and presented to the Bench a silence as elaborate as a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178" id="page178"></a>178</span> +drop scene. It implied, amongst other things, a generous +confidence in the imaginative powers of her audience.</p> + +<p>Whether or no this was misplaced, Mrs. Brickley +was not invited further to enlighten the Court. After +her departure the case droned on in inexhaustible +rancour, and trackless complications as to the shares +of the fish. Its ethics and its arithmetic would have +defied the allied intellects of Solomon and Bishop +Colenso. It was somewhere in that dead afternoon, +when it was too late for lunch and too early for tea, +that the Bench, wan with hunger, wound up the affair, +by impartially binding both parties in sheaves “to the +Peace.”</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft1b" id="ft1b" href="#fa1b"><span class="fn">1</span></a> A large net.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page179" id="page179"></a>179</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">“King William.”</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Aliens of the West.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Charlotte O’Conor Eccles.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Mrs. Macfarlane</span> was a tall, thin, and eminently +respectable woman of fifty, possessed of many rigid +virtues. She was a native of the north of Ireland, and +had come originally to Toomevara as maid to the +Dowager Lady Dunanway. On the death of her +mistress, whom she served faithfully for many years, +Lord Dunanway offered to set her up in business, and +at the time our story opens she had been for two years +proprietress of the buffet, and made a decent living by +it; for as Toomevara is situated on the Great Southern +and Western Railway, a fair amount of traffic passes +through it.</p> + +<p>The stationmaster, familiarly known as “Jim” +O’Brien, was Toomevara born, and had once been a +porter on that very line. He was an intelligent, easy-going, +yet quick-tempered man of pronounced Celtic +type, with a round, good-natured face, a humorous +mouth, shrewd, twinkling eyes, and immense volubility.</p> + +<p>Between him and Mrs. Macfarlane the deadliest +warfare raged. She was cold and superior, and implacably +in the right. She pointed out Jim’s deficiencies +whenever she saw them, and she saw them very often. +All day long she sat in her refreshment room, spectacles +on nose, her Bible open before her, knitting, and rising +only at the entrance of a customer. Jim had an uneasy +consciousness that nothing escaped her eye, and her +critical remarks had more than once been reported to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page180" id="page180"></a>180</span></p> + +<p>“The bitther ould pill!” he said to his wife. “Why, +the very look ov her ‘ud sour a crock o’ crame. She’s +as cross as a bag ov weasels.”</p> + +<p>Jim was a Catholic and a Nationalist. He belonged +to the “Laygue,” and spoke at public meetings as often +as his duties allowed. He objected to being referred to +by Mrs. Macfarlane as a “Papish” and a “Rebel.”</p> + +<p>“Papish, indeed!” said he. “Ribbil, indeed! Tell +the woman to keep a civil tongue in her head, or ‘twill +be worse for her.”</p> + +<p>“How did the likes ov her iver get a husban’?” he +would ask, distractedly, after a sparring match. “Troth, +an’ ’tis no wondher the poor man died.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane was full of fight and courage. Her +proudest boast was of being the granddaughter, daughter, +sister, and widow of Orangemen.</p> + +<p>She looked on herself in Toomevara as a child of +Israel among the Babylonians, and felt that it behoved +her to uphold the standard of her faith. To this end +she sang the praises of the Battle of the Boyne with a +triumph that aggravated O’Brien to madness.</p> + +<p>“God Almighty help the woman! Is it Irish at +all she is—or what? To see her makin’ merry because +a parcel o’ rascally Dutchmen——! Sure, doesn’t +she know ’twas Irish blood they spilt at the Boyne? +An’ to see her takin’ pride in it turns me sick, so it does. +If she was English, now, I could stand it, but she callin’ +herself an Irishwoman—faith, she has the bad dhrop +in her, so she has, to be glad at her counthry’s misforchins.”</p> + +<p>Jim’s rage was the greater because Mrs. Macfarlane, +whatever she said, said little or nothing to him. She +passed him by with lofty scorn and indifference affecting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>181</span> +not to see him; and while she did many things that +O’Brien found supremely annoying, they were things +strictly within her rights.</p> + +<p>Matters had not arrived at this pass all at once. The +feud dated from Mrs. Macfarlane’s having adopted a +little black dog—a mongrel—on which she lavished a +wealth of affection, and which, as the most endearing +title she knew, she named “King William.” This, +of course, was nobody’s concern save Mrs. Macfarlane’s +own, and in a world of philosophers she would have +been allowed to amuse herself unheeded, but Jim O’Brien +was not a philosopher.</p> + +<p>Unlike most Irishmen, he had a great love for flowers. +His garden was beautifully kept, and he was prouder +of his roses than of anything on earth save his eldest +daughter, Kitty, who was nearly sixteen. Picture, +then, his rage and dismay when he one day found his +beds scratched into holes and his roses uprooted by +“King William,” who had developed a mania for hiding +away bones under Jim’s flowers. O’Brien made loud +and angry complaints to the dog’s owner, which she +received with unconcern and disbelief.</p> + +<p>“Please, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, with dignity, “don’t +try to put it on the puir wee dog. Even if yu <i>du</i> dislike +his name, that’s no reason for saying he was in your +garden. He knows betther, so he does, than to go +where he’s not wanted.”</p> + +<p>After this it was open war between the stationmaster +and the widow.</p> + +<p>Under the windows of the refreshment room were +two narrow flower-beds. These Jim took care never +to touch, affecting to consider them the exclusive +property of Mrs. Macfarlane. They were long left +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>182</span> +uncultivated, an eyesore to the stationmaster; but one +day Kelly, the porter, came to him with an air of mystery, +to say that “th ould wan”—for by this term was +Mrs. Macfarlane generally indicated—“was settin’ +somethin’ in the beds beyant.”</p> + +<p>Jim came out of his office and walked up and down +the platform with an air of elaborate unconsciousness. +Sure enough, there was Mrs. Macfarlane gardening. +She had donned old gloves and a clean checked apron, +and, trowel in hand, was breaking up the caked earth, +preparatory, it would seem, to setting plants.</p> + +<p>“What the dickens is she doin’?” asked Jim, when +he got back.</p> + +<p>“Not a wan ov me knows,” said Kelly. “She’s +been grubbin’ there since nine o’clock.”</p> + +<p>From this time Mrs. Macfarlane was assiduous in +the care of her two flower-beds. Every day she might +be seen weeding or watering, and though Jim steadily +averted his gaze, he was devoured by curiosity as to +the probable results. What on earth did she want to +grow? The weeks passed. Tiny green seedlings at +last pushed their way through the soil, and in due course +the nature of the plants became evident. Jim was highly +excited, and rushed home to tell his wife.</p> + +<p>“Be the hokey, Mary,” he said, “’tis lilies she has +there, an may I never sin, but it’s my belief they’re +orange lilies, an’ if they are, I’ll root ev’ry wan ov thim +out, if I die for it.”</p> + +<p>“Be quiet, now,” said Mary. “How d’ye know +they’re lilies at all? For the love o’ God keep her tongue +off ov ye, an’ don’t be puttin’ yersel’ in her way.”</p> + +<p>“Whist, woman, d’ye think I’m a fool? ’Tis lilies +th’ are annyways, an’ time’ll tell if they’re orange or not, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>183</span> +but faith, if th’are, I won’t shtand it.’ I’ll complain +to the Boord.”</p> + +<p>“Sure the Boord’ll be on her side, man. Don’t yeh +know the backin’ she has? They’ll say ‘Why shouldn’t +she have orange lilies if she likes?’”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Mary, ’tis too sinsible y’are inthirely. Have +ye no sperrit, woman alive, to let her ride rough-shod +over uz this way? ‘Make a mouse o’ yerself an’ the +cat’ll ate ye,’ ‘s a thrue saying. Sure, Saint Pether +himself cuddn’t shtand it, an’ be the piper that played +before Moses, I won’t!”</p> + +<p>“Ye misfortunit man, don’t be dhrawin’ down ructions +on yer head. Haven’t yeh childer to think about? +An’ don’t be throublin’ yerself over what she does. +’Tis plazin’ her y’are whin she sees y’re mad. Take +no notice, man, an’ p’raps she’ll shtop.”</p> + +<p>“The divil fly away wid her for a bitther ould sarpint. +The vinom’s in her, sure enough. Why should I put +up wid her, I’d like to know?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, keep yer tongue between yer teeth, Jim. ’Tis +too onprudent y’are. Not a worrd ye dhrop but is +brought back to her be some wan. Have sinse, man. +You’ll go sayin’ that to Joe Kelly, an’ he’ll have it over +the town in no time, an’ some wan’ll carry it to her.”</p> + +<p>“An’ do ye think I care a thrawneen<a name="fa1c" id="fa1c" href="#ft1c"><span class="sp">1</span></a> for the likes ov +her? Faith, not a pin. If you got yer way, Mary, +ye’d have me like the man that was hanged for sayin’ +nothin’. Sure, I never did a hand’s turn agin her, +an’ ’tis a low, mane thrick ov her to go settin’ +orange lilies over foreninst me, an’ she knowin’ me +opinions.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>184</span></p> + +<p>“Faith, I’ll not say it wasn’t, Jim, if they <i>are</i> orange +lilies; but sure, ye don’t know rightly yet what th’are, +an’ in God’s name keep quite till you do.”</p> + +<p>The days went by. The lilies grew taller and taller. +They budded, they bloomed, and, sure enough, Jim +had been in the right—orange lilies they proved to be.</p> + +<p>“They’ll mek a fine show for the twelfth of July, +I’m thinkin’,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, complacently, as +she walked by her beds, swinging a dripping watering-pot.</p> + +<p>At the time of the blossoming of the orange lilies, +James O’Brien was not at home, having had to go some +twenty miles down the line on official business. The +obnoxious flowers took advantage of his absence to make +a gay show. When he returned, as luck would have it +Mrs. Macfarlane was away, and had shut up the refreshment +room, but had not locked it. No one locks doors +in Toomevara unless their absence is to be lengthy. +She had left “King William” behind, and told Joe +Kelly to take care of the dog, in case he should be lonely, +for she had been invited to the wedding of an old fellow +servant, the late butler at Lord Dunanway’s, who was +to be married that day to the steward’s daughter.</p> + +<p>All this Joe Kelly told the stationmaster on his return, +but he did not say a word about the orange lilies, being +afraid of an explosion, and, as he said, “detarmined not +to meddle or make, but just to let him find it out himself.”</p> + +<p>For quite a time Jim was occupied over way-bills in +his little office; but at last his attention was distracted +by the long continued howling and yelping of a dog.</p> + +<p>“Let the baste out, can’t ye?” he at length said to +Kelly. “I can’t stand listening to um anny longer.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>185</span></p> + +<p>“I was afeared ’twas run over he might be, agin’ +she came back,” said Kelly, “‘an so I shut um up.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, there’s no danger. There won’t be a thrain in +for the next two hours, an’ if he was run over itself, God +knows he’d be no loss. ’Tisn’t meself ‘ud grieve for +um, th’ ill-favoured cur.”</p> + +<p>“King William” was accordingly released.</p> + +<p>When O’Brien had finished his task, he stood for a +time at the office door, his hands crossed behind him, +supporting his coat tails, his eyes fixed abstractedly +on the sky. Presently he started for his usual walk up +and down the platform, when his eye was at once caught +by the flare of the stately rows of orange lilies.</p> + +<p>“Be the Holy Poker!” he exclaimed. “But I was +right. ’Tis orange th’ are, sure enough. What’ll +Mary say now? Faith, ’tis lies they do be tellin’ +whin they say there’s no riptiles in Ireland. That ould +woman bangs Banagher, an’ Banagher bangs the divil.”</p> + +<p>He stopped in front of the obnoxious flowers.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it the murthering pity there’s nothing I can +plant to spite her. She has the pull over me entirely. +Shamerogues makes no show at all—ye’d pass them +unbeknownst—while orange lilies yeh can see a mile off. +Now, who but herself ‘ud be up to the likes o’ this?”</p> + +<p>At the moment he became aware of an extraordinary +commotion among the lilies, and, looking closer, perceived +“King William” in their midst, scratching as +if for bare life, scattering mould, leaves, and bulbs to +the four winds, and with every stroke of his hind legs +dealing destruction to the carefully-tended flowers.</p> + +<p>The sight filled Jim with sudden gladness.</p> + +<p>“More power to the dog!” he cried, with irrepressible +glee. “More power to um! Sure, he has more sinse +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>186</span> +than his missus. ‘King William,’ indeed, an’ he rootin’ +up orange lilies! Ho, ho! Tare an’ ouns! but ’tis +the biggest joke that iver I hard in me life. More power +to ye! Good dog!”</p> + +<p>Rubbing his hands in an ecstasy of delight, he watched +“King William” at his work of devastation, and, +regretfully be it confessed, when the dog paused, +animated him to fresh efforts by thrilling cries of “Rats!”</p> + +<p>“King William” sprang wildly hither and thither, +running from end to end of the beds, snapping the +brittle lily stems, scattering the blossoms.</p> + +<p>“Be gum, but it’s great! Look at um now. Cruel +wars to the Queen o’ Spain if iver I seen such shport! +Go it, ‘King William!’ Smash thim, me boy! Good +dog! Out wid them!” roared Jim, tears of mirth +streaming down his cheeks. “Faith, ’tis mad she’ll +be. I’d give sixpence to see her face. O Lord! O +Lord! sure, it’s the biggest joke that iver was.”</p> + +<p>At last “King William” tired of the game, but only +when every lily lay low, and Mrs. Macfarlane’s carefully +tended flower beds were a chaos of broken stalks and +trampled blossoms.</p> + +<p>As O’Brien, in high good humour, having communicated +the side-splitting joke to Mary and Finnerty, +was busy over his account books, Kelly came in.</p> + +<p>“She’s back,” he whispered, “an she’s neither to hold +nor to bind. I was watchin’ out, an’ sure, ’twas shtruck +all of a hape she was whin she seen thim lilies; an’ now +I’ll take me oath she’s goin’ to come here, for, begob, +she looks as cross as nine highways.”</p> + +<p>“Letter come,” chuckled O’Brien; “I’m ready +forrer.”</p> + +<p>At this moment the office door was burst open with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>187</span> +violence, and Mrs. Macfarlane, in her best Sunday +costume, bonnet, black gloves, and umbrella included, +her face very pale save the cheek bones, where two +bright pink spots burned, entered the room.</p> + +<p>“Misther O’Brien,” she said in a high, stilted voice +that trembled with rage, “will yu please to inform me +the meanin’ o’ this dasthardly outrage?”</p> + +<p>“Arrah, what outrage are ye talkin’ ov ma’am?” +asked O’Brien, innocently. “Sure, be the looks ov ye +I think somethin’ has upset ye entirely. Faith, ye’re +lookin’ as angry as if you were vexed, as the sayin’ is.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, to be sure. A great wonder, indeed, that I +should be vexed. ‘Crabbit was that cause had!’” +interrupted Mrs Macfarlane with a sneer. “You’re +not decavin’ me, sir. I’m not takin in by yur pretinces, +but if there’s law in the land, or justice, I’ll have it of +yu.”</p> + +<p>“Would ye mind, ma’am,” said O’Brien, imperturbably, +for his superabounding delight made him +feel quite calm and superior to the angry woman—“would +ye mind statin’ in plain English what y’re +talkin’ about for not a wan ov me knows?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yu son of Judas! Oh, yu deceivin’ wretch! +As if it wasn’t yu that is afther desthroyin’ my flower-beds!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, thin, it is y’r ould flower-beds y’re makin’ all +this row about? Y’r dirty orange lilies’. Sure, ’tis +clared out o’ the place they ought t’ve been long ago for +weeds. ’Tis mesel’ that’s glad they’re gone, an’ so I +tell ye plump an’ plain; bud as for me desthroyin’ +them, sorra finger iver I laid on thim; I wouldn’t +demane mesel’.”</p> + +<p>“An’ if yu please, Misther O’Brien,” said Mrs. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>188</span> +Macfarlane with ferocious politeness, “will yu kindly +mintion, if yu did not do the job, who did?”</p> + +<p>“Faith, that’s where the joke comes in,” said O’Brien, +pleasantly. “’Twas the very same baste that ruinated +me roses, bad cess to him, y’r precious pet, ‘King +William’!”</p> + +<p>“Oh! is it lavin’ it on the dog y’are, yu traitorous +Jesuit! The puir wee dog that never harmed yu? +Sure, ’tis only a Papist would think of a mane thrick +like that to shift the blame.”</p> + +<p>The colour rose to O’Brien’s face.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Macfarlane, ma’am,” he said, with laboured +civility, “wid yer permission we’ll lave me religion out +o’ this. Maybe, if ye say much more, I might be losin’ +me timper wid ye.”</p> + +<p>“Much I mind what yu lose,” cried Mrs. Macfarlane. +“It’s thransported the likes o’ yu should be for a set o’ +robbin’, murderin’, desthroyin’, thraytors.”</p> + +<p>“Have a care, ma’am, how yer spake to yer betthers. +Robbin’, deceivin’, murdherin’, desthroyin’, thraytors, +indeed! I like that! What brought over the lot ov +yez, Williamites an’ Cromwaylians an’ English an’ +Scotch, but to rob, an’ desave, an’ desthroy, an’ murdher +uz, an’ stale our land, an’ bid uz go to hell or to +Connaught, an’ grow fat on what was ours before iver +yez came, an’ thin jibe uz for bein’ poor? Thraytors! +Thraytor yerself, for that’s what the lot ov yez is. Who +wants yez here at all?”</p> + +<p>Exasperated beyond endurance, Mrs. Macfarlane +struck at the stationmaster with her neat black umbrella, +and had given him a nasty cut across the brow, when +Kelly interfered, as well as Finnerty and Mrs. O’Brien, +who rushed in, attracted by the noise. Between them +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>189</span> +O’Brien was held back under a shower of blows, and the +angry woman hustled outside, whence she retreated +to her own quarters, muttering threats all the way.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Jim, avourneen! ’tis bleedin’ y’are,” shrieked +poor anxious Mary, wildly. “Oh, wirra, why did ye +dhraw her on ye? Sure, I tould ye how ‘twould be. +As sure as God made little apples she’ll process ye, an’ +she has the quality on her side.”</p> + +<p>“Letter,” said Jim; “much good she’ll get by it. +Is it makin’ a liar ov me she’d be whin I tould her I +didn’t touch her ould lilies? Sure, I’ll process her +back for assaultin’ an’ battherin me. Ye all saw her, +an’ me not touchin’ her, the calliagh!”<a name="fa2c" id="fa2c" href="#ft2c"><span class="sp">2</span></a></p> + +<p>“Begorra, ’tis thrue for him,” said Kelly. “She +flagellated him wid her umbrelly, an’ sorra blow missed +bud the wan that didn’t hit, and on’y I was here, an’ +lit on her suddent, like a bee on a posy, she’d have had +his life, so she would.”</p> + +<p>Not for an instant did Mrs. Macfarlane forget her +cause of offence, or believe O’Brien’s story that it was +the dog that had destroyed her orange lilies. After +some consideration she hit on an ingenious device +that satisfied her as being at once supremely annoying +to her enemy and well within the law. Her lilies, +emblems of the religious and political faith that were +in her, were gone; but she still had means to testify +to her beliefs, and protest against O’Brien and all that +he represented to her mind.</p> + +<p>Next day, when the midday train had just steamed into +the station, Jim was startled by hearing a wild cheer—</p> + +<p>“Hi, ‘King William’! Hi, ‘King William’! Come +back, ‘King William’! ‘King William,’ my darlin’, +‘King William’!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>190</span></p> + +<p>The air rang with the shrill party cry, and when Jim +rushed out he found that Mrs. Macfarlane had allowed +her dog to run down the platform just as the passengers +were alighting, and was now following him, under the +pretence of calling him back. There was nothing to +be done. The dog’s name certainly was “King +William,” and Mrs. Macfarlane was at liberty to recall +him if he strayed.</p> + +<p>Jim stood for a moment like one transfixed.</p> + +<p>“Faith, I b’leeve ’tis the divil’s grandmother she +is,” he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane passed him with a deliberately +unseeing eye. Had he been the gate-post, she could not +have taken less notice of his presence, as, having made her +way to the extreme end of the platform, cheering her +“King William,” she picked up her dog, and marched +back in triumph.</p> + +<p>Speedily did it become evident that Mrs. Macfarlane +was pursuing a regular plan of campaign, for at the arrival +of every train that entered the station that day, she went +through the same performance of letting loose the dog +and then pursuing him down the platform, waving her +arms and yelling for “King William.”</p> + +<p>By the second challenge Jim had risen to the situation +and formed his counterplot. He saw and heard her in +stony silence, apparently as indifferent to her tactics +as she to his presence, but he was only biding his time. +No sooner did passengers alight and enter the refreshment +room, than, having just given them time to be +seated, he rushed up, threw open the door of his enemy’s +headquarters, and, putting in his cried, cried:—</p> + +<p>“Take yer places, gintlemin immaydiately. The +thrain’s just off. Hurry up, will yez? She’s away!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>191</span></p> + +<p>The hungry and discomfited passengers hurried out, +pell mell, and Mrs. Macfarlane was left speechless with +indignation.</p> + +<p>“I bet I’ve got the whip hand ov her this time,” +chuckled Jim, as he gave the signal to start.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane’s spirit, however, was not broken. +From morning until night, whether the day was wet or +fine, she greeted the arrival of each train with loud cries +for “King William,” and on each occasion Jim retorted +by bundling out all her customers before they could +touch bite or sup.</p> + +<p>The feud continued.</p> + +<p>Each day Mrs. Macfarlane, gaunter, fiercer, paler, +and more resolute in ignoring the stationmaster’s presence, +flaunted her principles up and down the platform. Each +day did Jim hurry the departure of the trains and sweep +off her customers. Never before had there been such +punctuality known at Toomevara, which is situated on +an easy-going line, where usually the guard, when +indignant tourists point out that the express is some +twenty minutes’ late, is accustomed to reply,</p> + +<p>“Why, so she is. ’Tis thrue for ye.”</p> + +<p>One day, however, Mrs. Macfarlane did not appear. +She had come out for the first train, walking a trifle +feebly, and uttering her war cry in a somewhat quavering +voice. When the next came, no Mrs. Macfarlane +greeted it.</p> + +<p>Jim himself was perplexed, and a little aggrieved. +He had grown used to the daily strife, and missed the +excitement of retorting on his foe.</p> + +<p>“Maybe ’tis tired of it she is,” he speculated. “Time +forrer. She knows now she won’t have things all her +own way. She’s too domineerin’ by half.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>192</span></p> + +<p>“What’s wrong with the ould wan, sir?” asked +Joe Kelly, when he met O’Brien. “She didn’t shtir +out whin she hard the thrain.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, I dunno,” said Jim. “Hatchin’ more disturbance, +I’ll bet. Faith, she’s like Conaty’s goose, +nivir well but whin she’s doin’ mischief. Joe,” he said, +“maybe y’ought to look in an’ see if anythin’ is wrong wid +th’ ould wan.”</p> + +<p>A moment more, and Jim heard him shouting, +“Misther O’Brien, Misther O’Brien!” He ran at +the sound. There, a tumbled heap, lay Mrs. Macfarlane, +no longer a defiant virago, but a weak, sickly, elderly +woman, partly supported on Joe Kelly’s knee, her face +ghastly pale, her arms hanging limp.</p> + +<p>“Be me sowl, but I think she’s dyin’,” cried Kelly. +“She just raised her head whin she saw me, an’ wint +off in a faint.”</p> + +<p>“Lay her flat, Joe; lay her flat.”</p> + +<p>“Lave her to me,” he said, “an’ do you run an’ +tell the missus to come here at wanst. Maybe she’ll +know what to do.”</p> + +<p>Mary came in to find her husband gazing in a bewildered +fashion at his prostrate enemy, and took +command in a way that excited his admiration.</p> + +<p>“Here,” said she, “give uz a hand to move her on +to the seat. Jim, run home an’ get Biddy to fill two or +three jars wid boilin’ wather, an’ bring thim along wid +a blanket. She’s as cowld as death. Joe, fly off wid yeh +for the docther.”</p> + +<p>“What docther will I go for, ma’am?”</p> + +<p>“The first ye can git,” said Mary, promptly beginning +to chafe the inanimate woman’s hands and loosen her +clothes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>193</span></p> + +<p>When the doctor came he found Mrs. Macfarlane laid +on an impromptu couch composed of two of the +cushioned benches placed side by side. She was +wrapped in blankets, had hot bottles to her feet and +sides, and a mustard plaster over her heart.</p> + +<p>“Bravo! Mrs. O’Brien,” he said, “I couldn’t have +done better myself. I believe you have saved her life +by being so quick—at least, saved it for the moment, +for I think she is in for a severe illness. She will want +careful nursing to pull her through.”</p> + +<p>“She looks rale bad,” assented Mary.</p> + +<p>“What are we to do with her?” said the doctor. +“Is there no place where they would take her in?”</p> + +<p>Mary glanced at Jim, but he did not speak.</p> + +<p>“Sure, there’s a room in our house,” she ventured, +after an awkward pause.</p> + +<p>“The very thing,” said the doctor, “if you don’t +mind the trouble, and if Mr. O’Brien does not object.”</p> + +<p>Jim made no answer, but walked out.</p> + +<p>“He doesn’t, docther,” cried Mary. “Sure, he has +the rale good heart. I’ll run off now, an’ get the bed +ready.”</p> + +<p>As they passed Jim, who stood sulkily at the door, she +contrived to squeeze his hand. “God bless yeh, me +own Jim. You’ll be none the worse forrit. ’Tis no time +for bearin’ malice, an’ our Blessed Lady’ll pray for yeh +this day.”</p> + +<p>Jim was silent.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a cruel shame she should fall on uz,” he said, +when his wife had disappeared; but he offered no +further resistance.</p> + +<p>Borne on an impromptu stretcher by Jim, Joe, +Finnerty, and doctor, Mrs. Macfarlane was carried to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>194</span> +the stationmaster’s house, undressed by Mary, and +put to bed in the spotlessly clean, whitewashed upper +room.</p> + +<p>The cold and shivering had now passed off, and she +was burning. Nervous fever, the doctor anticipated. +She raved about her dog, about Jim, about the passengers, +her rent, and fifty other things that made it evident her +circumstances had preyed upon her mind.</p> + +<p>Poor Mary was afraid of her at times; but there are +no trained nurses at Toomevara, and, guided by Doctor +Doherty’s directions, she tried to do her best, and +managed wonderfully well.</p> + +<p>There could be no doubt Jim did not like having the +invalid in the house. But this did not prevent him from +feeling very miserable. He became desperately anxious +that Mrs. Macfarlane should not die, and astonished +Mary by bringing home various jellies and meat extracts, +that he fancied might be good for the patient; but he +did this with a shy and hang-dog air by no means +natural to him, and always made some ungracious speech +as to the trouble, to prevent Mary thinking he was sorry +for the part he had played. He replied with a downcast +expression to all enquiries from outsiders as to +Mrs. Macfarlane’s health, but he brought her dog into +the house and fed it well.</p> + +<p>“Not for her sake, God knows,” he explained; “but +bekase the poor baste was frettin’ an’ I cudn’t see him +there wid no wan to look to him.”</p> + +<p>He refused, however, to style the animal “King +William,” and called it “Billy” instead, a name which +it soon learned to answer.</p> + +<p>One evening, when the whitewashed room was all +aglow with crimson light that flooded through the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>195</span> +western window, Mrs. Macfarlane returned to consciousness. +Mary was sitting by the bedside, sewing, having +sent out the children in charge of Kitty to secure quiet +in the house. For a long time, unobserved by her +nurse, the sick woman lay feebly trying to understand. +Suddenly she spoke—</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?”</p> + +<p>Mary jumped.</p> + +<p>“To be sure,” she said, laying down her needlework, +“’tis very bad you were intirely, ma’am; but, thanks +be to God, you’re betther now.”</p> + +<p>“Where am I?” asked Mrs. Macfarlane, after a +considerable pause.</p> + +<p>“In the station house, ma’am. Sure, don’t ye know +me? I’m Mary O’Brien.”</p> + +<p>“Mary O’Brien—O’Brien?”</p> + +<p>“Yis, faith! Jim O’Brien’s wife.”</p> + +<p>“An’ this is Jim O’Brien’s house?”</p> + +<p>“Whose else id it be? But there now, don’t talk +anny more. Sure, we’ll tell, ye all about it whin y’re +betther. The docthor sez y’re to be kep’ quiet.”</p> + +<p>“But who brought me here?”</p> + +<p>“Troth, ’twas carried in ye were, an’ you near dyin’. +Hush up now, will ye? Take a dhrop o’ this, an’ +thry to go to shleep.”</p> + +<p>When Jim came into his supper his wife said to him, +“That craythure upstairs is mad to get away. She +thinks we begrudge her the bit she ates.”</p> + +<p>Jim was silent. Then he said, “Sure, annythin’ +that’s bad she’ll b’leeve ov uz.”</p> + +<p>“But ye’ve nivir been up to see her. Shlip into the +room now, an’ ax her how she’s goin’ on. Let bygones +be bygones, in the name of God.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>196</span></p> + +<p>“I won’t,” said Jim.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, ye will. Sure, afther all, though ye didn’t +mane it, ye’re the cause ov it. Go to her now.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t like.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, go. ’Tis yer place, an’ you sinsibler than she +is. Go an’ tell her to shtay till she’s well. Faith, I +think that undher all that way of hers she’s softher than +she looks. I tell ye, Jim, I seen her cryin’ over the dog, +bekase she thought ’twas th’ only thing that loved her.”</p> + +<p>Half pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the +steep stair, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Macfarlane’s +attic.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” said a feeble voice, and he stumbled into +the room.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Macfarlane saw who it was, a flame lit in +her hollow eyes.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” she said, with grim politeness, “that +yu find me here, Misther O’Brien; but it isn’t my +fault. I wanted tu go a while ago, an’ your wife wouldn’t +let me.”</p> + +<p>“An’ very right she was; you’re not fit for it. Sure, +don’t be talkin’ ov goin’ till ye’re better, ma’am,” said +Jim, awkwardly. “Y’re heartily welcome for me. +I come up to say—to say, I hope y’ll be in no hurry to +move.”</p> + +<p>“Yu’re very good, but it’s not to be expected I’d +find myself easy under this roof, where, I can assure yu, +I’d never have come of my own free will; an’ I apologise +to yu, Misther O’Brien, for givin’ so much trouble—not +that I could help myself.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, ’tis I that should apologise,” blurted out +Jim; “an’ rale sorry I am—though, maybe, ye won’t +b’lieve me—that I ever dhruv the customers out.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>197</span></p> + +<p>For a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak.</p> + +<p>“I could forgive that easier than your rootin’ up my +lilies,” she said, in a strained voice.</p> + +<p>“But that I never did. God knows an’ sees me this +night, an’ He knows that I never laid a finger on thim. +I kem out, an’ foun’ the dog there scrattin’ at thim, an’ +if this was me last dyin’ worrd, ’tis thrue.”</p> + +<p>“An’ ’twas really the wee dog?”</p> + +<p>“It was, though I done wrong in laughin’ at him, +an’ cheerin’ him on; but, sure, ye wouldn’t mind me +whin I told ye he was at me roses, an’ I thought it sarved +ye right, an’ that ye called him ‘King William’ to spite +me.”</p> + +<p>“So I did,” said Mrs. Macfarlane, and, she added, +more gently, “I’m sorry now.”</p> + +<p>“Are ye so?” said Jim, brightening. “Faith, I’m +glad to hear ye say it. We was both in the wrong, ye +see, an’ if you bear no malice, I don’t.”</p> + +<p>“Yu have been very good to me, seein’ how I misjudged +you,” said Mrs. Macfarlane.</p> + +<p>“Not a bit ov it; an’ ’twas the wife anyhow, for, +begorra, I was hardened against ye, so I was.”</p> + +<p>“An’ yu’ve spent yer money on me, an’ I——”</p> + +<p>“Sure, don’t say a worrd about id. I owed it to you, +so I did, but, begorra, ye won’t have to complain ov +wantin’ custom wanst yer well.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane smiled wanly.</p> + +<p>“No chance o’ that, I’m afraid. What with my +illness an’ all that went before it, business is gone. +Look at the place shut up this three weeks an’ more.”</p> + +<p>“Not it,” said Jim. “Sure, sence y’ve been sick +I put our little Kitty, the shlip, in charge of the place, +an’ she’s made a power o’ money for ye, an’ she on’y +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>198</span> +risin’ sixteen, an’ havin’ to help her mother an’ all. +She’s a clever girl, so she is, though I sez it, an’ she +ruz the prices all round. She couldn’t manage with +the cakes, not knowin’ how to bake thim like yerself; +but sure I bought her plenty ov biscuits at Connolly’s; +and her mother cut her sandwidges, an’ made tay, an’ +the dhrinks was all there as you left them, an’ Kitty +kep’ count ov all she sould.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane looked at him for a moment queerly +then she drew the sheet over her face, and began to +sob.</p> + +<p>Jim, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, crept downstairs.</p> + +<p>“Go to the craythure, Mary,” he said. “Sure, she’s +cryin’. We’ve made it up—an’ see here, let her want +for nothin’.”</p> + +<p>Mary ran upstairs, took grim Mrs. Macfarlane in her +arms, and actually kissed her; and Mrs. Macfarlane’s +grimness melted away, and the two women cried together +for sympathy.</p> + +<p class="ptb1 center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">*******</p> + +<p>Now, as the trains come into Toomevara station, Jim +goes from carriage to carriage making himself a perfect +nuisance to passengers with well-filled luncheon baskets. +“Won’t ye have a cup o’ tay, me lady? There’s plinty +ov time, an’ sure, we’ve the finest tay here that you’ll +get on the line. There’s nothin’ like it this side o’ +Dublin; A glass o’ whiskey, sir? ’Tis on’y the best +John Jameson that’s kep’, or sherry wine? Ye won’t +be shtoppin’ agin annywheres that you’ll like it as well. +Sure, if ye don’t want to get out—though there’s plinty +o’ time—I’ll give the ordher an’ have it sent over to yez. +Cakes, ma’am, for the little ladies? ’Tis a long journey, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>199</span> +an’ maybe they’ll be hungry—an apples? Apples is +mighty good for childher. She keeps fine apples if +ye like thim.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Macfarlane has grown quite fat, is at peace with +all mankind, takes the deepest interest in the O’Brien +family, and calls her dog “Billy.”</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft1c" id="ft1c" href="#fa1c"><span class="fn">1</span></a> A blade of grass.</p> + +<p><a name="ft2c" id="ft2c" href="#fa2c"><span class="fn">2</span></a> Hag</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>200</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Quin’s Rick.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Doings and Dealings.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Jane Barlow.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Clear</span> skies and gentle breezes had so favoured Hugh +Lennon’s harvesting that his threshing was all safely +done by the first week in October, and as the fine weather +still continued, he took his wife, according to promise, +for a ten days’ stay at the seaside. Mrs. Hugh was +rather young and rather pretty, and much more than +rather short-tempered. The neighbours often remarked +that they would not be in Hugh Lennon’s coat for a +great deal—at times specifying very considerable sums.</p> + +<p>From her visit to Warrenpoint, however, she returned +home in high good humour, and ran gaily upstairs to +remove her flowery hat, announcing that she would do +some fried eggs, Hugh’s favourite dish, for their tea. +Hence, he was all the more disconcerted when, as he +followed her along the little passage, she suddenly +wheeled round upon him, and confronted him with a +countenance full of wrath. She had merely been looking +for a moment out of the small end window, and why, +in the name of fortune, marvelled Hugh, should that +have put her in one of her tantrums? But it evidently +had done so. “Saw you ever the like of that?” she +demanded furiously, pointing through the window.</p> + +<p>“The like of what at all?” said Hugh.</p> + +<p>“Look at it,” said Mrs. Hugh, and drummed with the +point of her umbrella on a pane.</p> + +<p>Hugh looked, and saw, conspicuous at a short +distance beyond their backyard, a portly rick of straw, +which their neighbour, Peter Quin, had nearly finished +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>201</span> +building. A youth was tumbling himself about on +top of it with much agility, and shouting “Pull!” at +each floundering fall. “Sure,” said Hugh, “it’s +nothing, only young Jim Quin leppin’ their rick.”</p> + +<p>“I wisht he’d break every bone in his ugly body, +then, while he’s at it,” declared Mrs. Hugh.</p> + +<p>“It’s a quare wish to be wishin’ agin the poor, decent +lad,” said her husband, “and he lepping plenty of ricks +for ourselves before now.”</p> + +<p>“And what call have they to be cocking up e’er a +one there,” said Mrs. Hugh, “where there was never +such a thing seen till this day?”</p> + +<p>“Why wouldn’t they?” said Hugh. “It’s a handy +place enough for a one, I should say, there on the bit +of a headland.”</p> + +<p>“How handy it is!” said his wife, “and it shutting +out the gap in the fence on me that was the only glimpse +I had into our lane.”</p> + +<p>“Well, supposing it does, where’s the odds?” said +Hugh. “There’s ne’er a much in the lane for anybody +to be glimpsing at.”</p> + +<p>“The greatest convenience in the world it was,” +declared Mrs. Hugh, “to be able to see you crossing +it of a morning, and you coming in from the lower +field, the way I could put the bit of bacon down ready +for the breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“Musha, good gracious, woman alive, if that’s all’s +ailing you, where’s the need to be so exact?” said +Hugh.</p> + +<p>“Exact, is it?” said Mrs. Hugh. “Maybe you’d +like to have the whole of it melted away into grease +with being set on the fire half an hour too soon. Or +else you to be standing about open-mouthed under me +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>202</span> +feet, like a starving terrier, waiting till it’s fit to eat. +That’s how it’ll be, anyway, like it or lump it. And +I used to be watching for old Matty Flanaghan going +by with the post-bag, and the Keoghs coming back +from early Mass—’twas as good as an extra clock for +telling the time. But now, with that big lump of a +thing stuck there, I might as well be shut up inside of +any old prison. Them Quins done it a-purpose to annoy +me, so they did. Sorra another raison had they, for +what else ‘ud make them take and build it behind our +backs? But put up with it is what I won’t do. Stepping +over to them I’ll be this night, and letting them know how +little I think of themselves and their mean tricks. And +if I see old Peter, I’ll tell him you’ll have the law of +him unless he gets it cleared away out of that to-morrow. +Bedad will I; and yourself ‘ud say the same, if you had +as much spirit in you as a moulting chicken.”</p> + +<p>“Have sense, Julia,” Hugh remonstrated, wedging +in a protest with difficulty. “Stop where you are, +now, quiet and peaceable. It’s only making a show +of yourself you’d be, running out that way raging about +nothing What foolish talk have you about the man +moving his rick, that he’s just after building? You +might as well be bidding him move Knockrinkin over +yonder; and he more betoken with his haggart bursting +full this minyit. What annoyance is there in the +matter, Julia woman? Sure in any case it won’t be +any great while standing there, you may depend, and +they bedding cattle with it, let alone very belike sending +in cartloads of it every week to the market. Just content +yourself and be aisy.”</p> + +<p>But, as he had more than half expected, Hugh spoke +to no purpose. His wife would not be said by him, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>203</span> +and his expostulations, in fact, merely hastened her +impetuous departure on her visit to the Quins. She +returned even more exasperated than she had set out, +and from her report of the interview Hugh gathered +that she had stormed with much violence, giving everybody +“the height of abuse.” He was fain to console +himself with the rather mortifying reflection that “the +Quins knew well enough she did be apt to take up with +quare nonsensical fantigues, that nobody minded.”</p> + +<p>A hope that the morrow might find her more reasonable +proved entirely vain, as many additional grievances, +resented with increasing bitterness, had been evolved +during the night. When Hugh went out to his work, +he left her asserting, and believing, that the noise of the +wind whistling round the rick hadn’t let her get a wink +of sleep, and when he came in again he found her on +the point of setting off to the police barracks that she +might charge the Quins with having “littered her yard +all over with wisps of straw blown off their hijjis old +rick, till the unfortunate hens couldn’t see the ground +under their feet.” This outrage, it appeared, had been +aggravated by Micky Quinn, who remarked tauntingly, +that “she had a right to feel herself obligated to them +for doing her a fine piece of thatching”; and an interchange +of similar rejoinders had taken place. On the +present occasion Hugh was indeed able forcibly to stop +her wild expedition by locking both the house doors. +But as he knew that these strong measures could not be +more than a temporary expedient, and as arguments +were very bootless, he was at a loss to determine what +he should do next. She had begun to drop such +menacing hints about lighted matches and rags soaked +in paraffin, that he felt loth to leave her at large within +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>204</span> +reach of those dangerous materials. Already it had come +to his knowledge that rumours were afloat in the village +about how Mrs. Lennon was threatening to burn down the +Quin’s rick. The truth was that she had said as much +to several calling neighbours in the course of that day.</p> + +<p>Hugh’s perplexity was therefore not a little relieved +when, early on the following morning, his wife’s eldest +married sister, Mrs. Mackay, from beyond Kilcraig, +looked in on her way to market. Mrs. Mackay, an +energetic person with a strong will regulated by abundant +common sense, was one among the few people of whom +her flighty sister Julia stood in awe. In this emergency +her own observations, together with her brother-in-law’s +statements, soon showed her how matters stood, and she +promptly decided what steps to take. “Our best plan,” +she said to Hugh apart, “is for Julia to come along +home with me. She’ll be out of the way there of aught +to stir up her mind, and she can stop till she gets pacified +again. ‘Twill be no great while before she’s glad enough +to come back here, rick or no rick, you may depend; +for we’re all through-other up at our place the now, +with one of the childer sick, and ne’er a girl kept. I’ll +give her plenty to do helping me, and it’s much if she +won’t be very soon wishing she was at home in her +own comfortable house. She doesn’t know when she’s +well off, bedad,” Mrs. Mackay added, glancing half +enviously round the tidy little kitchen.</p> + +<p>Hugh fell in with her views at once. The Mackays +lived a couple of miles at the other side of Kilcraig, +so that Julia would be safely out of harm’s way, and he +could trust her sister to keep her from doing +anything disastrously foolish. So he cheerfully saw +his wife depart, and though her last words were a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205" id="page205"></a>205</span> +vehement asseveration that she would “never set foot +next or nigh the place again, as long as there did be +two straws slanting together in Quin’s dirty old rick,” +he confidently expected to see her there once more +without much delay.</p> + +<p>Up at the Mackay’s struggling farmstead on the side +of Knockrinkin, Mrs. Hugh found things dull enough. +Internally the house was incommodious and crowded +to uncomfortable excess, and its surroundings externally +were desolate and lonesome. Mrs. Hugh remarked +discontentedly that if the inside and outside of it were +mixed together, they’d be better off, anyway, for room +to turn round in, and quiet to hear themselves speak; +but the operation appeared impracticable. Nor were the +domestic tasks with which Mrs. Mackay provided her +by any means to her taste, and her discontent continued. +One evening, shortly after her arrival, she grew so +tired of hearing the children squabble and squawl, that +as soon as supper was over she slipped out at the back +door into the soft-aired twilight. She proposed to wile +away some time by searching the furzy, many-bouldered +field for mushrooms and blackberries, but neither could +she find, and in her quest she wandered a long way down +the swarded slope, until she came to a low boundary +wall. There she stopped, and stood looking across the +valley towards a wooden patch beyond the village, +which contained her own dwelling, as well as that of the +hateful Quins. Her wrath against them burned more +fiercely than ever at the reflection that they were clearly +to blame for her present tedious exile. The thought +of going home, she said to herself, she couldn’t abide, +by reason of their old rick.</p> + +<p>Through the dusk, the darker mass of those trees +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206" id="page206"></a>206</span> +loomed indistinctly like a stain on the dimness, and +Mrs. Hugh fancied that she could make out just the +site of the Quin’s rick—the best of bad luck to it. Why +didn’t some decent tramp take and sling a spark of a +lighted match into it, and he passing by with his pipe? +As she strained her eyes towards it, she suddenly saw +on the very spot the glimmer of a golden-red light, +glancing out among the shadowy trees. For a moment +she was startled and half scared, but then she remembered +that it would be nothing more than the harvest moon +rising up big through the mist. Hadn’t she seen it +the night before looking the size of ten? This explanation, +at least, half disappointed her, and she said to +herself with dissatisfaction, watching the gleam waver and +brighten, that it looked as red as fire, and she wished to +goodness it was the same as it looked. “There’d be +nothing aisier than setting the whole concern in a blaze +standing so convanient to the road,” she thought, while +she gazed and gazed with tantalised vindictiveness +over the low, tumble-down wall.</p> + +<p class="ptb1 center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">*******</p> + +<p>More than two hours later Mrs. Hugh Lennon came +hurrying in at the Mackay’s back-door. By this time +it was dark night outside, and she found only Mrs. +Mackay in the kitchen, for himself and the children +had gone to bed.</p> + +<p>“Where in the world have you been all the evening?” +Mrs. Mackay inquired, with some indignation. “Leaving +me with nobody to give me a hand with the childer or +anything, and keeping me now waiting up till every hour +of the night.”</p> + +<p>“Quin’s rick’s burnt down,” burst out Mrs. Hugh, +who evidently had not heard a word of her sister’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page207" id="page207"></a>207</span> +remonstrance. She looked excited and exultant; her +hair was roughened by the wind, and her skirts were +bedraggled with a heavy dew brushed off tussocks and +furze bushes. Mrs. Mackay eyed her with a start of +vague suspicion.</p> + +<p>“And who did you get that news from,” she said, +“supposing it’s true?”</p> + +<p>“Amn’t I after seeing it with me own eyes?” +triumphed Mrs. Hugh. “Watching it blazing this +long while down below there by Connolly’s fence. +First of all I thought it was only the old moon rising, +that would do us no good; but sure not at all, glory +be! Burnt down to the ground it is, every grain of it; +and serve them very right.”</p> + +<p>“What took you trapesing off down there, might I +ask?” inquired Mrs. Mackay, her scrutiny of her sister +growing more mistrustful.</p> + +<p>“Is it what took me?” said Mrs. Hugh. “I dunno +rightly. Och, let me see; about getting some mushrooms +I was, I believe, and blackberries.”</p> + +<p>“A likely time of night it was to be looking for such +things,” said Mrs. Mackay, “and a dale of them you got.”</p> + +<p>“There isn’t a one in it; all of them’s as red as coals +of fire yet, or else as green as grass—sure, what matter?” +said Mrs. Hugh. “Anyway, I was took up with +watching the baste of an old rick flaring itself into +flitters; and a rale good job.”</p> + +<p>“A job it is that you’re very apt to have raison to +repent of,” Mrs. Mackay said severely, “if so be you had +act or part in it.”</p> + +<p>“Is it me?” Mrs. Hugh said, and laughed derisively. +“Raving you are, if that’s your notion. A great chance +I’d have to be meddling or making with it, and I stuck +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208" id="page208"></a>208</span> +up here out of reach of everything. I only wisht I’d +been at our own place to get a better sight.”</p> + +<p>“How can I tell what chances you have or haven’t, +and you after running wild through the country for +better than a couple of hours?” Mrs. Mackay said. +“Plenty of time had you for the matter, to be skyting +there and back twice over, if you was up to any sort of +mischief; let alone going about talking and threatening, +and carrying on, till everybody in the parish is safe to +be of the opinion yourself was contriving it with whoever +done it, supposing you didn’t do it all out. And it’s +the quare trouble you might very aisy get yourself into +for that same, let me tell you. There was a man at +Joe’s place that got three years for being concerned in +setting a light to a bit of an old shed, no size to speak of; +so, if the next thing we see of you is walking off between +a pair of police constables, yourself you’ll have to +thank for it. I only hope poor Hugh won’t be blaming me +for letting you out of me sight this evening.”</p> + +<p>“Och, good luck to yourself and your pólis!” +Mrs. Hugh said, defiantly. “It’s little I care who lit the +old rick, and its little I care what any people’s troubling +theirselves to think about it. I’d liefer be after doing +it than not—so there’s for you. But what I won’t do +is stop here listening to your fool’s romancing. So +good-night to you kindly.”</p> + +<p>With that Mrs. Hugh flounced clattering up the +little steep stairs, and hurled herself like a compressed +earthquake-wave into her bedroom. Mrs. Mackay, +following her, stumped along more slowly. “Goodness +forgive me for saying so,” she reflected, “but Julia’s +a terrific woman to have any doings or dealings with. +She’s not to hold or bind when she takes the notion, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209" id="page209"></a>209</span> +and the dear knows what she’s been up to now; something +outrageous most likely. The Lord Chief Justice +himself couldn’t control her. Beyond me she is +entirely.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, her warnings were not without effect, +and at their next interview, she found her sister in a +meeker mood.</p> + +<p>It was when Mrs. Mackay was in the cowhouse +milking, before breakfast, that Julia appeared to her, +hurrying in with a demeanour full of dismay. “Och, +Bridgie, what will I do?” she said.</p> + +<p>“What’s happint you now?” Bridgie replied, with +a studied want of sympathy.</p> + +<p>“I’m just after looking out of me window,” Julia +said, “and there’s two of the pólis out of the barracks +below standing at the roadgate, having great discoursing +with Dan Molloy, and about coming into this place +they are. Ne’er a bit of me knows what’s bringing +them so outlandish early; but I’ll take me oath, Bridgie +darlint, I’d nought to do, good or bad, with burning the +rick. It might ha’ went on fire of itself. Hand nor +part I hadn’t in it. So you might be telling them that +to your certain knowledge I was up here the whole time, +and sending them about their business—there’s a good +woman.”</p> + +<p>On further reflection Mrs. Mackay had already +concluded that Julia probably was not guilty of +incendiarism; still, she considered her sister’s alarmed +state a favourable opportunity for a lesson on the +expediency of behaving herself. Therefore she was +careful to give no reassuring response.</p> + +<p>“‘Deed, now, I dunno what to say to it all,” she +declared, “and I couldn’t take it on me conscience to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210" id="page210"></a>210</span> +go swear in a court of justice that I knew where you +might be yesterday late. More betoken there was the +bad talk you had out of you about the Quins before you +come here, that they’ll be bringing up agin you now, +you may depend. An ugly appearance it has, sure +enough, the two of them coming over at this hour. +As headstrong you are as a cross-tempered jennet; +but if you’ll take my advice you’ll keep yourself out of +their sight the best way you can, till I see what they want +with you, and then if it’s a warrant they’ve got, I might +try persuade them to go look for you somewheres else. +That’s the best I can do, and, of course, I can’t say +whether they will or no, but maybe—”</p> + +<p>For a wonder Mrs. Hugh did take this advice, and most +promptly, rushing with a suppressed wail out of the +cowhouse and into a shed close by, where she crouched +behind a heap of hay, the first hiding-place that presented +itself to her in her panic. She had spent a great part +of the past night in meditation on her sister’s alarming +statements; and now the ominous arrival of the police +put a finishing touch to her fright. How was she to +escape from them, or to exculpate herself? Bridgie +evidently either could or would do little or nothing. +At this dreadful crisis in her affairs her thoughts turned +longingly towards her own house down below, where +there was Hugh, poor man, who would certainly have, +somehow, prevented her from being dragged off to +Athmoran gaol, even if he did believe her to have +burnt the rick. Through the dusty shed window +she saw two dark, flat-capped, short-caped figures +sauntering up to the front door, whereupon with a sudden +desperate impulse, she stole out, and fled down the cart-track +along which they had just come. Getting a good +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211" id="page211"></a>211</span> +start of them, she said to herself, she might be at home +again with Hugh before they could overtake her—and +one of them, she added, as fat as a prize pig.</p> + +<p>As Mrs. Hugh ran most of the road’s two long miles, +she was considerably out of breath when she came +round a turn which brought into view an expected and +an unexpected object. The one was Hugh walking out +of his own gate, the other Quin’s rick, still rearing its +glistening yellow ridge into the sunshine.</p> + +<p>“Well, now, Julia woman, and is it yourself?” +Hugh said, as she darted across the road to him. +“What’s took you to be tearing along at that rate, and +without so much as a shawl over your head?”</p> + +<p>“Thinking I was to meet you before this—kilt I am, +running all the way,” she said, panting. “And I do +declare there’s the big rick in it yet.”</p> + +<p>Hugh’s face fell. “Whethen now, if it’s with the +same old blathers you’re come back,” he said, in a +disgusted tone, “there was no need for you to be in +any such great hurry.”</p> + +<p>“Ne’er a word was I going to say agin it at all,” said +his wife, “and I making sure the constables would +be after me every minyit for burning it down.”</p> + +<p>“What the mischief put that notion in your head?” +said Hugh.</p> + +<p>“I seen the blaze of a great fire down here last night,” +she said, “and I thought it would be Quin’s rick, and +they knowing I had some talk about it.”</p> + +<p>“Sure ’twas just the big heap of dead branches and +old trunks,” said Hugh, “that’s lying at the end of the +cow-lane ever since the big wind. It took and went on +fire yesterday evening; raison good, there was a cartful +of Wexford tinkers went by in the afternoon, and stopped +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212" id="page212"></a>212</span> +to boil their kettle close under it. A fine flare-up it +made, and it as dry as tinder; but I’d scarce ha’ thought +you’d see it that far. Lucky it is the old sticks was fit +for nothing much, unless some poor bodies may be at +a loss for firewood this next winter. Come along in, +Julia, and wet yourself a cup of tay. You’d a right to +be tired trotting about that way. And as for the pólis, +bedad, they’d have their own work cut out for them, if +they was to be taking up everybody they heard talking +foolish.”</p> + +<p>Not long after Mrs. Hugh had finished her cup, +Mrs. Mackay arrived, alighting flurriedly from a +borrowed seat on a neighbour’s car.</p> + +<p>“So it’s home you ran, Julia,” she said, sternly. +“Well, now, I wonder you had that much sense itself. +Looking for you high and low we were, after the pólis +had gone, that only come to get the number of our +chickens—counting the feathers on them next, I suppose +they’ll be—and all romancing it was about anything +happening the rick. But frightened I was out of me +wits, till little Joey said he seen you quitting out at the +gate. So then I come along to see what foolish thing +you might be about doing next.”</p> + +<p>“She’s likely to be doing nothing foolisher than +giving you a cup of tay, Bridgie,” Hugh interposed, +soothingly. “And mightn’t you be frying us a few +eggs in the pan, Julia? Old Nan Byrne’s just after +bringing in two or three fresh ones she got back of the +Quins’ rick, where our hins do be laying.”</p> + +<p>“‘Twill be a handy place for finding them in,” +Mrs. Hugh said, blandly. And both her experienced +hearers accepted the remark as a sign that these hostilities +were over.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page213" id="page213"></a>213</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Maelshaughlinn at the Fair.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “My Irish Year.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Padraic Colum.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">It</span> was about horses, women, and music, and, in the +mouth of Maelshaughlinn, the narrative had the +exuberance of the fair and the colour of a unique exploit. +I found Maelshaughlinn alone in the house in the grey +dawn succeeding his adventure. “This morning,” +he said, “I’m the lonesome poor fellow without father +or mother, a girl’s promise, nor my own little horse.” +He closed the door against a reproachful sunrise, and, +sitting on a little three-legged stool, he told me the +story.</p> + +<p>Penitentially he began it, but he expanded with the +swelling narrative. “This time last week,” said +Maelshaughlinn, “I had no thought of parting with my +own little horse. The English wanted beasts for a war, +and the farmers about here were coining money out of +horseflesh. It seemed that the buyers were under a +pledge not to refuse anything in the shape of a horse, +and so the farmers made horses out of the sweepings of +the knackers’ yards, and took horses out of ha’penny +lucky-bags and sold them to the English. Yesterday +morning I took out my own little beast and faced for +Arvach Fair. I met the dealer on the road. He was an +Englishman, and above all nations on the face of the +earth, the English are the easiest to deal with in regard +of horses. I tendered him the price—it was an honest +price, but none of our own people would have taken +the offer in any reasonable way. An Irishman would have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214" id="page214"></a>214</span> +cursed into his hat, so that he might shake the curses +out over my head. The Englishman took on to consider +it, and my heart went threshing my ribs. Then he gave +me my price, paid me in hard weighty, golden sovereigns +and went away, taking the little horse with him.</p> + +<p>“I sat down on the side of a ditch to take a breath. +Now you’ll say that I ought to have gone back to the +work, and I’ll say that I agree with you. But no man +can be wise at all times. Anyway, I was sitting on a +ditch, with a lark singing over every foot of ground, +and nothing before me but the glory of the day. A girl +came along the road, and, on my soul, I never saw a +girl walking so finely. ‘She’ll be a head above every +girl in the fair,’ said I, ‘and may God keep the brightness +on her head.’ ‘God save you, Maelshaughlinn,’ +said the girl. ‘God save you, my jewel,’ said I. I +stood up to look after her, for a fine woman, walking +finely, is above all the sights that man ever saw. Then +a few lads passed, whistling and swinging their sticks. +‘God give you a good day,’ said the lads. ‘God give +you luck boys,’ said I. And there was I, swinging my +stick after the lads, and heading for the fair.</p> + +<p>“‘Never go into a fair where you’ve no business.’ +That’s an oul’ saying and a wise saying, but never +forget that neither man nor immortal can be wise at +all times. Satan fell from heaven, Adam was cast out +of Paradise, and even your Uncle broke his pledge.</p> + +<p>“When I came into the fair there was a fiddler playing +behind a tinker’s cart. I had a shilling to spend in +the town, and so I went into Flynn’s and asked for a +cordial. A few most respectable men came in then, +and I asked them to take a treat from me. Well, one +drank, and another drank, and then Rose Heffernan +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>215</span> +came into the shop with her brother. Young Heffernan +sent the glasses round, and then I asked Rose to take a +glass of wine, and I put down a sovereign on the counter. +The fiddler was coming down the street, and I sent a +young lad out to him with silver. I stood for a while +talking with Rose, and I heard the word go round the +shop concerning myself. It was soon settled that I had +got a legacy. The people there never heard of any +legacies except American legacies, and so they put my +fortune down to an uncle who had died, they thought, +in the States. Now, I didn’t want Rose to think that +my money was a common legacy out of the States, so by +half-words I gave them to understand that I had got +my fortune out of Mexico. Mind you, I wasn’t far out +when I spoke of Mexico, for I had a grand-uncle who +went out there, and his picture is in the house this +present minute.</p> + +<p>“Well, after the talk of a Mexican legacy went round, +I couldn’t take any treats from the people, and I asked +everyone to drink again. I think the crowds of the +world stood before Flynn’s counter. A big Connachtman +held up a Mexican dollar, and I took it out of his hand +and gave it to Rose Heffernan. I paid him for it, too, +and it comes into my mind now, that I paid him for it +twice.</p> + +<p>“There’s not, on the track of the sun, a place to +come near Arvach on the day of a fair. A man came +along leading a black horse, and the size of the horse +and the eyes of the horse would terrify you. There was +a drift of sheep going by, and the fleece of each was worth +gold. There were tinkers with their carts of shining tins, +as ugly and quarrelsome fellows as ever beat each other +to death in a ditch, and there were the powerful men, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>216</span> +with the tight mouths, and the eyes that could judge a +beast, and the dark, handsome women from the +mountains. To crown all, a piper came into the town +by the other end, and his music was enough to put the +blood like a mill-race through your heart. The music +of the piper, I think, would have made the beasts walk +out of the fair on their hind legs, if the music of the +fiddler didn’t charm them to be still. Grace Kennedy +and Sheela Molloy were on the road, and Rose Heffernan +was talking to them. Grace Kennedy has the best +wit and the best discourse of any woman within the four +seas, and she said to the other girls as I came up, ‘Faith, +girls, the good of the Mission will be gone from us since +Maelshaughlinn came into the fair, for the young +women must be talking about his coming home from +the sermon.’ Sheela Molloy has the softest hair and +the softest eyes of anything you ever saw. She’s a +growing girl, with the spice of the devil in her. ‘It’s +not the best manners,’ said I, ‘to treat girls to a glass +across the counter, but come into a shop,’ said I, ‘and +let me pay for your fancy.’ Well, I persuaded them +to come into a shop, and I got the girls to make Sheela +ask for a net for her hair. They don’t sell these +nets less than by the dozen, so I bought a +dozen nets for Sheela’s hair. I bought ear-rings and +brooches, dream-books and fortune books, buckles, +and combs, and I thought I had spent no more money +than I’d thank you for picking up off the floor. A +tinker woman came in and offered to tell the girls their +fortunes, and I had to cross her hand with silver.</p> + +<p>“I came out on the street after that, and took a few +turns through the fair. The noise and the crowd were +getting on my mind, and I couldn’t think, with any +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>217</span> +satisfaction, so I went into Mrs. Molloy’s, and sat for +a while in the snug. I had peace and quiet there, and +I began to plan out what I would do with my money. +I had a notion of going into Clooney on Tuesday, and +buying a few sheep to put on my little fields, and of +taking a good craftsman home from the fair, a man who +could put the fine thatch on my little house. I made +up my mind to have the doors and windows shining +with paint, to plant a few trees before the door, and to +have a growing calf going before the house. In a while, +I thought, I could have another little horse to be my +comfort and consolation. I wasn’t drinking anything +heavier than ginger ale, so I thought the whole thing +out quietly. After a while I got up, bid good-bye to +Mrs. Molloy, and stood at the door to watch the fair.</p> + +<p>“There was a man just before me with a pea and +thimble, and I never saw a trick-of-the-loop with less +sense of the game. He was winning money right and +left, but that was because the young fellows were before +him like motherless calves. Just to expose the man +I put down a few pence on the board. In a short +time I had fleeced my showman. He took up his board +and went away, leaving me shillings the winner.</p> + +<p>“I stood on the edge of the pavement wondering +what I could do that would be the beating of the things +I had done already. By this time the fiddler and the +piper were drawing nigh to each other, and there was a +musician to the right of me and a musician to the left +of me. I sent silver to each, and told them to cease +playing as I had something to say. I got up on a cart +and shook my hat to get silence. I said, ‘I’m going +to bid the musicians play in the market square, and the +man who gets the best worth out of his instrument will get +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>218</span> +a prize from me.’ The words were no sooner out of +my mouth than men, women and children made for +the market square like two-year-olds let loose.</p> + +<p>“You’d like the looks of the fiddler, but the piper +was a black-avis’d fellow that kept a troop of tinkers +about him. It was the piper who said, ‘Master, what’s +the prize to be?’ Before I had time to think, the +fiddler was up and talking. ‘He’s of the oul’ ancient +race,’ said the fiddler, ‘and he’ll give the prizes that the +Irish nobility gave to the musicians—a calf, the finest +calf in the fair, a white calf, with skin as soft as the fine +mist on the ground, a calf that gentle that the smoothest +field under him would look as rough as a bog.’ And +the fiddler was that lifted out of himself that he nearly +lept over a cart. Somebody pushed in a young calf, +and then I sat down on a stone, for there was no use in +saying anything or trying to hear anything after that. +The fiddler played first, and I was nearly taken out +of my trouble when I heard him, for he was a real man +of art, and he played as if he were playing before a king, +with the light of heaven on his face. The piper was +spending his silver on the tinkers, and they were all +deep in drink when he began to play. At the first sound +of the pipes an old tinker-woman fell into a trance. +It was powerful, but the men had to tie him up with a +straw rope, else the horses would have kicked the slates +off the market-house roof. Nobody was quiet after +that. There were a thousand men before me offering +to sell me ten thousand calves, each calf whiter than the +one before. There was one party round the fiddler +and another party round the piper. I think it was the +fiddler that won; anyway, he had the strongest backing, +for they hoisted the calf on to a cart, and they put the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id="page219"></a>219</span> +fiddler beside it, and the two of them would have +got out of the crowd, only the tinkers cut the traces +of the yoke. I was saved by a few hardy men, who +carried me through the market-house and into Flynn’s by +a back way, and there I paid for the calf.</p> + +<p>“When I came out of Flynn’s the people were going +home quiet enough. I got a lift on Fardorrougha’s +yoke, and everybody, I think, wanted me to come to +Clooney on Tuesday next. I think I’d have got out of +Arvach with safety, only a dead-drunk tinker wakened +up and knew me, and he gave a yell that brought the +piper hot-foot after me. First of all, the piper cursed me. +He had a bad tongue, and he put on me the blackest, +bitterest curses you ever heard in your life. Then +he lifted up the pipes, and he gave a blast that went +through me like a spear of ice.</p> + +<p>“The man that sold me the calf gave me a luck-penny +back, and that’s all the money I brought out of Arvach +fair.</p> + +<p>“Never go into the fair where you have no business.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>220</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Rev. J. J. Meldon and +the Chief Secretary.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Spanish Gold.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By George A. Birmingham (1865-).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">The</span> Chief Secretary lay back in Higginbotham’s +hammock-chair. There was a frown on his face. His +sense of personal dignity was outraged by the story he +had just heard. He had not been very long Chief +Secretary of Ireland, and, though not without a sense +of humour, he took himself and his office very seriously. +He came to Ireland intending to do justice and show +mercy. He looked forward to a career of real usefulness. +He was prepared to be opposed, maligned, +misunderstood, declared capable of every kind of iniquity. +He did not expect to be treated as a fool. He did not +expect that an official in the pay of one of the Government +Boards would assume as a matter of course that he was +a fool and believe any story about him, however intrinsically +absurd. He failed to imagine any motive for +the telling of such a story. There must, he assumed, +have been a motive, but what it was he could not even +guess.</p> + +<p>Meldon entered the hut without knocking at the +door.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Willoughby, I believe,” he said, cheerily. +“You must allow me to introduce myself since Higginbotham +isn’t here to do it for me. My name is Meldon, +the Rev. J. J. Meldon, B.A., of T.C.D.”</p> + +<p>The Chief Secretary intended to rise with dignity +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>221</span> +and walk out of the hut. He failed because no one +can rise otherwise than awkwardly out of the depths of +a hammock-chair.</p> + +<p>“Don’t stir,” said Meldon, watching his struggles. +“Please don’t stir. I shouldn’t dream of taking your +chair. I’ll sit on the corner of the table. I’ll be quite +comfortable, I assure you. How do you like Inishgowlan, +now you are here? It’s a nice little island, +isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby succeeded in getting out of his chair. +He walked across the hut, turned his back on Meldon, +and stared out of the window.</p> + +<p>“I came up here to have a chat with you,” said +Meldon. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind turning round; +I always find it more convenient to talk to a man who +isn’t looking the other way. I don’t make a point of +it, of course. If you’ve got into the habit of keeping +your back turned to people, I don’t want you to alter +it on my account.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby turned round. He seemed to be +on the point of making an angry remark. Meldon faced +him with a bland smile. The look of irritation faded +in Mr. Willoughby’s face. He appeared puzzled.</p> + +<p>“It’s about Higginbotham’s bed,” said Meldon, +“that I want to speak. It’s an excellent bed, I believe, +though I never slept in it myself. But,——”</p> + +<p>“If there’s anything the matter with the bed,” said +Mr. Willoughby severely, “Mr. Higginbotham should +himself represent the facts to the proper authorities.”</p> + +<p>“You quite misunderstand me. And, in any case, +Higginbotham can’t move in the matter because he +doesn’t, at present, know that there’s anything wrong +about the bed. By the time he finds out, it will be too +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>222</span> +late to do anything. I simply want to give you a word +of advice. Don’t sleep in Higginbotham’s bed to-night.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t the slightest intention of sleeping in it.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right. I’m glad you haven’t. The fact +is”—Meldon’s voice sank almost to a whisper—“there +happens to be a quantity of broken glass in +that bed. I need scarcely tell a man with your experience +of life that broken glass in a bed isn’t a thing which +suits everybody. It’s all right, of course, if you’re used +to it, but I don’t suppose you are.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby turned, this time towards the door. +There was something in the ingenuous friendliness +of Meldon’s face which tempted him to smile. He +caught sight of Higginbotham standing white and +miserable on the threshold. He made a snatch at the +dignity which had nearly escaped him and frowned +severely.</p> + +<p>“I think, Mr. Higginbotham,” he said, “that I should +like to take a stroll round the island.”</p> + +<p>“Come along,” said Meldon. “I’ll show the +sights. You don’t mind climbing walls, I hope. You’ll +find the place most interesting. Do you care about +babies? There’s a nice little beggar called Michael +Pat. Any one with a taste for babies would take to him +at once. And there’s a little girl called Mary Kate, +a great friend of Higginbotham’s. She’s the granddaughter +of old Thomas O’Flaherty Pat. By the way, +how are you going to manage about Thomas O’Flaherty’s +bit of land? There’s been a lot of trouble over that?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby sat down again in the hammock-chair +and stared at Meldon.</p> + +<p>“Of course, it’s your affair, not mine,” said Meldon. +“Still, if I can be of any help to you, you’ve only got +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>223</span> +to say so. I know old O’Flaherty pretty well, and I +may say without boasting that I have as much influence +with him as any man on the island.”</p> + +<p>“If I want your assistance I shall ask for it,” said +Mr. Willoughby, coldly.</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” said Meldon. “I’ll do anything I +can. The great difficulty, of course, is the language. +You don’t talk Irish yourself, I suppose. Higginbotham +tells me he’s learning. It’s a very difficult +language, highly inflected. I’m not very good at it +myself. I can’t carry on a regular business conversation +in it. By the way, what is your opinion of the +Gaelic League?”</p> + +<p>A silence followed. Mr. Willoughby gave no +opinion of the Gaelic League. Meldon sat down again +on the corner of the table and began to swing his legs. +Higginbotham still stood in the doorway. Mr. Willoughby, +with a bewildered look on his face, lay back +in the hammock-chair.</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Meldon, “that you’ve sent your yacht +away. That was what made me think you were going +to sleep in Higginbotham’s bed. I suppose she’ll be +back before night.”</p> + +<p>“Really——” began Mr. Willoughby.</p> + +<p>Meldon replied at once to the tone in which the word +was spoken.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to be asking questions. If there’s +any secret about the matter you’re quite right to keep +it to yourself. I quite understand that you Cabinet +Ministers can’t always say out everything that’s in your +mind. I only mentioned the steamer because the conversation +seemed to be languishing. You wouldn’t +talk about Thomas O’Flaherty Pat’s field, and you +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>224</span> +wouldn’t talk about the Gaelic League, though I thought +that would be sure to interest you. Now you won’t +talk about the steamer. However, it’s quite easy to +get on some other subject. Do you think the weather +will hold up? The glass has been dropping the last +two days.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby struggled out of the hammock-chair +again. He drew himself up to his full height +and squared his shoulders. His face assumed an +expression of rigid determination. He addressed +Higginbotham:</p> + +<p>“Will you be so good as to go up to the old man you +spoke of——”</p> + +<p>“Thomas O’Flaherty Pat,” said Meldon. “That’s +the man he means, you know, Higginbotham.”</p> + +<p>“And tell him——” went on Mr. Willoughby.</p> + +<p>“If you’re to tell him anything,” said Meldon, “don’t +forget to take someone with you who understands Irish.”</p> + +<p>“And tell him,” repeated Mr. Willoughby, “that I +shall expect him here in about an hour to meet Father +Mulcrone.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Meldon. “So that’s where the yacht’s +gone. You’ve sent for the priest to talk sense to the +old boy. Well, I dare say you’re right, though I think +we could have managed with the help of Mary Kate. +She knows both languages well, and she’d do anything +for me, though she is rather down on Higginbotham. +It’s a pity you didn’t consult me before sending the +steamer off all the way to Inishmore. However, it +can’t be helped now.”</p> + +<p>Higginbotham departed on his errand and shut the +door of the hut after him. The Chief Secretary turned +to Meldon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>225</span></p> + +<p>“You’ve chosen to force your company on me this +afternoon in a most unwarrantable manner.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go at once if you like,” said Meldon. “I only +came up here for your own good, to warn you about the +state of Higginbotham’s bed. You ought to be more +grateful to me than you are. It isn’t every man who’d +have taken the trouble to come all this way to save a +total stranger from getting his legs cut with broken +glass. However, if you hunt me away, of course, I’ll +go. Only, I think, you’ll be sorry afterwards if I do. +I may say without vanity that I’m far and away the most +amusing person on this island at present.”</p> + +<p>“As you are here,” said Mr. Willoughby, “I take +the opportunity of asking you what you mean by telling +that outrageous story to Mr. Higginbotham. I’m not +accustomed to having my name used in that way, and, +to speak plainly, I regard it as insolence.”</p> + +<p>“You are probably referring to the geological survey +of this island.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. To your assertion that I employed a man +called Kent to survey this island. That is precisely +what I refer to.”</p> + +<p>“Then you ought to have said so plainly at first, +and not have left me to guess at what you were talking +about. Many men couldn’t have guessed, and then +we should have been rambling at cross purposes for the +next hour or so without getting any further. Always +try and say plainly what you mean, Mr. Willoughby. +I know it’s difficult, but I think you’ll find it pays in the +end. Now that I know what’s in your mind, I’ll be +very glad to thrash it out with you. You know Higginbotham, +of course?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>226</span></p> + +<p>“Intimately?”</p> + +<p>“I met him this afternoon for the first time.”</p> + +<p>“Then you can’t be said really to know Higginbotham. +That’s a pity, because without a close and +intimate knowledge of Higginbotham, you’re not in a +position to understand that geological survey story. +Take my advice and drop the whole subject until you +know Higginbotham better. After spending a few +days on the island in constant intercourse with Higginbotham +you’ll be able to understand the whole thing. +Then you’ll appreciate it. In the meanwhile, I’m sure +you won’t mind my adding, since we are on the subject,—and +it was you who introduced it—that you ought +not to go leaping to conclusions without a proper knowledge +of the facts. I said the same thing this morning +to Major Kent, when he insisted that you had come +here to search for buried treasure.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby pulled himself together with an effort. +He felt a sense of bewilderment and hopeless confusion. +The sensation was familiar. He had +experienced it before in the House of Commons +when the Irish members of both parties asked +questions on the same subject. He knew that his +only chance was to ignore side-issues, however +fascinating, and get back at once to the original point.</p> + +<p>“I’m willing,” he said, “to listen to any explanation +you have to offer; but I do not see how Mr. Higginbotham’s +character alters, or can alter, the fact that +you told him what I can only describe as an outrageous +lie.”</p> + +<p>“The worst thing about you Englishmen is that +you have such blunt minds. You don’t appreciate +the lights and shades, the finer nuances, what I may +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>227</span> +perhaps describe as the chiaroscuro of things. It’s +just the same with my friend Major Kent. By the way, +I ought to apologise for him. He ought to have come +ashore and called upon you this afternoon. It isn’t +a want of loyalty which prevented him. He’s a strong +Unionist and on principle he respects His Majesty’s +Ministers, whatever party they belong to. The fact +is, he was a bit nervous about this geological survey +business. He didn’t know exactly how you’d take it. +I told him that you were a reasonable man, and that +you’d see the thing in a proper light, but he wouldn’t +come.”</p> + +<p>“Will you kindly tell me what is the proper light in +which to view this extraordinary performance of yours?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. It will be a little difficult, of course, +when you don’t know Higginbotham, but I’ll try.”</p> + +<p>“Leave Mr. Higginbotham out,” said the Chief +Secretary, irritably. “Tell me simply this: Were +you justified in making a statement which you knew +to be a baseless invention? How do you explain the +fact that you told a deliberate—that you didn’t tell the +truth?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve always heard of you as an educated man. I +may assume that you know all about pragmatism.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you ought to. It’s a most interesting system +of philosophy quite worth your while to study. I’m +sure you’d like it if you understand it. In fact, I expect +you’re a pragmatist already without knowing it. Most +of us practical men are.”</p> + +<p>“I’m waiting for an explanation of the story you +told Mr. Higginbotham.”</p> + +<p>“Quite right. I’m coming to that in a minute. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>228</span> +Don’t be impatient. If you’d been familiar with the +pragmatist philosophy it would have saved time. As +you’re not—though as Chief Secretary for Ireland I +think you ought to be—I’ll have to explain. Pragmatism +may be described as the secularising of the +Ritschlian system of theological thought. You understand +the Ritschlian theory of value judgments, of +course?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t.” Mr. Willoughby began to feel very +helpless. It seemed easier to let the tide of this strange +lecture sweep over him than to make any effort to assert +himself.</p> + +<p>“Do you mind if I smoke?” he said. “I think I +could listen to your explanation better if I smoked.”</p> + +<p>He took from his pocket a silver cigar-case.</p> + +<p>“Smoke away,” said Meldon. “I don’t mind in the +least. In fact, I’ll take a cigar from you and smoke, too. +I can’t afford cigars myself, but I enjoy them when +they’re good. I suppose a Chief Secretary is pretty +well bound to keep decent cigars on account of his +position.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby handed over the case. Meldon +selected a cigar and lit it. Then he went on—</p> + +<p>“The central position of the pragmatist philosophy +and the Ritschlian theology is that truth and usefulness +are identical.”</p> + +<p>“Eh?”</p> + +<p>“What that means is this. A thing is true if it turns +out in actual practice to be useful, and false if it turns +out in actual practice to be useless. I daresay that +sounds startling to you at first, but if you think it over +quietly for a while you’ll get to see that there’s a good +deal in it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>229</span></p> + +<p>Meldon puffed at his cigar without speaking. He +wished to give Mr. Willoughby an opportunity for +meditation. Then he went on—</p> + +<p>“The usual illustration—the one you’ll find in all the +text-books—is the old puzzle of the monkey on the tree. +A man sees a monkey clinging to the far side of a trunk +of a tree—I never could make out how he did see it, +but that doesn’t matter for the purposes of the illustration. +He (the man) determines to go round the tree and +get a better look at the monkey. But the monkey +creeps round the tree so as always to keep the trunk +between him and the man. The question is, whether, +when he has gone round the tree, the man has or has +not gone round the monkey. The older philosophers +simply gave that problem up. They couldn’t solve it, +but the pragmatist—”</p> + +<p>“Either you or I,” said Mr. Willoughby, feebly, +“must be going mad.”</p> + +<p>“Your cigar has gone out,” said Meldon. “Don’t +light it again. There’s nothing tastes worse than a +relighted cigar. Take a fresh one. There are still +two in the case and I shall be able to manage along +with one more.”</p> + +<p>“Would you mind leaving out the monkey on the tree +and getting back to the geological survey story?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit. If it bores you to hear an explanation +of the pragmatist theory of truth, I won’t go on with it. +It was only for your sake I went into it. You can just +take it from me that the test of truth is usefulness. +That’s the general theory. Now apply it to this particular +case. The story I told Higginbotham turned out +to be extremely useful—quite as useful as I had any reason +to expect. In fact, I don’t see that we could very well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>230</span> +have got on without it. I can’t explain to you just +how it was useful. If I did, I should be giving away +Major Kent, Sir Charles Buckley, Euseby Langton, +and perhaps old Thomas O’Flaherty Pat; but you may +take it that the utility of the story has been demonstrated.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby made an effort to rally. He reminded +himself that he was Cabinet Minister and a great man, +that he had withstood the fieriest eloquence of Members +for Munster constituencies, and survived the most +searching catechisms of the men from Antrim and Down. +He called to mind the fact that he had resolutely said +“No” to at least twenty-five per cent. of the people +who came to him in Dublin Castle seeking to have +jobs perpetrated. He tried to realise the impossibility +of a mere country curate talking him down. He +hardened his heart with the recollection that he was in +the right and the curate utterly in the wrong. He sat up +as well as he could in the hammock-chair and said sternly—</p> + +<p>“Am I to understand that you regard any lie as +justifiable if it serves its purpose?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not,” said Meldon; “you are missing +the whole point. I was afraid you would when you +prevented me from explaining the theory of truth to +you. I never justify lies under any circumstances +whatever. The thing I’m trying to help you grasp is +this: A statement isn’t a lie if it proves itself in actual +practice to be useful—it’s true. There, now, you’ve +let that second cigar go out. You’d better light that one +again. I hate to see a man wasting cigar after cigar, +especially when they’re good ones.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby fumbled with the matches and made +more than one attempt to relight the cigar.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page231" id="page231"></a>231</span></p> + +<p>“The reason,” Meldon went on, “why I think you’re +almost certain to be a pragmatist is that you’re a politician. +You’re constantly having to make speeches, of +course; and in every speech you must, more or less, +say something about Ireland. When you are Chief +Secretary the other fellow, the man in opposition who +wants to be Chief Secretary but isn’t, gets up and says +you are telling a pack of lies. That’s not the way he +expresses himself, but it’s exactly what he means. +When his turn comes round to be Chief Secretary, and +you are in opposition, you very naturally say that he’s +telling lies. Now, that’s a very crude way of talking. +You are, both of you, as patriotic and loyal men, doing +your best to say what is really useful. If the things +you say turn out in the end to be useful, why, then, if +you happen to be a pragmatist, they aren’t lies.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby stuck doggedly to his point. Just +so his countrymen, though beaten by all the rules of +war, have from time to time clung to positions which +they ought to have evacuated.</p> + +<p>“A lie,” he said, “is a lie. I don’t see that you’ve +made your case at all.”</p> + +<p>“I know I haven’t, but that’s because you insist on +stopping me. If you’ll allow me to go back to the man +who went round the tree with the monkey on it——”</p> + +<p>“Don’t do that, I can’t bear it.”</p> + +<p>“Very well. I won’t. I suppose we may consider +the matter closed now, and go on to talk of something +else.”</p> + +<p>“No. It’s not closed,” said Mr. Willoughby, with +a fine show of spirited indignation. “I still want to know +why you told Mr. Higginbotham that I sent Major +Kent to make a geological survey of this island. It’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232" id="page232"></a>232</span> +all very well to talk as you’ve been doing, but a man +is bound to tell the truth and not to deceive innocent +people.”</p> + +<p>“Look here, Mr. Willoughby,” said Meldon, “I’ve +sat and listened to you calling me a liar half-a-dozen +times, and I havn’t turned a hair. I’m not a man +with remarkable self-control, and I appreciate your +point of view. You are irritated because you think +you are not being treated with proper respect. You +assert what you are pleased to call your dignity, by +trying to prove that I am a liar. I’ve stood it from you +so far, but I’m not bound to stand it any longer, and I +won’t. It doesn’t suit you one bit to take up that high +and mighty moral tone, and I may tell you it doesn’t +impress me. I’m not the British Public, and that bluff +honesty pose isn’t one I admire. All these platitudes about +lies being lies simply run off my skin. I know that your +own game of politics couldn’t be played for a single +hour without what you choose to describe as deceiving +innocent people. Mind you, I’m not blaming you in +the least. I quite give in that you can’t always be +blabbing out the exact literal truth about everything. +Things couldn’t go on if you did. All I say is, that, +being in the line of life you are, you ought not to set +yourself up as a model of every kind of integrity and come +out here to an island, which, so far as I know, nobody ever +invited you to visit, and talk ideal morality to me in the +way you’ve been doing. Hullo! here’s Higginbotham +back again. I wonder if he has brought Thomas +O’Flaherty Pat with him. You’ll be interested in +seeing that old man, even if you can’t speak to him.”</p> + +<p>Higginbotham started as he entered the hut. He did +not expect to find Meldon there. He was surprised +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page233" id="page233"></a>233</span> +to see Mr. Willoughby crumpled up, crushed, cowed +in the depths of the hammock-chair, while Meldon, +cheerful and triumphant, sat on the edge of the table +swinging his legs and smoking a cigar.</p> + +<p>“You’d better get that oil stove of yours lit, Higginbotham,” +said Meldon. “The Chief Secretary is +dying for a cup of tea. You’d like some tea, wouldn’t +you, Mr Willoughby?”</p> + +<p>“I would. I feel as if I wanted some tea. You +won’t say that I’m posing for the British Public if I +drink tea, will you?”</p> + +<p>It was Meldon who lit the stove, and busied himself +with the cups and saucers. Higginbotham was too +much astonished to assist.</p> + +<p>“There’s no water in your kettle,” said Meldon. +“I’d better run across to the well and get some. Or +I’ll go to Michael Pat’s mother and get some hot. That +will save time. When I’m there I’ll collar a loaf of +soda-bread and some butter if I can. I happen to know +that she has some fresh butter because I helped her to +make it.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby rallied a little when the door closed +behind Meldon.</p> + +<p>“Your friend,” he said to Higginbotham, “seems to +me to be a most remarkable man.”</p> + +<p>“He is. In college we always believed that if only +he’d give his mind to it and taken some interest in his +work, he could have done anything.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. He has given me +a talking to this afternoon such as I haven’t had since +I left school—not since I left the nursery. Did you +ever read a book on pragmatism?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page234" id="page234"></a>234</span></p> + +<p>“You don’t happen to know the name of the best +book on the subject?”</p> + +<p>“No, but I’m sure that Meldon—”</p> + +<p>“Don’t,” said Mr. Willoughby. “I’d rather not +start him on the subject again. Have you any cigars? +I want one badly. I got no good of the two I half +smoked while he was here.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid not. But your own cigar-case has one +in it. It’s on the table.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t smoke that one. To put it plainly, I daren’t. +Your friend Meldon said he might want it. I’d be afraid +to face him if it was gone.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s your own cigar! Why should Meldon——”</p> + +<p>“It’s not my cigar. Nothing in the world is mine +any more, not even my mind, or my morality, or my +self-respect is my own. Mr. Meldon has taken them +from me, and torn them in pieces before my eyes. He +has left me a nervous wreck of a man I once was. Did +you say he was a parson?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. He’s curate of Ballymoy.”</p> + +<p>“Thank God, I don’t live in that parish! I should +be hypnotised into going to church every time he +preached, and then——. Hush! Can he be coming +back already? I believe he is. No other man would +whistle as loud as that. If he begins to illtreat me +again, Mr Higginbotham, I hope you’ll try and drag +him off. I can’t stand much more.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page235" id="page235"></a>235</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Old Tummus and the Battle +of Scarva.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Lady Anne’s Walk.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Eleanor Alexander.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">I found</span> old Tummus scuffling Lady Anne’s walk; +that is to say, he was busy looking pensively at the weeds +as he leaned on his hoe. He never suddenly pretends +to be at work when he is not at work, but always retains +the same calm dignity of carriage. He too frankly +despises his employers to admit that either his occasional +lapses into action, or his more frequent attitude +of storing his reserve force are any concern of theirs.</p> + +<p>Gathering that he was graciously inclined for +conversation by a not unfriendly glance which he cast +in my direction after he had spat on the ground, I +settled myself to listen.</p> + +<p>“Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye?”</p> + +<p>With this he generally prefaces his remarks. It is, +however, merely rhetorical. He does not expect an +answer; unless one were at least a minor prophet +it would be impossible to give one, except in the negative. +“Do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye?” he repeated, +gently, raising a weed with his hoe into what looked like +a sitting position, where he held it as if he were supporting +it in bed to receive its last communion. “There’s not +a hair’s differ betwixt onny two weemen.” I was +speechless, and he continued: “There is thon boy o’ +mine, and though I say it that shouldn’t, he’s a fine +boy, so he is, and no ways blate, and as brave a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236" id="page236"></a>236</span> +boy as you’d wish for te see. From the time he was +six year old he was that old-fashioned he wouldn’t go +to church without his boots was right jergers (creakers) +that ye’d hear all over the church when he cum in a wee +bit late: and he cud say off all the responses as bowld as +brass. Did I no’ learn him his releegion mesel, and bid +him foller after him that has gone before?”</p> + +<p>A solemn pause seemed only appropriate here, though +I had my doubts.</p> + +<p>“But whiles he tuk te colloque-in’ with the wee +fellers round the corner there in Irish street. That’s so. +But I soon quet him o’ that. Says I te him: ‘Do ye +know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? Me heart’s broke with +ye, so it is. I’ll have no colloque-in’ from onny boy +o’ mine, so I won’t. Ye’ll have no traffickin’, no, nor +passin’ o’ the time o’ day with them that’s not yer own +sort, and that differs from the Reverend Crampsey; +him and me and Johnston of Ballykilbeg, and the Great +Example. What’s that ye say? Who is the Great +Example? Now! Now! Who wud it be, but him +on the white horse?’”</p> + +<p>This is not, as might be supposed, from the +vision of the Apocalypse, but is easily recognised +by those who are in the know, as an allusion to William +of Orange, of “Glorious, pious, and immortal memory,” +who is always represented on a white horse.</p> + +<p>“But,” I argued, “he did traffic with those who +disagreed with him; it is even said, you know, that +when he came to England he subsidised the Pope.”</p> + +<p>Tummus appeared not to have heard this remark.</p> + +<p>“As I was sayin’, thon boy o’ mine, he has a mind +to get hisself marriet. So says I te him, ‘There’s not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237" id="page237"></a>237</span> +a hair’s differ between onny two o’ them.’ Ye see, it’s +this way. He has the two o’ them courted down to +the askin’, and he’s afeard that if he asks the wan he’ll +think long for the other, or maybe he’ll think he’d +sooner have had the other.”</p> + +<p>“He is not behaving well. He can’t, of course, +marry them both, and yet he has raised hopes which +<i>must</i> in one case be disappointed; he might break the +poor girl’s heart.”</p> + +<p>“Break her heart! Hoot. Blethers. Heart is it?”</p> + +<p>“But,” I interjected again, merely, of course, to +make conversation, for I have many times and oft +heard his opinion on the subject, and it is not favourable, +“Don’t you believe in love?”</p> + +<p>Tummus had been twice married. His first wife +was called Peggy-Anne, and only lived a year after +her marriage. I try to persuade myself and him that +this was the romance of his life, but it is up-hill work. +The present Mrs. Thomas, who has been his wife for +five-and-twenty-years, he always speaks of as “Thon +widdy wumman.” She was the relict of one John +M‘Adam, whose simple annal in this world seems to +be, that he was the first husband of Tummus’s second +wife; for the other world, his successor considers that, +owing to his theological views, he is certainly—well—not +in heaven.</p> + +<p>“Do I no believe in love? Why, wumman, dear, +have I no seen it mesel? Sure, and I had an uncle o’ +me own, me own mother’s brother, that was tuk that way, +and what did he do? but went and got the whole o’ +Paul’s wickedest Epistle off, so he did, and offered for +te tell it till her, all at the wan sitting. Boys, oh! but +he was the quare poet! And she got marriet on a boy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238" id="page238"></a>238</span> +out o’ Ballinahone on him, and do ye know what I’m +goin’ te tell ye? he tuk to the hills and never did a +hand’s turn after.”</p> + +<p>“Surely, Thomas, you have been in love yourself, too, +now, with Peggy-Anne, and your present wife? +When you asked them to marry you, you had to pretend +it anyhow. What did you say to them?”</p> + +<p>“Is it me? Well it was this way; me and Peggy-Anne, +we went the pair of us to Scarva on the twelfth. +Did ever ye hear tell of the battle o’ Scarva? I mind +it well. I had a wheen o’ cloves in me pocket, and Peggy-Anne +she had a wee screw o’ pepperment sweeties. +Says I te her:</p> + +<p>“‘Peggy-Anne, wud ye conceit a clove?’</p> + +<p>“And says she te me:</p> + +<p>“‘Tak a sweetie, Tummus!’</p> + +<p>“And I went in the mornin’ and giv in the names +till the Reverend Crampsey; so I did.”</p> + +<p>After all, there are many worse ways of concluding +the business, and few that would be more full of symbol. +There is the mutual help; the inevitable “give and +take” of married life; the strength and pungency of +the manly clove; the melting sweetness of the maidenly +peppermint; two souls united in the savour of both +scents combined rising to heaven on the summer air.</p> + +<p>I could not recall in the tale or history, or the varied +reminiscences of married friends on this interesting +topic, any manner of “proposal” more delicate and +less ostentatious. Tummus graciously accepted my +congratulations on his elegant good taste, but when I +inquired about the preliminaries of his second alliance, +he only shook his head and muttered, “Them widdies! +Them widdies!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page239" id="page239"></a>239</span></p> + +<p>In this there is almost a suggestion that, like Captain +Cuttle, he was taken at a disadvantage, but one can +scarcely credit it. It seems impossible that he would +not have extricated himself with the inspired dexterity +of a Sherlock Holmes, or the happy resource of a +Stanley Weyman hero, from whatever dilemma.</p> + +<p>“As I was sayin’,” he resumed, “Did ever ye hear +tell o’ the battle o’ Scarva?”</p> + +<p>Of course I had heard of it. Who has not heard +of the Oberammergau of the North? There, in a +gentleman’s prettily wooded park, on a large open meadow +sloping down to a clear running brook, is yearly enacted +a veritable Passion Play of the Battle of the Boyne.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you have often seen it, Thomas.”</p> + +<p>“I have that; many and many’s a time. But there +was wan battle that bate all—do ye know what I’m +goin’ te tell ye? I would give a hundred pounds te +see thon agin—so I wud. Boys, oh! it was gran’. +There was me own aunt’s nephew was King William, +and him on the top of the beautifullest white horse +ever ye seen, with the mane o’ him tied with wee loops +o’ braid, or’nge and bleue. Himself had an or’nge +scarfe on him and bleue feathers te his hat, just like +one o’ them for’n Princes, and his Field-marshal and +Ginerals just the same, only not so gran’. And King +James, they had a fine young horse for him that Dan +Cooke bought off the Reverend Captain Jack in Moy +Fair. But he set his ears back, and let a squeal out o’ +him, and got on with quare maneuvers whenever Andy +Wilson came near him, and Andy—that was King +James—he says:</p> + +<p>“‘I am no used with horse exercise, and I misdoubt +thon baste.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page240" id="page240"></a>240</span></p> + +<p>“‘But,’ says Dan Cooke, ‘up with ye sonny, and +no more about it.’</p> + +<p>“Well, with that Andy turned about, and, says he, +‘I’ll ride no blooded horse out of Moy. I’d sooner +travel. I’ll ride none, without I have me own mare +that drawed me and hersel’ and the childer out of +Poyntzpass—so I won’t.’</p> + +<p>“With that the Field-marshals and the Ginerals +and the Aiden-scampses away with them, and they found +Andy’s mare takin’ her piece by the roadside, and not +agreeable to comin’ forbye. Howsumever she was coaxed +along with an Aiden-scamp sootherin’ her and complimentin’ +her: ‘There’s a daughter, and a wee jooel,’ and a +Field-marshal holdin’ a bite o’ grass in the front o’ her, +and a Gineral persuadin’ her in the rare; and they got +King James ontil her, and the two armies was drawed +up on the banks o’ the wee burn that stood for the Boyne +Watter. Then they began, quite friendly and agreeable-ike, +temptin’ other.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on, ye thirsty tyrant ye,’ says William.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on, ye low, mane usurper,’ says James.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on ye heedious enemy to ceevil and releegious +liberty, ye,’ says William.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on, ye glorious, pious, and immortal +humbug, ye,’ says James.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on ye Glad-stone ye, and Parnell, and Judas, +and Koran—and Dathan—and Abiram,’ says William.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on ye onnatural parasite ye, and Crumwell, +and Shadrach—and Mesech—and Abednego,’ says +James.</p> + +<p>“‘Come on ye auld Puseyite, and no more about it,’ +says William. With that he joined to go forrard, and +James he should have come forrard fornenst him, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241" id="page241"></a>241</span> +Andy’s mare, she just planted the fore-feet o’ her and +stud there the same as she was growed in the ground. +With that there was two of the Aiden-scampses come +on, and of all the pullin’ and haulin’! But de’il a toe +would she budge, and all the boys began larfin’, so they +did, and William says, says he:</p> + +<p>“‘Come on till I pull the neck out o’ ye.... Come +on, me brave boy.... Fetch her a clip on the lug. +Hit her a skelp behint. Jab her with yer knee, man +alive. Och, come on, ye Bap, ye.’</p> + +<p>“Well, the skin o’ a pig couldn’t stand that, and +Andy, he was middlin’ smart at a repartee, so ‘Bap +yersel’,’ says he, and with that he let a growl out o’ +him ye might have heared te Portadown. Ye never +heared the like, nor what’s more, Andy Wilson’s mare, +she never heared the like, and she just made the wan +lep and landed in the strame fornenst William; then +James he tuk a howlt o’ William, and ‘Bap yersel’, +says he; and with that he coped him off his gran’ +white horse, and he drooked him in the watter.</p> + +<p>“Then there was the fine play, and the best divarsion +ever ye seen. Some they were for William, and some +they were for James, and every wan he up with his +fut or his fist, or onny other weepon that come convenient, +and the boys they were all bloodin’ other, and murder +and all sorts.”</p> + +<p>“I thought you were all friends at Scarva?”</p> + +<p>“And so we were—just friends fightin’ through other.”</p> + +<p>“Was any one hurt?”</p> + +<p>“Was anyone hurted? Sure, they were just trailin’ +theirselves off the ground. Ye wud have died larfin’. +There’s Jimmy Hanlon was never his own man since, +and I had me nose broke on me—I find it yet—and some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242" id="page242"></a>242</span> +says there was a wee girl from Tanderagee got herself +killed.”</p> + +<p>“What became of William?”</p> + +<p>“He was clean drowned.”</p> + +<p>“And King James?”</p> + +<p>“He’s in hell with Johnny M‘Adam.”</p> + +<p>I tried to explain that I had not meant the King +himself, but the actor in whom nature had been stronger +than dramatic instinct, but Tummus either could not +or would not dissociate the two. He really was not +attending to me: I had perceived for some time that +his thoughts were wandering far from our conversation. +Suddenly a spasm convulsed his features. With one +hand he raised his hoe in the air like a tomahawk, +disregarding the weed of his afternoon’s toil, which +was left limp and helpless on the gravel; with the +other he grasped his side. I feared the old man was +going to have a fit, but it was only uncontrollable laughter +at some joke as yet hidden from me.</p> + +<p>“Well, do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? I +wud just allow William was a middlin’ polished boy, +so he was. He subsidised the Pope o’ Rome, did he? +Man, oh! Do ye tell me that? That bates all, and him +goin’ to take just twiste what he let on.”</p> + +<p>Old Tummus unquestionably was absolutely sober +at the beginning of our interview, and had remained +“dry” during it, but he now became gradually intoxicated +with what had appeared to him to be his hero’s +splendid cunning. The thought of a genius which could +overreach someone else in a bargain rose to his brain +like champagne. He swayed on his feet; he ran his +words into each other; he assumed a gaiety of manner +and expression quite unusual to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page243" id="page243"></a>243</span></p> + +<p>I watched him lurch down the walk, and then pause +on the bridge. He supported himself by the wooden +railing, which creaked as he swayed to and fro, and +addressed the stream and the trees—</p> + +<p>“Do ye know what I’m goin’ to tell ye? I wud just +allow he was a middlin’ polished boy—so he was.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page244" id="page244"></a>244</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Game Leg.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Furry Farm.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By K. F. Purdon.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Heffernan’s</span> house at the Furry Farm stood very backwards +from the roadside, hiding itself, you’d really +think, from anyone that might be happening by. As +if it need do that! Why, there was no more snug, +well-looked-after place in the whole of Ardenoo than +Heffernan’s always was, with full and plenty in it for +man and beast, though it wasn’t to say too tasty-looking.</p> + +<p>And it was terrible lonesome. There wasn’t a neighbour +within the bawl of an ass of it. Heffernan, of +course, had always been used to it, so that he didn’t +so much mind; still, he missed Art, after he going +off with little Rosy Rafferty. That was nigh hand +as bad upon him as losing the girl herself. He had got +to depend on Art for every hand’s turn, a thing that +left him worse, when he was without him. And he +was very slow-going. As long as Julia was there, she +did all, and Heffernan might stand to one side and look +at her. And so he missed her now, more than ever; +and still he had no wish to see her back, though even to +milk the cows came awkward to him.</p> + +<p>He was contending with the work one evening, and the +calves in particular were leaving him distracted; above +all, a small little white one that he designed for Rosy, +when he’d have her Woman of the House at the Furry +Farm. That calf, I needn’t say, was not the pick of +the bunch, but as Mickey thought to himself, a girl +wouldn’t know any better than choose a calf by the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245" id="page245"></a>245</span> +colour, and there would be no good wasting anything +of value on her. At all events, it would be “child’s +pig and Daddy’s bacon” most likely with that calf. +But sure, what matter! Rosy was never to have any +call to it, or anything else at the Furry Farm.</p> + +<p>Those calves were a very sweet lot, so that Mickey +might have been feeling all the pleasure in life, just +watching them, with their soft, little muzzles down in +the warm, sweet milk, snorting with the pure enjoyment. +But Mickey was only grousing to get done, and vexed +at the way the big calves were shoving the little ones +away, and still he couldn’t hinder them. Art used to +regulate them very simple by means of a little ash quick +he kept, to slap the forward calves across the face when +they’d get too impudent. But as often as Mickey had +seen him do that, he couldn’t do the same. The ash +quick was so close to him that if it had been any nearer +it would have bitten him. Stuck up in a corner of the +bit of ruin that had once been Castle Heffernan it was. +But it might as well have been in America for all the good +it was to Mickey.</p> + +<p>“I wish to God I was rid of the whole of yous, this +minute!” says he to himself, and he with his face all +red and steamy, and the milk slobbering out of the +pail down upon the ground, the way the calves were +butting him about the legs.</p> + +<p>That very minute, he heard a sound behind him. +He turned about, and, my dear! the heart jumped +into his mouth, as he saw a great, immense red face, +just peeping over the wall that shut in his yard from +the boreen. That wall was no more than four feet +high. Wouldn’t anyone think it strange to see such a +face, only that far from the ground! and it with a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246" id="page246"></a>246</span> +bushy, black beard around it, and big rolling eyes, +and a wide, old hat cocked back upon it? You’d have +to think it was something “not right”; an Appearance +or Witchery work of some kind.</p> + +<p>But, let alone that, isn’t there something very terrifying +and frightful in finding yourself being watched, +when you think you’re alone; and of all things, by a +man? The worst of a wild beast wouldn’t put the same +bad fear in your heart.</p> + +<p>“Good evening, Mr. Heffernan,” says the newcomer, +with a grin upon him, free and pleasant; “that’s a +fine lot of calves you have there!”</p> + +<p>Heffernan was so put about that he made no answer, +and the man went on to say, “Is it that you don’t know +me? Sure, you couldn’t forget poor old Hopping +Hughie as simple as that!”</p> + +<p>And he gave himself a shove, so that he raised his +shoulders above the wall. A brave, big pair they were, +too, but they were only just held up on crutches. +Hughie could balance himself upon them, and get +about, as handy as you please. But he was dead of his +two legs.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Hughie...!” says Heffernan, pretty stiff; +“well, and what do you want here?”</p> + +<p>“Och, nothing in life....”</p> + +<p>“Take it, then, and let you be off about your +business!” says Mickey, as quick as a flash, for once; +and he that was proud when he had it said!</p> + +<p>Hughie had a most notorious tongue himself, but he +knew when to keep it quiet, and he thought it as good to +appear very mild and down in himself now, so he said, +“My business! sure, what word is that to say to a poor +old fellah on chrutches! Not like you, Mr. Heffernan, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>247</span> +that’ll be off to the fair of Balloch to-morrow morning, +bright and early, with them grand fine calves of yours. +The price they’ll go! There isn’t the peel of them in +Ardenoo!”</p> + +<p>“Do you tell me that?” says Heffernan, that a child +could cheat.</p> + +<p>“That’s what they do be telling me,” says Hughie. +He could build a nest in your ear, he was that cunning. +He thought he saw a chance of getting to the fair himself, +and a night’s lodging as well, if he managed right.</p> + +<p>“I wish to goodness I could get them there, so,” +says Mickey, “and hasn’t one to drive them for me!”</p> + +<p>“Would I do?” says Hughie.</p> + +<p>Heffernan looked at him up and down.</p> + +<p>“Sure you’d not be able!”</p> + +<p>“Whoo! me not able? Maybe I’m like the singed +cat, better than I look! I’m slow, but fair and easy +goes far in a day! Never you fear but I’ll get your +calves to Balloch the same way the boy ate the cake, +very handy....”</p> + +<p>The simplest thing would have been for Heffernan +to take and drive the calves himself. But he never had +the fashion of doing such things. Anyway, it wouldn’t +answer for the people to see a man with a good means of +his own, like Mickey, turning drover that way.</p> + +<p>So he thought again, while Hughie watched him, and +then says he, “You’ll have to be off out of this before +the stars have left the sky!”</p> + +<p>“And why wouldn’t I?” says Hughie; “only give +me a bit of supper and a shakedown for the night, the +way I’ll be fresh for the road to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Hughie was looking to be put sitting down in the +kitchen alongside Heffernan himself, and to have the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>248</span> +settle-bed foreninst the fire to sleep in. But he had to +content himself with the straw in the barn and a plateful +carried out to him. Queer and slow-going Heffernan +might be, but he wasn’t thinking of having the likes of +Hopping Hughie in his chimney-corner, where he had +often thought to see little Rosy Rafferty and she smiling +at him.</p> + +<p>Hughie took it all very contented. Gay and happy +he was after his supper, and soon fell asleep on the +straw, with his ragged pockets that empty that the divil +could dance a hornpipe in them and not strike a copper +there; while Mickey above in bed in his own house, +with his fine farm and all his stock about him, calves and +cows and pigs, not to speak of the money in the old +stocking under the thatch ... Mickey couldn’t +sleep, only worrying, thinking was he right to go to sell +the calves at all; and to be letting Hughie drive them!</p> + +<p>“I had little to do,” he thought, “to be letting him in +about the place at all, and couldn’t tell what divilment +he might be up to, as soon as he gets me asleep! Hughie’s +terrible wicked, and as strong as a ditch! I done well +to speak him civil, anyway. But I’ll not let them calves +stir one peg out of this with him! I’d sooner risk +keeping them longer....”</p> + +<p>There’s the way he was going on, tossing and tumbling +and tormenting himself, as if bed wasn’t a place to rest +yourself in and not be raking up annoyances.</p> + +<p>So it wasn’t till near morning that Mickey dozed off, +and never wakened till it was more than time to be off to +the fair.</p> + +<p>Up he jumped and out to stop Hughie. But the yard +was silent and empty. Hughie and the calves were gone.</p> + +<p>Mickey was more uneasy than ever.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>249</span></p> + +<p>“A nice bosthoon I must be,” he thought, “to go +trust my good-looking calves to a k’nat like Hughie! +And he to go off without any breakfast, too...!”</p> + +<p>Heffernan was a good warrant to feed man or beast. +But he mightn’t have minded about Hughie, that had +plenty of little ways of providing for himself. His +pockets would be like sideboards, the way he would have +them stuck out with meat and eggs, and so on, that he +would be given along the road. Hughie was better fed +than plenty that bestowed food upon him.</p> + +<p>Balloch, where the fair is held, is the wildest and most +lonesome place in Ardenoo, with a steep, rough bit of +road leading up to it, very awkward to drive along. +Up this comes Heffernan, on his sidecar, driving his best, +and in a great hurry to know where he would come on +Hughie. He had it laid out in his own mind that sight nor +light of his calves he never would get in this world again. +So it was a great surprise to him to find them there +before him, safe and sound. His heart lightened at +that as if a mill-stone was lifted off it.</p> + +<p>And the fine appearance there was upon them. +Not a better spot in the fair-green than where Hughie +had them, opposite a drink-tent where the people would +be thronging most! And it was a choice spot for +Hughie too. Happy and contented he was, his back +against a tree, leaning his weight on one crutch and the +other convenient to his hand.</p> + +<p>“So there’s where you are,” says Hughie, a bit +scornful. Sure it was a foolish remark to pass and the +man there before him, as plain as the nose on your face. +But Hughie was puzzled too by the look of relief he saw +on Mickey’s face. He understood nothing of what +Heffernan was passing through. It’s an old saying and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>250</span> +a true one, “Them that has the world has care!” but +them that hasn’t it, what do they know about it?</p> + +<p>While Hughie was turning this over in his mind, +Mickey was throwing an eye upon the calves, and then, +seeing they were all right, he was bandying off with +himself, when Hughie said, “Terrible dry work it is, +driving stock along them dusty roads since the early +morning,” and he rubbed the back of his hand across +his mouth with a grin.</p> + +<p>At that, Mickey put his hand into his pocket and felt +round about, and then pulled it out empty.</p> + +<p>“I’ll see you later, Hughie,” says he, “I’ll not forget +you, never fear! Just let you wait here till I have the +poor mare attended to that drew me here....”</p> + +<p>So he went off to do this, and then into the drink-tent +with him, the way he could be getting a sup himself. +But no sign of he to give anything to Hughie. And +there now is where Mickey made a big mistake.</p> + +<p>He met up with a couple or three that he was +acquainted with in the tent, and they began to talk of +this thing and that thing, so that it was a gay little while +before Mickey came out again.</p> + +<p>When he did: “What sort is the drink in there, Mr. +Heffernan?” says Hughie.</p> + +<p>Now what Mickey had taken at that time was no more +than would warm the cockles of his heart. So he +looked quite pleasant and said, “Go in yourself, Hughie, +and here’s what will enable you to judge it!”</p> + +<p>And he held out a shilling to Hughie.</p> + +<p>“A bird never yet flew upon the one wing, Mr. +Heffernan!” said Hughie, that was looking to get another +shilling, and that would be only his due for driving +the calves.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id="page251"></a>251</span></p> + +<p>Mickey said nothing one way or the other, only went +off, and left Hughie standing there, holding out his hand +in front of him with the shilling in it, lonesome.</p> + +<p>He that was vexed! He got redder in the face than +ever, and gave out a few curses, till he remembered there +wasn’t one to hear him. So he stopped and went into +the tent and I needn’t say he got the best value he could +there.</p> + +<p>But all the time he was thinking how badly Heffernan +was after treating him, putting him off without enough +to see him through the fair even, let alone with a trifle +in his pockets to help him on his rounds. He began +planning how he could pay out Mickey.</p> + +<p>He got himself back to the same spot, near the calves, +to see what would happen. After a time, he saw +Heffernan coming back, and little Barney Maguire with +him. A very decent boy Barney was, quiet and agreeable; +never too anxious for work, but very knowledgable +about how things should be done, from a wake to a +sheep-shearing. Heffernan always liked to have Barney +with him at a fair.</p> + +<p>The two of them stood near the calves, careless-like, +as if they took no interest in them at all.</p> + +<p>A dealer came up.</p> + +<p>“How much for them calves? Not that I’m in need +of the like,” says he.</p> + +<p>“Nobody wants you to take them, so,” says Barney, +“but the price is three pounds ... or was it +guineas you’re after saying, Mr. Heffernan?”</p> + +<p>Heffernan said nothing, and the dealer spoke up very +fierce; “Three pounds! Put thirty shillings on them, +and I’ll be talking to ye!”</p> + +<p>Mickey again only looked at his adviser, and says +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>252</span> +Barney, “Thirty shillings! ’Tis you that’s bidding +wide, this day! May the Lord forgive you! Is it +wanting a present you are of the finest calves in +Ardenoo?”</p> + +<p>Heffernan swelled out with delight at that; as if +Barney’s word could make his calves either better or +worse.</p> + +<p>“Wasn’t it fifty-seven and sixpence you’re after telling +me you were offered only yesterday, Mr. Heffernan,” +says Barney, “just for the small ones of the lot?”</p> + +<p>“Och! I dare say! don’t you?” says the dealer; +“the woman that owns you it was that made you that +bid, to save your word!”</p> + +<p>Poor Mickey! and he hadn’t a woman at all! The +dealer of course being strange couldn’t know that, nor +why Hughie gave a laugh out of him.</p> + +<p>But that didn’t matter. Mickey took no notice. A +man that’s a bit “thick” escapes many a prod that +another would feel sharp. So in all things you can see +how them that are afflicted are looked after in some little +way we don’t know.</p> + +<p>The dealer looked at the calves again.</p> + +<p>“Troth, I’m thinking it’s the wrong ones yous have +here! Yous must have forgotten them fine three-pound +calves at home!”</p> + +<p>And Mickey began looking very anxiously at them, as +he thought maybe he had made some mistake.</p> + +<p>“Them calves,” says the dealer, slowly, “isn’t like +a pretty girl, that everyone will be looking to get! And, +besides, they’re no size! A terrible small calf they are!”</p> + +<p>“Small!” said Barney, “It’s too big they are! And +if they’re little itself, what harm! Isn’t a mouse the +prettiest animal you might ask to see?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>253</span></p> + +<p>“Ay, it is,” says the dealer, “but it’ll take a power of +mice to stock a farm!” and off with him in a real passion—by +the way of.</p> + +<p>But Barney knew better than to mind. The dealer +came back, and at long last the calves were sold and paid +for. Then the lucky-penny had to be given. Hard-set +Barney was to get Heffernan to do that. In the end +Mickey was so bothered over it that he dropped a shilling +just where Hughie was standing leaning his weight on +the one crutch as usual.</p> + +<p>As quick as a flash, he had the other up, and made a +kind of a lurch forward, as if to look for the money. But +he managed to get the second crutch down upon the +shilling, to hide it; and then he looked round about +the ground as innocent as a child, as if he was striving +his best to find the money for Mickey.</p> + +<p>“Where should it be, at all, at all?” says Mickey; +“bewitched it should be, to say it’s gone like that!”</p> + +<p>And Heffernan, standing there with his mouth open, +looked as if he had lost all belonging to him. Then he +began searching about a good piece off from where the +shilling fell.</p> + +<p>“It’s not there you’ll get it!” said Barney, “sure +you ought always look for a thing where you lost it!”</p> + +<p>He went over to Hughie.</p> + +<p>“None of your tricks, now! It’s you has Mr. +Heffernan’s money, and let you give it up to him!”</p> + +<p>“Is it me have it? Sure if I had, what would I do, +only hand it over to the man that owns it!” says Hughie.</p> + +<p>On the word, he let himself down upon the ground, +and slithered over on top of the shilling.</p> + +<p>But, quick and all as he was, Barney was quicker.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>254</span></p> + +<p>“Sure, you have it there, you vagabone, you! +Give it up, and get off out of this with yourself!”</p> + +<p>And he caught Hughie a clip on the side of the head that +sent him sprawling on the broad of his back. And there, +right enough, under him, was the shilling.</p> + +<p>So Barney picked it up, and for fear of any other +mistake, he handed it to the dealer.</p> + +<p>“It’s an ugly turn whatever, to be knocking a poor +cripple about that-a-way!” said the dealer, dropping +the lucky-penny into his pocket.</p> + +<p>“Ach, how poor he is, and let him be crippled, +itself!” says Barney; “it’s easy seeing you’re strange +to Ardenoo, or you’d not be compassionating Hughie +so tender!”</p> + +<p>No more was said then, only in the tent with them +again to wet the bargain. Hughie gathered himself +up. He was in the divil’s own temper. Small blame +to him, too! Let alone the disappointment about the +shilling, and the knock Barney gave him, the people +all had a laugh at him. And he liked that as little as +the next one. You’d think he’d curse down the stars +out of the skies this time, the way he went on.</p> + +<p>And it wasn’t Barney’s clout he cared about, half as +much as Mickey’s meanness. It was that had him so +mad. He felt he must pay Heffernan out.</p> + +<p>He considered a bit; then he gave his leg a slap.</p> + +<p>“I have it now!” he said to himself.</p> + +<p>He beckoned two young boys up to him, that were +striving to sell a load of cabbage plants they had there +upon the donkey’s back, and getting bad call for them.</p> + +<p>“It’s a poor trade yous are doing to-day,” said +Hughie; “and I was thinking in meself yous should be +very dry. You wouldn’t care to earn the price of a pint?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>255</span></p> + +<p>“How could we?” says the boys.</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you! Do you see that car?” and Hughie +pointed to where Heffernan had left his yoke drawn up, +and the old mare cropping a bit as well as she could, +being tied by the head; “well, anyone that will pull +the linch-pin out of the wheel, on the far side of the car, +needn’t be without tuppence to wet his whistle....” +and Hughie gave a rattle to a few coppers he had left in +his pocket.</p> + +<p>“Yous’ll have to be smart about it, too,” said he, +“or maybe whoever owns that car will have gone off +upon it, afore yous have time to do the primest bit of +fun that ever was seen upon this fair green!”</p> + +<p>“Whose is the car?”</p> + +<p>“Och, if I know!” says Hughie; “but what matter +for that? One man is as good as another at the bottom +of a ditch! ay, and better. It will be the height of +divarshin to see the roll-off they’ll get below there at +the foot of the hill....”</p> + +<p>“Maybe they’d get hurted!” said the boys.</p> + +<p>“Hurted, how-are-ye!” says Hughie; “how could +anyone get hurted so simple as that? I’d be the last +in the world to speak of such a thing in that case! But +if yous are afraid of doing it....”</p> + +<p>“Afraid! that’s queer talk to be having!” says one +of them, very stiff, for like all boys, he thought nothing +so bad as to have “afraid” said to him; “no, but +we’re ready to do as much as the next one!”</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t doubt yiz!” said Hughie; “h-away +with the two of you, now! Only mind! don’t let +on a word of this to any sons of man....”</p> + +<p>Off they went, and Hughie turned his back on them and +the car, and stared at whatever was going on the other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>256</span> +end of the fair. He hadn’t long to wait, before Heffernan +and Barney and the dealer came out of the drink-tent. +Hughie took a look at them out of the corner of his eye.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” he said to himself, “all ‘purty-well-I-thank-ye!’ +after what they drank inside! But, wait a bit, +Mickey Heffernan....”</p> + +<p>The three men went over to where Heffernan’s +car was waiting. The boys were gone. The other two +men helped Mickey to get his yoke ready. Then he +got up, and they shook hands a good many times. +Heffernan chucked at the reins and started off.</p> + +<p>Hughie was watching, and when he saw how steadily +the old mare picked her way down the steep boreen, +he began to be afraid he hadn’t hit on such a very fine +plan at all. And if Mickey had only had the wit to leave +it all to the poor dumb beast, she might have brought +him home safe enough.</p> + +<p>But nothing would to him, only give a shout and a +flourish of the whip, half-way down the hill. The mare +started and gave a jump. She was big and awk’ard, +much like Mickey himself. Still it was no fault of her +that, when she got to the turn, the wheel came off, +and rolled away to one side. Down came the car, +Mickey fell off, and there he lay, till some people that saw +what was going on ran down the hill after him, and got +the mare on to her feet, and not a scratch on her.</p> + +<p>But poor Mickey! It was easy to see with half an +eye that he was badly hurt.</p> + +<p>“Someone will have to drive him home, whatever,” +said Barney, coming up the hill to look for more help, +after doing his best to get Mickey to stand up; and sure, +how was he to do that, upon a broken leg? “A poor +thing it is, too, to see how a thing of the kind could occur +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>257</span> +so simple! and a decent man like Heffernan to be +nigh hand killed....”</p> + +<p>“‘Deed, and he is a decent man!” said Hughie; +“and why wouldn’t he? I’d be a decent man meself +if I had the Furry Farm and it stocked....”</p> + +<p>“He’s in a poor way now, in any case,” said Barney. +“I doubt will he ever get over this rightly! That’s apt +to be a leg to him all his life!”</p> + +<p>“Well, and so, itself!” said Hughie; “haven’t +I two of them lame legs? and who thinks to pity +Hughie?”</p> + +<p>“It’s another matter altogether, with a man like Mr. +Heffernan,” said Barney; “what does the like of you +miss, by not being able to get about, compared with a +man that might spend his time walking a-through his +cattle, and looking at his crops growing, every day in the +week?”</p> + +<p>“To be sure, he could be doing all that!” said +Hughie, “but when a thing of this kind happens out +so awkward, it’s the will of God, and the will of man +can’t abate that!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>258</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">Trinket’s Colt.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By E. Œ. Somerville and Martin Ross.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">It</span> was petty sessions day in Skebawn, a cold, grey +day in February. A case of trespass had dragged its +burden of cross-summonses and cross-swearing far into +the afternoon, and when I left the bench my head was +singing from the bellowings of the attorneys, and the +smell of their clients was heavy upon my palate.</p> + +<p>The streets still testified to the fact that it was market +day, and I evaded with difficulty the sinuous course +of carts full of soddenly screwed people, and steered +an equally devious one for myself among the groups +anchored round the doors of the public-houses. +Skebawn possesses, among its legion of public-houses, +one establishment which timorously, and almost imperceptibly, +proffers tea to the thirsty. I turned in there, +as was my custom on court days, and found the little +dingy den, known as the Ladies’ Coffee Room, in the +occupancy of my friend Mr. Florence McCarthy Knox, +who was drinking strong tea and eating buns with +serious simplicity. It was a first and quite unexpected +glimpse of that domesticity that has now become a marked +feature in his character.</p> + +<p>“You’re the very man I wanted to see,” I said, as +I sat down beside him at the oilcloth covered table; “a +man I know in England who is not much of a judge of +character has asked me to buy him a four-year-old +down here, and as I should rather be stuck by a friend +than a dealer, I wish you’d take over the job.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>259</span></p> + +<p>Flurry poured himself out another cup of tea, and +dropped three lumps of sugar into it in silence.</p> + +<p>Finally he said, “There isn’t a four-year-old in this +country that I’d be seen dead with at a pig fair.”</p> + +<p>This was discouraging, from the premier authority +on horseflesh in the district.</p> + +<p>“But it isn’t six weeks since you told me you had the +finest filly in your stables that was ever foaled in the +County Cork,” I protested; “what’s wrong with her?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, is it that filly?” said Mr. Knox, with a lenient +smile; “she’s gone these three weeks from me. I +swapped her and £6 for a three-year-old Ironmonger +colt, and after that I swapped the colt and £19 for that +Bandon horse I rode last week at your place, and after +that again I sold the Bandon horse for £75 to old Welply, +and I had to give him back a couple of sovereigns luck-money. +You see, I did pretty well with the filly after all.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes—oh, rather,” I assented, as one dizzily +accepts the propositions of a bimetallist; “and you +don’t know of anything else——?”</p> + +<p>The room in which we were seated was closed from +the shop by a door with a muslin-curtained window +in it; several of the panes were broken, and at this +juncture two voices, that had for some time carried on +a discussion, forced themselves upon our attention.</p> + +<p>“Begging your pardon for contradicting you, ma’am,” +said the voice of Mrs. McDonald, proprietress of the +tea-shop, and a leading light in Skebawn Dissenting +circles, shrilly tremulous with indignation, “if the +servants I recommend you won’t stop with you, it’s no +fault of mine. If respectable young girls are set picking +grass out of your gravel, in place of their proper work, +certainly they will give warning!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page260" id="page260"></a>260</span></p> + +<p>The voice that replied struck me as being a notable +one, well-bred and imperious.</p> + +<p>“When I take a bare-footed slut out of a cabin, I +don’t expect her to dictate to me what her duties are!”</p> + +<p>Flurry jerked up his chin in a noiseless laugh. “It’s +my grandmother!” he whispered. “I bet you Mrs. +McDonald don’t get much change out of her!”</p> + +<p>“If I set her to clean the pig-sty I expect her to +obey me,” continued the voice in accents that would +have made me clean forty pig-stys had she desired me +to do so.</p> + +<p>“Very well, ma’am,” retorted Mrs. McDonald, “if +that’s the way you treat your servants, you needn’t +come here again looking for them. I consider your +conduct is neither that of a lady nor a Christian!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you, indeed?” replied Flurry’s grandmother. +“Well, your opinion doesn’t greatly distress me, for, +to tell you the truth, I don’t think you’re much of a +judge.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t I tell you she’d score?” murmured Flurry, +who was by this time applying his eye to the hole in +the muslin curtain. “She’s off,” he went on, returning +to his tea. “She’s a great character! She’s eighty-three, +if she’s a day, and she’s as sound on her legs +as a three-year-old! Did you see that old shandrydan +of hers in the street a while ago, and a fellow on the +box with a red beard on him like Robinson Crusoe? +That old mare that was on the near side, Trinket her name +is—is mighty near clean bred. I can tell you her foals +are worth a bit of money.”</p> + +<p>I had heard of old Mrs. Knox of Aussolas; indeed, I +had seldom dined out in the neighbourhood without +hearing some new story of her and her remarkable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>261</span> +ménage, but it had not yet been my privilege to meet +her.</p> + +<p>“Well, now,” went on Flurry, in his low voice, “I’ll +tell you a thing that’s just come into my head. My +grandmother promised me a foal of Trinket’s the day +I was one-and-twenty, and that’s five years ago, and deuce +a one I’ve got from her yet. You never were at +Aussolas? No, you were not. Well, I tell you the +place there is like a circus with horses. She has a couple +of score of them running wild in the woods, like deer.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, come,” I said, “I’m a bit of a liar myself——”</p> + +<p>“Well, she has a dozen of them, anyhow, rattling +good colts, too, some of them, but they might as well +be donkeys for all the good they are to me or any one. +It’s not once in three years she sells one, and there +she has them walking after her for bits of sugar, like a +lot of dirty lapdogs,” ended Flurry with disgust.</p> + +<p>“Well, what’s your plan? Do you want me to make +her a bid for one of the lapdogs?”</p> + +<p>“I was thinking,” replied Flurry, with great deliberation, +“that my birthday’s this week, and maybe I +could work a four-year-old colt of Trinket’s she has +out of her in honour of the occasion.”</p> + +<p>“And sell your grandmother’s birthday present +to me?”</p> + +<p>“Just that, I suppose,” answered Flurry, with a +slow wink.</p> + +<p>A few days afterwards a letter from Mr. Knox +informed me that he had “squared the old lady, and it +would be all right about the colt!” He further told +me that Mrs. Knox had been good enough to offer me, +with him, a day’s snipe shooting on the celebrated +Aussolas bogs, and he proposed to drive me there the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262" id="page262"></a>262</span> +following Monday, if convenient, to shoot the Aussolas +snipe bog when they got the chance. Eight o’clock +on the following Monday morning saw Flurry, myself, +and a groom packed into a dog-cart, with portmanteaus, +gun-cases, and two rampant red setters.</p> + +<p>It was a long drive, twelve miles at least, and a very +cold one. We passed through long tracts of pasture +country, filled for Flurry, with memories of runs, which +were recorded for me, fence by fence, in every one of +which the biggest dog-fox in the country had gone to +ground, with not two feet—measured accurately on the +handle of the whip—between him and the leading hound; +through bogs that imperceptibly melted into lakes, +and finally down and down into a valley, where the +fir-trees of Aussolas clustered darkly round a glittering +lake, and all but hid the grey roofs and pointed gables +of Aussolas Castle.</p> + +<p>“There’s a nice stretch of a demesne for you,” +remarked Flurry, pointing downwards with the whip, +“and one little old woman holding it all in the heel of +her fist. Well able to hold it she is, too, and always +was, and she’ll live twenty years yet, if it’s only to +spite the whole lot of us, and when all’s said and done, +goodness knows how she’ll leave it!”</p> + +<p>“It strikes me you were lucky to keep her up to her +promise about the colt,” said I.</p> + +<p>Flurry administered a composing kick to the ceaseless +strivings of the red setters under the seat.</p> + +<p>“I used to be rather a pet with her,” he said, after +a pause; “but mind you, I haven’t got him yet, and +if she gets any notion I want to sell him I’ll never get +him, so say nothing about the business to her.”</p> + +<p>The tall gates of Aussolas shrieked on their hinges +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page263" id="page263"></a>263</span> +as they admitted us, and shut with a clang behind us, +in the faces of an old mare and a couple of young horses, +who, foiled in their break for the excitements of the outer +world, turned and galloped defiantly on either side of +us. Flurry’s admirable cob hammered on, regardless +of all things save his duty.</p> + +<p>“He’s the only one I have that I’d trust myself +here with,” said his master, flicking him approvingly +with the whip; “there are plenty of people afraid to come +here at all, and when my grandmother goes out driving, +she has a boy on the box with a basket full of stones to +peg at them. Talk of the dickens, here she is herself!”</p> + +<p>A short, upright old woman was approaching, preceded +by a white woolly dog with sore eyes and a bark like +a tin trumpet; we both got out of the trap and advanced +to meet the Lady of the Manor.</p> + +<p>I may summarise her attire by saying that she looked +as if she had robbed a scarecrow; her face was small +and incongruously refined, the skinny hand that she +extended to me had the grubby tan that bespoke the +professional gardener, and was decorated with a magnificent +diamond ring. On her head was a massive +purple velvet bonnet.</p> + +<p>“I am very glad to meet you, Major Yeates,” she +said, with an old-fashioned precision of utterance; +“your grandfather was a dancing partner of mine in +old days at the Castle, when he was a handsome young +aide-de-camp there, and I was—you may judge for +yourself what I was.”</p> + +<p>She ended with a startling little hoot of laughter, +and I was aware that she quite realised the world’s +opinion of her, and was indifferent to it.</p> + +<p>Our way to the bogs took us across Mrs. Knox’s +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264" id="page264"></a>264</span> +home farm, and through a large field in which several +young horses were grazing.</p> + +<p>“There, now, that’s my fellow,” said Flurry, pointing +to a fine-looking colt, “the chestnut with the white +diamond on his forehead. He’ll run into three figures +before he’s done, but we’ll not tell that to the ould lady!”</p> + +<p>The famous Aussolas bogs were as full of snipe as +usual, and a good deal fuller of water than any bogs I +had ever shot before. I was on my day, and Flurry was +not, and as he is ordinarily an infinitely better snipe +shot than I, I felt at peace with the world and all men +as we walked back, wet through, at five o’clock.</p> + +<p>The sunset had waned and a big white moon was +making the eastern tower of Aussolas look like a thing +in a fairy tale or a play when we arrived at the hall door. +An individual, whom I recognised as the Robinson +Crusoe coachman, admitted us to a hall, the like of +which one does not often see. The walls were +panelled with dark oak up to the gallery that ran round +three sides of it, the balusters of the wide staircase were +heavily carved, and blackened portraits of Flurry’s +ancestors on the spindle side, stared sourly down on +their descendant as he tramped upstairs with the bog +mould on his hobnailed boots.</p> + +<p>We had just changed into dry clothes when Robinson +Crusoe shoved his red beard round the corner of the +door, with the information that the mistress said we were +to stay for dinner. My heart sank. It was then barely +half-past five. I said something about having no +evening clothes, and having to get home early.</p> + +<p>“Sure, the dinner’ll be in another half-hour,” said +Robinson Crusoe, joining hospitably in the conversation; +“and as for evening clothes—God bless ye!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page265" id="page265"></a>265</span></p> + +<p>The door closed behind him.</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” said Flurry, “I dare say you’ll be +glad enough to eat another dinner by the time you +get home,” he laughed. “Poor Slipper!” he added, +inconsequently, and only laughed again when I asked for +an explanation.</p> + +<p>Old Mrs. Knox received us in the library, where she +was seated by a roaring turf fire, which lit the room a +good deal more effectively than the pair of candles +that stood beside her in tall silver candlesticks. Ceaseless +and implacable growls from under her chair indicated +the presence of the woolly dog. She talked with confounding +culture of the books that rose all round her +to the ceiling; her evening dress was accomplished +by means of an additional white shawl, rather dirtier +than its congeners; as I took her in to dinner she quoted +Virgil to me, and in the same breath screeched an +objurgation at a being whose matted head rose suddenly +into view from behind an ancient Chinese screen, as +I have seen the head of a Zulu woman peer over a bush.</p> + +<p>Dinner was as incongruous as everything else. +Detestable soup in a splendid old silver tureen that was +nearly as dark in hue as Robinson Crusoe’s thumb; +a perfect salmon, perfectly cooked, on a chipped kitchen +dish; such cut glass as is not easy to find nowadays; +sherry that, as Flurry subsequently remarked, would +burn the shell off an egg; and a bottle of port, draped +in immemorial cobwebs, wan with age, and probably +priceless. Throughout the vicissitudes of the meal +Mrs. Knox’s conversation flowed on undismayed, +directed sometimes at me—she had installed me in the +position of friend of her youth, and talked to me as if +I were my own grandfather—sometimes at Crusoe, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266" id="page266"></a>266</span> +with whom she had several heated arguments, and sometimes +she would make a statement of remarkable frankness +on the subject of her horse-farming affairs to Flurry, +who, very much on his best behaviour, agreed with +all she said, and risked no original remark. As I listened +to them both, I remembered with infinite amusement +how he had told me once that “a pet name she had +for him was ‘Tony Lumpkin,’ and no one but herself +knew what she meant by it.” It seemed strange that +she made no allusion to Trinket’s colt or to Flurry’s +birthday, but, mindful of my instructions, I held my +peace.</p> + +<p>As, at about half-past eight, we drove away in the moonlight, +Flurry congratulated me solemnly on my success +with his grandmother. He was good enough to tell me +that she would marry me to-morrow if I asked her, and +he wished I would, even if it was only to see what a nice +grandson he’d be for me. A sympathetic giggle behind +me told me that Michael, on the back seat, had heard +and relished the jest.</p> + +<p>We had left the gates of Aussolas about half-a-mile +behind, when, at the corner of a by-road, Flurry pulled +up. A short, squat figure arose from the black shadow +of a furze bush and came out into the moonlight, +swinging its arms like a cabman, and cursing audibly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, murdher, oh, murdher, Misther Flurry! +What kept ye at all? ‘Twould perish the crows to +be waiting here the way I am these two hours—”</p> + +<p>“Ah, shut your mouth, Slipper!” said Flurry, who, +to my surprise, had turned back the rug and was taking +off his driving coat, “I couldn’t help it. Come on, +Yeates, we’ve got to get out here.”</p> + +<p>“What for?” I asked, in not unnatural bewilderment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page267" id="page267"></a>267</span></p> + +<p>“It’s all right. I’ll tell you as we go along,” replied +my companion, who was already turning to follow +Slipper up the by-road. “Take the trap on, Michael, +and wait at the River’s Cross.” He waited for me to +come up with him, and then put his hand on my arm. +“You see, Major, this is the way it is. My grandmother’s +given me that colt right enough, but if I waited for her +to send him over to me I’d never see a hair of his tail. +So I just thought that as we were over here we might as +well take him back with us, and maybe you’ll give us +a help with him; he’ll not be altogether too handy +for a first go off.”</p> + +<p>I was staggered. An infant in arms could scarcely +have failed to discern the fishiness of the transaction, +and I begged Mr. Knox not to put himself to this trouble +on my account, as I had no doubt I could find a horse +for my friend elsewhere. Mr. Knox assured me that +it was no trouble at all, quite the contrary, and that, +since his grandmother had given him the colt, he saw +no reason why he should not take him when he wanted +him; also, that if I didn’t want him he’d be glad enough +to keep him himself; and, finally, that I wasn’t the +chap to go back on a friend, but I was welcome to drive +back to Shreelane with Michael this minute, if I +liked.</p> + +<p>Of course, I yielded in the end. I told Flurry I +should lose my job over the business, and he said I +could then marry his grandmother, and the discussion +was abruptly closed by the necessity of following Slipper +over a locked five-barred gate.</p> + +<p>Our pioneer took us over about half-a-mile of country, +knocking down stone gaps where practicable, and +scrambling over tall banks in the deceptive moonlight. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268" id="page268"></a>268</span> +We found ourselves at length in a field with a shed +in one corner of it; in a dim group of farm buildings; +a little way off a light was shining.</p> + +<p>“Wait here,” said Flurry to me in a whisper; “the +less noise the better. It’s an open shed, and we’ll just +slip in and coax him out.”</p> + +<p>Slipper unwound from his waist a halter, and my +colleagues glided like spectres into the shadow of the +shed, leaving me to meditate on my duties as Resident +Magistrate, and on the questions that would be asked +in the House by our local member when Slipper had +given away the adventure in his cups.</p> + +<p>In less than a minute three shadows emerged from the +shed, where two had gone in. They had got the colt.</p> + +<p>“He came out as quiet as a calf when he winded the +sugar,” said Flurry; “it was well for me I filled my +pockets from grandmamma’s sugar basin.”</p> + +<p>He and Slipper had a rope from each side of the colt’s +head; they took him quickly across a field towards a +gate. The colt stepped daintily between them over the +moonlit grass; he snorted occasionally, but appeared +on the whole amenable.</p> + +<p>The trouble began later, and was due, as trouble often +is, to the beguilements of a short cut. Against the +maturer judgment of Slipper, Flurry insisted on following +a route that he assured us he knew as well as his own +pocket, and the consequence was, that in about five +minutes I found myself standing on top of a bank +hanging on to a rope, on the other end of which the colt +dangled and danced, while Flurry, with the other rope, +lay prone in the ditch, and Slipper administered to the +bewildered colt’s hindquarters such chastisement as +could be ventured on.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page269" id="page269"></a>269</span></p> + +<p>I have no space to narrate in detail the atrocious +difficulties and disasters of the short cut. How the colt +set to work to buck, and went away across a field, +dragging the faithful Slipper, literally <i>ventre-à-terre</i>, +after him, while I picked myself in ignominy out of a +briar patch, and Flurry cursed himself black in the face. +How we were attacked by ferocious cur dogs and I lost +my eyeglass; and how, as we neared the river’s Cross, +Flurry espied the police patrol on the road, and we all +hid behind a rick of turf, while I realised in fulness +what an exceptional ass I was, to have been beguiled +into an enterprise that involved hiding with Slipper +from the Royal Irish Constabulary.</p> + +<p>Let it suffice to say that Trinket’s infernal offspring +was finally handed over on the highroad to Michael +and Slipper, and Flurry drove me home in a state of +mental and physical overthrow.</p> + +<p>I saw nothing of my friend Mr. Knox for the next +couple of days, by the end of which time I had worked +up a high polish on my misgivings, and had determined +to tell him that under no circumstances would I have +anything to say to his grandmother’s birthday present. +It was like my usual luck that, instead of writing +a note to this effect, I thought it would be good for +my liver to walk across the hills to Tory Cottage and tell +Flurry so in person.</p> + +<p>It was a bright, blustery morning, after a muggy +day. The feeling of spring was in the air, the daffodils +were already in bud, and crocuses showed purple in +the grass on either side of the avenue. It was only a +couple of miles to Tory Cottage, by the way across +the hills; I walked fast, and it was barely twelve o’clock +when I saw its pink walls and clumps of evergreens +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page270" id="page270"></a>270</span> +below me. As I looked down at it, the chiming of +Flurry’s hounds in the kennels came to me on the wind; +I stood still to listen, and could almost have sworn +that I was hearing the clash of Magdalen bells, hard +at work on May morning.</p> + +<p>The path that I was following led downwards through +a larch plantation to Flurry’s back gate. Hot wafts +from some hideous cauldron at the other side of a wall +apprised me of the vicinity of the kennels and their +<i>cuisine</i>, and the fir-trees round were hung with gruesome +and unknown joints. I thanked heaven that I was not +a master of hounds, and passed on as quickly as might +be to the hall door.</p> + +<p>I rang two or three times without response; then the +door opened a couple of inches, and was instantly +slammed in my face. I heard the hurried paddling of +bare feet on oilcloth, and a voice, “Hurry, Bridgie, +hurry! There’s quality at the door!”</p> + +<p>Bridgie, holding a dirty cap on with one hand, +presently arrived and informed me that she believed +that Mr. Knox was out about the place. She seemed +perturbed, and she cast scared glances down the drive +while speaking to me.</p> + +<p>I knew enough of Flurry’s habits to shape a tolerably +direct course for his whereabouts. He was, as I had +expected, in the training paddock, a field behind the +stable-yard, in which he had put up practice jumps for +his horses. It was a good-sized field with clumps of +furze in it, and Flurry was standing near one of these +with his hands in his pockets, singularly unoccupied. +I supposed that he was prospecting for a place to put +up another jump. He did not see me coming, and turned +with a start as I spoke to him. There was a queer +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page271" id="page271"></a>271</span> +expression of mingled guilt and what I can only describe +as divilment in his grey eyes as he greeted me. In my +dealings with Flurry Knox, I have since formed +the habit of sitting tight, in a general way, when I see +that expression.</p> + +<p>“Well, who’s coming next, I wonder!” he said, +as he shook hands with me; “it’s not ten minutes +since I had two of your d——d peelers here searching +the whole place for my grandmother’s colt!”</p> + +<p>“What!” I exclaimed, feeling cold all down my +back; “do you mean the police have got hold of it?”</p> + +<p>“They haven’t got hold of the colt, anyway,” said +Flurry, looking sideways at me from under the peak of his +cap, with the glint of the sun in his eye. “I got word +in time before they came.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” I demanded; “where is +he? For Heaven’s sake don’t tell me you’ve sent the +brute over to my place!”</p> + +<p>“It’s a good job for you I didn’t,” replied Flurry, +“as the police are on their way to Shreelane this +minute to consult you about it. You!” He gave +utterance to one of his short, diabolical fits of laughter. +“He’s where they’ll not find him, anyhow. Ho! +ho! It’s the funniest hand I ever played!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, it’s devilish funny, I’ve no doubt,” I +retorted, beginning to lose my temper, as is the manner +of many people when they are frightened; “but, I +give you fair warning that if Mrs. Knox asks me any +questions about it, I shall tell her the whole story.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” responded Flurry; “and when you do, +don’t forget to tell her how you flogged the colt out on +to the road over her own bound’s ditch.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page272" id="page272"></a>272</span></p> + +<p>“Very well,” I said, hotly, “I may as well go home +and send in my papers. They’ll break me over +this—”</p> + +<p>“Ah, hold on, Major,” said Flurry, soothingly, +“it’ll be all right. No one knows anything. It’s only +on spec’ the old lady sent the Bobbies here. If you’ll +keep quiet it’ll all blow over.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care,” I said, struggling hopelessly in the +toils; “if I meet your grandmother, and she asks me +about it, I shall tell her all I know.”</p> + +<p>“Please God you’ll not meet her! After all, it’s not +once in a blue moon that she——” began Flurry. Even +as he said the words his face changed. “Holy fly!” +he ejaculated, “isn’t that her dog coming into the field? +Look at her bonnet over the wall! Hide, hide, for your +life!” He caught me by the shoulder and shoved me +down among the furze bushes before I realised what +had happened.</p> + +<p>“Get in there! I’ll talk to her.”</p> + +<p>I may as well confess that at the mere sight of Mrs. +Knox’s purple bonnet my heart had turned to water. +In that moment I knew what it would be like to tell her +how I, having eaten her salmon, and capped her quotations, +and drunk her best port, had gone forth and helped +to steal her horse. I abandoned my dignity, my sense +of honour; I took the furze prickles to my breast and +wallowed in them.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Knox had advanced with vengeful speed; +already she was in high altercation with Flurry at no +great distance from where I lay; varying sounds of +battle reached me, and I gathered that Flurry was not—to +put it mildly—shrinking from that economy of truth +that the situation required.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page273" id="page273"></a>273</span></p> + +<p>“Is it that curby, long-backed brute? You promised +him to me long ago, but I wouldn’t be bothered with +him.”</p> + +<p>The old lady uttered a laugh of shrill derision. “Is +it likely I’d promise you my best colt? And still more, +is it likely that you’d refuse him if I did?”</p> + +<p>“Very well, ma’am,” Flurry’s voice was admirably +indignant. “Then I suppose I’m a liar and a thief.”</p> + +<p>“I’d be more obliged to you for the information +if I hadn’t known it before,” responded his grandmother +with lightning speed; “if you swore to me on a stack +of Bibles you knew nothing about my colt I wouldn’t +believe you! I shall go straight to Major Yeates and +ask his advice. I believe him to be a gentleman, in +spite of the company he keeps!”</p> + +<p>I writhed deeper into the furze bushes, and thereby +discovered a sandy rabbit run, along which I crawled, +with my cap well over my eyes, and the furze needles +stabbing me through my stockings. The ground shelved +a little, promising profounder concealment, but the +bushes were very thick, and I had hold of the bare stem +of one to help my progress. It lifted out of the ground +in my hand, revealing a freshly-cut stump. Something +snorted, not a yard away; I glared through the opening, +and was confronted by the long, horrified face of Mrs. +Knox’s colt, mysteriously on a level with my own.</p> + +<p>Even without the white diamond on his forehead +I should have divined the truth; but how in the name +of wonder had Flurry persuaded him to couch like a +woodcock in the heart of a furze brake? For a minute +I lay as still as death for fear of frightening him, while +the voices of Flurry and his grandmother raged on +alarmingly close to me. The colt snorted, and blew +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274" id="page274"></a>274</span> +long breaths through his wide nostrils, but he did not +move. I crawled an inch or two nearer, and after a +few seconds of cautious peering I grasped the position. +They had buried him!</p> + +<p>A small sandpit among the furze had been utilised as +a grave; they had filled him in up to his withers with +sand, and a few furze bushes, artistically disposed +round the pit had done the rest. As the depth of +Flurry’s guile was revealed, laughter came upon me like +a flood; I gurgled and shook apoplectically, and the +colt gazed at me with serious surprise, until a sudden +outburst of barking close to my elbow administered a +fresh shock to my tottering nerves.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Knox’s woolly dog had tracked me into the +furze, and was now baying the colt and me with mingled +terror and indignation. I addressed him in a whisper, +with perfidious endearments, advancing a crafty hand +towards him the while, made a snatch for the back of +his neck, missed it badly, and got him by the ragged +fleece of his hind-quarters as he tried to flee. If I had +flayed him alive he could hardly have uttered a more +deafening series of yells, but, like a fool, instead of +letting him go, I dragged him towards me, and tried +to stifle the noise by holding his muzzle. The tussle +lasted engrossingly for a few seconds, and then the +climax of the nightmare arrived.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Knox’s voice, close behind me, said, “Let go +my dog this instant, sir! Who are you——”</p> + +<p>Her voice faded away, and I knew that she also had +seen the colt’s head.</p> + +<p>I positively felt sorry for her. At her age there was +no knowing what effect the shock might have on her. +I scrambled to my feet and confronted her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page275" id="page275"></a>275</span></p> + +<p>“Major Yeates!” she said. There was a deathly +pause. “Will you kindly tell me,” said Mrs. Knox, +slowly, “am I in Bedlam, or are you? And what is +that?”</p> + +<p>She pointed to the colt, and the unfortunate animal, +recognising the voice of his mistress, uttered a hoarse +and lamentable whinny. Mrs. Knox felt around her +for support, found only furze prickles, gazed speechlessly +at me, and then, to her eternal honour, fell into +wild cackles of laughter.</p> + +<p>So, I may say, did Flurry and I. I embarked on my +explanation and broke down. Flurry followed suit +and broke down, too. Overwhelming laughter held us +all three, disintegrating our very souls. Mrs. Knox +pulled herself together first.</p> + +<p>“I acquit you, Major Yeates, I acquit you, though +appearances are against you. It’s clear enough to me +you’ve fallen among thieves.” She stopped and glowered +at Flurry. Her purple bonnet was over one eye. “I’ll +thank you, sir,” she said, “to dig out that horse before +I leave this place. And when you’ve dug him out you +may keep him. I’ll be no receiver of stolen goods!”</p> + +<p>She broke off and shook her fist at him. “Upon my +conscience, Tony, I’d give a guinea to have thought +of it myself!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page276" id="page276"></a>276</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Wee Tea Table.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Irish Pastorals.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Shan Bullock (1865-).</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Somewhere</span> near the hill-hedge, with their arms bare, +skirts tucked up, and faces peering from the depths of +big sunbonnets, Anne Daly and Judy Brady were +gathering the hay into long, narrow rows; one raking +this side of a row, the other that, and both sweetening +toil with laughter and talk. Sometimes Anne leaned +on her rake and chattered for a while; now Judy said +a word or two and ended with a titter; again, both bobbed +heads and broke into merriment. I came nearer to +them, got ready my rake, and began on a fresh row.</p> + +<p>The talk was of a woman, of her and her absurdities.</p> + +<p>“I’ve come to help you to laugh, Anne,” said I. +“What friend is this of yours and Judy’s that you’re +stripping of her character?”</p> + +<p>“The lassie,” said Anne, “we were talkin’ about +is a marrit woman—one Hannah Breen be name—an’ +she lives in a big house on the side of a hill over there +towards the mountain. The husband’s a farmer—an +easy-goin’, bull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, +wi’ a good word for ould Satan himself, an’ a laugh +always ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah, +isn’t that kind. Aw, ‘deed she isn’t. ’Tisn’t much +good-speakin’ or laughin’ Hannah’ll be doin’; ’tisn’t +herself’d get many cars to follow her funeral in these +parts. Aw, no. ’Tisn’t milkin’ the cows, an’ makin’ +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>277</span> +the butter, an’ washin’ John’s shirts, an’ darnin’ his +socks, an’ mendin’ her own tatters, an’ huntin’ the +chickens from the porridge-pot, Hannah was made for. +Aw, no. It’s a lady Hannah must be, a real live lady. +It’s step out o’ bed at eight o’clock in the mornin’, Hannah +must do, an’ slither down to her tay an’ have it all in +grandeur in the parlour; it’s sittin’ half the day she must +be, readin’ about the doin’s o’ the quality, an’ the goin’s +on o’ the world, an’ squintin’ at fashion-pictures, an’ +fillin’ her mind wi’ the height o’ nonsense an’ foolery; +it’s rise from the table in a tantrum she must do because +John smacks his lips, an’ ates his cabbage wi’ his knife; +it’s worry the poor man out o’ his mind she’d be after +because he lies and snores on the kitchen table, an’ +smokes up to bed, an’ won’t shave more’n once a week, +an’ says he’d rather be hanged at once nor be choked +up in a white shirt an’ collar o’ Sundays. An’ for +herself—aw, now, it’d take me from this till sunset +to tell ye about all her fooleries. If you’d only see her, +Mr. John, stalkin’ in through the chapel gates, wi’ her +skirts tucked up high enough to show the frillin’ on her +white petticoat, an’ low enough to hide the big tear +in it; an’ black kid gloves on her fists; an’ a bonnet +on her wi’out a string to it; an’ light shoes on her; +an’ a big hole in the heel o’ her stockin’; and her nose +in the air; an’ her sniffin’ at us all just as if we were the +tenants at the butter-show an’ herself My Lady come to +prance before us all an’ make herself agreeable for five +minutes or so.... Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, +“if ye could only see her, Mr. John.”</p> + +<p>“An’ to see her steppin’ down Bunn Street,” Anne +went on, as we turned at the hedge, and set our faces +once more towards the river, “as if the town belonged +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>278</span> +to her—a ribbon flutterin’ here, an’ a buckle shinin’ +there, an’ a feather danglin’ another place—steppin’ +along wi’ her butter-basket on her arm, an’ big John +draggin’ at her heels, an’ that look on her face you’d +expect to see on the face o’ the Queen o’ France walkin’ +on a gold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! +An’ to see the airs of her when someone’d spake; an’ +to see the murderin’ look on her when someone’d hint +at a drop o’whiskey for the good of her health; an’ +to hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers—that +soft an’ po-lite; an’ to see her sittin’ in the ould +ramshackle of a cart goin’ home, as straight in the back +an’ as stiff as a ramrod, an’ her face set like a plaster +image, an’ her niver lettin’ her eye fall on John sittin’ +beside her, an’ him as drunk an’ merry as a houseful +o’ fiddlers! Aw, sure,” cried Anne, flinging up a hand, +“aw, sure, it’s past the power o’ mortial tongue to tell +about her.”</p> + +<p>“Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, +for all that,” said I.</p> + +<p>“Ach, I’m only bleatherin’,” said Anne. “If ye +only knew her—only did.”</p> + +<p>“Well, tell me all about her,” said I, “before your +tongue gets tired.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, sure, an’ I will,” replied she; “sure, an’ I’ll +try me hand at it.”</p> + +<p>“One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah—beggin’ +her ladyship’s pardon,” said Anne, a sudden +note of scorn rasping in her voice, “but I meant Mrs. +Breen—decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on +her kid gloves, an’ steps out through the hall door. +Down she goes, over the ruts an’ the stones, along the +lane, turns down the main road; after a while comes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>279</span> +to the house o’ Mrs. Flaherty—herself that told me—crosses +the street, an’ knocks po-lite on the door.</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day?’ +axes Hannah when the door opens, an’ wee Nancy put +her tattered head between it an’ the post. ‘Is Mrs. +Flaherty at home?’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘She is so,’ answers Nancy; ‘but she’d be out at +the well,’ says the wee crature.</p> + +<p>“‘I see,’ says Hannah, ‘I see. Then, if you please, +when she comes back,’ says she, ‘would you be kindly +handin’ her that, wi’ Mrs. Breen’s compliments’—an’ +out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to Nancy, +says good evenin’ to the wee mortial, gathers up her +skirt, an’ steps off in her grandeur through the hens +an’ ducks back to the road. Well, on she goes another +piece, an’ comes to the house of Mary Dolan; an’ +there, too, faith, she does the genteel an’ leaves another +letter an’ turns her feet for the house of Mrs. Hogan; +an’ at Sally’s she smiles, an’ bobs her head, an’ pulls +another letter from her pocket, an’ leaves it at the door; +then twists on her heel, turns back home an’ begins +dustin’ the parlours, an’ arrangin’ her trumpery an’ +readin’ bleather from the fashion papers.</p> + +<p>“Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the +well, an’ there’s Nancy wi’ the letter in her fist. ‘What +the divil’s this?’ says Jane, an’ tears it open; an’ there, +lo an’ behold ye, is a bit of a card—Jane swears ’twas a +piece of a bandbox, but I’d be disbelievin’ her—an’ +on it an invite to come an’ have tay with me bould +Hannah, on the next Wednesday evenin’ at five o’clock +p.m.—whativer in glory p.m. may be after meanin’; +when Mary Dolan opens hers, there’s the same invite; +an’ when Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>280</span> +bit of a card on the floor; an’ Sally laughs, an’ Mary +laughs, an’ Jane laughs, an’ the three o’ them, what wi’ +the quareness o’ the business, an’ the curiosity of them +to see Hannah at her capers, put their heads together, +an’ laughs again, an’ settles it that sorrow take them, +but go they’ll go. An’ go they did. Aw, yis ... +Aw, Lord, Lord,” laughed Anne, turning up her eyes. +“Lord, Lord!”</p> + +<p>“Aw, childer, dear,” giggled Judy, with a heaving +of her narrow shoulders. “Aw, go they did!”</p> + +<p>“Good girl, Anne,” said I, and slapped my leg “my +roarin’ girl! Aw, an’ go they did, Judy—go they did.”</p> + +<p>“Well, hearts alive,” Anne went on, “Wednesday +evenin’ comes at last; an’ sharp at five o’clock up me +brave Jane Flaherty steps along the lane, crosses the yard, +an’ mindin’ her manners, knocks twice on Hannah’s +back door—then turns, an’ wi’ the dog yelpin’ at her, +an’ the gander hissin’ like a wet stick on a fire, waits +like a beggarwoman on the step. But divil a one comes +to the door; aw, not a one. An’ sorrow a soul budged +inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns Jane, lifts her +fist again, hits the door three thundering bangs, an’ looks +another while at the gander. Not a budge in the door, +not a move inside; so Jane, not to be done out of her +tay, lifts the latch,—an’, sure as the sun was shinin’, +but the bolt was shot inside. ‘Well, dang me,’ says +Jane, an’ hits the door a kick, ‘but this is a fine way to +treat company,’ says she, an’ rattles the latch, an’ +shakes it. At last, in the divil of a temper, spits on +the step, whips up her skirts, an’ cursin’ Hannah high +up an’ low down, starts for home.</p> + +<p>“She got as far as the bend in the lane, an’ there meets +Mary Dolan.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>281</span></p> + +<p>“‘What’s up?’ axes Mary. ‘What’s floostered +ye, Jane Flaherty? Aren’t ye goin’ to have your tay, me +dear?’ says Mary.</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, may the first sup she swallows choke the +breath in her,’ shouts Jane, an’ goes on to tell her story; +an’ before she’d said ten words, up comes Sally Hogan.</p> + +<p>“‘Am I too late?’ says Sally, ‘or am I too early?’ +says she, ‘or what in glory ails the two o’ ye?’</p> + +<p>“‘Ails?’ shouts Jane. ‘Ye may well say that, +Sally Hogan. Ye may turn on your heel,’ says she, +an’ begins her story again; an’ before she was half +through it Sally laughs out, and takes Jane by the arm, +an’ starts back to the house.</p> + +<p>“‘Come away,’ says she; ‘come away an’ have your +tay, Jane; sure, ye don’t know Hannah yet.’</p> + +<p>“So back the three goes—but not through the yard. +Aw, no. ’Twas through the wee green gate, an’ down the +walk, an’ slap up to the hall door Sally takes them; +an’ sure enough the first dab on the knocker brings a +fut on the flags inside, an’ there’s Kitty, the servant +girl, in her boots an’ her stockin’s, an’ her Sunday dress +an’ a white apron on her, standin’ before them.</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, an’ is that you, Kitty Malone,’ says Sally. +‘An’ how’s yourself, Kitty, me dear? An’ wid Mrs. +Breen be inside?’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘She is so, Mrs. Hogan,’ answers Kitty, an’ bobs +a kind of curtsy. ‘Wid ye all be steppin’ in, please?’</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, the Lord’s sake,’ gasps Sally on the door +step, at all this grandeur; ‘the Lord’s sake,’ says she, +an’ steps into the hall; an’ in steps Mary Dolan, an’ in +steps Jane Flaherty, an’ away the three o’ them goes +at Kitty’s heels up to the parlour.... ‘Aw, heavenly +hour,’ cried Anne, and turned up her eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>282</span></p> + +<p>“Well, dears,” Anne went on, “in the three walks, +bonnets an’ all, an’ sits them down along the wall on +three chairs, an’ watches Kitty close the door; then +looks at each other in a puzzled kind o’ way, an’, after +that, without openin’ a lip, casts their eyes about the room. +’Twas the funniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver +she dropped eyes on. There was a sheep-skin, lyin’ +woolly side up, in front o’ the fireplace, an’ a calf-skin +near the windy, an’ a dog’s skin over be the table, an’ +the floor was painted brown about three fut all round +the walls. There was pieces of windy-curtain over the +backs o’ the chairs; there was a big fern growin’ in an +ould drain-pipe in the corner; there was an ould straw +hat o’ John’s stuffed full o’ flowers an’ it hangin’ on the +wall, an’ here an’ there, all round it an’ beside it were +picters cut from the papers an’ then tacked on the plaster. +Ye could hardly see the mantelshelf, Jane allowed, +for all the trumpery was piled on it, dinglum-danglums +of glass an’ chaney, an’ shells from the say, an’ a sampler +stuck in a frame, an’ in the middle of all a picter of +Hannah herself got up in all her finery. An’ there +was books, an’ papers, an’ fal-lals, an’ the sorrow knows +what, lyin’ about; an’ standin’ against the wall, facin’ +the windy, was a wee table, wi’ a cloth on it about the +size of an apron, an’ it wi’ a fringe on it, no less, an’ it +spread skew-wise an’ lookin’ for all the world like a +white ace o’ diamonds; an’ on the cloth was a tray +wi’ cups an’ saucers, an’ sugar an’ milk, an’ as much +bread an’ butter, cut as thin as glass, as you’d give a +sick child for its supper.... ‘Aw, heavenly hour,’ +cried Anne, ‘heavenly hour!’</p> + +<p>“Aw, childer, dear,” cried Judy.</p> + +<p>“Aw, woman alive,” said I. “Aw, Judy, dear.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>283</span></p> + +<p>“Well, childer, the three looks at all, an’ looks at each +other, an’ shifts on their chairs, an’ looks at each other +again, an’ says Mary Dolan at last:—</p> + +<p>“‘We’re in clover, me dears,’ says she, ‘judgin’ +be the spread beyont’—and she nods at the wee table.</p> + +<p>“‘Ah that’il do for a start,’ says Sally Hogan; ‘but +where in glory are we all to put our legs under that wee +table? Sure it’l be an ojus squeeze.’</p> + +<p>“‘It will so,’ says Jane Flaherty, ‘it will so. But +isn’t it powerful quare o’ Hannah to keep us sittin’ here +so long in our bonnets an’ shawls, an’ us dreepin’ wi’ the +heat?’</p> + +<p>“‘It’s the quarest hole I iver was put in,’ says Mary +Dolan, ‘an’ if this is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen at +home wi’ me feet on the hearth an’ me tay on a chair.... +Phew,’ says Mary, an’ squints round at the windy, +‘phew, but it’s flamin’ hot! Aw,’ says she, an’ makes +a dart from her chair, ‘dang me, but I’ll burst if I don’t +get a mouthful o’ fresh air.’ An’ just as she had her +hand on the sash to lift it, the door opens an’ in steps +me darlin’ Hannah.</p> + +<p>“‘Good evenin’, ladies all,” says Hannah, marchin’ +in wi’ some kind of a calico affair, made like a shroud +wi’ frills on it, hangin’ on her, ‘Good evenin’, ladies,’ +says she, an’ wi’ her elbow cocked up in the air as if +she was strivin’ to scrape it against the ceilin’, goes from +one to another an’ shakes hands. ‘It’s a very pleasant +afternoon’ (them was the words), says she, makin’ for +a chair beside the wee table; ‘an’ I’m very pleased to +see ye all,’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, an’ the same here,’ says Mary Dolan, in her +free way, ‘the same here; an’ ojus nice ye look in that +sack of a calico dress, so ye do,’ says Mary, wi’ a wink +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>284</span> +at Jane Flaherty. ‘But it’s meself’d feel obliged to ye +if so be ye’d open the windy an’ give us a mouthful +o’ fresh air,’ says Mary.</p> + +<p>“An’ Hannah sits down in her shroud wi’ the frills +on it, an’ smiles, an’ says she, ‘I’m rather delicate’ +(them were the words) ‘this afternoon, Mrs. Dolan, +an’ afeered o’ catchin’ cold; an’, forby that,’ says she, +‘the dust is so injurious for the parlour.’</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, just so,’ answers Mary, ‘just so. Sure, +I wouldn’t for worlds have ye spoil your parlour for the +likes of us. But I’ll ax your leave, Mrs. Breen, seein’ +ye don’t ax me yourself, to give me own health a +chance,’ says she, ‘be throwin’ this big shawl off me +shoulders.’</p> + +<p>“‘But it’s afternoon tay, Mrs. Dolan,’ answers +Hannah, in her cool way; ‘an’ it’s not fashionable at +afternoon tay for ladies to remove—’</p> + +<p>“‘Then afternoon tay be danged,’ says Mary, an’ +throws the shawl off her across the back of her chair; +‘an’ it’s meself’ll not swelter for all the fashions in the +world,’ says she, an’ pushes her bonnet back an’ lets it +hang be the strings down her back. ‘Aw, that’s great,’ +says she, wi’ a big sigh; an’ at that off goes Jane’s +shawl an’ bonnet, an’ off goes Sally’s; an’ there the +three o’ them sits, wi’ Hannah lookin’ at them disgusted +as an ass at a field of thistles over a gate.... Aw, +glory be,” cried Anne.</p> + +<p>“Aw, me bould Anne,” cried Judy; “me brave +girl.”</p> + +<p>“Well, dears, Hannah sits her down, puts her elbow +on a corner o’ the ace o’ diamonds, rests her cheek on her +hand, an’ goes on talking about this and that. She hoped +Mrs. Flaherty, an’ Mrs. Dolan, an’ Mrs. Hogan were well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>285</span> +an’ prosperous; she hoped the crops were turnin’ out well; +she hoped all the childer were in the best o’ good health. +Aw, like the Queen o’ Connaught Hannah talked, an’ +smiled, an’ aired herself an’ her beautiful English, but +sorrow a move did she make to shift her elbow off the +wee table-cloth, an’ divil a sign or smell o’ tay was there +to be seen. Aw, not a one. Ten minutes went, an’ +twenty, an’ half an hour; an’ at that, up Mary Dolan +stretched her arms, gives a powerful big yawn, an’, says +she, ‘Och, dear Lord,’ says she, ‘dear Lord, but the +throat’s dry in me! Och, och,’ says she—an’ with +the hint up gets Hannah in her frilled shroud, crosses +the calf-skin, opens the door, an’ calls for Kitty. ‘Yis, +Mrs. Breen,’ answers Kitty from the Kitchen. ‘Serve +tay,’ calls Hannah; then closes the door an’ steps back +to her chair by the wee table.</p> + +<p>“In about ten minutes, here comes me darlint Kitty, +boots an’ stockin’s an’ all; carries the taypot on a plate +over to the table, an’ plants it down slap in the middle +o’ the ace o’ diamonds. Up jumps Hannah wi’ a bounce.</p> + +<p>“‘What are you doin’ Kitty?’ says she, with a snap +of her jaw, an’ lifts the taypot, an’ glares at the black +ring it had made on her brand new cloth. ‘D’ye see +what you’ve done?’ says she, pointin’ her finger, +‘stand back and mend your manners, ye ignorant +little baggage, ye!’—</p> + +<p>“‘Yis, ma’am,’ answers Kitty, an’ stands back; +then turns her head, when she gets to the calf-skin, an’ +winks at the three sittin’ by the wall; an’ out Mary +Dolan bursts into a splutter of a laugh.</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, Lord,’ says Mary, an’ holds her ribs; ‘aw, +dear Lord,’ says she. But Hannah, standin’ pourin’ +tay into the wee cups, just kept her face as straight as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>286</span> +if Mary was a dummy, an’ in a minute she turns round +to Kitty.</p> + +<p>“‘Hand the cups to the ladies,’ says she, an’ sits her +down.</p> + +<p>“Well, childer dear, Kitty steps from the calf-skin, +lifts two cups an’ saucers from the tray, carries them +across the floor, an’ offers one to Jane Flaherty, wi’ +this hand, an’ t’other to Sally Hogan wi’ that hand. +An’ Sally looks at the cup, an’ then at Kitty; an’ Jane +looks at Kitty, an’ then at the cup, an’ says Sally:</p> + +<p>“‘Is it take it from ye you’d have me do, Kitty +Malone?’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘It is so,’ answers Kitty wi’ a grin.</p> + +<p>“‘An’ where in glory wid ye have me put it, Kitty +Malone?’ asks Sally an’ looks here an’ there. ‘Sure—sure, +there’s no table next or near me,’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘It’s afternoon tay, Mrs. Hogan,’ says Hannah +across the floor; ‘an’ at afternoon tay, tables aren’t +fashionable,’ says she, an’ grins to herself.</p> + +<p>“‘Well, thank God, Hannah Breen,’ says Mary +Dolan, ‘that afternoon tay, as ye call it, has only come +my way once in me life. Take the cup in your fist, +Sally Hogan,’ says Mary, ‘an’ if ye break it, bad luck +go with it, an’ if ye don’t, you’ve been a lady for once +in your life; an’ when you’re done, stick it there on the +floor. I’m obliged to ye, Kitty Malone,’ says Mary +again, an’ takes a cup; ‘an’ if so be I choke meself +wi’ the full o’ this thimble wi’ a handle on it,’ says Mary, +an’ squints at the cup, ‘you’ll do me the favour to tell +Pat I died a fool. An’ if such things go well wi’ afternoon +tay, Kitty, agra, I’d trouble ye for a look at a spoon.’ +“... Aw, me bould Mary,” cried Anne and laughed +in her glee. “Ye were the girl for Hannah, so ye were.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>287</span></p> + +<p>“Aw, ‘deed ay,” cried Judy, and tittered most +boisterously. “Aw, me brave Hannah.”</p> + +<p>“Then begins the fun, me dears. First of all, Sally +Hogan, in trying to lift a bit o’ bread an’ butter from a +plate that Kitty held before her, must spill her tay +over her lap an’ start screechin’ that she was kilt. Then +Mary Dolan must finish her cup at a gulp, an’ forgettin’ +it was in Hannah’s parlour she was at afternoon tay, +an’ not at home in the kitchen, must give the dregs +a swirl an’ sling them over her shoulder against the wall. +Then Sally Hogan again, in tryin’ to keep back a laugh +at the tay leaves on the wall, an’ the glare of Hannah +across at them, must get a crumb in her throat an’ bring +the whole room to thump her on the back.</p> + +<p>“Then Jane Flaherty gets a second cup wi’ no sugar +in it, an’ makes a face like a monkey’s, an’ gives a big +splutter, an’ sets Kitty Malone off into a fit o’ laughin’; +an’ Kitty sets Jane off, an’ Jane sets Mary off, an’ Mary +sets Sally off; an’ there sits Hannah in her calico shroud, +beside the ace of diamonds, wi’ a face on her like a +child cuttin’ its teeth, an’ her arm out, an’ her shoutin’ +for Kitty to take herself out o’ the room. An’ in the +middle o’ the whole hubbub the door opens, an’ in tramps +big John in his dirty boots, wi’ his shirt-sleeves turned +up, an’ hay ropes round his legs, an’ his hat on the back +o’ his head, an’ his pipe in his mouth—in steps John, +an’ stands lookin’ at them all.</p> + +<p>“‘Ho, ho,’ roars John, an’ marches across the calf-skin. +‘What have we here? A tay party,’ says he, +‘as I’m a livin’ sinner—an’ me not to know a thing +about it! Well, better late nor niver,’ says he, then +turns an’ looks at Hannah. ‘Aw, how d’ye do, Mrs. +Breen? says he, wi’ a laugh. ‘I hope I see ye well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>288</span> +in your regimentals. An’ how the blazes are the rest +o’ ye, me girls?’ says he to the three along the wall. +‘I’m glad to see ye all so hearty an’ merry, so I am. +But what in glory are ye all doin’ over there, away from +the table? Why don’t ye sit an’ have your tay like +Christians?’ says he. ‘Come over, girls—come over +this mortial minute,’ says John,’an’ I’ll have a cup wi’ +ye meself, so I will.’</p> + +<p>“Then Hannah rises in her calico shroud.</p> + +<p>“‘John,’ says she, ‘it’s afternoon tay it’ll be, an +tables—’</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, sit ye down, Hannah,’ shouts John, ‘sit ye +down, woman, an’ be like another for once in a way.’</p> + +<p>“‘John,’ says Hannah, again, an’ looks knives an’ +forks at him, ‘where’s your manners the day?’</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, manners be danged,’ roars John, an’ throws +his hat into the corner; ‘give us a cup o’ tay an’ quit +your nonsense. Come on, girls,’ says he to the women, +‘come over, an’ have a cup in comfort wi’ me here at +the table.’</p> + +<p>“‘John!’ says Hannah again, ‘ye can’t sit at this +table; it’s—it’s too small,’ says she.</p> + +<p>“‘Then pull it out from the wall,’ roars John, ‘pull +it out and let us get round it. Come on,’ says he, an’ +grips an end o’ the table, ‘give it a lift across the floor!’</p> + +<p>“‘No, no, John,’ shouts Hannah, an’ grips t’other +end to keep it from goin’; ‘ye mustn’t, John!’</p> + +<p>“‘Out wi’ it,’ roars John again.</p> + +<p>“‘No, no,’ shouts Hannah, ‘ye can’t—aw, ye can’t—aw, +ye mustn’—no, no, John!’</p> + +<p>“‘Aw, to glory wi’ you an’ it,’ shouts John. ‘Here +let me at it meself!...’</p> + +<p>“An’ the next minute Hannah was screechin’ in her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289" id="page289"></a>289</span> +shroud; an’ there was a clatter o’ crockery, like as +if a bull had gone slap at a dresser; an’ John was standin’ +like as if he was shot, in the middle of the floor; an’ +lyin’ at his feet was the wee table, an’ the ace of diamonds, +an’ the whole o’ Hannah’s cups an’ saucers, an’ the taypot, +an’ all, in a thousand pieces.... Aw, heart +alive ... heart alive!...”</p> + +<p>Anne leant upon her rake and bowed her head in +laughter. Two minutes grace she had; then said I:</p> + +<p>“What had happened, Anne?”</p> + +<p>She looked at me. “Happened? Sure, the table +was only an ould dressin’-table, an’ had only three +legs, an’ was propped wi’ the lame side against the wall; +an’ when John put it down in the middle of the floor—Aw, +now,” cried Anne, “that’s enough, that’s enough.... +Aw, me sides—me sides.”</p> + +<p>“Aw, me sides—me sides,” cried Judy, shaking +below her big sun-bonnet. “Te-he!”</p> + +<p>“Aw, women alive,” cried I, sinking back on the hay. +“Haw, haw!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page290" id="page290"></a>290</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Interpreters.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “The Adventures of Dr. Whitty.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By George A. Birmingham.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">At</span> the end of January, after three weeks of violently +stormy weather, the American barque, “Kentucky,” +went ashore at Carrigwee, the headland which guards +the northern end of Ballintra. She struck first on some +rocks a mile from the shore, drifted over them and +among them, and was washed up, frightfully shattered, +on the mainland. The captain and the crew were +saved, and made their way into the town of Ballintra. +They were dispatched thence to Liverpool, all of them, +except one sailor, a forecastle hand, whose right leg +had been broken by a falling spar. This man was +brought into Ballintra in a cart by Michael Geraghty, +and taken to the workhouse hospital. He arrived in a +state of complete collapse, and Dr. Whitty was sent +for at once.</p> + +<p>The sailor turned out to be a man of great strength +and vigour. He recovered from the effects of the long +exposure rapidly, had his leg set, and was made as +comfortable as the combined efforts of the whole workhouse +hospital staff could make him. Then it was +noticed that he did not speak a word to anyone, and +was apparently unable to understand a word that was +said to him. The master of the workhouse, after a +consultation with the matron and the nurse, came to the +conclusion that he must be a foreigner. Dr. Whitty +was sent for again and the fact reported to him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page291" id="page291"></a>291</span></p> + +<p>“I was thinking,” said the master, “that you might +be able to speak to him, doctor, so as he’d be able to +understand what you said.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I can’t,” said the doctor. “I’m not a professional +interpreter, but I don’t see that it much matters +whether you’re able to talk to him or not. Give him +his food. He’ll understand the meaning of a cup of +tea when it’s offered him, whatever language he’s +accustomed to speak. That’s all you need care about. +As a matter of fact, he’ll be just as well off without +having you and the nurse and the matron sitting on the +end of his bed and gossiping with him all day long.”</p> + +<p>“What’s troubling me,” said the master, “is that +I’ve no way of finding out what religion he is.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see,” said the doctor, “that his religion +matters in the least to us. He’s not going to die.”</p> + +<p>“I know that. But I have to enter his religion in +the book. It’s the rule that the religion of every inmate +of the house or the hospital must be entered, and I’ll +get into trouble after if I don’t do it.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the doctor, “there’s no use asking me +about it. I can’t talk to him any better than you can, +and there isn’t any way of telling by the feel of a man’s +leg whether he’s a Catholic or a Protestant.”</p> + +<p>“That may be,” said the master, who disliked this +sort of flippant materialism, “but if I was to enter him +down as a Catholic, and it turned out after that he was a +Protestant, there’d be a row I’d never hear the end of; +and if I was to have him down as a Protestant, and him +being a Catholic all the time, there’d be a worse row.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Whitty was a good-natured man, and was always +ready to help anyone who was in a difficulty. He felt +for the master of the workhouse. He also had a natural +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292" id="page292"></a>292</span> +taste for solving difficult problems, and the question of +the sailor’s religion attracted him.</p> + +<p>“Tell me this, now,” he said. “Had he any kind of +a Prayer Book or a religious emblem of any sort on him +when you were taking the clothes off him?”</p> + +<p>“Not one. I looked myself, and the nurse went +through his pockets after. Barring a lump of ship’s +tobacco and an old knife, there wasn’t a thing on him.”</p> + +<p>“That’s not much use to us,” said the doctor. “I +never heard of a religion yet that forbid the use of +tobacco or objected to people carrying penknifes. If +you’d found a bottle of whiskey on him, now, it might +have helped us. We’d have known then that he wasn’t +a Mohammedan.”</p> + +<p>“What’ll I do at all?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you what it is,” said the doctor. “I’ll +go round the town and I’ll collect all the people in it +that can speak any language besides English. I’ll bring +them up here and let them try him one by one. It’ll +be a queer thing if we can’t find somebody that will be +able to make him understand a simple question.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Whitty called first at the Imperial Hotel, and had +an interview with Lizzie Glynn.</p> + +<p>“Lizzie,” he said, “you’ve had a good education at +one of the most expensive convents in Ireland. Isn’t +that a fact?”</p> + +<p>“It is,” she said. “And I took a prize one time for +playing the piano.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not piano-playing that I expect from you now,” +said the doctor, “but languages. You speak French, +of course?”</p> + +<p>“I learned it,” said Lizzie, “but I wouldn’t say I +could talk it very fast.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page293" id="page293"></a>293</span></p> + +<p>“Never mind how slow you go,” said the doctor, +“so long as you get it out in the end. Are you good at +German?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t learn German.”</p> + +<p>“Italian?”</p> + +<p>“There was one of the sisters that knew Italian,” +said Lizzie, “but it wasn’t taught regular.”</p> + +<p>“Russian? Spanish? Dutch?”</p> + +<p>Lizzie shook her head.</p> + +<p>“That’s a pity. Never mind. I’ll put you down +for French, anyway. I’ll take you up with me to the +workhouse hospital at six o’clock this evening. I want +you to speak French to a man that’s there, one of the +sailors out of the ship that was wrecked.”</p> + +<p>“I mightn’t be fit,” said Lizzie, doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, you will. Just look up the French for +religion before you start, and get off the names of the +principal kinds of religion in that language. All you +have to do is to ask the man, ‘What is your religion?’ +and then understand whatever it is he says to you +by the way of an answer.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Whitty next called on Mr. Jackson and explained +the situation to him. The rector, rather unwillingly, +offered French, and seemed relieved when he was told +that that language was already provided for.</p> + +<p>“I thought,” said the doctor, “that you’d be sure to +know Greek.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” said the Rector, “but not modern Greek.”</p> + +<p>“Is there much difference?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I fancy there is.”</p> + +<p>“Well, look here, come up and try the poor fellow +with ancient Greek. I expect he’ll understand it if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page294" id="page294"></a>294</span> +you talk slowly. All we want to get out of him is +whether he’s a Protestant or a Catholic.”</p> + +<p>“If he’s a Greek at all,” said the rector, “he’ll probably +not be either the one or the other.”</p> + +<p>“He’s got to be one or the other while he’s here. +He can choose whichever happens to be the nearest thing +to his own religion, whatever that is. Does Mrs. Jackson +know Italian or Spanish?”</p> + +<p>“No. I rather think she learned German at school, +but I expect——”</p> + +<p>“Capital. I’ll put her down for German.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure she’s forgotten it now.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind. She can brush it up. There’s +not much wanted and she has till six o’clock this evening. +I shall count on you both. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“By the way, doctor,” said Mr. Jackson on the +doorstep, “now I come to think of it, I don’t believe +there’s a word in ancient Greek for Protestant.”</p> + +<p>“There must be. It’s one of the most important +and useful words in any language. How could the +ancient Greeks possibly have got on without it?”</p> + +<p>“There <i>isn’t</i>. I’m perfectly sure there isn’t.”</p> + +<p>“That’s awkward. But never mind, you’ll be able +to get round it with some kind of paraphrase. After +all, we can’t leave the poor fellow without the consolations +of religion in some form. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“And—and—Catholic in ancient Greek will mean +something quite different, not in the least what it means +now.”</p> + +<p>The doctor was gone. Mr. Jackson went back to his +study and spent two hours wrestling with the contents +of a lexicon. He arrived at the workhouse in the evening +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page295" id="page295"></a>295</span> +with a number of cryptic notes, the words lavishly +accented, written down on small slips of paper.</p> + +<p>Father Henaghan was the next person whom Dr. Whitty +visited. At first he absolutely declined to help.</p> + +<p>“The only language I could make any shift at +speaking,” he said “is Latin. And that would be no use +to you. There isn’t one sailor out of every thousand, +outside of the officers of the Royal Navy, that would +know six words of Latin.”</p> + +<p>“They tell me,” said the doctor, “that there’s no +great difference between Latin and Spanish or Italian. +Anyone that knows the one will make a pretty good +push at understanding the others.”</p> + +<p>“Whoever told you that told you a lie,” said the priest; +“and, anyway, I’m not going near that man until I’m +sure he’s a Catholic.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be hard-hearted, Father. Think of the poor +fellow lying there and not being able to tell any of us +what religion he belongs to.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you why I won’t go,” said the priest. +“There was one time when I was a curate in Dublin, +I used to be attending one of the hospitals. People +would be brought in suffering from accidents and +dying, and you wouldn’t know what they were, Catholic +and Protestant. I got into the way of anointing them +all while they were unconcious, feeling it could do them +no harm, even if they were Protestants. Well, one +day I anointed a poor fellow that they told me was +dying. What did he do but recover. It turned out +then that he was a Protestant, and, what’s more, an +Orangeman, and when he heard what was done he gave +me all sorts of abuse. He said his mother wouldn’t +rest easy in her grave when she heard of it, and more +talk of the same kind.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page296" id="page296"></a>296</span></p> + +<p>“This is quite a different sort of case,” said the +doctor. “This man’s not dying or the least likely to +die.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll not go near him,” said the priest.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Father. The Rev. +Mr. Jackson is coming up, and he’s prepared to ask the +man what religion he is in ancient Greek—ancient Greek, +mind you, no less. It wouldn’t be a nice thing to have +it said about the town that the Protestant minister +could talk ancient Greek and that you weren’t fit to say +a few words in Latin. Come, now, Father Henaghan, +for the credit of the Church say you’ll do it.”</p> + +<p>This last argument weighed greatly with the priest. +Dr. Whitty saw his advantage and pressed the matter +home.</p> + +<p>“I’ll put you down,” he said, “for Spanish and +Italian.”</p> + +<p>“You may put me down if you like, but I tell you +he won’t know a word I speak to him.”</p> + +<p>“Try him,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not be making a public fool of myself to please +you,” said the priest. “If I do it at all I’ll have no one +with me in the room at the time, mind that now.”</p> + +<p>“Not a soul. You shall have him all to yourself. +To tell you the truth, I expect everybody will feel the +same as you do about that. The Rev. Mr. Jackson +didn’t seem very keen on showing off his ancient Greek.”</p> + +<p>Colonel Beresford, when Dr. Whitty called on him, +confessed to a slight, a very slight, acquaintance with the +Russian language.</p> + +<p>“I took it up,” he said, “a long time ago when I was +stationed in Edinburgh. There was a Russian scare +on at the time and everybody thought there was going +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page297" id="page297"></a>297</span> +to be a war. I happened to hear that there were a couple +of Russian medical students in the University, and I +thought if I picked up a little of the language I might fall +in for a staff appointment. I’ve nearly forgotten it +all now, and I didn’t make any special study of religious +terms at the time, but I’ll do the best I can for you. +You’ve got all the other languages you say.”</p> + +<p>“I think so. I have”—the doctor took a list from his +pocket—“French, Miss Lizzie Glynn. She was +educated at a first-rate convent, and speaks French +fluently. Greek (ancient and modern), the Rev. Mr. +Jackson. German and allied tongues, Mrs. Jackson. +Italian, Spanish and Portuguese, Father Henaghan. +That, with your Russian, makes a tolerably complete +list.”</p> + +<p>“I’d no idea,” said the colonel, “that we were such +a polyglot in Ballintra. By the way, you haven’t got +Norwegian.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said the doctor, “I haven’t and when you +come to think of it, a sailor is more likely to be that, +or a Swede, than any thing else. Can you speak it?”</p> + +<p>“Not a word.”</p> + +<p>“Do you happen to have a dictionary, Norwegian +or Swedish, in the house?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“That’s a pity. I’d have tried to work it up a little +myself if you had.”</p> + +<p>“All I have,” said the Colonel, “is a volume of +Ibsen’s plays.”</p> + +<p>“Give me that,” said the Doctor, “and I’ll do my +best.”</p> + +<p>“It’s only a translation.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page298" id="page298"></a>298</span></p> + +<p>“Never mind. I’ll pick up something out of it that +may be useful. I have two hours before me. Do you +mind lending it to me?”</p> + +<p>Dr. Whitty went home with a copy of a translation +of “Rosmersholm,” “Ghosts,” and “An Enemy of +Society.”</p> + +<p>At six o’clock the whole party of linguists assembled +in the private sitting-room of the master of the workhouse. +Dr. Whitty gave them a short address of an +encouraging kind, pointing out that, in performing an +act of charity they were making the best possible use +of the education they had received. He then politely +asked Mrs. Jackson if she would like to visit the foreigner +first. She did not seem anxious to push herself forward. +Her German, she confessed, was weak; and she hoped +that if she was reserved until the last he might possibly +recognise one of the other languages before her turn +came. Everybody else, it turned out, felt very much +as Mrs. Jackson did. In the end Dr. Whitty decided +the order of precedence by drawing lots. The colonel, +accepting loyally the decision of destiny, went first +and returned with the news that the sailor showed no +signs of being able to understand Russian. Lizzie +Glynn went next, and was no more fortunate with her +French.</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure,” she said, “did I speak it right. But, +right or wrong, he didn’t know a word I said to him.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jackson arranged his notes carefully and was +conducted by the doctor to the ward. He, too, returned +without having made himself intelligible.</p> + +<p>“I knew I should be no use,” he said. “I expect +modern Greek is quite different from the language I +know.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page299" id="page299"></a>299</span></p> + +<p>Father Henaghan’s Latin was a complete failure. +He seemed irritated and reported very unfavourably +of the intelligence of the patient.</p> + +<p>“It’s my belief,” he said, “that the man’s mind’s gone. +He must have got a crack on the head somehow, as well +as breaking his leg, and had the sense knocked out of +him. He looks to me like a man who’d understand +well enough when you talked to him if he had his right +mind.”</p> + +<p>This view of the sailor’s condition made Mrs. Jackson +nervous. She said she had no experience of lunatics, +and disliked being brought into contact with them. +She wanted to back out of her promise to ask the necessary +question in German. In the end she consented +to go, but only if her husband was allowed to accompany +her. She was back again in five minutes, and said definitely +that the man knew no German whatever.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said the colonel, “it’s your turn, doctor. +Go at him with your Norwegian.”</p> + +<p>“The fact is,” said the doctor, “that, owing to the +three plays you lent me being merely translations, +I’ve only been able to get a hold of one Norwegian +word. However, as it happens, it is an extremely +useful word in this particular case. The Norwegian +for a clergyman,” he said, triumphantly, “is ‘Pastor.’ +What’s more, I’ve got a hold of the name of one of their +clergy. If this man is a Norwegian, and has been in the +habit of going to the theatre, I expect he’ll know all +about Pastor Manders.”</p> + +<p>“It’s clever of you to have fished that out of the book +I lent you,” said the colonel. “But I don’t quite see +how it will help you to find out whether our friend +with the broken leg is a Protestant or a Roman Catholic.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page300" id="page300"></a>300</span></p> + +<p>“It will help if it’s worked properly, if it’s worked +the way I mean to work it, that is to say, if the man is +a Norwegian, and I don’t see what else he can be.”</p> + +<p>“He might be a Turk,” said Father Henaghan.</p> + +<p>“No he couldn’t. I tried him with half a glass of +whiskey this morn, and he simply lapped it up. If +he had been a Turk the smell of it would have turned +him sick. We may fairly assume that he is, as I say, +a Norwegian, and if he is I’ll get at him. I shall want +you, Father Henaghan, and you, Mr. Jackson, to come +with me.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been twice already,” said Mr. Jackson. “Do +you really think it necessary for me——”</p> + +<p>“I shan’t ask you to speak another word of ancient +Greek,” said the doctor. “You needn’t do anything +except stand where I put you and look pleasant.”</p> + +<p>He took the priest and the rector, seizing each by the +arm, and swept them with him along the corridor to the +ward in which the injured sailor lay. He set them one +on each side of the bed, and stood at the foot of it himself. +The sailor stared first at the priest and next at the rector. +Then he looked the doctor straight in the face and his +left eyelid twitched slightly. Dr. Whitty felt almost +certain that he winked; but there was clearly no +reason why he should wink with any malicious intent, +so he put the motion down to some nervous affection.</p> + +<p>“Pastor,” said the doctor, in a loud, clear tone, +pointing to Father Henaghan.</p> + +<p>The sailor looked vacantly at the priest.</p> + +<p>“Pastor,” said the doctor again, indicating Mr. +Jackson, with his finger.</p> + +<p>The sailor turned his face and looked at Mr. Jackson, +but there was no sign of intelligence on his face.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page301" id="page301"></a>301</span></p> + +<p>“Take your choice,” said the doctor; “you can have +either one or the other. We don’t want to influence +you in the slightest, but you’ve got to profess a religion +of some sort while you’re here, and these clergymen +represent the only two kinds we have. One or other +of them you must choose, otherwise the unfortunate +master of this workhouse will get into trouble for not +registering you. Hang it all! I don’t believe the fool +knows a single word I’m saying to him.”</p> + +<p>Again, the man’s eyelid, this time his right, eyelid, +twitched.</p> + +<p>“Don’t do that,” said the doctor; “it distracts +your attention from what I’m saying. Listen to me +now. Pastor Manders!” He pointed to the priest. +“Pastor Manders!” He indicated the rector.</p> + +<p>Neither Father Henaghan nor Mr. Jackson had ever +read “Ghosts,” which was fortunate. If they had they +might have resented the name which the doctor imposed +on them. Apparently, the sailor did not know the +play either. “Manders” seemed to mean no more to +him than “Pastor” did.</p> + +<p>“There’s no use our standing here all evening,” said +Father Henaghan. “You told me to look pleasant, and +I have—I haven’t looked so pleasant for a long time—but +I don’t see that any good is likely to come of +it.”</p> + +<p>“Come on,” said the doctor. “I’ve done my best, +and I can do no more. I’m inclined to think now that +the man must be either a Laplander or an Esquimaux. +He’d have understood me if he’d been a Dane, a Swede, +a Norwegian, or even a Finn.”</p> + +<p>“I told you, as soon as ever I set eyes on him,” said +the priest, “that he was out of his mind. My own +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page302" id="page302"></a>302</span> +belief is, doctor, that if you give him some sort of a +soothing draught, and get him back into his right senses, +he’ll turn out to be an Irishman. It’s what he looks +like.”</p> + +<p>Michael Geraghty, who had carted the injured sailor +from the shipwreck, called on Dr. Whitty next day at +breakfast-time.</p> + +<p>“I hear,” he said, “that you had half the town up +yesterday trying could they get a word out of that +fellow that’s in the hospital with the broken leg.”</p> + +<p>“I had. We spoke to him in every language in +Europe, and I’m bothered if I know what country he +belongs to at all. There wasn’t one of us he’d answer.”</p> + +<p>“Did you think of trying him with the Irish?”</p> + +<p>“I did not. Where would be the good? If he +could speak Irish he’d be sure to be able to speak +English.”</p> + +<p>“Would you have any objection to my saying a few +words to him, doctor?”</p> + +<p>“Not the least in the world. If you’ve nothing +particular to do, go up there and tell the master I sent +you.”</p> + +<p>An hour later Michael Geraghty re-appeared at the +doctor’s door. He was grinning broadly and seemed +pleased with himself.</p> + +<p>“Well, Michael, did you make him speak?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t like to say a word to you, doctor, till I made +sure for fear of what I might be bringing some kind of +trouble on the wrong man; but as soon as ever I seen +that fellow put into my cart beyond at Carrigwee, I said +to myself: ‘You’re mighty like poor Affy Hynes that’s +gone, only a bit older. I took another look at him as +we were coming along the road, and, says I, ‘If Affy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page303" id="page303"></a>303</span> +Hynes is alive this minute you’re him. You’ll recollect, +doctor, that the poor fellow couldn’t speak at the +time, by reason of the cold that was on him and the +broken leg and all the hardships he’d been through. +Well, looking at him off and on, till I got to the workhouse +I came to be pretty near certain that it was either +Affy Hynes or a twin brother of his; and Mrs. Hynes, +the mother, that’s dead this ten years, never had but the +one son.”</p> + +<p>“And who was Affy Hynes?”</p> + +<p>“It was before your time, of course, and before +Father Henaghan was parish priest; but the colonel +would know who I mean.” Michael sank his voice +to an impressive whisper. “Affy Hynes was the boy +that the police was out after in the bad times, wanting +to have him hanged on account of the way that the bailiff +was shot. But he made off, and none of us ever knew +where he went to, though they did say that it might be +to an uncle of his that was in America.”</p> + +<p>“Did he murder the bailiff?”</p> + +<p>“He did not; nor I don’t believe he knew who did, +though he might.”</p> + +<p>“Then what did he run away for?”</p> + +<p>“For fear they’d hang him,” said Michael Geraghty. +“Amn’t I just after telling you?”</p> + +<p>“Go on,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Well, when Affy came to himself after all the hardship +he had it wasn’t long before he found out the place +he was in. ‘It’s Ballintra,’ says he to himself, ‘or it’s +mighty like it.’ There did be a great dread on him +then that the police would be out after him again, and +have him took; and, says he, into himself like, so as +no one would hear him, ‘I’ll let on I can’t understand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page304" id="page304"></a>304</span> +a word they say to me, so as they won’t know my +voice, anyway.’ And so he did; but he went very +near laughing one time when you had the priest and +the minister, one on each side of him, and ‘Pastor,’ +says you——”</p> + +<p>“Never mind that part,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“If it’s displeasing to you to hear about it, I’ll not +say another word. Only, I’d be thankful if you’d +tell me why you called the both of them +Manders. It’s what Affy was saying to me this minute: +‘Michael,’ says he, ‘is Manders the name that’s on the +priest that’s in the parish presently?’ ‘It is not,’ +says I, ‘but Henaghan.’ ‘That’s queer,’ said he. ‘Is +it Manders they call the minister?’ ‘It is not,’ I +says; ‘it’s Jackson. There never was one in the place +of the name of Manders, priest or minister.’ ‘That’s +queer,’ says he ‘for the doctor called both the two of +them Manders.’”</p> + +<p>“So he understood every word we said to him all the +time?” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Not the whole of it, nor near the whole,” said +Michael Geraghty. “He’s been about the world a +deal, being a sailor and he said he could make out what +Miss Glynn was saying pretty well, and knew the +minister’s lady was talking Dutch, though he couldn’t +tell what she was saying, for it wasn’t just the same +Dutch as he’d been accustomed to hearing. The +colonel made a middling good offer at the Russian. Affy +was a year one time in them parts, and he knows; but +he said he’d be damned if he could make any kind of +a guess at what either the priest or the minister was at, +and he told me to be sure and ask you what they were +talking because he’d like to know.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page305" id="page305"></a>305</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll go up and see him myself,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“If you speak the Irish to him he’ll answer you,” +said Michael.</p> + +<p>“I will, if he likes,” said the doctor. “But why +won’t he speak English?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a sort of dread on him,” said Michael +Geraghty. “I think he’d be more willing to trust +you if you’d speak to him in the Irish, it being all one +to you. He bid me say to you, and it’s a good job I +didn’t forget it, that if so be he’s dying, you might tell +Father Henaghan he’s a Catholic, the way he’d attend +on him; but if he’s to live, he’d as soon no one but +yourself and me knew he was in the place.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Whitty went up to the workhouse, turned the nurse +out of the ward, and sat down beside Affy Hynes.</p> + +<p>“Tell me this now,” he said, “why didn’t you let +me know who you were? I wouldn’t have told on +you.”</p> + +<p>“I was sorry after that I didn’t,” said Affy, “when I +seen all the trouble that I put you to. It was too much +altogether fetching the ladies and gentlemen up here +to be speaking to the like of me. It’s what never +happened to me before, and I’m sorry you were +bothered.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you tell me then?”</p> + +<p>“Sure, I did my best. Did you not see me winking +at you once, when you had the priest and the minister +in with me, as much as to say: ‘Doctor, if I thought +I could trust you I’d tell you the truth this minute.’ +I made full sure you’d understand what it was I was +meaning the second time, even if you didn’t at the first +go-off.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page306" id="page306"></a>306</span></p> + +<p>“That’s not what I gathered from your wink at all,” +said the doctor. “I thought you’d got some kind of +a nervous affection of the eye.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a queer thing, now,” said Affy, “that the two +of them reverend gentlemen should have the same name, +and that Manders.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll drop that subject,” said the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“We will, of course, if it’s pleasing to you. But +it is queer all the same, and I’d be glad if I knew the reason +of it, for it must be mighty confusing for the people +of this place, both Catholic and Protestant. Tell me +now, doctor, is there any fear that I might be took by +the police?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit. That affair of yours, whatever it was, +is blown over long ago.”</p> + +<p>“Are you certain of that?”</p> + +<p>“I am.”</p> + +<p>“Then as soon as I’m fit I’ll take a bit of a stroll out +and look at the old place. I’d like to see it again. +Many’s the time I’ve said to myself, me being, may be, +in some far-away country at the time, ‘I’d like to see +Ballintra again, and the house where my mother lived, +and the bohireen that the asses does be going along +into the bog when the turf’s brought home.’ Is it there +yet?”</p> + +<p>“I expect it is,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“God is good,” said Affy. “It’s little ever I +expected to set eyes on it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page307" id="page307"></a>307</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">A Test of Truth.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Irish Neighbours.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Jane Barlow.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Jim Hanlon</span>, the cobbler, was said by his neighbours +to have had his own share of trouble, and they often +added, “And himself a very dacint man, goodness +may pity him!” His misfortunes began when poor +Mary Anne, his wife, died, leaving him forlorn with +one rather sickly little girl, and they seemed to culminate +when one frosty morning a few years later he broke his +leg with a fall on his way to visit Minnie in hospital. +The neighbours, who were so much impressed by her +father’s good qualities and bad luck, did not hold an +equally favourable opinion about this Minnie, inclining +to consider her a “cross-tempered, spoilt little shrimp +of a thing.” But Jim himself thought that the +width of the world contained nothing like her, which was +more or less true. So when she fell ill of a low fever, +and the doctor said that the skilled nursing in a Dublin +hospital would be by far her best chance, it was only +after a sore struggle that Jim could make up his mind to +let her go. And then his visit to her at the first moment +possible had brought about the unwary walking and +slip on a slide, which resulted so disastrously.</p> + +<p>It was indeed a most deplorable accident. If it +had happened somewhere near Minnie’s hospital, he +said to himself, it might have been less unlucky, but, +alas, the whole city spread between them and the +institution whither he was brought. The sense of his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page308" id="page308"></a>308</span> +helplessness almost drove him frantic, as he lay in the +long ward fretting over the thought that he was tied +by the leg, unable to come next or nigh her, whatever +might befall, or even to get a word of news about her. +But on this latter point his forebodings were not fulfilled, +his neighbours proved themselves to be friends in need. +At the tidings of his mishap they made their way in to +see him from unhandy little Ballyhoy, undeterred by +what was often to them no very trivial expense and +inconvenience. Nor were they slow to discover that +they could do him no greater service than find out for +him “what way herself was at all over at the other place.” +Everybody helped him readily in this matter, more +especially three or four good-natured Ballyhoy matrons. +On days when they came into town to do their bits +of marketing they would augment their toils by long +trudges on foot, or costly drives on tramcars, that they +might convey to Jim Hanlon the report for which he +pined. They considered neither their heavy baskets, +nor the circumstance that they were folk to whom +time was time, and a penny a penny indeed.</p> + +<p>Yet, sad to say, great as was Jim’s relief and his +gratitude, their very zeal did in some degree diminish +the value of their kindness. For their evident desire +to please and pacify him awakened in his mind doubts +about the means which they might adopt; and it must +be admitted that his mistrust was not altogether +ungrounded. The tales which they carried to him from +“the other place” were not seldom intrinsically +improbable, and sounded all the more so to him because +of his intimate acquaintance with their subject. When +Mrs. Jack Doyle averred that Minnie was devouring +all before her, and that the nurse said a strong man would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page309" id="page309"></a>309</span> +scarce eat as much as she did, Jim remembered Minnie’s +tomtit-like meals at home, and found the statement hard +to accept. It was still worse when they gave him +effusively affectionate messages, purporting to come from +Minnie, who had always been anything in the world +but demonstrative and sentimental. His heart sank +as Mrs. Doran assured him that Minnie had sent her +love to her own darling treasure of a precious old daddy, +for he knew full well that no such greeting had ever +emanated from Minnie, and how could he tell, Jim +reflected, but that they might be as apt to deceive him +about one thing as another? Perhaps there was little +or no truth in what they told him about the child being +so much better, and able to sit up, and so forth. Like +enough one couldn’t believe a word they said. On +this terribly baffling question he pondered continually +with a troubled mind.</p> + +<p>Saturday mornings were always the most likely to +bring him visitors, and on a certain Saturday he rejoiced +to hear that somebody was asking for him. He was all +the more pleased because the lateness of the hour had +made him despair of seeing any friends, and because +this portly, good-humoured Mrs. Connolly was just +the person he had been wishing to come. She explained +that she would have paid him a visit sooner, had not +all her children been laid up with colds, and then, as +he had hoped, she went on to say that she was going over +to see after little Minnie. “And the Sister here’s +promised me,” said Mrs. Connolly, “she’ll let me in +to bring you word on me way back, even if I’m a trifle +beyond the right visitin’ time itself.”</p> + +<p>Thereupon Jim produced a sixpence from under his +pillow, where he had kept it ready all the long morning. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page310" id="page310"></a>310</span> +“If it wouldn’t be throublin’ you too much, ma’am,” +he said, “I was wonderin’ is there e’er a place you would +be passin’ by where you could get some sort of a little +doll wid this for Minnie.”</p> + +<p>“Is it a doll?” said Mrs. Connolly. “Why to +be sure I will, and welcome. I know a shop in O’Connell +Street where they’ve grand sixpenny dolls, dressed real +delightful. I’ll get her a one of them as aisy as anythin’.” +Mrs. Connolly knew that the price of the dolls she had +in her eye was actually sixpence-halfpenny, but she +at once resolved to pay the halfpenny herself and not +let on.</p> + +<p>“And you might maybe be gettin’ her an orange +wid this,” Jim said, handing her a penny.</p> + +<p>“Well, now, it’s the lucky child poor Minnie is,” Mrs. +Connolly declared, “to have such a good daddy. Finely +set up she will be wid a doll and an orange. I’ll bring +her the best in Dublin, Jim, no fear.”</p> + +<p>“She might fancy the orange, anyway,” Jim said, +half to himself, with a queer remorseful sort of look.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Connolly having gone, he began to expect her +back again with an unreasonable promptitude which +lengthened the afternoon prodigiously. He had +suffered innumerable apprehensions, and fidgetted +himself into a fever of anxiety before she could possibly +have returned. At last, however, when her broad, +cheerful countenance did reappear to him, looming +through the misty March dusk, he felt that he would +almost have chosen a further delay. For he had staked +so much upon this venture that the crisis of learning, +whether it had failed or succeeded could not but be +rather terrible.</p> + +<p>There was nothing apparently alarming in Mrs. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page311" id="page311"></a>311</span> +Connolly’s report. She had found Minnie doing +finely. Her nurse said she would be out of bed next +week, and was very apt to get her health better than +before she took bad. The orange had pleased her +highly, and she had bid Mrs. Connolly tell her daddy +that he might be sending her another one next Saturday +if he liked. All this was good as far as it went, but about +the doll, Mrs. Connolly kept silence, and it struck Jim +that she shrank away from anything which seemed +leading towards a reference to the subject. Jim, who +at first had half dreaded and half longed every moment +to hear her speak of it, began to think that she might go +away without mentioning it, which would not do at all. +In the end he had to introduce it himself.</p> + +<p>“And how about the bit of a doll, ma’am?” he +inquired as unconcernedly as he could. “Was you +able to get her e’er a one?”</p> + +<p>Unmistakably Mrs. Connolly was much disconcerted +by the question. Her face fell, and she hesitated for +a while before she replied, with evident reluctance—</p> + +<p>“Sure, now, man alive, you never can tell what +quare notions childer’ll take up wid when they’re sick, +and more especially when they do be about gettin’ +well agin, the way Minnie is now. Quiet enough the +crathurs do be as long as they’re rale bad. But, tellin’ +you the truth, Jim, not a bit of her would look at the +doll. Some fantigue she had agin it, whatever ailed +her, an’ it a great beauty, wid a pink sash on it and all +manner. Slingin’ it into the middle of the floor she was, +only the nurse caught a hould of it, an’ biddin’ me to +take it away out of that. So says I to her, ‘What at all +should I do wid the lovely doll, after your poor daddy +sendin’ it to yourself?’ And, says she to me, ‘Give +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page312" id="page312"></a>312</span> +the ugly big lump of a thing to the ould divil,’ says she, +‘an’ let him give it to the little young black-leggy divils +to play wid if they like.’ I declare to you, Jim, thim +was the very words of her, sittin’ up in her bed, not +lookin’ the size of anythin’. ‘Deed, now, she’s the +comical child. But sure who’d be mindin’ her? And +the nurse says she’ll keep the doll till to-morrow, an’ +if Minnie doesn’t fancy it then, she’ll give it to the little +girl in the next cot that does be frettin’ after her mother, +so it won’t go to loss. An’ besides—”</p> + +<p>She stopped short in surprise, for Jim, who had been +laughing silently to himself, now broke out in tones of +positive rapture—</p> + +<p>“‘The little young black-leggy divils’—that’s Minnie +herself, and no mistake this time, glory be to God! +Sorra the fantigue it was, but just the nathur of her, +for the thoughts of a doll she never could abide all the +days of her life. She’d as lief be playin’ wid a snake +or a toad. So if you’d let on to me that she liked it, +ma’am, well I’d know ’twas only romancin’ to me you +were. But the truth you tould me, right enough, and +thank you kindly. The little villin’ll be runnin’ about +before I am, plaze goodness. Och, bedad, I can see +her slingin’ it neck an’ crop out of the bed.”</p> + +<p>As Jim fell to laughing again, Mrs. Connolly looked at +him puzzled, and with some disapproval, though she +would not express the latter sentiment to him in his +invalided condition. But she soon afterwards took leave, +and on her homeward way she said to herself, “Musha, +good gracious, mightn’t one suppose Jim Hanlon ‘ud +have more since than to go sind the poor imp of a child +a prisint only for the sake of annoyin’ her? ’Twas +the quare, foolish way to be spendin’ a sixpence, in my +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page313" id="page313"></a>313</span> +opinion. But sure, ’twas be way of a joke, an’ the poor +man hasn’t much chance of e’er a one lyin’ there. It’s +wonderful the store men set by nonsense. Sometimes +you’d think they were all born fools, they do be that +aisy amused. You’ll hear thim guffawin’ like a jackass +bewitched over silly ould blathers that an infant child +‘ud have more wit than to be mindin’.”</p> + +<p>Certainly, Jim was so well satisfied with his joke, if +joke it were, that when he grew drowsy towards evening, +his last thoughts made him chuckle contentedly. “The +little black-leggy divils,” he said to himself. “Glory +be to God! she’s finely.” And he fell asleep with a +glad and grateful heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page314" id="page314"></a>314</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Wise Woman.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “A Boy in the Country.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By John Stevenson.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">That</span> she knew far more than all the doctors put +together was commonly considered, in the territory of +her operations, as truth beyond question. Sometimes +a man body, with a pain for which he could not account, +fearing the inquisition and expense of the qualified +practitioner, would make believe to doubt the potency +of her medicines, the reality of her cures. But even the +discernment of a boy was sufficient to detect the insincerity +of his contemptuous talk about “auld wife’s +doctorin’,” and to find lurking behind his brave words +the strong desire to consult the wise woman. With +much show of impatience, and pretence of anger, at the +over-persuasion of his womankind, he would give a +seemingly reluctant consent to see Mrs. Moloney, +“if she should happen to look in.” He knew as well as +that he lived that her coming would be by invitation.</p> + +<p>Such a one, receiving in the field the message that +“Mrs. Moloney’s in,” would probably say, “Hoots, +nonsense,” and add that he had his work to look after. +But, very soon, he would find that he needed a spade or +a hook, a pot of paint, or a bit of rope, from home, and +he must needs go home for it himself. He believed +in a man’s doing a thing for himself if he wanted it well +done; as like as not a messenger would spend half a +day in looking for what he wanted, and bring the wrong +thing in the end. At home he would make a fine show +of searching out-houses and lofts, passing and repassing, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page315" id="page315"></a>315</span> +with some noise, the kitchen windows, finally looking +in to see if the thing is in the kitchen; and there, of +course, quite accidentally, he would see Mrs. Moloney +and would not be rude enough to leave without passing +the time o’ day. Then the womankind took hold of the +case, drew out the man’s story of distress, took notes +of the remedy, and saw to it that the medicine was +taken according to direction.</p> + +<p>“The innards o’ man is tough, and need to be dealt +with accordin’,” said Mrs. Moloney, and for man she +prescribed a dose which gave him some pain and, usually, +cured him. It may be that Nature, provoked by the +irritant remedy, got rid of it, and the ailment at once; or +it may be that the man body, after the racket in “his +innards,” found his ailment, by comparison, easy to live +with, and imagined himself cured. In either case, +the result was counted as cure to the credit of Mrs. +Moloney.</p> + +<p>By profession a seller of needles, pins, buttons, and +such small wares, she owed her livelihood, in reality, +to payment for her medical skill. Not that she took +money for her prescription or advice—“Thanks be to +God,” she said, “I never took wan penny for curin’ +man, woman, or child”; but then, no one ever asked +her advice without buying something, and if her charges +were just a little more than shop prices, she was entitled +to something extra for bringing the shop to the customer. +Then she got her meals from grateful and believing +patients, and her basket had an uncommercial end, +covered with a fair, white cloth, into which the good +wife, with some show of doing good by stealth, introduced +the useful wreck of a boiled fowl, or a ham-bone +with broth possibilities.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page316" id="page316"></a>316</span></p> + +<p>She did not meddle with diseases of children, except +in cases of measles, for which she prescribed whisky +and sulphur, and a diet of sweet milk warm from the +cow. Decline, she considered to be due to “a sappin’ +o’ the constitution,” and she shared the old-time belief +in the noxious effect of night air on consumptives, and +would have them warm in curtained four-posters, in +rooms into which little light and no fresh air could +enter. Beyond a recommendation of port wine, she had +no message for healing for these poor sufferers. Her +strength lay in the treatment of adults’ ailments which +do not necessarily kill. Her list of diseases was a short +one. For the numerous forms of hepatic trouble known +to the professional, she had one comprehensive title—</p> + +<p class="center">Liver Complent,</p> + +<p class="noind">and for it one remedy, varied only in magnitude of dose. +She recognised also as a common ailment—</p> + +<p class="center">Stomach Complent,</p> + +<p class="noind">differentiating under this heading, Andygestion, Waterbrash, +and Shuperfluity o’ phlegm on the stomach. +She knew, too—</p> + +<p class="center"> +Bowel Complent,<br /> + Rheumatism,<br /> +Gineral Wakeness,<br /> + and<br /> +Harry Siplars.<a name="fa1d" id="fa1d" href="#ft1d"><span class="sp">1</span></a></p> + +<p>The foundation of her great reputation was, indeed, +largely built on her celebrated cure of this last, in the +case of Peggy Mulligan. She shall tell of it herself:—</p> + +<p>“She come to me, an’ she ses, ‘Mary,’ ses she, +‘can ye cure me, for I’m heart-sick o’ them doctors at the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page317" id="page317"></a>317</span> +dispinsary, an’ they’re not doin’ me wan pick o’ good.’ +Ses I to her, ses I, ‘What did they give ye?’ ses I. +‘O the dear knows,’ ses she. ‘I haven’t tuk anythin’ +they said, for I didn’t believe they would do me no +good.’ An’ I had pity on the cratur, for her face was the +size o’ a muckle pot, an’ lek nothin’ under the sun. +Ses I to her, ses I, ‘I can cure you, my good woman, +but ye’ll hev to do what you’re tould,’ ses I, ‘an’ I’ll +make no saycret about it,’ ses I—‘it’s cow-dung and +flour mixed, an’ ye’ll put it on your face, an’ lave it there +for a fortnight,’ ses I, ‘an’ when ye’ll wash it off, ye’ll +have no Harry Siplars.’ An’ nether she had.”</p> + +<p>She had a fine professional manner, and she knew how +to set at ease the anxious patient. The concerned man +body, wishful to appear unconcerned, she took at his +own valuation; appearing more interested in a bit of +chat or gossip of the country than in particulars of +pains and aches. And while she talked with him of +crops and kine, and the good and ill-doings of men’s +sons, the wife would urge John to tell Mrs. Moloney +about that bit of pain of his and how he could not sleep +for it o’ nights. Then the wise woman would mention +something which the good wife “might” get for the +good man—it would cure him in no time, but—turning +to the man,—“‘deed, an’ there’s not much the matter +with ye. It’s yerself that’s gettin’ younger lookin’ +every year—shows the good care the mistress takes o’ +ye.” And the gratified creature would retire, proud +to think that he had acted so well the part of the unconcerned, +and filled with respect for Mrs. Moloney as a +woman of “great sinse and onderstandin’.”</p> + +<p>Of new-fangled diseases she had a perfect horror, +speaking of them more in anger than in sorrow, as of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page318" id="page318"></a>318</span> +things which never should have been introduced. Even +the New Ralgy she declined to entertain, dismissing +the mention of it, contemptuously, in the formula, +“New Ralgy or Ould Ralgy, I’ll have nothing to do +with it.” To it, however, as Tic Doloro,<a name="fa2d" id="fa2d" href="#ft2d"><span class="sp">2</span></a> she gave a +qualified recognition, allowing its right to existence, +but condemning it as outlandish, and a gentry’s ailment, +which the gentry should keep to themselves. And +while she did not refuse to treat it (with “Lodelum” +in “sperrits,” hot milk, and a black stocking tied round +the jaws), the patient was made to feel a certain degree +of culpability in touching a thing with which she should +not have meddled, and that Mrs. Moloney had reason for +feeling displeased.</p> + +<p>Very different was her attitude to one suffering from +Gineral Wakeness. This was her pet diagnosis, and +one much craved by overworked and ailing farmers’ +wives, for it meant for them justification of rest, and +indulgence in food and drink which they would have +been afraid or ashamed to ask or take, unfortified by +an authoritative command. No man ever suffered +from Gineral Wakeness—it was a woman’s trouble, +and never failed to draw from Mrs. Moloney a flood of +understanding sympathy, which was to the despairing +one like cool water on the hot and thirsty ground, making +hope and health revive ere yet medicament had been +prescribed. Seated before the patient, she would sway +slowly back and forward, gently patting the while the +afflicted’s hand, and listening, with rapt attention, to the +longest and dreariest tale of woe.</p> + +<p>The Patient.—O, but it’s the weary woman I am, +waitin’ and hopin’ that you would come roun’. ‘Deed, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page319" id="page319"></a>319</span> +and if it hadn’t been for the hope o’ seein’ ye I would +have give up altogether.</p> + +<p>Mrs. M.—Puir dear; tell me all aboot it.</p> + +<p>The Patient.—It’s a cough and a wakeness and a +drappin’-down feelin’, as if my legs were goin’ from +under me; and I could no more lift that girdle o’ bread +there than I could fly—not if ye were to pay me a +thousand pound.</p> + +<p>Mrs. M.—I know, dear; if it were writ out I cudn’t +see it plainer.</p> + +<p>The Patient.—And when I get up in the mornin’, I +declare to ye, I have to sit on the edge o’ the bed for five +minutes before puttin’ fut to groun’, and if I didn’t +take a sup of cold water I couldn’t put on my clothes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. M.—That’s it, dear; that’s just the way it goes.</p> + +<p>The Patient.—And as for breakfast, I declare to ye, +ye couldn’t see what I ate.</p> + +<p>Mrs. M.—That’s a sure sign, a sure sign.</p> + +<p>The Patient.—And all through the day it’s just the +same thing. I’m just in a state of collops the whole +time. Niver a moment’s aise the day through, especially +in the afternoon. It’s just hingin’ on I am; that’s +what it raly is.</p> + +<p>After an hour of alternating symptomatic description +and sympathetic response, interrupted only by the +making and drinking of tea, the wise woman is prepared +to utter, and the patient to hear, the words of healing.</p> + +<p>“Now, dearie, listen to me, that’s a good woman. +It’s Gineral Wakeness that ails ye. I knew it the minute +I set fut inside the dure. Ses I to myself, ses I, ‘There’s +Gineral Wakeness writ on the mistress’s face; it’s +prented on her face like a book,’ ses I, ‘before ever she +says a word to me.’ Now listen, dearie, and do what I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page320" id="page320"></a>320</span> +tell ye. Ye’ll get a bottle o’ sherry wine, and ye’ll take +a bate-up egg in milk every day, with a sup o’ sherry +in it, at eleven o’clock. And ye’ll fill that pot there +with dandelion leaves and roots, and a handful o’ mint +on the top o’ it, and ye’ll put as much water on it as’ll +cover it, and ye’ll let it sit at the side o’ the fire all day +until all the vartue is out o’ it. And ye’ll take a tablespoonful +o’ it three times a day, immajintly before your +meals. And every day, whin it comes to three o’clock, +ye’ll go to your bed and lie down for an hour, and when +ye get up ye’ll take a cup o’ tay. Do that now, an’ ye’ll +not know yerself whin I come back.”</p> + +<p>As Mrs. Moloney’s list of legitimate and proper +country diseases was a short one, so was her pharmacopœia +a small book. Besides such common remedies +as Epsom salts, senna, ginger, and powdered rhubarb, +it took account of—</p> + +<table class="ws" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="tcl">Lodelum</td> <td class="tcc">which is</td> <td class="tcl">Laudanum,</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcl">Hickery pickery</td> <td class="tcc">”</td> <td class="tcl">Hiera picra,</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcl">Gum Go Whackem</td> <td class="tcc">”</td> <td class="tcl">Gum guaiacum,</td></tr> +<tr><td class="tcl">Assy Fettidy</td> <td class="tcc">”</td> <td class="tcl">Asafoetida,</td></tr> +</table> + +<p class="noind">as chemist’s stuff fit for her practice, and of various +herbs (pronounced yarbs), alterative or curative, such +as dandelion, camomile, peppermint, and apple-balm. +As she said herself, she made no “saycret” of many of +her remedies, but she was wise enough to carry and +dispense certain agents; for, to the benefit of the wise +woman, these free gifts constituted a claim for the +liberal purchase of small wares, and the use of one of +these gave a certain cachet to an ailment which, with a +prescription of hot milk and pepper, or of ginger tea, +would have been sufficiently commonplace. These +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page321" id="page321"></a>321</span> +secret remedies were kept in little bottles, each of which +had its own sewed compartment in a large linen pocket +hanging at the mistress’s waist, between the gown and +the uppermost petticoat. A certain solemnity attached +to their production—three, four, or five being invariably +drawn and set out on the table, even when, as in most +cases, the contents of one only was needed. Mrs. +Moloney would contemplate the range, attentively +and silently, for a few minutes; lifting one after another, +wrinkling her brows the while, and, finally, selecting +and uncorking one, while she requested “a clane bottle +and a good cork.” The selected drug was generally +a crystal; the bottle, by request, was half-filled with +hot water, in which, through vigorous shaking, the +crystal rapidly disappeared. Handing the bottle to the +patient, the instruction would be given to take a tablespoonful +immediately after eating. Silly young folks, +who had no need of the good woman’s services, were +known to say that Mrs. Moloney knew perfectly well +what she was going to use, that the consideration was +simulated, and that the oft-used crystal was common +washing-soda and nothing else. But these flighty +children took care not to say such things in the hearing +of their mothers, who had been treated for Gineral +Wakeness.</p> + +<p>Doubtless the prescriptions of Mrs. Moloney lacked +precision on the quantitative side. A cure of rheumatism +was threepence-worth of “Hickery Pickery in a naggin +o’ the best sperrits.” To be well shaken and taken +by the teaspoonful, alternative mornings, on a fasting +stomach. “Sixpence worth o’ Gum Go Wackem,” +also made up in the “best sperrits,” was a remedy +supposed to acquire special potency from a prodigious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page322" id="page322"></a>322</span> +amount of shaking. “Show me how ye’ll shake it,” +the medicine-woman would say, and when the patient +made a great show of half-a-minute’s shaking, she—it +was oftenest she—would be surprised to hear that +<i>that</i> was no shaking, and an exhibition of what was good +and sufficient shaking would be made by Mrs. Moloney. +In the case of her sovran remedy for sore eyes, to be used +very sparingly—a pennorth o’ Red Perspitherate,<a name="fa3d" id="fa3d" href="#ft3d"><span class="sp">3</span></a> +in a tablespoonful of fresh butter—the quantity for an +application was always indicated in special and dramatic +fashion. She asked, “And how much will ye be puttin’ +in your eye, now?—jist show me.” The patient, +desiring to avoid a mean or niggardly use of the remedy, +would probably indicate on the finger a lump as large +as an eye of liberal measurements could be supposed +to accommodate. Then the good woman would lean +back and sigh. A pin would be withdrawn from some +part of her clothing, and held between the thumb and +finger so that only the head appeared.</p> + +<p>“Do ye see that pin-head?”</p> + +<p>The afflicted nods in acquiescence.</p> + +<p>“Do ye see that pin-head? Now take a good look +at it.”</p> + +<p>Again the sore-eyed indicates accurate observation.</p> + +<p>“Well, not a pick more nor that, if ye want to keep +your eyesight.”</p> + +<p>Other quantitative directions were given in “fulls”—“the +full o’ yer fist,” “the full o’ an egg-cup,” even +“the full o’ yer mooth.” Or, by sizes of objects, as, +“the size o’ a pay,” “the size o’ a marble.” Or by +coin areas, “what’ll lie on a sixpence,” or on a shilling, +or on a penny. Or by money values, as in the Hickery +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page323" id="page323"></a>323</span> +Pickery prescription. Fists, peas, marbles vary considerably +in size, and in the case of money-values a +change of chemist might mean a considerable variation +in quantity; but, with the possible exception of +“Lodelum,” prescribed in drops, the quantities of the +good woman’s remedies bore variation to a considerable +extent without serious difference in result. That “the +best sperrits” were so frequently the medium for “exhibition” +of her remedies may account for the great +popularity with adults which these remedies enjoyed. +These were the days when hospitality was not hospitality +without “sperrits” free from medicinal addition, +and, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Moloney was accustomed +to accept graciously “the full o’ an egg-cup,” qualified +by the addition of sugar and hot water. Once, while +sipping her punch, she asked that a little should be given +to me as a treat, and when the pungent spirit, in the +unaccustomed throat, produced a cough, she promptly +diagnosed “a wake chist.”</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft1d" id="ft1d" href="#fa1d"><span class="fn">1</span></a> Erysipelas.</p> + +<p><a name="ft2d" id="ft2d" href="#fa2d"><span class="fn">2</span></a> Tic douloureux.</p> + +<p><a name="ft3d" id="ft3d" href="#fa3d"><span class="fn">3</span></a> Red Precipitate—red oxide of mercury.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page324" id="page324"></a>324</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Meet of the Beagles.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Patsy.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By H. de Vere Stacpoole.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Directly</span> Patsy had left the news that the “quality” +were coming to the meet and returned to the house the +crowd in front of the Castle Knock Inn thickened.</p> + +<p>Word of the impending event went from cabin to +cabin, and Mr. Mahony, the chimney sweep, put his +head out of his door.</p> + +<p>“What’s the news, Rafferty?” cried Mr. Mahony.</p> + +<p>“Mimber of Parlymint and all the quality comin’ +to the meet!” cried a ragged-looking ruffian who was +running by.</p> + +<p>“Sure, it’ll be a big day for Shan Finucane,” said +Mrs. Mahony, who was standing behind her husband +in the doorway with a baby in her arms.</p> + +<p>Mr. Mahony said nothing for a while, but watched +the crowd in front of the inn.</p> + +<p>“Look at him,” said Mr. Mahony, breaking out at +last—“look at him in his ould green coat! Look at +him with the ould whip undher his arm, and the boots +on his feet not paid for, and him struttin’ about as if +he was the Marqus of Waterford! Holy Mary! did yiz +ever see such an objick! Mr. Mullins!”</p> + +<p>“Halloo!” replied Mr. Mullins, the cobbler across +the way, who, with his window open owing to the +mildness of the weather, was whaling away at a shoe-sole, +the only busy man in the village.</p> + +<p>“Did y’ hear the news?”</p> + +<p>“What news?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page325" id="page325"></a>325</span></p> + +<p>“Shan’s going to get a new coat.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, thin, I hope he’ll pay first for his ould shoes.”</p> + +<p>“How much does he owe you?”</p> + +<p>“Siven and six—bad cess to him!”</p> + +<p>“He’ll pay you to-night, if he doesn’t drink the money +first, for there’s a Mimber of Parlymint goin’ to the +meet, and he’ll most like put a suverin in the poor box.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Mullins made no reply, but went on whaling +away at his shoe, and Bob Mahony, having stepped +into his cottage for a light for his pipe, came back and +took up his post again at the door.</p> + +<p>The crowd round the inn was growing bigger and +bigger. Sneer as he might, Mr. Mahony could not +but perceive that Shan was having the centre of the stage, +a worshipping audience, and free drinks.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he turned to his offspring, who were +crowding behind him, and singling out Billy, the eldest:</p> + +<p>“Put the dunkey to,” said Mr. Mahony.</p> + +<p>“Sure, daddy,” cried the boy in astonishment, “it’s +only the tarriers.”</p> + +<p>“Put the dunkey to!” thundered his father, “or +it’s the end of me belt I’ll be brightenin’ your intellects +with.”</p> + +<p>“There’s two big bags of sut in the cart and the +brushes,” said Billy, as he made off to do as he was +bidden.</p> + +<p>“Lave them in,” said Mr. Mahony; “it’s only the +tarriers.”</p> + +<p>In a few minutes the donkey, whose harness was +primitive and composed mainly of rope, was put to, +and the vehicle was at the door.</p> + +<p>“Bob!” cried his wife as he took his seat.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Mr Mahony, taking the reins.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page326" id="page326"></a>326</span></p> + +<p>“Won’t you be afther givin’ your face the lick of a +tow’l?”</p> + +<p>“It’s only the tarriers,” replied Mr. Mahony; “sure, +I’m clane enough for them. Come up wid you, Norah.”</p> + +<p>Norah, the small donkey, whose ears had been cocking +this way and that, picked up her feet, and the vehicle, +which was not much bigger than a costermonger’s +barrow, started.</p> + +<p>At this moment, also, Shan and the dogs and the crowd +were getting into motion, making down the road for Glen +Druid gates.</p> + +<p>“Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo!” cried Mr. Mahony, +as he rattled up behind in the cart, “where are yiz off +to?”</p> + +<p>“The meet of the baygles,” replied twenty voices; +whilst Shan, who had heard his enemy’s voice, stalked +on, surrounded by his dogs, his old, battered hunting +horn in one hand, and his whip under his arm.</p> + +<p>“And where are they going to meet?” asked Mr. +Mahony.</p> + +<p>“Glen Druid gate,” replied the camp followers. +“There’s a Mimber of Parlymint comin’, and all the +quality from the Big House.”</p> + +<p>“Faith,” said Mr. Mahony, “I thought there was +somethin’ up, for, by the look of Shan, as he passed me +house this mornin’, I thought he’d swallowed the Lord +Liftinant, Crown jew’ls and all. Hulloo! hulloo! +hulloo! make way for me carridge! Who are you +crowdin’? Don’t you know the Earl of Leinsther +when y’ see him? Out of the way, or I’ll call me +futman to disparse yiz.”</p> + +<p>Shan heard it all, but marched on. He could have +killed Bob Mahony, who was turning his triumph +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page327" id="page327"></a>327</span> +into a farce, out he contented himself with letting fly +with his whip amongst the dogs, and blowing a note on +his horn.</p> + +<p>“What’s that nize?” enquired Mr. Mahony, with a +wink at the delighted crowd tramping beside the donkey +cart.</p> + +<p>“Shan’s blowin’ his harn,” yelled the rabble.</p> + +<p>“Faith, I thought it was Widdy Finnegan’s rooster +he was carryin in the tail pockit of his coat,” said the +humourist.</p> + +<p>The crowd roared at this conceit, which was much +more pungent and pointed as delivered in words by Mr. +Mahony; but Shan, to all appearances, was deaf.</p> + +<p>The road opposite the park gates was broad and +shadowed by huge elm trees, which gave the spot in +summer the darkness and coolness of a cave. Here +Shan halted, the crowd halted, and the donkey-cart +drew up.</p> + +<p>Mr. Mahony tapped the dottle out of his pipe carefully +on the rail of his cart, filled the pipe, replaced +the dottle on the top of the tobacco, and drew a whiff.</p> + +<p>The clock of Glen Druid House struck ten, and the +notes came floating over park and trees; not that anyone +heard them, for the yelping of the dogs and the noise +of the crowd filled the quiet country road with the +hubbub of a fair.</p> + +<p>“What’s that you were axing me?” cried Mr. +Mahony to a supposed interrogator in the crowd. “Is +the Prince o’ Wales comin’? No, he ain’t. I had a +tellygrum from him this mornin’ sendin’ his excuzes. +Will some gintleman poke that rat-terrier out that’s +got under the wheels of me carridge—out, you baste!” +He leaned over and hit a rabbit-beagle that had strayed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page328" id="page328"></a>328</span> +under the donkey-cart a tip with his stick. The dog, +though not hurt, for Bob Mahony was much too good +a sportsman to hurt an animal, gave a yelp.</p> + +<p>Shan turned at the sound, and his rage exploded.</p> + +<p>“Who are yiz hittin’? cried Shan.</p> + +<p>“I’m larnin’ your dogs manners,” replied Bob.</p> + +<p>The huntsman surveyed the sweep, the cart, the soot +bags, and the donkey.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardin’,” said he, touchin his hat, “I +didn’t see you at first for the sut.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Mahony took his short pipe from his mouth, +put it back upside down, shoved his old hat further +back on his head, rested his elbows on his knees, and +contemplated Shan.</p> + +<p>“But it’s glad I am,” went on Shan, “you’ve come to +the meet and brought a mimber of the family with +you.”</p> + +<p>Fate was against Bob Mahony, for at that moment +Norah, scenting another of her species in a field near by, +curled her lip, stiffened her legs, projected her head, +rolled her eyes, and “let a bray out of her” that almost +drowned the howls of laughter from the exulting mob.</p> + +<p>But Shan Finucane did not stir a muscle of his face, +and Bob Mahony’s fixed sneer did not flicker or waver.</p> + +<p>“Don’t mention it, mum,” said Shan, taking off his +old cap when the last awful, rasping, despairing note +of the bray had died down into silence.</p> + +<p>Another howl from the onlookers, which left Mr. +Mahony unmoved.</p> + +<p>“They get on well together,” said he, addressing +an imaginary acquaintance in the crowd.</p> + +<p>“Whist and hould your nize, and let’s hear what else +they have to say to wan another.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page329" id="page329"></a>329</span></p> + +<p>Suddenly, and before Shan Finucane could open his +lips, a boy who had been looking over the rails into +the park, yelled:</p> + +<p>“Here’s the Mimber of Parlyment—here they come—Hurroo!”</p> + +<p>“Now, then,” said the huntsman, dropping repartee +and seizing the sweep’s donkey by the bridle, “sweep +yourselves off, and don’t be disgracin’ the hunt wid your +sut bags and your dirty faces—away wid yiz!”</p> + +<p>“The hunt!” yelled Mahony, with a burst of terrible +laughter. “Listen to him and his ould rat-tarriers +callin’ thim a hunt! Lave go of the dunkey!”</p> + +<p>“Away wid yiz!”</p> + +<p>“Lave go of the dunkey, or I’ll batter the head of +you in wid me stick! Lave go of the dunkey!”</p> + +<p>Suddenly seizing the long flue brush beside him, and +disengaging it from the bundle of sticks with which it +was bound, he let fly with the bristle end of it at Shan, +and Shan, catching his heel on a stone, went over flat +on his back in the road.</p> + +<p>In a second he was up, whip in hand; in a second Mr. +Mahony was down, a bag half-filled with soot—a terrible +weapon of assault—in his fist.</p> + +<p>“Harns! harns!” yelled Mahony, mad with the +spirit of battle, and unconsciously chanting the fighting +cry of long-forgotten ancestors. “Who says cruckeder +than a ram’s harn!”</p> + +<p>“Go it, Shan!” yelled the onlookers. “Give it +him, Bob—sut him in the face—Butt-end the whip, +y’idgit—Hurroo! Hurroo! Holy Mary! he nearly +landed him then—Mind the dogs—”</p> + +<p>Armed with the soot-bag swung like a club, and the +old hunting-whip butt-ended, the two combatants +formed the centre of a circle of yelling admirers.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page330" id="page330"></a>330</span></p> + +<p>“Look!” said Miss Lestrange, as the party from the +house came in view of the road. “Look at the crowd +and the two men!”</p> + +<p>“They’re fighting!” cried the general. “I believe +the ruffians dared to have the impudence to start +fighting!”</p> + +<p>At this moment came the noise of wheels from behind, +and the “tub,” which had obtained permission to go +to the meet, drew up, with Patsy driving the children.</p> + +<p>“Let the children remain here,” said the General. +“You stay with them, Violet. Come along, Boxall, +till we see what these ruffians mean.”</p> + +<p>So filled was his mind with the objects in view that +he quite forgot Dicky Fanshawe.</p> + +<p>“You have put on the short skirt,” said Dicky, who +at that moment would scarcely have turned his head +twice or given a second thought had the battle of +Austerlitz been in full blast beyond the park palings.</p> + +<p>“And my thick boots,” said Violet, pushing forward +a delightful little boot to speak for itself.</p> + +<p>The children were so engaged watching the proceedings +on the road that they had no eyes or ears for their elders.</p> + +<p>“Have you ever been beagling before?” asked Dicky.</p> + +<p>“Never; but I’ve been paper-chasing.”</p> + +<p>“You can get through a hedge?”</p> + +<p>“Rather!”</p> + +<p>“That’ll do,” said Dicky.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Fanshawe,” cried Lord Gawdor from the +“tub,” “look at the chaps in the road—aren’t they going +for each other!”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Mr. Fanshawe, whose back was to the +road—“Violet—”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page331" id="page331"></a>331</span></p> + +<p>“No one’s looking—”</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t matter—No—not here—Dicky, if you +don’t behave, I’ll get into the tub—Gracious! what’s +that?”</p> + +<p>“He’s down!” cried Patsy, who had been standing +up to see better.</p> + +<p>“Who?” asked Mr. Fanshawe.</p> + +<p>“The Mimber of Parlyment—Misther Boxall—Bob +Mahony’s grassed him—”</p> + +<p>“They’re all fighting!” cried Violet. “Come, +Mr. Fanshawe—Patsy—” She started for the gates +at a run.</p> + +<p>When the General had arrived on the scene, Shan +had just got in and landed his antagonist a drum-sounding +blow on the ribs with the butt of his whip.</p> + +<p>“Seize the other chap, Boxall!” cried General +Grampound, making for Mahony.</p> + +<p>He was just half a second too late; the soot bag, +swung like a club, missed Shan, and, catching Mr. +Boxall fair and square on the side of the face, sent +him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and +head over heels into the ditch.</p> + +<p>That was all.</p> + +<p>A dead silence took the yelling crowd.</p> + +<p>“He’s kilt!” came a voice.</p> + +<p>“He isn’t; sure, his legs is wavin’.”</p> + +<p>“Who is he?”</p> + +<p>“He’s the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for your +life, and don’t lave off runnin’ till you’re out of the +country.”</p> + +<p>“Hold your tongue!” cried General Grampound. +“Boxall—hullo! Boxall! are you hurt?”</p> + +<p>“I’m all right,” replied Mr. Boxall, who, from being +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page332" id="page332"></a>332</span> +legs upwards, was now on hands and knees in the ditch. +“I’ve lost something—dash it!”</p> + +<p>“What have you lost?”</p> + +<p>“Watch.”</p> + +<p>“Come out and I’ll get some of these chaps to look.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Boxall came out of the ditch with his handkerchief +held to the left side of his forehead.</p> + +<p>“Why, your watch and chain are on you!” cried +the General.</p> + +<p>“So they are,” said Mr. Boxall, pulling the watch +out with his left hand, and putting it back. “I’m off +to the house—I want to wash.”</p> + +<p>“Sure, you’re not hurt?”</p> + +<p>“Not in the least, only my forehead scratched.”</p> + +<p>“What’s up?” cried Dicky Fanshawe, who had +just arrived.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” replied his uncle. “Fellow hit him +by mistake—no bones broken. Will you take the +governess cart back to the house, Boxall?”</p> + +<p>“No, thanks—I’ll walk.”</p> + +<p>“His legs is all right,” murmured the sympathetic +crowd, as the injured one departed still with his handkerchief +to his face, “and his arums. Sure, it’s the +mercy and all his neck wasn’t bruck.”</p> + +<p>“Did yiz see the skelp Bob landed him?”</p> + +<p>“Musha! Sure, I thought it would have sent his +head flying into Athy, like a gulf ball.”</p> + +<p>Patsy, who had pulled the governess cart up, rose +to his feet; his sharp eye had caught sight of something +lying on the road.</p> + +<p>“Hould the reins a moment, Mr. Robert,” said he, +putting them into Lord Gawdor’s hands. He hopped +out of the cart, picked up the object in the road, whatever +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page333" id="page333"></a>333</span> +it was, put it in his trousers’ pocket, and then stood +holding the pony’s head; whilst the Meet, from which +Bob Mahony had departed as swiftly as his donkey +could trot, turned its attention to the business of the day, +and Shan, collecting his dogs, declared his intention +of drawing the Furzes.</p> + +<p>“Was that a marble you picked up, Patsy?” asked +Lord Gawdor, as the red-headed one, hearing Shan’s +declaration, climbed into the “tub” again and took the +reins.</p> + +<p>Patsy grinned.</p> + +<p class="ptb1 center" style="letter-spacing: 3em;">*******</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Mr. Fanshawe had been writing three +important letters in the library. When he had finished +and carefully sealed them, he placed them one on top +of the other, and looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>The three letters he had just written would make +everything all right at the other end. This was the +hot end of the poker, and it had to be grasped.</p> + +<p>Patsy was the person who would help him to grasp +it. Patsy he felt to be a tower of strength and ‘cuteness, +if such a simile is permissible. And, rising from the +writing-table and putting the letters in his pocket, he +went to find Patsy. He had not far to go, for as he came +into the big hall Patsy was crossing it with a tray in +hand.</p> + +<p>“Patsy,” said Mr. Fanshawe, “when does the post +go out?”</p> + +<p>“If you stick your letters in the letter box by the hall +door, sir,” said Patsy, “it will be cleared in half-an-hour. +Jim Murphy takes the letter-bag to Castle Knock.”</p> + +<p>“Right!” said Mr. Fanshawe. “And, see here, +Patsy!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page334" id="page334"></a>334</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, sir?”</p> + +<p>“I’m in a bit of a fix, Patsy, and you may be able +to help.”</p> + +<p>“And what’s the fix, sir?” asked Patsy.</p> + +<p>“You know the young lady you gave the note to +this morning—by the way, how did you give it?”</p> + +<p>“I tried to shove it undher her door, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t go, so I give a knock. ‘Who’s there?’ +says she. ‘No one,’ says I; ‘it’s only hot wather +I’m bringin’ you,’ for, you see, sir, the ould missis, +her ladyship, was in the next room, and she’s not as +deaf as she looks, and it’s afraid I was, every minnit, +her door’d open, and she and her ear-trumpet come out +in the passidge. ‘I have hot wather,’ says she. ‘Niver +mind,’ says I, ‘this is betther. Open the door, for the +love of God, for I can’t get it under the door, unless +I rowl it up and shove it through the keyhole.’ Wid +that she opens the door a crack and shoves her head out. +‘Who’s it from?’ she says. ‘I don’t know,’ says I; +‘it’s just a letther I found on the stairs I thought might +belong to you.’ ‘Thanks,’ says she, ‘it does,’ and wid +that she shut the door, and I left her.”</p> + +<p>“Well, see here, Patsy!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir?”</p> + +<p>“I’m going to marry Miss Lestrange.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, and I guessed that,” said Patsy; “and it’s +I that’d be joyful to dance at your weddin’, sir.”</p> + +<p>“There won’t be any dancing in the business,” said +Mr. Fanshawe, grimly. “You know Mr. Boxall, +Patsy?”</p> + +<p>“The Mimber of Parlymint?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Well, he wants to marry Miss Lestrange; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page335" id="page335"></a>335</span> +and the worst of it is, Patsy, that my uncle, General +Grampound, wants him to marry her, too.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” said Patsy. “And, Mr. Fanshawe?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn’t be afear’d +of Mr. Boxall for the next few days.”</p> + +<p>“How’s that?”</p> + +<p>“When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head +wid the sut bag, his eye popped out of his head on the +road.”</p> + +<p>“His what?—Oh, I remember—”</p> + +<p>“Finders is keepers, sir,” said Patsy, with a grin.</p> + +<p>“Why, good heavens—you don’t mean to say—”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got his eye in my pocket, sir,” said Patsy, in a +hoarse whisper. “He’s sint a telygram for another wan +but till it comes he’s tethered to his bed like a horse to +a—”</p> + +<p>“That’s enough—that’s enough,” said Mr. Fanshawe. +“Here’s half a crown for you, Patsy, for—carrying my +cartridges.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page336" id="page336"></a>336</span></p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">The Ballygullion Creamery +Society, Limited.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From “Ballygullion.”</i></p> + +<p class="center sc">By Lynn Doyle.</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">’Twas</span> the man from the Department of Agriculture +comin’ down to give a lecture on poultry an’ dairy-farmin’, +that set the ball a-rollin’.</p> + +<p>The whole farmers av the counthry gathered in to +hear him, an’ for days afther it was over, there was no +talk at all barrin’ about hens an’ crame, an’ iverybody +had a schame av their own to propose.</p> + +<p>Ould Miss Armitage ap at the Hall was on for encouragin’ +poultry-farmin’; an’ give a prize for the best +layin’ hen in Ballygullion, that riz more scunners in +the counthry than the twelfth av July itself. There was +a powerful stir about it, an’ near iverybody enthered.</p> + +<p>Deaf Pether of the Bog’s wife was an easy winner +if her hen hadn’t died, an’ nothin’ would satisfy her +but it was poisoned; though divil a all killed it but the +gorges of Indian male the ould woman kept puttin’ +intil it.</p> + +<p>Ivery time the hen laid she give it an extra dose of +male, “to encourage the crather,” as she said; an’ wan +day it laid a double-yolked wan, she put a charge intil +it that stretched it out stiff in half-an-hour.</p> + +<p>Afther that there was no doubt but Larry Thomas’s +wife would win the prize; for, before the end av the +month Miss Armitage had allowed for the test, her hen +was above a dozen ahead av iverybody else’s.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page337" id="page337"></a>337</span></p> + +<p>Howiver, when it came to the countin’ there was a +duck-egg or two here an’ there among the lot that +nayther Mrs. Thomas nor the hen could well account +for, so the both of thim was disqualified.</p> + +<p>An’ whin it came to the bit, an’ Mrs. Archy Doran +won the prize, she counted up an’ made out that between +corn an’ male, she had paid away double the value of +it, so she wasn’t very well plazed; an’ thim that had +spent near as much on feedin’-stuff, an’ had got no +prize, was worse plazed still.</p> + +<p>The only one that came out av it well was Miss +Armitage herself; for she kept all the eggs, an’ made +above twice the prize-money out av thim. But there +was nobody else as well plazed about that as she was.</p> + +<p>So all round the hen business was a failure; an’ it +looked as if there was nothin’ goin’ to come of the +lecture at all.</p> + +<p>However, iverybody thought it would be a terrible +pity if Ballygullion should be behind the other places; +an’ at last there was a move made to start a cramery, +an’ a committee was got up to set things goin’.</p> + +<p>At first the most av us thought they got the crame +in the ould-fashioned way, just be skimmin’; but +presently it begin to be talked that it was all done be +machinery. Some av us was very dubious about that; +for sorrow a bit could we see how it was to be done +Thomas McGorrian maintained it would be done wi’ +blades like the knives av a turnip-cutter, that it would +just shave the top off the milk, an’ sweep it intil a pan; +but then he couldn’t well explain how they’d avoid +shavin’ the top off the milk-dish, too.</p> + +<p>Big Billy Lenahan swore it was done with a worm +like a still; but, although we all knowed Billy was well +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page338" id="page338"></a>338</span> +up on potheen, there was few had iver seen him havin’ +much to do wi’ milk; so nobody listened to him.</p> + +<p>At last the Committee detarmined they’d have a +dimonsthration; and they trysted the Department man +to bring down his machine an’ show how it was done; +for all iv thim was agin spendin’ money on a machine +till they were satisfied it would do its work.</p> + +<p>The dimonsthration was to be held in Long Tammas +McGorrian’s barn, an’ on the night set above forty av +us was there. We all sat round in a half-ring, on chairs +an’ stools, an’ any other conthrivance we could get, for +all the world like the Christy Minstrels that comes to +the Market House av a Christmas.</p> + +<p>The dimonsthrator had rigged up a belt to Tammas’s +threshin’-machine, an’ run it from that to the separator, +as he called it.</p> + +<p>The separator itself was a terrible disappointin’ conthrivance +at the first look, an’ no size av a thing at all +for the money they said it cost. But whin the dimonsthrator +begin to tell us what it would do, an’ how by just +pourin’ the milk intil a metal ball an’ bizzin’ it round, +ye could make the crame come out av one hole, an’ the +milk out av another, we began to think more av it.</p> + +<p>Nobody liked to spake out wi’ the man there, but there +was a power av whisperin’.</p> + +<p>“It’s a mighty quare conthrivance,” sez wan.</p> + +<p>“Did ye iver see the like av it?” sez another.</p> + +<p>“Boy-a-boys,” sez James Dougherty, “the works +av man is wonderful. If my ould grandmother could +see this, it would break her heart. ’Twas herself was +the handy dairy-woman, too; but what’d she be till a +machine?”</p> + +<p>But most av thim wouldn’t say one thing or another till +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page339" id="page339"></a>339</span> +they seen it workin’; an’, ‘deed, we were all wishin’ +he’d begin. We had to thole, though; for the dimonsthrator +was a bumptious wee man, an’ very fond av +the sound av his own voice, an’ kept talkin’ away wi’ +big, long words that nobody knowed the manin’ av +but himself, till we were near deaved.</p> + +<p>So we were powerful glad whin he sez to Mrs. +McGorrian: “Now, Madam, if you’ll be good enough +to bring in the milk, I will proceed to give an actual +demonstration.”</p> + +<p>But Mrs. McGorrian is a quiet wee woman, an’ wi’ +all the crowd there, an’ him callin’ her Madam, she was +too backward to get up out av the corner she was in; +an’ she nudges Tammas to go, tellin’ him where to get +the milk.</p> + +<p>So Tammas goes out, an’ presently he staggers in wi’ a +big crock in his arms, an’ sets it down.</p> + +<p>“Now,” sez the demonsthrator, “if you’ll just get the +horses goin’, an’ pour the milk into that receptacle, +I’ll start the separator working.”</p> + +<p>Tammas in wi’ the milk, an’ the wee son whips up +the horses outside, an’ away goes the separator bizzin’ +like a hive av bees.</p> + +<p>“In a few seconds, gentlemen and ladies,” sez the +dimonsthrator, “you will see the milk come out here, +an’ the cream here. Kindly pay attention, please.”</p> + +<p>But he needn’t have spoke; for iverybody was +leanin’ forrard, holdin’ their breath, an’ there wasn’t +a sound to be heard but the hummin’ of the separator.</p> + +<p>Presently there comes a sort av a thick trickle out av +the milk-hole, but divil a dhrap av crame.</p> + +<p>The dimonsthrator gathered up his brow a bit at that, +an’ spakes out av the barn windy to Tammas’s wee +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page340" id="page340"></a>340</span> +boy to dhrive faster. The separator hums harder than +iver, but still no crame. Wan begin to look at the +other, an’ some av the wimmen at the back starts +gigglin’.</p> + +<p>The dimonsthrator begin to get very red an’ flusthered-lookin’. +“Are ye sure this milk is fresh an’ hasn’t +been skimmed?” he sez to Tammas, very sharp.</p> + +<p>“What do you say, Mary?” sez Tammas, lookin’ +over at the wife. “Sartin, sir,” sez Mrs. Tammas. +“It’s just fresh from the cows this very evenin’.”</p> + +<p>“Most extraordinary,” sez the dimonsthrator, rubbin’ +his hair till it was all on end. “I’ve niver had such an +experience before.”</p> + +<p>“It’s the way Tammas feeds his cows,” sez Big Billy +Lenahan from the back; “sure, iverybody knows he +gives them nothin’ but shavin’s.”</p> + +<p>There was a snigger av a laugh at this; for Tammas +was well known to be no great feeder av cattle.</p> + +<p>But Tammas wasn’t to be tuk down so aisy.</p> + +<p>“Niver mind, Billy,” sez he; “av you were put on +shavin’s for a week or two, ye’d maybe see your boots +again before you died.”</p> + +<p>There was another laugh at this, an’ that started a +bit av jokin’ all round—a good dale av it at the dimonsthrator; +till he was near beside himself. For, divil +a dhrop av crame had put in an appearance yet.</p> + +<p>All at wanst he stoops down close to the milk.</p> + +<p>“Bring me a candle here,” sez he, very sharp.</p> + +<p>Tammas reaches over a sconce off the wall. The +dimonsthrator bends over the can, then dips the point +av his finger in it, an’ puts it in his mouth.</p> + +<p>“What’s this?” sez he, lookin’ very mad at Tammas. +“This isn’t milk at all.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page341" id="page341"></a>341</span></p> + +<p>“Not milk,” sez Tammas. “It must be milk. I +got it where you tould me, Mary.”</p> + +<p>The wife gets up an’ pushes forward. First she takes +a look at the can av the separator, an’ thin wan at the +crock.</p> + +<p>“Ye ould fool,” she sez to Tammas; “ye’ve brought +the whitewash I mixed for the dairy walls!”</p> + +<p>I’ll say this for the dimonsthrator, he was a game +wee fellow; for the divil a wan laughed louder than he +did, an’ that’s sayin’ something; but sorrow a smile +Tammas cracked, but stood gapin’ at the wife wi’ his +mouth open; an’ from the look she gave him back, +there was some av us thought she was, maybe, more +av a tarther than she looked.</p> + +<p>Though troth ’twas no wondher she was angry, +for the joke wint round the whole counthry, an’ Tammas +gets nothin’ but “Whitewash McGorrian” iver since.</p> + +<p>Howaniver, they got the machine washed out, an’ +the rale milk intil it, an’ there was no doubt it worked +well. The wee dimonsthrator was as plazed as Punch, +an’ ivery body wint away well satisfied, an’ set on havin’ +a cramery as soon as it could be got started.</p> + +<p>First av all they wint round an’ got the names av all +thim that was goin’ to join in; an’ the explainin’ of the +schame took a dale av a time. The co-operatin’ +bothered them intirely.</p> + +<p>The widow Doherty she wasn’t goin’ to join an’ put in +four cows’ milk, she said, whin she’d only get as much out +av it as Mrs. Donnelly, across the field, that had only two. +Thin, whin they explained to the widow that she’d +get twice as much, ould mother Donnelly was clane +mad; for she’d thought she was goin’ to get the betther +av the widow.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page342" id="page342"></a>342</span></p> + +<p>Thin there was tarrible bother over barrin’ out wee +Mrs. Morley, because she had only a goat. Some was +for lettin’ her in; but the gineral opinion was that it +would be makin’ too little av the Society.</p> + +<p>Howiver, all was goin’ brave an’ paceable till ould +Michael Murray, the ould dunderhead, puts in his oar.</p> + +<p>Michael was a divil of a man for pace-makin’, an’ riz +more rows than all the county, for all that; for whin +two dacent men had a word or two av a fair-day, maybe +whin the drink was in them, an’ had forgot all about +it, the next day ould Michael would come round to +make it up, an’ wi’ him mindin’ them av what had +passed, the row would begin worse than iver.</p> + +<p>So, whin all was set well agoin’, an’ the committee +met to call a gineral meetin’ av the Society, ould Michael +he gets up an’ says what a pity it would be if the Society +would be broke up wi’ politics or religion; an’ he +proposed that they should show there was no ill-feelin’ +on either side by holdin’ this giniral meetin’ in the +Orange Hall, an’ the nixt in the United Irish League +rooms. He named the Orange Hall first, he said, +because he was a Nationalist himself, an’ a Home +Ruler, an’ always would be.</p> + +<p>There was one or two Orangemen beginnin’ to look +mighty fiery at the tail-end av Michael’s speech, an’ +there’s no tellin’ what would a’ happened if the chairman +hadn’t whipped in an’ said that Michael’s was a +very good idea, an’ he thought they couldn’t do betther +than folly it up.</p> + +<p>So, right enough, the first gineral meetin’ was held +in the Ballygullion Orange Hall.</p> + +<p>Iverything was very quiet an’ agreeable, except that +some av the red-hot Nationalists kept talkin’ quare +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page343" id="page343"></a>343</span> +skellys at a flag in the corner wi’ King William on it, +stickin’ a man in a green coat wi’ his sword.</p> + +<p>But, as fortune would have it, little Billy av the Bog, +the sthrongest wee Orangeman in Ulsther, comes in at +half-time as dhrunk as a fiddler, sits down on a form an’ +falls fast asleep. An’ there he snored for the most av +half an hour, till near the end av the meetin’, whin the +chairman was makin’ a speech, there was a bit av +applause, an’ ap starts Billy all dazed. First he looked +up an’ seen King William on the flag. Thin hearin’ +the chairman’s voice, he gives a stamp wi’ his fut on the +flure, an’ a “hear, hear,” wi’ a mortial bad hiccup +between the “hears.” The wee man thought he was +at a lodge-meetin’.</p> + +<p>All av a sudden he sees ould Michael Murray, an’, +beside him, Tammas McGorrian.</p> + +<p>Wi’ that he lepps to his feet like a shot, dhrunk as +he was, an’ hits the table a terrible lick wi’ his fist.</p> + +<p>“Stap, brethren,” sez he, glarin’ round the room.</p> + +<p>“Stap! There’s Papishes present.”</p> + +<p>Ye niver seen a meetin’ quicker broke up than that +wan. Half the men was on their feet in a minit, an’ +the other half pullin’ thim down be the coat-tails. +Iverybody was talkin’ at the wan time, some av thim +swearin’ they’d been insulted, an’ others thryin’ to make +pace.</p> + +<p>Thin the wimmin begin to scrame an’ hould back +men from fightin’ that had no notion av it at the start, +an’ only begin to think av it whin they were sure they +wouldn’t be let.</p> + +<p>Altogether there was the makin’s of as fine a fight +as iver ye seen in your life.</p> + +<p>However, there was a lot of dacent elderly men +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page344" id="page344"></a>344</span> +on both sides, and wi’ arguin’ an’ perswadin’, and +houldin’ back wan, an’ pushin’ out the other, the hall +was redd without blows, an’, bit by bit, they all went +home quiet enough.</p> + +<p>But the Cramery Society was clane split. It wasn’t +wee Billy so much; for whin people begin to think +about it the next mornin’, there was more laughed at +him than was angry; but the party feelin’ was up as +bitther as could be.</p> + +<p>The Nationalists was mad at themselves for givin’ in +to go to a meetin’ in the Orange Hall, for fear it might +be taken that they were weakenin’ about Home Rule; +an’ the Orange party were just as afeard at the papers +makin’ out that they were weakenin’ about the Union. +Besides, the ould King William in the corner av the +Hall had done no good.</p> + +<p>I’m no party man, myself; but whin I see William +Robinson, that has been me neighbour this twinty +years, goin’ down the road on the Twelfth av July wi’ +a couple av Orange sashes on, me heart doesn’t warm +to him as it does av another day. The plain truth +is, we were bate at the Boyne right enough; but some +av us had more than a notion we didn’t get fair play +at the fightin’; an’ between that and hearin’ about the +batin’ iver since, the look of ould Billy on his white +horse isn’t very soothin’.</p> + +<p>Anyway, the two parties couldn’t be got to join again. +The red-hot wans av both av thim had meetin’s, wee +Billy leadin’ wan side, and Tammas McGorrian the other, +an’ the nixt thing was that there was to be two +Crameries.</p> + +<p>The moderate men seen that both parties were makin’ +fools av themselves, for the place wasn’t big enough +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page345" id="page345"></a>345</span> +for two; but moderate men are scarce in our parts, +an’ they could do nothin’ to soothe matthers down. +Whin the party work is on, it’s little either side thinks +av the good av thimselves or the counthry either.</p> + +<p>It’s “niver mind a dig yourself if ye get a slap at +the other fellow.”</p> + +<p>So notices was sent out for a meetin’ to wind up the +Society, an’ there was a powerful musther av both +sides, for fear either of them might get an advantage +over the other wan.</p> + +<p>To keep clear av trouble it was to be held in the +Market house.</p> + +<p>The night av the meetin’ come; an’ when I got into +the room who should I see on the platform but Major +Donaldson an’ Father Connolly. An’ thin I begin to +wondher what was on.</p> + +<p>For the Major was too aisy-goin’ and kindly to mix +himself up wi’ party-work, an’ Father Connolly was +well known to be terrible down on it, too.</p> + +<p>So a sort av a mutther begin to run through the +meetin’ that there was goin’ to be an attempt to patch +up the split.</p> + +<p>Some was glad and not afraid to say it; but the most +looked sour an’ said nothin’; an’ wee Billy and Tammas +McGorrian kept movin’ in an’ out among their friends +an’ swearin’ them to stand firm.</p> + +<p>When the room was well filled, an’ iverybody settled +down, the Major gets on his feet.</p> + +<p>“Ladies an’ gentlemen,” sez he—the Major was +always polite if it was only a travellin’ tinker he was +spakin’ to—“Ladies an’ gentlemen, you know why +we’ve met here to-night—to wind up the Ballygullion +Cramery Society. I wish windin’ up meant that it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page346" id="page346"></a>346</span> +would go on all the better; but, unfortunately, windin’ +up a Society isn’t like windin’ up a clock.”</p> + +<p>“Now, I’m not going to detain you; but before we +proceed, I’d like you to listen to Father Connolly here +for a minute or two. I may tell you he’s goin’ to express +my opinion as well as his own. I needn’t ask you to +give him an’ attentive hearin’; ye all know, as well as +I do, that what he says is worth listenin’ to.” An’ +down the Major sits.</p> + +<p>Thin Father Connolly comes forward an’ looks roun’ +a minit or so before spakin’. Most av his own people +that catched his eye looked down mighty quick, for +they all had an idea he wouldn’t think much av what +had been goin’ on.</p> + +<p>But wee Billy braces himself up an’ looks very fierce, +as much as to say “there’ll no praste ordher me +about,” and Tammas looks down at his feet wi’ his +teeth set, much as if he meant the same.</p> + +<p>“Men an’ wimmin av Ballygullion,” sez Father +Connolly—he was aye a plain-spoken wee man—“we’re +met here to end up the United Cramery Society, +and after that we’re goin’ to start two societies, I hear.</p> + +<p>“The sinsible men av Ballygullion sees that it would +be altogether absurd an’ ridiculous for Catholics an’ +Protestants, Home Rulers an’ Unionists, to work +together in anything at all. As they say, the two parties +is altogether opposed in everything that’s important.</p> + +<p>“The wan keep St. Patrick’s Day for a holiday, +and the other the Twelfth av July; the colours of the +one is green, an’ the colours of the other orange; the +wan wants to send their Mimbers av Parliament to +College Green, and the other to Westminster; an’ +there are a lot more differences just as important as +these.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page347" id="page347"></a>347</span></p> + +<p>“It’s thrue,” goes on the Father, “that some ignorant +persons says that, after all, the two parties live in the +same counthry, undher the same sky, wi’ the same +sun shinin’ on them an’ the same rain wettin’ thim; +an’ that what’s good for that counthry is good for both +parties, an’ what’s bad for it is bad for both; that they +live side by side as neighbours, an’ buy and sell among +wan another, an’ that nobody has iver seen that there +was twinty-one shillin’s in a Catholic pound, an’ nineteen +in a Protestant pound, or the other way about; an’ +that, although they go about it in different ways, they +worship the same God, the God that made both av thim; +but I needn’t tell ye that these are only a few silly bodies, +an’ don’t riprisint the opinion av the counthry.”</p> + +<p>A good many people in the hall was lookin’ foolish +enough be this time, an’ iverybody was waitin’ to hear +the Father tell them to make it up, an’ most av them +willin’ enough to do it. The major was leanin’ back, +looking well satisfied.</p> + +<p>“Now,” sez Father Connolly, “after what I’ve said, +I needn’t tell ye that I’m av the opinion av the sinsible +men, and I think that by all manes we should have a +Catholic cramery and a Protestant wan.”</p> + +<p>The Major sits up wi’ a start, an’ wan looks at the +other all over the room.</p> + +<p>“The only thing that bothers me,” sez the Father, +goin’ on an’ takin’ no notice, “is the difficulty av doin’ +it. It’s aisy enough to sort out the Catholic farmers +from the Protestant; but what about the cattle?” sez he.</p> + +<p>“If a man rears up a calf till it becomes a cow, there’s +no doubt that cow must be Nationalist or Orange. She +couldn’t help it, livin’ in this country. Now, what are +you going to do when a Nationalist buys an Orange +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page348" id="page348"></a>348</span> +cow? Tammas McGorrian bought a cow from wee +Billy there last month that Billy bred an’ reared himself. +Do ye mane to tell me that’s a Nationalist cow? +I tell ye what it is, boys,” sez the Father, wi’ his eyes +twinklin’, “wan can av that cow’s milk in a Nationalist +cramery would turn the butther as yellow as the shutters +av the Orange Hall.”</p> + +<p>By this time there was a smudge av a laugh on iverybody’s +face, an’ even Tammas an’ wee Billy couldn’t +help crackin’ a smile.</p> + +<p>“Now,” sez Father Connolly, “afther all, it’s aisy +enough in the case of Tammas’s cow. There’s no +denyin’ she’s an Orange cow, an’ either Tammas may go +to the Orange cramery or give the cow back to Billy.”</p> + +<p>Tammas sits up a bit at that.</p> + +<p>“But, thin, there’s a lot of mighty curious cases. +There’s my own wee Kerry. Iverybody knows I bred +her myself; but, thin, there’s no denyin’ that her father—if +that’s the right way to spake av a bull—belonged +to Major Donaldson here, an’ was called ‘Prince of +Orange.’ Now, be the law, a child follows its father +in these matters, an’ I’m bound be it to send the wee +Kerry’s milk to the Orange cramery, although I’ll +maintain she’s as good a Nationalist as ever stepped; +didn’t she thramp down ivery Orange lily in Billy +Black’s garden only last Monday?</p> + +<p>“So, boys, whin you think the matter out, ye’ll see +it’s no aisy matther this separatin’ av Orange an’ Green +in the cramery. For, if ye do it right—and I’m for no +half-measures—ye’ll have to get the pedigree av ivery +bull, cow, and calf in the counthry, an’ then ye’ll be +little further on, for there’s a lot av bastes come in every +year from Americay that’s little better than haythin’.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page349" id="page349"></a>349</span></p> + +<p>“But, if ye take my advice, those av ye that isn’t +sure av your cows’ll just go on quietly together in the +manetime, an’ let thim that has got a rale thrue-blue +baste av either persuasion just keep her milk to themselves, +and skim it in the ould-fashioned way wi’ a +spoon.”</p> + +<p>There was a good dale av sniggerin’ whin the Father +was spakin’; but ye should have heard the roar of a +laugh there was whin he sat down. An’ just as it was +dyin’ away, the Major rises, wipin’ his eyes—</p> + +<p>“Boys,” sez he, “if it’s the will av the prisint company +that the Ballygullion Cramery Society go on, +will ye rise an’ give three cheers for Father Pether +Connolly?”</p> + +<p>Ivery man, woman, an’ child—Protestant and Catholic—was +on their feet in a minit; an’ if the Ballygullion +Market-house roof didn’t rise that night, it’s safe till +etarnity.</p> + +<p>From that night on there was niver another word av +windin’ up or splittin’ either. An’ if ever ye come +across a print av butther wi’ a wreath of shamrocks an’ +orange-lilies on it, ye’ll know it come from the Ballygullion +Cramery Society, Limited.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Humours of Irish Life, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 35891-h.htm or 35891-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/8/9/35891/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Chris Curnow and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/35891-h/images/cover.jpg b/35891-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..98062e1 --- /dev/null +++ b/35891-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/35891-h/images/img005.jpg b/35891-h/images/img005.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..fee6af5 --- /dev/null +++ b/35891-h/images/img005.jpg diff --git a/35891-h/images/img006.jpg b/35891-h/images/img006.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc4b265 --- /dev/null +++ b/35891-h/images/img006.jpg diff --git a/35891-h/images/img007.jpg b/35891-h/images/img007.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..550103f --- /dev/null +++ b/35891-h/images/img007.jpg |
