^. 
 
 f^Bl^l 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 IRISH PEASANTRY 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM CARLETON 
 
 COMPLETE EDITION 
 
 UNIVERSITY J 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Ltd. 
 
 Eroauway House, Ludgate Hill. 
 
eF^.ERAL 
 
 PRINTED BY THE MOTLEY PRESS, AMSTERDAM. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 iN'ed M'Keown I 
 
 The Three Tasks; or. The Little House uuder the Hill .... 21 
 
 Shane Fadh's Wedding 48 
 
 Larry McFarland's Wake 80 
 
 The Battle of the Factions 1 10 
 
 The Party Fight and Funeral 139 
 
NED IVKEOWN. 
 
 ED M'KEOWN'S house stood exactly in an angle formed by 
 the cross-roads of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed 
 building, well thatched, and furnished with the usual appur- 
 tenances of yard and offices. Like most Irish houses of the better 
 sort, it had two doors, one opening into a garden that sloped down 
 from the rear in a southern direction. The barn was a continuation 
 of the dwelling-house, and might be distinguished from it by a darker 
 shade of colour, being only rough-cast. It was situated on a small 
 eminence, but, with respect to the general locality of the country, in a 
 delightful vale, which runs up, for twelve or fourteen miles, between 
 two ranges of dark, well-defined mountains, that give to the interjacent 
 country' the form of a low inverted arch. This valley, which alto- 
 gether, allowing for the occasional breaks and intersections of hill- 
 ranges, extends upwards of thirty miles in length, is the celebrated 
 valley of the " Black Pig," so well known in the politico-traditional 
 history of Ireland, and the legends connected with the famous Beal 
 Dearg. That part of it where Ned M'Keown resided was peculiarly 
 beautitul and romantic. From the eminence on which the house 
 stood, a sweep of the most fertile meadow-land stretched away to the 
 foot of a series of intermingled hills and vales, which bounded this 
 extensive carpet towards the north. Through these meadows ran a 
 smooth river, called the Micllin-bicrn, which wound its way through 
 them with such tortuosity that it was proverbial in the neighbourhood 
 to say, of any man remarkable for dishonesty, " He's as crooked as the 
 Mullin-burn " — an epithet which was sometimes, although unjustly, 
 applied to Xed himself This deep but narrow river had its origin in 
 the glens and ravines of a mountain which bounded the vale in a 
 south-eastern direction ; and after sudden and heavy rains it tumbled 
 down with such violence and impetuosity over the crags and rock- 
 ranges in its way, and accumulated so amazingly, that on reaching the 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 meadows it inundated their surface, carr>-ing away sheep, cows, and 
 cocks of hay upon its yellow flood. It also boiled and eddied, and 
 roared with a hoarse sugh, that was heard at a considerable 
 distance. 
 
 On the north-west side ran a ridge of high hills, with the cloud- 
 capped peak of Knockmany rising in lofty eminence above them. 
 These, as they extended towards the south, became gradually deeper 
 in their hue, until at length they assumed the shape and form oi 
 heath-clad mountains, dark and towering. The prospect on either 
 range is highly pleasing, and capable of being compared with any I 
 have ever seen in softness, variety, and that serene lustre w^hich reposes 
 only on the surface of a country rich in the beauty of fertility, and 
 improved by the hand of industry and taste. Opposite Knockmany^ 
 It a distance of about four miles, on the south-eastern side, rose the huge 
 and dark outline of Cullimore, standing out in gigantic relief against 
 the clear blue of a summer sky, and flinging down his frowning and 
 haughty shadow almost to the firm-set base of his lofty rival ; or, in 
 winter, wrapped in a mantle of clouds, and crowned with unsullied 
 snow, reposing in undisturbed tranquillity, whilst the loud voice of 
 storms howled around him. 
 
 To the northward, immediately behind Cullimore, lies Althadhawan, 
 J deep, craggy, precipitous glen, running up to its very base, and 
 studded with oak, hazel, rowan-tree, and holly. This picturesque glen 
 extends two or three miles, until it melts into the softness of grcve and 
 meadow, in the rich landscape below. Then, again, on the opposite 
 side, is Lumford's Gle7i, with its overhanging rocks, whose yawning 
 depth and silver waterfall, of one hundred and fifty feet, are at once 
 finely and fearfully contrasted with the elevated peak of Knockmany,. 
 rising into the clouds above it. 
 
 From either side of these mountains may be seen six or eight country 
 towns — the beautiful grouping of hill and plain, lake, river, grove, and 
 dell — the grey reverend cathedral, the whitewashed cottage, and the 
 comfortable farmhouse. To these may be added the wild upland and 
 the cultivated demesne, the green sheep-walk, the dark moor, the 
 splendid mansion, and ruined castle of former days. Delightful 
 remembrance ! Many a day, both of sunshine and storm, have I, in 
 the strength and pride of happy youth, bounded, fleet as the mountain 
 roe, over these blue hills ! Many an evening, as the yellow beams of 
 the setting sun shot slantingly, like rafters of gold, across the depth oi 
 this blessed and peaceful valley, have I followed, in solitude, the im- 
 pulses of a wild and wayward fancy, and sought the quiet dell, or 
 viewed the setting sun, as he scattered his glorious and shining beams 
 through the glowing fohage of the trees, in the vista where I stood ;^ 
 or wandered along the river, whose banks were fringed with the hanging 
 willow, whilst I listened to the thrush singing among the hazels that 
 crowned the sloping green above me, or watched the plashing otter, 
 as he ventured from the dark angles and intricacies of the upland 
 glen, to seek his prey in the meadow-stream during the favourable 
 dusk of twilight. Many a time have 1 heard the simple song of Roger 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 M'Cann, coming from the top of brown Dunroe, mellowed, by the 
 ■stillness of the hour, to something far sweeter to the heart than all 
 that the laboured pomp of musical art and science can effect ; or the 
 song of Katty Roy, the beauty of the village, streaming across the 
 purple-flowered moor, 
 
 " Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains." 
 
 Many a time, too, have I been gratified, in the same poetical hour, by 
 the sweet sound of honest Ned M'Keown's ungreased cart-wheels, 
 clacking, when nature seemed to have fallen asleep after the day-stir 
 and animation of rural business — for Ned was sometimes a carman — 
 ■on his return from Dublin with a load of his own groceries, without as 
 much money in his pocket as would purchase oil, wherewith to silence 
 the sounds which the friction produced — regaling his own ears the 
 while, as well as the music of the cart would permit his melody to be 
 heard, with his favourite tune of Cannie Soogah. 
 
 Honest, blustering, good-humoured Ned was the indefatigable mer- 
 chant of the village ; ever engaged in some ten or twenty pound 
 speculation, the capital of which he was sure to extort, perhaps for the 
 twelfth time, from the savings of Nancy's frugality, by the equivocal 
 test of a month or six weeks' consecutive sobriety, and which said 
 speculation he never failed to wind up by the total loss of the capital 
 for Nancy, and the capital loss of a broken head for himself Ned 
 had eternally some bargain on his hands : at one time you might see 
 him a yarn-merchant, planted in the next market-town, upon the upper 
 step of Mr. Birnie's hall-door, where the yarn-market was held, sur- 
 rounded by a crowd of eager countrywomen, anxious to give Ned the 
 preference — first, because he was a well-wisher ; secondly, because he 
 hadn't his heart in the penny ; and thirdly, because he gave sixpence 
 a spangle more than any other man in the market. 
 
 There might Ned be found, with his twenty pounds of hard silver 
 jingling in the bottom of a green bag as a decoy to his customers, 
 laughing loud as he piled the yarn in an ostentatious heap, whirh, in 
 the pride of his commercial sagacity, he had purchased at a dead loss. 
 Again, you might see him at a horse-fair, cantering about on the back 
 of some sleek but broken-winded jade, with spavined legs, imposed 
 on him as " a great bargain entirely," by the superior cunning of some 
 rustic sharper ; or standing over a hogshead of damaged flaxseed, in 
 the purchase of which he shrewdly suspected himself of having over- 
 reached the seller, by allowing him for it a greater price than the 
 prime seed of the market would have cost him. In short, Ned was 
 never out of a speculation, and whatever he undertook was sure to 
 prove a complete failure. But he had one mode of consolation, which 
 consisted in sitting down with the fag-ends of Nancy's capital in his 
 pocket, and drinking night and day with this neighbour and that, 
 whilst a shilling remained ; and when he found himself at the end of 
 his tether, he was sure to fasten a quarrel on some friend or acquaint- 
 ance, and to get his head broken for his pains. 
 
 None of all this blustering, however, happened within the range of 
 
NED APKEOWN. 
 
 Nanc/s jurisdiction. Ned, indeed, might drink and sing, and swagger 
 and fight— and he contrived to do so ; but notwithstanding all his 
 apparent courage, there was une eye w-hich made him quail, and be- 
 fore which he never put on the hector ; — there was one, in whose 
 presence the loudness of his song would fall away into a very awkward 
 and unmusical quaver, and under whose glance his laughing face 
 often changed to the visage of a man who is disposed to anything 
 but mirth. 
 
 The fact was this : — Whenever Ned found that his speculation was 
 ^one a shaitghran} as he termed it, he fixed himself in some favourite 
 public-house, from whence he seldom stirred while his money lasted, 
 except when dislodged by Nancy, who usually, upon learning where 
 he had taken cover, paid him an unceremonious visit, to which Ned's 
 indefensible delinquency gave the colour of legitimate authority. Upon 
 these occasions, Nancy, accompanied by two sturdy servant-men, 
 would sally forth to the next market-town, for the purpose of bringing 
 home " graceless Ned," as she called him. And then you might see 
 Ned between the two servants, a few paces in advance of Nancy^ 
 having very much the appearance of a man performing a pilgrimage 
 to the gallows, or of a deserter guarded back to his barracks, in order 
 to become a target for the muskets of his comrades, Ned's com- 
 pulsory return always became a matter of some notoriety ; for Nancy's 
 excursion in quest of the " graceless " was not made without frequent 
 denunciations of wrath against him, and many melancholy apologies 
 to the neighbours for entering upon the task of personally securing 
 him. By this means her enterprise was sure to get wind, and a mob 
 of all the idle young men and barefooted urchins of the village, with 
 Bob M'Cann, "a three-quarter clift"^ or mischievous fellow, half 
 knave, half fool, was to be found a little below the village, upon an 
 elevation of the road that commanded a level stretch of half a mile 
 or so, in anxious expectation of the procession. No sooner had this 
 arrived at the point of observation, than the little squadron would fall 
 rereward of the principal group, for the purpose of extracting from 
 Nancy a full and particular account of the capture. 
 
 " Indeed, childher, it's no wonder for yees to inquire ! Where did 
 I get him, DicK.' — musha, and where would I get him but in the ould 
 place, ahagur ; with the ould set : don't yees know that a dacent 
 place or dacent company wouldn't sarve Ned? — nobody but Shane 
 Martin, and Jimmy Tague, and the other blackguards." 
 
 " And what will you do with him, Nancy .-"' 
 
 " Och ! thin, Dick, avourneen, it's myself that's jist tired thinking 
 of that ; at any rate, consuming to the loose foot he'll get this blessed 
 month to come, Dick, agra !" 
 
 " Throlh, Nancy," another mischievous monkey would exclaim, 
 " if you hadn't great patience entirely you couldn't put up with such 
 thratment, at all at all." 
 
 • Gone astray. 
 
 • This is equal to the proverb — " He wants a square," that is, though knavish, 
 not thoroughly rational. 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 " Why thin, God knows, it's true for you, Barney. D'ye hear that, 
 ''graceless'? the very childher making a laughing-stock and a may 
 game of you ! — but wait till we get under the roof, any bow." 
 
 " Ned," a third would say, " isn't it a burning shame for you to 
 break the poor crathur's heart, this a- way ? Throth, but you ought to 
 hould down your head, sure enough— a dacent woman ! that only for 
 her you would'nt have a house over you, so you wouldn't." 
 
 " And throth, and the same house is going, Tim," Nancy would 
 exclaim, " and when it goes, let him see thin who'll do for him : let 
 him tr}' if his blackguards will stand to him, whin he won't have poor 
 foolish Nancy at his back." 
 
 During these conversations, Ned would talk on between his two 
 guards, with a dogged-looking and condemned face, Nancy behind 
 him, with his own cudgel, ready to administer an occasional bang 
 whenever he attempted to slacken his pace, or throw over his shoulder 
 a growl of dissent or justification. 
 
 On getting near home, the neighbours would occasionally pop out 
 their heads, with a smile of good-humoured satire on their faces, 
 which Nancy was very capable of translating. 
 
 '*Ay," she would say, adidressing them, "I've caught him — here he 
 is to the fore. Indeed, you may well laugh, Katty Rafferty ; not a one 
 of myself blames you for it. — Ah, ye mane crathur," aside to Ned, 
 " if you had the blood of a hen in you, you wouldn't have the neigh- 
 bours braking their hearts laughing at you in sich a way ; and above 
 all the people in the world, them Raffertys, that got the decree 
 against us at the last sessions, although I offered to pay within fifteen 
 shillings of the differ — the grubs !" 
 
 Having seen her hopeful charge safely ' deposited on the hob, 
 Nancy would throw her cloak into this corner, and her bonnet into 
 that, with the air of a woman absorbed by the consideration of some 
 vexatious trial ; she would then sit down, and, lighting her doodeen^ 
 exclaim : 
 
 " Wurrah, wurrah ! but it's me that's the heart-scalded crathur 
 with that man's four quarters ! The Lord may help me, and grant 
 me patience with him, any way ! — to have my little, honest, hard- 
 earned, penny spint among a pack of vagabonds, that don't care if 
 him and me wor both down the river, so they could get their skinful 
 ■of drink out of him. No matther, agra ! things can't long be this 
 a- way ; — but what does Ned care.'' — give him drink and fighting, and 
 his blackguards abi^ut him, and that's his glory. There now's the 
 landlord coming down upon us for the rint, and unless he takes the 
 cows out of the byre, or the bed from anundher us, what in the wide 
 earth is there for him ?" 
 
 The current of this lecture was never interrupted by a single 
 observation from Ned, who usually employed himself in silently 
 playing with " Bunty," a little black cur without a tail, and a great 
 favourite with Nancy ; or, if he noticed anything out of its place ii» 
 
 ' A short pipe. 
 
NED M'KEOVVN. 
 
 the house, he would arrange it with great apparent care. In the 
 meantime Nancy's wrath gene'-ally evaporated with the smoke of the 
 pipe — a circumstance which Ned well knew ; — for after she had 
 sucked it until it emitted a shrill bubbling sound, like that from a 
 reed, her brows, which wore at other times an habitual frown, would 
 gradually relax into a more benevolent expression — the parenthetical 
 curves on each side of her mouth, formed by the irascible pursing of 
 her lips, would become less marked— the dog or cat, or whatever else 
 came in her way, instead of being kicked aside, or pursued in an 
 underfit of digressional peevishness, would be put out of her path 
 with gentler force — so that it was, in such circumstances, a matter of 
 little difficulty to perceive that conciliation would soon be the order 
 of the day. Ned's conduct on these critical occasions was very 
 prudent and commendable ; he still gave Nancy her own way, never 
 "jawed back to her," but took shelter, as it were, under his own 
 patience, until the storm had passed, and the sun of her good-humour 
 began to shine again. Nancy herself, now softened by the fumes of 
 her own pigtail, usually made the first overtures to a compromise,, 
 but without departing from the practice and principles of higher 
 negotiators — always in an indirect manner ; as, " Judy, avourneen,"^ 
 speaking to the servant, "maybe that crathur," pointing to Ned, "ate 
 nothing to-day ; you had better, agra, get him the could bacon that's 
 in the cupboard, and warm for him, upon the greeshau<^Ji^ them 
 yallozu-legs,- that's in the colindher, though God he knows it's ill my 
 common^ — but no matter, ahagur, there's enough said, I'm thinking — 
 give them to him." 
 
 On Ned seating himself to his bacon and potatoes, Nancy would 
 h'ght another pipe, and plant herself on the opposite hob, putting 
 some interrogatory to him in the way of business — always concerning 
 a third person, and still in a tone of dry ironical indifference — as, 
 
 " Did you see Jimmy ConoUy on your travels .''" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Humph ! Can you tell us if Andy Morrow sould his coult?" 
 
 " He did." 
 
 " Maybe, you have gumption cnoM^ to know what he got for 
 him .^" 
 
 " Fifteen guineas." 
 
 " In throth, and it's more nor a poor body would get ; but, any way, 
 Andy Morrow desarves to get a good price ; he's a man that takes 
 care of his own business, and minds nothing else. I wish that filly of 
 ours was dockt ; you ought to spake to Jim M'QuaJe about her : it's 
 time to make her up — you know we'll want to sell her for the rint." 
 
 This was an assertion, by the way, which Ned knew to have every- 
 thing but truth in it. 
 
 " Never heed the filly," Ned would reply, " I'll get Charley Lawdher 
 to dock her — but it's not her I'm thinking of : did you hear the news 
 about the tobacky ? " 
 
 ' Hot embers. ■ A kind of potato. • It's ill becoming — or it ill becomes nae^ 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 " No, but I hope we won't be long so," 
 
 * Well, any how, we wor in luck to buy in them thiee last rowls." 
 
 " Eh ? in luck ! death alive, how, Ned ? " 
 
 " Sure there was three ships of it lost last week, on their way from 
 the kingdom of Swuzzerland in the Aist Indians, where it grows : we 
 can raise it thruppence a pound now." 
 
 " No, Ned ! you're not in arnest ? " 
 
 " Nancy, you may say I am ; and as soon as Tom Loan comes home 
 from Dublin, he'll tell us all about it ; and for that matther, maybe, 
 may rise sixpence a pound : any how, we'll gain a lob by it, I'm it 
 thinking." 
 
 " May I never stir ! but that's luck ; well, Ned, you may thank me 
 for that, any way, or not a rowl we'd have in the four corners of the 
 house — and you wanted to persuade me against buying thim ; but I 
 knew betther — for the tobacky's always sure to get a bit of a hitch at 
 this time o' the year." 
 
 " Bedad, you can do it, Nancy, I'll say that for you — that's and give 
 you your own way." 
 
 " Eh ! can't I, Ned ? — and what was betther, I bate down Pether 
 M'Entee three-ha'pence a pound afther I bought them." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! by my sannies, Nancy, as to market-making, they 
 may all throw their caps at you, you thief o' the world ; you can do 
 them nately." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Stop, Ned, don't drink that water — it's not from the 
 rock well ; I'll jist mix a sup of this last stuff we got from the moun- 
 tains, till you taste it. I think it's not worse nor the last— for Hugh 
 Traynor's an ould hand at making it." 
 
 This was all Ned wanted ; his point was now carried : but with 
 respect to the rising of the tobacco, the less that is said about that the 
 better for his veracity. 
 
 Having thus given the reader a slight sketch of Ned and Nancy, 
 and of the beautiful valley in which this worthy speculator had his 
 residence, I shall next proceed to introduce him to the village circle, 
 which, during the long winter nights, might be found in front of Ned's 
 kitchen fire of blazing turf, whose light was given back in ruddy 
 reflection from the bright pewter plates that were ranged upon the 
 white and well-scoured dresser in just and gradual order, from the 
 small egg- plate to the large and capacious dish, whereon, at Christmas 
 and Easter, the substantial round of corned beef used to rear itself 
 so proudly over the more ignoble joints at the lower end of the 
 table. 
 
 Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light, which, after all, gives 
 the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the 
 glitter of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon, might be found — first, 
 Andy Morrow, the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and impor- 
 tant in the consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial 
 withal in its application to such knotty points as arose out of the 
 subjects of their nocturnal debates. Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled 
 the foreign and military departments, and related the wonderful histor> 
 
NED M'JCEOWN. 
 
 of the ghost which appeared to him on the night after the battle of 
 Bunker's Hill. To him succeeded Tom M'Roarkin, the little asthmatic 
 anecdoiarian of half the country, remarkable for chuckling at his o<vn 
 stories. Then came old Bill M'Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey ; 
 little, squeaking, thm-faccd Alick M'Kinley, a facetious farmer of sub- 
 stance ; and Shane Fadh, who handed down traditions and fairy-tales. 
 Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne, the schoolmaster, with the short 
 arm,|who read and explained the newspaper for " Ould Square Colwell," 
 and was looked upon as premier to the aforesaid cabinet. Ned him- 
 self filled the opposite seat of honour. 
 
 One night, a little before the Christmas holidays, in the year i8 — , 
 ihe personages just described were seated around Ned's fire, some with 
 their chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of 
 Hus;h Traynor, or mountain dew, and all with good-humour and a 
 strong tendency to happiness visible in their faces. The night was 
 Hark, close, and misty — so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, " you 
 could hardly see your finger before you." Ned himself was full of fun, 
 with a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his 
 glory for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old 
 newspaper on his knee, which he had just perused for the edification 
 of his audience ; beside him was Nancy, busily employed in knitting 
 a pair of sheep's-grcy stockings for Ned ; the remaining personages 
 formed a semicircular ring about the hearth. Behind, on the kitchen- 
 table, sat Paddy Smith, the servant man, with three or four of the 
 ^orsoons of the village about him, engaged in a little under-plot of 
 their own. On the other side, and a little removed from the light, sat, 
 Ned's two nieces, Biddy and Bessy Connolly, the former with Atty 
 Johnston's miouth within whisper-reach of her ear, and the latter seated 
 close to her professed admirer, Billy Fulton, her uncle's shopman. 
 This group was completely abstracted from the entertainment which 
 was going forward in the circle round the fire. 
 
 " I wondher," said Andy Morrow, " what makes Joe M'Crea throw 
 down that fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain ? " 
 
 " I'm tould," said M'Roarkin, " that he expects money ; for they say 
 there's a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building." 
 
 "Jist as much as there's in my wig," replied Shane Fadh, "and 
 there's ne'er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could 
 there be money in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that ow'd it — 
 I mane of the ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mounijoy's hands 
 --sould it out, ran through the money, and died begging afther. Did 
 none of you ever hear of 
 
 ' Ould John Grame, 
 'That swally'd the castle of Aughentain ! ' " 
 
 "That was long afore my time," said the poacher : "but I know 
 that the rabbit-burrow between that and Jack Appleton's garden will 
 soon be run out." 
 
 " Your time ! " responded Shane Fadh, with contempt ; " ay, and 
 your father's afore you : \iiy father doesn t remimber more nor seeing 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 his funeral, and a merry one it was ; for my grandfather, and some of 
 them that had a respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn't 
 it for himself, made up as much money among them as berried him 
 dacently, any how — ay, and gave him a rousin' wake into the bargain, 
 with lashins of whiskey, stout beer, and ale ; for in them times — God 
 be with them — every farmer brewed his own ale and beer; more 
 betoken, that one pint of it was worth a keg of this wash of yours. 
 Ned." 
 
 " Wasn't it he that used to appear f " inquired M'Roarkin. 
 
 " Sure enough he did, Tom." 
 
 "Lord save us," said Nancy, "what could trouble him, I dunna?" 
 
 " Why," continued Shane Fadh, " some said one thing, and some 
 another ; but the upshot of it was this : when the last of the Grameses 
 sould the estate, castle and all, it seerns he didn't resave all the 
 purchase money ; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to 
 the purchaser for the remainder — him that the Mountjoy family 
 bought it from ; but it seems he didn't draw up writings, or sell it 
 according to law, so that the thief o* the world baffled him from day to 
 day, and wouldn't give him a penny — bekase he knew, the blaggard, 
 that the Square was then as poor as a church mouse, and hadn't 
 money enough to thry it at law with him ; but the Square was always 
 a simple, asy-going man. One day he went to this fellow, riding on 
 an ould garran, with a shoe loose— the only baste he had in the 
 world — and axed him, for God's sake, to give him some of what he 
 owed him, if it was ever so little : ' for,' says he, ' I have not as 
 much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my 
 horse.' 
 
 " ' Well,' says the nager, ' if you're not able to keep your horse shod, 
 I would jist recommend you to sell him, and thin his shoes won't cost 
 you anything,' says he. 
 
 " The old Square went away with tears in his eyes, for he loved the 
 poor brute, bekase they wor the two last branches of the ould stock." 
 
 " Why," inquired M'Kinley, in his small squeaking voice, " was the 
 horse related to the family .'' " 
 
 " I didn't say he was related to the fam Get out, you shiiigouii!"'^ 
 
 returned the old man, perceiving by the laugh that now went round 
 the sly tendency of the question. " No, not to _y^«r family either, for he 
 had nothing of the ass in him — eh ? will ye put that in your pocket, 
 my little skinadhre^ — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 The laugh was now turned against M'Kinley. 
 
 Shane Fadh proceeded : " The ould Square, as I was tellin' yees, 
 cried to find himself an' the poor baste so dissolute, but when he had 
 gone a bit from the fellow, he comes back to the vagabone, ' Now,' 
 says he, ' mind my words — if you happen to live afther me, you need 
 never expect a night's pace ; for I here make a serous an' solemn vow, 
 that as long as my property's in your possession, or in any of your 
 seed, breed, or ginerations, I'll never give over hauntin' you an' them, 
 
 ' Fairy-like, or connected with the fairies. ' A thin, fleshless, stunted person. 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 till you'll rue to the back-bone your dishonesty an* chathery to me an' 
 this poor baste, that hasn't a shoe to its foot.' 
 
 " ' W ell,' says the nager, ' 1 11 take chance of that, any way.'" 
 
 " I'm tould, Shane," observed the poacher, " that the Square was a 
 fine man in his time, that wouldn't put up with such thratement from 
 anybody." 
 
 "Ay, but he was ould now," Shane replied, "and too wakely to 
 fight. A fine man, Bill ! — he was the finest man, 'ceptin' ould Squar-; 
 Storey, that ever was in this counthry. I hafd my grandfather often 
 say that he was six feet four, and made in proportion— a handsome, 
 black-a-vis'd' man, with great dark whiskers. Well ! he spint money 
 like sklates, and so he died miserable — but had a merry birrel, as I 
 said." 
 
 " But," inquired Nancy, " did he ever appear to the rogue that 
 chated him ?" 
 
 " Every night in the year, Nancy, exceptin' Sundays ; and what was 
 more, the horse along with him— for he used to come ridin' at mid- 
 night upon the same garran ; and it was no matther what place or 
 company the other 'ud be in, the ould Square would come regularly, 
 and crave him for what he owed him ." 
 
 " So it appears that horses have sowls," observed M'Roarkin, philo- 
 sophically, giving, at the same time, a cynical chuckle at the sarcasm 
 of his own conceit. 
 
 " Whether they have sowls or bodies," replied the narrator, "what 
 I'm tellin' you is the thruth ; every night in the year the ould chap 
 would come for what was indue him ; and as the two went along, the 
 noise of the loose shoe upon the horse would be hard rattlin', and seen 
 knockin' the fire out of the stones, by the neighbours and the thief 
 that chated him, even before the Square would appear, at all at all." 
 
 'Oh, wurrah!' exclaimed Nancy, shuddering with terror, "I 
 wouldn't take anything, and be out now on the Drumfurrar road, and 
 nobody with me but myself." 
 
 " I think if you wor," said M'Kinley, ' the light weights and short 
 measures would be coming acrass your conscience." 
 
 " No, in throth, Alick, wouldn't they ; but maybe if you wor, the 
 promise you broke to Sally Mitchell might trouble you a bit : at any 
 rate. I've a praye-. and if I only repated it -duanst, I mightn't beafeard 
 of a" the divils in hell." 
 
 "Thro'Ji, but it's worth havin', Nancy: where did you get it?" 
 asled M'Kinley. 
 
 *• H ould your wicked tongue, you thief of a heretic," said Nancy, 
 laughing, " when will J ^/Marn anything that's good .? I got it from 
 one th.ii wouldn't have it if it ivasnH good— Darby M'Murt, the pil- 
 grim, since yju must know.' 
 
 " Whisht : " said Frayne : " upon my word, I blieve the ould 
 Square's coniin' to pay us a visit ; does any of yees hear a horse 
 trottin' with a shoe lor:e .' " 
 
 Black-visaged. 
 
NED IvPKEOWN. II 
 
 " I sartinly hear it," observed Andy Morrow. 
 
 " And I," said Ned himself. 
 
 The was now a general pause, and in the silence a horse, proceeding 
 from the moors in the direction of the house, was distinctly heard : 
 and nothing could be less problematical than that one of his shoes 
 was loose. 
 
 " Boys, take care of yourselves," said Shane Fadh ; " if the Square 
 comes, he won't be a pleasant customer— he was a terrible fellow in 
 his day : I'll hould goold to silver that he'll have the smell of brim- 
 stone about him." 
 
 " Nancy, Where's your prayer «<?w?" s^^id M'Kinley, with a grin. 
 " I think you had betther out with it, and thry if it keeps this ould 
 brimstone Square on the wrong side of the house." 
 
 " Behave yourself, Alick ; it's a shame for you to be sich a hardened 
 crathur : upon my sannies, I blieve you're afeard of neither God nor 
 the divil — the Lord purtect and guard us from the dirty baste ! " 
 
 " You mane particklarly them that uses short measures and light 
 weights," rejoined M'Kinley. 
 
 There was another pause, for the horseman was within a few 
 perches of the cross-roads. At this moment an unusual gust of wind, 
 accompanied by torrents of rain, burst against the house with a 
 violence that made its ribs creak ; and the stranger's horse, the shoe 
 still clanking, was distinctly heard to turn in from the road to Ned's 
 door, where it stopped, and the next moment a loud knocking inti- 
 mated the horseman's intention to enter. The com pan v now looked 
 at each other, as if uncertain what to do. Nancy herself grew pale, 
 and, in the agitation of the moment, forgot to think of lier protecting 
 prayer. Biddy and Bessy Connolly started from the settle on which 
 they had been sitting with their sweethearts, and sprung beside their 
 uncle on the hob. The stranger was still knocking with great 
 violence, yet there was no disposition among the company to admit 
 him, notwithstanding the severity of the night — blowing, as it really 
 did, a perfect hurricane. At length a sheet of lightning flashed 
 through the house, followed by an amazing loud clap of thunder ; 
 while, with a sudden push from without, the door gave way, and in 
 stalked a personage whose stature was at least six feet four, with dark 
 eyes and complexion, and coal-black whiskers of an enormous size, 
 the very image of the Squire they had been describing. He was 
 dressed in a long black surtout, which made him appear even taller 
 than he actually was, had a pair of heavy boots upon him, and carried 
 a tremendous whip, large enough to fell an ox. He was in a rage on 
 entering ; and the heavy, dark, close-knit brows, from beneath which 
 a pair of eyes, equally black, shot actual fire, and the Turk-like 
 whiskers, which curled themselves up, as it were, in sympathy with 
 his fury, joined to his towering height, gave him altogether, when we 
 consider the frame of mind in which he found the company, an 
 appalling and almost supernatural appearance. 
 
 " Confound you, for a knot of lazy scoundrels," exclaimed the 
 stranger. " Why do you sit here so calmly, while any being craves 
 
IS NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 Admittance on such a night as this ? Here, you lubber in the corner, 
 with the pipe in your mouth, come and put up this horse of mine 
 until the night settles." 
 
 "May the blessed Mother purlect us!" exclaimed Nancy, in a 
 whisper to Andy Morrow, " if 1 blieve he's a right thing ! — would itoe 
 the ould Square ? Did you ever set your eyes upon sich a " 
 
 " Will you bestir yourself, you boor, and not keep my horse and 
 saddle out under such a torrent ? " he cried, " otherwise I must only 
 bring him into the house, and then you may say for once that you've 
 had the devil under your roof." 
 
 " Paddy Smith, you lazy spalpeen." said Nancy, winking at Ned to 
 have nothing to do with the horse, ''why don't you fly and put up the 
 gintleman's horse .'' And you, Atty, avourncen, jist go out with him, 
 and hould the candle while he's doin' it : be quick now, and I'll give 
 you glasses apiece when you come in." 
 
 " Let them put him up quickly ; but I say, you Caliban," added the 
 stranger, addressing Smith, " don't be rash about him, except you can 
 bear tire and brimstone ; get him, at all events, a good feed of oats. 
 Poor Satan !" he continued, patting the horse's head, which was 
 now within the door, "you have had a hard night of it, my poor Satan, 
 as well as myself, That's my dark spirit — my brave chuck, that fears 
 neither man nor devil." 
 
 This language was by no means calculated to allay the suspicions 
 of those who were present, particularly of Nancy and her two nieces. 
 Ned sat in astonishment, with the pipe in his hand, which he had, in 
 the surprise of the moment, taken from his mouth, his eyes fixed upon 
 the stranger, and his mouth open. The latter noticed him, and, 
 stretching over the heads of the circle, tapped him on the shoulder 
 with his whip. 
 
 " I have a few words to say to you, sir," he said. 
 
 " To me, your honour !" exclaimed Ned, without stirring, however. 
 
 " Yes," replied the other, " but you seem to be fastened to your 
 seat : come this way." 
 
 " By all manner of manes, sir," said Ned, starting up, and going 
 over to the dresser, against which the stranger stood. 
 
 When the latter had got him there, he very coolly walked up, and 
 secured Ned's comfortable seat on the hob, at the same time ob- 
 serving : 
 
 " You hadn't the manners to ask me to sit down ; but I always 
 make it a point of conscience to take care of myself, landlord." 
 
 There was not a man about the fire who did not stand up, as if 
 struck with a sudden recollection, and offer him a seat. 
 
 " No," said he, " thank you, my good fellows, I am very well as it is : 
 I suppose, mistress, you are the landlady," addressing Nancy ; " if 
 you be, I'll thank you to bring me a gill of your best whisky — your 
 best, mind. Let it be as strong as an evil spirit let loose, and as hot 
 as fire ; for it can't be a jot too ardent such a night as this, for a being 
 that rides the devil." 
 
 Nancy started up instinctively, exclaiming, " Indeed, plase your 
 
NED M'KEOWN. 13 
 
 honour's reverence, I am the landlady, as you say, Sir, sure enough ; 
 but, the Lawk save and guard us ! won't a gallon of raw whiskey be 
 too much for one man to drink?" 
 
 " A gallon ! I only said a gill, my good hostess ; bring me a gill ; — 
 but I forget — I believe you have no such measure in this country ; 
 bring me a pint, then." 
 
 Nancy now went into the bar, whither she gave Ned a wink to 
 follow her ; and truly was glad of an opportunity of escaping from 
 the presence of the visitor. When there, she ejaculated, 
 
 " May the holy Mother keep and guard us, Ned, but I'm afeard 
 that's no Christian crathur, at all at all ! Arrah, Ned, aroon, would 
 he be that ould Square Grame, that Shane Fadh maybe, angered, by 
 spakin' of him ?" 
 
 " Troth," said Ned, " myself doesn't know what he is ; he bates 
 any mortal / ever seen." 
 
 " Well, hould, agra ! I have it : we'll see whether he'll drink this or 
 not, any how." 
 
 " Why, what's that you're doin'?" asked Ned. 
 
 " Jist," replied Nancy, "mixin' the smallest taste in the world of 
 holy wather v.-ith the whisky, and if he drinks that, you know he can 
 be nothing that's bad." 
 
 Nancy, however, did not perceive that the trepidation of her hand 
 was such as to incapacitate her from making nice distinctions in the 
 admixture. She now brought the spirits to the stranger, who no 
 sooner took a mouthful of it than he immediately stopped it on its 
 passage, and, fixing his eyes earnestly on Nancy, squirted it into the 
 fire, and the next moment the whisky was in a blaze that seemed 
 likely to set the chimney in flames. 
 
 " Why, my honest hostess," he exclaimed, " do you give this to m© 
 for whisky? Confound me, but two thirds of it is water ; and I have 
 no notion to pay for water when I want spirits : have the goodness to 
 exchange this, and get me some better stuff, if you have it." 
 
 He again put the jug to his mouth, and having taken a little, 
 swallowed it : " Why, I tell you, woman, you must have made some 
 mistake ; one-half of it is water." 
 
 Now, Nancy, from the moment he refused to swallow the liquor, 
 had been lock-jawed ; the fact was, she thought that the devil himsell, 
 or old Squire Graham, had got under her roof; and she stood behind 
 Ned, who was nearly as terrified as herself, with her hands raised, 
 her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth, and the perspiration 
 falling from her pale face in large drops. But as soon as she saw 
 him swa'low a portion of that liquid, which she deemed beyond the de- 
 glutition of ghost or devil, she instantly revived — her tongue resumed 
 its accustomed office — her courage, as well as her good-humour, 
 returned, and she went up to him with great confidence, saying : 
 
 " Why, then, your reverence's honour, maybe I did make a bit of 
 a mistake, sir," taking up the jug, and tasting its contents. " Hut ! 
 bad scran to me, but I did, beggm' your honcvr's pardon ; how-an* 
 diver, I'll soon rightify that, your reverence." 
 
14 NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 So saying, she went and brought him a pint of the stoutest the 
 house afforded. The stranger drank a glass of it, and then ordered 
 hot water and sugar, adding : 
 
 " My honest friends here about the fire will have no objection to 
 help me with this ; but, on second consideration, you had better get 
 us another quart, that, as the night is cold, we may have a jorum at 
 this pleasant fire that will do our hearts good ; and this pretty girl 
 here," addressing Biddy, who really deserved the epithet, "will sit 
 beside me, and give us a song." 
 
 It was surprising what an effect the punch, even in perspectiv-e, had 
 upon the visual organs of the company ; second sight was rather its 
 precursor than its attendant ; for, with intuitive penetration, they now 
 discovered various good qualities in his ghostship that had hitherto 
 been beyond their ken ; and those very personal properties which 
 before struck them dumb with terror already called forth their 
 applause. 
 
 " What a fine man he is !" one would whisper, loud enough, how- 
 ever, to be heard by the object of his panegyric. 
 
 " He is, indeed, and a rale gintleman," another would respond, in 
 the same key. 
 
 " Hut ! he's none of your proud, stingy, upsthart bodag/is^ — none of 
 your beggarly half-sirs," a third would remark ; " he's the dacent thing 
 entirely — you see he hasn't his heart in a thrifle." 
 
 " And so sign's on him," a fourth would add ; " he wasn't bred to 
 shabbiness, as you may know by his fine behaviour and his big 
 whiskers." 
 
 When the punch was made, and the kitchen-table placed endwise 
 towards the fire, the stranger, finding himself very comfortable, in- 
 quired if he could be accommodated with a bed and supper, to which 
 Nancy replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " Then, in that case," said he, " I will be your guest for the night." 
 
 Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire 
 Graham and his horse with the loose slioe, informing the stranger, at 
 the same time, of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of 
 the story, both in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable 
 coincidence in the time and manner of his approach. 
 
 " Tut, man ! " said the stranger, " a far more extraordinary adven- 
 ture happened to one of my father's tenants, which, if none of you 
 have any objection, 1 will relate." 
 
 There was a buzz of approbation at this ; and they all thanked his 
 honour, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was 
 just proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, 
 and, before any of the inmates had time to open it. Father Neddy 
 Delcery and his curate made their appearance, having been on their 
 
 way home from a conference held in the town of M , eighteen 
 
 miles from the scene of our present story. 
 
 ' A person vulgar but rich, without any pretensions but those of wealth to the 
 charactei of a gentleman ; a churl. 
 
NED M'KEOWN. I$ 
 
 It may be right here to inform the reader that about two hundiid 
 yards from Ned's house stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, 
 called " The Forth," from the resemblance it bore to the Forts or 
 Raths so common in Ireland. It was a small green, perfectly circular, 
 and about twenty yards in diameter. Around it grew a row of old 
 overspreading hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that 
 almost shaded it from sun and storm. Its area was encompassed by 
 tiers of seats, one raised above another, and covered with the flowery 
 grass. On these the congregation used to sit — the young men pro- 
 bably swearing-in a Ribbonman, or ogling their sweethearts on the 
 opposite side ; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of 
 the day as retailed by Mick M'Caffry, the politician ; while up near 
 the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might per- 
 ceive a votecn^ repeating sorr.e new prayer or choice piece of devotion 
 — or some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice, Doctor 
 Gallagher's Irish Sermons, Pastorini's History of the Christian Church, 
 or Columbkill's Prophecy — and, perhaps, a strolling pilgrim, the centre 
 of a third collection, singing the Dies ircB in Latin, or the Hermit of 
 Killarney in English. 
 
 At the extremity of this little circle was a plain altar of wood, 
 covered with a little thatched shed, under which the priest celebrated 
 mass ; but before the performance of this ceremony, a large multitude 
 usually assembled opposite Ned's shop-door, at the cross-roads. This 
 crowd consisted of such as wanted to buy tobacco, candles, soap, 
 potash, and such other groceries as the peasantry remote from market 
 towns require. After mass, the public-house was filled to the door- 
 posts with those who wished to get a sample of Nancy's Iska-bcJiaghj'^ 
 and many a time has little Father Neddy himself, of a frosty day, 
 after having performed mass with a celerity highly agreeable to his 
 auditory, come in to Nancy, nearly frost-bitten, to get a toothful of 
 mountain dew, to drive the cold out of his stomach. 
 
 The fact is, that Father Neddy Deleery made himself quite at 
 home at Ned's, without any reference to Nancy's saving habits ; the 
 consequence was that her welcome to him was extremely sincere — 
 " from the teeih out." Father Ned saw perfectly through her assumed 
 heartiness of manner, but acted as if the contrary was the case. 
 Nancy understood him also, and, with an intention of making up 
 by complaisance for her niggardliness in other respects, was a 
 perfect honeycomb. This state of cross purposes, however, could 
 not last long — neither did it. Father Ned never paid, and Nancy 
 never gave credit ; so, at length, they came to an open rupture : 
 she threatened to process him for what he owed her, and he, in 
 return, threatened to remove the congregation from "The Forth" to 
 Ballymagowan-bridge, where he intended to set up his nephew, 
 Bill Buckley, in the " public line," to the ruin of Nancy's flourishing 
 establishment. 
 
 " Father Ned," said Nancy, " I'm a hard-working, honest woiiiiu). 
 
 ' Usquebagh — literally, " water of life." 
 
l6 NED M'KEOWN. 
 
 and I don't see why -ny substance is to be wasted by your reverence, 
 when you won't pay for it." 
 
 " And do yoji forget," Father Ned would reply, " that it's me that 
 brings you your custom ? Don't you know that if I remove my flock 
 to Ballymagowan, you'll soon sing to another tune? so lay that to 
 your heart." 
 
 "Troth, I know that whatever I get I'm obliged to pay for it ; and 
 I think every man should do the same, Father Ned. You must get 
 a hank of yarn from me, and a bushel or two of oats from Ned, and 
 your riglar dues along with all; but, avourneen, it's yourself that 
 wouldn't raise your hand over us if we wor in the last gasp, for all 
 that, without getting the silver." 
 
 " Salvation to me. but you'd skin a flint !" 
 
 " Well, if I would, I pay my debts first." 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 " Yes, troth, do I." 
 
 " Why, then, that's more than you'll be able to do long, plase the 
 fates." 
 
 " If all my customers wor like your reverence, it is." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the 
 congregation from ' The Forth,' and I'll do it — if I don't, may I never 
 sup sorrow ! " 
 
 Big with such a threat, Father Neddy retired. The apprehensions 
 of Nancy on this point, however, were more serious than she was 
 willing to acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before 
 the night in question. 
 
 Father Neddy was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and 
 flat feet ; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister's grey 
 small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which 
 was much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him alto- 
 gether an appearance very much at variance witla an idea of personal 
 gravity or reverence. Over this dress he wore, in winter, a dark 
 great-coat, with high collar, that buttoned across his face, showing 
 only the point of his red nose ; so that, when riding or walking, his 
 hat rested more upon the collar of his coat than upon his head. 
 
 The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting 
 cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees : to his shoulders, which 
 were very higli, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions 
 seemed rather the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which 
 was a bad black, was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye- 
 brows ; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which had 
 produced Father Neddy's, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with 
 black buttons. Each wore a pair of grey woollen mittens. 
 
 "There, Pether," said Father Ned, as he entered, "hook my bridle 
 along with your own, as your hand is in. — God save all here ! Paddy 
 Smith, ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry our- 
 selves a bit — Father Pether and I." 
 
 " M jsha, but you're both welcome," said Nancy, wishing to wipe 
 out the effects of the last tift with Father Neddy, by the assistance ot 
 
NED APAEOWN. 17 
 
 the stranger's punch : " will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to 
 the fire. Father Neddy, you're dhreepin' with the rain ; and, Father 
 Pether, avourneen, you're wet to the skin, too." 
 
 " Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but 
 all — four tumblers, Ned — deuce a s^^icdh ' less. Mr. Morrow, how do 
 you do, sir?— And— eh? — Who's this we've got in the corner? A 
 gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one ! Mr. Morrow, introduce me." 
 
 " Indeed, Father Ned, I haven't the pleasure of knowin' the gintle- 
 man myself.' 
 
 " Well, no matter — come up, Pether. Sir, I have the honour oi 
 introducing you to my curate and coadjuthor, the Reverend Pether 
 M'Clatchaghan, and to myself, his excellent friend, but spiritual 
 superior, the Reverend Ned — hem ! — the Reverend Edward Deleery, 
 Roman Catholic rector of this highly respectable and extensive 
 parish ; and I have further the pleasure," he continued, taking up 
 Andy Morrow's punch, "of drinking your very good health, sir." 
 
 " And I have the honour," returned the stranger, rising up, and 
 driving his head among the flitches of bacon that hung in the chminey, 
 "of introducing you and the Rev. M'— M'— M' '' 
 
 " — Clatchaghan, sir," subjoined Father Ned. 
 
 "Peter M'lllclatchaghan, to Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexan- 
 drinus." 
 
 " My word, sir, but it's a good and appropriate name, sure enough,'* 
 said Father Ned, surveying his enormous length : " success to me, but 
 you're an Alexandrine from head to foot — non sohuii Longiniis, sed 
 A lexandrmus." 
 
 " You're wrong, sir, in the Latin," said Father Peter. 
 
 " Prove it, Pether — prove it." 
 
 " It should be non taniiim, sir. 
 
 "By what rule, Pether?" 
 
 " Why, sir, there's a phrase in Corderius's Colloquies that I could 
 condimn you from, if I had the book." 
 
 " Pether, you think you're a scholar, and, to do you justice, you're 
 cute enough sometimes ; but, Pether, you didn't travel for it, as I did 
 — nor were you obliged to leap out of a college windy in Paris, at the 
 time of the French Revolution, for your laming, as I was : not you, 
 man, you ate the king's mutton comfortably at home in Maynooth, 
 instead of travelling for it, like your betters." 
 
 " I'll appale to this gintleman," said Father Peter, turning to the 
 stranger. " Are you a classical scholar, sir — that is, do yeu under- 
 stand Latin ? " 
 
 " What kind ? " demanded the stranger, dryiy. 
 
 " If you have read Corderius's Colloquies, itwill do," said Father Peter. 
 
 "No, sir," replied the other, "but I have read his commentator, 
 Bardolphus, who wrote a treatise upon the Ogalvus of the ancients." 
 
 " Well, sir, if you did, it's probable that you may be able to under- 
 stand our dispute, so " 
 
 ' Drop — the least quantity. 
 
l8 NLD M'KEOWN. 
 
 " Pether, I'm afeard you've gotten into the wrong box ; for I say 
 he's no chicken that read Bardolphiis^ I can tell you that ; I had my 
 own trouble with him : but, at any rate, will you take your punch, man 
 alive, and don't bother us with your Latin." 
 
 •' I beg your pardon. Father Ned : I insist that I'm right ; and I'll 
 convince you that you're wrong, if God spares me to see Corderius to^ 
 morrow." 
 
 " \'ery well then, Pether, if you're to decide it to-morrow, /et us have 
 no more of it to-night." 
 
 During this conversation between the two reverend worthies, the 
 group around the fire were utterly astonished at the erudition displayed 
 in this learned dispute. 
 
 "Well, to be sure, larnin's a great thing, entirely," said M'Roarkin, 
 aside, to Shane Fadh. 
 
 "Ah, Tom, there's nothing like it: well, any way, it's wondherful 
 what they know ! " 
 
 " Indeed it is, Shane — and in so short a time, too ! Sure it's not 
 more nor five or six years since Father Pether there used to be digging 
 praties on the one ridge with myself — by the same token, an excellent 
 spadesman he was — and now he knows more nor all the Protestant 
 parsons in the Diocy." 
 
 " Why, how could t/iey know anything, when they don't belong to 
 the thrue church .-"' said Shane. 
 
 " Thrue for you, Shane," replied JM'Roarkin ; " I disremimbered 
 that clincher." 
 
 This discourse ran parallel with the dispute between the two priests, 
 but in so low a tone as not to reach the ear of the classical champions, 
 who would have ill brooked this eulogium upon Father Peter's agri- 
 cultural talent. 
 
 " Don't bother us, Pether, with your arguing, to-night," said Father 
 Neddy, " it's enough for you to be seven days m the week at your 
 disputation. — Sir, 1 drink to our better acquaintance." 
 
 " With all my heart, sir," replied the stranger. 
 
 " Father Ned," said Nancy, " the gintleman was going to tell ua 
 sthrange story, sir, and maybe your reverence would wish to hear it, 
 Docthor." 
 
 " Certainly, Nancy, we'll be very happy to hear any story the gintle- 
 man may plase to tell us ; but, Nancy, achora, before he begins, what 
 if you'd just fry a slice or two of that glorious flitch, hanging over his 
 head, in the corner .<' — that, and about six eggs, Nancy, and you'll have 
 the priest's blessing, ,^rrt//.v." 
 
 " Why, Father Ned, it's too fresh, entirely — sure it's not a week 
 hanging yet." 
 
 " Sorra matter, Nancy dheelish, we'll take with all that — ^just try 
 your hand at a slice of it. I rode eighteen miles, and took four 
 tumblers since I dined, and I feel a craving, Nancy, a ivhacuum in my 
 stomach, that's rather troublesome." 
 
 " To be sure, Father Ned, you must get a slice, with all the veins of 
 my heart ; but I thought maybe you wouldn't like it so fresh : but 
 
NED M'KEOiVN. 
 
 »vhat on earth will we do for eggs, for there's not an egg undher the 
 roof with me." 
 
 " Biddy, a hagur," said Father Ned, "just slip out to Molshey 
 Johnston, and tell her to send me six eggs for a rasher, by the same 
 token that I heard two or three hens cackling in the byre, as I was 
 going to Conference this morning." 
 
 " Well, Docthor," said Pat Frayne, when Biddy had been gone 
 some time, on which embassy she delayed longer than the priest's 
 judgment, influenced by the cravings of his stomach, calculated to be 
 necessary — " Well, Docthor, I often pity you for fasting so long ; Fm 
 sure, I dunna how you can stand it at all, at all." 
 
 " Troth, and you may well wonder, Pat ; but we have that to 
 support UC-, that you, or anyone like you, know nothing about — inward 
 support, Pat — inward support." 
 
 " Only for that. Father Ned," said Shane Fadh, " I suppose you 
 could never get through with it." 
 
 " Very right, Shane — very right : only for it, we never could do. — 
 What the dickens is keeping this girl with the eggs ? — why, she might 
 be at Mr. Morrow's, here, since. By the way, Mr. Morrow, you must 
 come over to our church ; you're a good neighbour, and a worthy 
 fellow, and it's a thousand pities you should be damned." 
 
 " Why, Docthor," said Andy, "do you really believe Fll be damned?" 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Morrow, don't ask me that question — out of the pale, you 
 know — out of the pale." 
 
 " Then you think, sir, there's no chance for me, at all," said Andy, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Not the laste, Andy ; you must go this way," said Father Ned, 
 striking the floor with the butt end of his whip "to the lower regions; 
 and, upon my knowledge, to tell you the truth, Fm sorry for it, for 
 you're a worthy fellow." 
 
 " Ah, Docthor," said Ned, "it's a great thing entirely to be born in 
 the true church — one's always sure, then." 
 
 " Ay, ay ; you may say that, Ned," returned the priest ; " come or go 
 what will, a man's always safe at the long run, except he dies without 
 his clargy. — Shane, hand me the jug, if you please. — Where did you 
 get this stuff, Nancy ? — faith, it's excellent." 
 
 "You forget. Father Ned, that that's a sacret. — But here's Biddy 
 with the eggs, and now you'll have your rasher in no time." 
 
 During this conversation, Father Peter, turning to Alick M'Kinley, 
 said, " Alick, isn't your eldest son at the Latin ? " 
 
 " He is, sir," said Alick. 
 
 " How long is he at it, Alick ? " 
 
 *' About six months, sir." 
 
 " And do you know what book he's reading ? " 
 
 "Not a one of myself knows," said Alick, "but I know he has a 
 great batch of them." 
 
 " You couldn't tell me if he has got a Cordery ? " 
 
 " He has, sir," said Alick, " a jacket and trousers of it." 
 
 ** Of what ? " said the curate, looking at him with surprise. 
 
A'ED M'KEOWN: 
 
 " Of corduroy," said the other. 
 
 " Oh, I mean a book ! " said Father Peter. 
 
 " Consumin' to the know I know what's the name of one of them," 
 rephed Alick. 
 
 " I wish to heavens I had one, till I'd confute that man ! " said 
 Father Peter, looking with a most mortified visage into the fire. 
 
 When the two clergymen had discussed the rashers and eggs, and 
 '.vhile the happy group were making themselves intimately acquainted 
 with a fresh jug of punch, as it circulated round the table : 
 
 "Now, sir," said Father Ned to the stranger, "we'll hear your 
 story with the greatest satisfaction possible ; but I think you might 
 charge your tumbler before you set to it." 
 
 When the stranger had complied with this last hint : " Well, gentle- 
 men," said he, " as I am rather fatigued, will you excuse me for the 
 position I am about to occupy, which is simply to stretch myself along 
 the hob here, with my head upon this straw hassock ; and if you have 
 no objection to that, I will relate the story." 
 
 To this, of course, a general assent was given. When he was 
 stretched completely at his ease — 
 
 " Well, upon my veracity," observed Father Peter, " the gentleman's 
 supernaturally long." 
 
 " Yes, Pether," replied Father Neddy, " but observe his position — 
 Polysyllaba cuncta supuia^ as Prosody says. — Arrah, salvation to me, 
 but you"re dull, man, afther all! — but we're interrupting the gentleman. 
 Sir, go on, if you plase, with your story." 
 
 " Give me a few minutes," said he, " until I recollect the particulars." 
 
 He accordingly continued quiescent for two or three minutes more, 
 apparently arranging the materials of his intended narration, and 
 then commenced to gratify the eager expectations of his auditor}' — by 
 emitting those nasal enunciations which are the usual accompani- 
 ments of sleep ! 
 
 " Why, bad luck to the morsel of 'im but's asleep," said Ned ; 
 *' Lord pardon me for swearin' in your reverence's presence." 
 
 " That's certainly the language of a sleeping man," replied Father 
 Neddy ; " but there might have been a little more respect than all 
 that snoring comes to. Your health, boys ! " 
 
 The stranger had now wound up his nasal organ to a high pitch, 
 after which he commenced again with somewhat of a lower and finer 
 tone. 
 
 " He's beginning a new paragraph," observed Father Peter, with a 
 smile at the joke. 
 
 " Not at all," said Father Neddy, "he's turning the tune ; don't you 
 perceive he's snoring, 'God save the King,' in the ]<.cy oi bass relievo." 
 
 " I'm no judge of instrumental music, as you are," said the curate, 
 "but I think it's likcr the ' Dead March of Saul' than ' God save the 
 King ; ' however, if you be right, the gentleman certainly snores in a 
 truly loyal strain." 
 
 " That," said little M'Roarkin, " is liker the swine's melody, or the 
 Bedfordshire hornpipe — he — he — he ! " 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 " The poor gintleman's tired," observed Nancy, " after a hard day's 
 thravelling.' 
 
 " I daresay he is," said Father Ned, in the sinceie hospitality of 
 his country ; " at all events take care of him, Nancy, he's a stranger,, 
 and get the best supper you can for him — he appears to be a truly 
 respectable and well-bred man." 
 
 " I think," said M'Kinley, with a comical grin, " you might know 
 that by his high-flown manner of sleeping — he snores very politely, 
 and like a gintleman, all out." 
 
 " Well done, Alick," said the priest, laughing ; " go home, boys, it's 
 near bedtime ; Paddy, ma bouchal, are the horses ready ? " 
 
 " They'll be at the door in a jiffey, your reverence," said Paddy^ 
 going out. 
 
 In the course of a few minutes he returned, exclaiming, " Why, 
 thin, is it thinkin' to venthur out sich a night as it's comin' on, yer 
 reverences would be ? and it plashin' as if it came out of methers ! 
 Sure the life would be dhrownded out of both of ye, and yees might 
 coich a faver into the bargain." 
 
 " Sit down, gintlemen," said Ned ; "sit down, Father Ned, you and 
 Father Pether — we'll have another tumbler ; and, as it's my turn to 
 tell a story, I'll give yees something to amuse yees — the best I can, 
 and, you all know, who can do more ? " 
 
 " Very right, Ned ; but let us see" — replied Father Ned, putting his 
 head out of the door, to ascertain what the night did ; " Come, Pether, 
 it's good to be on the safe side of any house in such a storm ; we must 
 only content ourselves till it gets fair. Now, Ned, go on with your 
 story, and let it be as pleasant as possible." 
 
 "Never fear, your reverence," replied Ned j "here goes — and 
 healths apiece to begin with." 
 
 7 HE THREE TASKS; 
 
 Or, The Little Hotise under the Hill. 
 
 ^VERY person in the parish knows the purty knoll that rises 
 above the Routing Burn, some few miles from the renowned 
 town of Knockimdowny, which, as all the world must allow, 
 wants only houses and inhabitants to be as big a place as the great town 
 of Dublin itself. At the foot of this little hill, just under the shelter of 
 a dacent pebble of a rock, something about the bulk of half a dozen 
 churches, one would be apt to see — if they knew how to look sharp, 
 otherwise thej mightn't be able to make it out from the grey rock above 
 It, except by the smoke that ris from the chimbley — Nancy Magennis's 
 
S2 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 little cabin, snug and cosey with its corrag,' or ould man of braiches, 
 standing on the windy side of the door, to keep away the blast. 
 
 " Upon my word, it was a dacent little residence in its own way, 
 and so was Nancy herself, for that matther ; for, though a poor widdy, 
 she was very ptatci-wc/l in paying for Jack's schooling, as I often 
 heard ould Terry M'Phaudcen say, who tould me the story. Jack, in- 
 deed, grew up a tine slip ; and, for hurling, football playing, and lepping, 
 hadn't his likes in the live quarters of the parish. It's he that knew 
 how to handle a spade and a raping-hook, and, what was betther nor 
 all that, he was kind and tindher to his poor ould mother, and would 
 let her want for nothing. Before he'd go to his day's work in the 
 morning, he'd be sure to bring home from the clear spring-well that 
 ran out of the other side of the rock, a pitcher of water to serve her 
 for the day ; nor would he forget to bring in a good creel of turf from 
 the snug little peat-stack that stood, thatched with rushes, before the 
 duor, and leave it m the corner, beside the fire ; so that she had 
 nothing to do but put over her hand, without rising off her sate, and 
 put down a sod when she wanted it. 
 
 " Nancy, on her part, kept Jack vicy ciane and comfortable ; his 
 linen, though coorse, was always a good colour, his working clothes 
 tidily mended at all times ; and when he'd have occasion to put on his 
 good coat to work in, for the first time, Nancy would sew on the fore- 
 part of each sleeve a stout patch of ould cloth, to keep them from 
 being worn by the spade ; so that when she'd rip these off them every 
 Saturday night, they would look as new and fresh as if he hadn't been 
 working in them at all, at all. 
 
 "Then, when Jack came home in the winter nights, it would do 
 your heart good to see Nancy sitting at her wheel, singing ' StacJian 
 Varagah' or ' Pci^gy A^a Laveeji,' beside a purty clear fire, with a 
 small pot of Murphys boiling on it for their supper, or laid up in a 
 wooden dish, comfortably covered with a clane praskeen, on the well- 
 swept hearthstone ; whilst the quiet, dancing blaze might be seen 
 blinking in the nice earthen plates and dishes that stood over against 
 the side wall of the house. Just before the fire you might see Jack's 
 stool waiting for him to come home ; and, on the other side, the brown 
 cat washing her face with her paws, or sitting beside the dog that lay 
 asleep, quite happy and continted, purring her song, and now and then 
 looking over at Nancy, with her eyes half shut, as much as to say, 
 * Catch a happier pair nor we are, Nancy, if you can.' 
 
 " Sitting quietly on the roost above the door were Dickey the cock, 
 and half-a-dozen hens, that kept this honest pair in eggs and egg-jnilk 
 for the best part of the year — besides enabling Nancy to sell two or 
 three clutches of March-birds every season, to help to buy wool for 
 Jack's big coat and her own grey-beard gown and striped red and blue 
 petticoat. 
 
 ' The Corrag is a roll of branches tied together when green, and used for the 
 purposes rnentioned in the story. It is six /eet high, and much thicker than a sack, 
 and is changed to either side of the door, according to the direction from which 
 the wind blows. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. %l 
 
 " To make a long story short, no two could be more comfortable, 
 considering everything. But, indeed, Jack was always obsarved to 
 have a dacent, ginteel turn with him : for he'd scorn to see a bad 
 gown on his mother, or a broken Sunday coat on himself ; and 
 instead of drinking his little earning in a sheebcen -house, and then 
 eating his praties dry, he'd take care to have something to kitchen ^ 
 them ; so that he was not only snug and dacent of a Sunday, 
 regarding wearables, but so well-fed and rosy, that the point of a 
 rush would take a drop of blood out of his cheek.- Then he was 
 the comeliest and best-looking young man in the parish, could tell lots 
 of droll stories, and sing scores of merry songs, that would make you 
 split your sides with downright laughing ; and when a wake or a 
 dance would happen to be in the neighbourhood, maybe there 
 wouldn't be many a sly look out from the purty girls for pleasant Jack 
 Magennis. 
 
 " In this way lived Jack and his mother, as happy and continted 
 as two lords ; except now and thin, that Jack would feel a little 
 consarn for not being able to lay past anything for the sore foot^ or 
 that might enable him to think of marrying — for he was beginning 
 to look about him for a wife ; and why not, to be sure? But he 
 was prudent, for all that, and didn't wish to bring a wife and small 
 family into poverty and hardship without means to support them, as 
 too many do. 
 
 "It was one fine, frosty, moonlight night — the sky was without a 
 cloud, and the stars all blinking that it would delight anybody's heart 
 to look at them, when Jack was crassing a bog that lay a few fields 
 beyant his own cabin. He was just crooning the * Humours of Glynn' 
 in to himself, and thinking that it was a very hard case that he couldn't 
 save anything at ill, at all, to help him to the wife;^ — when, on coming 
 down a bank in~the middle of the bog, he saw a dark-looking man 
 leaning against a claijip of turf, and a black dog, with a pipe of 
 tobacky in his mouth, sitting at his ase beside him, and he smoking 
 as sober as a judge. Jack, however, had a stout heart, bekase his con- 
 science was clear, and, barring being a little daunted, he wasn't very 
 much afeard. ' Who is this coming down toardst us .'' ' said the black- 
 favoured man, as he saw Jack approaching them. ' It's Jack Magennis,' 
 says the dog, making answer, and taking the pipe out of his mouth 
 with his right paw, and after puffing away the smoke, and rubbing the 
 end of it against his left leg, exactly as a Christian (this day's Friday, 
 the Lord stand betune us and harm) would do against his sleeve^ 
 giving it at the same time to his comrade — ' It's Jack Magennis,' says 
 the dog, ' honest Widow Magennis's dacent son.' ' The very man,' 
 says the other, back to him, ' that I'd wish to sarve, out of a thousand. 
 — Arran, Jack Magennis, how is every tether-length of you ? ' says the 
 
 ' Kitchen signifies any liquid with wh-ch solid food is diluted. 
 
 - This proverb, which is always used as above, but without being confined in its 
 application to only one sex, is a general one in Ireland. In delicacy and beau'y I 
 think it inimitable. 
 
 * Accidents — tuture calamity — or old age. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 ould fellow, putting the furrawn ^ on him — ' and how is every bone in 
 your body, Jack, my darling ? I'll hould a thousand guineas,' says he, 
 pointing to i. great big bag that lay beside him, ' and that s only the 
 tenth part of what's in this bag. Jack, that you're just going to be in 
 luck to-night, above all nights in the year ! ' 
 
 " * And may worse never happen you, Jack, ma bouchal,' says the 
 dog, putting in his tongue, then wagging his tail, and houlding out 
 his paw to shake hands with Jack. 
 
 '" Gintlemcn,' says Jack, never minding to give the dog his hand, 
 bekase he heard it wasn't safe to touch the likes of him — ' Gintlemen,' 
 says he, * ye're silting far from the fire this frosty night.' 
 
 " ' Why, that's true, Jack,' answers the ould fellow ; 'but if we're 
 sitting far from the fire, we're sitting very near the makins of it, man 
 alive.' So, with this, he pulls the bag of goold over to him, th^t Jack 
 might know by the jingle of the shiners what was in it. 
 
 " 'Jack,' says dark-face, 'there's some born with a silvei ladle in 
 their mouth, and others with a wooden spoon ; and if you'll just s't 
 down on the one end of this clamp with me, and take a hand at tho 
 five ami ten' pulling out, as he spoke, a deck of cards, ' you may be a 
 made man for the remainder of your life.' 
 
 "' Sir,' says Jack, 'with submission, both yourself and this cur— 
 I mane,' says he, not wishing to give the dog offence — ' both yourself 
 and this dacent gintleman with the tail and claws upon him, have the 
 advantage of me, in respect of knowing my name ; for, if I don't 
 mistake,' says he, putting his hand to his caubeen, ' I never had the 
 pleasure of seeing either of ye before.' 
 
 '• ' Never mind that,' says the dog, taking back the pipe from the 
 other, and clapping it in his mouth ; ' we're both your well-wishers, 
 an\how, and its now your own fault if you're not a rich man.' 
 
 '" Jack, by this time, was beginning to think that they might be 
 afthor wishrig to throw luck in his way ; for he had often heard of men 
 being made up entirely by the fairies, till there was no end to their 
 wealth. 
 
 " 'Jack,' says the black man, 'you had better be sed by us for this 
 bout — upon the honour of a gintleman we wish you well : however, if 
 you don't choose to take the ball at the right hop, another may, and 
 you're welcome to toil all your life, and die a beggar after.' 
 
 " ' Upon my reputation, what he says is true, Jack,' says the dog, in 
 his turn, ' the lucky minute of your life is come ; let it pass without 
 doing what them that wishes your mothers son well desire you, and 
 you'll die in a ditch.' 
 
 " 'And what am I to do,' says Jack, ' that's to make me so rich all 
 of a sudden .'' ' 
 
 " ' Why, only to sit down and take a game of cards with myself,' 
 says black-brow, ' that's all, and I'm sure it's not much.' 
 
 " ' And what is it to be for,' Jack inquires, * for I have no money — 
 tare-nation to the rap itself's in my company.' 
 
 That frank, cordial manner of address which brings strangers suddenly to 
 intim-''cy. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 25 
 
 "* Well, you have youiself,' says the dog, putting up his fore-claw 
 along his nose, and winking at Jack, * you have yourself, man — don't 
 be faint-hearted : — he'll bet the contents of this bag ;' and with that 
 the ould thief gave it another great big shake, to make the guineas 
 jingle again — ' It's ten thousand guineas in hard gould ; if he wins, 
 you're to sarve him for a year and a day ; and if he loses, you're to 
 have the bag.' 
 
 " ' And the money that's in it,' says Jack, wishing, you see, to make a 
 sure bargain, anyhow. 
 
 " ' Ev'ry penny,' answered the ould chap, * if you win it ; and ^-here's 
 fifty to one in your favour.' 
 
 " By this time the dog had got into a great fit of laughing at Jack's 
 sharpness about the money. * The money that's in it, Jack,' says he, 
 and he took the pipe out of his mouth, and laughed till he brought on 
 a hard fit of coughing ; * O, by this and by that,' says he, ' but that 
 bates Bannagher ! and you're to get it ev'ry penny, you thief of the 
 world, if you win it ;' but for all that he seemed to be laughing at 
 something that Jack wasn't up to. 
 
 " At any rate, surely, they palavered Jack betune them, until he sot 
 down and consinted. ' Well,' says he, scratching his head, ' why, 
 worse nor lose I can't, so here goes for one trial at the shiners, any- 
 how ! ' 
 
 " ' Now,' says the obscure gintleman, just whin the first card was 
 in his hand, ready to be laid down, 'you're to sarve me for a year and 
 a day, if I win ; and if I lose, you shall have all the money in the 
 bag.' 
 
 " ' Exactly,' says Jack, and just as he said the word, he saw the dog 
 putting the pipe in his pocket, and turning his head away for fraid 
 Jack would see him breaking his sides laughing. At last, when he 
 got his face sobered, he looks at Jack, and says, ' Surely, Jack, if you 
 win, you must get all the money in the bag ; and upon my reputation, 
 you may build castles in the air with it, you'll be so rich.' 
 
 " This plucked up Jack's courage a little, and to work they went ; 
 but how could it end otherwise than Jack to loose betune two such 
 knowing schemers as they soon turned out to be ? For what do you 
 think, but as Jack was beginning the game, the dog tips him a wink, 
 laying his fore-claw along his nose, as before, as much as to say. 
 ' Watch me, and you'll win,' — turning round, at the same time, and 
 showing Jack a nate little looking-glass, that was set in his oxther, in 
 which Jack saw, dark as it was, the spots of all the other fellow's 
 cards, as he thought, so that he was cock sure of bating him. But 
 they were a pair of downright knaves, anyhow ; for Jack, by playing 
 to the cards that he saw in the looking-glass, instead of to them the 
 other held in his hand, lost the game and the money. In short, he 
 saw that he was blarnied and chated by them both ; and when the 
 game was up he plainly tould them as much. 
 
 "'What, you scoundrel!' says the black fellow, starting up and 
 catching him by the collar, 'dare you go for to impacbe my honour?' 
 
 " ' Leather him if he says a word,' says the dog, running over OD 
 
l6 TIJE THREE TASKS. 
 
 his hind legs, and laying his shut paw upon Jack's nose, ' Say another 
 word, you rascal,' says he, 'and I'll doivn you ;' with this the oul_ 
 fellow gives him another shake. 
 
 " ' I don't blame you so much,' says Jack to him, ' it was the 
 looking-glass that desaved me ; that cur^s nothing but a blackleg.' 
 
 " * What looking-glass, you knave you ?' says dark-face, giving him 
 a fresh haul. 
 
 " 'Why, the one I saw under the dog's oxther,' replied Jack. 
 
 " ' Under my oxther ! you swindling rascal,' replied the dog, giving 
 him a pull by the other side of the collar ; ' did ever any honest pair 
 of gintlemen hear the likei* — but he only wants to break through the 
 agreement ; so let us turn him at once into an ass, and then he'll 
 brake no more bargains, nor strive to take in honest men and win 
 their money. Me a blackleg!' So saying, the dark fellow drew his 
 two hands over Jack's jaws, and in a twinkling there was a pair of 
 ass's ears growing up out of his head. W'hen Jack found this, he 
 knew that he wasn't in good hands ; so he thought it best to get 
 himself as well out of the scrape as possible. 
 
 " ' Gintlemen, be aisy,' says he, ' and let us understand one another : 
 I'm very willing to sarve you for a year and a day, but I've one 
 request to ax, and it's this : I've a helpless ould mother at home, and 
 if I go with you now she'll break her heart with grief first, and starve 
 afterwards. Now, if your honour will give me a year to work hard, 
 and lay in provision to support her while I'm away, I'll serve you 
 with all the veins of my heart — for a bargain's a bargain.' 
 
 " With this the dog gave his companion a pluck by the skirt, and, 
 after some chat together, that Jack didn't hear, they came back and 
 said they would comply with his wishes that far ; ' so, on to-morrow 
 twelvemonth, Jack,' says the dark fellow, ' the dog here will come to 
 your mothers, and if you follow him, he'll bring you safe to my castle.' 
 
 " ' Very well, your honour,' says Jack ; ' but as dogs resemble one 
 another so much, how will I know him whin he comes.'" 
 
 " ' Why,' answers the other, ' he'll have a green ribbon about his 
 neck, and a pair of Wellington boots on his hind legs.' 
 
 "'That's enough, sir,' says Jack, 'I can't mistake him in that 
 dress, so I'll be ready ; but, gintlemen, if it would be plasing to you 
 both, I'd every bit as soon not go home with these,' and he handled 
 the brave pair of ears he had got, as he spoke. ' The truth is, gintle- 
 men, I'm deluding enough without them ; and as I'm so modest you 
 persave, why if you'd take them away, you'd oblige me ! ' 
 
 " To this they had no objection, and during that year Jack wrought 
 night and day, that he might be able to lave as much provision with 
 his poor mother as would support her in his absence ; and when the 
 morning came that he was to bid her farewell, he went down on his 
 two knees and got her blessing. He then left her with tears in his 
 eyes, and promised to come back the very minute his tiir.e would be 
 up. ' Mother,' says he, ' be kind to your little family here, and feed 
 Ihem well, as they are all you'll have to keep you company till you 
 see me again.' 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 27 
 
 " His mother then stuffed his pockets with bread, till they stuck out 
 behind him, and gave him a crooked sixpence for luck ; after which 
 he got his staff, and was just ready to tramp, when, sure enough, he 
 spies his ould friend the dog, with the green ribbon about his neck, 
 and the Wellington boots upon his hind legs. He didn't go in, but 
 waited on the oulside till Jack came out. They then set off, but no 
 one knows how far they travelled, till they reached the dark gintle- 
 man's castle, who appeared very glad to see Jack, and gave him a 
 hearty welcome. 
 
 "The next day, in consequence of his long journey, he was ax'd to 
 do nothing ; but in the coorse of the evening the dark chap brought 
 him into a'long, frightful room, where there were three hundred and 
 sixty-five hooks sticking out of the wall, and on every hook but one 
 a man's head. When Jack saw this agreeable sight, his dinner 
 began to quake within him ; but he felt himself still worse, when his 
 master pointed to the empty hook, saying, ' Now, Jack, your business 
 to-morrow is to clane out a stable that wasn't claned for the last seven 
 years, and if you don't have it finished before dusk — do you see that 
 hook } ' 
 
 '"Ye— yes;' replied Jack, hardly able to spake. 'Well, if you 
 don't have it finished before dusk your head will be hanging on that 
 hook as soon as the sun sets.' 
 
 " ' Very well, your honour,' replied Jack, scarcely knowing what he 
 said, or he wouldn't have said ' very wdl '" to such a bloody-minded 
 intention, anyhow — 'Very well,' says he, 'I'll do my best, and all the 
 world knows that the best can do no more.' 
 
 " Whilst this discourse was passing betune them. Jack happened to 
 look at the upper end of the room, and there he saw one of the beauti- 
 fullcst faces that ever was seen on a woman, looking at him through a 
 little panel that was in the wall. She had a white, snowy forehead- 
 such eyes, and cheeks, and teeth, that there's no coming up to them ; 
 and the clusters of dark hair that hung about her beautiful temples ! — 
 by the laws, I'm afeard of falling in love with her m>self, so I'll say no 
 more about her, only that she would charm the heart of a wheel- 
 barrow. At any rate, in spite of all the ould fellow could say — heads 
 and hooks, and all, Jack couldn't help throwing an eye, now and then, 
 to the panel ; and to tell the truth, if he had been born to riches and 
 honour, it would be hard to fellow him, for a good face and a good 
 figure. 
 
 " ' Now, Jack,' said his master, ' go and get your supper, and I hope 
 you'll be able to perform your task— if not, off goes your head.' _ 
 
 "'Very well, your honour,' says Jack, again scratching it in the 
 hoith of perplexity, ' I must only do what 1 can.' 
 
 " The next morning Jack was up with the sun, if not before him, 
 and hard at his task ; but before breakfast time he lost all heart, 
 and little wonder he should, poor fellow, bekase for every one shovel- 
 full he'd throw out, there would come three more in : so that instead of 
 making his task less, according as he got on, it became greater. He 
 was now in the greatest dilemmy, and didn't know how to manage, so 
 (l) B 
 
28 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 he was driven at last to such an amplush, that he liad no other shifi 
 for employment, only to sing 'Paddccn O'Raffcrty ' out ot mere vexation, 
 and dance the hornpipe trebling step to it, cracking his fingers, half 
 mad, through the stable. Just in the middle of this tantrum, who 
 comes to the dour to call him to his breakfast but the beautiful crathur 
 he saw the evening before peeping at him through the panel. At this 
 minute Jack had so hated himself by the dancing, that his handsome 
 face was in a fine glow, entirely. 
 
 "' I think,' said she to Jack, with one of her own sweet smiles, 'that 
 this is an odd way of performing your task.' 
 
 " ' Och, thin, 'tis you that may say that,' repl'£S Jack ; ' but it's myself 
 that's willing to have my head hung up any d.ay, just for one sight of 
 you, you darling.' 
 
 "' Where did you come from.'" asked the lady, with another smile 
 that bate the first all to nothing. 
 
 '"Where did I come from, is it.'" answered Jack; ' why, death-alive ! 
 did you never hear of ould Ireland, my jewel ! — hem — I mane, plasc 
 your ladyship's honour.' 
 
 '" No,' she answered ; 'where is that country .'" 
 
 "'Och, by the honour of an Irishman,' says Jack, 'that takes the 
 shine ! — not heard of Erin — the Imerald Isle — the Jim of the ocean, 
 where all the men are brave and honourable, and all the women — hem 
 — I mane the ladies — ^chaste and beautiful ? ' 
 
 "' No,' said she ; 'not a word : but if I stay longer I may get you 
 blame — come into your breakfast, and I'm sorry to find that you have 
 done so little at your task. Your master's a man that always acts up 
 to what he threatens ; and, if you have not this stable cleared out 
 before dusk, your head will be taken off your shoulders this night." 
 
 "'Why thin,' says Jack, 'my beautiful darl — plase your honour's 
 ladyship— if he hangs it up, will you do me the favour, acttshla 
 inac/iree, to turn my head toardsi that same panel where I saw a 
 sartin fair face that I won't mintion : and if you do, let me alone for 
 watching a sartin purty face I'm acquainted with.' 
 
 " ' What means aishla tnachree ? ' inquired the lady, as she turned to 
 go away. 
 
 " ' It manes that you're the pulse of my heart, avourneen, plase your 
 ladyship's reverence,' says Jack. 
 
 " ' Well,' said the lovely crathur, * any time you speak to me in future, 
 I would rather you would omit terms of honour, and just call me after 
 the manner of your own country ; instead, for instance, of calling me 
 your ladyship, I would be better pleased if you called me cusiila — 
 something — ' ' Cuslila niackrcc, via voiii'necn — the pulse of my heart 
 — my darling,' said Jack, consthering it (the thief) for her, for fraid she 
 wouldn't know it well enough. 
 
 " ' Yes,' she replied, ' cuslila viacJiree j well, as I can pronounce it, 
 acushla viaclircc, will you come into your breakfast.'" said the darling, 
 giving Jack a smile that would be enough, any day, to do up the heart 
 of an Irishman. Jack, accordingly, went after her, thinking of nothing 
 except herself ; but on going in he could see no sign of her, so he sat 
 
THE THREE TASKS. a$ 
 
 down to his breakfast, though a single ounce, barri ig a couple of 
 pounds of beef, the poor fellow couldn't ate, at that bout, for thinking 
 of her. 
 
 " Well, he went again to his work, and thought he'd have better 
 luck ; but it was still the ould game — three shovel-fulls would come in 
 for ev'ry one he'd throw out ; and now he began, in earnest, to feel 
 something about his heart that he didn't like, bekase he couldn't, for 
 the life of him, help thinking of the three hundred and sixty-four heads 
 and the empty hook. At last he gave up the work entirely, and took 
 it into his head to make Jiiinself scarce from about the ould fellow's 
 castle altogether ; and without more to do he set off, never saying as 
 much as 'good-bye' to his master ; but he hadn't got as far as the 
 lower end of the yard when his ould friend, the dog, steps out of a 
 kennel, and meets him full butt in the teeth. 
 
 " ' So, Jack,' says he, ' you're going to give us leg bail, I see ; but 
 walk back with yourself, you spalpeen, this minute, and join your 
 work, or if you don't,' says he, ' it will be worse for your health. I'm 
 not so much your enemy now as I was, bekase you have a friend in 
 coort that you know nothing about ; so just do whatever you are bid, 
 and keep never minding.' 
 
 "Jack went back with a heavy heart, as you may be sure, knowing 
 that, whenever the black cur began to blarney him, there was no good 
 to come in his way. He accordingly went into the stable, but con- 
 suming to the hand's turn he did, knowing it would be only useless ; 
 for, instead of clearing it out, he'd be only filling it. 
 
 "It was now near dinner-time, and Jack was very sad and sorrow- 
 ful—as how could he be otherwise, poor fellow, with such a bloody- 
 minded ould chap to dale with ?— when up comes the darling of the 
 world again to call him to his dinner. 
 
 " Well, Jack,' says she, with her white arms so beautiful, and her 
 dark clusters tossed about by the motion of the walk, ' now are you 
 coming on at your task?' ' How am I coming on, is it? Och, thin, 
 says Jack, giving a good-humoured smile through the frown that was 
 on his face, ' plase your lady — acitshla machree — it's all over with me ; 
 for I've still the same story to tell, and off goes my head, as sure as 
 it's on my shoulders, this blessed night.' 
 
 'That would be a pity, Jack,' says she, 'for there are worse heads 
 on worse shoulders ; but will you give Jiie the shovel ? ' * Will I give 
 V071 the shovel, is it .'' — Och, thin, wouldn't I be a right big baste to do 
 the likes of that, anyhow ? ' says Jack. ' What ! avoicrjiecn dheelish ! 
 to stand up with myself, and let this hard shovel into them beautiful, 
 soft, white hands of your own ! Faix, my jewel, if you knew but all, 
 my mother's son's not the man to do such a disgraceful turn as to let 
 a lady like you take the shovel out of his hand, and he standing with 
 his mouth under his nose looking at you — not myself, avourneen ! we 
 have no such ungenteel manners as that in our country.' ' Take my 
 advice, Jack,' says she, pleased in her heart at what Jack said, for all 
 she didn't purtend it — 'give me the shovel, and, depend upon it, I'll 
 do more in a short time to clear the stable than you would for years.' 
 
30 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 ' Why, thin, avournceii, it goes to my heart to refuse you ; but, for all 
 that, may I never see yesterday, if a taste of it will go into your purty, 
 white fingers,' says the thief, praising her to her face all the time ; ' my 
 head may go off any day, and welcome, but death before dishonour. 
 Say no more, darling ; but tell your father I'll be in to my dinner im- 
 mediately.' 
 
 " Notwithstanding all this, by jingo the lady would ni,. be put off. 
 Like a ra-al woman, she'd have her way. So, on telling Jack that she 
 didn't intend to work with the shovel at all, at all, but only to take it for 
 a minute in her hand, at long last he gave it to her ; she then struck 
 it three times on the threshel of the door, and, giving it back into his 
 hand, tould him to try what he could do. Well, sure enough, now 
 there was a change ; for instead of three shovel-fulls coming in, as 
 before, when he threw one out, there went nine more along with it. 
 Jack, in coorse, couldn't do less than thank the lovely crathur for her 
 assistance ; but when he raised his head to speak to her, she was 
 gone. I needn't say, howsomever, that he went in to his dinner with 
 a light heart and a murdhcring appetite ; and when the ould fellow 
 axed him how he was coming on. Jack tould him that he was doing 
 gloriously. ' Remember the empty hook. Jack,' said he. ' Never fear, 
 your honour,' answered Jack ; ' if I don't finish my task, you may bob 
 my head off any time.' 
 
 "Jack now went out, and was a short time getting through his job, 
 for before the sun set it was finished ; and he came into the kitchen, 
 ate his supper, and, sitting down before the fire, sung ' Love among 
 the Roses' and the ' Black Joke,' to vex the ould fellow. 
 
 " This was one task over, and his head was safe for that bout ; but 
 that night, before he went to bed, his master called him upstaire, 
 brought him into the bloody room, and gave him his orders for the 
 next day. 'Jack,' says he, ' I have a wild filly that has never been 
 caught, and you must go to my demesne to-morrow and catch her, or 
 if you don't — look there,' says the big blackguard, 'on that hook it 
 hangs before to-morrow, if you haven't her before sunset in the stable 
 that you claned yesterday.' ' Very well, your honour,' says Jack, care- 
 lessly ; ' I'll do everything in my power, and if I fail I can't help it.' 
 
 " The next morning Jack was out with a bridle in his hand, going to 
 catch the filly. As soon as he got into the demesne, sure enough, 
 there she was in the middle of a green field, grazing quite at her asc. 
 When Jack saw this he went over towards her, houlding out his hat, 
 as if it was full of oats ; but he kept the hand that had the bridle in 
 it behind his back, for fraid she'd see it and make off. Well, my dear, 
 on he went till he was almost within grip of her, cock sure that he 
 had nothing more to do than slip the bridle over her neck and secure 
 her ; but he made a bit of a mistat'ce in his reckoning, for though she 
 smelt and snoakcd about him, just as if she didn't care a feed of oats 
 whether he caught her or not, yet when he boulted over to hould her 
 fast, she was off like a shot, with her tail cocked, to the far end ol 
 the demesne, and Jack had to set off hot foot after her. All. however 
 v/as to no purpose ; he couldn't come next or near her for the rest ol 
 
• THE THREE TASKS. 31 
 
 the day, and there she kept coorsing about him, from one field to 
 another, till he hadn't a blast of breath in his body. 
 
 " In this state was Jack when the beautiful crathur came out to call 
 him home to his breakfast, walking with the pretty small feet and light 
 steps of her own, upon the green fields, so bright and beautiful, 
 scarcely bending the grass and flowers as she went along, the darling. 
 
 "'Jack,' says she, ' I fear you have as difficult a task to-day as you 
 had yesterday." 
 
 " ' Why, and it's you that may say that with your own purty mouth,' 
 says Jack, says he : for out of breath and all as he was, he couldn't 
 help giving her a bit of blarney, the rogue. 
 
 " ' Well, Jack,' says she, ' take my advice, and don't tire yourself any 
 longer by attempting to catch her ; truth's best — I tell you, you could 
 never do it : come home to your breakfast, and when you return again, 
 just amuse yourself as well as you can until dinner time.' 
 
 " ' Och, och ! ' says Jack, striving to look, the sly thief, as if she 
 had promised to help him — ' I only wish I was a king, and, by the 
 powers, I know who would be my queen anyhow ; for it's your own 
 sweet lady — savom-ncen dlieelish — 1 say, amn't I bound to you for a 
 year and a day longer, for promising to give me a lift, as well as for 
 what you done yesterday ?' 
 
 " ' Take care. Jack,' says she, smiling, howev^er, at his ingenuity in 
 striving to trap her into a promise, ' I don't think I made any promise 
 of assistance.' 
 
 " ' You didn't ? ' says Jack, wiping his face with the skirt of his coat, 
 'cause why.? — you see pocket-handkerchiefs weren't invented in them 
 times : * why, thin, may I never live to see yesterday, if there's not as 
 much rale beauty in that smile that's divarting itself about them 
 sweet breathing lips of yours and in them two eyes of light that's 
 breaking both their hearts laughing at me this minute, as wou'id en- 
 courage any poor fellow to expect a good turn from you — that is, whin 
 you could do it, without hurting or harming yourself ; for it's he would 
 be the right rascal that could take it, if it would injure a silken hair 
 of your head.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said the lady, with another roguish smile, ' I shall 
 call you home to your dinner, at all events.' 
 
 " When Jack went back from his breakfast he didn't slave himself 
 after the filly any more, but walked about to view the demesne, and 
 the avenues, and the green walks, and nice temples, and fish-ponds and 
 rookeries, and everything, in short, that was worth seeing. Towards 
 dinner time, however, he began to have an eye to the way the sweet 
 crathur was to come, and sure enough it's she that wasn't one minute 
 late. 
 
 "• Well,' Jack,' says she, 'I'll keep you no longer in doubt,' for the 
 tender-hearted crathur saw that Jack, although he didn't wish to let 
 an to her, was fretting every now and then about the odd hook and the 
 bloody room — ' So, Jack,' says she, * although I didn't promise, yet 
 I'll perform ; ' and with that she pulled a small ivory whistle out of 
 her pocket, and gave three blasts on it that brought the wild filly up 
 
3« THE THREE TALKS.- 
 
 to her very hand, as quick as the wind. She then took the bridle, and 
 tlirew it over the haste's neck, giving her up, at the snme time, to 
 Jack. 'You needn't fear noiv. Jack,' says she, 'you will find her as 
 quiet as a lamb, and as tame as you wish : as a proof of it, Just walk 
 before her, and you will see she will fellow you to any part of the field.' 
 
 "Jack, you maybe sure, paid her as many and as sweet compli- 
 ments as he could, and never heed one from his country for being able 
 to say something toothsome to the ladies. At any rate, if he laid it 
 on thick the day before, he gave her two or three additional coats this 
 lime, and the innocent soul went away smiling, as usual. 
 
 "When Jack brought the filly home, the dark fellow, his master, 
 if dark before, was a perfect tundcr-cloud this night : bedad, he was 
 nothing less than near bursting with vexation, bekase the thieving 
 ould sinner intended to have Jack's head upon the hook, but he fell 
 short in his reckoning now as well as before. Jack sung ' Love among 
 the Roses,' and the ' Black Joke,' to help him into better timper. 
 
 "' Jack,' says he, striving to make himself speak pleasant to him. 
 ' you've got two difficult tasks over you ; but you know the third 
 lime's the charm— take care of the next.' 
 
 '" No matter about that,' says Jack, speaking up to him stiff and 
 stout, bekase, as the dog tould him, he knew he had a friend in coort 
 — Mel's hear what it is, anyhow.' 
 
 " 'To-morrow, then,' says the other, 'you're to rob a crane's nest 
 on the top of a beech tree which grows in ihe middle of a little island 
 in the lake that you saw, yesterday, in my demesne ; you're to have 
 neither boat, nor oar, nor any kind of conveyance, but Just as you 
 stand ; and if you fail to bring me the eggs, or if you break one ot 
 ihem — look here !' says he, again pointing to the odd hook, for all 
 this discourse took place in the bloody room. 
 
 '" Good again,' says Jack ; ' if I fail, I know my doom.' 
 
 '" No, you don't, you spalpeen,' says the other, getting vexed with, 
 him entirely, for I'll roast you till you're half dead, and ate my dinner 
 off you, after ; and, what is more than that, you blackguard, you must 
 sing the " Black Joke,' all the time for my amusement.' 
 
 " ' Div'l fly away with you,' thought Jack, ' but you're fond of music, 
 you vagabond.' 
 
 " The next morning Jack was going round and round the lake, 
 tidying about the edge of it, if he could find any place shallow enough 
 to wade in ; but he might as well go to wade the say, and what was 
 worse of all, if he attempted to swim, it would be like a tailor's goose 
 — straight to the bottom ; so he kept himself safe on dry land, still 
 expecting a visit from the ' lovely crathur,' but, bcdad, his good luck 
 failed him for tvaiistj for, instead of seeing her coming over to him, 
 so mild and sweet, who does he obsarve steering, at a dog's trot, but 
 his ould friend the smoking cur. ' Confusion to that cur,' says Jack 
 to himself, ' I know now there's some bad fortune before me, or he 
 wouldn't be coming acrass me.' 
 
 " ' Come home to your breakfast. Jack,' says the dog, walking up to 
 him, ' it's breakfast time.' 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 33 
 
 "* Ay,' says Jack, scratching his head, ' it's no great matter whether 
 I do or not, for I bleeve my head's hardly worth a flat-dutch cabbage 
 at the present speaking.' 
 
 " ' Why, man, it was never worth so much,' says the baste, puUing 
 out his pipe and putting it in his mouth, when it lit at once. 
 
 "' Take care of yourself,' says Jack, quite desperate — for he thought 
 he was near the end of his tether — ' take care of yourself, you dirty 
 cur, or maybe I might take a gintleman's toe from the nape of your 
 neck.' 
 
 " ' You had better keep a straight tongue in your head,' says four 
 legs, ' while it's on your shoulders, or I'll break every bone in your 
 skin. — Jack, you're a fool,' says he, checking himself, and speaking 
 kindly to him — ' you're a fool ; didn't I tell you the other day to do 
 what you were bid, and keep never minding?' 
 
 "'Well,' thought Jack to himself, 'there's no use in making 
 him any more my enemy than he is — particularly as I'm in such a 
 hobble.' 
 
 " ' You lie,' says the dog, as if Jack had spoken out to him, wherein 
 he only thought the words to himself, ' you lie,' says he, ' I'm not, noi 
 never was, your enemy, if you knew but all.' 
 
 "' I beg your honour's pardon,' answers Jack, 'for being so smart 
 with your honour ; but, bedad, if you were in my case— if you expected 
 your master to roast you alive — eat his dinner off your body — 
 make you sing the " Black Joke " by way of music for him : and, to 
 crown all, knew that your head vv^as to be stuck upon a hook after— 
 maybe you would be a little short in your temper as well as your 
 neighbours.' 
 
 " * Take heart. Jack,' says the other, laying his foreclaw as know- 
 ingly as ever along his nose, and winking slyly at Jack, ' didn't I tell 
 you that you have a friend in coort .'' the day's not past yet ; so cheer 
 up ; who knows but there is luck before you still ? ' 
 
 " ' Why, thin,' says Jack, getting a little cheerful, and wishing to 
 crack a joke with him, ' but your honour's very fond of the pipe ! ' 
 
 '■' Oh ! don't you know, Jack,' says he, ' that that's the fashion at 
 present among my tribe : sure all my brother puppies smoke now, and 
 a man might as well be out of the world as out of the fashion, you 
 know.' 
 
 " When they drew near home, they got quite thick entirely. ' Now,' 
 says Jack, in a good-humoured way, ' if you can give me a lift in 
 robbing this crane's nest, do ; at any rate, I'm sure your honour won't 
 be my enemy. I know you have too much good nature in your face 
 to be one that wouldn't help a lame dog over a stile — that is,' says he, 
 taking himself up for fear of offending the other — ' I'm sure you'd be 
 always inclined to help the weak side.' 
 
 " ' Thank you for the compliment,' says the dog, ' but didn't I tell 
 you that you have a friend in coort .'' ' 
 
 " When Jack went back to the lake, he could only sit and look 
 sorrowfully at the tree, or walk about the edge of it, without being 
 able to do anything else. He spent the whole day this-a-way till 
 
$4 
 
 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 dinner time, when, what would you have of it, but he sees the 
 ' darhng ' coming out to him. as fair and as blooming as an angel. 
 His heart, you may be sure, got up to his mouth, for he knew 
 she would be apt to take him out of his difficulties. When sh«* 
 came up — 
 
 " ' Now, Jack,' says she, ' there is not a minute to be lost, for Vm 
 watched ; and if it's discovered that I gave you any assistance we will 
 be both destroyed.' 
 
 '" Oh, murther. shcery !' says Jack, ' fly back, avourneen machree 
 —for rather than anything should happen ^'^?;, I'd lose fifty lives.' 
 
 " ' No," says she, ' I think I'll be able to get you over this, as well as 
 the rest : so have a good heart and be faithful.' ' That's it,' replied 
 Jack, 'that's it, acushla— my own corrccthur to a shaving ; I've a heart 
 worth it's weight in bank-notes, and a more faithful boy isn't alive this 
 day nor I am to yees all, ye darlings of the world.' 
 
 " She then pulled a small white wand out of her pocket, struck the 
 lake, and theie was the prettiest green ridge across it to the foot of the 
 tree that ever eye beheld. ' Now,' says she, turning her back to Jack, 
 and stooping down to do something thai he couldn't see, ' take these, 
 put them against the tree, and you will have steps to carr>' you to the 
 top, but be sure, iox yotir life and mine, not to forget any of them ; if 
 you do, my life will be taken to-morrow morning, for your master puts 
 on my slippers with his own hands.' 
 
 " Jack was now going to swear that he would give up the whole 
 thing, and surrender" his head at once ; but when he looked at her feet 
 and "saw no appearance of blood, he went over without more to do, and 
 robbed the nest, taking down the eggs one by one, that he mightn't 
 break them. There was no end to his joy as he secured the last ^g% ; 
 he instantly took down the toes, one after another, save and except the 
 little one of the left foot, which, in his joy and hurry, he forgot entirely. 
 He then returned by the green ridge to the shore, and according as he 
 went along it melted atcay iiito the water behind him. 
 
 " ' Jackj' says the charmer, * 1 hope you forgot none of my toes.' 
 
 " ' Is it me .-' ' says Jack, quite sure that he had them all. ' Arrah, 
 catch anyone from my country makin' a blunder of that kind.' 
 
 "'Well,' says she, Met us see.' So, taking the toes, she placed 
 them on again, just as if they had never been off. But, lo and behold ! 
 on coming to the last of the left foot, it wasn't forthcoming. ' Oh ! 
 Jack, Jack,' says she, ' you have destroyed me ; to-morrow morning 
 your master will notice the want of this toe, and that instant I'll be 
 put to death.' 
 
 '" Lave that to me,' says Jack ; 'by the powers, you won't lose a 
 drop of your darling blood for it. Have you got a penknife about you 1 
 and I'll soon show you how you wont.' 
 
 •■' ' What do you want with the knife .-" she inquired. 
 
 '• ' What do I want with it ? — why, to give you the best toe on both 
 my feet, for the one I lost on you. Do you think I'd suffer you to 
 want a toe, and I have ten thumping ones at your sarvice ! — I'm not 
 ;hc m?ri, you beauty, you, for such a shabby trick as that comes to. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 35 
 
 " ' But you forget,' says the lady, who was a little cooler than Jack, 
 ' that none of yours would fit me.' 
 
 '"And must you die to-morrow, rt^r^jA^Tf asked Jack, in desperation 
 '' ' As sure as the sun rises,' answered the lady ; ' for your rnastei 
 would know at once that it was by ;;y toes the nest was robbed.' 
 
 "'By the powers,' observed Jack, 'he's one of the greatest ould 
 vag — I mane, isn't he a terrible man, out and out, for a father ? ' 
 
 " Father ! ' says the darling — ' he's not my father, Jack ; he only 
 wishes to marry me, and if I'm not able to outdo him before three 
 days more, it's decreed that he must have me.' 
 
 " When Jack heard this, surely the Iribhmnn must come out ; there 
 he stood, and began to wipe his eyes with the skirt of his coat, making 
 as if he was crj'ing, the thief of the world. ' What's the matter with 
 you .'' ' she asked. 
 
 "'Ah ! ' says Jack, ' you darling, I couldn't find in my heart to desavc 
 you ; for I have no way at home to keep a lady like you, in proper 
 style, at all at all ; I would only bring you into poverty, and since 
 you wish to know what ails me, I'm vexed that I'm not rich for vour 
 sake ; and next, that that thieving ould villain's to have you ; and by 
 the powers, I'm crying for both these misfortunes together.' 
 
 " The lady couldn't help being touched and plaised with Jack's 
 tinderness and ginerosity ; so, says she, " Don't be cast down. Jack, 
 come or go what will, I won't marry him — I'd die first. Do you go 
 liome, as usual ; but take care and don't sleep at all this nighl. 
 Saddle the wild filly — meet me under the whitethorn bush at the 
 end of the lawn, and we'll both leave him for ever. If you're willing 
 to marry me, don't let poverty distress you, for 1 have more money 
 than we'll know what to do with.' 
 
 "Jack's voice now began to tremble in earnest, with downright love 
 and tinderness, as good right it had ; so he promised to do everything 
 just as she bid him, and then went home with a dacent appetite 
 enough to his supper. 
 
 " Vou may be sure the ould fellow looked darker and grimmer than 
 ever at Jack ; but what could he do.'' Jack had done his duty ; so he 
 sat before the fire, and sung ' Love among the Roses,' and the ' Black 
 Joke,' with a stouter and lighter heart than ever, while the black chap 
 could have seen him skivered. 
 
 "When midnight came. Jack, who kept a hawk's eye to the night, 
 was at the hawthorn with the wild filly, saddled and all — more 
 betoken, she wasn't a bit wild then, but as tame as a dog. Oft" they 
 set, like Erin-go-bragh, Jack and the lady, and never pulled bridle till 
 it was one o'clock next day, when they stopped at an inn and had 
 some refreshment. They then took the road again, full speed ; how- 
 ever, they hadn't gone far, when they heard a great noise behind them, 
 and the tramp of horses galloping like mad. 'Jack,' says the darling, 
 on hearing the hubbub, 'look behind you, and see what's this.' 
 
 " ' Och ! by the elevens,' says Jack ' we're done at last ; it's the 
 dark fellow, and half the country, after us.' * Put your hand,' says 
 she, ' in the filly's right ear, and tell me what you fiixd in it.' '" Nothing 
 
3* THE THREE TAS/tS. 
 
 at aii at all,' says Jack, 'but a weesliy bit of a dry stick,' 'Throw it 
 over your left shoulder,' says bhe, 'and sec what will happen.' 
 
 "Jack did so at once, and there was a great grove of thick trees 
 growing so close to one another that a dandy could scarcely get his 
 arm betwixt them. ' Now,' said she, ' we are safe for another day.' 
 'Well,' said Jack, as he pushed on the filly, 'you're the jewel of the 
 world, sure enough ; and maybe it's you that won't live happy when 
 we get to the Jim of the Ocean.' 
 
 " As soon as the dark-face saw what happened, he was obliged 
 to scour the country for hatchets and hand-saws, and all kinds of 
 sharp instruments, to hew himself and his men a passage through the 
 grove. As the saying goes, many hands make light work, and, sure 
 enough, it wasn't long till they had cleared a way for themselves, 
 thick as it was, and set off with double speed after Jack and the lady. 
 
 " The next day, about one o'clock, he and she were after takmg 
 another small refreshment of roast-beef and porther, and pushing on, 
 as before, when they heard the same tramping behind them, only it 
 was ten times louder. 
 
 "'Here they are again,' says Jack; 'and I'm afeard they'll come 
 up with us at last.' 
 
 " ' If they do,' says she, ' they'll put us to death on the spot ; but we 
 must try somehow to stop them another day, if we can : search the 
 filly's right ear again, and let me know what you find in it.' 
 
 "Jack pulled out a little three-cornered pebble, telling her that it 
 was all he got. ' Well,' says she, ' throw it over your left shoulder like 
 the stick.' 
 
 " No sooner said than done ; and there was a great chain of high, 
 sharp rocks in the way of divil-face and all his clan. ' Now,' says 
 she, ' we have gained another day.' ' Tundher-and-turf ! ' says Jack, 
 • what's this for, at all at all .? — but wait till I get you in the Immerald 
 Isle, for this, and if you don't enjoy happy days anyhow, why I'm not 
 sitting before you on tliis horse, by the same token that it's not a horse 
 at all, but a filly though : if you don't get the hoith of good aiting 
 and drinking — lashings of the best wine and whisky that the land can 
 afford, my name's not Jack. We'll build a castle, and you'll have up- 
 stairs and downstairs — a coach and six to ride in — lots of sarvints to 
 attend on you, and full and plinty of everything ; not to mintion — 
 hem ! — not to mintion that you'll have a husband that the fairest lady 
 in the land might be proud of,' says he, stretching himself up in the 
 saddle, and giving the filly a jag of the spurs, to show off a bit; 
 although the coaxing rogue knew that the money which was to do all 
 this was her own. At any rate, they spent the remainder of this day 
 pleasantly enough, still moving on, though, as fast as they could. 
 Jack, every now and then, would throw an eye behind, as if to watch 
 their pursuers, wherein, if the truth was known, it was to get a peep 
 at the beautiful glowing face and warm lips that were breathing all 
 kinds oif?-aai^?-aiic'ics aljout him. I'll warrant he didn't envy the King 
 upon his thronC; when he felt the honeysuckle of her breath, like the 
 smell of Father Ned's orchard there of a May morning. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 37 
 
 " When FardoroJighah ^ found the great chain of rocks before him, 
 you may set it down that he was likely to blow up with vexation ; but, 
 for all that, the first thing he blew up was the rocks — and that he might 
 lose little or no time in doing it, he collected all the gunpowder and 
 crowbars, spades and pickaxes, that could be found for miles about 
 him, and set to it, working as if it was with inch of candle. For half 
 a day there was nothing but boring and splitting, and driving of iron 
 wedges, and blowing up pieces of rocks as big as little houses, until, 
 by hard labour, they made a passage for themselves sufficient to carry 
 them over. They then set off again, full speed ; and great advantage 
 they had over the poor filly that Jack and the lady rode on, for their 
 horses were well rested, and hadn't to carry double, like Jack's. The 
 next day they spied Jack and his beautiful companion, just about a 
 quarter of a mile before them. 
 
 " ' Now,' says dark-brow, ' I'll make any man's fortune for ever that 
 will bring me them two, either living or dead, but, if possible, alive ; 
 so, spur on, for whoever secures them is a made man— but, above all 
 things, make no noise.' 
 
 " It was now divil take the hindmost among the bloody pack — every 
 spur was red with blood, and every horse smoking. Jack and the lady 
 were jogging on acrass a green field, not suspecting that the rest wer^ 
 so near them, and talking over the pleasant days they would spi/1,1 
 together in Ireland, when they hears the hue-and-cry once more ai 
 their very heels. 
 
 " * Quick as lightning, Jack,' says she, * or we're lost— the right ear 
 and the left shoulder, like thought— they're not three lengths of the 
 filly from us ! ' 
 
 " But Jack knew his business ; for just as along, grim-looking villain, 
 with a great rusty rapier in his hand, was within a single leap of them, 
 and quite sure of either killing or making prisoners of them both, 
 Jack tlings a little drop of green water, that he got in the filly's ear, 
 over his left shoulder, and in an instant there was a deep, dark gull, 
 filled with black, pitchy-looking water, between them. The lady now 
 desired Jack to pull up the filly a bit, till they would see what would 
 become of the dark fellow ; but just as they turned round, the ould 
 nager set spurs to his horse, and, in a fit of desperation, plunged 
 himself, horse and all, into the gulf, and was never seen or heard o( 
 more. The rest that were w'ith him went home, and began to quarrel 
 about his wealth, and kept murdering and killing one another, until a 
 single vagabond of them wasn't left alive to enjoy it. 
 
 " When Jack saw what happened, and that the bloodthirsty ould 
 villain got what he desarved so richly, he was as happy as a prince, 
 and ten times happier than most of them as the world goes, and she 
 was every bit as delighted. ' We have nothing more to fear,' said the 
 darling that put them all down so ckverly, seeing she was but a 
 woman ; but, bedad, it's she was the right sort of a woman — ' all our 
 dangers are now over, at least, all yours are ; regarding myself,' says 
 
 ' The dark man. 
 
38 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 she, 'there is a trial before me yet, and that trial, Jack, depends upor 
 your faithfulness and constancy.' 
 
 " ' On me, is it? — Och, then, murder ! isn't it a poor case entirely, 
 that 1 have no way of showing you thct you may depend yo jr life upon 
 me, only by telling you so? ' 
 
 " ' I do depend upon you,' says she — 'and now, as you love me, do 
 not, when the trial comes, forget her that saved you out of so many 
 troubles, and made you such a great and wealthy man.' 
 
 "The foregoing part of this Jack could well understand, but the 
 last part of it, making collusion to the wealth, was a little dark, he 
 thought, bekase he hadn't fingered any of it at that time : still, he 
 knew she was truth to the back bone, and wouldn't desave him. They 
 hadn't travelled much farther, when Jack snaps his fingers, with a 
 ' Whoo ! by the powers, there it is, my darling — there it is, at long last ! ' 
 
 " 'There is what, Jack ?' said she, surprised, as well she might, at 
 his mirth and happiness— 'There is what ? ' says she. 
 
 " ' Cheer up,' says Jack, ' there it is, my darling — the Shannon ! — as 
 soon as we get to the other side of it, we'll be in ouM Ireland once 
 more.' 
 
 " There was no end to Jack's good humour when he crossed the 
 Shannon ; and she was not a bit displased to see him so happy. They 
 had now no enemies to fear, were in a civilised country, and among 
 green fields and well-bred people. In this way they travelled at their 
 ase, till they came within a few miles of the town of Knockimdowny, 
 near which Jack's mother lived. 
 
 " ' Now, Jack,' says she, ' 1 tould you that I would make you rich. 
 You know the rock beside your mother's cabin ; in the east end of that 
 rock there is a loose stone, covered over with grey moss, just two feet 
 below the cleft out of w-hich the hanging rowan tree grows — pull thai 
 stone out, and you will find more goold than would make a duke. 
 Neither speak to any person, nor let any livmg thing touch your lips 
 till you come back to me, or you'll forget that you ever saw me, and 
 I'll be left poor and friendless in a strange country.' 
 
 '"Why, thin, fiianim asthee huP says Jack, 'but the best way to 
 guard against that, is to touch your own sweet lips at the present 
 time,' says he, giving her a smack that you'd hear, of a calm evening, 
 acrass a couple of fields. Jack set off to touch the money with such 
 speed that when he fell he scarcely waited to rise again ; he was soon 
 at the rock, anyhow, and without cither doubt or disparagement, there 
 was a cleft of ra-al goolden guineas, as fresh as daisies. The first thing 
 he did, after he had filled his pockets with them, was to look if his 
 mother's cabin was to the fore ; and there surely it was, as snug as ever, 
 with the same dacent column of smoke rowling from the chimbley. 
 
 " ' Well,' thought he, ' I'll just stale over to the door-cheek, and peep 
 in to get one sight of my poor mother ; then I'll throw her in a hand- 
 ful of these guineas, and take to my scrapers ' 
 
 " Accordingly, he stole up at a half-bend to the door, and w.-\s just 
 
 My soul's within you. 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 39 
 
 going to take a peep in, when out comes the little dog, Trig, and oegins 
 to leap and fawn upon him, as if it would eat him. The mother, too, 
 came running out to see what was the matter, when the dog made 
 another spring up about Jack's neck, and gave his lips the slightest 
 lick in the world with its tongue, the crathur was so glad to see him : 
 the next minute, Jack forgot the lady as clane as if he had never seen 
 her ; but, if he forgot her, catch him at forgetting the money — not he, 
 avickl — that stuck to him like pitch 
 
 '■ When the mother saw who it was, she flew to him, and, clasping 
 her arms about his neck, hugged him till she wasn't worth three half- 
 pence. After Jack sot a while, he made a trial to let her know what 
 had happened him, but he disremembered it all, except having the 
 money in the rock, so he up and tould her that, and a glad woman she 
 was to hear of his good fortune. Still, he kept the place where the 
 goold was to himself, having been often forbid by her ever to trust a 
 woman with a sacret when he could avoid it. 
 
 " Now everybody knows what changes the money makes, and Jack 
 was no exception to this ould saying. In a few years he had built him- 
 self a fine castle, with three hundred and sixty-four windics in it, and 
 he would have added another, to make one for every day in the year, 
 only that that would be equal to the number in the King's palace, and 
 the Lord of the Black Rod would be sent to take his head off, it being 
 high thrason for a subject to have as many windies in his house as the 
 King. However, Jack, at any rate, had enough of them ; and he that 
 couldn't be happy with three hundred and sixty-four, wouldn't desarve 
 to have three hundred and sixty-five. Along with all this, he bought 
 coaches and carriages, and didn't get proud, like many other beggarly 
 upstarts, but took especial good care of his mother, whom he dressed 
 in silks and satins, and gave her nice nourishing food, that was fit for 
 an ould woman in her condition. He also got great teachers, men 0/ 
 deep larning, from Dublin, acquainted with all subjects ; and as his 
 own abilities were bright, he soon became a very great scholar entirely, 
 and was able, in the long run, to outdo all his tutherers. 
 
 "In this way he lived for some years — was now a man of great 
 larning himself— could spoke the seven langidges, and it would delight 
 your ears to hear how high-flown and Englified he could talk. All 
 the world wondered where he got his wealth ; but, as he was kind and 
 charitable to everyone that stood in need of assistance, the people 
 said that, wherever he got it, it couldn't be in better hands. At last 
 he began to look about him for a wife, and the only one in that part of 
 the country that would be at all fit for him, was the Honourable Miss 
 Bandbox, the daughter of a nobleman in the neighbourhood. She, 
 indeed, flogged all the world for beauty ; but it was said that she was 
 proud and fond of wealth, though, God he knows, she had enough of 
 that, anyhow. Jack, however, saw none of this ; for she was cunning 
 enough to smile, and simper, and look pleasant, whenever he'd come 
 to her father's. Well, begad, from one thing and one word to another, 
 Jack thought it was best to make up to her at ivanst, and try if she'd 
 accept of him for a husband \ accordingly he put the woid to her, like 
 
v> 
 
 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 a man, and she, making as if she was blushing, put her fan before her 
 face and made no answer. Jack, however, wasn't to be daunted ; foi 
 he knew two things worth knowing, when a man goes to look for a 
 wife : the first is— that ' faint heart never won fair lady,' and the second 
 —that * silence gives consint ;' he, therefore, spoke up 'o her in fine 
 English, for it's he that knew how to speak now,and, after a little more 
 fanning and blushing, by jingo, she consinted. Jack then broke the 
 matter to her father, who was as fonu of money as the daughter, and 
 only wanted to grab at him for the wealth. 
 
 " When the match was a-making, says ould Bandbox to Jack, ' Mr. 
 Magennis,' says he (for nobody called him Jack now but his mother), 
 ' these two things you must comply with, if you marry my darghter, 
 Miss Gripsy : — you must send away your mother from about you, and 
 pull down the cabin in which you and she used to live ; Gripsy says 
 that they would jog her memory consarning your low birth and former 
 poverty. She's nervous and high-spirited, Mr. Magennis,and declares 
 upon her honour that she couldn't bear the thoughts of having the 
 delicacy of her feeling offinded by these things.' 
 
 " ' Good morning to you both,' says Jack, like an honest fellow as 
 he was. ' If she doesn't marry me except on these conditions, give her 
 my compliments, and tell her our courtship is at an end.' 
 
 " But it wasn't long till they soon came out with another story, for 
 before a week passed, they were very glad to get him on his own con- 
 ditions. Jack was now as happy as the day was long — all things 
 appointed for the wedding, and nothing a-wanting to make everything 
 to his heart's content but the wife, and her he was to have in less than 
 no time. For a day or two before the wedding there never was seen 
 such grand preparations : bullocks, and hogs, and sheep were roasted 
 whole -kegs of whisky, both Roscrea and Innisliowen, barrels of ale 
 and beer, were there in dozens. All descriptions of niceties, and wild- 
 fowl, and fish from the say, and the dearest wine that could be bought 
 with money, was got for the gentry and grand folks. Fiddlers, and 
 pipers, and harpers, in short, all kinds of music and musiciancc., 
 played in shoals. Lords and ladies and squares of high degree were 
 present — and, to crown the thing, there was open house for all 
 comers. 
 
 " At length the wedding-day arrived ; there was nothing but roasting 
 and boiling ; servants dressed in rich liveries ran about with joy and 
 delight in their countenances, and while gloves and wedding favours 
 on their hats and hands. To jzake a long story short, they were all 
 seated in Jack's castle at the wedding breakfast, ready for the priest 
 to marry them when they'd be done ; for in them times people were 
 never married until they had laid in a good foundation to carry them 
 through the ceremony. Well, they were all seated round the table, 
 the men dressed in the best of broadcloth, and the ladies rustling in 
 their silks and satins — their heads, necks, and arms hung round with 
 jewels both rich and rare : but of all that were there that day, there 
 wasn't the likes of the bride and bridegroom. As for him, nobody 
 CQuld think, at all at all, that he was ever anything else than a born 
 
THE TtiREE TASKS. 41 
 
 fintleman ; and what was more to his credit, he had his kind ould 
 mother sitting beside the bride, to tache her that an honest person, 
 though poorly born, is company for the king. As soon as the break- 
 fast was served up, they all set to, and maybe the vaarious kinds of 
 eatables did not pay for it ; and amongst all this cutting and thrusting, 
 no doubt but it was remarked that the bride herself was behindhand 
 w/^none of them— that she took her dali/i-triLk without flinching, 
 and made nothing less than a right fog meal of it ; and small blame 
 to her for that same, you persave. 
 
 " When the breakfast was over, up gets Father Flanagan, out with 
 his book, and on with his stole, to marry them. The bride and bride- 
 groom went up to the end of the room, attended by their friends, and 
 the rest of the company stood on each side of it, for you see they were 
 too high bred, and knew their manners too well, to stand in a crowd 
 like spalpeens. For all that, there was many a sly look from the ladies 
 to their bachelors, and many a titter among them, grand as they were ; 
 for, to tell the truth, the best of them likes to see fun in the way, par- 
 ticularly of that sort. The priest himself was in as great a glee as 
 any of them, only he kept it under, and well he might, for sure enough 
 this marriage was nothing less than a rale windfall to him, and the 
 parson that was to marry them after him — bekase you persave a 
 Protestant and Catholic must be married by both, otherwise it doesn't 
 hould good in law. The parson was as grave as a mustard-pot, and 
 P'ather Flanagan called the bride and bridegroom his childher, which 
 Wiis a big bounce for him to say the likes of, more betoken that neither 
 of them was a drop's blood to him. 
 
 " However, he pulled out the book, and was just beginning to buckle 
 them, when in comes Jack's ould acquaintance, the smoking cur, as 
 grave as ever. The priest had just got through two or three words of 
 Latin, when the dog gives him a pluck by the sleeve ; Father Flanagan, 
 of coorse, turned round to see who it was that niidgcd him : ' behave 
 yourself,' says the dog to him, just as he peeped over his shoulder — 
 behave yourself,' says he ; and with that he sot him down on Ids 
 Iiinikejs beside the priest, and pulling a cigar, instead of a pipe, out 
 of his pocket, he put it in his mouth, artd began to smoke for the bare 
 life of him. And, by my o\m word, it's he that could smoke : at 
 times he would shoot the smoke in a slender stream, like a knitting- 
 needle, with a round curl at the one end of it, ever so far out of the 
 righl side of his mouth ; then he uould shoot it out of the /rff, and 
 sometimes make it swirl out so beautiful from the middle of his lips ! 
 — why, then, it's he that must have been the well-bred puppy all out, 
 as far as smoking went. Father Flanagan and they all were tundher- 
 struck. 
 
 " ' In the rzime of St. Anthony, and of that holy nun, St. Teresa,' 
 said his reverence to him, ' who or what are you, at all at all .-* ' 
 
 "'Never mind that,' says the dog, taking the cigar for a minute 
 between his claws ; ' but if you wish particularly to know, I'm a 
 thirty-second cousin of your own, by the mother's side.' 
 
 " ' I command you, in the name of all the saints/ says Father 
 
42 THE THREE TASf^S. 
 
 Flanagan, ' to disappear from among us, and never become visible to 
 anyone in this house again.' 
 
 " ' The sorra a budge, at the present time, will I budge,' says the 
 dog to him, 'until 1 see all sides rightified, and the rogues disap- 
 pointed.' 
 
 " Now one would be apt to think the appearance of a spnkiiig dcg 
 might be after fright'ning the ladies ; but doesn't all the world know 
 tliat j/fT/ivV/'^'- puppies are their greatest favourites. Instead of that, 
 you see, there was half a dozen of fierce-looking whiskered fellows, and 
 three or four half-pay officers, that were nearer making off than the 
 ladies. But, besides the cigar, the dog had, upon this occasion, a 
 pair of green spectacles acrass his face, and through these, while he 
 was spakbig to Father Flanagan, lie ogled all the ladies, one after 
 another, and when his eye would light upon any that pleased him, he 
 would kiss his paw to her, and wag his tail with the greatest polite- 
 ness. 
 
 " 'John,' says Father Flanagan, to one of the servants, 'bring me 
 salt and water, till I consecrate them to banish the divil, for he has 
 appeared to us all during broad daylight, in the shape of a dog.' 
 
 "'You had better behave yourself, I say again,' says the dog, 'or 
 if you make me speak, by my honour as a gintleman, I'll expose you. 
 I say, you won't marry the same two, neither this nor any other day, 
 and I'll give you my rasons j resently ; but I rcpate it. Father Flanagan, 
 if you compel me to speak, I'll make you look nine ways at once.' 
 
 " ' I defy you, Satan,' s?.ys the priest, ' and if you don't take yourself 
 away before the holy wather's made, I'll send you off in a flame of 
 fire.' 
 
 " ' Yes, I'm trimbling,' says the dog : ' plenty of spirits you laid in 
 your day, but it v/as in a place that's nearer us than the Red Sea, 
 you did it : listen to me though, for I don't v>ish to expose you, as I 
 said.' So he gets on his hind legs, put his nose to the priest's ear, and 
 whispers something to him that none of the rest could hear — all 
 before the priest had time to know where he was. At any rate, 
 whatever he said seemed to make his reverence look dojible, though, 
 faix, that wasn't hard to do, far he was as big as two common men. 
 "When the dog was done speaking, and had put his cigar in his mouth, 
 the priest seemed tund'nerstruck, crossed himself, and was, no doubt 
 of it, in great perplexity. 
 
 *"I say it's false,' says Father Flanagan, plucking up courage; 
 ' but you know you're a liar, and the father of liars.' 
 
 " ' As thrue as gospel, this bout, I tell you,' says the dog. 
 " ' Wait till I make my holy wather,' says the priest, ' and if I don't 
 coTfC you in a thumb bottle for this, I'm not here.' 
 
 " ' You're better at uncorking,' says the dog — ' better at relasing 
 spirits than confining them.' 
 
 " ' Just at this minute the whole com})any sees a gintleman galloping 
 for the bare life of him up to the hall-door, and he dressed like an 
 ofticer. In three jiffeys he was down off his horse, and in among the 
 company. The dog, as soon as he made his appearance, laid his claw 
 
The three, tasks. 43 
 
 as usual on his nose, and gave the bridegroom a wink, as much as to 
 say, ' Watch what'U happen.' 
 
 " Now it was very odd that Jack, during all this time, rememberrd 
 the dog very well, but could never once think of the darling that did 
 so much for him. As soon, however, as the oflicer made his appearance, 
 the bride seemed as if she would sink outright; and when he walked 
 up to her, to ax what was the meaning of what he saw, why down she 
 drops at once — fainted clane. The gintleman then went up to Jack, 
 and says, ' Sir, was this lady about to be married to you .f" 
 
 " ' Sartinly,' says Jack, ' we were going to be yoked in the blessed 
 and holy tackle of mathrimony,' or some high-flown words of that 
 kind. 
 
 " ' Well, sir,' says the other back to him, ' I can only say that she 
 is most solemnly sworn never to marry another man but me. That oath 
 she tuck when I was joining my regiment before it went abroad ; and 
 if the ceremony of your marriage be performed, you will sleep with a 
 perjured bride.' 
 
 " Begad, he did, plump before all their faces. Jack, of coorse, was 
 struck all of a hape at this; but as he had the bride in his arms, 
 giving her a little sup of whisky to bring her to, you persave, he 
 couldn't make him an answer. However, she soon came to herself, 
 and, on openmg her eyes, ' Oh ! hide me, hide me !' says she, * for I 
 can't bear to look on him ! ' 
 
 He says you are his sworn bride, my darling,' says Jack. 
 I am — 1 am,' says she, covering her eyes, and crying away at the 
 rate of a wedding. ' I can't deny it ; and, by tare-an-ounty ! ' says 
 she, ' I'm unworthy to be either his wife or yours ; for, except I marry 
 you boih, 1 dunna how to settle this affair between you, at all ; — oh, 
 murther sheery ! but I'm the misfortunate cralhur, entirely. 
 
 "'Well,' says Jack to the officer, 'nobody can do more than be 
 sorry for a wrong turn ; small blame to her for taking a fancy to your 
 humble servant, Mr. Officer' — and he stood as tall as possible, 
 10 show himself off. ' You see the fair lady is sorrowful for her 
 folly, so as it's not yet too late, and as you came in the nick ot 
 time, in the name of Providence take my place, and let the marriage 
 go an.' 
 
 " ' No,' says she, ' never ; I'm not worthy of him, at all at all : 
 tundher-an-age, but I'mthe unlucky thief ! ' 
 
 " While this was going forward, the officer looked closely at Jack, 
 and seeing him such a fine, handsome fellow, and having heard before 
 of his riches, he began to think that, all things considhered, she wasn't 
 so much to be bkmpt. Then, when he saw how sorry she was for 
 having forgot him, he steps _/(^;v7V/. 
 
 " ' Well, says he, 'I'm still willing to marry you, particularly as y ou 
 
 feel contkrition -'" 
 
 " He should have said contrition, confession, and satisfaction," 
 ibserved Father Peter. 
 
 " Pether, will you keep your theology to yourself?" replied Fathei 
 Ned, "and let us come to the plot without interruption." 
 
 (1 ( 
 
i4 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 " Plot .' " excl.aimed Father Peter, " I'm sure it's i.o rebellion, that 
 there should be a plot in it, any way ! " 
 
 " Ttice," said Father Ned — " /acr, and that's Latin for a candle.' 
 
 " I deny that," said the curate ; " iace is the imperative mood from 
 /i7cY0, to keep silent. Tacco, iaces, taati, tacere, tace7idi, iaccndo, 
 tac " 
 
 " Ned, go on with your story, and never mind that deep laming of 
 liis — he's almost cracked with it," said the superior: "go on, and 
 never mind him." 
 
 " ' Well,' says he, * I'ni still willing to marry you, particularly as you 
 feel conthriiioii for what you were going to do. So, with this, they all 
 ,^('///tv about her, and, as the officer was a fine fellow himself, prevailed 
 upon her to let the marriage be performed, and they were accordingly 
 spliced as fast as his reverence could make them. 
 
 " ' Now, Jack,' says the dog, ' I want to spake with you for a minute 
 — it's a word for your own ear.' So he stands up on his two hind legs, 
 and purtinded to be whisp'ring something to him ; but what do you 
 think? — -he gives liim the slightest touch on the lips with his paw, and 
 that instant Jack rcmimbered the lady and everything that happened 
 betune them. 
 
 "'Tell me this instant,' says Jack, seizing him by the throath, 
 ' Where's the darling, at all at all .'^ ' 
 
 "Jack spoke finer nor this, to be sure, but as I can't give his tall 
 En;.;lish. the sorra one of me will bother myself striving to do it.' 
 
 " Behave yourself, says the dog, 'just say nothing, only follow 
 me.' 
 
 " Accordingly, Jack went out with the dog, and in a few minutes 
 comes in again, leading along with him, on the one side, the loveliest 
 lady that ever eye beheld, and the dog, that was her brother, now 
 meiaimirp/iied \nto a beautiful, illegant gintleman, on the other. 
 
 "'Father Flanagan,' says Jack, 'you thought a while ago you'd 
 have no marriage, but instead of that you'll have a brace of them ; ' 
 up and telling the company, at the same time, all that happened him, 
 and how the beautif'ul crathur that he brought in with him had done 
 so much for him. 
 
 " Whin the gintlemen heard this, as the;, were all Irishmen, you 
 may be sure there was nothing but huzzaing and throwing up of hats 
 from them, and waving of handkerchers from the ladies. Well, my 
 dear, the wedding dinner was ate in great style ; the nobleman 
 promised no disgrace to his rank at the trencher ; and so, to make a 
 long story short, such faistingand banqucteering was never seen since 
 or before. At last night came ; and, among ourselves, not a doubt of 
 it, but Jack thought himself a happy man; and maybe if all was known, 
 the bride was much of the same opinion : be that as it may, night 
 came— the bride, all blushing, beautiful, and modest as your own 
 sweetheart, was getting tired after the dancing ; Jack, too, though 
 much stouter, wished for a trifle of repose, and many thought it was 
 near time to throw the stocking, as is proper, of coorse, on every 
 occasion of the kind. Well, he was just on his way upstairs, and had 
 
THE THREE TASKS. 45 
 
 reached the first landing, when he hears a voice at his e^ir shouting, 
 'Jack, Jack — Jack Magennis !' Jack could have spitted anybody for 
 coming to disturb him at such a criticality. ' Jack Magennis ! ' says 
 the voice. Jack looked about to see who it was that called him, and 
 there he found himself lying on the green Rath, a little above his 
 mother's cabin, of a fine calm summer's evening in the month of June. 
 His mother was stooping over him, with her mouth at his ear, striving 
 to waken him by shouting and shaking him out of his sleep. 
 
 " ' Oh ! by this and by that, mother,' says Jack, ' what did you waken 
 me for .'' ' 
 
 "'Jack, avourneen,' says the mother, 'sure and you war lying 
 grunting, and groaning, and snifthering there, for all the world as if 
 you had the colic ; and I only nudged you for fraid you war in 
 pain.' 
 
 " ' I wouldn't for a thousand guineas,' says Jack, ' that ever you 
 wakened me, atall at all ; but whisht, mother, go into the house, and 
 I'll be afther you in less than no time.' 
 
 "The mother went in, and the first thing Jack did was to try the 
 rock ; and, sure enough, there he found as much money as made him 
 the richest man that ever was in the country. And what was to his 
 credit, when he did grow rich, he wouldn't let his cabin be thrown down, 
 but built a fine castle on a spot near it, where he could always have 
 it under his eye, to prevent him from getting proud. In the coorse 
 of time, a harper, hearing the story, composed a tune upon it, which 
 everj'body knows is called the ' Little House under the Hill ' to this 
 day, beginning with — 
 
 ' Hi for it, ho for it, hi for it still ; 
 Och, and whoo ! your sowl — hi for the little house under the hill I ' 
 
 " So you see that was the way the great Magennises first came by 
 heir wealth, and all because Jack was industrious, and an obadient, 
 dutiful, tindher son to his helpless ould mother ; and well he desarved 
 what he got, e^shi misha} Your healths — Father Ned — Father 
 Pether — all kinds of happiness to us ; and there's my story." 
 
 " Well," said Father Peter, " I think that dog was nothing more or 
 less than a downright cur, that deserved the lash nine times a day, if 
 it was only for his want of respect to the clergy ; if he had given me 
 such insolence, I solemnly declare I would have bate the devil out of 
 him with a hazel cudgel, if I failed to exorcise him with a prayer." 
 
 Father Ned looked at the simple and credulous curate with an 
 expression of humour and astonishment. 
 
 " Paddy," said he to the servant, " will you let us know what the 
 night's doing.''" 
 
 Paddy looked out. " Why, your rev'rence, it's a fine night, all out, 
 and cleared up it is bravely." 
 
 At this moment the stranger awoke. " Sir," said Father Ned, " you 
 missed an amusing story in consequence of your somnolency." 
 
 • Say I. 
 
46 THE THREE TASKS. 
 
 " Though I missed the story," replied the stranger, " 1 was happy 
 enough to hear your friend's critique upon the dog." 
 
 Father Ned seemed embarrassed ; the curate, on the contrary, 
 exclaimed with triumph, " liut wasn't /right, sir?" 
 
 " Perfectly," said the stranger ; " the moral you applied was ex- 
 cellent." 
 
 " Good night, boys," said Father Ned — " good night, Mr. Longinus 
 Polysyllabus Alexandrinus ! " 
 
 " Good night, boys," said Father Peter, imitating Father Ned, 
 whom he looked upon as a perfect model of courtesy — " good night, 
 boys ; good night, Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus !" 
 
 "Good night," replied the stranger; "good night. Doctor Ned — 
 hem ! — Doctor Edxvard Deleery ; and good night, Doctor Peter 
 M'Clatchayhan— good night !" 
 
 When the clergymen were gone, the circle about the fire, excepting 
 the members of Ned's family and the stranger, dispersed to their 
 respective homes ; and thus ended the amusement of that evening. 
 
 After they had separated, Ned, whose curiosity respecting the 
 stranger was by no means satisfied, began to sift him in his own pecu- 
 liar manner, as they both sat at the fire. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Ned, " barring the long playacther that tumbles 
 upon the big stage in the street of our market- town here below, I 
 haven't seen so long a man this many a day ; and, barring your big 
 whiskers, the sorra one of your honour's unlike him. A fine portly 
 vagabone he is, indeed — a big man, and a bigger rogue, they say, for 
 he pays nobody." 
 
 " Have you got such a company in your neighbourhood?" inquired 
 the stranger, with indifference. 
 
 " We have, sir," said Ned ; " but, plase goodness, they'll soon be 
 lashed like hounds from the place — the town boys are preparing to 
 give them a chivey some fine morning out of the country." 
 
 " Indeed ! — he — hem ! — that will be very spirited of the town boys," 
 said the stranger, dryly. 
 
 " That's a smart-looking horse your honour rides," observed Ned ;• 
 "did he carry you far to-day, with submission ?" 
 
 "Not far," replied his companion— " only fourteen miles; but, I 
 suppose, the fact is, you wish to know who and what I am, where I 
 came from, and whither I am going. Well, you shall know this. In 
 the first place, I am agent to Lord Non-Resident's estate, if you ever 
 heard of that nobleman, and I am on my way from Castle Ruin, the 
 seat of his lordship's incumbrances, to Dublin. My name you have 
 already heard. Are you now satisfied?" 
 
 " Parfitly, your honour," replied Ned, "and I'm much obliged to 
 you, sir." 
 
 " I trust you are an honest man," said the stranger ; " because, for 
 this night, I am about to place great confidence in you." 
 
 " Well, sir," said his landlord, " if I turn out dishonest to you, it's 
 more nor I did in my whole life to anybody else, barring to Nancy." 
 
 "Here, then," said the stranger, drawing out a large jacket, 
 
THE THREE TASKS. #? 
 
 enclosed in a roll of black leather, " here is the half-year's rent of the 
 estate, together with my own property ; keep it secure tiil morning, 
 when I shall demand it, and, of course, it will be safe ? " 
 
 " As if it was ^vefadom under ground," replied Ned. " I will put 
 it along with our own trifle of silver ; and after that, let Nancy alone 
 for keeping it safe so long as it's there J" saying which, Ned secured 
 the packet, and showed the stranger his bed. 
 
 About five o'clock the next morning their guest was up, and ordered 
 a snack in all haste. " Being a military man," said he, " and accus- 
 tomed to timely hours, I shall ride down to the town, and put a letter 
 into the post office in time for the Dublin mail, after which you may 
 expect me to breakfast. But, in the meantime, I am not to go with 
 empty pockets," he added, when mounting his horse at the door. 
 Bring me silver, landlord, and be quick." 
 
 " How, much, plase your honour.'"' 
 
 " Twenty or thirty shillings ; but. harkee, produce my packet, that I 
 may be certain my property is safe." 
 
 " Here it is, your honour, safe and sound," replied Ned ; " and 
 Nancy, sir, has sent yoa all the silver she has, which was one pound 
 five ; but I'd take it as a favour if your honour would be contint with 
 twenty shillings, and lave me the other five ; for you see the case is 
 this, sir, plase your honour, she" — and Ned, with a shrewd, humorous 
 nod, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder as he spoke — " she 
 wears the what you know, sir." 
 
 " Ay, I thought so," replied the stranger ; "but a man of your size, 
 to be hen-pecked, must be a great knave, otherwise your wife would 
 allow you more liberty. Go in, man ; you deserve no compassion in 
 such an age of freedom as this. I shan't give you a farthing till after 
 my return, and only then if it be agreeable to your wife." 
 
 " Murdher ! " said Ned, astonished. " I beg your honour's pardon ; 
 murdher alive, sir, where's your whiskers ?" 
 
 The stranger put his hand hastily to his face, and smiled. " Where 
 are my whiskers } Why, shaved off, to be sure," he replied ; and 
 setting spurs to his horse, was soon out of sight and hearing. 
 
 It was nearly a month after that, when Ned and Nancy, in presence 
 of Father Deleery, opened the packet, and discovered, not the half 
 year's rent of Lord Non-Resident's estate, but a large sheaf of play- 
 bills packed up together — their guest having been the identical person 
 to whom Ned affirmed he bore so strong a resemblance. 
 
49 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 SHANE FADirS WEDDING. 
 
 ^IN the following evening, the neighbours were soon assembled 
 abovit Ned's hearth, in the same manner as on the night 
 preceding. 
 
 And we may observe, by the way, that although there was a due 
 admixture of opposite creeds and conflicting principles, yet even then, 
 and the time is not so far back, such was their cordiality of heart and 
 simplicity of manners, when contrasted with the bitter and rancorous 
 spirit of the present day, that the very remembrance of the harmony 
 in which they lived is at once pleasing and melancholy. 
 
 After some preliminary chat—" Well, Shane," said Andy Morrow, 
 addressing Shane Fadh, " will you give us an account of your wedding ? 
 I'm told it was the greatest let-out that ever was in this country, 
 before or since." 
 
 " And you may say that, IMr. Morrow," said Shane. " I was at many 
 a wedding myself, but never at the likes oi my own, barring Tim 
 Lanigan's, that married Father Corrigan's niece." 
 
 " 1 believe," said Andy, " that, too, was a dashing one ; however, it's 
 your own we want. Come, Nancy, fill these measures again, and let 
 us be comfortable, at all events, and give Shane a double one, for 
 talking's druthy work. — Fll pay for this round." 
 
 When the liciuor was got in, Shane, after taking a draught, laid down 
 his pint, pulled out his steel tobacco box, and, after twisting off a chew 
 between his teeth, closed the box, and commenced the story of his 
 wedding. 
 
 " When I was a Brine-Oge,"^ said Shane, " I was as wild as an 
 unbroken cowlt — no divilment was too hard for me ; and so signs on 
 it, for there wasn't a piece of mischief done in the parish, but 
 was laid at my door— and the dear knows I had enough of my own to 
 answer for, let alone to be set down for that of other people ; but, any 
 way, there was many a thing done in my name, when 1 knew neither 
 act norpart about it. One of them I'll mintion : Dick Cuille nan, father 
 to Paddy, that lives at the crass-roads, beyant Gunpowdher Lodge, 
 was over head and ears in love with Jemmy Finigan's eldest daughter, 
 Mary, then, sure enough, as purty a girl as you'd meet in a fair — 
 indeed, I think I'm looking at her, with her fair flaxen ringlets hanging 
 over her shoulders, as she used to pass our house, going to mass of a 
 Sunday. God rest her sowl, she's now in glory — that was before she 
 was my wife. Many a happy day we passed together ; and I could 
 take it to my death, that an ill word, let alone to rise our hands to one 
 another, never passed between us — only one day, that a word or two 
 happened about the dinner, in the middle of Lent, being a little too late, 
 so that the horses I'ere kept nigh hand half an hour out of the plough; 
 
 A vounjj man full of fun and frolic 
 
SHANE FADWS IVEDDhVG. 49 
 
 and I wouldn't have valued that so mueh, only that it was Bealcavt^ 
 Doherty that joined me in ploughing that year — and I was vexed not 
 to take all I could out of him, for he was a raal Turk himself. 
 
 " I disremimber now what passed between us as to words, bit I 
 know I had a duck-egg in my hand, and when she spoke, I raised my 
 arm, and nailed — poor Larry Tracy, our servant boy, between the two 
 eyes with it, although the crathurwas ating his dinner quietly forenent 
 me, not saying a word. 
 
 " Well, as I tould you, Dick was ever after her, although her father 
 and mother would rather see her jtiider board than joined to any of 
 that connection ; and as for herself, she couldn't bear the sight of 
 him, he was sich an upsetting, conceited puppy, that thought himself 
 too good for every girl. At any rate, he tried often and often, in fair and 
 market, to get striking up with her ; and both coming from and going 
 to mass 'twas the same way, for ever after and about her, till the state 
 he was in spread over the parish like wildfire. Still, all he could do 
 was of no use ; except to bid him the time of day, she never entered 
 into discoorse with him at all at all. But there was no putting the 
 likes of him off; so he got a quart of spirits in his pocket one night, 
 and without saying a word to mortal, off he sets, full speed, to her 
 father's, in order to brake the thing to the family. 
 
 " Mary might be about seventeen at this time, and her mother 
 looked almost as young and fresh as if she hadn't been married at all. 
 When Dick came in, you may be sure they were all surprised at the 
 sight of him ; but they were civil people, and the mother wiped a 
 chair, and put it over near the fire for hira to sit down upon, waiting 
 to hear what he'd say, or what he wanted, although they could give a 
 purty good guess as to that, but they only wished to put him off with 
 as little offince as possible. When Dick sot awhile, talking about 
 what the price of hay and oats wou<.d be in the following summer, and 
 other subjects that he thought would show his knowledge of farming 
 and cattle, he pulls out his bottle, encouraged to it by their civil way 
 of talking, and telling the ould couple that as he came over on his 
 kailyee" he had brought a drop in his pocket to sweeten the discoorse, 
 axing Susy Finigan, the mother, for a glass to send it round with, at 
 the same time drawing over his chair close to Mary, who was knit- 
 ting her stocken up beside her little brother Michael, and chatting 
 to the gorsoon, for fraid that Cuillenan might think she paid 
 him any attention. When Dick got alongside of her, he began, of 
 coorse, to pull out her needles and spoil her knitting, as is cus- 
 tomary before the young people come to close spaking. Mary, 
 howsomever, had no welcome for him ; so says she, * You ought to 
 know, Dick Cuillenan, who you spake to, before you make the freedom 
 you do.' 
 
 " ' But you don't know,' says Dick, ' that I am a great hand at spoil- 
 ing the girls' knitting ; it's a fashion I've got,' says he. 
 
 ^ ' It's a fashion, then,' says Mary, ' that'll be apt to get you a broker 
 
 ' Crooked mouth. • Kailyee — a friendly evening visit 
 
so SHANE FADH'S WED DING. 
 
 mouth sometime.^ * Then,' says Dick, * whoever does that must marry 
 me.' 
 
 " ' And them that gets you will have a prize to hrag of,' says she. 
 ' Stop yourself, Cuillenan ; single your freedom and double your dis- 
 tance, if you plase ; I'll cut my coat off no such cloth.' 
 
 " ' Well, Mary,' says he, ' maybe, \{ yon don't, as good will ; but ^o\> 
 won't be so cruel as all that comes to ; the worst side of you is out, 1 
 think.' 
 
 " He was now beginning to make greater freedom, but Mary rises 
 trom her seat, and whisks away with herself, her chctk as red as a rose 
 with vexation at the fellow's imperance. ' Very well,' says Dick, ' off 
 you go ; but there's as good fish in the say as ever was catched. I'm 
 sorry to see, Susy,' says he to her mother, ' that Mary's no friend of 
 mine, and I'd be mighty glad to find it otherwise ; for, to tell the 
 truth, I'd wish to become connected with the family. In the mane 
 time, hadn't you better get us a glass, till we drink one bottle on the 
 head of it, any way,' 
 
 " ' Why, then, Dick Cuillenan,' says the mother, ' I don't wish you 
 anything else than good luck and happiness ; but, as to Mary, she's 
 \\o\.fflr you herself, nor would it be a good match between the f.imilies 
 at all. Mary is to have her grandfather's sixty guineas, and the two 
 nioul/ecits' that her uncle Jack left her four years ago has brouglu hei 
 a good stock for any farm. Now, if she married you, Dick, where's 
 the farm to bring her too.'' — surely, it's not upon them seven acres of 
 stone and bent, upon the long Esker, that I'd let my daughter go to 
 live. So, Dick, put up your bottle, and in the name of God, go home, 
 boy, and mind your business ; but, above all, when you want a wife, 
 go to them that you may have a right to expect, and not to a girl like 
 Mary Finigan, that could lay down guineas where you could hardly 
 find shillings.' 
 
 " '"Very well, Susy,' says Dick, nettled enough, as he well might, 
 ' I say to you, just as I say to your daughter, if you be proud there's 
 no force.'" 
 
 " But what has this to do with you, Shane ?" asked Andy Morrow. 
 " Sure we wanted to hear an accou.it o{ yoitr wedding, but instead of 
 iJiat, it's Dick Cuillenan's history you're giving us." 
 
 '' That's just it," said Shane ; " sure, only for this same Dick, I'd 
 never get Alary Finigan for a wife. Dick took Susy's advice, bekase, 
 after all, the undacent drop was in him, or he'd never have brouglit 
 the bottle out of the house at all ; but, faith, he riz up, put the whisky 
 in his pocket, and went home with a face on him as black as my hat 
 with venom. Well, things passed on till the Christmas following, 
 
 ' It is no unusual thing in Ireland for a country girl to repulse a fellow whom 
 she thinks beneatli htr, if not by a flat at least by a flattening refusal ; nor is it 
 seldom that the " argumentum fistycuffium " is resorted to on such occasions. I 
 have more than once seen a disagreeable lover receive, from the fair hand whicVs 
 iie sought, so masterly a blow, that a bleeding nose rewarded his ambiticu, and 
 silenced for a time his importunity. 
 
 • Cows without horns. 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 51 
 
 when one night, after the Finigans had all gone to bed, there comes a 
 crowd of fellows to the door, thumping at it with great violence, and 
 swearing that if the people within wouldn't open it immediately, it 
 would be smashed into smithereens. The family, of coorse, were 
 all alarmed ; but somehow or other, Susy herself got suspicious 
 that it might be something about Mary ; so up she gets, and 
 sends the daughter to her own bed, and lies down herself in the 
 daughter's, 
 
 " In the mane time, Finigan got up, and after lighting a candle, 
 opened the door at once. ' Come, Finigan,' says a strange voice, 
 ' put out the candle, except you wish to make a candlestick of the 
 thatch,' says he — ' or to give you a prod of a bagnet under the ribs,' 
 says he. 
 
 " It was a folly for one man to go to bell-the-cat with a whole 
 crowd ; so he blew the candle out, and next minute they rushed in, 
 and went as straight as a rule to IVIary's bed. The mother all the 
 time lay close, and never said a word. At any rate, what could be ex- 
 pected, only that, do what she could, at the long run she must go. So, 
 accordingly, after a very hard battle on her side, being a powerful 
 woman, she was obliged to travel — but not till she had left many 
 of them marks to remimber her by ; among the rest, Dick him- 
 self got his nose split on his face, with the stroke of a churn- 
 staff, so that he carried half a nose on each cheek till the day 
 of his death. Still, there was very little spoke, for they didn't 
 wish to betray themselves on any side. The only thing that Finigan 
 could hear, was my name repated several times, as if the whole 
 thing was going on under my direction : for Dick thought, that if 
 there was any one in the parish likely to be set down for it, it 
 was me. 
 
 " When Susy found they were for putting her behind one of them 
 on a horse, she rebelled again, and it took near a dozen of boys to 
 hoist her up ; but one vagabone of them, that had a rusty broad-sword 
 in his hand, gave her a skelp with the flat side of it that subdued her 
 at once, and off they went. Now, above all nights in the year, who 
 should be dead but my own full cousin, Denis Fadh— God be good to 
 him ! — and I, and Jack and Dan, his brothers, while bringing home 
 whisky for the wake and berrin, met them on the road. At first we 
 thought them distant relations coming to the wake, but when I saw 
 only one woman among the set, and she mounted on a horse, I began 
 to suspect that all wasn't right. I accordingly turned back a bit, and 
 walked near enough without their seeing me to hear the discoorse, and 
 discover the whole business. In less than no time I was back at the 
 wake-house, so I up and tould them what I saw, and off we set, about 
 forty of us, with good cudgels, scythe-sneds, and hooks, fully bent to 
 bring her back from them, come or go what would. And troth, sure 
 enough, we did it ; and I was the man myself that rode after the 
 mother 01 ^he same horse that carried her off. 
 
 " Frc«m this out, when and wherever I got an opportunity, I 
 whispered the soft nonsense, Nancy, into poor Mary's ear, until I p it 
 
52 SIIAXE FA DIPS IVE DOING. 
 
 my comedher^ on her, and she couldn't live at all without me. But I 
 was something for a woman to look at then, anyhow, standing six feet 
 two in my stocking soles, which, yeu know, made them call me Shane 
 Fati/i.'^ At that time I had a dacent farm of fourteen acres in CrocU- 
 nagooran — the same that my son Ned has at the present time ; and 
 chough, as to wealth, by no manner ot manes fit to compare with the 
 Finigans, yet, upon the whole, she might have made a worse match. 
 The father, however, wasn't for me ; but the mother was : so after 
 drinking a bottle or two with the mother, Sarah Traynor, her coubin, 
 and Mary, along with Jack Donnellan on my part, in their own barn, 
 unknownst to the father, we agreed to make a runaway match of it ; 
 appointed my uncle, Brian Slevin's, as the house we'd go to. The next 
 Sunday was the day appointed ; so I had my uncle's family prepared, 
 and sent two gallons of whisky, to be there before us, knowing that 
 neither the Finigans nor my own friends liked stinginess. 
 
 " Well, well, after all, the world is a strange thing — if myself hardly 
 knows what to make of it. It's I that did dole night and day upon 
 that girl j and indeed there was them that could have seen me in 
 Jimniaiky for her sake, for she was the beauty of the county, not to 
 say of the parish, for a girl in her station. For my part I could neither 
 ate nor sleep, for thinking that she was so soon to be my own married 
 wife, and to live under my roof. And when I'd think of it, how my 
 heart would bounce to my throat with downright joy and delight. The 
 mother had made us promise not to meet till Sunday, for fraid of the 
 father becoming suspicious : but, if 1 was to be shot for it, 1 couldn't 
 hinder myself from going every night to the great flowering whitethorn 
 that was behind their garden ; and although she knew 1 hadn't pro- 
 mised to come, yet there she still was ; something, she said, lould her 
 I would come. 
 
 "The next Sunday we met at AlthadJiawan wood, and I'll never 
 forget what I felt when I was going to the green at St. Patrick's Chair, 
 where the boys and girls met on Sunday : but there she was — the 
 bright eyes dancing with joy in her head to see me. We spent the 
 evening in the wood till it was dusk — I bating them all leaping, 
 dancing, and throwing the stone ; for, by my song, I thought I had 
 the action of ten men in me ; she looking on, and smiling like an 
 an j,el, when I'd lave them miles behind me. As it grew dusk they all 
 went home, except herself, and me, and a few more, who, maybe, had 
 something of the same kind on hands. 
 
 " ' Well, Mary,' says I, ' acushla machree, it's dark enough for us 
 to go ; and in the name of God let us be off.' The crathur looked 
 into my face, and got pale — for she was very young then. ' Shane,' 
 says she, and she thrimbled like an aspen lafc, ' I'm going to trust 
 myself with you for ever — for ever, Shane, avourneen ' — and her sweet 
 voice broke into purty murmurs as she spoke ; ' whether for happiness 
 
 • Comedher — come hither — alluding to tlie burden of an old love charm which 
 is still used by the young of both sexes on May morning. It is a literid translation 
 of the Irish word "gutsho. " 
 
 » Fadh IS tall or long. 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 or sorrow, God he only knows. I can bear poverty and distress, sick- 
 ness and want, with you, but I can't bear to think that you should evei 
 forget to love me as you do now ; or that your heart should ever cool 
 to me : but I'm sure,' says she, ' you'll never forget this night, and the 
 solemn promises you made me, before God and the blessed skies 
 above us.' 
 
 " We were sitting at the time under the shade of a rowan-tree, and 
 I had only one answer to make — I pulled her to my breast, where she 
 laid her head and cried like a child, with her cheek against mine. My 
 own eyes wern't dry, although I felt no sorrow but — but — I never for- 
 got that night — and I never will." 
 
 He now paused a few minutes, being too much affected to proceed. 
 
 " Poor Shane," said Nancy in a whisper to Andy Morrow, " night 
 and day he's thinking about that woman ; she's now dead going on a 
 year, and you would think by him, although he bears up very well 
 before company, that she died only yestherday — but indeed it's he 
 that was always the kind-hearted, affectionate man ; and abetter hus- 
 band never broke bread." 
 
 " Well," said Shane, resuming the story, and clearing his voice, 
 " it's a great consolation to me, now that she's gone, to think that I 
 never broke the promise I made her that night ; for as I tould you, 
 except in regard of the duck-egg, a bitther word never passed between 
 us. I was in a passion then, for a wonder, and bent on showing her 
 that I was a dangerous man to provoke ; so just to give her a spice of 
 what 1 could do, I made La7-ry feel it — and may God forgive me for 
 raising my hand even then to her. But sure he would be a brute that 
 would beat such a woman except by proxy. When it was clear darlc 
 we set off, and after crossing the country for two miles, reached my 
 uncle's, where a great many of my friends were expecting us. As 
 soon as we came to the door I struck it two or three times, for that 
 was the sign, and my aunt came out, and taking Mary in her arms, 
 kissed her, and, with a thousand welcomes, brought us both in. 
 
 " You all know that the best ci aiting and dhrinking is provided 
 when a runaway couple is expe. ted ; and indeed there was galore^ 
 of both there. My uncle and -ill that were within welcomed us again ; 
 and many a good 9./ng and hearty jug of punch was sent round that 
 night. The next morning my uncle went to her father's, and broke 
 the business to him at once : indeed, it wasn't very hard to do, for I 
 believe it reached him before he saw my uncle at all ; so she was 
 brought home that day, and, on the Thursday night after, I, my father, 
 uncle, and severa' other friends, went there, and made the match. She 
 had sixty guineas that her grandfather left her, thirteen head of cattle, 
 two feather and two chaff beds, with sheeting, quilts, and blankets ; 
 three pieces of bleached linen, and a flock of geese of her own rearing 
 — upon the whole, among ourselves, it wasn't aisy to get such a 
 fortune. 
 
 " Well, the match was made, and the wedding-day appointed ; but 
 
 ' Galore — more than enough -great abundance. 
 
54 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 there was one thing still to be managed, and that was how to get over 
 the standino at mass on Sunday, to make satibfaction for the scandal 
 we gave the church by running away with one another — but that's all 
 stulf, for who cares a pin about standing, when three halves of the 
 parish are married in the same way. The only thing that vexed me 
 was that it would keep back the wedding-day. However, her father 
 and my uncle went to the priest, and spoke to him, trying, of coorsc, 
 to get us otT of it, but he knew we were fat geese, and was in for giving 
 us a plucking. — Hut, tut !— he wouldn't hear of it at all, not he ; for 
 although he would ride fifty miles to sarve either of us, he couldn't 
 brake the new orders that he had got only a few days before that from 
 the bishop. No ; we must stand— iox it would be setting a bad 
 example to the parish ; and if he would let us pass, how could 
 he punish the rest of his flock, when they'd be guilty of the same 
 thing. 
 
 "'Well, well, your reverence,' says my uncle, winking at her 
 father, ' if that's the case it can't be helped anyhow — they must only 
 stand, as many a dacent father and mother's child has done before 
 them, and will again, plase God — your reverence is right in doing your 
 duty.' 
 
 " ' True for you, Brian,' says his reverence, ' and yet, God knows, 
 there's no man in the parish would be sorrier to see such a dacent, 
 comely, young couple put upon a level with all the scrubs of the 
 parish ; and I know, Jemmy Finigan, it would go hard with your 
 young, bashful daughter to get tlirough with it, having the eyes of the 
 whole congregation staring on her.' 
 
 " ' Why then, your reverence, as to that,' says my uncle, who was 
 just as stifl' as the other was stout, ' the bashfulest of them will do 
 more nor that to get a husband.' 
 
 " ' But you tell me,' says the priest, ' that the wedding-day is fixed 
 upon ; how will you manage there ?' 
 
 " ' Why, put it off for three Sundays longer, to be sure,' says the 
 uncle. 
 
 " ' But you forget this, Brian,' says the priest, ' that good luck or 
 prosperity never attends the putting off of a wedding.' 
 
 " Now here you see is where the priest had them — for they knew 
 that as well as his reverence hinvself — so they were in a puzzle again. 
 
 "' It's a disagreeable business,' says the priest ; 'but the truth is I 
 could get them off with the bishop only for one thing — 1 owe him five 
 guineas of altar-money, and I'm so far back in dues that I'm not able 
 to pay him. If I could enclose this to him in a letter, I would get 
 them otf at once, although it would be bringing myself into trouble 
 with the parish afterwards ; but, at all events,' says he, ' 1 wouldn't 
 make every one of you both ; so, to prove that 1 wish to sarve you. 111 
 sell the best cow in my byre, and pay him myself, rather than their 
 wedtling-day should be put off, poor things, or themselves brought to 
 any bad luck — the Lord keep them from it ! ' 
 
 " While he was speaking, he stampsd his foot two or three times on 
 the flure, and the housekeeper came in. ' Katty,' says he, ' bring us 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 55 
 
 In a bottle of whisky ; at all events, I can't let you away,' fays 
 he, ' without tasting something, and drinking luck to the ycung 
 folks.' 
 
 "'In troth,' says Jemmy Finigan, 'and begging your reverence's 
 pardon, the sorra cow you'll sell this bout, anyhow, on account of me 
 or my childhre, bekase I'll lay down on the nail what'U clear you and 
 the bishop ; and in the name of goodness, as the day is fixed and all, 
 let the crathurs not be disappointed.' 
 
 " ' Jemmy,' says my uncle, ' if you go to that, you'll pay but youi 
 share, for I insist upon laying down one-half, at laste.' 
 
 " At any rate, they came down with the cash, and after drinking a 
 bottle between them, went home in choice spirits entirely at their 
 good luck in so aisily getting us off. When they had left the house a 
 bit, the priest sent after them. 'Jemmy,' says he to Finigan, ' I for- 
 got a circumstance, and that is to tell you that I will go and marry 
 them at your own house, and bring Father James, my curate, wiih 
 me.' ' Oh, wurrah ! no,' said both, ' don't mention that, your reve- 
 rence, except you wish to break their hearts, out and out ! Why, that 
 would be a thousand times worse nor making them stand to do 
 penance. Doesn't your reverence know that if they hadn't the 
 pleasure of rjuming for the bottle, the whole wedding wouldn't be 
 worth three-halfpence .f" ' Indeed, I forgot that, Jemmy.' ' But sure,' 
 says my uncle, 'your reverence and Father James must be at it. 
 whether or not ; for that we intended from the first.' ' Tell them I'll 
 run for the bottle, too,' says the priest, laughing, 'and will make some 
 of them look sharp, never fear.' Well, by my song, so far all was 
 right ; and maybe it's we that wern't glad^maning Mary and myself 
 — that there was nothing more in the way to put off the wedding-day. 
 So, as the bridegroom's share of the expense always is to pro*'ide the 
 whisky, I'm sure, for the honour and glory of taking the blooming 
 young crathur from the great lot of bachelors that were all breaking 
 their hearts about her, I couldn't do less nor finish the thing dacently 
 —knowing, besides, the high doingj that the Finigans would have of 
 it — for they were always looked upon as a family that never had their 
 heart in a trifle when it would come to the push. So, you see, I and 
 my brother Mickey, my cousin Tom, and Dom'nick Nulty, went up 
 into the mountains to Tim Cassidy's still-house, where we spent a 
 glorious day, and bought fifteen gallons of stuff, that one drop of it 
 would bring the tear, if possible, to a young widdy's eye that had 
 berrid a bad husband. Indeed, this was at my father's bidding, who 
 wasn't a bit behindhand with any of them in cutting a dash. ' Shane,' 
 says he to me, 'you know the Finigans of ould, that they won't be 
 contint with what would do another, and that except they go beyant 
 the thing, entirely, they won't be satisfied. They'll have the whole 
 country-side at the wedding, and we must let them see that we have a 
 spirit and a faction of our own,' says he, ' that we needn't be ashamed 
 of. They've got all kinds of ateables in cartloads, and as we're to get 
 the drinkables, we must see and give as good as they'll bring. I my- 
 self, and your mother, will go round and invite all we can think of, 
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
 OF 
 
?6 SHANE FA DIPS IVEDDLVG. 
 
 and let you and Mickey go up the hills to Tim Cassidy, and get fifteen 
 gallons of whisky, for I don't think less will do us.' 
 
 " This we accordingly complied with, as I said, and surely better 
 stuff never went down the red lanc^ than the same whisky ; for the 
 people knew nothing about watering it then, at all at all. The next 
 thing I did was to get a fine shop cloth coat, a pair of top boots, and 
 buckskin breeches fit for a squire, along with a new Caroline hat that 
 would throw off the wet like a duck. Mat Kavanagh, the school- 
 master from Findramore bridge, lent me his watch for the occasion, 
 after my spending near two days learning from him to know what 
 o'clock it was. At last, somehow, I masthcred that point so well that 
 in a quarter of an hour, at least, I could give a dacent guess at the 
 time upon it. 
 
 " Well, at last the day came. The wedding morning, or the 
 bride's part of it, as they ?ay, was beautiful. It was then the month 
 of July. The evening before, my father and my brother went over to 
 Jemmy Finigan's, to make the regulations for the wedding. We, 
 that is my party, were to be at the bride's house about ten o'clock, and 
 we were then to proceed, all on horseback, to the priest's, to be 
 married. We were then, after drinking something at Tom Hance's 
 public house, to come back as far as the Dumbhill, where we were to 
 start and run for the bottle. That morning we were all up at the 
 skriek of day. From six o'clock, my own faction, friends and neigh- 
 bours, began to come, all mounted ; and about eight o'clock there was 
 a whole regiment of them, some on horses, some on mules, others on 
 raheries and asses ; and, by my word, I believe little Dick Snudaghan, 
 the tailor's apprentice, that had a hand in making my wedding clothes, 
 was mounted upon a buck goat, with a bridle of selvages tied to his 
 horns. Anything at all to keep their feet from the ground ; for nobody 
 would be allowed to go with the wedding that hadn't some animal 
 between them and the earth. 
 
 " To make a long story short, so large a bridegroom's party was 
 never seen in that country before, save and except Tim Lannignn's, 
 that I mentioned just now. It would make you split your face laughing 
 to see the figure they cut ; some of them had saddles and bridles — 
 others had saddles and halthers : some had back-suggawns of straw, 
 with hay stirrups to them, but good bridles ; others had sacks filled up 
 as like saddles as they couTd make them, girthed with hay ropes five 
 or six times tied round the horse's body. When one or two of the 
 horses wouldn't carry double, except the hind rider sat strideways, the 
 women had to be put foremost, and the men behind them. Some had 
 dacent pillions enough, but most of them had none at all, and the 
 women were obligated to sit where the crupper ought to be — and a 
 hard card they had to play to keep their seats even when the horses 
 walked asy, so what must it be when they came to a gallop ; but that 
 came was nothing at all to a trot. 
 
 " From the time they began to come that morning, you may be 
 
 ' Humorous pi ripKrasis for throat. 
 
"iHA^JE FA DIPS WEDDING. 57 
 
 sartain that the glass was no cripple, anyhow — although, for fear ol 
 accidents, we took care not to go too deep. At eight o'clock we sat 
 down to a rousing breakfast, for we thought it best to eat a trifle at 
 home, lest they might think that what we were to get at the bride's 
 breakfast might be thought any novelty. As for my part, I was in 
 such a state that I couldn't let a morsel cross my throat, nor did I 
 know what end of me was uppermost. After breakfast they all got their 
 cattle, and I my hat and whip, and was ready to mount, when my uncle 
 whispered to me that I must kneel down and ax my father and mother':; 
 blessing, and forgiveness for all my disobedience and otilnces towards 
 them — and also to requist the blessing of my brothei's and sisters. 
 Well, in a short time 1 was down ; and, my goodness ! such a hulla- 
 balloo of crying as was there in a minute's time ! ' Oh, Shane Fadh — 
 Shane Fadh, acushla machree !' says my poor mother in Irish, 'you'ie 
 going to break up the ring about your father's hearth and mine — 
 going to lave us, avourneen, for ever, and we to hear your light foot 
 and sweet voice, morning, noon, and night, no more ! Oh ! ' says she, 
 ' it's you that was the good son all out ; and the good brother. 00 : 
 kind and cheerful was your beautiful voice, and full of love and 
 affection was your heart ! Shane, avourneen deelish, if ever I was 
 harsh to you, forgive your poor mother, that will never see you more on 
 her flure as one of her own family.' 
 
 "Even my father, that wasn't much giv'en to cr)-ing, couldn't speak, 
 but went over to a corner and cried till the neighbours stopped him. 
 As for my brothers and sisters, they were all in an uproar ; and I 
 myself cried like a Trojan, merely bekase I sec them at it. My father 
 and mother both kissed me, and gave me their blessing ; and my 
 brothers and sisters did the same, while you'd think all their hearts 
 would break. ' Come, come,' says my uncle, ' I'll have none of this : 
 what a hubbub you make, and your son going to be well married — 
 going to be joined to a girl that your betters would be proud to get 
 into connection with. You should have more sense, Rose Campbell — 
 you ought to thank God that he had the luck to come acrass such a 
 colleen for a wife ; that it's not going to his grave, instead of into the 
 arms of a purty girl — and what's better, a good girl. So quit your 
 blubbering. Rose ; and you. Jack,' says he to my father, ' that ought 
 to have more sense, stop this instant. Clear off, every one of you, out 
 of this, and let the young boy go to his horse. — Clear out, I say, or by 
 the powers I'll— look at them three stags of hussies ; by the hand of 
 my body, they're blubbering bekase it's not their own story this blessed 
 day. Move — bounce ! — and you. Rose Oge, if you're not behind 
 Dudley Fulton in less than no time, by the hole of my coat, I'll marry 
 a wife myself, and then where will the twenty guineas be that I'm to 
 lave you.' God rest his soul, and yet there was a tear in his eye all 
 the while — even in spite of his joking ! 
 
 " Anyhow, it's easy knowing that there wasn't sorrow at the bottom 
 of their grief : for they were all now laughing at my uncle's jokes, 
 even while their eyes were red with the tears : my mother herself 
 couldn't but be in good humour, and join her smile with the rest. 
 
58 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 " My uncle now drove us all out before him ; not, however, till my 
 mother had sprinkled a drop of holy water on each of us, and given 
 me and my brother and sisters a small taste of blessed candle to 
 prevent us from sudden death and accidents. My father and she 
 didn't come with us then, but they went over to the bride's while we 
 were all gone to the priest's house. At last we set off in great style 
 and spirits — \ well mounted on a good horse of my own, and mv 
 brother on one that he had borrowed from Peter Danellon, fully bc^ t 
 on winning the bottle. I would have borrowed him myself, but I 
 thought it dacenter to ride my own horse manfully, even though he 
 never won a side of mutton or a saddle, like Danellon's. But the 
 man that was most likely to come in for the bottle was little Billy 
 Cormick, the tailor, who rode a blood-racer that young John Little 
 had wickedly lent him for the special purpose ; he was a tall bay 
 animal, with long small legs, a switch tail, and didn't know how to 
 trot. Maybi; we didn't cut a dash — and might have taken a town 
 before us. Out we set about nine o'clock, and went acrass the country : 
 but I'll not stop to mintion what happened to some of them, even before 
 we got to the bride's house. It's enough to say here, that sometimes 
 one in crassing a stile or ditch would drop into the slwughj'^ some- 
 times another would find himself headforemost on the ground ; a 
 woman would be capsized here in crassing a ridgy field, bringing her 
 fore-rider to the ground along with her ; another would be hanging 
 like a broken arch, ready to come down, till some one would ride up 
 and fi.\ her on the seat. But as all this happened in going over the 
 fields, we expected that when we'd get out on the king's highway there 
 would be less danger, as we would have no ditches or drams to crass. 
 vVhen we came in sight of the house, there was a general shout of 
 welcome from the bride's party, who were on the watch for us : we 
 couldn't 00 less nor give them iDack the chorus ; but we had better 
 have let that alone, for some of the young horses took the stadh,- 
 others of them capered about ; the asses — the sorra choke them — that 
 were along with us should begin to bray, as if it was the king's birth- 
 day — and a mule of Jack Irwin's took it into his head to stand stock 
 still. This brought another dozen of them to the ground ; so that, 
 between one thing or another, we were near half an hour before we 
 got on the march again. When the blood horse that the tailor rode 
 saw the crowd and heard the shouting, he cocked his ears, and set off 
 with himself full speed ; but before he had got far he was without a 
 rider, and went galloping up to the bride's house, the bridle hangin' 
 about his feet. Billy, however, having taken a glass or two, wasn't to 
 be cowed ; so he came up in great blood, and swore he would ride 
 him to America, sooner than let the bottle be won from the bride- 
 groom's party. 
 
 " When we arrived, there was nothing but shaking hands and kissing, 
 and all kinds of slewsthering — men kissing men— women kissing 
 women — and after that men and women all through other. Another 
 
 ' Dyke or drain. * Became restive. 
 
SHANE FADirS WEDDING. 59 
 
 breakfast was neady for us ; and here we all sat down, myself and my 
 next relations in the bride's house, and the others in the barn and 
 garden ; for one house wouldn't hold the half of us. Eating, however, 
 was all only talk of coorse we took some of the poteen again, and in a 
 short time afterwards set off along the paved road to the priest's house 
 to be tied as fast as he could make us, and that was fast enough. 
 Before we went out to mount our horses, though, there was just such a 
 hullaballoo with the bride and her friends as there was with myself : 
 but my uncle soon put a stop to it, and in five minutes had them 
 breaking their hearts laughing. 
 
 " Bless my heart, what doings ! — what roasting and boiling ! — and 
 what tribes of beggars and shulers, and vagabonds of all sorts and 
 sizes, were sunning themselves about the doors — wishing us a thousand 
 times long life and happiness. There was a fiddler and piper : the 
 piper was to stop in my father-in-law's while we were going to be 
 married, to keep the neighbours that were met there shaking their 
 toes while we were at the priest's, and the fiddler was to come with 
 ourselves, in order, you know, to have a dance at the priest's house, 
 and to play for us coming and going ; for there's nothing like a taste 
 of music when one's 011 for sport. As we were setting off, ould Mary 
 M'Ouade from Kilnashogue, who was sent for bekase she understood 
 charms, and had the name of being lucky, tuck myself aside. ' Shane 
 Fadh,' says she, ' you're a young man well to look upon ; may God 
 bless you and keep you »o ; and there's not a doubt but there's them 
 here that wishes you ill — that would rather be in your shoes this 
 blessed day, with your young colleen hatvn^ that'ill be your wife before 
 the sun sets, plase the heavens. There's ould Fanny Barton, the 
 wrinkled thief of a hag, that the Finigans axed here for the sake of 
 her decent son-in-law, who ran away with her daughter Betty, that 
 was the great beauty some years ago : her breath's not good, Shane, 
 and many a strange thing's said of her. Well, maybe I know more 
 about that nor I'm going to mintion, anyhow : more betoken that it's 
 not for nothing the white hare haunts the shrubbery behind her house.* 
 ' But what harm could she do me, Sonsy Mary ?' says I — for she was 
 called Sonsy — ' we have often sarved her one way or other.' 
 
 " ' Ax me no questions about her, Shane,' says she, ' don't I know 
 what she did to Ned Donnelly, that was to be pitied, if ever a man 
 was to be pitied, for as good as seven months after his marriage until 
 I relieved him ; 'twas gone to a thread he was, and didn't they pay 
 me decently for my throuble.' 
 
 " 'Well, and what am I to do, Mary.^" says I, knowing very well 
 that what she scd was thrue enough, although I didn't wish her to see 
 that I was afeard. 
 
 "'Why,' says she, 'you must first exchange money with me, 
 and then, if you do as I bid you, vou may lave the rest to my- 
 self.' 
 
 " I then took out, begad, a decent lot of silver — say a crown or so— 
 
 (1) 
 
 Fair girl. 
 
6o SHANE FADWS WEDDING. 
 
 for my blood was up, and the money was flush— and gave it to her ; 
 for which I got a cronagh-bawn halfpenny in exchange. 
 
 "' Now,' says she, 'Shane, you must keep this in your company, 
 and for your life and sowl, don't part with it for nine days after your 
 marriage : but there's more to be done,' says she — ' hould out your 
 right knee.' So with this she unbuttoned three buttons of my buck- 
 skins, and made me loose the knot of my garlher on the right leg. 
 * Now,' says she, ' if you keep them loose tiU^ after the priest says the 
 words, and won't let the money I gave you go out of your company 
 for nine days, along with something else I'll do that you're to know 
 nothing about, there's no fear of all their pishlhroi^es.'''^ She then 
 pulled off her right shoe, and threw it after us for luck. 
 
 " We were now all in motion once more — the bride riding behind 
 my man, and the bridesmaid behind myself — a fine bouncing girl she 
 was, but not to be mintioned in the one year with my darlin' — in troth, 
 it wouldn't be aisy getting such a couple as we were the same day, 
 though it's myself that says it. Mary, dressed in a black castor hat. 
 like a man's, a white muslin coat, with a scarlet silk handkerchet 
 about her neck, with a silver buckle and a blue ribbon, for luck, round 
 her waist ; her fine hair wasn't turned up, at all at all, but hung down 
 in beautiful curls on her shoulders ; her eyes you would think were 
 all light ; her lips as plump and as ripe as cherries — and maybe it's 
 myself that wasn't to that time of day without tasting them anyhow ; 
 and her teeth, so even, and as white as a burnt bone. The day bate 
 all for beauty ; I don't know whetner it was from the lightness of my 
 own spirit it came, but I think that such a day I never saw from that 
 to this : indeed, I thought everything was dancing and smiling about 
 me, and sartainly everyone said that such a couple hadn't been mar- 
 ried, nor such a wedding seen in the parish, for many a long year 
 before. 
 
 " All the time, as we went along, we had the music ; but then at 
 rirst we were mightily puzzled what to do with the fiddler. To put 
 him as a hind rider it would prevent him from playing, bekasc how 
 could he keep the fiddle before him, and another so close to him .-' To 
 put him foremost was as bad, for he couldn't play and hould the bridle 
 together ; so at last my uncle proposed that he should get behind 
 himself, turn his face to the horse's tail, and saw away like a Trojan. 
 
 •* It might be about four miles or so to the priest's house, and, as 
 the day was fine, we got on gloriously. One thing, however, became 
 troublesome ; you see there was a cursed set of ups and downs on 
 the road, and as the riding coutreiucnfs were so bad with a great many 
 of the weddincrs, those that had no saddles, going down steep places, 
 would work onward bit by bit, in spite of all they could do, till they'd 
 be fairly on the horse's neck, and the women behind them would be 
 on the animal's shoulders ; and it required nice managing to balance 
 themselves, for they might as well sit on the edge of a dale boord. 
 Many of them got tosses this way, though it all passed in good 
 
 ' Charms of an evil nature. 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 61 
 
 humour. But no two among the whole set were more puzzled by this 
 than my uncle and the fiddler — I think I see m.y uncle this minute 
 with his knees sticking into the horse's shoulders and his two hands 
 upon his neck, keeping himself back, with a cnihf^ upon him, and 
 the fiddler, with his heels away towards the horse's tail, and he 
 stretched back against my uncle, for all the world like two bricks laid 
 against one another, and one of them falling. 'Twas the same thing 
 going up a hill ; whoever was behind would be hanging over the 
 horse's tail, with the arm about the fore-rider's neck or body, and the 
 other houlding the baste by the mane, to keep them both from sliding 
 off backwards. Many a come down there was among them — but as I 
 said, it was all in good humour ; and, accordingly, as regularly as they 
 fell they were sure to get a cheer, 
 
 " When we go*^ to the priest's house there was a hearty welcome for 
 us all. The bride and I with our next kindred and friends went into 
 the parlour : along with these there was a set of young fellows who 
 had been bachelors of the bride's, that got in with an intention of 
 getting the first kiss, and, in coorse, of bateing myself out of it. I 
 got a whisper of this ; so, by my song, I was determined to cut them 
 all out in that, so well as I did in getting herself; but, you know, I 
 couldn't be angry, even if they had got the foreway of me in it, be- 
 kase it's an old custom. While the priest was going over the business, 
 ] kept my eye about me, and, sure enough, there were seven or eight 
 fellows all waiting to snap at her. When the ceremony drew near a 
 close, I got up on one leg, so that I could bounce to my feet like light- 
 ning, and when it was finished, I got her in my arm before you could 
 say Jack Robinson, and swinging her behind the priest, gave her the 
 husband's first kiss. The next mipute there was a rush after her ; but, 
 as I had got the first, it was but fair that they should come in according 
 as they could, I thought, bekase, you know, it was all in the coorse of 
 practice ; but, hould, there were two words to be said to that, for 
 what does Father DoUard do, but shoves them off — and a fine stout 
 shoulder he had — shoves them off, like children, and getting his arms 
 about Mary, gives her half a dozen smacks at least — oh, consuming to 
 the one less — that mine was only a cracker to them. The rest, then, 
 all kissed her, one after another, according as they could come in to 
 get one. We then went straight to his reverence's barn, which had 
 been cleared out for us the day b;;fore by his own directions, where 
 we danced for an hour or two, and his reverence and his curate along 
 with us. 
 
 " When this was over we mounted again, the fiddler taking his 
 ould situation behind my uncle. You know it is usual, after getting 
 the knot tied, to go to a public-hous.e or shebeen, to get some refresh- 
 ment after the journey ; so, accordingly, we went to little lame Larry 
 Spooney's — grandfather to him that was transported the other day for 
 
 ' The hump which constitutes a round-shouldered man. If the reader has evei 
 seen Hogarth's illustrations of Hudibras, and remembers the redoubtable hero an 
 he sits on horseback, he will be at no loss in comprehending what a cruht means. 
 
63 SHANE FADWS WEDDING. 
 
 staling Bob Beaty's sheep ; he' was called Spooney himself, for his 
 sheep-stealing, ever since Paddy Keenan made the song upon hin, 
 ending with ' his house never wants a good ram-horn spoon ;' so 
 that, let people say what they will, these things run in the blood — 
 well, we went to his shebeen house, but the tithe of us couldn't get 
 into it ; so we sot on the green before the door, and, by my song, we 
 iook"^ decently with Jiiiii, anyhow ; and, only for my uncle, it's odd's 
 but we would have been all fuddled. 
 
 " It was now that I began to notish a kind of coolness between my 
 party and the bride's, and for some time I didn't know wh-^t to make 
 of it. I wasn't long so, however ; for my uncle, who still had his 
 eyes about him, comes over to me, and says, ' Shane, I doubt there 
 will be bad work amongst these people, particularly betwixt the 
 Dorans and the Flanagans — the truth is that the old business of the 
 lawshoot will break out, and except they're kept from drink, take my 
 word for it, there will be blood spilled. The running for the bottle 
 will be a good excuse,' says he, 'so I think we had better move home 
 before they go too far in the drink.' 
 
 " Well, any way, there was truth in this ; so, accordingly, the 
 reckoning wdiS pcd, and, as this was the thrate of the weddiners to the 
 bride and bridegroom, every one of the men clubbed his share, but 
 neither I nor the girls anything. Ha — ha — ha ! Am I alive at all ? 
 I never — ha — ha — ha — ! I never laughed so much in one day as I 
 did in that, and I can't help laughing at it yet. Well, well ! when we 
 all got on the top of our horses, and sich other iligant cattle as we 
 had — the crowning of a king was nothing to it. We were now purty 
 well, I thank you, as to liquor ; and as the knot was tied, and all 
 safe, there was no end to our good spirits ; so, when we took the 
 road, the men were in high blood, particularly Billy Cormick, the 
 tailor, who had a pair of long cavaldry spurs upon him, that he was 
 scarcely able to walk in— and he not more nor four feet high. The 
 women, too, were in blood, having faces upon them, with the hate of 
 the day and the liquor, as full as trumpeters. 
 
 " There was now a great jealousy among them that were bint for 
 winning the bottle ; and when one horseman would cross another, 
 striving to have the whip hand of him when they'd set otT, why, you 
 see, his horse would get a cut of the whip itself for his pains. My 
 uncle and I, however, did all we could to pacify them ; and their own 
 bad horsemanship, and the screeching of the women, prevented any 
 strokes at that time. Some of them were ripping up ould sore? 
 against one another as they went along ; others, particularly tht 
 youngsters, with their sweethearts behind them, coorting away for the 
 life of them, and some might be heard miles off, singing and laughing : 
 and you maj be sure the fiddler behind my uncle wasn't idle, no 
 more nor another. In this way we dashed on gloriously, till we came 
 in sight of the Dumbhill, where we were to start for the bottle. 
 And now you might see the men fixing themselves on their saddles, 
 
 • Drunk. 
 
SHANE FADWS WEDDING. 63 
 
 sacks, and suggavvns ; and the women tying kerchiefs and shawls 
 about their cai)s and bonnets, to keep them from flying off, and then 
 gripping their foreriders hard and fast by the bosoms. When we got 
 to the Dumbliill, there were five or six fellows that didn't come with 
 us to the priest's, but met us with cudgels in their hands, to prevent 
 any of them fr(;m starting before the others, and to show fair play. 
 
 " Well, whei' they were all in a lump — horses, mules, ragherays, 
 and asses — some, as I said, with saddles, some with none ; and all 
 just as I tould you before— the word was given, and off they scoured, 
 myself along with the rest ; and divil be off me, if ever I saw such 
 another sight but itself before or since. Off they skelpcd through 
 thick and thin, in a cloud of dust like a mist about us : but it was a 
 mercy that the life wasn't trampled out of some of us ; for before we 
 had gone fifty perches, the one third of them were sprawling atop of 
 one another on the road. As for the women, they went down right 
 and left — sometimes bringing the horsemen with them ; and many of 
 the boys getting black eyes and bloody noses on ♦he stones. Some 
 of them, being half blind with the motion and the whisky, turned off 
 the wrong way, and galloped on, thinking they had completely 
 distanced the crowd ; and it wasn't until they cooled a bit that they 
 found out their mistake, 
 
 " But the best sport of all was when they came to the Lazy Corner, 
 
 just at Jack Gallagher's Jlush^ where the water came out a good way 
 
 acrass the road ; being in such a flight, they either forgot or didn't 
 
 know how to turn the angle properly, and plash went above thirty of 
 
 them, coming down right on the top of one another, souse in the pool. 
 
 By this time there was about a dozen of the best horsemen a good 
 
 distance before the rest, cutting one another up for the bottle : 
 
 among these were the Dorans and Flanagans ; but they, you see, 
 
 wisely enough, dropped their women at the beginning, and only rode 
 
 single. I myself didn't mind the bottle, but kept close to Mary, for 
 
 fraid that, among sich a divil's pack of half-mad fellows, anything 
 
 might happen her. At any rate, I was next the first batch : but 
 
 where do you think the tailor was all this time.'' Why, away off like 
 
 lightning, miles before them — flying like a swallow : and how he kept 
 
 his sate so long has puzzled me from that day to this ; but, anyhow, 
 
 truth's best— there he was topping the hill ever so far before them. 
 
 After all, the unlucky crathur nearly missed the bottle ; for when he 
 
 turned to the bride's house, instead of pulling up as he ought to do — 
 
 why, to show his horsemanship to the crowd that was out looking at 
 
 them, he should begin to cut up the horse right and left, until he 
 
 made him take the garden ditch in full flight, landing him among the 
 
 cabbages. About four yards or five from the spot where the horse 
 
 lodged himself was a well, and a purty deep one too, by my word ; 
 
 but not a sowl present could tell what become of the tailor, until 
 
 Ower Smith chanced to look- into the well, and saw his long spurs 
 
 • Flush is a pool of water that spreads nearly across a road. It is usually fed 
 by a small mountain stream, and ia consequence of rising and falling rapidly, it is 
 called " Flush," 
 
64 SHANE fADWS WEDDING. 
 
 just above the water ; so he was pulled up in a purty pickle, not 
 worth the washing ; but what did he care ? although he had a small 
 body, the sorra one of him but had a sowl big enough for Golias or 
 Sampson the Great. 
 
 " As soon as he got his eyes clear, right or wrong, he insisted on 
 getting the bottle : but he was late, poor fellow, for before he got out 
 of the garden, two of them cums up — Paddy Doran and Peter 
 Planagan, cutting one another to pieces, and not the length of your 
 nail between them. Well, well, that was a terrible day, sure enough. 
 In the twinkling of an eye they were both off the horses, the blood 
 streaming from their bare heads, struggling to take the bottle from 
 my father, who didn't know which of them to give it to. He knew if 
 he'd hand to one, the other would take offince, and then he was in a 
 great puzzle, striving to razon with them ; but long Paddy Doran 
 caught it while he was spaking to Flanagan, and the next instant 
 Flanagan measured him with a heavy loaded whip, and left him 
 stretched upon the stones. And now the work began : for by this 
 time the friends of both parties came up and joined them. Such 
 knocking down, such roaring among the men, and screeching and 
 clapping of hands and wiping of heads among the women, when a 
 brother, or a son, or a husband would get his gruel. Indeed, out of a 
 fair, 1 never saw anything to come up to it. But during all this work, 
 the busiest man among the whole set was the tailor, and what was 
 worse of all for the poor crathur, he should single himself out against 
 both parties, bekase you see he thought they were cutting him out of 
 his right to the bottle. 
 
 " They had now broken up the garden gate for weapons, all except 
 one of the posts, and fought into the garden ; when nothing should 
 sarve Billy but to take up the large heavy post, as if he could destroy 
 the whole faction on each side. Accordingly he came up to big Matthew 
 Flanagan, and was rising it just as if he'd fell him, when Matt, catch- 
 ing him by the nape of the neck and the waistband of the breeches, 
 went over very quietly, and dropped him a second time, heels up, into 
 the well, where he might have been yet, only for my mother-in-law, 
 who dragged him out with a great deal to do : for the well was too 
 narrow to give him room to turn. 
 
 " As for myself and all my friends, as it happened to be my own 
 wedding, and at our own place, we couldn't take part with either of 
 them ; but we endeavoured all in our power to rcd^ them, and a tough 
 task we had of it, until we saw a pair of whips going hard and fast 
 among them, belonging to Father Corrigan and Father James, his 
 curate. Well, it's wonderful how soon a priest can clear up a quarrel ! 
 In five minutes there wasn't a hand up — instead of that they were 
 ready to run into mouse-holes. 
 
 " ' What, you murderers,' says his reverence, ' are you bint to have 
 each other's blood upon your heads, ye vile infidels, ye cursed un- 
 christian Antherntarians ? are you going to get yourselves hanged like 
 
 ' Separace or pacily. 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 65 
 
 sheep-stalers ? down with your sticks I command you : do you know — 
 will ye give yourselves time to see who's spaking to you — you blood- 
 thirsty set of Episcopalians ? I command you, in the name of the 
 Catholic Church and the Blessed Virgin Mary, to stop this instant, if 
 vou don't wish me,' says he, ' to turn you into stocks and stones where 
 you stand, and make world's wonders of you as long as you live. 
 Doran, if you rise your hand more, I'll strike it dead on your body, 
 and to your mouth you'll never carry it while you have breath in your 
 carcass,' says he.—' Clear off, you Flanagans, you butchers you, or 
 by St. Dominick I'll turn the heads round upon your bodies in the 
 twinkling of an eye, so that you'll not be able to look a quiet Christian 
 in the face again. Pretty respect you have for the decent couple in 
 whose house you have kicked up such a hubbub ! Is this the way 
 people are to be deprived of their dinners on your accounts, you fun- 
 galeering thieves ! ' 
 
 "'Why then, plase your reverence, by the— hem — I say. Father 
 Corrigan, it wasn't my fault, but that villain Flanagan's, for he knows 
 I fairly won the bottle — and would have distanced him, only that when 
 I was far before him, the vagabone, he galloped acrass me on the 
 way, thinking to thrip up the horse.' 
 
 '"You lying scoundrel,' says the priest, ' how dare you tell me a 
 falsity,' says he, ' to my face ? how could he gallop acrass you if j ou 
 were far before him? Not a word more, or I'll leave you without a 
 mouth to your face, which will be a double share of provision and 
 bacon saved anyway. And Flanagan, jfz< were as much to blame as 
 he, and must be chastised for your raggamuffinly conduct,' says he, 
 'and so must you both, and all your party, particularly you and he, as 
 the ringleaders. Right well I know it's the grudge upon the lawsuit 
 you had, and not the bottle, that occasioned it : but by St. Peter, to 
 Loughderg both of you must tramp for this.' 
 
 " ' Ay, and by St. Pether, they both desarve it as well as a thief does 
 the gallows,' said a little blustering voice belonging to the tailor, who 
 came forward in a terrible passion, looking for all the world like a 
 drowned rat. ' Ho, by St. Pether, they do, the vagabones ; for it was 
 myself that won the bottle, your reverence ; and by this and by that,' 
 says he, 'the bottle I'll have, or some of their crowns will crack for it: 
 blood or whisky I'll have, your reverence, and I hope that you'll assist 
 me.'" 
 
 " ' Why, Billy, are you here ? ' says Father Corrigan, smiling down 
 upon the figure the fellow cut, with his long spurs and his big whip 
 — 'what in the world tempted jt"?^ to get on horseback, Billy.?' 
 
 " ' By the powers, I was miles before them,' says Billy, ' and after 
 this day, your reverence, let no man say that I couldn't ride a steeple- 
 chase across Ciocknagooran.' 
 
 *' ' Why, Billy, how did you stick on at all at all,* says his reverence. 
 
 " ' How do I know how I stuck on,' says Billy, ' nor whether I stuck 
 on at all or not ; all I know is, that I was on horseback before leaving 
 the Dumb-hill, and that I found them pulling me by the heels out of 
 the well in the corner of the garden, and that, your reverence, when 
 
66 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 the first was only topping the hill there below, as Lanty Magowran 
 
 tells me, who was looking on.' 
 
 " ' Well, Billy,' says Father Corrigan, ' you must get the bottle ; and 
 as for you Dorans and Flanagans, Fll make examples of you for this 
 day's work — that you may reckon on. You are a disgrace to the parisli, 
 and what's more, a disgrace to your priest. How can luck or grace 
 attind the marriage of any young couple that there's such work at ? 
 Before you leave this, you must all shake hands, and promise never to 
 quarrel with each other while grass grows or water runs ; and if you 
 don't, by the blessed St. Dominick, I'll exkinmicate ye both, and all 
 belonging to you into the bargain ; so that ye'll be the pitiful examples 
 and shows to all that look upon you.' 
 
 " ' Well, well, your reverence,' says my father-in-law, * let all by- 
 gones be by-gones ; and please God, they will before they go be better 
 friends than ever they were. Go now and clane yourselves, take the 
 blood from about your faces, for the dinner's ready an hour agonc ; 
 but if you all respect the place you're in, you'll show it, in regard of 
 the young crathurs that's going, in the name of God, to face the world 
 together, and of coorse v/ishes that this day at laste should pass in 
 pace and quietness : little did I think there was any friend or neigh- 
 bour here that would make so little of the place or people, as was 
 done for nothing at all, in the face of the country.' 
 
 " ' God he sees,' says my mother-in-law, ' that there's them here this 
 day we didn't desarve this from, to rise such a norration, as if the 
 house was a shebeen or a public-house ! It's myself didn't think 
 cither me or my poor colleen here, not to mention the dacent people 
 she's joined to, would be made so little of, as to have our place turned 
 into a play-acthur — for a play-acthur couldn't be worse.' 
 
 " ' Well,' says my uncle, ' there's no help for spilt milk, I tell you, 
 nor for spilt blood either : tare-an-ounty, sure we're all Irishmen, 
 relations, and Catholics through other, and we oughtn't to be this way. 
 Come away to dinner — by the powers, we'll duck the first man that 
 says a loud word for the remainder of the day. Come, Father Corrigan, 
 and carve the goose, or the geese, for us— for, by my sannics, I blecve 
 there's a baker's dozen of them ; but we've plenty of Latin for them, 
 and your reverence and Father James here understands that langidge, 
 any how — lained enough there, I think, gintlemen.' 
 
 " ' That's right, Brian,' shouts the tailor — ' that's right ; there must 
 be no fighting : by the powers, the first man attempts it, I'll brain him 
 — fell him to the earth like an ox, if all belonging to him was in my 
 way.' 
 
 " This threat from the tailor went farther, I think, in putting them 
 into good humour nor even what the priest said. They then washed 
 and claned themselves, and accordingly went to their dinners. Billy 
 himself marched with his terrible whip in his hand, and his long 
 cavalry spurs sticking near ten inches behind him, draggled to the tail 
 like a bantling cock after a shower. But maybe there was more 
 draggled tails and bloody noses nor poor Billy's, or even nor was 
 occasioned by the fight ; for after Father Corrigan had come, several 
 
SffANE FADH'S WEDDING. 67 
 
 of them dodged up, some with broken shins and heads, and wet clothes, 
 that they'd got on the way by the mischances of the race, particularly 
 at the Flush. But I don't know how it was ; somehow the people in 
 them days didn't value these things a straw. They were far hardier 
 then nor they are now, and never went to law at all at all. Why, I've 
 often known skulls to be broken, and the people to die afterwards, and 
 there would be nothing more about it, except to brake another skull or 
 two for it ; but neither crowiier's quest, nor judge, nor jury was ever 
 troubled at all about it. And so sign's on it, people were then inno- 
 cent, and not up to law and counsellors as they are now. If a person 
 happened to be killed in a iight at a fair or market, why he had only to 
 appear after his death to one of his friends, and get a number of masses 
 offered up for his sowl, and all was right ; but now the times are clane 
 altered, and there's nothing but hanging and transporting for such 
 things ; although that won't bring the people to life again." 
 
 "I suppose," said Andy Morrow, "you had a famous dinner, 
 Shane." 
 
 " 'Tis you that may say that, Mr. Morrow," replied Shane: "but 
 the house, you see, wasn't able to hould one half of us ; so there was 
 a dozen or two tables borrowed from the neighbours, and laid one 
 after another in two rows, on the green, beside the river that ran 
 along the garden hedge, side by side. At one end Father Corrigan 
 sat, with Mary and myself, and Father James at the other. There 
 were three five-gallon kegs of whisky, and I ordered my brother to 
 take charge of them, and there he sat beside them, and filled the 
 bottles as they were wanted, bekase, if he had left that job to 
 strangers, many a spalpeen there would make away with lots of it. 
 Mayrone, such a sight as the dinner was ! I didn't lay my eye on the 
 fellow of it since, sure enough, and I'm now an ould man, though I 
 was then a young one. Why there was a pudding boiled in the end 
 of a sack ; and troth it was a thumper, only for the straws — for you 
 see, when they were making it, they had to draw long straws acrass in 
 order to keep it from falling asunder : a fine plan it is, too. Jack 
 M'Kenna, the carpenther, carved it with a hand-saw, and if he didn't 
 curse the same straws, I'm not here. * Draw them out, Jack,' said 
 Father Corrigan — 'draw them out. It's asy known. Jack, you never 
 ate a polite dinner, you poor awkward spalpeen, or you'd have pulled 
 out the straws the first thing you did, man alive.' Such lashins of 
 corned beef, and rounds of beef, and legs of mutton, and bacon — 
 turkeys, and geese, and barn-door fowls, young and fat. They may 
 talk as they will, but commend me to a piece of good ould bacon, 
 ate with crock butther, and phaties, and cabbage. Sure enough they 
 leathered away at everything, but this and the pudding were the 
 favourites. Father Corrigan gave up the carving in less than no time, 
 for it would take him half a day to sarve them all, and he wanted to 
 provide for number one. After helping himself, he set my uncle to it, 
 and maybe he didn't slash away righi and left. There was half a 
 dozen gorsoons carrying about the beer in cans, with froth upon it 
 like barm —but that was beer in arnest, Nancy — I'll say no more. 
 
68 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 " When the dinner was over, you would think there was as much 
 left as would sarve a regiment; and sure enough, a right h angry 
 ragged regiment was there to take care of it, though, to tell the truth, 
 there was as much taken into Finigan's as would be sure to give us 
 all a rousing supper. Why, there was such a troop of beggars — men, 
 women, and childhcr, sitting over on the sunny side of the ditch, as 
 would make short work of the whole dinner had they got it. Along 
 with Father Corrigan and me was my father and mother, and Mary's 
 parents ; my uncle, cousins, and nearest relations on both sides. Oh, 
 it's Father Corrigan, God rest his sow], he's noio in glory, and so be 
 was tlicn, also — how he did crow and laugh ! ' Well, Matthew 
 Fmigan,' says he, ' I can't say but Fm happy that your Colleen Baivn 
 here has lit upon a husband that's no discredit to the family— and it is 
 herself didn't drive her pigs to a bad market,' says he. ' Why, in 
 troth. Father, avourneen,' says my mother-in-law, ' they'd be hard to 
 plase that couldn't be satisfied with them she got ; not saying but she 
 had her pick and choice of many a good offer, and might have got 
 richer matches ; but Shane Fadh IVI'Cawell, although you're sitting 
 there beside my daughter, Fm prouder to see you on my own flure, 
 the husband of my child, nor if she'd got a man with four times your 
 substance.' 
 
 " ' Never heed the girls for knowing where to choose,' says his 
 reverence, slily enough : ' but, upon my word, only she gave us all 
 the slip, to tell the truth, I had another husband than Shane in my eye 
 for her, and that was my own nevvy, Father James's brother here.' 
 
 "'And Fd be proud of the connection,' says my father-in-law ; 'but, 
 you see, these girls won't look much to what you or Fll say, in 
 choosing a husband for themselves. How-and-iver, not making little 
 of your nevvy, Father Michael, I say he's not to be compared with 
 that same bouchal sitting beside Mary there.' ' No, nor by the 
 powdherso'-war, never will,' says Billy Cormick the tailor, who had 
 come over and slipped in on the other side, betune Father Corrigan 
 and the bride — 'by the powdhers-o'~war, he'll never be fit to be 
 compared with me, I tell you, till yesterday comes back again.' 
 
 '" Why, IMUy,' says the priest, ' you're in everyplace.' ' But where I 
 ought to be ! ' says Billy ; ' and that's hard and fiist tackled to Mary 
 Bane, the bride here, instead of that steeple of a fellow she has got,' 
 says the little cock. 
 
 " ' Billy, I thought you were married,' said Father Corrigan. 
 
 " ' Not I, your reverence,' says Billy ; ' but Fll soon do something, 
 Father Michael — I have been threatened this long time, but I'll do it 
 at last.' 
 
 " ' He's not exactly married, sir,' says my uncle ; ' there's a colleen 
 present ' (looking at the bridesmaid) ' that will soon have his name 
 upon her.' 
 
 " ' Very good, Billy,' says the priest, * I hope you will give us a 
 rousing wedding— equal, at least, to Shane Fadh's.' 
 
 " ' Why, then, your reverence, except 1 get such a darling as Molly 
 Dane here— and by this and by that, it's you that is the darling, 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 69 
 
 Molly asthore — what come over me, at all at all, that I didn't think of 
 you,' says the little man, drawing closer to her, and poor Mary 
 smiling good naturedly at his spirit. 
 
 " ' Well, and what if you did get such a darling as Molly Bane 
 there ?' says his reverence. 
 
 "'Why, except I get the likes of her for a wife — upon second 
 thoughts, I don't like marriage, anyway,' said Billy, winking against 
 the priest — 'I'll lade such a life as your reverence; and, by the 
 powdhers, it's a thousand pities that I wasn't made into a priest 
 instead of a tailor. — For, you see, if I had/ says he, giving a verse of 
 an old song — 
 
 ' For, you see, if T had, 
 
 It's I'd be the lad 
 That would show all my people such larning ; 
 
 And when they'd go wrong, 
 
 Why, instead of a song, 
 I'd give thee: a lump of a sarmin.' 
 
 " * Billy,' says my father-in-law, ' why don't you make a hearty 
 dinner, man alive ? Go back to your sate and finish your male — you're 
 aiting nothing to signify.' ' Me ! ' says Billy — ' w'hy, I'd scorn to ate a 
 hearty dinner ; and I'd have you to know, Matt Finigan, that it 
 wasn't for the sake of your dinner I came here, but in regard to your 
 family, and bekase I wished him well that's sitting beside your 
 daughter : and it ill becomes your father's son to cast up your dinner 
 in my face, or any one of my family ; but a blessed minute longer I'll 
 not stay among you. Give me your hand, Shane Fadh, and you, 
 Mary— may goodness grant you pace and happiness every night and 
 day you both rise out of your beds. — I made that coat your husband 
 has on his back beside you, and a betther fit was never made ; but I 
 didn't think it would come to my turn to have my dinner cast up 
 this a-way, as if I was aiting it for charity.' 
 
 "' Hut, Billy,' says I, 'sure it was all out of kindness; he didn't 
 mane to offind you.' 
 
 " ' It's no matter,' says Billy, beginning to cry, ' he did offind me ; 
 and it's low days with me to bear an affront from him, or the likes of 
 him ; but by the powdhers- o'-war,' says he, getting into a great rage, 
 ' I luoiCt bear it — only as you're an old man yourself, I'll not rise my 
 hand to you ; but let any man now that has the heart to take up your 
 quarrel, come out and stand before me on the sod here.' 
 
 " Well, by this time, you'd tie all that were present with three straws, 
 to see Billy stripping himself, and his two wrists not thicker than 
 drumsticks. While the tailor was raging, for he was pretty well up 
 with what he had taken, another person made his appearance at the 
 far end of the boreen that led to the green where we sot. He was 
 mounted upon the top of a sack that was upon the top of a sober- 
 looking baste enough, God knows; he jogging along at his ase, his 
 legs dangling down from the sack on each side, and the long skirts of 
 his coat hanging down behind him. Billy was now getting pacified, 
 
70 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 bekase they gave way to him a little ; so the fun went round, and they 
 sang, roared, danced, and coorted, right and left. 
 
 " When the stranger came as far as the skirt of the green, he turned 
 the horse over quite nathural to the wedding ; and, sure enough, when 
 he jogged up, it was Friar Rooney himself, with a sack of oat? for he 
 had been qncslin} Well, sure the ould people couldn't do less nor all 
 go over to put tXic fdiltah- on him. ' Why, then,' says my father-and- 
 mother-in-lavVj ' 'tis yourself, Friar Rooney, that's as welcome as the 
 flowers of May ; and see who's here before you — Father Corrigan and 
 Father DoUard.' 
 
 " ' Thank you, thank you, Molshy — thank you, Matthew — troth, I 
 know that 'tis I am welcome.' 
 
 *"Ay, and you're welcome again. Father Rooney,' said my father, 
 going down and shaking hands with him, and I'm proud to see you 
 here. Sit down, your reverence — here's everything that's good, and 
 plinty of it, and if you don't make much of yourself, never say an ill 
 fellow dealt with you.' 
 
 '• The friar stood while my father was speaking, with a pleasant, 
 contented face upon him, only a little roguish and droll. 
 
 " ' Hah ! Shane Fadh,' says he, smiling drily at me, ' you did ihcm 
 all, I see. Vou have her there, the flower of the parish, blooming 
 beside you ; but I knew as much six months ago, ever since I saw you 
 bid her good-night at the hawthorn. Who looked back so often, Mary, 
 eh ? Ay, laugh and blush — do — throth, 'iwas I that caught you, but 
 you didn't sec me, though. Well, a colleen, and if you did, too, you 
 needn't be ashamed of your bargain, anyhow. You see, the way 1 
 came to persave yees that evening was this — but I'll tell it by-and-by. 
 In the manetime,' says he, sitting down, and attacking a fine piece of 
 cornbeef and greens, ' I'll take care of a certain acquaintance of mine,' 
 says he. ' How are you, reverend gintlemen of the Scculm-ity. You'll 
 permit a poor friar to sit and ate his dinner in your presence, I humbly 
 hope.' 
 
 " ' Frank,' says Father Coirigan, ' lay your hand upon your con- 
 science, or upon your stomach, which is the same thing, and tell us 
 honestly, how many dinners you eat on your travels among my 
 parishioners this day.' 
 
 "'As I'm a sinner, Michael, this is the only thing to be called a 
 dinner I eat this day. Shane Fadh — Mary, both your healths, and 
 God grant y^ou all kinds of luck and happiness, both here and here- 
 after ! All your healths in gineral ; gintlemen seculars / ' 
 
 " ' Thank you, Frank,' said Father Corrigan ; ' how did you speed 
 to-day } ' 
 
 " ' How can any man speed that comes after you .'' ' says the Friar ; 
 * I'm after travelling the half of the parish for that poor bag of oats 
 that you see standing against the ditch.' 
 
 '"In other words, Frank,' says the priest, ' you took Althadhawan 
 
 1 Questin — When an Irish priest or friar collects corn or money from the f)eopIc 
 'n a gratuitous manner the act is called " quesiin." 
 • Welcome. 
 
SHAiVE FADH'S WEDDING. 71 
 
 in your way, and in about half a dozen houses filled your sack, and 
 then turned your horse's head towards the good cheer, by way of 
 accident only.' 
 
 " ' And was it by way of accident, Mr. Secular, that I got ycm and 
 that iloquent young gintleman, your curate, here before me ? Do you 
 feel that, man of the world ? Father James, your health, though — 
 you're a good young man as far as saying nothing goes ; but it's better 
 to sit still than rise up and fall, so I commend you for your discration,' 
 says he ; ' but I'm afeard your master there won't make you mucli, 
 fitter for the kingdom of heaven, anyhow,' 
 
 " ' I believe. Father Corrigan,' says my uncle, who loved to see the 
 priest and the friar at it, 'that you've met with your match — I think 
 Father Rooney's able for you.' 
 
 "' Oh, sure,' says Father Corrigan, 'he was joker to the college of 
 the Sorebones in Paris ; be got as much education as enabled him to 
 say mass in Latin, and to beg oats in English, for his jokes.' 
 
 " ' Troth, and,' says the friar, ' if you were to get your laming on 
 the same terms, you'd be guilty of very little knowledge ; why, 
 Michael, I never knew you to attempt a joke but once, and I was near 
 shedding tears, there was something very sorrowful in it.' 
 
 " This brought the laugh against the priest. ' Your health, Molshy,' 
 
 says he, winking at my mother-in-law, and then giving my uncle, who 
 
 sat beside him, a 7iiidge ; 'I believe, Brian, I'm giving it to him.' 
 
 "Tis yourself that is,' says my uncle ; ' give him a wipe or two more.' 
 
 Wait till he answers the last,' says the friar. 
 
 '"He's always joking,' says Father James, 'when he thinks he'll 
 make anything by it.' 
 
 " 'Ay " says the friar, ' then God help you both if you were left to 
 your jokes for your feeding ; for a poorer pair of gentlemen wouldn't 
 be found in Christendom.' 
 
 " ' And I believe,' says Father Corrigan, ' if you depinded for your 
 feeding upon your divinity instead of your jokes, you'd be as poor as 
 a man in the last stage of a consumption.' 
 
 " This threw the laugh against the friar, who smiled himself; but 
 he was a dry man that never laughed much. 
 
 " ' Sure,' says the friar, who was never at a loss, ' I have yourself 
 and your nephew for examples that it'u possible to live and be well fed 
 without divinity.' 
 
 " ' At any rate,' says my uncle, putting in his tongue, ' I think you're 
 both very well able to make divinity a joke betune you,' says he. 
 
 "'Well done, Brian,' says the friar, 'and so they are, for I believe 
 it is the only subject they can joke upon ; and 1 beg your pardon, 
 Michael, for not excepting it before ; on that subject I allow you to be 
 humoursome.' 
 
 " ' If that be the case, then,' says Father Corrigan, ' I must give up 
 your company, Frank, in order to avoid the force of bad example ; for 
 you're so much in the habit of joking on everything else, that you're 
 no) able to except even divinity.' 
 
 * 'You may aisUy give me up.' says the friar, 'but how will you be 
 
72 SHANE FAL'H*S WEDDIiXG. 
 
 able to forget Father Corrigan ? I'm afeard you will find his acquaint- 
 e.nce as great a detriment to yourself as it is to others in that respect.' 
 
 " ' What makes you say,' says Father James, who was more in 
 arnest than the rest, * that my uncle won't make me fit for the king- 
 dom of heaven ? ' 
 
 " ' I had a pair of rasons for it. Jemmy,' says the friar ; * one is, that 
 he doesn't understand the subject himself; and another is, that you 
 haven't capacity for it, even if he did. You've a want of nathural 
 parts — a whackum here,' pointing to his forehead. 
 
 "'I beg your pardon, Frank,' says Father James, *I deny your 
 premises, and I'll now argue in Latin with you, if you wish, upon any 
 subject you please.' 
 
 '' ' Come, then,' says the friar, — ' Kid-eat-ivy mare-eat-hay.' 
 
 "' Kid — what?' says the other. 
 
 " ' Kid-eat-ivy viare-eat-hay ^ answers the friar. 
 
 " ' I don't know what you're at,' says Father James, ' but Fll argue 
 in Latin with you as long as you wish.' 
 
 " ' Tut, man,' says Father Rooney, ' Latin's for schoolboys ; but 
 come, now, Fll take you in another language — I'll try you in Greek— 
 In-mud-eel-is iii-clay-notie-is in -fir- tar- is in-oak-none-is.' 
 
 " The curate looked at him, amazed, not knowing what answer to 
 make. At last says he, * I don't profess to know Greek, bekase I never 
 lamed it — but stick to the Latin, and Fm not afeard of you.' 
 
 " ' Well, then,' says the friar, ' I'll give you a trial at that — Afi7al te 
 caiiis tcr — Forte dux fel fiat iii giiiher.' 
 
 " ' A flat-tay-cannisther — Forty ducks fell flat in the gutthers !' says 
 Father James — ' why that's English !' 
 
 " ' English !' says the friar ; ' oh, good-bye to you, Mr. Secular ; if 
 that's your knowledge of Latin, you're an honour to your tachers and 
 to your cloth.' 
 
 " Father Corrigan now laughed heartily at the puzzling the friar 
 gave Father James. 'James,' says he, 'never heed him; he's only 
 pesthering you with bog-latin ; but, at any rate, to do him justice, he's 
 
 not a bad scholar, I can tell you that Your health, Frank, you 
 
 droll cralhur — your health. I have only one fault to find with you, 
 and that is, that you fast and mortify yourself too much. Your fasting 
 has reduced you from being formerly a friar of very genteel dimen- 
 sions to a cut of corpulency that smacks strongly of penance — fifteen 
 stone at least.' 
 
 " ' Why,' says the friar, looking down, quite plascd entirely, at the 
 cut of his own waist, which, among ourselves, was no trifle, and giving 
 a growl of a laugh — the most he ever gave : ' if what you pray here 
 benefits you in the next life, as much as what I fast does me in this, 
 it will be well for the world in general, Michael.' 
 
 " ' How can you say, Frank,' says Father James, ' with such a car- 
 kagc as that, that you're a /^^r friar .•' Upon my credit, when you die, 
 I think the angels will have a job of it in wafting you upwards.' 
 
 " ' Jemmy, man, was \iyou that said it ! — why, my light's beginning 
 \0 shine upon you, or you never could have got out so much,' says 
 
SHANE FADM'S WEDDIMG. 73 
 
 Father Rooney, putting his hands over his brows and looking up 
 toardst him. ' But if you ever read scripthui', which I suppose you're 
 not overburdened with, you would know that it says, " Blessed are the 
 poor in spirit," but not blessed are the poor in flesh — now, mine is 
 spiritual poverty.' 
 
 " ' Very true, Frank,' says Father Corrigan, ' I believe there's a great 
 dearth and poverty of spirituality about you, sure enough. But of all 
 kinds of poverty, commend me to a friar's. Voluntary poverty's 
 something, but it's the divil entirely for a man to be poor against his 
 will. You friars boast of this voluntary poverty ; but if there's a fat 
 bit in any part of the parish, we. that are the lawful clargy, can't eat 
 it, but you're sure to drop in, jast in the nick of time, with your volun- 
 tary poverty.' 
 
 " ' I'm sure, if we do,' says the friar, ' its nothing out oi your pocket, 
 Michael. I declare, I believe you begrudge us the air we breathe. 
 But don't you know very well that our ordhers are apostolic, and that, 
 of coorse, we have a more primitive appearance than you have.' 
 
 " ' No such thing,' says the other ; ' you, and the parsons, and the 
 fat bishops, are too far from the right place — the only difference be- 
 tween you is that you are fat and lazy by toleration, whereas the 
 others are fat and lazy by atithority. You are fat and lazy on your 
 ould horses, jogging about from house to house, and stuffing yourselves 
 either at the table of other people's parishioners, or in your own con- 
 vents in Dublin and elsewhere. They are rich, bloated gluttons, 
 going about in their coaches, and wallying in wealth. Now, ive are 
 the golden mean, Frank, that live upon a little, and work hard for it. 
 But, plase God, the day will come when we will step into their places, 
 and be as we used to be.' 
 
 " ' Why, you cormorant,' says the friar, a little nettled, for the dhrop 
 was beginning to get up into his head — ' sure, if we're fat by toleration, 
 we're only tolerably fat, my worthy secular ; but how caw yon condemn 
 them, when you only want to get into their places, or have the face to 
 tax anyone with living upon the people V 
 
 " ' You see,' says the friar, in a whisper to my uncle, ' how I sobered 
 them in the larning, and they are good scholars for all that, but not 
 near so deep read as myself. — Michael,' says he, ' now that I think on 
 it — sure I'm to be at Denis O'Flaherty's MontJi's mind on Thursday 
 next.' 
 
 " ' Indeed, I would not doubt you,' says Father Corrigan. ' You 
 wouldn't be apt to miss it.* 
 
 '" ' Why, the widdy Flaherty asked me yesterday, and I think that's 
 proof enough that I'm not going unsent for.' 
 
 " By this time the company was hard and fast at the punch, the 
 songs, and the dancing. The dinner had been cleared off, except 
 what was before the friar, who held out wonderfully, and the begj^ars 
 and shulers were clawing and scoulding one another about the divide. 
 The dacentest of us went into the house for a while, taking the fiddler 
 with us, and the rest stayed on the green to dance, where they were 
 sooE joined by lots of the counthry people, so that in a short time 
 
74 SHANE FADWS WEDDING. 
 
 there was a large number entirely. After sitting for some time within, 
 Mary and I began, you may be sure, to get unasy, sitting, palavering 
 among a parcel of ould sober folks ; so, at last, out we slipped, and 
 the few other dacent young people that were with us, to join the dance, 
 and shake our toe along with the rest of them. When we made our 
 appearance, the flure was instantly cleared for us, and then she and I 
 danced the Ilntnours cf Glin. 
 
 " Well, it's no matter — it's all past now, and she lies low ; but I may 
 say that it wasn't very often danced in better style since, I'd wager. — 
 Lord bless us^what a drame the world is ! — The darling of my heart 
 you war, avourneen machree. I think I see her with the modest smile 
 upon her face, straight, and fair, and beautiful, and — hem — and when 
 the dance was over, how she stood leaning upon me, and my heatt 
 within melting to her, and the look she'd give into my eyes and my 
 heart, too, as much as to say, this is the happy day with me ; and the 
 blush still would fly acrass her face, when I'd press her, unknownst to 
 the bystanders, aginst my beating heart. A suilish machree, she is 
 now gone from me — lies low, and it all appears like a drame to me; 
 but — hem — God's will be done ! — sure she's happy ! — och, och ! 
 
 " Many a shake hands did I get from the neighbours' sons, wishing 
 me joy — and I'm sure I couldn't do less than thrate them to a glass, 
 you know ; and 'twas the same way with Mary : many a neighbour's 
 daughter, that she didn't do more nor know by eyesight, maybe, would 
 come up and wish her happiness in the same manner, and she would 
 say to me, ' Shane, avourneen, that's such a man's daughter — they'r; 
 dacent friendly people, and we can't do less nor give her a glass.' I, 
 of coorse, would go down and bring them over, after a little pulling— 
 making, you see, as if they wouldn't come — to where my brother was 
 handing out the native. 
 
 "In this way we passed the time till the evening came on, except 
 that Mary and the bridesmaid were sent for to dance with the priests, 
 who were within at the punch, in all their glorj- — Friar Rooncy along 
 with them, as jolly as a prince. I and my man, on seeing this, were 
 fot staying with the company ; but my mother, who 'twas that came 
 for them, says, ' Never mind the boys, Shane ; come in with the girls, 
 I say. You're just wanted at the present time, both of you ; follow 
 me for an hour or two, till their reverences within have a bit of a 
 dance with the girls in the back room — we don't want to gather a 
 crowd about them.' Well, wc went m, sure enough, for a while ; but, 
 I don't know how it was, I didn't at all feel comfortable with tne 
 priests ; for, you see, I'd rather sport my day with the boys and girls 
 upon the green : so I gives Jack the hard ivord^ and in we went, 
 when, behold you, there was Father Corrigan planted upon the side 
 of a settle, l^lary along with him, both waiting till they'd have a fling 
 of a dance together, whilst the curate was capering on the flure before 
 the bridesmaid, who was a purty dark-haired girl, to the tune of 
 
 1 A pass-word, sign, or brief intimation, touching something of which 
 fs icDorant, that he may act accordingly. 
 
 a mao 
 
SnAATE FADWS WEDDING. 75 
 
 ' Kiss my lady,' and the friar planted between my mother and mother- 
 in-law, one of his legs stretched out on a chair, he singing some funny 
 song or other, that brought the tears to their eyes with laughing. 
 
 " Whilst Father James was dancing with the bridesmaid, 1 gave 
 Mary the wink to come away from Father Corrigan, wishing, as I 
 tould you, to get out amongst the youngsters once more ; and Mary 
 herself, to tell the truth, although he Avas the priest, was very willing 
 to do so. I went over to her, and says, ' Mary, asthore, there's a 
 friend without that wishes to spake to you.' 
 
 " ' Well, says Father Corrigan, ' tell that friend that she's better 
 employed, and that they must wait, whoever they are. I'm giving 
 your wife, Shane,' says he, ' a little good advice that she won't be the 
 worse for, and she can't go now.' 
 
 " Mary, in the meantime, had got up, and was coming away, when 
 his reverence wanted her to stay till they'd finish their dance. 
 ' Father Corrigan,' says she, ' let me go now, sir, if you plase, for they 
 would think it bad threatment of me not to go out to them.' 
 
 " ' Troth, and you'll do no such thing, acushla," says he, spaking so 
 sweet to her ; 'let them come in if they want you. Shane,' says his 
 reverence, winking at me, and spaking in a whisp2r, ' stay here, you 
 and the girls, till we take a hate at the dancing— don't you know that 
 the ould women here, and me, will have to talk over some things 
 about the fortune ; you'll maybe get more nor you expect. Here, 
 Molshy,' says he to my mother-in-law, ' don't let the youngsters out 
 of this."' 
 
 " ' Musha, Shane, ahagur,' says the ould woman, ' why will yees go 
 and lave the place ; sure you needn't be dashed before them--they'll 
 dance themselves.' 
 
 " Accordingly we stayed in the room ; but just on the word, Mary 
 gives one sprmg away, laving his reverence by himself on the settle. 
 ' Come away,' says she, ' lave them there, and let us go to where I can 
 have a dance with yourself, Shane.' 
 
 " Well, I always loved Mary, but at that minute, if it would save 
 her, I thmk I could spill my heart's blood for her. ' Mary,' says I, 
 full to the throath, ' Mary, acushla agus asthore machree^ I could lose 
 my life for you.' 
 
 " She looked in my face, and the tears came into her eyes. ' Shane, 
 achora,' says she, ' amn't \your happy girl, at last ? ' She was leaning 
 over against my breast ; and what answer do you think I made ? — I 
 pressed her to my heart : I did more — / took off my hat, and, looking 
 up to God, I thanked liim with tears in my eyes for giving me such a 
 treasure. * Well, come now,' says she, ' to the green ; so we went — 
 and it's she that was tht girl, when she did go among them, that threw 
 them all into the dark for beauty and figure : as fair as a lily itself 
 did she look — so tall and illegant that you wouldn't think she was a 
 farmer's daughter at all ; so we left the priests dancing away, for we 
 could do no good before them. 
 
 ' The very pulse and delight of my heart. 
 
76 SHANE FADWS WEDDING. 
 
 ** When wc had danced an hour or so, them that the family had the 
 greatest regard for were brought in, unknownst to the rest, to drink 
 tay. Mary planted herself beside me, and would sit nowhere else ; 
 but the friar got beside the bridesmaid, and I surely obsarved that 
 many a time she'd look over, likely to split, at Mary, and it's Mary 
 herself that gave her many's a wink to come to the other side ; but, 
 you know, out of manners, she was obliged to sit quietly, though, 
 among ourselves, it's she that was like a hen on a hot griddle, beside 
 the ould chap. It was now that the bride's cake was got. Ould 
 Sonsy Mary marched over, and putting the bride on her feet, got up 
 on a chair and broke it over her head, giving round a fadgc^ of it to 
 every young person in the house, and they again to their acquaint- 
 ances : but, lo and behold you, who should insist on getting a whang 
 of it but the friar, which he rolled up in a piece of paper, and put it 
 in his pocket. ' I'll have good fun,' says he, ' dividing this to-morrow 
 among the colleejis when I'm collecting my oats — the sorra one of me 
 but'ill make them give me the worth of it of something, if it was only 
 a fat hen or a square of bacon.' After tay the ould folk got full ol 
 talk ; the youngsters danced round them ; the friar sung like a thrush, 
 and told many a droll story. 1'he tailor had got drunk a little too 
 early, and had to be put to bed, but he was now as fresh as ever, and 
 able to dance a hornpipe, which he did on a door. The Dorans and 
 the Flanagans h^d got quite thick after drubbing one another — Ned 
 Doran began his coortship with Alley Flanagan on that day, and they 
 were married so in after, so that the two factions joined, and never 
 had another battle until the day of her berrial, when they were at it 
 as fresh as ever. Several of those that were at the wedding were 
 lying drunk about the ditches, or roaring, and swaggering, and singing 
 about the place.— The night falling, those that were dancing on the 
 green removed to the barn. Father Corrigan and Father James 
 weren't ill off; but as for the friar, although he was as pleasant as a 
 lark, there was hardly any such thing as making him tipsy. Father 
 Corrigan wanted him to dance. ' What ! ' says he, ' would you have 
 me to bring on an earthquake, Michael? — but who ever heard of a 
 follower of St. Domnick, bound by his vow to voluntary poverty and 
 mortifications — young couple, your health — will anybody tell me who 
 
 nii.\ed this, for they've knowledge worth a folio of the fathers ? 
 
 poverty and mortificatrons, going to shake his heel? By the bones of 
 St. Domnick, I'd desarve to be suspinded, if I did. Will no one tell 
 me who mi.\ed this, I say, for they had a jewel of a hand at it? • 
 Och- 
 
 I.et parsons prache and pray — 
 
 Let priests, too, pray and prache, sir ; 
 What's the rason they 
 
 Don't practice what they tache, sir? 
 Forral, oriall, loll, 
 Forral, orrall, laddy — 
 
 • A liberal portion torn off a thick cake. 
 
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 77 
 
 Sho da slainthah ma collenee agns ma boiichalee. Hoigh, oigh, oigh — • 
 healths all, gintlemen seculars ! ' Molshy,' says the friar to my mother- 
 in-law,' 'send that bocaicti^ to bed — poor fellow, he's almost off — rouse 
 yourself, James ! — It's aisy to see that he's but young at it yet — that's 
 right — he's sound asleep — ^just t« is him into bed, and in an hour or 
 so he'll be as fresh as a daisy. 
 
 Let parsons prache and pray — 
 Forral, orrall, loll 
 
 " ' For dear's sake, Father Rooney,' says my uncle, running in, in a 
 great hurry, 'keep yourself quiet a little: here's the Squire and 
 master Francis coming over to fulfil their promise ; he would have 
 come up airlier, he says, but that he was away all day at the 'sizes.' 
 
 " * Very well,' says the friar, ' let him come — who's afeard — mind 
 yourself, Michael.' 
 
 " In a minute or two they came in, and we all rose up of coorse to 
 welcome them. The Squire shuck hands with the ould people, and 
 afterwards with Mary and myself, wishing us all happiness — then with 
 the two clergymen, and introduced master Frank to them ; and the 
 friar made the young chap sit beside him. The masther then took a 
 sate himself, and looked on, while they were dancing, with a smile of 
 good humour on his face — while they, all the time, would give new 
 touches and trebles, to show off all their steps before him. He was 
 landlord both to my father and father-in-law ; and it's he that was the 
 good man, and the gintleman, every inch of him. They may all talk 
 as they will, but commend me, Mr. Morrow, to one of the old squires 
 of former times for a landlord. The priests, with all their larning, 
 were nothing to him for good breeding — he appeared so free, and so 
 much at his ase, and even so respectful, that I don't think there was 
 one in the house but would put their two hands under his feet to do 
 him a sarvice. 
 
 " When he sat a while, my mother-in-law came over with a glass 
 of nice punch that she had mixed, at laste equal to what the friar 
 praised so well, and making a low curtshy, begged pardon for using 
 such freedom with his honour, but hoped that he would just taste a 
 little to the happiness of the young couple. He then drank our healths, 
 and shuck hands with us both a second time, saying — although 1 can't, 
 at all at all, give it in anything like his own words — ' I am glad,' says 
 he, to Mary's parents, ' that your daughter has made such a good 
 choice' — throth, he did — the Lord be merciful to his sowl — God 
 forgive me for what I was going to say, and he a Protestant ; — but if 
 ever one of yees went to Heaven, Mr. Morrow, he did — 'such a 
 prudent choice ; and I congr — con — grathulate you,' says he to my 
 father, 'on your connection with su industrious and respectable a 
 family. You are now beginning the world for yourselves,' says he to 
 Mary and mc, ' and I cannot propose a better example to you both 
 than that of your respective parents. From this forrid,' says he, ' I'm 
 
 ' A soft, unsophisticated youth. 
 
78 SHANE FADH'S WEDDING. 
 
 to considher you my tenants ; and I wish to take this opportunity ol 
 informin*;^ you both that should you act up to the opinion I entertain 
 of ycu, by an attentive coorse of industry and good management, you 
 will find in me an encouraging and indulgent landlord. I know, 
 Shane,' says he to mc, smiling, a httle knowingly enough too, ' that 
 you have been a little wild or so, but that's past, I trust. You have 
 now serious duties to perform, which you cannot neglect — but you will 
 not neglect them ; and be assured, I say again, that I shall feel pleasure 
 in rcndheringyou every assistance in my power in the ciiltiiuation and 
 improvement of your farm.' ' Go over, both of you,' says my father, 
 ' and thank his honour, and promise to do everything he says.' 
 Accordingly, we did so ; I made my scrape as well as I could, and 
 Mary blushed to the eyes, and dropped her curtshy. 
 
 " ' Ah ! ' says the friar, ' see what it is to have a good landlord and a 
 Christian gintleman to dale with. This is the feeling which should 
 always bind a landlord and his tenants together. If I know your 
 character. Squire Whitethorn, I believe you're not the man that would 
 put a Protestant tenant over the head of a Catholic one, which shows, 
 sir, your own good sense ; for what is a difference of religion, when 
 people do what they ought to do ? Nothing but the name. I trust, sir, 
 we shall meet in a better place than this — both Protestant and 
 Catholic' 
 
 '" I am happy, sir, says the Squire, 'to hear such principles from a 
 man who I thought was bound by his creed to hould different opinions.' 
 
 " ' Ah, sir ! ' says the friar, ' you little know who you're talking to, if 
 you think so. I happened to be collecting a taste of oats, with the 
 permission of my friend, Doctor Corrigan, here, for I'm but a poor 
 friar, sir, and dropped in by mere accidejit ; but, you know the hospi- 
 tality of our country. Squire ; and that's enough— go they would not 
 allow me, and I was mintioning to this young gintleman, your son, 
 how we collected the oats, and he insisted on my calling — a generous, 
 noble child ! I hope, sir, you have got proper instructors for him .-' ' 
 
 "' Yes,' said the Squire ; ' I'm taking care of that point.' 
 
 " ' What do you think, sir, but he insists on my calling over to-morrow, 
 that he may give me his share of oats, as I told him that I was a friar, 
 and that he was a little parishioner of mine ; but I added, that that 
 wasn't right of him, without his papa's consint.' 
 
 "Well, sir,' says the Squire, 'as he has promised, I will support 
 him : so if you'll ride over to-morrow, you shall have a sack of oats — 
 at all events, I shall send you a sack in the coorse of the day. 
 
 " ' I humbly thank you, sir,' says Father Rooney ; 'and I thank my 
 noble little parishioner for his gincrosity to the poor ould friar. God 
 mark you to grace, my dear ; and, wherever you go, take the ould man's 
 blessing along with you.' 
 
 "They then bid us good night, and we all rose and saw them to the 
 door. 
 
 " Father Corrigan now appeared to be getting sleepy. While this 
 was going on, I looked about me, but couldn't see Mary. The tailor 
 was just beginning to get a little hearty once more. Sup>jer was talked 
 
SHANE FADB'S IVEDDING. 79 
 
 of, but there was no one that could ate anything ; even the friar was 
 against it. The clergy now got their horses, the friar laving his oats 
 behind him • for we promised to send them home, and something more 
 along with them the next day. Father James was roused up, but could 
 hardly stir with a heddick. Father Corrigan was correct enough ; but 
 when the friar got up, he ran a little to the one side, upsetting Sonsy 
 Mary, that sot a little beyond him. He then called over my mother-in- 
 law to the dresser, and after some collogiii^ she slipped two fat fowl, 
 that had never been touched, into one of his coat pockets, that was big 
 enough to hould a leg of mutton. My father then called me over, and 
 said, ' Shane,' says he, 'hadn't you better slip Father Rooney a bottle 
 or two of that whisky ; there's plenty of it there that wasn't touched, 
 and you won't be abit the poorer of it, maybe, this day twelve months.' 
 1 accordingly dhropped two bottles of it into the other pocket, for his 
 reverence wanted a balance, anyhow. 
 
 " ' Now,' says he, ' before I go, kneel down both of you, till I give 
 you my benediction.' 
 
 " We accordingly knelt down, and he gave us his blessing in Latin — 
 my father standing at his shoulder to keep him steady. 
 
 " After they went, Mary threw the stocking^all the unmarried folks 
 coming in the dark to see who it would hit. Bless my sowl, but she 
 was the droll Mary — for what did she do, only put a big brogue of her 
 father's into it, that was near two pounds weight ; and who should it 
 hit on the bare sconce but Billy Coi-mick, the tailor — who though the 
 was fairly shot, for it levelled the crathur at once ; though that wasn't 
 hard to do, anyhow. 
 
 " This was the last ceremony : and Billy was well continted to get 
 the knock, for you all know whoever the stocking strikes upon is to 
 be marrid first. After this, my mother and mother-in-law set them to 
 the dancing — and 'twas themselves that kept it up till long after day- 
 light the next morning — but first they called me in to the next room 
 where Mary was : and — and so ends my wedding ; by the same token 
 that I'm as dry as a stick." 
 
 " Come, Nancy," says Andy Morrow, ' replenish again for us all, 
 with a double measure for Shane Fadh — because he well desarves it." 
 
 "Why, Shane," observed Alick, "you must have a terrible fine 
 memory of your own, or you couldn't tell it all so exact." 
 
 "There's not a man in the four provinces has sich a memory," 
 replied Shane. " I never hard that story yet, but I could repate it in 
 fifty years afterwards. I could walk up any town in the kingdom, and 
 let me look at the signs, and I would give them to you agin jist 
 exactly as they stood." 
 
 Thus ended the account of Shane Fadh's wedding ; and, after 
 finishing the porter, they all returned home, with an understanding 
 that they were to meet the next night in the same place. 
 
 • Whispering, 
 
8n LARRY M'FARI.AND'S IVA A'E. 
 
 LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 HE succeeding evening found them all assembled about Ned's 
 lireside in the usual manner ; where M'Roarkin, after a 
 wheezy fit of coughing and a draught of Nancy's porter, com- 
 menced to give them an account of Larry M'Farland's Wake. 
 
 We have observed before that M'Roarkin was desperately asth- 
 matic, a circumstance which he felt to be rather an unpleasant im- 
 pediment to the indulgence either of his mirth or sorrow. Every 
 chuckle at his own jokes ended in a disastrous fit of coughing ; and 
 when he became pathetic, his sorrow was most ungraciously dissipated 
 by the same cause : two facts which were highly relished by his 
 audience. 
 
 " Larry M'Farland, when a young man, was considhered the 
 best labourer within a great ways of him ; and no servant man in the 
 parish got within five shillings a quarter of his wages. Often and 
 often, when his time would be near out, he'd have offers, from the rich 
 farmers and gintlemen about him, of higher terms ; so that he was 
 seldom with one masther more nor a year at the very most. He 
 could handle a flail with e'er a man that ever stepped in black 
 leather ; and at spade work there wasn't his equal. Indeed, he had 
 a brain for everything : he could thatch better nor many that aimed 
 their bread by it ; could make a slide car, straddle, or any other rough 
 carpenter's work, that it would surprise you to think of it ; could work 
 a kish or side creels beautifully ; mow as much as any two men — and 
 go down a ridge of corn almost as fast as you could walk ; was a 
 great hand at ditching or draining meadows and bogs ; but above all 
 things he was famous for building hay-ricks and corn-stacks : and 
 when Squire Farmer used to enter for the prize at the yearly ploughing 
 match, he was sure to borrow the loan of Larry from whatever master 
 he happened to be working with. And well he might ; for the year 
 out of four that he hadn't Larry he lost the prize ; and everyone 
 knew that if Larry had been at the tail of his plough, they would have 
 had a tighter job of it in beating him. 
 
 " Larry was a light airy young man, that knew his own value ; and 
 was proud enough, God knows, of what he could do. He was, indeed, 
 too much tip to sport and divarsion, and never knew his own mind for 
 a week. It was against him that he never stayed long in one place ; 
 for when he got a house of his own afterwards, he had no one that 
 cared anything in particular about him. Whenever any man would 
 hire him, he'd take care to have Easter and Whiss'n Mondays to 
 himself, and one or two of the Christmas Maragah-mores} — He was 
 also a great dancer, fond of the dhrop — and used to dress above his 
 
 ' Anf;lice — Big markets. 
 
LARRY M'FARLAKD'S WAK'E. 8i 
 
 station ; going about with a shop-cloth coat, cassimoor small-clothes, 
 and a caroUne hat ; so that you would httle think he was a poor 
 sarvant man, labouring for his wages. One way or other, the mone) 
 never sted long with him ; but he had light spirits, depended entirely 
 on his good hands, and cared very little about the world, proviaed he 
 could take his own fling out of it. 
 
 " In this way he went on from year to year, changing from one 
 mastei to another ; every man that would employ him thinking he 
 might get him to stop with him for a constancy. But it was all useless ; 
 he'd be off after half a year, or sometimes a year at the most, for he 
 was fond of roving ; and that man would never give himself any 
 trouble about him afterwards ; though, maybe, if he had continted 
 himself with him, and been sober and careful, he would be willing to 
 assist and befriend him, when he might stand in need of assistance. 
 
 " It's an ould proverb, that 'birds of a feather flock together,' and 
 Larry was a good proof of this. There was in the same neighbour- 
 hood a young woman named Sally Lowry, who was just the other end 
 of himself, for a pair of good hands, a love of dress and of dances. She 
 was well-looking, too, and knew it ; light and showy, but a tight and 
 clane sarvant anyway. Larry and she, in short, began to coort, and 
 were pulling a coard together for as good as five or six years. Sally, 
 like Larry, always made a bargain when hiring to have the holly-days 
 to herself ; and on these occasions she and Larry would meet and 
 sport their figure ; going off with themselves, as soon as mass would 
 be over, into Ballymavourneen, where he would collect a pack of fel- 
 lows about him, and she a set of her own friends ; and there they'd sit 
 down and drink for the length of the day, laving themselves without 8 
 penny of whatever little aiming the dress left behind it, for Larry was 
 never right e.xcept when he was giving a thrate to some one or 
 other. 
 
 " After corrousing away till evening, they'd then set off to a dance ; 
 and vv'hen they'd stay there till it would be late, he should see her 
 home, of coorse never parting till they'd settle upon meeting another 
 day. 
 
 " At last they got fairly tired of this, and resolved to take one 
 another for better or worse. — Indeed they would have done this Ion? 
 ago, only that they could never get as much together as would pay tne 
 priest. How-and-ever, Larry spoke to his brother, who was a sober, 
 industrious boy, that had laid by his scollops for the windy day,^ and 
 tould him that Sally Lowry and himself were going to yoke for life. 
 Tom was a well-hearted, friendly lad, and thinking that Sally, who 
 bore a good name for being such a clane sarvant, would make a good 
 wife, he lent Larry two guineas, which, along with two more that Sally's 
 aunt, who had no children of her own, gave her, enabled them to over 
 their difficulties and get married. Shortly after this, his brother Tom 
 
 ' In Irish the proverb is— "//j njhn Li na guiha la na scuilipagh." That is, 
 the windy or stormy day is not that on which the scollops should be cut. Scollops 
 are osier twigs, sharpened at both ends, and inserted in the thatch, to bind it at the 
 eve and rigging. The proverb ii culcates preparation for future necessity. 
 
82 LARR V M 'FARLAND 'S WAKE. 
 
 followed his example ; but as he had saved something, he made up to 
 Val Slevin's daughter, that had a fortune of twenty guineas, a cow and 
 a heifer, with two good chaff beds and bedding. 
 
 " Soon after Tom's marriage, he comes to Larry one dav, and says, 
 'Larry, you and I are now going to face the world ; we're both young, 
 healthy, and wilHng to work — so are our wives ; and it's bad if we can't 
 make out bread for ourselves, I think.' 
 
 '" Thrue for you, Tom,' says Larry, 'and what's to hinder us? 1 
 only wish wc had a farm, and you'd see we'd take good bread out of it : 
 for my part there's not another he in the country I'd turn my back 
 upon for managmg a farm, if I had one.' 
 
 "' Well,' says the other, 'that's what I wanted to overhaul as we're 
 together ; Squire Dickson's steward was telling me yesterday, as 1 
 was coming up from my father-in-law's, that his master has a farm of 
 fourteen acres to set at the present time ; the one the Nultys held, 
 that went last spring to America — 'twould be a dacent httle lake 
 between us.' 
 
 "' I know every inch of it,' says Larry, 'and good stron gland it is, 
 but it was never well wrought ; the Nulty's weren't fit for it at all : for 
 one of them didn't know how to folly a plough. — I'd engage to make 
 that land turn out as good crops as ere a farm within ten miles of it.' 
 
 " * 1 know that, Larry,' says Tom, ' and Squire Dickson knows that 
 no man could handle it to more advantage. Now if you join me in it, 
 whatever means I have will be as much yours as mine ; there's two 
 snug houses under the one roof, with outhouses and all, in good repair 
 —and if Sally and Biddy will pull manfully along with us, I don't see, 
 with the help of Almighty God, why we shouldn't get on decently, 
 and soon be well and comfortable to live.' 
 
 " ' Comfortable ! ' says Larry ; ' no, but wealthy itself, Tom : and 
 let us at it at wanst ; Squire Dickson knows what I can do as well as 
 any man in Europe ; and I'll engage won't be hard upon us for the 
 first year or two ; our best plan is to go tomorrow, for fraid some 
 other might get the foreway of us.' 
 
 " The Squire knew very well that two better boys weren't to be met 
 with than the same M'Farlands, in the way of knowing how to manage 
 land ; and although he had his doubts as to Larry's light and careless 
 ways, yet he had good depindance out of the brother, and thought, on 
 the whole, that they might do very well together. — Accordingly, he set 
 them the farm at a reasonable rint, and in a short time they were both 
 living on it, with their two wives. They divided the fourteen acres 
 into aqual parts ; and for fraid there would be any grumbling between 
 tliem about better or worse, Tom proposed that they should draw lots, 
 which was agreed to by Larry ; but, indeed, there was very little dif- 
 ference in the two halves ; for Tom took care, by the way he divided 
 them, that none of them should have any reason to complain. From 
 the time they wint to live upon their farms, Tom was up early and 
 down late, improving it — paid attention to nothing else ; axed every 
 man's opinion as to what crop would be best for such a spot, and to 
 tell the truth he found very few, if any, able to instruct him so wcH as 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 83 
 
 his own brother Larry. He was no such labourer, however, as Larry 
 — but what he was short in, he made up by perseverance and care. 
 
 "In the coorse of two or three years you would hardly bleeve how 
 he got on, and his wife was every bit equal to him. She spun the yarn 
 for the linen that made their own shirts and sheeting, bought an odd 
 pound of wool now and then when she could get it chape, and put it 
 past till she had a stone or so ; she would then sit down and spin it — 
 get it wove and dressed ; and before one would know anything about 
 it, she'd have the making of a dacent comfortable coat for Tom, and 
 a bit of heather-coloured drugget for her own gown, along with a piece 
 of striped red and blue for a petticoat — all at very little cost. 
 
 " It wasn't so with Larry. In the beginning, to be sure, while the 
 fit was on him, he did very well ; only that he would go of an odd 
 time to a dance ; or of a market or fair day, when he'd see the people 
 pass by, dressed in their best clothes, he'd take the notion, and set off 
 with himself, telling Sally that he'd just go in for a couple of hours to 
 see how the markets were going on. 
 
 " It's always an unpleasant thing for a body to go to a fair or market 
 without anything in their pocket ; accordingly if money was in the 
 house, he'd take some of it with him, for fraid that any friend or ac- 
 quaintance might thrate him, and then it would be a poor mane-spirited 
 thing to take another man's thrate without giving one for it. — He'd 
 seldom have any notion, though, of breaking in upon, or spinding the 
 money, he only brought it to keep his pocket, jist to prevent him from 
 being shamed, should he meet a friend. 
 
 " In the manetime, Sally, in his absence, would find herself lonely, 
 and as she hadn't, maybe, seen her aunt for some time before, she'd 
 lock the door, and go over to spind awhile with her ; or to take a 
 trip as far as her ould mistress's place to see the family. Many a 
 thing people will have to say to one another about the pleasant times 
 they had together, or several other subjects best known to themselves, 
 of coorse. Larry would come home in her absence, and finding the 
 door locked, would slip down to Squire Dickson's, to chat with the 
 steward or gardiner, or with the sarvants in the kitchen. 
 
 " You all remimber Tom Hance, that kept the public-house at Tully- 
 vernon cross-roads, a little above the Squire's— at laste, most of you 
 do — and ould Wilty Rutledge, the piper, that spint his time between 
 Tom's and the big house— God be good to Wilty ! — it's himself was 
 the droll man entirely : he died of aiting boiled banes, for a wager 
 that the Squire laid on him agin ould Captain Flint, and dhrinking 
 porter after them, till he was swelled like a ton — but the Squire berrid 
 him at his own expense. Well, Larry's haunt, on finding Sally out 
 when he came home, was either the Squire's kitchen, or Tom Hance's : 
 and, as he was the broth of a boy at dancing, the sarvants, when he'd 
 go down, would send for Wilty to Hance's, if he didn't happen to be 
 with themselves at the time, and strike up a dance in the kitchen ; 
 and, along with all, maybe Larry would have a sup in his head. 
 
 '•When Sally would come home, in her turn, she'd not find Larry 
 before her ; but Larry's custom was to go into Tom's wife, and say, 
 
LARRY M' FAR LAND'S WAKE. 
 
 ' Biddy, fcell Sally, when she comes home, that I'm gone down awhile 
 to the big house (or to Tom Hance's, as it might be), but I'll not be 
 long.' Sally, after waiting awhile, would put on her cloak, and slip 
 down to see what was keeping him. Of coorse, when finding the 
 sport going on, and carrying a light heel at the dance herself, she'd 
 throw off the cloak, and take a hand at it along with the rest. Larry 
 and she would then go their ways home, find the fire out, light a sod 
 of turf in Tom's, and feeling their own place very could and naked 
 after the blazing comfortable fire they had left behind them, go to bed, 
 both in very middling spirits entirely. 
 
 " Larry, at other times, would quit his work early in the evening, to 
 go down towards the Squire's, bckase he had only to begin work earlier 
 ihe next day to make it up. He'd meet the Squire himself, maybe, and 
 after putting his hand to his hat, and gettmg a ' How do you do, Larry ' 
 from his horiour, enter into discoorse with him about his honour's plan 
 of stacking his corn.— Now, Larry was famous at this. 
 
 "'Who's to build your stacks this sason, your honour?' 
 
 " ' Tim Dillon, Larry.' 
 
 " ' Is it he, your honour .? — he knows as much about building a stack 
 of corn as Masther George here. He'll only botch them, sir, if you 
 let him go about them.' 
 
 " ' Yes ; but what can I do, Larry .'' — he's the only man I have that 
 I could trust them to.' 
 
 " ' 1 hen it's your honour needn't say that, anyhow ; for rather than 
 see them spoiled, I'd come down myself and put them up for you.' 
 
 " ' Oh, I couldn't expect that, Larry.' 
 
 " ' Why then, I'll do it, your honour ; and you may expect me down 
 in the morning at six o'clock, plase God.' 
 
 " Larry would keep his word, though his own corn was drop-ripe ; 
 and having once undertaken the job, he couldn't give it up, till he'd 
 finish it off dacently. In the meantime his own crop would go to 
 destruction ; sometimes a windy day would come, and not leave him 
 every tenth grain ; he'd then get someone to cut it down for him — he 
 had to go to the big house, to build the master's corn ; he was then all 
 bustle — a great man entirely — there was iion such — would be up with 
 the first liglit, ordering and commanding, and directing the Squire's 
 labourers, as if he was the king of the castle. Maybe, 'tis after he'd 
 coine from the big house, that he'd collect a few of the neighbours, 
 and get a couple of cars and horses from the Squire, you see, to bring 
 home his own oats to the hagyard with moonlight, after the dews 
 would begin to fall ; and in a week afterwards every stack would be 
 heated, and all in a reek of froth and smoke. It's not asy to do any- 
 thing in a hurry, and especially it's not asy to build a corn-stack after 
 night, when a man cannot see how it goes on ; so 'twas no wonder if 
 Larry's stacks weie supporting one another the next day — one laning 
 north and another south. 
 
 " But along with this, Larry and Sally were great people for going 
 to the dances that Hance used to have at the crass-roads, bekase he 
 wished to put money into his own pockets; and if a neighbour died 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 85 
 
 they were sure to be the first at the wake-house — for Sally was a great 
 hand at washing down a corpse — and they would be the last home from 
 the berril — for, you know, they couldn't but be axed in to the dhrinking 
 after the friends would lave the churchyard, to take a sup to raise their 
 spirits, and drown sorrow, for grief is always drouthy. 
 
 " When the races, too, would come, they would be sure not to miss 
 them ; and if you'd go into a tint, it's odds but you'd find them among 
 a knot of acquaintances, dhrinking and dancing, as if the world was 
 no trouble to them. They were, indeed, the best nathured couple in 
 Europe ; they would lend you a spade or a hook in potato time or 
 harvest, out of pure kindness, though their own corn that was drop-ripe 
 should be uncut, or their potatoes, that were a tramping every day with 
 their own cows, or those of the neighbours, should be undug — all for 
 fraid of being thought unneighbourly. 
 
 " In this way they went on for some years, not altogether so bad 
 but that they were able just to keep the house over their heads. They 
 had a small family of three children on their hands, and every likeli- 
 hood of having enough of them. — Whenever they got a young one 
 christened, they'd be sure to have a whole lot of the neighbours at it ; 
 and surely some of the young ladies, or Master George, or John, or 
 Frederick, from the big house, should stand gossip, and have the 
 child called after them. They then should have tay enough to sarve 
 them, and loaf-bread and punch ; and though Larry should sell a sack 
 of seed oats, or seed potatoes, to get it, no doubt but there should be 
 a bottle of wine, to thrate the young ladies or gintlemen. 
 
 " When their children grew up, little care was taken of them, bekase 
 their parents minded other people's business more nor their own. 
 They were always in the greatest poverty and distress ; for Larry 
 would be killing time about the Squire's, or doing some handy job for 
 a neighbour who could get no other man to do it. They now fell 
 behind entirely in the rint, and Larry got many hints from the Squire, 
 that if he didn't pay more attention to his business, he must look after 
 his arrears, or as much of it as he could make up from the cattle and 
 the crop. Larry promised well, as far as words went, and, no doubt, 
 hoped to be able to perform ; but he hadn't steadiness to go through 
 with a thing. Thruth's best ; — you see, both himself and his wife 
 neglected their business in the beginning, so that everythmg went at 
 sixes and sevens. They then found themselves uncomfortable at their 
 own hearth, and had no heart to labour ; so that what would make a 
 careful person work their fingers to the stumps to get out of poverty, 
 only prevented t]icin from working at all, or dniv them to work for 
 those that had more comfort, and could give them a better male's 
 mate. 
 
 " Their tempers, now, soon began to get sour : Larry thought, 
 bekase Sally wasn't as careful as she ought to be, that if he had taken 
 any other young woman to his wife, he wouldn't be as he was ; — she 
 thought the very same thing of Larry. * If he was like another,' she 
 would say to his brother, ' that would be up airly and late at his own 
 business, I would have spirits to work, by rason it would cheer my 
 
86 LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 heart to see our little farm looking as warm and comfortable as 
 another's ; hwX^farecr i^airh^ that's not the case, nor likely to be so, 
 for he spinels his time from one place to another, working for them 
 that laughs at him for his pains ; but he'd rather go to his neck in 
 wather than lay down a hand for himself, except when he can't 
 help it.' 
 
 " Larry, again, had his complaint. — ' Sally's a lazy trollop ' he would 
 say to his brother's wife, 'that never does one hand's turn that she 
 can help, but sits over the fire from morning till night, making bird's 
 nests in the ashes with her yallow heels, or going about from one 
 neighbour's house to another, gosthering and palavering about what 
 doesn't consarn her, instead of minding the house. How can I have 
 heart to work, when I come in — expecting to find my dinner boiled ; 
 but, instead of that, get her sitting upon her hunkers on the hearth- 
 stone, blowing at two or three green sticks with her apron, the pot 
 hanging on the crook, without even the ivhitc horses on it." She 
 never puts a stitch in my clothes, nor in the childher's clothes, nor in 
 her own, but lets them go to rags at once — the divil's luck to her! I 
 wish I had never met with her, or that I had married a sober girl, 
 that wasn't fond of dress and dancing. If she was a good sarvant, it 
 was only bekase she liked to have a good name ; for when she got a 
 house and place of her own, see how she turned out.' 
 
 " From less to more, they went on squabbling and fighting, until at 
 last you might see Sally one time with a black eye or a cut head, or 
 another time going off with herself, crying, up to Tom Hance's or 
 som.e other neighbour's house, to sit down and give a history of the 
 ruction that he and she had on the head of some thritle or another 
 that wasn't worth naming. Their childher were shows, running about 
 without a single stitch upon them, except ould coats that some of the 
 sarvants from the big house would throw them. In these they'd go 
 sailing about, with the long skirts trailing on the ground behind them; 
 and sometimes Larry himself would be mane enough to take the coat 
 from the goisoon, and ware it himself. As for giving them any 
 schooling, 'twas what they never thought of; but even if they were 
 inclined to it, there was no school in the neighbourhood to send 
 them to. 
 
 '■ It's a thrue saying, that as the ould cock crows, the young one 
 larns ; and this was thrue here, for the childher fought one another 
 like so many divils, and swore like Trojans — Larry, along with every- 
 thing else, when he was a Brine-o,e,c, tliought it was a manly thing to 
 be a great swearer ; and the childher, when they got able to swear, 
 warn't worse nor their father. At first, when any of the little souls 
 would thry at an oath, Larry would break his heart laughing at them ; 
 and so, from one thing to another, they got quite hardened in it, 
 
 1 Bitter misfortune. 
 
 2 The white horses are large bubbles pre duced by the extrication of air, which 
 rises in white bubbles to the surface when the potatoes are beginning to boil : so 
 that when the first symptoms of boiling commence, it is a usual phrase to say— the 
 white horsei are on the pot, sometimes the white friars. 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 87 
 
 without being any way checked in wickedness. Things at last drew 
 on to a bad state, entirely. — Larry and Sally were now as ragged as 
 Dives and Lazarus, and their childher the same. It was no stranj^e 
 sight, in summer, to see the young ones marching c.bout the street as 
 bare as my hand, with scarce a blessed stitch upon them that ever 
 was seen, they dirt and ashes to the eyes, waddling after their uncle 
 Tom's geese and ducks, through the green dub of rotten water that 
 lay before their own door, just beside the dunghill : or the bigger 
 ones running after the Squire's labourers, when bringing home the 
 corn or the hay, wanting to get a ride as they went back with the 
 empty cars. 
 
 " Larry and Sally would never be let into the Squire's kitchen now, 
 to eat or drink, or spend an evening with the sarvants ; he might go 
 out and in to his meal's mate along with the rest of the labourers, 
 but there was no grah ^ for him. Sally would go down with her jug 
 to get some butter-milk, and have to stand among a set of beggars 
 and cotters, she as ragged and as poor as any of them, for she 
 wouldn't be let into the kitchen till her turn came, no more nor 
 another, for the sarvants would turn up their noses with the greatest 
 disdain possible at them both. 
 
 " It is hard to tell whether the inside or the outside of their house 
 was worse ; — within, it would almost turn your stomach to look at it — 
 the flure was all dirt, for how could it be any other way, when at the 
 end of every male the schrahas;- would be emptied down on it, and 
 the pigs that were whining and grunting about the door, would brake 
 into the hape of praty-skins that Sally would there throw down for 
 them. — You might reel Larry's shirt, or make a surveyor's chain of it ; 
 for, bad ccss'^ to me, but I bleeve it would reach from this to the rath. 
 The blanket was in tatthers, and, like the shirt, would go round the 
 house : their straw beds were stocked with the black militia — the 
 childher's heads were garrisoned with Scotch greys, and their heels 
 and heads ornamented with all description of kives. — There wor only 
 two stools in all the house, and a hassock of straw for the young child, 
 and one of the stools wanted a leg, so that it was dangerous for a 
 stranger to sit down upon it, except he knew of this failing. The flure 
 was worn into large holes, that were mostly filled with slop, where the 
 childher used to dabble about, and amuse themselves by sailing egg- 
 shells upon them, with bits of boiled praties in them, by way of a little 
 faste. The dresser was as black as dirt could make it, and had on it 
 only two or three wooden dishes, clasped with tin, and noggins without 
 hoops, a beetle, and some crockery. There was an ould chest to hold 
 their male, but it wanted the hinges ; and the childher, when they'd 
 get the mother out, would mix a sup of male and wather in a 
 noggin, and stuff themselves with it, raw and all, for they were almost 
 starved. 
 
 " Then, as the byre had never been kept in repair, the roof fell in, 
 
 ' Kindly welcome. 
 
 • A flat wicker basket, oft which the potatoes are eaten. 
 
 I Bad success. 
 
8S LARRY M' FAR LAND'S WAK'E. 
 
 and the cow and pifj had to stand in one end of the dwelHng-hoi se ; 
 and, except Larry did it, whatever dirt the same cow and pig, and the 
 childher to the back of that, were the occasion of, might stand there 
 till Saturday night, when, for dacency's sake, Sally herself would take 
 a shovel, and out with it upon the hape that was beside the dub before 
 the door. If a wet day came, there wasn't a spot you could stand in 
 for dou'ji-rain; and, wet or dry, Sally, Larry, and the childher were 
 spotted like trouts with the soot-dhrops, made by the damp of the 
 roof and the smoke. The house on the outside was all in ridges of 
 black dirt, where the thatch had rotted, or covered over with chicken 
 weed, or blind oats ; but in the middle of all this misery they had a 
 horseshoe nailed over the door-head for good luck. 
 
 " You know that, in telling this story, I needn't mintion everything 
 just as it happened, laying down year after year, or day and date ; so 
 you may suppose, as I go on, that all this went forward in the coorse 
 of time. They didn't get bad of a sudden, but by degrees, neglecting 
 one thing after another, until they found themselves in the state I'm 
 relating to you — then struggling and struggling, but never taking the 
 right way to mend. 
 
 " But Where's the use in saying much more about it ? — things couldn't 
 stand — they were terribly in arrears ; but the landlord was a good kind 
 of man, and, for the sake of the poncr childher, didn't wish to turn them 
 on the wide world, without house or shelter, bit or sup. Larry, too, 
 had been, and still was, so ready to do difticult and nice jobs for him, 
 and would resave no payment, that he couldn't think of taking his only 
 cow from him, or prevent him from raising a bit of oats or a plat of 
 potatoes, every year, out of the farm. — The farm itself was all run to 
 waste by this time, and had a miserable look about it — sometimes you 
 might see a piece of a field that had been ploughed, all overgrown with 
 grass, because it had never been sowed or set with anything. The 
 slaps were all broken down, or had only a piece of an ould beam, a 
 thorn bush, or crazy car lying acrass, to keep the cattle out of them. 
 His bit of corn was all eat away and cropped here and there by the 
 cows, and his potatoes rooted up by the pigs. — The garden, indeed, had 
 a few cabbages and a ridge of early potatoes, but these were so choked 
 with burdocks and nettles that you could hardly see them. 
 
 I tould you before that they led the divil's life, and that was nothing 
 but God's truth ; and according as they got into greater poverty, it was 
 worse. A day couldn't pass without a fight ; if they'd be at their 
 breakfast, maybe he'd make a potato hop off her skull, and she'd give 
 him the contents of her noggin of buttermilk about the eyes ; then he'd 
 flake her, and the childher would be in an uproar, crying out, * Oh, 
 daddy, daddy, don't kill my mammy ! ' When this would be over, he'd 
 fjo oft" with himself to do something for the Squire, and would sing and 
 laugh so pleasant that you'd think he was the best tempered man 
 alive ; and so he was, until neglecting his business, and minding 
 dances, and fairs, and drink, destroyed him. 
 
 " It's the maxim of the world, that when a man is down, down with 
 him ; but when a man goes down through his own fault, he finds very 
 
LA RR V AP FARLAND 'S WAKE. 89 
 
 little mercy from anyone. Larry might go to fifty fairs before he'd 
 meet anyone now to thrate him : instead of that, when he'd make up 
 to them, they'd turn away, or give him the cowld shoulder? But that 
 wouldn't satisfy him ; for if he went to buy a slip of a pig, or a pair of 
 brogues, and met an ould acquaintance that had got well to do in the 
 world, he should bring him in, and give him a dram, merely to let the 
 other see that he was still able to do it, then ; when they'd sit down, 
 one dram would bring on another from Larry, till the price of the pig 
 or the brogues would be spint, and he'd go home again as he came, 
 sure to have another battle with Sally. 
 
 "In this way things went on, when one day that Larry was preparing 
 to sell some oats, a son of Nicholas Roe Sheridan's of the Broad-bog 
 came into him. ' Good morning, Larry,' says he ; ' Goud morrow 
 kindly. Art,' says Larry — ' how are you, ma bouchal ? ' 
 
 " ' VVhy, I've no rason to complain, thank God and you,' says the 
 other ; how is yourself.'" 
 
 " ' Well, thank you. Art ; how is the family ? ' 
 
 " ' Faix, all stout, except my father, that has got a tcuch of the 
 tooth-ach. When did you hear from the Slevins ? ' 
 
 " * Sally was down on Thursday last, and they're all well, your 
 sowl.' 
 
 " ' Where's Sally now ? ' 
 
 " ' She's just gone down to the big house for a pitcher of butter- 
 milk ; our cow won't calve these three weeks to come, and she gets a 
 sup of kitchen for the childher till then : won't you take a sate. Art ; 
 but you had better have a care for yourself, for that stool wants 
 a leg.' 
 
 '" I didn't care she was within, for I brought a sup of my own stufi 
 in my pocket,' said Art. 
 
 "' Here, Hurrish (he was called Horatio afther one of the Square's 
 sons), fly down to the Square's, and see what's keeping your mother ; 
 the divil's no match for her at staying out with herself, wanst she's 
 from under the roof.' 
 
 "' Let Dick go,' says the little fellow, ' he's bctthcr able to go nor I 
 am ; he has got a coat on him.' 
 
 " ' Go yourself, when I bid you,' says the father. 
 
 " ' Let him go,' says Hurrish, ' you have no right to bid me to go, 
 when he has a coat upon him ; you promised to ax one for me from 
 Masther Francis, and you didn't do it ; so the divil a toe I'll budge to- 
 day,' says he, getting betune the father and the door. 
 
 " ' Well, wait,' says Larry, ' faix, only the strange man's to the fore, 
 and I don't like to raise a hubbub, VA pay you for making me such an 
 answer. Dick, agra, will you run down, like a good bouchal, to the 
 big house, and tell your mother to come home, that there's a strange 
 man here wants her.' 
 
 " ' 'Twas Hurrish you bid,' says Dick — ' and make him : that's the 
 way he always thrates you, and does nothing that you bid him.' 
 
 > Cool reception. 
 
50 LARRY M'FARLAND'S IVAA'E. 
 
 "' But you know, Dick,' says the father," that he hasn't a stitch to 
 nis uack, and the crathur doesa't like to go out in the cowld and he so 
 naked.' 
 
 " ' Well, you bid him go,' says Dick, 'and let him ; the soiia a yard 
 I'll go — the skin-burnt spalpeen, that's always the way with him ; 
 whatever he's bid to do, he throws it on mc, bekase, indeed, he has no 
 coat ; but he'll folly IMasthcr Thomas or Masther Francis Ihrouc^h 
 sleet and snow up the mountains, when they're fowling or trac.ng ; he 
 doesn't care about a coat ihc?i.' 
 
 " ' H\ixx\s\\, yo2i must go down for your mother when I bid you ' — 
 says the weak man, turning again to the other boy. 
 
 " ' 111 not,' says the little fellow ; ' send Dick.' 
 
 " Larry said no more, but, laying down the child he had in his 
 hands, upon the flure, makes at him ; the lad, however, had the door 
 of him, and was off beyant his reach like a shot. He then turned 
 into the house, and meeting Dick, felled him with a blow of his fist at 
 the dresser. ' Tundher-an-ages, Larry,' says Art, ' what has come 
 over you at all at all? to knock down the gorsoon with such a blow ! 
 couldn't you take a rod or a switch to Ynm. — Dhcr ?;/(Z?^;////w, man, but 
 I bleeve you've killed him outright,' says he, lifting the boy, and 
 striving to bring him to life. Just at this minnit Sally came in. 
 
 " * Arrah, sweet bad-luck to you, you lazy vagabond you,' says 
 Larry, 'what kept you away till this hour.'" 
 
 " ' The devil send you news, you nager you,' says Sally, ' what kept 
 me — could I make the people churn sooner than they wished or were 
 ready ? ' 
 
 " ' Ho, by my song, I'll flake you as soon as the dacent young man 
 leaves the house,' says Larry to her, aside. 
 
 '• ' You'll flake me, is it.?' says Sally, speaking out loud—* in troth, 
 that's no new thing for you to do, anyhow.' 
 
 " 'Spake asy, you had betther.' ' No, in troth, won't I spake asy ; 
 I've spoken asy too long, Larry, but the devil a taste of me will bear 
 what I've suffered from you any longer, you mane-spirited blackguard 
 you ; for he is nothing else that would rise his hand to a woman, 
 especially to one in my condition,' and she put her gown tail to her 
 eyes. When she came in. Art turned his back to her, for fraid she'd 
 see the state the gorsoon was in — but now she noticed it — ' Oh 
 murdher, murdher,' says she clapping her hands, and running over to 
 him, what has happened my child : ' oh ! murdher, murdher, this is 
 your work, murdherer ! ' says she to Larry. ' Oh, you villain, are you 
 bent on murdhering all of us — are you bent on destroying us out o' 
 the face! Oh, wurrah sthrew ! wurrah sthrew ! what'll become of us ! 
 Dick, agra,' says she, crying, ' Dick, acushla ma chree, don't you hear 
 me spaking to you ? — don't you hear your poor broken-hearted mother 
 spaking to you ? Oh ! wurrah ! wurrah ! amn't I the heart-brokencst 
 crathur that's alive this day, to see the likes of such doings ! but I 
 knew it would come to this! My sowl to glory, but my child's 
 mnrthered by that man standing there ! — by his own father — his own 
 father ! Which of us will you m.urther next, you villain !' 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 91 
 
 " ' For heaven's sake, Sally,' says Art, ' don't exaggerate him more 
 nor he is ; the boy is only stunned — see, he's coming to : Dick, ma 
 bouchal, rouse yourself — that's a man : but he's well enough — that's 
 it, alannah : ^ here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it'll set all right 
 — or, stop, have you a glass within, Sally ? ' ' Och, musha, not a glass 
 is under the roof wid me,' says Sally ; 'the last we had was broke the 
 night Barney was christened, and we hadn't one since— but I'll get 
 you an egg-shell.'* * It'ill do as well as the best,' says Art. And to 
 make a long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of 
 whisky among them. — Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great 
 friends as ever ; and Dick was made drunk for the bating he got from 
 his father. 
 
 " What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to 
 run in a private still, up in the mountains^ of coorse, where every still 
 is kept. Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring 
 them up to the still-house the next night after dark. According to ap- 
 pointment. Art came a short time after night-fall, with two or three 
 young boys along with him. The corn was sacked and put on the 
 horses; but before that was done, they had adhrop,for Art's pocket and 
 the bottle were old acquaintainces. They all then sat down in Larry's, 
 or, at laste, as many as there were seats for, and fell to it. Larry, 
 however, seemed to be in better humour this night, and more affec- 
 tionate with Sally and the childher : he'd often look at them, and 
 appear to feel as if something was over him ; but no one observed 
 that till afterwards. Sally herself seemed kinder to him, and even 
 went over and sat beside him on the stool, and putting her arm about 
 his neck, kissed hun in a joking way, wishing to make up, too, for 
 what Art saw the night before— poor thing — but still as if it wasn't all 
 a joke, for at times she looked sorrowful. Larry, too, got his arm about 
 her, and looked often and often on her and the childher, in a way that 
 he wasn't used to do, until the tears fairly came into his eyes. 
 
 " ' Sally, avourneen,' says he, looking at her, ' I saw you when you 
 had another look from what you have this night ; when it wasn't asy 
 to follow you in the parish or out of it ; ' and when he said this he 
 could hardly spake. 
 
 " ' Whisht, Larry, acushla,' says she, * don't be spaking that-away — 
 sure we may do very well yet, plase God : I know, Larry, there was a 
 great dale of it — maybe, indeed, it was all — my fault ; for I wasn't to 
 J ou, in the way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.' 
 
 " ' Well, well, aroon,' says Larry, ' say no more ; you might have 
 been all that, only it was my fault : but where's Dick, that 1 struck so 
 terribly last night.'' Dick, come over to me, agra— come over Dick, 
 and sit down here beside me. Arrah, here, Art, ma bouchal, will you 
 fill this egg-shell for him ? — Poor gorsoon ! God knows, Dick, you get 
 
 1 My child.' 
 
 * The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing. It often happens that they have 
 whisky when neither glasses nor cups are at hand— in which case they are never 
 at a loss. I have seen them use not only egg shells, but pistol barrels, tobacco 
 boxes, and scoopsd potatoes, in extreme cases. 
 
 (1) ^ 
 
92 LARRY MTARLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 far from fair play, acushla — far from the ating and drinking that othct 
 people's childher get, that hasn't as good a skin to put it in as you, 
 alannah ! Kiss me, Dick, acushla — and God knows your face is pale, 
 and that's not with good feeding, anyhow : Dick, agra, I'm sorry 
 for what I dene to you last night ; forgive your father, Dick, for I 
 think that my heart's breaking, acushla, and that you won't have me 
 long with you.' 
 
 " Poor Dick, who was naturally a warm-hearted affectionate gor- 
 soon, kissed his father, and cried bitterly. Sally herself, seeing Larry 
 so sorry for what he had done, sobbed as if she would drop on the 
 spot ; but the rest began, and betwixt scoulding and cheering him up, 
 all was as well as ever. Still Larry seemed as if there was something 
 entirely very strange the matter with him, for as he was going out, he 
 kissed all the childher, one after another ; and even went over to the 
 young baby that was asleep in the little cradle of boords, that he 
 himself had made for it, and kissed it two or three times, asily, 
 for fraid of wakening it. He then met Sally at the door, and catch- 
 ing her hand when none of the rest saw him, squeezed it, and gave 
 her a kiss, saying, ' Sally, darling ! ' says he. 
 
 " ' What ails you, Larry, asthore ? ' says Sally. 
 
 " ' I don't know,' says he, ' nothing, I bleeve — but, Sally, acushla, I 
 have trated you badly all along ; I forgot, avourneen, how I loved you 
 once, and now it breaks my heart that I have used you so ill.' ' Larry,' 
 she answered, ' don't be talking that-a-way, bekase you make me sor- 
 rowful and unasy — don't acushla : God above me knows I forgive you 
 it all. Don't stay long,' says she, 'and I'll borry a lock of meal from 
 Biddy, till we get home our own jneldhre'^ and I'll have a dish of stir- 
 about ready to make for you when you come home. Sure, Larry, 
 who'd forgive you, if I, your own wife, wouldn't ? But it's I that wants 
 it from you, Larry, and in the presence of God, and ourselves, I now 
 beg your pardon, and ax your forgiveness for all the sin I done to you.' 
 She dropped on her knees, and cried bitterly ; but he raised her up, 
 himself a choking at the time, and as the poor crathur got to h ' -t, 
 she laid herself on his breast, and sobbed out, for she couldn't h t. 
 They then went away, though Larry, to tell the thruth, wouldn'i .'e 
 gone with them at all, only that the sacks were borried froi .is 
 brother, and he had to bring them home, in regard of Tom wa .ing 
 them the ver)'' ^ext day. 
 
 " The night was as dark as pitch, so dark, faiks, that they had to 
 get long pieces of bog fir, which they lit, and held in their hands, like 
 the lights that Ned there says the lamplighters have in Dublin, to 
 light the lamps with. 
 
 At last, with a good dale of trouble, they got to the still-house ; and, 
 as they had all taken a drop before, you may be sure they were better 
 inclined to take another sup now. They accordingly sat down about 
 the fine rousing fire that was under the still, and had a right good 
 jorum of strong whisky that never seen a drop of water. They all 
 
 > Any quantity of meal, ground on one occasion, a kiln cast, or as much as tba 
 kiln will dry at once. 
 
LARHf M'FARLAND'^ WAK£. 93 
 
 were in very good spirits, not thinking of to-morrow, and caring at the 
 time very little about the world as it went. 
 
 " When the night was far advanced, they thought of moving home : 
 however, by that time they weren't able to stand : but it's one curse of 
 being drunk, that a man doesn't know what he's about for the time, 
 except some few like that poaching ould fellow, Billy M' Kinney, that's 
 as cunning when he's drunk as when he's sober ; otherwise they would 
 not have ventured out in the clouds of the night, when it was so dark 
 and severe, and they in such a state. 
 
 " At last they staggered away together, for their road lay for a good 
 distance in the same direction. The others got on, and reached home 
 as well as they could ; but although Sally borried the dish of male 
 from her sister-in-law, to have a warm pot of stirabout for Larry, and 
 sat up till the night was more than half gone, waiting for him, yet no 
 Larry made his appearance. The childher, too, all sat up, hoping 
 he'd come home, before they'd fall asleep and miss the supper ; at last 
 the crathurs after running about, began to get sleepy, and one head 
 would fall this-a-way and another that-a-way ; so Sally thought it hard 
 to let them go without getting their share, and accordingly she put 
 down the pot on a bright fire, and made a good lot of stirabout for 
 them, covering up Larry's share in a red earthen dish before the fire. 
 
 " This roused them a little, and they sat about the hearth with their 
 mother, keeping her company with their little chat, till their father 
 would come back. 
 
 " The night, for some time before this, got very stormy entirely. 
 The wind ris, and the rain fell as if it came out of tnethcrs? The house 
 was very cowld, and the door was bad ; for the wind came in very 
 strong under the foot of it, where the ducks and hens, and the pig 
 when it was little, used to squeeze themselves in, when the family was 
 absent, or afther they went to bed. The wind now came whistling 
 under it ; and the ould hat and rags that stopped up the windies, were 
 blown out half-a-dozen times with such force that the ashes were 
 carried away almost from the hearth. Sally got very low-spirited on 
 hearing the storm whistling so sorrowfully through the house, for she 
 was afeard that Larry might be out on the dark moors under it : and 
 how any living soul could bear it, she didn't know. The talk of the 
 childher, too, made her worse ; for they were debating among them- 
 selves, the crathurs, about what he had better do under the tempest — 
 whether he ought to take the sheltry side of a hillock, or get into a 
 long heath bush, or under the ledge of a rock or tree, if he could meet 
 such a thing. 
 
 " In the mane time, terrible blasts would come over and through 
 the house, making the ribs crack so, that you would think the roof 
 would be taken away at wanst. The fire was now getting low, and 
 Sally had no more turf in the house ; so that the childher crouched 
 closer and closer about it — their poor hungry-looking pale faces, made 
 paler with fear that the house might come down upon them, or be 
 stripped, and their father from home — and with worse fear that some- 
 • An old Irish drinking vesseL 
 
94 LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 tiling might happen him under such a tempest of wind and rain as it 
 blew. Indeed it was a pitiful sight to sec the ragged crathurs drawing 
 in a ring nearer and nearer the dying fire ; and their poor, naked, 
 half-starved mother, sitting with her youngest infant lying between 
 her knees and her breast : for the bed was too cowld to put it into it, 
 without being kept warm by the heat of them that it used to sleep 
 with." 
 
 " Musha, God help her and them," says Ned, " I wish they were 
 here beside me on this comfortable hob, this minite ; I'd fight Nancy 
 to get a fogmeal for them, anyway — a body can't but pity th^m, 
 afther all ! " 
 
 " You'd fight Nancy ! " said Nancy herself — " maybe Nancy would 
 be as willing to do something for the crathurs as you would — I like 
 everybody that's able to pay for what they get ! but we ought to have 
 some bowels in us for all that. You'd fight Nancy, in<leed ! " 
 
 " Well," continued the narrator, " there they sat, with cowld and 
 fear in their pale faces, shivering over the remains of the fire, for it 
 was now nearly out, and thinking, as the deadly blast would drive 
 through the creeking ould door and the halfstuft'ed windics, of what 
 their father would do under such a terrible night. Poor Sally, sad and 
 sorrowful, was thinking of all their ould quarrels, and taking the blame 
 all to herself for not being more attentive to her business, and more 
 kind to Larry ; and when she thought of the way she thrated him, and 
 the ill-tongue she used to give him, the tears began to roll from her 
 eyes, and she rocked herself from side to side, sobbing as if her heart 
 would brake. When the childhcr saw her wiping her eyes with the 
 corner of the little handkerchief that she had about her neck, they 
 began to cry along with her. At last she thought, as it was now so 
 late, that it would be folly to sit up any longer ; she hoped, too, that 
 he might have thought of going into some neighbour's house on his 
 way, to take shelter, and with these thoughts she raked the grees- 
 Jioiigh over the fire, and after putting the childher in their little straw 
 nest, and spreading their own rags over them, she and the young one 
 went to bed, although she couldn't sleep at all at all, for thinking of 
 Larry. 
 
 " There she lay, trembling under the light cover of the bed-clothes, 
 listening to the dreadful night in it, so lonely that the very noise of 
 the cow, in the other corner, chewing her cud, in the silence of a short 
 calm, was a great relief to her. It was a long time before she could 
 get a wink of sleep, for there was some uncommon weight upon her 
 that she couldn't account for by any chance ; but after she had been 
 lying for about half-an-hour, she heard something that almost fairly 
 knocked her up. It was the voice of a woman, crying and wailing in 
 the greatest distress, as if all belonging to her were mider-boord} 
 
 » This phrase alludes to the manner in which the dead bodies in several parts of 
 Ireland are laid out, viz., under a long deal board, over whicii is spread a clean 
 sheet so that no pans of the corpse is visible. It is much more becoming than the 
 other manner, in which the countenance of the dead is exposed to view. 
 
. x P B A » P 
 
 /' '• OF THe 
 
 i UNIVERSITY 
 
 LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. $5 
 
 "When Sally heard it first, she thought it was nothing but the 
 whistling of the wind ; but it soon came again, more sorrowful than 
 before, and as the storm rose, it rose upon the blast along with it, so 
 strange and mournfully, that she never before heard the like ot it. 
 ' The Lord be about us,' says she to herself, ' what can that be at all ! 
 — or who is it ? for it's not Nelly,' maning her sister-in-law. Again 
 she listened, and there it was, sobbing and sighing in the greatest 
 grief, and she thought she heard it louder than ever, only that this 
 time it seemed to name whomever it was lamenting. Sally now got 
 up and put her ear to the door, to see if she could hear what it said. 
 At this time the wind got calmer, and the voice also got lower ; but 
 although it was still sorrowful, she never heard any living Christian's 
 voice so sweet, and what was very odd, it fell in fits, exactly as the 
 storm sunk, and rose as it blew louder. 
 
 " When she put her ear to the chink of the door she heard the 
 words repeated, no doubt of it, only couldn't be quite sure, as they 
 weren't very plain ; but as far as she could make any sense out of 
 them, she thought that it said—' Oh, Larry M'Farland !— Larry M'Far- 
 land ! — Larry M'Farland ! ' Sally's hair stood on end when she heard 
 this ; but on listening again, she thought it was her own name instead 
 of Larry's that it repated. Still she wasn't sure, for the words wern't 
 plain, and all she could think was that they resembled her own name 
 or Larry's, more nor any other words she knew. At last, as the wind 
 fell again, it melted away, weeping most sorrowfully, but so sweetly, 
 that the likes of it was never heard. Sally then went to bed, and the 
 poor woman was so harished with one thing or another, that at last 
 she fell asleep." 
 
 " 'Twas the Banshee" says Shane Fadh. 
 
 *' Indeed it was nothing else than that same," replied M'Roarkin. 
 
 " I wonder Sally didn't think of that," said Nancy — " sure she 
 might know that no living crathur would be out lamenting under such 
 a night as that was." 
 
 " She did think of that," said Tom ; " but as no Banshee ever fol- 
 lowed her oiuti ^ family, she didn't suppose that it could be such a 
 thing ; but she forgot that it might follow Larry's. I, myself, heard 
 his brother Tom say, afterwards, that a Banshee used always to be 
 heard before any of them died." 
 
 '* Did his brother hear it .''" Ned inquired. 
 
 " He did," said Tom ; " and his wife along with him, and knew, at 
 once, that some death would happen in the family — but it wasn't long 
 till he suspected who it came for ; for, as he was going to bed that 
 night, on looking toardst his own hearth, he thought he saw his brother 
 standing at the fire, with a very sorrowful face upon him. ' Why, 
 Larry,' says he, * how did you get in, after me barring the door ? — or 
 did you turn back from helping them with the corn ? You, surely, 
 hadn't time to go half the way since.' Larry, however, made him no 
 answer ; and, on looking for him again, there was no Larry there for 
 
 ' The Banshee in Ireland is, or rather was, said to follow only particular families 
 - principally the old Milesians, 
 
96 LARR V M 'FARLAND 'S WA K'E. 
 
 him. ' Nelly,' says he to his wife, ' did you see any sight of Larry 
 since he went to the still-house ?' ' Arrah, no indeed, Tom,' says she; 
 ' what's coming over you to spake to the man that's near Drumfarrar 
 by this time?' 'God keep him from harm!' said Tom; — 'poor 
 fellow, I wish nothing ill may happen him this night ! I'm afeard, 
 Nelly, that I saw \v\'s, fetch j"^ and if I did, he hasn't long to live ; for 
 when one's fetch is seen at this time of night, their lase of life, let them 
 be sick or in health, is always short.' ' Hut, Tom aroon ! ' says Nelly, 
 ' it was the shadow of the jamb or yourself you saw in the light of the 
 candle, or the shadow of the bed-post.' 
 
 " The next morning they were all up, hoping that he would drop in 
 to them. Sally got a creel of turf, notwithstanding her condition, and 
 put down a good fire to warm him ; but the morning passed, and no 
 sign of him. She now got very unasy, and mintioned to his brother 
 what she felt, and Tom went up to the still-honse to know if he 
 was there, or to try if he could get any tidings of him. But, by the 
 laws, when he heard that he had left that for heme the night before, 
 and he in a state of liquor, putting this, and what he had heard and 
 seen in his house together, Tom knew that something must have hap- 
 pened him. He went home again, and on his way had his eye about 
 him, thinking that it would be no miracle, if he'd meet him lying head- 
 foremost in a ditch ; however, he did not, but went on, expecting to 
 find him at home before him. 
 
 " In the manetime, the neighbours had been all raised to search 
 lor him ; and, indeed, the hills were alive with people. It was the 
 second day after, that Sally was standing, looking out at her own 
 door toardst the mountains, expecting that every man with a blue coat 
 upon him might be Larry, when she saw a crowd of people coming 
 down the hills. Her heart leaped to her mouth, and she sent Dick, 
 the eldest of the sons, to meet them, and run back with word to her if 
 he was among them. Dick went away ; but he hadn't gone far when 
 he met his uncle Tom, coming on before the rest. 
 
 " ' Uncle,' says Dick, ' did you get my father, for I must fly back 
 with word to my mother, like lightning.' 
 
 " ' Come here, Dick,' says Tom ; ' God help you, my poor bouchal ! 
 — Come here, and walk alongside of me, for you can't go back to 
 your mother, till / see her first — God help you, my poor bouchal, it's 
 you that's to be pitied, this blessed and sorrowful day ;' and the poor 
 fellow could by no means keep in the tears. But he was saved the 
 trouble of breaking the dismal tidings to poor Sally ; for as she stood 
 watching the crowd, she saw a door carried upon their shoulders, with 
 something like a man stretched upon it. She turned in, feeling as if 
 a bullet had gone through her head, and sat down with her back to 
 the door, for fraid she might see the thruth, for she couldn't be quite 
 sure, they were at such a distance. At last she ventured to take 
 another look out, for she couldn't bear what she felt within her, and 
 just as she rose and came to the door, the first thing she saw coming 
 
 > Tliis in the North of Ireland is c.illed wraith, as in Scotland, Ibavoadoptcd 
 the othi:r as more national. 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND^S WAKE. 97 
 
 down the hill, a little above the house, was the body of her husband 
 stretched on a door — dead. At that minute, her brother-in-law, Tom, 
 just entered, in time to prevent her and the child she had in her arms 
 from falling on the flure. She had seen enough, God help her ! — for 
 she took labour that instant, and, in about two hours afterwards, was 
 stretched a corpse beside her husband, with her heart-broken and 
 desolate orphans in an uproar of outher misery about them. That 
 was the end of Larry M'Farland and Sally Lowry ; two that might 
 have done well in the world, had they taken care of themselves, 
 avoided fairs and markets — except when they had business there — 
 not giving themselves idle fashions, by drinking, or going to dances, 
 and wrought as well for themselves as they did for others." 
 
 " But how did he lose his life, at all at all ?" inquired Nancy. 
 
 "Why, they found his hat in a bog hole upon the water, and on 
 searching the hole itself, poor Larry was fished up from the bottom 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, that's a murdhering sorrowful story," said Shane Fadh : 
 *' but you won't be after passing that on us for the wake, anyhow." 
 
 " Well, you must learn patience, Shane," said the narrator, " for you 
 know patience is a virtue." 
 
 " I'll warrant you that Tom and his tui/e made a better hand of 
 themselves," said Alick M'Kinley, "than Larry and Sally did." 
 
 " Ah ! I wouldn't fear, Alick," said Tom, " but you would come at 
 the thruth — 'tis you that may say they did ; there wasn't two in the 
 parish more comfortable than the same two, at the very time that 
 Larry and Sally came by their deaths. It would do you good to look 
 at their hagyard — the corn stacks were so nately roped and trimmed, 
 and the walls so well made up, that a bird could scarcely get into it. 
 Their barn and byre, too, and dwelling-house, were all comfortably 
 thatched, and the windies all glazed, with not a broken pane in them. 
 Altogether, they had come on wondherfuUy ; sould a good dale of 
 male and praties every year ; so that in a short time they were able 
 to. lay by a little money to help to fortune off their little girls, that 
 were growing up fine colleens, all out." 
 
 "And you may add, I suppose," said Andy Morrow, "that they lost 
 no time going to fairs or dances, or other foolish divarsions. I'll en- 
 gage they never were at a dance in the squire's kitchen ; that they 
 never went about losing their time working for others, when their own 
 business was going at sixes and sevens, for want of hands ; nor spent 
 their money drinking and thrating a parcel of friends that only 
 laughed at them for their pains ; and wouldn't, may be, put one foot 
 past the other to sarve them ; nor never fought and abused one another 
 for what they both were guilty of." 
 
 " Well," said Tom ; " you have saved me some trouble, Mr. Morrow ; 
 for you just said to a hair what they were. But I musn't forget to 
 mintion one thing that I saw the morning of the berril. We were 
 about a dozen of neighbours, talking in the street, just before the 
 door ; both the hagyards were forninst us — Tom's snug and nate — but 
 Charley Lawder had to go over from where he stood to drive the pig 
 
98 LARRY M'FAKLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 out of poor Larry's. There was one of the stacks with the side out ol 
 it just as he had drawn away the sheaves from time to time ; for the 
 stack leaned to one side, and he pulled sheaves out of tht other side 
 to keep it straight. Now, Mr. Morrow, wasn't he an unfortunate 
 man ? for whoever would go down to Squire Dickson's hagyard would 
 see the same Larry's handiwork so beautiful and elegant, though his 
 own was in such bnitlieoi} Even his barn went to wrack : and he was 
 obliged to thrash his oats in the open air when there would be a frost, 
 and he used to lose one-third of it ; and if there came a thaw, 'twould 
 almost brake the crathur." 
 
 "God knows," says Nancy, looking over at Ned significantly, "and 
 Larry's not alone in neglecting his business ; that is, if sartin people 
 were allowed to take their own way ; but the truth of it is that he met 
 with a bad ivoinan^ If he had a careful, sober, industrious wife of 
 his own, that would take care of the house and place — {Biddy, luill 
 you hand me over thai other clew out of the laiiidy stool there, till I 
 finish this stocking for Ned) — the story would have another ending, 
 anyhow." 
 
 " In throth," said Tom, "that's no more than thruth, Nancy — but 
 he had not, and everything went to the bad with him entirely." 
 
 " It's a thousand pities he had'nt yourself, Nancy," said Alick 
 grinning ; " if he had, I haven't the laste doubt at all, but he'd die 
 worth money." 
 
 " Go on, Alick — go on, avick ; I will give you lave to have your 
 joke, any way ; for it's you that's the patthern to any man that would 
 wish to thrive in the world." 
 
 " If Ned dies, Nancy, I don't know a woman I'd prefer; I'm now a 
 ividdy-' these five years ; and I feel, somehow, particularly since I 
 began to spend my evenings here, that I'm disremembering very much 
 the old proverb—' A burnt child dreaps the hre.' " 
 
 " Thank you, Alick ; you think I swally that : but as for Ned, the 
 never a fear of him ; except that an increasing stomach is a sign of 
 something ; or what's the best chance of all, Alick, for you and mc, 
 that he should meet Larry's fate in some of his drunken fits." 
 
 " Now, Nancy," says Ned, "there's no use in talking that-a-way : 
 it's only last Thursday, Mr. Morrow, that, in presence of her own 
 brother, Jem Connolly, the breeches-maker, and Billy M'Kinny, there, 
 I put my two five fingers acrass, and swore solemnly by them five 
 crosses, that, except my mind chan^ed^ I'd never drink more nor one 
 half pint of spirits and three pints of porther in a day." 
 
 "Oh, hould your tongue, Ned— hould your tongue, and don't 
 make me spake," said Nancy. " God help you ! many a time you've 
 put the same fingers acrass, and many a time your mind has changed ; 
 but rU say no more now — wait till we see how you'll keep it." 
 
 ' Brutheei. is potato champed with butter. Anything in a loose, broken, and 
 irregular state is said to be in bruthicn—\.ha.\. is, disorder andconfusion. 
 
 ■i Wife. 
 The peasantry of a great portion of Ireland use the word as applicable to bolb 
 sexes. 
 
LARRY M'PARLAND'S WAKE. $9 
 
 " Healths apiece, your sowls," said Ned, winking at the company. 
 
 " Well, Tom," said Andy Morrow, " about the wake?" 
 
 " Och, och ! that was the merry wake, Mr. Morrow. From that 
 day to this I remarked, that, living or dead, them that won't respect 
 themselves, or take care of their families, won't be respected : and sure 
 enough, I saw full proof of that same at poor Larry's wake. Many a 
 time afterwards I pitied the childher, for if they had seen better, 
 they wouldn't turn out as they did — all but the two youngest, that 
 their uncle took to himself, and reared afterwards ; but they had no 
 one to look afther them, and how could it be expected, from what 
 they seen, that good could come of them.-' Squire Dickson gave Tom 
 the other seven acres, although he could have got a higher rint from 
 others ; but he was an industrious man that desarved encouragement, 
 and he got it." 
 
 " I suppose Tom was at the expense of Larry's berrin, as well as of 
 his marriage .'' " said Alick. 
 
 " In throth, and he was," said Tom, "although he didn't desarve 
 it from him when he was alive ;^ seeing he neglected many a good 
 advice that Tom and his dacent woman of a wife often gave him : 
 for all that, blood is thicker than wather — and it's he that waked and 
 berrid him dacently ; by the same token that there was both full and 
 plenty of the best over him : and everything, as far as Tom was con- 
 sarned, dacent and creditable about the place." 
 
 " He did it for his own sake, of coorse," said Nancy, "bekase one 
 wouldn't wish, if they had it at all, to see anyone belonging to them 
 worse off than another at their wake or berrin." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Nancy," said M'Roarkin, "and indeed, Tom was 
 well spoken of by the neighbours for his kindness to his brother after 
 his death ; and luck and grace attended him for it, and the world 
 Howed upon him before it came to his own turn." 
 
 " Well, when a body dies even a natural death, it's wondherful how 
 soon it goes about ; but when they come to an untimely one, it spreads 
 like fire on a dry mountain," 
 
 " Was there no inquest .'' " asked Andy Morrow. 
 
 " The sorra inquist, not making you an ill answer, sir — the people 
 weren't so exact in them days ; but anyhow, the man was dead, and 
 what good could an inquist do him } The only thing that grieved 
 them was that they both died without the priest : and well it might, 
 for it's an awful thing entirely to die without having the clargy's 
 hands over a body. I tould you that the news of his death spread 
 over all the counthry in less than no time. Accordingly, in the coorse 
 of the day, their relations began to come to the place ; but, any way, 
 messengers had been sent especially for them. 
 
 " The Squire very kindly lent sheets for them both to be laid out 
 in, and mould-candlesticks to hould the lights ; and, God he knowi, 
 
 1 The genuine blunders of the Irish — not those studied for them by men ignorant 
 of their modes of expression and habits of hfe — are always significant, clear, and 
 full of strong sense and moral truth. 
 
100 LARRY M 'FARLAND 'S WAKE. 
 
 'iwas a grievous si;;ht to see the father and mother both stretched 
 beside one another in their poor place, and their b'ule orphans about 
 them ; the gorsoons— them that liad sense enough to know their loss, 
 — breaking their hearts, the crathurs, and so hoarse that they weren't 
 able to cry or spake. 13ut, indeed, it was worse to see the two young 
 things going over, and wanting to get acrass to waken their daddy 
 and mammy, poor desolit childher ! 
 
 " When the corpses were washed and dressed, they looked uncom- 
 monly well, consitherin', Larry, indeed, didn't bear death so well as 
 Sally ; but you couldn't meet a purtier corpse than she was in a day's 
 travelling. I say, when they were washed and dressed, their friends 
 and neighbours knelt down round them, and offered up a Father and 
 Ave apiece for the good of their sowls : when this was done, they all 
 raised the keena, stooping over them at a half bend, clapping their 
 hands, and praising them, as far as they could say anything good of 
 them ; and, indeed, the crathurs, they were never anyone's enemy 
 but their own, so that nobody could say an ill word of either of them. 
 Bad luck to it for potteen-work every day it rises ! only for it, that 
 couple's poor orphans wouldn't be left without father or mother as 
 they were ; nor poor Hurrish go the grey gate he did, if he had his 
 father living, maybe : but having nobody to bridle him in, he took to 
 horse-riding for the Squire, and then to staling them for himself. He 
 was hanged afterwards, along with Peter Doraghy Crolly, that shot 
 Ned Wilson's uncle of the Black Hills. 
 
 " After the first keening, the friends and neighbours took their seats 
 about the corpse. In a short time, whisky, pipes, snuff, and tobacco 
 came, and everyone about the place got a glass and a fresh pipe. 
 Tom, when he held his glass in his hand, looking at his dead brother, 
 filled up to the eyes, and couldn't for some time get out a word ; at 
 last, when he was able to spake, ' Poor Larry,' says he, ' you're lying 
 there low before me, and many a happy day we spint with one another. 
 When we were childher,' said he, turning to the rest, ' we were never 
 asunder ; he was oulder nor me by two years, and can I ever forget 
 the leathering he gave Dick Rafferty long ago for hitting me with the 
 rotten egg — although Dick was a great dale bigger than either of us. 
 God knows, although you didn't thrive in life, either of you, as you 
 might and could have done, there wasn't a more neighbourly or friendly 
 couple in the parish they lived in ; and now, God help them, look at 
 them both, and their poor orphans over them. Larry, acushla, your 
 health, and, Sally, yours ; and may God Almighty have marcy on 
 both your sowls.' 
 
 " After this, the neighbours began to flock in more generally. When 
 any relation of the corpses would come, as soon, you see, as they'd get 
 inside the door, whether man or woman, they'd raise the shout of a 
 keena, and all the people about the dead would begin along with 
 them, stooping over them and clapping their hands as before. 
 
 " Well, I said it's it that was the merry wake, and that was only the 
 thruth, neighbours. As soon as night came, all the young boys and 
 girls from the country-side about them flocked to it in scores. In a 
 
LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. roi 
 
 short time the house was crowded ^ jnd maybe there wasn't laughing, 
 and story-telling, and singing, and smoking, and drinking, and crj'ing 
 — all going on, hclter skelter, together. When they'd be all in full 
 chorus this-a-way, maybe, some new friend or relation, that wasn't- 
 there before, would come in, and raise the keena. Of coorse, tho 
 youngsters would then keep quiet ; and if the person coming in was 
 from the one neighbourhood with any of them that were so merry, as 
 soon as he'd raise the shout, the merry folks would rise up, begin to 
 pelt their hands together, and cry along with him till their eyes would 
 be as red as a ferret's. That once over, they'd be down again at the 
 songs, and divarsion, and divilment, just as if nothing of the kind had 
 taken place. The other would then shake hands with the friends of 
 the corpses, get a glass or two and a pipe, and in a /ew minutes be 
 as meriy as the best of them." 
 
 " Well," said Andy Morrow, " I should like to know if the Scotch 
 and English are such liceru)n-skeernm kind of people as we Irishmen 
 are." 
 
 " Musha, in throth I'm sure they're not," says Nancy, " for I bleeve 
 that Irishmen are like nobody in the wide world but themselves ; 
 quare crathurs, that'll laugh, or cry, or fight with anyone, just for 
 nothing else, good or bad, but company." 
 
 " Indeed, and you all know that what I'm saying's truth, except 
 Mr. Morrow there, that I'm telling it to, bekase he's not in the habit 
 of going to wakes ; although, to do him justice, he's very friendly 
 in going to a neighbour's funeral ; and, indeed, kind father for yoii^ 
 Mr. Morrow, for it's he that was a raal good hand at going to such 
 places himself. 
 
 -—'"Well, as I was telling you, there was great sport going on. In 
 one corner you might see a knot of ould men sitting together, talk- 
 ing over ould times — ghost stories, fairy tales, or the great rebellion of 
 '41, and the strange story of Lamh Dearg, or the bloody hand, that, 
 maybe, I'll tell you all some other night, plase God : there they'd sit 
 smoking — their faces quite plased with the pleasure of the pipe — 
 amusing themselves and a crowd of people that would be listening to 
 them with open mouth. Or, it's odds, but there would be some droll 
 young fellow among them, taking a rise out of them ; and, positively, 
 he'd often find them able enough for them, particularly ould Ned 
 Mangin, that wanted at the time only four years of a hundred. The 
 Lord be good to him, and rest his sovvl in glory, it's he that was the 
 pleasant ould man, and could tell a story with anyone that ever got up. 
 
 " In another corner there was a different set, bent on some piece ol 
 divilment of their own. The boys would be sure to get beside their 
 sweethearts, anyhow ; and if there was a purty girl, as you may set it 
 down there was, it's there the sk}'oodgi?ig{- and the pushing, and the 
 shovir g, and, sometimes, the knocking down itself, would be, about 
 
 ' That is, in this point you are of the same kind as your father ; possessing "JmA 
 prominent trait in his disposition or character. 
 ' The pressure in a crowd. 
 
102 LARR Y M 'FARLAND 'S WAKE. 
 
 seeing who'd get her. There's ould Katty Duffy, that's now as crooked 
 as the hind leg of a dog, and it's herself was then as straight as a rubO 
 and as blooming as a rose — Lord bless us, what an alteration tine 
 makes upon the strongest and fairest of us !— it's she that was the 
 purty girl that night, and it's myself that gave Frank M'Shane, that's 
 still alive to acknowledge it, the broad of his back upon the flure, 
 when he thought to pull her off my knee. The very gorsoons and 
 girshas were coorting away among themselves, and learning one 
 another to smoke in the dark corners. But all this, Mr. Morrow, 
 took place in the corpse-house, before ten or eleven o'clock at night ; 
 after that time the house got too throng entirely, and couldn't hould 
 the half of them ; so, by jing, off we set, maning all the youngsters of 
 us, both boys and girls, out to Tom's barn, that wa s red up for us, 
 there to commence the plays. When we were gone the ould people 
 had more room, and they moved about on the sates we had left them. 
 In the manetime, lashings of tobacco and snuff, cut in plate-fulls, and 
 piles of fresh new pipes, were laid on the tabic for any man that 
 wished to use them. 
 
 " When we got to the barn, it's then we took our ■pumps off- in 
 rnest — by the hokey, such sport you nevet saw. The first play we 
 began was Hot-loof , and maybe there wasn't skelping then. It was 
 the two parishes of Errigle-Keeran an Errigle-Truagh against one 
 another. There was the Slip from Althadhawan, for Errigle-Truagh, 
 against Pat M'Ardle, that had married Lanty Gorman's daughter of 
 Cargagh, for Errigle-Keeran. The way they play it, Mr. Morrow, is 
 this :^two young men out of each parish go out upon the (lure — one 
 of them stands up, then bends himself, sir, at a half bend, placing his 
 left hand behind on the back part of his ham, keeping it there to 
 receive what it's to get. Well, there he stands, and the other coming 
 behind him, places his left foot out before him, doubles up the cuff ot 
 his coat, to give his hand and wrist freedom : he then rises his right 
 arm, coming down with the heel of his hand upon the other fellow's 
 palm, under him, with full force. By jing, it's the divil's own divarsion ; 
 for you might as well get a stroke of a sledge as a blow from one of 
 them able, hard-working fellows, with hands upon them like lime- 
 stone. When the fellow that's down gets it hot and heavy, the man 
 that struck him stands bent in his place, and some friend of the other 
 comes down upon him, and pays him for what the other fellow got. 
 
 " In this way they take it, turn about, one out of each i)arish, till it's 
 over ; for, I believe, if they were to pelt one another since? that they'd 
 never give up. Bless my soul, but it was terrible to hear the strokes 
 that the Slip and Pat M'Ardle did give that night. The Slip was a 
 young fellow, upwards of six feet, with great able bones and little flesh, 
 but terrible thick shiiinvis,'^ his wrist was as hard and strong as a bar 
 of iron. M'Ardle was a low, broad man, with a ;7/£-/l^/ ^ head and bull 
 neck, and a pair of shoulders that you could hardly get your arms 
 
 ' Cleared up— set in order. » Threw aside all restraint. 
 
 » from that hour to this. * Sinews. ' Curled. 
 
LARR Y M 'FARLAND 'S WAKE, I03 
 
 about, Mr. Morrow, long as they are ; it's he, indeed, that was .he 
 firm, well-built chap, entirely. At any rate, a man might as well get a 
 kick from a horse as a stroke from either of them. 
 
 " Little Jemmy Tegue, I remimber, struck a cousin of the Slip's a 
 very smart blow, that made him dance about the room, and blow his 
 fingers for ten minutes after it. Jemmy, himself, was a tight, smart 
 fellow. When the Slip saw what his cousin had got, he rises up, and 
 stands over Jemmy so coolly, and with such good humour, that every- 
 one in the house trembled for poor Jemmy, bekase, you see, whenever 
 the Slip was bent on mischief, he used always to grin. Jemmy, how- 
 ever, kept himself bent firm ; and, to do him justice, didn't flinch from 
 under the stroke, as many of them did — no, he was like a rock. Well, 
 the Slip, as I said, stood over him, fixing himself for the stroke, and 
 coming down with such a pelt on poor Jemmy's hand, that the first 
 thing we saw was the blood across the Slip's own legs and feet, that 
 had burst out of poor Jemmy's finger-ends. The Slip then stooped to 
 receive the next blow himself, a:nd you may be sure there was above 
 two dozen up to be at him. No matther ; one man they all gave way 
 to, and that was Pat M'Ardle. 
 
 '" Hould away,' says Pat — ' clear off, boys, all of you — this stroke's 
 mine by right, anyhow ; — and,' says he, swearing a terrible oath, ' if 
 you don't sup sorrow for that sticke,' says he to the Slip, 'why Pat 
 M'Ardle's not behind you here.' 
 
 " He then up with his arm, and came down — why, you would think 
 that the stroke he gave the Slip had druv his hand right into his body : 
 but, any way, it's he that took full satisfaction for what his cousin got ; 
 for if the Slip's fingers had been cut off at the tops, the blood couldn't 
 spring out from under his nails more nor it did. After this the Slip 
 couldn't strike another blow, bekase his hand was disabled out and out. 
 
 " The next play they went to was the Sitting Brogue. This is 
 played by a ring of them, sitting down upon the bare ground, keeping 
 their knees up. A shoemaker's leather apron is then got, or a good 
 stout brogue, and sent round under their knees. In the mane time, 
 one stands in the middle ; and after the brogue is sent round, he is to 
 catch it as soon as he can. While he stands there, of coorse, his back 
 must be to some one, and accordingly those that are behind him 
 thump him right and left with the brogue, while he, all the time, is 
 striving to catch it. Whoever he catches this brogue with must stand 
 up in his place, while he sits down where the other had been, and then 
 the play goes on as before. 
 
 " There's another play called the Standing Brogue — where one 
 man gets a brogue of the same kind, and another stands up facing 
 him with his hands locked together, forming an arch turned upside 
 down. The man that houlds the brogue then strikes him with it 
 betune the hands ; and even the smartest fellow receives several pelts 
 before he is able to close his hands and catch it ; but when he does, 
 he becomes brogue-man, and one of the opposite party stands for him 
 until he catches it. The same thing is gone through, from one XQ 
 another, on each side, until it is over. 
 
I04 LARRY M'FARLaND'S WAKE. 
 
 " The next is Fritnsey Ffa7?isey, and is played in this manner — 
 A chair or stool is placed in the middle of the flure, and the luan 
 who manages the play sits down upon it, and calls his sweetheart, 
 or the prettiest girl in the house. She, accordingly, comes forward, 
 and must kiss him. He then rises up, and she sits down. ' Come 
 now,' he says, 'fair maid — Frimsey Framsey, who's your fancy?' 
 She then calls him she likes best, and when the young man she calls 
 comes over and kisses her, he then takes her place, and calls another 
 girl— and so on, smacking away for a couple of hours. Well, it's no 
 wonder that Ireland's full of people ; for I believe they do nothing 
 but coort from the time they're the hoith of my leg. I dunna is it 
 true, as I hear Captain Sloethorn's steward say, that the English- 
 women are so fond of Irishmen?" 
 
 " To be sure, it is," said Shane Fadh ; " don't I remember, myself, 
 when Mr. Fowler went to England — and he as fine-looking a young 
 man, at the time, as ever got into a saddle^ — hp was riding up the 
 street of London, one day, and his servant aftei him — and by the 
 same token he was a thousand pound worse than nothing ; but no 
 matter for that, you see luck was before him — what do you think, but 
 a rich-dressed livery servant came out, and stopping the Squire's man, 
 axed whose servant he was. 
 
 " ' Why, thin,' says Ned Magavran, who was his body servant at 
 the time, 'bad luck to you, you spalpeen, what a question do • -^n ax, 
 and you have eyes in your head ! ' says he — 'hard feeding tc i ! ' 
 says he, ' you vagabone, don't you see I'm my master's ?' 
 
 " The Englishman laughed. ' I know that, Paddy,' says J for 
 they call us all Paddies in England, as if we had only the one me 
 among us, the thieves — ' but I wish to know his name,' sa) ? the 
 Englishman. 
 
 " ' You do ! ' says Ned ; ' and by the powers,' says he, ' but you must 
 first tell me which side of the head you'd wish to hear it an.' 
 
 '" Oh, as for that,' says the Englishman, not up to him, you see, ' I 
 don't care much, Paddy, only let me hear it, and where he lives.' 
 
 " 'Just keep your ground, then,' says Ned, 'till I light off this blood 
 horse of mine ' — he was an ould garron that was fattened up, not 
 worth forty shillings — 'this blood horse of mine,' says Ned, 'and I'll 
 tell you.' 
 
 " So down he gets, and lays the Englishman sprawling in the 
 channel. 
 
 '"Take that, you vagabone,' says he. 'and it'll larn you to call 
 people by their right names agin ; I was christened as well as you, 
 you spalpeen ! ' 
 
 " Ail this time the lady was looking out of the windy, breaking her 
 heart laughing at Ned and the servant ; but, behould, she knew a 
 thing or two, it seems ; for, instead of sending a man, at all at all, 
 what does she do, but sends her own maid, a very purty girl, who 
 comes up to Ned, putting the same question to him. 
 
 " ' What's his name, avournccn ?' says Ned, melting, to be sure, at 
 the sight of her. ' Why, then, darling, who could refuse you anything ?' 
 
LARRY M'FAkLANb*S WAKE. loj 
 
 But, you jewel, by the hoky, you must bribe me, or I'm dumu,' 
 says he. 
 
 '"How could I bribe you?' says she, with a sly smile — for Ned, 
 himself, was a well-looking young fellow at the time. 
 
 " ' I'll show you that,' says Ned, ' if you tell me where you live ; but, 
 for fraid you'd forget it — with them two lips of your own, my darling.' 
 
 "'There in that great house,' says the maid : 'my mistress is one 
 of the beautifuUest and richest young ladies in London, and she wishes 
 to know where your master could be heard of.' 
 
 " ' Is that the house?' says Ned, pointing to it. 
 
 " ' Exactly,' says she ; ' that's it.' 
 
 '"Well, acushla,' says he, 'you've a purty and an innocent-looking 
 face ; but I'm tould there's many a trap in London well baited. Just 
 only run over while I'm looking at you, and let me see that purty face 
 of yours smiling at me out of the windy that that young lady is peeping 
 at us from.' 
 
 " This she had to do. 
 
 "'My master,' thought Ned, while she was away, 'will aisily find 
 out what kind of a house it is, anyhow, if that be it.' 
 
 " In a short time he saw her in the windy, and Ned then gave her 
 a sign to come down to him. 
 
 " ' My master,' says he, ' never was afeard to show his face, or tell his 
 name to anyone — he's a Squire Fowler,' says he — ' a sarjunt-major 
 in a great militia regiment — he shot five men in his time, and there's 
 not a gentleman in the country he lives in that dare say Boo to his 
 blanket. And now, what's your own name-' says Ned, ' you flattering 
 little blackguard, you ? ' 
 
 " ' My name's Betty Cunningham,' says she. 
 
 " 'And, next — what's your mistress's, my darling? ' says Ned. 
 
 " ' There it is,' says she, handing him a card. 
 
 " ' Very well,' says Ned, the thief, looking at it with a great air, 
 making as if he could read — ' this will just do, a colleen bawn.' 
 
 "Do you read in your country with the wrong side of the print up ? ' 
 says she. 
 
 " ' Up or down,' says Ned, 'it's all one to us, in Ireland ; but any- 
 how, I'm left-handed, you deluder ! ' 
 
 " The upshot of it was that her mistress turned out to be a great 
 hairess, and a great beauty, and she and Fowler got married in less 
 than a month. So, you see, it's true enough that the Englishwomen 
 a?-e ior\A of Irishmen,' says Shane; "but Tom, with submission for 
 stopping you — go on with your wake." 
 
 " The next play, then, is Marrying " 
 
 "liooh!" says Andy Morrow — "why all their plays are about 
 kissing and marrying, and the like of that." 
 
 " Surely, and they are, sir," says Tom. 
 
 " It's all the nathur of the baste," says Alick. 
 
 " The next is marrying. A bouchal puts an ould dark coat on him, 
 and if he can borry a wig from any of the ould men in the wake-house, 
 why, well and goc d, he's the liker his work — this is the priest : he 
 
io6 LARky M'PARLAN2)*S tVAk'E. 
 
 takes and drives all the young men out of the house, and shuts the 
 door upon them, so that they can't get in till he lets them. He then 
 ranges the girls all beside one another, and going to the first, i^akes 
 her name him she wishes to be her husband ; this she does, of coorse, 
 and the priest lugs him in, shutting the door upon the rest. He then 
 pronounces a funny marriage sarvice of his own between them, and 
 the husband smacks her first, and then the priest. Well, these two 
 arc married, and he places his wife upon his knee, for fraid of taking 
 up too much room, you persavc : there they coort away again, and 
 why shouldn't they? The priest then goes to the next, and makes her 
 name her husband ; this is complied with, and he is brought in after 
 the same manner, but no one else till they're called : he is then 
 married, and kisses his wife, and the priest kisses her after him : and 
 so they're all married. 
 
 " But if you'd see them that don't chance to be called at all, the 
 figure they cut — slipping into some dark corner, to avoid the mobbing 
 they get from the priest and the others. When they're all united, 
 they must each sing a song — man and wife, according as they sit ; or 
 if they can't sing, or get some one to do it for them, they're divorced. 
 But the priest, himself, usually lilts for anyone that's not able to give 
 a verse. You see, Mr. Morrow, there's always in the neighbourhood 
 some droll fellow that takes all these things upon him, and if ke 
 happens to be absent, the wake would be quite dull." 
 
 '• Well, said Andy Morrow, " have you any more of their sports, 
 Tom?" 
 
 " Ay, have I — one of the best and pleasantest you heard yet." 
 
 " I hope there's no coorting in it," says Nancy ; " God knows we're 
 tired of their kissing and marrying." 
 
 " Were you always so ? " says Ned, across the fire to her. 
 
 " Behave yourself, Ned,'' says she ; " don't you make me spake ; 
 sure you were set down as the greatest Brine-oge that ever was known 
 in the parish, for such things." 
 
 " No, but don't you make me spake, replies Ned. 
 
 "Here, Biddy," said Nancy, "bring that uncle of yours another 
 pint — that's what he wants most at the present time, I'm thinking." 
 
 15iddy, accordingly, complied with this. 
 
 " Don't make me spake," continued Ned. 
 
 " Come, Ned," she replied, " you've a fresh pint now ; so drink it, 
 and give no more gosthcr." ' 
 
 " Shuid-urth I " says Ned, putting the pint to his head, and winking 
 slyly at the rest. 
 
 " Ay, wink ! — in troth I'll be up to you for that, Ned," says Nancy ; 
 by no means satisfied that Ned should enter into particulars. " Well, 
 Tom," said she, diverting the conversation, "go on, and give us the 
 remainder of your wake." 
 
 " Well," says Tom, " the next play is in the milintary line. You see 
 Mr. Morrow, the man that leads the sports places them all on tho,ir 
 
 ' Idle talk — gossip 
 
LARR Y M 'FARLAND 'S WAKE. 10? 
 
 sates — gets from some of the girls a white handkerchief, which he ties 
 round his hat, as you would tie a piece of mourning ; he then walks 
 round them two or three times, singing — 
 
 Will you list and come with me, fair maid ? 
 Will you list and come with me, fair maid ? 
 Will you list and nome wich me, fair maid ? 
 And folly the lad with the white cockade ? 
 
 "When he sings this, he talces off his hat, and puts it on the head of 
 the girl he likes best, who rises up and puts her arms round him, and 
 then they both go about in the same vvay, singing the same words. 
 She then puts the hat on some young man, who gets up, and goes 
 round with them, sinking a> befote. Jie next puts it on the girl he 
 loves best, who, after singing and going round in the same manner, 
 puts it on another, and /le on his sweetheart, and so on. This is called 
 the White Cockade. When it's all over, that is, when every young 
 man has pitched upon the girl that he wishes to be his sweetheart, 
 they sit down, and sing songs, and coort, as they did at the marrying. 
 After this comes the Weds or Fojyiits, ot what they call putting round 
 the button. Every one gives in a forfeit — the boys a pocket handker- 
 chief or a penknife, and the girls a neck handkerchief or something 
 that way. The forfeit is held over them, and each of them stoops in 
 turn. They are then compelled to command the person that owns 
 that forfeit to sing a song — to kiss such and such a girl — or to 
 carry some ould man, with his legs about their neck, three times 
 round the house, and this last is always great fun. Or, maybe, a 
 young upsetting fellow will be sent to kiss some toothless, slavering 
 ould woman, just to punish him ; or, if a young woman is any way 
 saucy, she'll have to kiss some ould withered fellow, his tongue 
 hanging with age halfway down his chin, and the tobacco water 
 trinckling from each corner of his mouth. 
 
 " By jingo, many a time, when the friends of the corpse would be 
 breaking their very hearts with grief and affliction, I have seen them 
 obligated to laugh out, in spite of themselves, at the drollery of the 
 priest, with his ould black coat and wig upon him ; and when the 
 laughing fit would be over, to see them rocking theniselves again with 
 the sorrow — so sad. The best man for managing such sports in this 
 neighbourhood, for many a year, was Roger M'Cann, that lives up as 
 you go to the mountains. You wouldn't begrudge to go ten miles, the 
 cowldest winter night that ever blew, to see and hear Roger. 
 
 " There's another play, that they call the Priest of the Parish, which 
 is remarkably pleasant. One of the boys gets a wig upon himself, as 
 before — goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, calls one 
 his Man Jack, and says to each, ' What will you be ? ' One answers, 
 ' I'll be black cap J another ''redcap^ and so on. He then says, 'The 
 priest of tne parish has lost his considhering cap — some say this, and 
 some say that, but I say my man Jack ! ' Man Jack, then, to put it 
 off himself, says, * Is it me, sir?' 'Yes, you, sir!' 'You lie, sir!' 
 Who then, sir?' * Black Cap ! If Black Cap, then, doesn't say, 
 
Io8 LARRY M'FARLAND'S WAKE. 
 
 ' Is it me, sir?' before the priest has time to call him, he must put his 
 hand on his ham, and get a pelt of the brogue. A body must be 
 supple with the tongue in it. 
 
 " After this comes one they calls Ho7-ns, or the Painter. A droll 
 fellow gets a lump of soot or lampblack, and after fixing a ring of the 
 boys and girls about him, he lays his two forefingers on his knees and 
 says, * Horns, horns, cow horns !' ar.d then raises his fingers by a jerk 
 up above his head ; the boys and girls in the ring then do the same 
 tiling, for the meaning of the play is this :- the man with the black'ning 
 always raises his fingers every time he names an animal ; but if he 
 names any t hat has no horns, and that the others jerk up their 
 fingers then, they must get a stroke over the face with the soot. 
 ' Horns, horns, goat horns I'^then he ups with his fingers like light- 
 ning ; they must all do the same, bekase a goat /las horns. ' Horns, 
 horns, horse horns !' — he ups with them again, but the boys and girls 
 ought not, bekase a horse has not horns ; however anyone who raises 
 i/ien gets a slake. So that it all comes to this : — Anyone, you see, 
 that lifts his fingers when an animal is named that has tio horns — or 
 anyone that does not raise them when a baste is mintioned that has 
 horns, will get a mark. It's a purty game, and requires a keen eye 
 and a quick hand ; and, maybe, there's not fun in straikingthe soot over 
 the purty, warm, rosy checks of the colleens, while their eyes are 
 dancing with delight in their heads, and their sweet breath comes over 
 so pleasant about one's face, the darlings ! — Och, och ! 
 
 " There's another game they call The Silly Oiild Ma.:, that's played 
 this way : — A ring of the boys and girls is made on the flure — boy and 
 girl about — houlding one another by their hands; well and good — a 
 young fellow gets into the middle of the ring, as ' the silly ould man.' 
 There he stands looking at all the girls to choose a wife, and, in the 
 manctime, the youngsters of the ring sing out — 
 
 Here's a silly ould man that lies alone, 
 
 That hes all alone, 
 
 That lies all alone ; 
 Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone, 
 He wants a wife, and he can get none. 
 
 " When the boys and girls sing this, the silly ould man must choose 
 a wife from some of the colleens belonging to the ring. Having made 
 choice of her, she goes into the ring along with him, and they all sing 
 out — 
 
 Now, young couple, you're married together, 
 You're married tog^ether. 
 You're married together, 
 Vou must obey your father and mother, 
 And love one another like sister and brother— 
 I pray, young couple, you'll kiss together 1 
 
 And you may be sure this part of the marriage is not missed, any 
 way." 
 
 " I doubt," said Andy Morrow, " that good can't come of so much 
 kissing, marrying, and coorting." 
 
LARRY M 'FA RLA ND'S WA KE. 109 
 
 The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and gave a significant 
 ^loan. 
 
 " Be dhe hustli^ hould your tongue, Misther Morrow," said he. 
 •■ Biddy, avourneen," he continued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, " and 
 Bessy, alannah, just take a friend's advice, and never mind goirg to 
 wakes ; to be sure there's pUnty of fun and divarsion at such places, 
 but — healths apiece ! " putting the pint to his lips — " and that's all I 
 say about it." 
 
 " Right enough Tom," observed Shane Fadh — " sure most of the 
 matches are planned at them, and, I may say, most of the runaways 
 too— poor young foolish crathurs, going off, and getting themselves 
 married ; then bringing small, helpless families upon their hands, 
 without money or manes to begin the world with, and afterwards 
 likely to eat one another out of the face for their folly. However; 
 there's no putting ould heads upon young shoulders, and I doubt, 
 except the wakes are stopped altogether, that itll be the ould case 
 still." 
 
 " I never remember being at a counthry wake," said Andy Morrow. 
 " How is everything laid out in the house ? " 
 
 " Sure it's to you I'm telling the whole story, Mr. Morrow : these 
 thieves about me here know all about it as well as I do — the house, 
 eh .'' Why, you see, the two corpses were stretched beside one another, 
 washed and laid out. There were long deal boords, with their ends 
 upon two stools, laid over the bodies ; the boords were covered with 
 a white sheet got at the big house, so the corpses weren't to be seen. 
 On these, again, were placed large mould candles, plates of cut to- 
 bacco, pipes, and snuff, and so on. Sometimes corpses are waked in 
 a bed, with their faces visible : when that is the case, white sheets and 
 crosses are pinned up about the bed, except in the front ; but when 
 they're undher boord, a set of ould women sit smoking and rocking 
 themselves from side to side, quite sorrowful — these are keejicrs — 
 friends or relations ; and when everyone connected with the dead 
 comes in, they raise the keene, like a sotig of sorrow, wailing and clap- 
 ping their hands. 
 
 " The furniture is mostly removed, and sates made round the walls, 
 where the neighbours sit smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The 
 best of aiting and dhrinking that they can afford is provided ; and, 
 indeed, there is generally open house, for it's unknown how people injure 
 themselves by their kindness and waste at christ'nings, weddings and 
 wakes. 
 
 " In regard to poor Larry's wake — we had all this, and more at it ; 
 for, as I obsarved a while agone, the man had made himself no friends 
 when he was living, and the neighbours gave a loose to all kinds of 
 ■livilment when he was dead. Although there's no man would be 
 guilty of any disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person has 
 Jed a good life, and conducted themselves dacently and honestly, the 
 j'oung people of the neighbourhood show their respect by going 
 
 ' The translation follows it above. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 through their little plays and divarsions quieter and with less noise, 
 lest they may give any offince ; but, as I said, whenever the person didn't 
 live as they ought to do, there's no stop to their noise and rollokiti} 
 
 " When it drew near morning, everyone of us took his sweetheart, 
 and, after convoying her home, went to our own houses, to get a little 
 sleep. So that was the end of poor Larry M'Farland, and his wife 
 Sally Lowry." 
 
 "Success, Tom!" said Bill M'Kinny ; "take a pull of the mall 
 now, afther the story, your soul ! But what was the funeral like ?" 
 
 " Why, then, a poor berrin it was," said Tom ; " a miserable sight, 
 God knows — ^just a few of the neighbours ; for those that used to take 
 his thrate, and, while he had a shilling in his pocket, blarney him up, 
 not one of the skulking thieves showed their faces at it — a good 
 warning to foolish men that throw their money down throaths that 
 haven't hearts anundhcr them. But, boys, / desarve another thraie, I 
 think, afther my story ! " 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 (Composed into Narrative by a Hedge Schoolmaster.) 
 
 Y grandfather, Connor O'Callaghan, though a tall, erect man, 
 with white flowing hair, like snow, that falls profusely about 
 his broad shoulders, is now in his eighty-third year ; an 
 amazing age, considhering his former habits. His countenance is 
 still marked with honesty and traces of hard fighting, and his cheeks 
 ruddy and cudgel-worn ; his eyes, though not as black as they used 
 to be, have lost very little of that nate fire which characterises the 
 eyes of the O'Callaghans, and for which I myself have been — but my 
 modesty won't allow me to allude to that : let it be sufficient for the 
 present to say that there never was remembered so handsome a man 
 in his native pari-^h, and that I am as like him as one Cork-red phatie 
 is to another : indeed, it has been often said that it would be hard to 
 meet an O'Callaghan without a black eye in his head. He has lost 
 his forc-tceth, however, a point in which, unfortunately, I, though his 
 grandson, have a strong resemblance to him. The truth is, they were 
 knocked out of him in rows, before he had reached his thirty-fifth 
 year— a circumstance which the kind reader will be pleased to receive 
 m extenuation for the same defect in myself. That, however, is but 
 a trifli?, which never gave cither of us much trouble. 
 
 "Jt pleased rrovidence to bring us through many hair-breadth 
 
 1 Lpioaiiuusness. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 escapes with our craniums uncracked ; and when we considher that 
 he, on taking a retrogadation of his past life, can indulge in the 
 plasing recollection of having broken two skulls in his fighting days, 
 and myself one, I think we have both rason to be thankful. He was 
 a powerful bulliah batthagh in his day, and never met a man able to 
 fight him, except big Mucklemurray, who stood before him the greater 
 part of an hour and a half, in the fair of Knockimdowney, on the day 
 that the first great fight took place — twenty years afther the hard 
 frost — between the O'Callaghans and the O'Hallaghans. The two 
 men fought single hands — for both factions were willing to let thern 
 try the engagement out, that they might see what side could boast of 
 having the best man. They began where you enter the north side of 
 Knockimdowney, and fought saccessfully up to the other end, then 
 back again to the spot where they commenced, and afterwards up to 
 the middle of the town, right opposite to the market-place, where my 
 grandfather, by the same-a-token, lost a grinder ; but he soon took 
 satisfaction for that, by giving Mucklemurray a tip above the eye 
 with the end of an oak stick, dacently loaded with lead, which made 
 the poor man feel very quare entirely, for tbe few days that he sur- 
 vived it. 
 
 " Faith, if an Irishman happened to be born in Scotland, he would 
 find it mighty inconvanient — afther losing two or three grinders in a 
 row — to manage the hard oaten bread that they use there ; for which 
 rason, God be good to his sovvl that first invented the phaties, any- 
 how, because a man can masticate them without a tooth at all at all. 
 I'll engage, if larned books were consulted, it would be found out that 
 he was an Irishman. I wonder that neither Pastorini nor Columbkill 
 mentions anything about him in their prophecies consarning the 
 church ; for my own part, I'm strongly inclinated to believe that it 
 must have been Saint Patrick himself ; and I think that his driving 
 all kinds of venemous reptiles out of the kingdom is, according to the 
 Socrastic method of argument, an undeniable proof of it. The subject, 
 to a dead certainty, is not touched upon in the Brehone Code, nor by 
 any of the three Psalters, which is extremely odd, seeing that the 
 earth never produced a root equal to it in the multiplying force ol 
 prolification. It is, indeed, the root of prosperity to a fighting people : 
 and many a time my grandfather boasts, to this day, that the first bit 
 of bread he ever ett was a phatie. 
 
 " In mentioning my grandfather's fight with Mucklemurray, I 
 happened to name them blackguards, the O'Hallaghans : hard fortune 
 to the same set, for they have no more discretion in their quarrels 
 than so many Egyptian mummies, African buffoons, or any other 
 uncivilised animals. It was one of them, he that's married to my 
 own fourth cousin, Biddy O'Callaghan, that knocked two of my 
 grinders out, for which piece of civility 1 have just had the satisfaction 
 of breaking a splinter or two in his carcase, being always honestly 
 disposed to pay my debts. 
 
 *' With r_-spect to the O'Hallaghans, they and our family have been 
 next neighbours since before the flood— and that's as g\)od as two 
 
112 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 hundred years; for I believe it's i98,anyhow, since my great grandfather's 
 grand-uncle's ould mare was swept out of the ' Island,' in the dead of 
 the night, about half an hour after the whole country had been ris out 
 of their beds by the thunder and lightning. Many a field of oats, ar>4 
 many a life, both of beast and Christian, was lost in it, especially 
 of those that lived on the holmes about the edge of the river : hnd it 
 was true for them that said it came before something ; for the next 
 year was one of the hottest :iummers ever remembered in Ire- 
 land. 
 
 " These O'Hallaghans couldn't be at peace with a saint. Before 
 they and our faction began to quarrel, it's said that the O'ConncUs, 
 or Connells, and they had been at it — and a blackguard set the same 
 O'Connell's were, at all times— in fair and market, dance, wake, and 
 beiTin, setting the country on fire. Whenever they met, it was heads 
 cracked and bones broken ; till by degrees the O'Connells fell away, 
 one after another, from fighting, accidents, and hanging ; so that 
 at last there was hardly the name of one of them in the neighbour- 
 hood. The O'Hallaghans, after this, had the country under them- 
 selves — were the cocks of the walk entirely — who but they .'' A man 
 darn't look crooked at them, or he was certain of getting his head in 
 his fist. And when they'd get drunk in a fair, it was nothing but 
 ' Whoo ! for the O'Hallaghans ! ' and leaping yards high off the pave- 
 ment, brandishing their cudgels over their heads, striking their heels 
 against their hams, tossing up their hats ; and when all would fail, 
 they'd strip off their coats, and trail them up and down the street, 
 shouting, ' Who dare touch the coat of an O'Hallaghan ? Where's the 
 blackguard Connells now 1 " — and so on, till flesh and blood couldn't 
 stand it. 
 
 "In the course of time, the whole ccmntry was turned against them ; 
 for no crowd could get together in Avhich they didn't kick up a row, 
 nor a bit of stray fighting couldn't be, but they'd pick it up first — and 
 if a man would venture to give them a contrairy answer, he was sure 
 to get the crame of a good welting for his pains. The very landlord 
 was timorous of them ; for when they'd get behind in their rint, hard 
 fortune to the bailiff, or proctor, or steward, he could find, that would 
 nave anything to say to them. And the more wise they ; for, maybe, 
 a month would hardly pass till all belonging to them in the world 
 would be in a heap of ashes : and who could say who did it ? for they 
 were as cunning as foxes. 
 
 "If one of them wanted a wife, it was nothing but find out the 
 purtiest and richest farmer's daughter in the neighbourhood, and next 
 march into her father's house, at the dead hour of night, tie and gag 
 every mortal in it, and off with htr to some friend's place in another 
 part of the country. Then what could be done ? If the girl's parents 
 didn't like to give in, their daughter's name was sure to be ruined ; at 
 all events, no other man would think of marrying her, and the only 
 plan was to make the worst of a bad bargain ; and God he knows, it 
 was making a bad bargain for a girl to have any matrimonial con- 
 catenation with the same O'Hallaghans ; for they always had the bad 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. Hj 
 
 drop in them, from first to last, from big to little— the blackguards 1 
 But wait, it's not over with them yet. 
 
 " The bone of contintion that got between them ami our faction 
 was this circumstance ; their lands and ours were divided by a river 
 that ran down from the high mountains of Sliew Boglish, and after a 
 coorse of eight or ten miles, disembogued itself — first into George 
 Duffy's mill-dam, and afterwards into that superb stream, the Black- 
 water, that might be well and appropriately appellated the Irish Niger. 
 This river, which, though small at first, occasionally inflated itself to 
 such a gigantic altitude that it swept away cows, corn, and cottages, 
 or whatever else happened to be in the way — was the march-ditch, or 
 merin between our farms. Perhaps it is worth while remarking, as a 
 solution for natural philosophers, that these inundations were much 
 more frequent in winter than in summer— though, when they did occur 
 in summer, they were truly terrific. 
 
 " God be with the days, when I and half a dozen gorsoons used to 
 go out, of a warm Sunday in summer — the bed of the river nothing 
 but a line of white meandering stones, so hot that you could hardly 
 stand upon them, with a small obscure thread of water creeping 
 invisibly among them, hiding itself, as it were, from the scorching sun 
 — except here and there that you might find a small crystal pool where 
 the streams had accumulated. Our plan was to bring a pocketful of 
 roche lime with us, and put it into the pool, when all the fish used to 
 rise on the instant to the surface, gasping with open mouth for fresh 
 air, and we had only to lift them out of the water ; a nate plan, which, 
 perhaps, might be adopted successfully on a more extensive scale by 
 the Irish fisheries. Indeed, I almost regret that I did not remain in 
 that station of life, for I was much happier than ever I was since I 
 began to study and practice larning. But this is vagating from the 
 subject. 
 
 *' Well, then, I have said that them O'Hallaghans lived beside us, 
 and that this stream divided our lands. About half a quarter — i.e. to 
 accommodate myself to the vulgar phraseology — or, to speak more 
 scientifically, one-eighth of a mile from our house, was as purty a 
 hazel glen as you'd wish to see, near half a mile long — its develop- 
 ments and proportions were truly classical. In the bottom of this 
 glen was a small green island, about twelve yards, diametrically, of 
 Irish admeasurement, that is to say, be the same more or less — at all 
 events, it lay in the way of the river, which, however, ran towards the 
 O'Hallaghan side, and, consequently, the island was our property. 
 
 " Now, you'll observe, that this river had been, for ages, the merin 
 between the two farms, for they both belonged to separate landlords, 
 and so long as it kept the O'Hallaghan side of the little peninsula in 
 question, there could be no dispute about it, for all was clear. One 
 wet winter, however, it seemed to change its mind upon the subject ; 
 for it wrought and wore away a passage for itself on our side of the 
 island, and by that means took part, as it were, with the O'Hallaghans, 
 leaving the territory which had been our property for centhries, in 
 their possession. This was a vexatious change to us, and, indeed, 
 
114 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 eventually produced very feudal consequences. No sooner had the 
 stream changed sides, than the O'Hallaghans claimed the island as 
 theirs, according to their tenement ; and we, having had it for such 
 length of time in our possession, could not break ourselves of the 
 habitude of occupying it. They incarcerated our cattle, and we incar- 
 cerated theirs. They summoned us to their landlord, who was a 
 magistrate ; and we summoned them to ours, who was another. The 
 verdicts were north and south. Their landlord gave it in favour of 
 them, and ours in favour of us. The one said he had law on his side ; 
 the other, that he had proscription and possession, length of time and 
 usage. 
 
 "The two Squires then fought a challenge upon the head of it, and 
 what was more singular, upon the disputed spot itself; the one standing 
 on their side — the other on ours ; for it was just twelve paces every 
 way. Thtir friend was a small, light man, with legs like drumsticks ; 
 the other was a large, able-bodied gentleman, with a red face and 
 hooked nose. They exchanged two shots, one only of which — the 
 second — took effect. It pastured upon their landlord's spindle leg, on 
 which he held it out, exclaiming, that while he lived he would never 
 tight another challenge with his antagonist, ' because,' said he, looking 
 at his own spindle shank, ' the man who could hit iliat could hit any- 
 
 " We then were advised, by an attorney, to go to law with ihcm ; 
 and they were advised by another attorney to go to law with us : 
 accordingly, we did so, and in the course of eight or nine years it 
 might have been decided ; but just as the legal term approximated 
 in which the decision was to be announced, the river divided itself 
 with mathematical exactitude on each side of the island. This altered 
 the state and law of the question in toto ; but, in the meantime, both 
 we and the O'Hallaghans were nearly fractured by the expenses. 
 Now during the lawsuit, we usually houghed and mutilated each 
 other's cattle, according as they trespassed the premises. This 
 brought on the usual concomitants of various battles, fought and won 
 by both sides, and occasioned the lawsuit to be dropped ; for we 
 found it a mighty inconvanicnt matter to fight it out both ways — by 
 the same a-token that I think it a great proof of stultity to go to law 
 at all at all, as long as a person is able to take it into his own manage- 
 ment. For the only incongruity in the matter is this : — that, in tlie 
 one case, a set of lawyers have the law in their hands, and, in the 
 other, that you have it \x\. your 07vn — that's the only diftercncc, and 'tis 
 easy knowing where the advantage lies. 
 
 " We, however, paid the most of the expenses, and would have ped 
 them all w'.ih the greatest integrity, were it not that our attorney, when 
 about to issue an execution against our property, happened somehow 
 to be shot, one evening, as he returned home from a dinner which was 
 given by him that was attorney for the O'Hallaghans. Many a boast 
 the O'Hallaghans made, before the quarrelling between us and them 
 commenced, that they'd sweep the streets with the/W^/zV/.-T- O'Calla- 
 ghans, which was an epithet that was occasionally applied to our 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 115 
 
 family. We differed, however, materially from them ; for w were 
 tionourable, never starting out in dozens on a single man or twj, and 
 beating him into insignificance. A couple, or maybe, when irritated, 
 three, were the most we ever set at a single enf^.my ; and, if we left 
 him lying in a state of imperception, it was the most we ever did, 
 except in a regular confliction, when a man is jusufied in saving his 
 own skull by breaking one of an opposite faction. For the truth of 
 the business is, that he who breaks the skull of him who ei. deavours to 
 break his own, is safest ; and, surely, when a man is driven to such 
 an alternative, the choice is unhesitating. 
 
 " O'Hallaghans' attorney, however, had better luck : they were, it 
 is true, rather in the retrograde with him touching the law charges, 
 and, of coorse, it was only candid in him to look for his own. One 
 morning he found that two of his horses had been executed by some 
 incendiary unknown, in the course of the night ; and, on going to look 
 at them, he found a taste of a notice posted on the inside of the stable 
 door, giving him intelligence that if he did not find a Jiorpus corpus 
 whereby to transfer his body out of the country, he would experience 
 a fate parallel to that of his brother lawyer or the horses. And, un- 
 doubtedly, if honest people never perpetrated worse than banishing 
 such varmin, along with proctors, and drivers of all kinds, out of a 
 civilised country, they would not be so very culpable or atrocious. 
 
 " After this, the lawyer went to reside in Dublin ; and the only 
 bodily injury he received was the death of a land-agent and a bailiff, 
 who lost their lives faithfully in driving for rent. They died, however, 
 successfully ; the bailiff having been provided for nearly a year before 
 the agent was sent to give an account of his stewardship — as the 
 authorised version has it. 
 
 " The occasion on which the first rencounter between us and the 
 O'Hallaghans took place, was a peaceable one. Several of our 
 respective friends undertook to produce a friendly and oblivious 
 potation between us— it was at a berrin belonging to a corpse who was 
 jelated to us both ; and, certainly in the beginning, we were all as 
 thick as whigged milk. But there is no use now in dwelling too long 
 upon that circumstance : let it be sufficient to assert that the 
 accommodation was effectuated by fists and cudgels, on both sides^ 
 the first man that struck a blow being one of the friends that wished 
 to bring about the tranquillity. From that out, the play commenced, 
 and God he knows when it may end ; for no dacent faction could give 
 in to another faction, without losing their character, and being kicked, 
 and cuffed, and kilt, every week in the year. 
 
 " It is the great battle, however, which I am after going to describe ; 
 that in which we and the O'Hallaghans had contrived, one way or 
 other, to have the parish divided — one half for them, and the other for 
 us ; and, upon my credibility, it is no exaggeiation to declare that 
 the whole parish, though ten miles by six, assembled itself in the town 
 of Knockimdowney upon this interesting occasion. In thruth, 
 Ireland ought to be a land of mathemathitians ; for I'm sure her 
 population is well trained, at all events, in the two sciences 01 multi- 
 
Il6 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 plication and division. Before I adventure, however, upon the 
 narration, I must wax pathetic a little, and then proceed with the 
 main body of the stor)\ 
 
 "Poor Rose O'Hallaghan ! — or, ar> she was designated — Rose Gali, 
 or Fair Rose, and sometimes simply Rose Hallaj;han, because the 
 detention of the big O would produce an afflatus in the pronunciation 
 that would be mighty inconvanient to such as did not understand 
 oratory — besides that, the Irish are rather fond of sending the 
 liquids in a guttheral direction — Poor Rose ! that faction Jight 
 was a black day to her, the sweet innocent ! when it was well known 
 that there wasn't a man, woman, or child, on either side, that 
 wouldn't lay their hands under her feet. However, in order to 
 insense the reader better into her character, I will commence a small 
 sub-narration, which will afterwards emerge into the parent stream of 
 the story. 
 
 " The chapel of Knockimdowney is a slated house, without any 
 ornament, except a set of wooden cuts, painted red and blue, that are 
 placed seriatim around the square of the building in the internal side. 
 Fourteen of these suspend at equal distances on the walls, each set in 
 a painted frame ; these constitute a certain species of country devotion. 
 It is usual on Sundays for such of the congregations as are most 
 inclined to piet}', to genuflect at the first of these pictures, and com- 
 mence a certain number of prayers to it ; after the repitition of which, 
 they travel on their knees along the bare earth to the second, where 
 they repate another prayer peculiar to tliat, and so on, till they finish 
 the grand tower of the interior. Such, however, as are not especially 
 dictated to this kind of locomotive prayer, collect together in various 
 knots, through the chapel, and areuse themselves by auditing or 
 narrating anecdotes, discussmg policy, or detraction ; and in case it 
 be summer, and a day of a fine texture, they scatter themselves into 
 little crowds on the chapel-green, or lie at their length upon the grass 
 in listless groups, giving way to chat and laughter. 
 
 " In this mode, laired on the sunny side of the ditches and hedges, 
 or collected in rings round that respectable character, the Academician 
 of the village, or some other well-known S/iaaa/ias, or story-teller, 
 they amuse themselves till the priest's arrival. Perhaps, too, some 
 walking geographer of a pilgrim may happen to be present ; and if 
 there be, he is sure to draw a crowd about him, in spite of all the 
 efforts of the learned Academician to the reverse. It is no unusual 
 thing to see such a vagrant, m all the vanity of conscious sanctimony, 
 standing in the middle of the attentive peasants, like the knave and 
 fellows of a cart-wheel — if I may be permitted the loan of an apt 
 similitude — repeating some piece of unfathomable and labyrinthine 
 devotion, or perhaps warbling, from Stcnthorian lungs, some melodia 
 sacra, in an untranslateabie tongue ; or, it may be, exhibiting the 
 mysterious power of an ambv':r bade, fastened as a decade to his 
 paudareensy lifting a chaff or light bit of straw by the force of its 
 attraction. This is an exploit which causes many an eye to turn from 
 the bades to his own bearded face, with a hope, as it were, of being 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. tl? 
 
 able to catch a glimpse of the lurking sanctimony by which the knave 
 hoaxes them in the miraculous. 
 
 " The amusements of the females are also nearly auch as I have 
 drafted out. Nosegays of the darlings might be seen sated on green 
 banks, or sauntering about with a sly intention of coming in compact 
 with their sweethearts, or, like bachelor's buttons in smiling rows, 
 criticising the young men as they pass. Others of them might be seen 
 screened behind a hedge, with their backs to the spectators, taking the 
 papers off their curls before a small bit of looking-glass placed against 
 the ditch ; or perhaps putting on their shoes and stockings — which 
 phrase can be used only by authority of the figure, heiisteron pt-oteron 
 — inasmuch as if they put on the shoes first, you persave, it would 
 be a scientific job to get on the stockings after ; but it's an idiomatical 
 expression, and therefore justifiable. However, it's a general custom 
 in the country, which I dare to say has not yet spread into large cities, 
 for the young women to walk barefooted to the chapel, or within a 
 short distance of it, that they may exhibit their bleached thread stock- 
 ings and well-greased slippers to the best advantage, not pertermitting 
 a well-turned ancle, and neat leg, which, I may fearlessly assert, my 
 fair countrywomen can show against any other nation living or dead. 
 
 " One sunny Sabbath the congregation of Knockimdowney were 
 thus assimilated, amusing themselves in the manner I have just out- 
 lined : a series of country girls sat on a little green mount, called the 
 Rabbit Bank, from the circumstance of its having been formerly an 
 open burrow, though of late years it has been closed. It was near 
 twelve o'clock, the hour at which Father Luke O'Shaughran was 
 generally seen topping the rise of the hill at Larry MuHigan's public- 
 house, jogging on his bay hack at something between a walk and a 
 trot — that IS to say, his horse moved his fore and hind legs on the off 
 side at one motion, and the fore and hind legs of the near side in 
 another, going at a kind of dog's trot, like the pace of an idiot with 
 sore feet in a shower — a pace, indeed, to which the animal had been 
 set for the last sixteen years, but beyond which, no force, or entreaty, 
 or science, or power, either divine or human, of his reverence, could 
 drive him. As yet, however, he had not become apparent ; and the 
 girls already mentioned were discussing the pretensions which several 
 of their acquaintances had to dress or beauty. 
 
 " ' Peggy,' said Katty Carroll to her companion, Peggy Donohoe, 
 'were you otit last Sunday ?' 
 
 " ' No, in troth, Katty, I was disappointed in getting my shoes from 
 Paddy Malone, though 1 left him the measure of my foot three weeks 
 agone, and gave him a thousand warnings to make them diick-nebs . 
 but instead of that,' said she, holding out a very purty foot, ' he has 
 made them as sharp in the toe as a pick-axe, and a full mile too short 
 for me : but why do ye ax was I out, Katty ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, nothing,' responded Katly, ' only that you missed a sight, any- 
 way.' 
 
 *' ' What was it Katty, a-hagur ?' asked her companion with mighty 
 great curiosity. 
 
1x8 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 "' Why, nothing less, indeed, nor Rose Cuillenan, decked out in a 
 white muslin gown, and a black sprush bonnet, tied under her chin 
 wid a silk ribbon, no less : but what killed us, out and out, was — you 
 wouldn't guess ?' 
 
 "'Arrah, how could I guess, woman alive? A silk handkerchy, 
 maybe ; for I wouldn't doubt the same Rose, but she would be setting 
 herself up for the likes of sich a thing.' 
 
 " ' It's herself that had, as red as scarlet, about her neck ; but that's 
 not it.' 
 
 " ' Arrah, Katty, tell it to us at wanst ; out with it, a-hagur ; sure 
 there's no treason in it, anyhow.' 
 
 " ' Why, thin, nothing less nor a crass-bar red and white pocket- 
 hnndkerchy, to wipe her pretty complexion wid ! ' 
 
 " To this Peggy replied by a loud laugh, in which it was difficult 
 to say whether there was more of sathir than astonishment. 
 
 "'A pocket-handkerchy !' she exclaimed; ' musha, are we alive 
 afther that, at all at all ! Why, that bates Molly M'Cullagh, and her 
 red mantle entirely; I'm sure, but it's well come up for the likes of 
 her, a poor imperint crathur, that's sprung from nothing, to give her- 
 self sich airs.' 
 
 " ' Molly M'Cullagh, indeed,' said Katty ; ' why, they oughtn't to be 
 mintioned in the one day, woman ; Molly's come of a dacent ould 
 stock, and kind mother for her to keep herself in genteel ordher at all 
 times ; she seen nothing else, and can afford it, not all as one as the 
 oihcrjlipe, that would go to the world's end for a bit of dress.' 
 
 "'Sure she thinks she's a beauty too, if you plase;' said Peggy, 
 tossing her head with an air of disdain ; ' but tell us, Katty, how did 
 the muslin sit upon her at all, the upsetting crathur ? ' 
 
 "'Why, for all the world like a shift on a May-powl, or a stocking 
 on a body's nose : only nothmg killed us outright but the pockci- 
 handkerchy ! ' 
 
 '" But,' said the other, 'what could we expect from a proud piece 
 like her, that brings a ManwilP to mass every Sunday, purtending she 
 can read in it, and Jem Finigan saw the wrong side of the book toards 
 her, the Sunday of the Purcession /' 
 
 " At this hit they both formed another risible junction, quite as 
 sarcastic as the former — in the midst of which the innocent object of 
 their censure, dressed in all her obnoxious finery, came up and joined 
 them. She was scarcely sated — I blush to the very point of my pen 
 during the manuscription— when the confabulation assumed a character 
 directly antipodial to that which marked the precedent dialogue. 
 
 " ' My gracious, Rose, but that's a purty thing you have got in your 
 gown ! where did you buy it ? ' 
 
 " ' Och, thin, not a one of myself likes it over much. I'm sorry I 
 didn't buy a gingham ; I could have got a beautiful patthern, all out, 
 for two shillings less : but they don't wash so well as this. I bought 
 it in Paddy Gartland's, Peggy.' 
 
 ' Manual— a Catholic prayer-book. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. II9 
 
 "'Troth, it's nothing else but a great beauty ; I didn't see ai.ything 
 on you this long time becomes you so well, and I've r^^narked that 
 you always look best in white.' 
 
 " ' Who made it. Rose,' inquired Katty, ' for it sits illegant ?* 
 
 "' Indeed,' replied Rose, 'for the differ of the price, I thought it 
 better to bring it to Peggy Boyle, and be sartin of not having it 
 spoiled. Nelly Keenan made the last, and although there was a full 
 breadth more in it nor this, bad cess to the one of her but spoiled it 
 on me ; it was ever so much too short in the body, and too tight in the 
 sleeves, and then I had no step at all at all.' 
 
 " ' The sprush bonnet is exactly the fit for the gown,' observed 
 Katty ; 'the black and the white's jist the cut — how many yards had 
 you, Rose ?' 
 
 " ' Jist ten and a half ; but the half-yard was for the tucks.' 
 
 " ' Ay, faix ! and brave full tucks she left in it ; ten would do 7ne, 
 Rose ? ' 
 
 " ' Ten ! no nor ten and a half; you're a size bigger nor me at the 
 laste, Peggy ; but you'd be asy fitted, you're so wt^ll made.' 
 
 " ' Rose, darling,' said Peggy, * that's a great beauty, and shows off 
 your complexion all to pieces : you have no notion how well you look 
 in it and the sprush.' 
 
 " In a few minutes after this, her namesake, Rose Galh O'Hallaghan, 
 came towards the chapel, in society with her father, mother, and her 
 two sisters. The eldest, Mary, was about twenty-one ; Rose, who was 
 the second, about nineteen, or scarcely that ; and Nancy, the junior 
 of the three, about twice seven. 
 
 " ' There's the O'Hallaghans,' says Rose. 
 
 '" Ay,' replied Katty ; 'you may talk of beauty, now ; did you ever 
 lay your two eyes on the likes of Rose for downright — musha if myself 
 knows what to call it — but, anyhow, she's the lovely crathur to look 
 at.' 
 
 " Kind reader, without a single disrespectful insinuation against any 
 portion of the fair sex, you may judge what Rose O'Hallaghan must 
 have been, when even these three were necessitated to praise her in her 
 absence. 
 
 "'I'll warrant,' observed Katty, 'we'll soon be after seeing John 
 O'Callaghan' (he was my own cousin) sthrolling afther them, at his 
 ase.' 
 
 " 'Why,' asked Rose, * what makes you say that ! ' 
 
 " ' Bekase,' replied the other, ' I have a rason for it.' 
 
 " ' Sure, John O'Callaghan wouldn't be thinking of her,' observed 
 Rose, ' and their families would see other shot ; their factions would 
 never have a crass marriage, anyhow.' 
 
 " ' W^ell,' said Peggy, ' it's the thousand pities that the same two 
 couldn't go together : for, fair and handsome as Rose is, you'll not 
 deny but John comes up to her : but faix, sure enough it's they that's 
 the proud people on both sides, and dangerous to make or meddle 
 with, not saying that ever there was the likes of the same two for 
 dacency and peaceableness among either of the factions.' 
 
f20 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 "'Didn't I tell yecs?* cried Katty ; 'look at him now, staling 
 afthcr her, and it'll be the same \\\\x\'^ going home agin ; and if Rose 
 is not much belied, it's not a bit displasing to her, they say.' 
 
 " ' Between ourselves,' observed Peggy, ' it would be no wondher 
 the darling young crathur would fall in love with him, for you might 
 thravel the counthry afore you'd meet with his fellow for face and 
 figure.' 
 
 " ' There's Father Ned,' remarked Katty ; ' we had bctther /ct into 
 the chapel before the scroodgcn comes an, or your bonnet and gown, 
 Rose, won't be the betther for it.' 
 
 " They now proceeded to the chapel, and those who had been 
 amusing themselves after the same mode, followed their exemplar. 
 In a short time the hedges and ditches adjoining the chapel were quite 
 in solitude, with the exception of a few persons from the extreme parts 
 of the parish, who might be seen running with all possible velocity 
 ' to overtake mass,' as the phrase on that point expresses itself. 
 
 " The chapel of Knockimdowney was situated at the foot of a range 
 of lofty mountains ; a by-road went past the very door, which had 
 under subjection a beautiful extent of cultivated country, diversificated 
 by hill and dale, or rather by hill and hollow ; for as far as niy own 
 geographical knowledge went, I have uniformly found them insepar- 
 able. It was also ornamented with the waving verdure of rich corn- 
 fields and meadows, not pretermitting phatie-fields in full blossom — 
 a part of rural landscape which, to my utter astonishment, has escaped 
 the pen of poet and tiie brush of painter ; although I will risque my 
 reputation as a man of pure and categorical taste, if a finer ingredient 
 in the composition of a landscape could be found than a field of 
 Cork-red phaties, or Moroky blacks in full bloom, allowing a man to 
 judge by the pleasure they confer upon the eye, and therefore to the 
 heart. About a mile up from the chapel, towards the south, a moun- 
 tain-stream — not the one already intimated — over which there was no 
 bridge, crossed the road. But in lieu of a bridge, there was a long 
 double plank laid over it, from bank to bank ; and as the river was 
 broad, and not sufficiently incarcerated within its channel, the neigh- 
 bours were necessitated to throw these planks across the narrowest 
 part they could find in the contiguity of the road. This part was 
 consequently the deepest, and, in fioods, the most dangerous ; for the 
 banks were elevated as far as they went, and quite tortuositous. 
 
 " Shortly after the priest had entered the chapel, it was observed 
 that the hemisphere became, of a sudden, unusually obscure, though 
 the preceding part of the day had not only been uncloudously bright, 
 but hot in a most especial manner. The obscurity, however, increased 
 rapidly, accompanied by that gloomy stillness which always takes 
 precedence of a storm, and fills the mind with vague and interminable 
 terror. But this ominous silence was not long unfractured ; for soon 
 after the first appearance of the gloom, a fiash of lightning quivered 
 through the chapel, followed by an extravagantly loud clap of thunder, 
 which shook the very glass in the windows, and filled the congregation 
 to the brim with terror. Their dismay, however, would have beet 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 infinitely greater, only for the presence of his reverence, and the 
 confidence which might be traced to the solemn occasion on which 
 they were assimilated. 
 
 " From this moment the storm became progressive in dreadful 
 magnitude, and the thunder, in concomitance with the most vivid 
 flashes of lightning, pealed through the sky with an awful grandeur 
 and magnificence that were exalted, and even rendered more sublime, 
 by the still solemnity of religious worship. Every heart now prayed 
 fervently — every spirit shrunk into a deep sense of its own guilt and 
 helplessness — and every conscience was terror-stricken, as the voice of 
 an angry God thundered out of his temple of storms through the 
 heavens ; for truly, as the authorised version has it, ' darkness was 
 under his feet, and his pavilion round about was dark waters, and 
 thick clouds of the skies, because he was wroth.' 
 
 " The rain now condescended in even down torrents, and thunder 
 succeeded thunder in deep and terrific peals, whilst the roar of the 
 gigantic echoes that deepened and reverberated among the glens and 
 hoUows — 'laughing in their mountain mirth '—hard fortune to me, 
 but they made the flesh creep on my bones ! 
 
 " This lasted for an hour, when the thunder slackened ; but the rain 
 still continued. As soon as mass was over, and the storm had elapsed, 
 except an odd peal which might be heard rolling at a distance behind 
 the hills, the people began gradually to recover their spirits, and enter 
 into confabulation ; but to venture out was still impracticable. For 
 about another hour it rained incessantly, after which it ceased ; the 
 hemisphere became lighter, and the sun shone out once more upon 
 the countenance of nature with his former brightness. The congrega- 
 tion then decanted itself out of the chapel — the spirits of the people 
 dancing with that remarkable buoyancy or juvenihty which is felt after 
 a thunderstorm, when the air is calm, soople, and balmy, and all 
 nature garmented with glittering verdure and liglit. The crowd next 
 began to commingle on their way home, and to make the usual 
 observations upon the extraordinary storm which had just passed, and 
 the probable effect it would produce on the fruit and agriculture of the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 " When the three young women, whom we have already introduced 
 to our respectable readers, had evacuated the chapel, they determined 
 to substantiate a certitude, as far as their observation could reach, as 
 to the truth of what Kitty Carroll had hinted at, in reference to John 
 O'Callaghan's attachment to Rose Galh O'Hallaghan, and her taciturn 
 approval of it. For this purpose they kept their eye upon John, who 
 certainly seemed in no especial hurry home, but lingered upon the 
 chapel green in a very careless method. Rose Galh, however, soon 
 made her appearance, and, after going up the chapel-road a short 
 space, John slyly walked at some distance behind, without seeming to 
 pay her any particular notice, whilst a person up to the secret might 
 observe Rose's bright eye sometimes peeping back, to see if he was 
 after her. In this manner they proceeded until they came to the river, 
 which, to their great alarm, was almost fluctuating over its highest banks. 
 
122 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 " A crowd was now assembled, consulting as to the safest method 
 of crossing the planks, under which the red boiling current ran, with 
 less violence, it is true, but much deeper than in any othT part of the 
 stream. The final decision was that the very young ana the old, and 
 such as were feeble, should proceed by a circuit of some miles to a 
 bridge that crossed it, and that the young men should place themselves 
 on their knees along the planks, their hands locked in each other, thus 
 forming a support on one side, upon which such as had courage to 
 venture across might lean, in case of accident or megrim. Indeed, 
 anybody that liad able nerves might have crossed the planks without 
 this precaution, had they been dry ; but, in consequence of the rain, 
 and the frequent attrition of feet, they were quite slippery ; and, be- 
 sides, the flood rolled terrifically two or three yards below them, which 
 might be apt to beget a megrim that would not be felt if ihere was no 
 flood. 
 
 " When this expedient had been hit upon, several young men volun- 
 teered themselves to put iti n practice ; and in a short time a consider- 
 able number of both sexuals crossed over, without the occurrence 
 of any unpleasant accident. Paddy O'Hallaghan and his family had 
 been stationed for some time on the bank, watching the success of the 
 plan ; and as it appeared not to be attended with any particular 
 danger, they also determined to make the attempt. About a perch 
 below the planks stood John O'Callaghan, watching the progress of 
 those who were crossing them, but takmg no part in what was going 
 forward. The river under the planks, and for some perches above 
 and below them, might be about ten feet deep ; but to those who could 
 swim it was less perilous, should any accident befall tliem, than those 
 parts where the current was more rapid, but shallower. The water 
 here boiled, and bubbled, and whirled about ; but it was slow, and its 
 yellow surface unbroken by rocks or fords. 
 
 " The first of the O'Hallaghans that ventured over it was the 
 youngest, who, being captured by the hand, was encouraged by many 
 cheerful expressions from the young men who were clinging to the 
 planks. She got safe over, however ; and when she came to the end, 
 one who was stationed on the bank gave her a joyous pull, that trans- 
 lated her several yards upon terra Jinna. 
 
 " * Well, Nancy,' he observed, '■you're safe, anyhow ; and if I don't 
 dance at your wedding for this, I'll never say you're dacent.' 
 
 " To this Nancy gave a jocular promise, and he resumed his station, 
 that he might be ready to render similar assistance to her next sister. 
 Rose Galh then went to the edge of the plank several times, but her 
 courage as often refused to be forthcoming. During her hesitation, 
 John O'Callaghan stooped down, and privately untied his shoes, then 
 unbuttoned his waistcoat, and very gently, being unwilling to excite 
 notice, slipped the knot of his cravat. At long last, by the encourage- 
 ment of those who were on the plank. Rose attempted the passage, 
 and had advanced as far as the middle of it, when a fit of dizziness 
 and alarm seized her with such violence that she lost all consciousness 
 — a circumstance of which those who handed her along were ignorant. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 123 
 
 The consequence, as might be expected, was dreadful ; for as one of 
 the young men was receiving her hand, that he might pass her to 
 the next, she lost her momentum, and was instantaneously precipi- 
 tated into the boiling current. 
 
 " The wild and fearful cry of horror that succeeded this cannot 
 be laid on paper. The eldest sister fell into strong convulsions, and 
 several of the other females fainted on the spot. The mother did not 
 faint ; but, like Lot's wife, she seemed to have been translated into 
 stone : her hands became clenched convulsively, her teeth locked, her 
 nostrils dilated, and her eyes shot halfway out of her head. There 
 she stood, looking upon her daughter struggling in the flood, with a 
 fixed gaze of wild and impotent fi'enzy, that, for fearfulness, beat the 
 thunderstorm all to nothing. The father rushed to the edge of the 
 river, oblivious of his incapability to swim, determined to save her or 
 lose his own life, which latter would have been a dead certainty, had 
 he ventured ; but he was prevented by the crowd, who pointed out to 
 him the madness of such a project. 
 
 " ' For God's sake, Paddy, don't attimpt it,' they exclaimed, ' except 
 you wish to lose your own life, widout being able to save hers : no man 
 could swim in that flood, and it upwards of ten feet deep.' 
 
 " Their arguments, however, were lost upon him ; for, in fact, he 
 was insensible to everything but his child's preservation. He, there- 
 fore, only answered their remonstrances by attempting to make another 
 plunge into the river. 
 
 " ' Let me alone, will yees,' said he — ' let me alone ! I'll either save 
 my child. Rose, or die along with her ! How could I live after her.'' 
 Mei'ciful God, any of them but her ! Oh I Rose, darling,' he exclaimed, 
 ' the favourite of my heart — will no one save you ? ' AH this passed 
 in less than a minute. 
 
 ''Just as these words were uttered, a plunge was heard a few yards 
 above the bridge, and a man appeared in the flood, making his way 
 with rapid strokes to the drowning girl. Another cry now arose from 
 the spectators. 'It's John O'Callaghan,' they shouted— ' it's John 
 O'Callaghan, and they'll be both lost.' ' No,' exclaimed others ; ' if 
 it's in the power of man to save her, he will ! ' ' Oh, blessed father, 
 she's lost !' now burst from all present ; for, after having struggled 
 and been kept floating for some time by her garments, she at length 
 sunk, apparently exhausted and senseless, and the thief of a flood 
 flowed over her, as if she had been under its surface. 
 
 " When O'Callaghan saw that she went down, he raised himself up 
 in the water, and cast his eye towards that part of the bank opposite 
 which she disappeared, evidently, as it proved, that he might have a 
 mark to guide him in fixing on the proper spot where to plunge after 
 her. When he came to the place, he raised himself again in the 
 stream, and, calculating that she must by this time have been borne 
 some distance from the spot where she sank, he gave a stroke or two 
 down the river, and disappeared after her. This was followed by 
 another cry of horror and despair ; for, somehow, the idea of desola- 
 tion which marks, at all times, a deep, over-swollen torrent, heightened 
 (1 E 
 
124 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 by the bleak mountain scenery around them, and the dark, angry 
 voracity of the river where they had sunk, might have impressed the 
 spectators with utter hopelessness as to the fate of those now en- 
 gulfed in its vortex. This, however, I leave to those who are deeper 
 read in philosophy than I am. 
 
 " An awful silence succeeded the last shrill exclamation, broken only 
 by the hoarse rushing of the waters, whose wild, continuous roar, 
 booming hollowly and dismally in the ear, might be heard at a great 
 distance over all the country. But a new sensation soon invaded the 
 multitude ; for, after the lapse of about a minute, John O'Callaghan 
 emerged from the flood, bearing, in his sinister hand, the body of his 
 own Rose Galh — for it's he that loved her tenderly. A peal of joy 
 congratulated them from a thousand voices ; hundreds of directions 
 were given to him how to act to the best advantage. Two young men 
 in especial, who were both dying about the lovely creature that he 
 held, were quite anxious to give advice. 
 
 " Bring her to the other side, John, ma bouchal ; it's the safest,' 
 said Larry Carly. 
 
 " ' Will you let him alone, Carty?' said Simon Tracy, who was the 
 other. * You'll only put him in a perplexity.' 
 
 " But Carty should order in spite of everything. He kept bawling 
 out, however, so loud, that John raised his eye to see what he meant, 
 and was near losing hold of Rose. This was too much for Tracy, 
 who ups with his fist, and downs him — so they both at it ; for no one 
 there could take themselves off those that were in danger, to interfere 
 between them. But, at all events, no earthly thing can happen 
 among Irishmen without a fight. 
 
 " The father, during this, stood breathless, his hands clasped, and 
 his eyes turned to heaven, praying in anguish for the delivery of his 
 darling. The mother's look was still wild and fixed, her eyes glazed, 
 and her muscles hard and stiff ; evidently she was insensible to all 
 that was going forward ; while large drops of paralytic agony hung 
 upon her cold brow. Neither of the sisters had yet recovered, nor 
 could those who supported them turn their eyes from the more immi- 
 nent danger, to pay them any particular attention. Many, also, of the 
 other females, whose feelings were too much wound up when the 
 accident occurred, now fainted, when they saw she was likely to be 
 rescued ; but most of them were weeping with delight and gratitude. 
 
 " When John brought her to the surface, he paused a moment to 
 recover breath and coUectcdness ; he then caught her by the left arm, 
 near the shoulder, and cut, in a slanting direction, down the stream, 
 to a watering-place, where a slope had been formed in the bank. But 
 he was already too far down to be able to work across the stream to 
 this point — for it was here much stronger and more rapid than under 
 the planks. Instead, therefore, of reaching the slope, he found 
 himself, in spite of every effort to the contrary, about a perch below 
 it ; and except he could gain this point, against the strong rush of the 
 flood, there was very little hope of being able to save either her or 
 himself — for he was now much exhausted. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. t^ 
 
 " Hitherto, therefore, all was still doubtful, whilst strength was fast 
 failing him. In this trying and almost helpless situation, with an 
 admirable presence of mind, he adopted the only expedient which 
 could possibly enable him to reach the bank. On finding himself 
 receding down, instead of advancing up, the current, he approached 
 the bank, which was here very deep and perpendicula» ; he then sank 
 his fingers into the firm blue clay with which it was stratified, and by 
 this means advanced, bit by bit, up the stream, having no other force 
 by which to propel himself against it. After this mode did he breast 
 the current with all his strength — which must have been prodigious, 
 or he never could have borne it out — until he reached the slope, and 
 got from the influence of the tide, into dead water. On arriving here, 
 his hand was caught by one of the young men present, who stood up 
 to the neck, waiting his approach. A second man stood behind him, 
 holding his other hand, a link being thus formed, that reached out to 
 the firm bank ; and a good pull now brought them both to the edge 
 of the liquid. On finding bottom, John took his Colleen Galh in his 
 own arms, carried her out, and pressing his lips to hers, laid her in 
 the bosom of her father ; then after taking another kiss of the young 
 drowned flower, he burst into tears, and fell powerless beside her. 
 The truth is, the spirit that kept him firm was now exhausted ; both 
 his legs and arms having become nerveless by the exertion. 
 
 "Hitherto her father took no notice of John, for how could he? 
 seeing that he was entirely wrapped up in his daughter ; and the 
 question was, though rescued from the flood, if life was in her. The 
 sisters were by this time recovered, and weeping over her, along with 
 the father— and, indeed, with all present ; but the mother could not 
 be made to comprehend what they were about, at all at all. The 
 country people used every means with which they were intimate to 
 recover Rose ; she was brought instantly to a farmer's house beside 
 the spot, put into a warm bed, covered over with hot salt, wrapped in 
 half-scorched blankets, and made subject to every other mode of 
 treatment that could possibly revoke the functions of life. John had 
 now got a dacent draught of whisky, which revived him. He stood 
 over her, when he could be admitted, watching for the symptomatics 
 of her revival ; all, however, was vain. He now determined to try 
 another course : by-and-by he stooped, put his mouth to her mouth, 
 and, drawing in his breath, respired with all his force from the bottom 
 of his very heart into hers ; this he did several times rapidly — faith, a 
 tender and agreeable operation, anyhow. But mark the consequence : 
 in less than a minute her white bosom heaved — her breath returned — 
 her pulse began to play, she opened her eyes, and felt his tears of love 
 raining warmly on her pale cheek ! 
 
 " For years before this, no two of these opposite factions had spoken: 
 nor up to this minute had John and they, even upon this occasion, 
 exchanged a ni.onosyllable. The father now looked at him — the tears 
 stood afresh in his eyes ; he came forward — stretched out his hand — 
 it was received ; and the next moment he fell into John's arms, and 
 cried like an infant. 
 
126 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 " When Rose recovered, she seemed as if strivhig to rccordate what 
 had happened ; and after two or three minutes, inquired from her 
 sister, in a weak but sweet voice, ' Who saved me ? ' 
 
 " ' 'Twas John O'Callaghan, Rose darling,' rephed the sister, in 
 tears, ' that ventured his own life into the boiling flood, to save yours — 
 and did save it, jewel.' 
 
 " Rose's eye glanced at John ; — and I only wish, as I am a bachelor 
 not further than my forty-seventh, that I may ever have the happiness 
 to get such a glance from two blue eyes; as she gave him that moment 
 a faint smile played about her mouth, and a slight blush lit up her fai*- 
 cheek, like the evening sunbeams on the virgin snow, as the poets have 
 said, for the five hundredth time, to my own personal knowledge. She 
 then extended her hand, which John, you may be sure, was no way 
 backward in receiving, and the tears of love and gratitude ran silently 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 " It is not necessary to detail the circumstances of this day further ; 
 let it be sufficient to say that a reconciliation took place between those 
 two branches of the O'Hallaghan and O'Callaghan families, in conse- 
 quence of John's heroism and Rose's soft persuasion, and that there 
 was also every perspective of the two factions being penultimately 
 amalgamated. For nearly a century they had been pell-mell at it, 
 whenever and wherever they could meet. Their forefathers, who had 
 been engaged in the lawsuit about the island which I have mentioned, 
 were dead and petrified in their graves ; and the little peninsula in 
 the glen was gradationally worn away by the river, till nothing re- 
 mained but a desert, upon a small scale, of sand and gravel. Even 
 the ruddy, able-bodied Squire, with the longitudinal nose projecting 
 out of his face like a broken arch, and the small, fiery magistrate, both 
 of whom had fought the duel, for the purpose of setting forth a good 
 example, and bringing the dispute to 2, peaceable conclusion, were also 
 dead. The very memory of the original contention had been lost, 
 (except that it was preserved along with the cranium of my grand- 
 father) or became so indistinct that the parties fastened themselves 
 on some more modern provocation, which they kept in view until 
 another fresh motive would start up, and so on. I know not, however, 
 whether it was fair to expect them to give up at once the agreeable 
 recreation of fighting. It's not easy to abolish old customs, particularly 
 diversions ; and everyone knows that this is the national amusement 
 of the finest peasantry on the face of the earth. 
 
 " There were, it is true, many among both facllGTiS who saw the 
 matter iii this reasonable light, and who wished rather, if it were to 
 cease, that it should die away by degrees, from the battle of the whole 
 parish, equally divided between the factions, to the subordinate row 
 between certain members of them — from that to the faint broil ol 
 certain families, and so on, to the single-handed play between indivi- 
 duals. At all events, one-half of them were for peace, and two-thirds 
 of them equally divided between peace and war. 
 
 " For three months after the accident which befell Rose Galh 
 .O'Hallaghan, both factions had been tolentary quiet : that is to say, 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. wj 
 
 they had no general engagement. Some slight skirmishes certainly 
 did take place on market nights, when the drop was in, and the spirits 
 up ; but in those neither John nor Rose's immediate families took any 
 part. The fact was that John and Rose were on the evening of matri- 
 mony ; the match had been made, the day appointed, and every 
 other necessary stipulation ratified. Now, John was as fine a young 
 man as you would meet in a day's travelling ; and as for Rose, her 
 name went far and near for beauty ; and with justice, for the sun never 
 shone on a fairer, meeker, or modester virgin than Rose Galh O'Halla- 
 ghan. 
 
 " It might be, indeed, that there were those on both sides who thought 
 that, if the aiarriage was obstructed, their own sons and daughters 
 would have a better chance. Rose had many admirers ; they might 
 have envied John his happiness : many fathers, on the other side, 
 might have wished their sons to succeed with Rose. Whether I am 
 sinister in this conjecture is more than I can say. I grant, indeed, 
 that a great portion of it is speculation on my part. The wedding-day, 
 however, was arranged ; but unfoitunately, the fair day of Knockim- 
 downey occurred, in the rotation of natural time, precisely one week 
 before it. I know not from what motive it proceeded, but the factions 
 on both sides were never known to make a more light-hearted pre- 
 paration for battle. Cudgels of all sorts and sizes (and some of them, 
 to my own knowledge, great beauties) were provided. 
 
 " 1 believe, I may as well take this opportunity of saying, that real 
 Irish cudgels must be root-growing, either oak, black-thorn, or crab- 
 tree — although crab-tree, by the way, is apt to fly. They should not 
 be too long — three feet and a few inches is an accommodating length. 
 They must be naturally top-heavy, and have around the end, that is 
 to make acquaintance with the cranium, three or four natural lumps, 
 calculated to divide the flesh in the natest manner, and to leave, if 
 possible, the smallest taste in life of pit in the skull. But if a good 
 root-growing kippcen be light at the fighting end, or possess not the 
 proper number of knobs, a hole a few inches deep is to be bored in 
 the end, which must be filled with melted lead. This gives it a vvidow- 
 and-orphan-making quality, a child-bereaving touch, altogether very 
 desirable. If, however, the top splits in the boring, which, in awkward 
 hands, is not uncommon, the defect may be remediated by putting on 
 an iron ferrule, and driving two or three strong nails into it, simply to 
 preserve it from flying off; not that an Irishman is ever at a loss for 
 weapons when in a fight ; for so long as a scythe, flail, spade, pitch- 
 fork, or stone is at hand, he feels quite contented with the lot of war. 
 No man, as they say of great statesmen, is more fertile in expedients 
 during a row ; which, by the way, I take to be a good quality, at all 
 events. 
 
 " I remember the fair day of Knockimdowney well : it has kept me 
 from griddle-bread and tough nutriment ever since. Hard fortune to 
 Jack Roe O'Hallaghan ! No man had better teeth than I had, till I 
 met w'ith him that day. He fought stoutly on his own side ; but he 
 was /itv^ then for the same basting that fell to me, though not by my 
 
128 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 hands : if to get his jaw dacently divided into three halves could be 
 called a fair liquidation of an old debt — it was equal to twenty shillings 
 in the pound, anyhow. 
 
 " There had not been a larger fair in the town of Knockimdowney 
 for years. The day was dark and sunless, but sultry. On looking 
 through the crowd, I could see no man without a cudgel ; yet, what 
 was strange, there was no certainly of any sport. Several desultory 
 scrimmages had locality ; but they were altogether sequestered from 
 the great factions of the O's. Except that it was pleasant, and stirred 
 one's blood to look at them, or occasioned the cudgels to be grasped 
 more firmly, there was no personal interest felt by any of us in them ; 
 they therefore began and ended, here and there, through the fair, like 
 mere flashes in the pan, dying in their own smoke. 
 
 " The blood of every prolific nation is naturally hot ; but when that 
 hot blood is inflamed by ardent spirits, it is not to be supposed that 
 men should be cool ; and, God he knows, there is not on the level 
 surface of this habitaljle globe a nation that has been so thoroughly 
 inflamed by ardent spirits as Ireland. 
 
 " Up till four o'clock that day, the factions were quiet. Several 
 relations on both sides had been invited to drink by John and Rose's 
 families, for the purpose of establishing a good feeling between them. 
 But this was, after all, hardly to be expected, for they hated one 
 another with an ardency much too good-humoured and buoyant ; 
 and, between ourselves, to bring Paddy over a bottle is a very 
 equivocal mode of giving him an anti-cudgelling disposition. After 
 the hour of four, several of the factions were getting very friendly, 
 which I knew at the lime to be a bad sign. Many of them nodded to 
 each other, which I knew to be a worse one ; and some of them 
 shook hands with the greatest cordiality, which I no sooner saw than 
 I slipped the knot of my cravat, and held myself in preparation for 
 the sport. 
 
 " I have often had occasion to remark — and few men, let me tell you, 
 had finer opportunities of doing so — the differential symptomatics 
 between a Party Fight, that is, a battle between Orangemen and 
 Ribbonmen, and one between two Roman Catholic Factions. There 
 is something infinitely more anxious, silent, and deadly in the com- 
 pressed vengeance, and the hope of slaughter, which characterise a 
 party fight, than is to be seen in a battle \)G\.\vQ.tr\. /actio }is. The truth 
 is, the enmity is not so deep and well-grounded in the latter as in the 
 former. The feeling is not political nor religious between the factions ; 
 whereas, in the other it is both, which is a mighty great advantage ; 
 for when this is adjuncted to an intense personal hatred, and a sense 
 of wrong, probably arising from a too intimate recollection of the 
 leaded blackthorn, or the awkward death of some relative by the 
 musket or the bayonet, it is apt to produce very purty fighting, and 
 much respectable retribution. 
 
 " In a parly fight, a prophetic sense of danger hangs, as it were, 
 over the crowd — the very air is loaded with aj prehension ; and the 
 vengeance-burst is preceded by a close, thick darkness, almost 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 129 
 
 sulphury, that is more terrifical than the conflict itself, though clearly- 
 less dangerous and fatal. The scowl of the opposing parties, the 
 blanched cheeks, the knit brows, and the grinding teeth, not preter- 
 mitting the deadly gleams that shoot from their kindled eyes, are 
 ornaments which a plain battle between factions cannot boast, but 
 which, notwithstanding, are very suitable to the fierce and gloomy 
 silence of that premeditated vengeance, which burns with such in- 
 tensity on the heart, and scorches up the vitals into such a thirst for 
 blood. Not but they come by different means to the same conclusion; 
 because it is the feeling, and not altogether the manner of operation, 
 that is different. 
 
 " Now a faction fight doesn't resemble this, at all at all. Paddy's 
 at home here ; all song, dance, good-humour, and affection. His 
 cheek is flushed with delight, which, indeed, may derive assistance 
 from the consciousness of having no bayonets or loaded carabines to 
 contend with : but, anyhow, he's at home— his eye is lit with real glee 
 — he tosses his hat in the air, in the height of mirth — and leaps, like a 
 mountebank, two yards from the ground. Then with what a graciuos 
 dexterity he brandishes his cudgel ! — what a joyous spirit is heard in 
 his shout at the face of a friend from another faction ! His very 
 'whoo!' is contagious, and would make a man, that had settled on 
 running away, return and join the sport with an appetite truly Irish. 
 He is, in fact, while under the influence of this heavenly afflatus, in 
 love with everyone — man, woman, and child. If he meet his sweet- 
 heart, he will give her a kiss and a hug, and that with double kind- 
 ness, because he is on his way to thrash her father or brother. It is 
 the aciimcfi of his enjoyment ; and woe be to him who will adventure 
 to go between him and his amusements. To be sure, skulls and bones 
 are broken, and lives lost ; but they are lost in pleasant fighting — they 
 are the consequences of the sport, the beauty of which consists in 
 breaking as many heads and necks as you can ; and certainly when a 
 man enters into the spirit of any exercise, there is nothing like elevat- 
 ing himself to the point of excellence. Then a man ought never to be 
 disheartened. If you lose this game, or get your head good-humourly 
 beaten to pieces, why you may win another, or your friends may 
 mollify two or three skulls as a set-off to yours — but that is nothing. 
 
 "When the evening became more advanced, maybe, considering the 
 poor look up there was for anything like decent sport — maybe, in the 
 early part of the day, it wasn't the delightful sight to see the boys on 
 each side of the two great factions beginning to get frolicksome. 
 Maybe the songs and the shouting, when they began, hadnt melody 
 and music in them, anyhow ! People may talk about harmony ; but 
 what harmony is equal to that in which five or six hundred men sing 
 and shout, and leap and caper at each other, as a prelude to neigh- 
 bourly fighting, where they beat time upon the drums of each other's 
 ears and heads with oak drum-sticks ? That's an Irishman's music ; 
 and hard fortune to the garran that wouldn't have friendship and 
 kindness in him to join and play a stave along with them ! ' Whoo ! 
 your sowl ! Hurroo ! Success to our side ! Hi for the O'Callaghans ', 
 
130 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 Where's the blackguard to — ' I beg pardon, decent reader — I forgot 
 myself for a moment, or rather I got new life in me, for I am nothing 
 at all at all for the last five months— a kind of noncntfty, I may say, 
 ever since that vagabond Burgess occasioned me to pay a visit to my 
 distant relations, till my friends get that last matter of the collar-bone 
 settled. 
 
 " The impulse which faction fighting gives trade and business in 
 Ireland is truly surprising ; whereas party fighting depreciates both. 
 As soon as it is perceived that a parly fight is to be expected, all 
 buying and selling are suspended for the day, and those who are not 
 up^ and even many who are, take themselves and their property home 
 as quickly as may be convenient. But in a faction fight, as soon as 
 there is any perspective of a row, depend upon it, there is quick work 
 at all kinds of negotiation ; and truly there is nothing like brevity and 
 decision in buying and selling ; for which reason faction fighting, at 
 all events, if only for the sake of national prosperity, should be en- 
 couraged and kept up. 
 
 "Towards five o'clock, if a man was placed on an exalted station, 
 so that he could look at the crowd, and wasn't able to fight, he could 
 have seen much that a man might envy him for. Here a hat went up, 
 or maybe a dozen of them ; then followed a general huzza. On the 
 other side, two dozen canbccns sought the sky, like so many scaldy 
 crows attempting their own element for the first time, only they were 
 not so black. Then another shout, which was answered by that of 
 their friends on the opposite side ; so that you would hardly know 
 which side huzzaed loudest, the blending of both was so truly 
 symphonious. Now there was a shout for the face of an O'Callaghan : 
 this was prosecuted on the very heels by another for the face of an 
 O'Hallaghan. Immediately a man of the O'Hallaghan side doffed 
 his tattered frieze, and catching it by the very extremity of the sleeve, 
 drew it, with a tact known only by an initiation of half a dozen street 
 days, up the pavement after him. On the instant, a blade from the 
 O'Callaghan side peeled with equal alacrity, and stretching his home- 
 made at full length after him, proceeded triumphantly up the street to 
 meet the other. 
 
 " Thundher-an-ages, what's this for, at all at all ! I wish I hadn't 
 begun to manuscript an account of it, anyhow ; 'tis like a hungry 
 man dreaming of a good dinner at a feast, and afterwards awaking 
 and finding his front ribs and back-bone on the point of union. 
 Reader, is that a blackthorn you carry— tut, where is my imagination 
 bound for i* — to meet the other, I say. 
 
 " ' Where's the rascally O'Callaghan that will place his toe or his 
 shillcly on this frieze?' 'Is there no blackguard O'Hallaghan i'l^i 
 to look crucked at the coat of an O'Callaghan, or say black's ilie 
 white of his eye ?' 
 
 '"Throth ard there is, Ned, avourneen, that same on the aod 
 here.' 
 
 ' Initiated into Whitebryism. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 131 
 
 "' Is that Barney?' 
 
 "'The same, Ned, ma bouchal — and how is your motherV son, 
 Ned?' 
 
 " ' In good health at the present time, thank God and you , how is 
 yourself, Barney ? ' 
 
 " ' Can't complain as time goes ; only take this, anyhow, to mend 
 your health, ma bouchal ' — (whack). 
 
 " ' Success, Barney, and here's at your sarvice, avick, not making 
 little of what 1 got — any way' — (crack). 
 
 " About five o'clock on a May evening, in the fair of Knockim- 
 downey, was the ice thus broken, with all possible civility, by Ned 
 and Barney. The next moment a general rush took place towards the 
 scene of action, and ere you could bless yourself, Barney and Ned 
 were both down, weltering in their own and each other's blood. I 
 scarcely know, indeed, though with a mighty respectable quota of 
 experimentality myself, how to describe what followed. Yox the first 
 twenty minutes the general harmony of this fine row might be set to 
 music, according to a scale something like this : — Whick whack — 
 crick crack— whick whack — crick crack — &c. &c. &c. ' Here yer 
 sowl — (crack) — there yer sowl — (whack). Whoo for the O'Halla- 
 ghans!' — (crack, crack, crack). 'Hurroo for the O'Callaghans ! — 
 (whack, whack, whack). The O'Callaghans for ever ! ' — (whack). 
 * The O'Hallaghans for ever ! ' — (crack). ' Murther I murther ! — 
 (crick, crack) — foul ! foul ! — (whick, whack). Blood and turf! — 
 (whack, whick) — tunther-an-ouns' — (crack, crick). ' Hurroo I my 
 darlings ! handle your skippeens — (crack, crack) — the O'Hallaghans 
 are going ! ' — (whack, whack). 
 
 " You are to suppose them here to have been at it for about half an 
 hour. 
 
 " Whack, crack — ' Oh — oh — oh ! have mercy upon me, boys — (crack 
 — a shriek of murther ! murther! — crack, crack, whack)— my life — 
 my life — (crack, crack— whack, whack)— oh ! for the sake of the 
 living Father ! — for the sake of my wife and childher, Ned Hallaghan, 
 spare my life.' 
 
 " ' So we will, but take this, anyhow ' — (whack, crack, whack, 
 crack). 
 
 "'Oh! for the love of God, don't kill — ' (whack, crack, whack.) 
 ' Oh !' — (crack, crack, whack— cA>i-). 
 
 " ' Huzza ! huzza ! huzza ! ' from the O'Hallaghans. ' Bravo, boys ! 
 there's one of them done for. Whoo ! my darlings — hurroo ! the 
 O'Hallaghans for ever ! ' 
 
 " The scene now changes to the O'Callaghan side. 
 
 " ' Jack — Oh, Jack, avourneen — hell to their sovvls for murdherers — 
 Paddy's killed— his skull's smashed — Revinge, boys, Paddy O'Calla- 
 ghan's killed ! On with you, O'Callaghans — on with you — on with 
 you, Paddy O'Callaghan's murdhered — take to the stones — that's it- 
 keep it up — down with him ! Success !— he's the bloody villain that 
 didn't show him marcy — that's it. Tundher-an'-ouns, is it laving him 
 that wa/ you are afther — let me at him !' 
 
132 Tim BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 " ' Here's a stone, Tom ! ' 
 
 " ' No, no, this stick has the lead in it — it'll do him, never fear I * 
 
 "* Let him alone, Barney, he got enough.' 
 
 " ' By the powdhers, it's myself that won't ; didn't he kill Paddy i 
 — (crack, crack). Take that, you murdhering thief ! ' — (whack, 
 whack). 
 
 " ' Oh ! — (whack, crack) — my head — I'm killed — I'm' — (cracic — kicks 
 the bucket). 
 
 " ' Now, your sow], that docs you, any way — (crack, whack) — 
 hurroo ! — huzza ! — huzza ! Man for man, boys — an O'Hallaghan's 
 done for — whoo ! for our side — tol-deroll, lol-deroll, tow, row, row — 
 huzza ! — huzza ! — tol-deroll, lol-deroll, tow, row, row — huzza! for the 
 O'Callaghans.' 
 
 " From this moment the battle became delightful ; it was now pelt 
 and welt on both sides, but many of the kippeens were broken — many 
 of the boys had their fighting arms disabled by a dislocation or bit of 
 fracture, and those weren't equal to more than doing a little upon such 
 as were down. 
 
 " In the midst of the din, such a dialogue as this might be heard : — 
 
 "'Larry, you're after being done for, for this day.' (Whack, 
 crack). 
 
 " * Only an eye gone — is that Mickey?' — (whick, whack, crick, crack). 
 
 " ' That's it, my darlings ! — you may say that, Larry — 'tis my 
 mothers son that's in it — (crack, crack, a general huzza. Mickey 
 and Larry) huzza ! huzza ! huzza for the O'Hallaghans ! — What have 
 yoic got, Larry ? '■ — (crack, crack). 
 
 " ' Only the bone of my arm, God be praised for it, very purtily 
 snapt across !' — (whack, whack). 
 
 "'Is that all? Well, some people have luck!' — (crack, cracky 
 crack). 
 
 " ' Why, I've no reason to complain, thank God — (whack, crack) — 
 purty play that, any way — Paddy O'Callaghan's settled — did you hear 
 it? — (whack, whack, another shout) — That's it, boys — handle the shil- 
 leleys ! — Success, O'Hallaghans — down with the bloody O'Callaghans !' 
 
 '"I did hear it; so is Jem O'Hallaghan — (crack, whack, whack, 
 crack) — you're not able to get up, I see — tare-an'-ounty, is'nt it a 
 pleasure to hear that play ? — What ails you ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, Larry, I'm in great pain, and getting very weak, entirely' — 
 {/ainis). 
 
 " ' Faix, and he's settled, too, I'm thinking.' 
 
 " ' Oh, murdher, my arm ! ' (One of the O'Callaghans attacks him 
 — (crack, crack). 
 
 " ' Take that, you bagabone ! ' — (whack, whack.) 
 
 " ' Murdher, murdher, is it striking a down man you're after 1 -foul, 
 foul, and my arm broke ! ' — (Crack, crack). 
 
 " ' Take that, with what you got lacfore, and it'll ase you, maybe.' 
 
 " (A party of the O'Hallaghans attack the man who is beating him.) 
 
 " ' Murdher, murdher ! ' — (crack, whack, whack, crack, crack, 
 whack;. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 133 
 
 " ' Lay on him, your sowls to pirdition — lay on him, hoi and hea\ y — 
 give it to him ! He sthruck me, and me down wid my broken arm ! ' 
 
 " ' Foul, ye thieves of the world ! — (from the O'Callaghan) — foul !— 
 five against one— give me fair play ! — (crack, crack, crack) — Oh ! — 
 (whack) — Oh, oh, oh ! ' — (falls senseless, covered with blood). 
 
 *' ' Ha, hell's cure to you, you bloody thief; you didn't spare me, 
 with my arm broke. — (Another general shout.) ' Bad end to it, isn't it 
 a poor case entirely, that 1 can't even throw up my caubeen, let alone 
 join in the divarsion.' 
 
 " Both parties now rallied, and ranged themselves along the street, 
 exhibiting a firm, compact phalanx, wedged close against each other, 
 almost foot to foot. The mass was thick and dense, and the tug of 
 conflict stiff, wild, and savage. Much natural skill and dexterity were 
 displayed in their mutual eftbrts to preserve their respective ranks 
 unbroken, and as the sallies and charges were made on both sides, the 
 temporary rush, the indentation of the multitudinous body, and the 
 rebound into its original position gave an undulating appearance to 
 the compact mass — reeking, groaning, dragging, and huzzaing — as it 
 was, that resembled the serpentine motion of a rushing waterspout in 
 the cloud. 
 
 " The women now began to take part with their brothers and sweet- 
 hearts. Those who had no bachelors among the opposite factions 
 fought along with their brothers ; others did not scruple even to assist 
 in giving their enamoured swains the father of a good beating. Many, 
 however, were more faithful to love than to natural affection, and these 
 sallied out, like heroines, under the banners of their sweethearts, 
 fighting with amazing prowess against their friends and relations ; nor 
 was it at all extraordinary to see two sisters engaged on opposite sides 
 — perhaps tearing each other, as, with dishevelled hair, they screamed 
 with a fury that was truly exemplary. Indeed, it is nountrutli to assert 
 that the women do much valuable execution. Their manner of fighting 
 is this — as soon as the fair one decides upon taking a part in the row, 
 she instantly takes off her apron or her stocking, stoops down, and 
 lifting the first four pounder she can get, puts it in the corner of her 
 apron, or the foot of her stocking, if it has a foot, and marching into 
 the scene of action, lays about her right and left. Upon my credibility^, 
 they are extremely useful and handy, and can give mighty nate knock- 
 downs — inasmuch as no guard that a man is acquainted with can ward 
 off their blows. Nay, what is more, it often happens, when a son-in-law 
 is in a faction against his father-in-law and his wife's people generally, 
 that if he and his wife's brother meet, the wife will clink him with 
 the pet in her apron, downing her own husband with great skill, 
 for it is not always that marriage extinguishes the hatred of factions ; 
 and very often 'tis the brother that is humiliated. 
 
 " Up to the death of these two men, John O'Callaghan and Rose's 
 father, together with a large party of their friends on both sides, were 
 drinking in a public-house, determined to take no portion in the fighi, 
 at all at all. Poor Rose, when she heard the shouting and terrible 
 Strokes, got as pale as death, and sat close to John, whose hand she 
 
F34 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 captured in hers, beseeching him, and looking up in his face with the 
 
 most imploring sincerity as she spoke, not to go out among them : the 
 tears falling all the time from her line eyes, the mellow flashes of which, 
 when John's pleasantry in soothing her would seduce a smile, went 
 into his very heart. But when, on looking out of the window where 
 ihcy sat, two of the opposing. factions heard that a man on each side 
 was killed ; and when, on ascertaining the names of the individuals, 
 and of those who murdered them, it turned out that one of the 
 murdered men was brother to a person in the room, and his murderer 
 uncle to one of those in the window, it was not in the pow r of man 
 or woman to keep them asunder, particularly as they were all rather 
 advanced in liquor. In an instant the friends cf the murdered man 
 made a rush to the window, before any pacifiers had time to get 
 between them, and catching the nephew of him who had committed 
 the murder, hurled him headforemost upon the stone pavement, where 
 his skull was dashed to pieces, and his brains scattered about the 
 flags ! 
 
 "A general attack instantly took place in the room between the 
 two factions ; but the apartment was too low and crowded to permit 
 of proper fighting, so they rushed out to the street, shouting and 
 yelling, as they do when the battle comes to the real point of doing 
 business. As soon as it was seen that the heads of the O'Callaghans 
 and O'Hallaghans were at work as well as the rest, the fight was 
 recommenced with retrebled spirit ; but when the mutilated body o( 
 the man who had been flung from the window was observed lying in 
 a pool of his own proper brains and blood, such a cry arose among 
 his friends, as would cakc^ the vital fluid in the veins of anyone not a 
 party in the quarrel. Now was the work — the moment of interest — 
 men and women groaning, staggering, and lying insensible ; others 
 shouting, leaping, and huzzaing ; some singing, and not a few able- 
 bodied spalpeens blurting, like overgrown children, on seeing their 
 own blood ; many raging and roaring about like bulls ; — all this 
 formed such a group as a faction fight, and nothing else, could 
 represent. 
 
 "The battle now blazed out afresli ; all kinds of instruments were nov/ 
 pressed into the service. Some got flails, some spades, some shovels, 
 and one man got his hands upon a scythe, with which, unquestionabh-, 
 he would have taken more lives than one ; but, very fortunately, as he 
 sallied out to join the crowd, he was politely visited in the back of the 
 head by a brick-bat, which had a mighty convincing way with it of 
 giving him a peaceable disposition, for he instantly lay down, and di(.l 
 not seem at all anxious as to the result of the battle. The O'Halla- 
 ghans were now compelled to give way, owing principally to the 
 introvention of John O'Callaghan, who, although he was as good as 
 sworn to take no part in the contest, was compelled to fight merely to 
 protect himself. But, blood-and-turf ! when he did begin, lie was 
 dreadful. As soon as his party saw him engaged, they took frcsb 
 
 ' Haidcn. 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. xy, 
 
 courage, and in a short time made the O'Hallaghans retreat up the 
 churchyard. I never saw anything equal to John ; he absolutely sent 
 them down in dozens : and when a man would give him any inconveni- 
 ence with the stick, he would down him with the fist, for right and left 
 were all alike to him. Poor Rose's brother and he met, both roused like 
 two lions ; but when John saw who it was, he held back his hand. 
 
 *" No, Tom,' says he, ' I'll not strike you, for Rose's sake I'm not 
 fighting through ill will to you or your family ; so take another direc- 
 tion, for I can't strike you.' 
 
 " The blood, however, was unfortunately up in Tom. 
 
 " ' We'll decide it now,' said he ; ' I'm as good a man as you, O'Cal- 
 laghan ; and let me whisper this in your ear — you'll never warm the 
 one bed with Rose, while God's in heaven — it's past that row — there 
 can be nothing but blood between us ! ' 
 
 "At this juncture two of the O'Callaghans ran with their shillelaghs 
 up, to beat down Tom on the spot. 
 
 '" Stop, boys !' said John, 'you musn't touch him ; he had no hand 
 in the quarrel. Go, boys, if you respect me ; lave him to myself.' 
 
 " The boys withdrew to another part of the fight ; and the next 
 instant Tom struck the very man that interfered to save him across 
 the temple, and cut him severely. John put his hand up, and stag- 
 gered. 
 
 " ' I'm sorry for this,' he observed ; " but it's now self-defence with 
 me,' and, at the same moment, with one blow, he left Tom O'Halla- 
 ghan stretched insensible on the street. 
 
 " On the O'Hallaghans being driven to the churchyard, they were 
 at a mighty great inconvenience for weapons. Most of the-n had lost 
 their sticks, it being a usage in fights of this kind to twist the cudgels 
 from the grasp of the beaten men, to prevent them from rallymg. 
 They soon, however, furnished themselves with the best they could 
 find, videlicet, the skull, leg, thigh and arm bones, which they found 
 lying about the graveyard. This was a new species of weapon, for 
 which the majority of the O'Callaghans were scarcely prepared. Out 
 they sallied in a body— some with these, others with stones, and, 
 making fierce assault upon their enemies, absolutely druv them back 
 — not so much by the damage they were doing, as by the alarm and 
 terror which these unexpected species of missiles excited. 
 
 " At this moment, notwithstanding the fatality that had taken place, 
 nothing could be more truly comical and facetious than the appearance 
 of the field of battle. Skulls were flying in every direction — so thick, 
 indeed, that it might with truth be asseverated that many who were 
 petrified in the dust had their skulls broken in this great battle 
 between the factions. — God help poor Ireland ! when its inhabi- 
 tants are so pugnacious that even the grave is no security against 
 getting their crowns cracked, and their bones fractured ! Well, any- 
 how, skulls and bones flew in every direction ; stones aad brick-bats 
 were also put in motion ; spades, shovels, loaded whips, pot-sticks, 
 churn-staff's, flails, and all kinds of available weapons were in hot em- 
 ployment. 
 
l^G THE BATTLE OF 7 HE FACTIONS. 
 
 " But, perhaps, there was nothing more truly felicitous or original 
 in its way than the mode of warfare adopted by little Ncal Malonc, 
 who was tailor for the O'Callaghan side ; for every tradesman is 
 obliged to fight on behalf of his own faction. Big Frank FarrcU, the 
 miller, being on the O'Hallaghan side, had been sent for, and came 
 up from his mill behind the town, quite fresh. He was never what 
 could be called a. good 7nan^ though it was said that he could lift ten 
 hundredweight. He puffed forward with a great cudgel, determined 
 to commit slaughter out of the face, and the first man he met was the 
 •wccshy fraction of a tailor, as nimble as a hare. He immediately 
 attacked him, and would probably have taken his measure for life, had 
 not the tailor's activity protected him. Farrell was in a rage ; and 
 Neal, taking advantage of his blind fury, slipt round him, and, with 
 a short run, sprang upon the miller's back, and planted a foot upon 
 the threshold of each coat pocket, holding by the mealy collar of his 
 waistcoat. In this position he belaboured the miller's face and eyes 
 with his little hard fist to such purpose that he had him in the course 
 of a few minutes nearly as blind as a mill-horse. The miller roared 
 for assistance, but the pell-mell was going on too warmly for his cries 
 to be available. In fact, he resembled an elephant with a monkey on 
 his back. 
 
 " ' How do you like that, Farrell ?' Neal would say — giving him a 
 cuff; 'and that, and that — but that is best of all. Take it again, 
 gudgeon — (two cuffs more) — here's grist for you — (half a dozen addi- 
 tional) hard fortune to you I — (crack, crack). What ! going to lie 
 down ! by all that's terrible, if you do, I'll aniuj^nlaie" von. Here's a 
 dhnragK^ (another half dozen) — long measure, you savage — \}i\& baker's 
 dozen, you baste ; there's five-an'-twenty to the score, Sampson, and 
 one or two in ' —(crack, whack). 
 
 " * Oh ! murther shecry !' shouted the miller — ' murther-an-age, I'm 
 kilt — foul play ! foul play ! ' 
 
 " ' You lie, big Nebuchodonosor, it's not — this is all fair play, you 
 big baste— yiz/r play, Sampson : by the same a-tokcn, here's to jog 
 your memory that it's the Fair day of Knockimdowncy ; Irish Fair 
 play, you whale — but I'll whale you ' — (crack, crack, whack). 
 
 " ' Oh — oh ! ' shouted the miller. 
 
 " ' Oh — Oh ! is it .'' Oh, it I had my scissors here, till I'd clip your 
 ears off, wouldn't I be tlie happy man, anyhow, you swab, you ' — 
 (whack, whack, crack), 
 
 " ' Murther — murther — murther ! ' — shouted the miller — * is there no 
 help?' 
 
 " ' Help, is it ? you may say that — (crack, crack) ; there's a trifle — 
 
 ' A brave man. 
 
 ^ Annihilate. Many of the jawbreakers— and this was certainly such in a double 
 sense — used by the Hedge-Schoolmasters are scattered among the people, by 
 whom they are so twisted that it would be extremely difficult to recognise them. 
 
 ' Dhuragh — an additional portion of anything thrown in from a spirit of 
 generosity, after the measure agreed on is given. When the miller, for instance, 
 receives his toll, the country ptople usually throw in several handsfull of meal at 
 a Dhuri^h. 
 
Tim BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 137 
 
 a small taste in the milling style, you know ; and here goes to dislodge 
 2, grinder. Did ye ever hear of the tailor on horseback, Sampson ? 
 eh? — (whack, whack) : did you ever expect to see a tailor o' horseback 
 of yourself, you baste — (crack). I tell you, if you offer to lie down, 
 I'll annigulate you out o' the face.* 
 
 " Never, indeed, was a miller, before or since, so well dusted ; and 
 I daresay Neal would have rode him long enough, but for an O'Halla- 
 ghan, who had gone into one of the houses to procure a weapon. This 
 man was nearly as original in his choice of one as the tailor in the 
 position which he selected for beating the miller. On entering the 
 kitchen, he found that he had been anticipated ; there was neither 
 tongs, poker, or churn-staff ; nor, in fact, anything wherewith he could 
 assault his enemies : all had been carried off by others. There was, 
 however, a goose in the action of being roasted on a spit at the fire. 
 This was enough : honest O'Hallaghan saw nothing but the spit, which 
 he accordingly seized, goose and all, making the best of his way, so 
 armed, to the scene of battle. He just came out as the miller was 
 once more roaring for assistance, and, to a dead certainty, would have 
 spitted the tailor like a cock sparrow against the miller's carcase, had 
 not his activity once more saved him. Unluckily, the unfortunate 
 miller got the thrust behind, which was intended for Neal, and roared 
 like a bull. He was beginning to shout ' Foul play,' when on turning 
 round he perceived that the thrust was not intended for him, but for 
 the tailor. 
 
 " ' Give me that spit,' said he ; 'by all the mills that ever were turned, 
 I'll spit the tailor this blessed minute beside the goose, and we'll roast 
 them both together.' 
 
 " The other refused to part with the spit ; but the miller, seizing 
 the goose, flung it with all his force after the tailor, who stooped, how- 
 ever, and avoided the blow. 
 
 " ' No man has a better right to the goose than the tailor,' said Neal, 
 as he took it up, and, disappearing, neither he nor the goose could be 
 seen for the remainder of the day. 
 
 " The battle was now somewhat abated. Skulls, and bones, and 
 bricks, and stones were, however, still flying ; so that it might be truly 
 said the bones of contention were numerous. The streets presented 
 a woeful spectacle : men were lying with their bones broken — others, 
 though not so seriously injured, lappered in their blood — some were 
 crawling up, but were instantly knocked down by their enemies — some 
 were leaning against the walls, or groping their way silently along 
 them, endeavouring to escape observation, lest they might be smashed 
 down and altogether murdered. Wives were sitting with the bloody 
 heads of their husbands in their laps, tearing their hair, weeping, and 
 cursing, in all the gall of wrath, those who left them in such a state. 
 Daughters performed the same offices to their fathers, and sisters to 
 their brothers ; not pretermitting those who did not neglect their 
 broken-pated bachelors, to whom they paid equal attention. Yet was 
 the scene not without abundance of mirth. Many a hat was thrown 
 up bv the O'Callaghan side, who certainly gained the day. Many a 
 
138 THE BATTLE OF THE FACTIONS. 
 
 song was raised by those who tottered about with trickling sconces, 
 half drunk with whisky, and half stupid with beatini^. Many a 
 ' whoo,' and * hurroo,' and ' huzza,' was sent forth by the triumphantcrs ; 
 but truth to tell, they were miserably feeble and faint, compared to 
 what they had been in the beginning of the amusements — sufticiently 
 evincing that, although they might boast of the name of victory, they 
 had got a bellyful of beating; — still there was hard fighting. 
 
 " 1 mentioned, some time ago, that a man had adopted a scythe. 
 I wish from my heart there had been no such bloody instrument there 
 that day ; but truth must be told. John O'Callaghan was now en- 
 gaged against a set of the other O's, who had rallied for the third time 
 and attacked him and his party. Another brother of Rose Galh's 
 was in this engagement, and him did John O'Callaghan not only knock 
 down, but cut desperately across the temple. A man, stripped, and 
 covered with blood and dust, at that moment made his appearance, 
 his hand bearing the blade of the aforesaid scythe. His approach 
 was at once furious and rapid — and I may as well add, fatal ; for be- 
 fore John O'Callaghan had time to be forewarned of his danger, he 
 was cut down, the artery of his neck laid open, and he died without a 
 groan. It was truly dreadful, even to the oldest fighter present, to see 
 the strong rush of red blood that curvated about his neck, until it 
 gurgled — gurgled — gurgled, andlappered, and bubbled out — ending in 
 small red spouts, blackening and blackening, as they became fainter 
 and more faint. At this criticality every eye was turned from the 
 corpse to the murderer ; but he had been instar.tly struck down, and 
 a female, with a large stone in her apron, stood over him, her arms 
 stretched out, her face horribly distorted with agony, and her eyes 
 turned backwards, as it were, into her head. In a few seconds she fell 
 into strong convulsions, and was immediately taken away. Alas ! 
 alas ! it was Rose Galh ; and when we looked at the man she had 
 struck down, he was found to be her brother ! flesh of her flesh, and 
 blood of her blood ! On examining him more closely, we discovered 
 that his under-jaw hung loose, that his limbs were supple ; we tried 
 to make him speak, but in vain — he too was a corpse. 
 
 " The fact was, that in consequence of his being stripped, and 
 covered by so much blood and dust, she knew him not ; and impelled 
 by her feelings to avenge herself, on the murderer of her lover, to 
 whom she doubly owed her lite, she struck him a deadly blow, without 
 knowing him to be her brother. The shock produced by seeing her 
 lover murdered — and the horror of finding that she herself, in avenging 
 him, had taken her brother's life, was too much for a heart so tender 
 as hers. On recovering from her convulsions, her senses were found 
 to be gone for ever ! Poor girl ! she is still living ; but from that 
 moment \o this she has never opened her lips to mortal. She is, 
 indeed, a fair ruin, but silent, melancholy, and beautiful as the moon 
 in the summer heaven. Poor Rose Galh ! you, and many a mother, 
 and father, and wife, and orphan, have had reason to rnaledict the 
 bloody Bailies of tJie Faclions ! 
 " With regard to my grandfather, he says that he didn't see purtiei 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 139 
 
 fijrhting within his own memory ; nor since the fight between himself 
 and Big Mucklemurray took place in the same town. But, to do him 
 justice, he condemns the scythe and every other weap'^n except the 
 cudgels ; because, he says, that if they continue to be resorted to, nate 
 fighting will be altogether forgotten in the country." 
 
 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 E ought, perhaps, to inform our readers that the connection 
 between a party fight and funeral is sufficiently strong to justify 
 the author in classing them under the title which is prefixed 
 to this story. The one, being usually the natural result of the other, is 
 made to proceed from it, as is the custom in real life among the Irish. 
 Such is the preface with which we deem it necessary to introduce the 
 following sketch to those who shall honour us with a perusal. 
 
 It has long been laid down as a universal principle that self-pre- 
 servation is the first law of nature. An Irishman, however, has nothing 
 to do with this ; he disposes of it as he does of the other laws, and washes 
 his hands out of it altogether. But commend him to a fair, dance, 
 funeral, or wedding, or to any other sport where there is a likelihood 
 of getting his head or his bones broken, and if he survive he will 
 remember you, with a kindness peculiar to himself, to the last day of 
 his life ; will drub you from head to heel if he finds that any misfor- 
 tune has kept you out of a row beyond the usual period of three 
 months ; will render the same service to any of your friends that stand 
 in need of it ; or, in short, will go to the world's end, or fifty miles 
 farther, as he himself would say, to serve you, provided you can pro- 
 cure him a bit of decent fighting. Now, in truth and soberness, it is 
 difficult to account for this propensity, especially when the task of 
 ascertaining it is assigned to those of another country, or even to 
 those Irishmen whose rank in life places them too far from the cus- 
 toms, prejudices, and domestic opinions of their native peasantry— 
 none of which can be properly known without mingling with them. 
 To my own knowledge, however, it proceeds from education. And 
 here I would beg leave to point out an omission of which the several 
 boards of education have been guilty, and which, I believe, no one 
 but myself has yet been sufficiently acute and philosophical to ascer- 
 tain, as forming a sine qua non in the national instruction of the lower 
 orders of Irishmen. 
 
 The cream of the matter is this. A species of ambition prevails in 
 the Green Isle not known in any other country. It is an ambition of 
 about ttree miles by four in extent ; or, in other words, is bounded by 
 the limks of the parish in which the subject of it may reside. It puts 
 itself forth early in the character, and a hardy perennial it is. In my 
 
140 THE PARTY FIGHT A^D FUNERAL. 
 
 own case its first development was noticed in the hedge-school 
 which I attended. I had not been long there till I was for-^ed to 
 declare myself cither for the Caseys or the Murphys, two tiny factions 
 that had split the school between them. The day on which the 
 ceremony of my declaration took place was a solemn one. Aftor 
 school, we all went to the bottom of a deep valley, a short distance 
 from the school-house. Up to the moment of our assenbling there, 
 I had not taken m.y stand under either banner: that if the Caseys 
 was a sod of turf stuck on the end of a broken fishing-rod — the eagle 
 of the Murphys was a cork-red potato, hoisted in the same manner. 
 The turf was borne by an urchin who afterwards distinguished him- 
 self at fairs and markets as a bicilla baltkah^ of the first grade, and 
 from this circumstance he was nicknamed Parrah Racklianr The 
 potato was borne by little Mickle M'Phauolcen Murphy, who after- 
 wards took away Katty Bane Sheridan, without asking her own con- 
 sent or her father's. They were all then boys, it is true, but they gave 
 a tolerable promise of that eminence which they subsequently attained. 
 
 When we arrived at the bottom of the glen, the Murphys and the 
 Caseys, including their respective followers, ranged themselves on 
 either side of a long line which was drawn between the belligerent 
 powers with the butt-end of one of the standards. Exactly on this 
 line was I placed. The word was then put to me in full form — 
 " Whether will you side with the dacent Caseys or the blackguard 
 Murphys ? " " Whether will you side with the dacent Murphys or the 
 blackguard Caseys.''" "The potato for ever!" said I, throwing up 
 my caubeen, and running over to the Murphy standard. In the 
 twinkling of an eye w'e were at it ; and in a short time the deuce an 
 eye some of us had to twinkle. A battle royal succeeded that lasted 
 near half an hour, and it would probably have lasted about double 
 the time were it not for the appearance of the " master," who was 
 seen by a little shrivelled vidcttc, who wanted an arm, and could take 
 no part in the engagement. This was enough ; we instantly radiated 
 in all possible directions, so that by the time he had descended 
 through the intricacies ^f the glen to the field of battle, neither victor 
 nor vanquished was visible, except, perhaps, a straggler or two as they 
 topped the brow of the declivity, looking back over their shoulders to 
 put themselves out of doubt as to their visibility by the master. They 
 seldom looked in vain, however ; for there he usually stood, shaking 
 up his rod, silently prophetic of its application on the following day. 
 This threat, for the most part, ended in smoke ; for except he horsed 
 about forty or fifty of us, the infliction of impartial justice was utterly 
 out of his power. 
 
 I'ut, besides this, there never was a realm in which the evils of a 
 divided cabinet were more visible : the truth is, the monarch himself 
 was under the influence of female government — an influence which he 
 felt it either contrary to his inclination or beyond his power to throw 
 off. " Poor Norah, long Tos^y you I'cign^' we often used to exclaim, to 
 
 ' Cudgel Player, * Paddy RioL 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 141 
 
 he visible mortification of the " master," who felt the benevolence of 
 :he wish bottomed upon an indirect want of allegiance to himsell. 
 Well, it was a touching scene ! — how we used to stand with the waist- 
 bands of our smallclothes cautiously grasped in our hands, with a timid 
 show of resistance, our brave red faces slobbered over with tears, as 
 we stood naked for execution ! Never was there a finer specimen of 
 deprecation in eloquence than we then exhibited— the supplicating 
 look right up into the master's face — the touching modulation of the 
 whine — the additional tightness and caution with which we grasped 
 the waistbands with one hand, when it was necessary to use the other 
 in wiping our eyes and noses with the polished sleeve-cuff — the sin- 
 cerity and vehemence with which we promised never to be guiUy again, 
 still shrewdly including the condition of present impunity for our 
 offence : — " this— one — time — master, if ye plaise, sir ;" and the utter 
 hopelessness and despair which were legible in the last groan, as we 
 grasped the " master's " leg in utter recklessness of judgment, were 
 all perfect in their way. Reader, have you ever got a reprieve from 
 the gallows? I beg pardon, my dear sir; I only meant to ask, are 
 you capable of entering into what a personage of that description 
 might be supposed to feel, on being informed, after the knot had been 
 neatly tied under the left ear, and the cap drawn over his eyes, that his 
 Majesty had granted him a full pardon ? But you remember your own 
 schoolboy days, and that's enough. 
 
 The nice discrimination with which Norah used to time her inter- 
 ference was indeed surprising. God help us ! limited was our expe- 
 rience, and shallow our Uttle judgments, or we might, with less trouble 
 than Sir Humphry Davy deciphered the Herculaneum MSS., have 
 known what the master meant, when, with the upraised arm hung over 
 us, his eye was fixed upon the door of the kitchen, waiting for Norah's 
 appearance. 
 
 Long, my fair and virtuous countrywomen — I repeat it to you all, as 
 I did to Norah — may you reign in the hearts and affections of your 
 husbands (but nowhere else), the grace, ornaments, and happiness of 
 their hearths and lives, you jewels, you ! You are paragons of all that's 
 good, and your feelings are highly creditable to yourselves and to 
 humanity. 
 
 When Norah advanced, with her brawny uplifted arm (for she was 
 a powerful woman) and forbidding aspect, to interpose between us 
 and the avenging terrors of the birch, do you think that she did not 
 reflect honour on her sex and the national character ? I sink the base 
 allusion to the viiscaujn of fresh butter, which we had placed in her 
 hands that morning, or the dish of eggs, or of meal, which we had 
 either begged or stolen at home, as a present for her ; disclaiming, at 
 the same time, the rascally idea of giving it from any motive beneath 
 the most lofty-minded and disinterested generosity on our part. 
 
 Then, again, never did a forbidding face shine with so winning and 
 amicable an expression as did hers on that merciful occasion. The 
 sun dancing a hornpipe on Easter Sunday morning, or the full moon 
 sailing as proud as a peacock in a new halo head-dress, was a very 
 
142 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL, 
 
 disrespectable sight, compared to Norah's red beaming face, shrouded 
 in her dowd cap with long ears, that descended to her masculine and 
 substantial neck. Owing to her inlTucncc, the whole economy of the 
 school was good; for we were permitted to cuff one another, and co 
 whatever we pleased, with impunity, if we brought tlie meal, eggs, o« 
 butter ; except some scapegoat who was not able to accomplish this, 
 and he generally received on his own miserable carcase what was due 
 to us all. 
 
 Poor Jack Murray ! His last words on the scaffold, for being con- 
 cerned in the murder of Pierce, the ganger, were, that he got the first 
 of his bad habits under Pat Mulligan and Norah — that he learned to 
 steal by secreting at home butter and meal to paste up the master's 
 eyes to his bad conduct — and that his fondness for quarrelling arose 
 from being permitted to head a faction at school ; a most ungrateful 
 return for the many acts of grace which the indulgence of Norah 
 caused to be issued in his favour. 
 
 I was but a short time under Pat, when, after the general example, 
 I had my cudgel, which I used to carry regularly to a certain furze 
 bush within fifty perches of the " seminary," where I hid it till after 
 ■' dismiss." I grant it does not look well in me to become my own 
 panegyrist ; but I can at least declare that there were few among the 
 Caseys able to resist the prowess of this right arm, puny as it was at 
 the period in question. Our battles were obstinate and frequent ; but 
 as the quarrels of the two families and their relations on each side 
 were as bitter and pugnacious in fairs and markets as ours were in 
 school, we hit upon the plan of holding our Lilliputian engagements 
 upon the same days on which our fathers and brothers contested. 
 According to this plan, it very often happened that the corresponding 
 parties were successful, and as frequently, that whilst the Castys 
 were well drubbed in the fair, their sons were viciorious at school, and 
 vice vcrsd. 
 
 For my part, I was early trained to cudgelling, and before I reached 
 my fourteenth year, could pronounce as sage and accurate an opinion 
 upon the merits of a sliillelagli, as it is called, or cudgel, as a veteri- 
 nary surgeon of sixty could upon a dead ass at first sight. Our plan 
 of preparing is this : — we sallied out to any place where there was an 
 underwood of blackthorn or oak, and, having surveyed the premises 
 with the eye of a connoisseur, we selected the straightest root-growing 
 piece which we could find : for if not root-growing, we did not con- 
 sider it worth cutting, knowing from experience that a branch, how 
 straight and fair soever it might look, would snap in the twist and 
 tug of war. Having cut it as close to the root as possible, we then 
 lopped off the branches, and put it up in the chimney to season. 
 When seasoned, we took it down, and wrapping it in brown paper, 
 well steeped in hog's lard or oil, we buried it in a horse-dunghill, 
 paying it a daily visit for the purpose of making it straight by doubling 
 back the bends or angles acrass the knee, in a direction contrary to 
 their natural tendency. Having daily repeated this until we had 
 made it straight, and renewed the oiled wrapping paper until the 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 143 
 
 stafif was perfectly saturated, we then rubbed it well with a woollen 
 cloth, containing a little black-lead and grease, to give it a polish. 
 This was the last process, except that if we thought it too light at the 
 top, we used to bore a hole in the lower end with a red-hot iron 
 spindle, into which we poured melted lead, for the purpose of giving 
 it the knock-down weight. 
 
 There were very few of Paddy Mulligan's scholars without a choice 
 collection of them, and scarcely one who had not, before his fifteenth 
 year, a just claim to be called the hero of a hundred fights, and the 
 heritor of as many bumps on the cranium as would strike both Gall 
 and Spurzheim speechless. 
 
 Now this, be it known, was, and in some districts yet is, an integral 
 part of an Irish peasant's education. In the northern parts of Ireland, 
 where the population of the Catholics on the one side, and of Pro- 
 testants and Dissenters on the other, is nearly equal, I have known 
 the respective scholars of Catholic and Protestant schools to challenge 
 each other, and meet half-way to do battle, in vindication of their 
 respective creeds ; or for the purpose of establishing the character of 
 their respective masters as the more learned man ; for if we were to 
 judge by the nature of the education then received, we would be led 
 to conclude that a more commercial nation than Ireland was not on 
 the face of the earth, it being the indispensable part of every scholar's 
 business to become acquainted with the three sets of Book-keeping. 
 
 The boy who was the handiest and the most daring with the 
 cudgel at Paddy Mulligan's school was Denis Kelly, the son of a 
 wealthy farmer in the neighbourhood. He was a rash, hot-tempered, 
 good-natured lad, possessing a more than coinmon share of this 
 blackthorn ambition ; on which account he was cherished by his 
 relations as a boy that was likely at a future period to be able to walk 
 over the course of the parish, in fair, market, or patron. He certainly 
 grew up a stout, able young fellow ; and before he reached nineteen 
 years, was unrivalled at the popular exercises of the peasantry. 
 Shortly after that time he made his debut in a party-quarrel, which 
 took place in one of the Christmas Margatnores,^ and fully sustained 
 the anticipations which were formed of him by his relations. For 
 a year or two afterwards no quarrel was fought without him ; and his 
 prowess rose until he had gamed the very pinnacle of that ambition 
 which he had determined to reach. About this time I was separated 
 from him, having found it necessary, in order to accomplish my objects 
 in life, to reside with a relation in another part of the country. 
 
 The period of my absence, I believe, was about fourteen years, 
 during which space I heard no account of him whatsoever. At length, 
 however, that inextinguishable attachment which turns the affections 
 and memory to the friends of our early days— to those scenes which 
 we traversed when the heait was light and the spirits buoyant — de- 
 termined me to make a visit to my native place, that I might witness 
 the progress of time and care upon those faces that were once sa 
 
 ' Big Markets. 
 
144 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 I'amiliar to me ; that I might once more look upon the meadows and 
 valleys, and (proves, and mountains where I had so often played, -and 
 to which I still found myself bound by a tie that a more enlightened 
 view of life and nature only made stronger and more enduring. I 
 accordingly set off, and arrived, late in the evening of a Dcccmljer 
 day, at a little town within a few miles of my native home. On 
 alighting from the conch and dining, I determined to walk home, as 
 it was a fine frosty night. The full moon hung in the blue unclouded 
 iumament in all her lustre, and the stars shone out with that tremu- 
 lous twinkling motion so peculiarly remarkable in frost. I had been 
 absent, 1 said, about fourteen years, and felt that the cnjoynient of 
 this night would form an era in the records of my memory and my 
 feelings. I find myself, indeed, utterly incapable of expressing what 
 1 experienced ; but those who have ever been in similar circumstances 
 will understand what I mean. A strong spirit of practical poetry and 
 romance was upon me : and I thought that a commonplace approach 
 in the open day would have rendered my return to the scenes of my 
 early life a very stale and unedifying matter. 
 
 1 left the inn at seven o'clock, and as I had only five miles to walk, 
 I would just arrive about nine, allowing myself to saunter on at the 
 rate of two miles and a half per hour. My sensations, indeed, as I 
 went along, were singular ; and as I took a solitary road across the 
 mountains, the loneliness of the walk, the deep gloom of the valleys, 
 the towering height of the dark hills, and the pale silvery light of 
 a sleeping lake, shining dimly in the distance below, gave me such a 
 distinct notion of the sublime and beautiful as I have seldom since 
 experienced. I recommend every man who has been fourteen years 
 absent from his native fields to return by moonlight. 
 
 Well, there is a mystery yet undiscovered in our being, for no man 
 can know his feelings or his capacities. Many a slumbering thought, 
 and sentiment, and association reposes within him, of which he is 
 utterly ignorant, and which, except he come in contact with those 
 objects whose influence over his mind can alone call them into being, 
 may never be awakened, or give him one moment of either pleasure 
 or pain. There is, therefore, a great deal in the position which we 
 hold in society, and simply in situation. I felt this on tliat night : for 
 the tenor of my reflections was new and original, and my feelings had 
 a warmth and freshness in them which nothing but the situation in 
 which I then found myself could give them. The force of association, 
 too, was powerful ; for as I advanced nearer home, the names of hills, 
 and lakes, and mountains, that I had utterly forgotten, as I thought, 
 v;erc distinctly revived in my memory ; and a crowd of youthful 
 thoughts and feelings, that I imagined my intercourse with the world 
 and the finger of time had blotted out of hiy being, began to crowd 
 afresh on my fancy. The name of a townland would instantly return 
 with its appearance ; and I could now remember the history of families 
 and individuals that had long been effaced from my recollection. 
 
 But what is even more singiUar is that the superstitious terrors of 
 my boyhood began to come over me, as formerly, whenever a spot 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 145 
 
 noted for supernatural appearances met my eye. It v/as in vain that 
 1 exerted myself to expel them, by throwing the barrier of philosophic 
 reasoning in their way ; they still clung to me, in spite of every effort 
 to the contrary. But the fact is that I was, for the moment, the slave 
 of a morbid and feverish sentiment, that left me completely at the 
 mercy of the dark and fleeting images that passed over my fancy. I 
 now came to a turn where the road began to slope down into the 
 depths of a valley that ran across it. When I looked forward into 
 the bottom, all was darkness impenetrable, for the moonbeams were 
 thrown off by the height of the mountains that rose on each side of it. 
 I felt an indefinite sensation of fear, because at that moment I recol- 
 lected that it had been, in my younger days, notorious as the scene of 
 an apparition, where the spirit of a murdered pedlar had never been 
 known to permit a solitary traveller to pass without appearing to him, 
 and walking cheek-by-jowl along with him to the next house on the 
 way, at which spot he usually vanished. The influence of my feelings, 
 or, I should rather say, the physical excitement of my nerves, was by 
 no means slight as these old traditions recurred to me ; although, at 
 the same time, my moral courage was perfectly unimpaired, so that, 
 notwithstanding this involuntary apprehension, I felt a degree of 
 novelty and curiosity in descending the valley. " If it appear," said I, 
 " I shall at least satisfy myself as to the truth of apparitions." 
 
 My dress consisted of a long, dark surtout, the collar of which, as 
 the night was keen, I had turned up about my ears, and the corners 
 of it met round my face. In addition to this I had a black silk hand- 
 kerchief tied across my mouth, to keep out the night air, so that, as 
 my dark fur travelling cap came down over my face, there was very 
 little of my countenance visible. I now had advanced half-way into 
 the valley, and all about me was dark and still : the moonlight was 
 not nearer than the top of the hill which I was descending ; and I 
 often turned round to look upon it, so silvery and beautiful it appeared 
 at a distance. Sometimes I stood for a few moments admiring its 
 effect, and contemplating the dark mountains as they stood out ngainst 
 the firmament, then kindled into magnificent grandeur by the myriads 
 of stars that glowed in its expanse. There was perfect silence and 
 solitude around me ; and as I stood alone in the dark chamber of the 
 mountains, I felt the impressiveness of the situation gradually supersede 
 my terrors. A sublime sense of religious awe descended on me ; my 
 soul kindled into a glow of solemn and elevated devotion, which gave 
 me a more intense perception of the presence of God than I had ever 
 before experienced. " How sacred — how awful," thought I, *' is this 
 place ! — how impressive is this hour ! — surely, I feel myself at the 
 footstool of God ! The voice of worship is in this deep, soul-thrilling 
 silence, and the tongue of praise speaks, as it were, from the very 
 solitude of the mountains ! " I then thought of Him who went up into 
 a mountain-top to pray, and felt the majesty of those admirable de- 
 scriptions of the Almighty, given in the Old Testament, blend in 
 delightful harmony with the beauty and fitness of the Christian dis- 
 pensation, that brought life and immortality to light. " Here," said 1, 
 
146 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 " do I feel that I am indeed immortal, and destined for scenes of a 
 
 more exalted and comprehensive existence !" 
 
 I then proceeded further into the valley, completely freed from the 
 influence of old and superstitious associations. A few perches below 
 me a small river crossed the road, over which was thrown a little 
 stone bridge of rude workmanship. This bridge was the spot on 
 which the apparition was said to appear ; and as I approached it I 
 felt the folly of those terrors which had only a few minutes before 
 beset me so strongly. I found my inoral energies recruited, and the 
 dark phantasms of my imagination dispelled by the light of religion, 
 which had refreshed me with a deep sense of the Almighty presence. 
 I accordingly walked forward, scarcely bestowing a thought upon the 
 history of the place, and had got within a few yards of the bridge, 
 when, on resting my eye accidentally upon the little elevation formed 
 by its rude arch, I perceived a black coffin placed at the edge of the 
 road, exactly upon the bridge ! 
 
 It may be evident to the reader that, however satisfactory the force 
 of philosophical reasoning might have been upon the subject of the 
 solitude, I was too much the creature of sensation for an hour before 
 to look on such a startling object with firm nerves. For the first two 
 or three minutes, therefore, I exhibited as finished a specimen of the 
 dastardly as could be imagined. My hair absolutely raised my cap 
 some inches ofT my head ; my mouth opened to an extent which I did 
 not conceive it could possibly reach ; I thought my eyes shot out 
 from their sockets ; and my fingers spread out and became stiff, 
 though powerless. The obstiipid was perfectly realised in me, for, 
 with the exception of a single groan which I gave on first seeing the 
 object, I found that if one word would save my life, or transport me 
 to my own fireside, I could not utter it. I was also rooted to the 
 earth as if by magic ; and although instant tergiversation and flight 
 had my most hearty concurrence, I could not move a limb, nor even 
 raise my eye off the sepulchral-looking object which lay before me. I 
 now felt the perspiration fall from my face in torrents, and the strokes 
 of my heart fell audibly on my ear. I even attempted to say "God 
 preserve me," but my tongue was dumb and powerless, and could not 
 move. My eye was still upon the coffin, when I perceived that, from 
 being motionless, it instantly began to swing, first in a lateral, then in 
 a longitudinal direction, although it was perfectly evident that no 
 human hand was nearer it than my own. At length I raised my eyes 
 off it, for my vision was strained to an aching intensity which I 
 thought must have occasioned my eye-strings to crack. I looked 
 instinctively about me for assistance — but all was dismal, silent, and 
 solitary : even the moon had disappeared among a few clouds that I 
 had not noticed in the sky. 
 
 As I stood in this state of indescribable horror I snw the light 
 {gradually fade away from the tops of the mountains, giving the scene 
 around me a dim and spectral ghaslliness, which, to those who were 
 never in such a situation, is altogether inconceivable. 
 
 At len^'ih I thought I heard a noise as it wore of a rushing temoesl 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 147 
 
 sweeping from the hills down into the valley ; but on looking up I 
 could perceive nothing but the dusky desolation that brooded over 
 the place. Still the noise continued : again I saw the coffin move ; I 
 then felt the motion communicated to myself, and found my body 
 borne and swung backwards and forwards, precisely according to the 
 motion of the coffin. I again attempted to utter a cry for assistance, 
 but could not : the motion of my body still continued, as did the 
 approaching noise in the hills. I looked up a second time in the 
 direction in which the valley wound off between them, but judge 
 of what I must have suffered when I beheld on-i of the mountains 
 moving, as it were, from its base, and tumbling down towards the spot 
 on which I stood. In the twinkling of an eye the whole scene, hills and 
 all, began to tremble, to vibrate and to fly round me, with a rapid, 
 delirious motion ; the stars shot back into the depths of heaven, and 
 disappeared ; the ground on which I stood began to pass from be- 
 neath my feet ; a noise like the breaking of a thousand gigantic 
 billows again burst from every direction, and I found myself instantly 
 overwhelmed by some deadly weight, which prostrated me on the 
 earth, and deprived me of sense and motion. 
 
 I know not how long I continued in this state ; but I remember 
 that, on opening my eyes, the first object that presented itself to me 
 was the sky, glowing as before with ten thousand stars, and the moon 
 walking in her unclouded brightness through the heavens. The whole 
 ciicumstance then rushed back upon my mind, but with a sense of 
 horror very much diminished ; I arose, and, on looking towards the 
 spot, perceived the coffin in the same place. I then stood, and 
 endeavouring to collect myself, viewed it as calmly as possible ; it was, 
 however as motionless and distinct as when I first saw it. I now 
 began to reason upon the matter, and to consider that it was pusillani- 
 mous in me to give way to such boyish terrors. The confidence, also, 
 which my heart, only a short time before this, had experienced in the 
 presence and protection of the Almighty, again returned, and, along 
 with it, a degree of religious fortitude which invigorated my whole 
 system. " Well," thought I, " in the name of God, I shall ascertain 
 what you are, let the consequence be what it may." I then advanced 
 until I stood exactly over it, and raising my foot, gave it a slight kick. 
 "'• Now," said I, "nothing remains but to ascertain whether it contains 
 a dead body, or not," but, on raising the end of it, I perceived by its 
 lightness that it was empty. To investigate the cause of its being 
 left in this solitary spot was, however, not within the compass of my 
 philosophy, so I gave that up. On looking at it more closely I noticed 
 a plate marked with the name and age of the person for whom it was 
 intended, and on bringing my eye near the letters, I was able be- 
 tween fingering and reading to make out the name of my old cudgel- 
 fighting school-fellow, Denis Kelly. 
 
 This discovery threw a partial light upon the business ; but I now 
 remembered to have heard of individuals who had seen black, un- 
 earthly coffins, inscribed with the names of certain living persons ; 
 and that these were considered as ominous of the death of those 
 
148 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 persons. I accordingly determined to be certain that this was a real 
 coffin ; and as Denis's house was not more than a mile before me, I 
 decided on carrying it that far. " If he be dead," thought I, " it will 
 be all right, and if not, we will see more about it." My mind, in fact, 
 was diseased with terror. I instantly raised the coffin, and as I found 
 a rope lying on the ground under it, I strapped it about my shoulders 
 and proceeded : nor could I help smiling when I reflected upon the 
 singular transition which the man of sentiment and sensation so 
 strangely underwent : — from the sublime contemplation of the 
 silent mountain solitude and the spangled heavens to the task of 
 carrying a coffin ! It was an adventure, however, and I was resolved 
 to see how it would terminate. 
 
 There was from the bridge an ascent in the road, not so gradual as 
 that by which I descended on the other side ; and as the coffin was 
 rather heavy, I began to repent of having anything to do with it ; for 
 I was by no means experienced in carrying coffins. The carriage of 
 it was, indeed, altogether an irksome and unpleasant concern ; for 
 owing to my ignorance of using the rope that tied it skilfully, it was 
 every moment sliding down my back, dragging along the stones, Dr 
 bumping against my heels : besides, I saw no sufficient grounds I had 
 for entering upon the ludicrous and odd employment of carrying 
 another man's coffin, and was several times upon the point of washing 
 my hands out of it altogether. But the novelty of the incident, and the 
 mystery in which it was involved, decided me in bringing it as far as 
 Kelly's house, which was exactly on my way home. 
 
 I had yet half a mile to go ; but I thought it would be best to strap 
 it more firmly about my body before I could start again : I therefore 
 set it standing on i'lS end, just at the turn of the road, until I should 
 breathe a little, for I was rather exhausted by a trudge under it of half 
 a mile and upwards. Whilst the coffin was in this position, I standing 
 exactly behind it (Kelly had been a tall man, consequently it was some- 
 what higher than I was), a crowd of people bearinglights advanced round 
 the corner ; and the first object which presented itself to their vision 
 was the coffin in that position, whilst I was totally invisible behind it. 
 As soon as they saw it there was an involuntary cry of consternation 
 from the whole crowd ; at this time I had the coffin once more strapped 
 firmly by a running knot to my shoulders, so that I could loose it 
 whenever I pleased. On seeing the party, and hearing certain expres- 
 sions which dropped from them, I knew at once that there had been 
 some unlucky blunder in the business on their part ; and 1 would have 
 given a good deal to be out of the circumstances in which I then stood. 
 I felt that I could not possibly have accounted for my situation, with- 
 out bringing myself in for as respectable a portion of rank cowardice as 
 those who ran away from the coffin ; for that it was left behind in a fit 
 of terror I now entertained no doubt whatever, particularly when I re- 
 membered the traditions connected with the spot in which I found it. 
 
 ^'' Manim a Yea agus a ivurrah /"^ exclaimed one of them, " if the 
 
 ' My soul to God and the Virgin. 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 147 
 
 black man hasn't brought it up from the bridge : dher a ioriia heena^ 
 he did ; for it was above the bridge we first seen him : jist for all the 
 world — the Lord be about us — as Antony and me war coming out on 
 the road at the bridge, there he was standing — a headless man, all 
 black, widout face or eyes upon him — and then we cut acrass the fields 
 home." 
 
 " But where is he now, Eman ?" said one of them ; "are you sure 
 you seen him ? " 
 
 "Seen him!"' both exclaimed; "do ye think we'd take to our 
 scrapers like two hares, only we did ; arrah, bad manners to you, 
 do you think the coffin could walk up wid itself from the bridge to 
 this, only he brought it ? — isn't that enough ? " 
 
 " Thrue for yees," the rest exclaimed, " but what's to be done ? " 
 
 '* Why to bring the coffin home, now that we're all together," another 
 observed ; " they say he never appears to more than two at wanst, so 
 he won't be apt to show himself now." 
 
 "Well, boys, let two of you go down to it," said one of them, "and 
 we'll wait here till yees bring it up." 
 
 "Yes," said Eman Dhu, "do you go down, Owen, as you have the 
 scapular on you, and the jug of holy water in your hand, and let Billy 
 M'Shane, here, repate the confeetJiur along wid you." 
 
 " Isn't it the same thing, Eman," replied Owen, " if I shake the holy 
 water on you and whoever goes wid you ; sure you know that if only 
 one dhrop of it touched you, the devil himself couldn't harm you ! " 
 
 " And what needs yourself be afraid, then ? " retorted Eman ; " and 
 you has the scapular on you to the back of that ? Didn't you say, as 
 you war coming out, that if it was the devil, you'd disparse him ? " 
 
 " You had betther not be mintioning his name, you 07)iadJiaiin" 
 replied the other ; " if I was your age, and hadn't a wife and childre 
 on my hands, it's myself that would trusc in God, and go down man- 
 fully ; but the people are hen-hearted now, besides what they used to 
 be in my time." 
 
 During this conversation I had resolved, if possible, to keep up 
 the delusion, until I could get myself extricated with due secrecy out 
 of this ridiculous situation ; and I was glad to find that, owing to 
 their cowardice, there was some likelihood of effecting my design. 
 
 " Ned," said one of them to a little man, "go down and speak to it, 
 as it can't harm j^//." 
 
 " Why, sure," said Ned, with a tremor in his voice, "I can speak to 
 it where I am, widout going within rache of it. Boys, stay close to 
 me : hem — In the name of — but don't you think I had betther spake 
 to it in the Latin I sarve mass wid ; it can't but answer that, for the 
 sbivl of it, seeing it's a blest language ? " 
 
 " Very well," the rest replied ; " try that, Ned ; give it the best and 
 ginteelest grammar you have, and maybe it may thrate us dacent." 
 
 Now it so happened that, in my schoolboy days, I had joined, 
 from mere frolic, a class of young fellows who were learning what is 
 
 ' By the very book. 
 
150 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 called the " Sar^'in' of Mass" and had impressed it so accurately on 
 a pretty retentive memory that I never forgot it. At length, Ned 
 pulled out his beads, and bedewed himself most copiously with the 
 holy water. He then shouted out, with a voice which resembled that 
 of a man in an ague fit — " Dom-i-ii-us vo-his-cum ? " " £i cum spi- 
 ritu tiio" I replied, in a husky sepulchral tone, from behind the 
 coffin. As soon as I uttered these words the whole crowd ran back 
 instinctively with affright ; and Ned got so weak that they were 
 obliged to support him. 
 
 " Lord have marcy on us," said Ned : " boys, isn't it an awful 
 thing to speak to a spirit? My hair is like I dunna what, it's sticking 
 up so stiff upon my head." 
 
 " Spake to it in English, Ned," said they, " till we hear what it will 
 say. Ax it does anything trouble it ; or whether it's sowTs in 
 Purgatory." 
 
 " Wouldn't it be betther," observed another, " to ax it who 
 murdhered it — maybe it wants to discover that .'* " 
 
 " In the — na-me of go-o-d-ness," said Ned, down to me, " what are 
 you?" 
 
 " I'm the soul," I replied in the same voice, "of the pedlar that was 
 murdered on the bridge below." 
 
 "And — who — was— it, sur, wid — submission, that — murdhered — 
 you?" 
 
 To this I made no reply. 
 
 " I say," continued Ned, "in — the — name — of— g-o-o-d-ness — wiio 
 was it — that took the liberty of murdhering you, dacent man ?" 
 
 " Ned Corrigan," I answered, giving his own name. 
 
 " Hem! God presarve us! Ned Corrigan!" he exclaimed. " What 
 Ned, for there's two of them. — Is it myself, or the oiher vagabone?" 
 
 " Yourself, you murderer ! " I replied. 
 
 "Ho!" said Ned, getting quite stout — "Is that you, neighbour? 
 Come, now, walk out wid yourself out of that coffin, you vagabone 
 you, whoever you are." 
 
 " What do you mane, Ned, by spaking to it that-a-away ?" the rest 
 inquired. 
 
 " Hut," said Ned, "it's some fellow or other that's playing a thrick 
 upon us. Sure I never knew neither act nor part of the murdher, 
 nor of the murdherers ; and you know, if it was anything of that 
 nature, it couldn't tell me a lie, and me a scapularian, along wid 
 axing it in God's name, wid Father Feasthalagh's Latin." 
 
 " Big tare-an'-ouns !" said the rest, " if we thought it was any man 
 making fun of us, but we'd crop the ears off his head, to tache him to 
 be joking ! " 
 
 To tell the truth, when I heard this suggestion, I began to repent 
 of my frolic ; but I was determined to make another effort to finish 
 the adventure creditably. 
 
 " Ned," said they, "throw some of the holy water on us all, and in 
 the name of St. Pcthcr and the Blessed Virgin, we'll go down and 
 examine it in a body." 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 151 
 
 This they considered a good thought, and Ned was sprinkling the 
 water about him in all directions, whilst he repeated some jargon 
 which was completely unintelligible. They then began to approach 
 the coffin at dead-march time, and I felt that this was the only 
 moment in which my plan could succeed — for had I waited until 
 they came down, all would have been discovered. As soon, therefore, 
 as they began to move towards me, I also began, with equal 
 solemnity, to retrograde towards the in ; so that, as the coffin was 
 between us, it seemed to move without human means. 
 
 " Stop, for God's sake, stop," shouted Ned ; "it's movin' ! It has 
 made the coffin alive ; don't you see it stepping this way widout hand 
 or foot, barring the boords ! " 
 
 There was now a halt to ascertain the fact : but I still retrograded. 
 This was sufficient — a cry of terror broke from the whole group, and, 
 without waiting for further evidence, they set off in the direction they 
 came from, at full speed, Ned flinging the jug of holy water at the 
 coffin, lest the latter should follow, or the former encumber him in his 
 flight. Never was there so complete a discomfiture ; and so eager 
 were they to escape that several of them came down on the stones ; 
 and I could hear them shouting with desperation, and imploring the 
 more advanced not to leave them behind. I instantly disentangled 
 myself from the coffin, and left it standing exactly in the middle of 
 the road, for the next passenger to give it a lift as far as Denis 
 Kelly's, if he felt so disposed. I lost no time in making the best of 
 my way home ; and on passing poor Denis's house, I perceived, by 
 the bustle and noise within, that he was dead. 
 
 I had given my friends no notice of this visit ; my reception was 
 consequently the warmer, as I was not expected. That evening was a 
 happy one, which I shall long remember. At supper I alluded to 
 Kelly, and received from my brother a full account, as given in the 
 following narrative, of the circumstances which caused his death. 
 
 " I need not remind you, Toby, of our schoolboy days, nor of the 
 principles usually imbibed at such schools as that in which the two 
 tiny factions of the Caseys and the Murphys qualified themselves — 
 among the latter of whom you cut so distinguished a figure. You will 
 not, therefore, be surprised to hear that those two factions are as 
 bitter as ever ; and that the boys who at Pat Mulligan's school be- 
 laboured each other, in imitation of their brothers and fathers, con- 
 tinue to set the same iniquitous example to their children ; so that 
 this groundless and hereditary enmity is likely to descend to future 
 generations — unless, indeed, the influence of a more enlightened system 
 of education may check it. But, unhappily, there is a strong suspicion 
 of the object proposed by such a system ; so that the advantages 
 likely to result from it to the lower orders of the people will be slow 
 and distant." 
 
 " But, John," said I, " now that we are upon that subject, let me ask 
 what really is the bone of contention between Irish factions ?" 
 
 " I assure you," he replied, " I am almost as much at a loss, Toby, to 
 give you a satisfactory answer, as if you asked me the elevation of the 
 
t^i THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 highest mountain on the moon ; and I believe you would find equal 
 difficulty in ascertaining the cause of the feuds from the factions them- 
 selves. I really am convinced they know not, nor, if I rightly under- 
 stand them, do they much care. Their object is to fight, and the 
 turning of a straw will at any time furnish them with sufficient grounds 
 lor that. I do not think, after all, that the enmity between them is 
 purely personal : they do not hate each other individually ; but having 
 originally had one quarrel upon some trilling occasion, the beaten 
 party could not bear the stigma of defeat without another trial of 
 strength. Then if they succeed, the oims of retrieving lost credit is 
 thrown upon the party that was formerly victorious. If they fail asecond 
 time, the double triumph of their conquerors excites them to a greater 
 determination to throw off the additional disgrace ; and this species of 
 alternation perpetuates the evil. 
 
 " These habits, however, familiarise our peasantry to acts of outrage 
 and violence — the bad passions are cultivated and nourished, until 
 crimes, which peaceable men look upon with fear and horror, lose their 
 real magnitude and deformity in the eyes of Irishmen. I believe 
 this kind of undefined hatred between cither parties or nations is the 
 most dangerous and fatal spirit which could pervade any portion of 
 society. If you hate a man for an obvious and palpable injury, it is 
 likely that when he cancels that injury by an act of subsequent kind- 
 ness, accompanied by an exhibition of sincere sorrow, you will cease 
 to look upon him as your enemy ; but where the hatred is such that, 
 while feeling it, you cannot, on a sober examination of your heart, 
 account for it, there is little hope that you will ever be able to stifle the 
 enmity which you entertain against him. This, however, in politics 
 and religion, is what is frequently designated as principle — a word on 
 which men possessing higher and greater advantages than the poor 
 ignorant peasantry of Ireland pride themselves. In sects and parties 
 we may mark its effects among all ranks and nations. I, therefore, 
 seldom wish, Toby, to hear a man assert that he is of this party or 
 that from principle ; for I am usually inclined to suspect that he is 
 not, in this case, influenced by convictioti. 
 
 " Kelly was a man who, but for these scandalous proceedings among 
 us, might have been now alive and happy. Although his tempera- 
 ment was warm, yet that warmth communicated itself to his good as 
 well as to his evil qualities. In the beginning his family were not 
 attached to any faction — and when I use the word faction, it is in con- 
 tradistinction to the word party — for faction, you know, is applied to 
 a feud or grudge between Roman Catholics exclusively. But when he 
 was young he ardently attached himself to the Murphys ; and, having 
 continued among them until manhood, he could not abandon them 
 consistently with that sense of mistaken honour which forms so pro- 
 minent a feature in the character of Irish peasantry. But although 
 the Kellys were not faction men, they were bitter party men, being 
 the ringleaders of every quarrel which took place between the Catho- 
 lics and Protestants, or, I should rather say, between the Orangemen 
 and WLiteboys. 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 155 
 
 *' From the moment when Denis attached himself to the Murphys 
 until the day he received the beating which subsequently occasioned 
 his death, he never withdrew from them. He was in all their battles ; 
 and in course of time induced his relations to follow his example ; so 
 that, by general consent, they were nicknamed 'the Errigle Slashers.' 
 Soon after you left the country, and went to reside with my uncle, 
 Denis married a daughter of little Dick Magrath's, from the Race- 
 road, with whom he got alittle money. She proved a kind, affectionate 
 wife ; and to do him justice, I believe he was an excellent husband. 
 Shortly after his marriage his father died, and Denis succeeded him 
 in his farm ; for you know that among the peasantry the youngest 
 usually gets the landed property — the elder children being obliged to 
 provide for themselves according to their ability, or otherwise a popu- 
 lation would multiply upon a portion of land inadequate to their support. 
 
 " It was supposed that Kelly's marriage would have been the means 
 of producing a change in him for the better, but it did not. He was, 
 in fact, the slave of alow, vain ambition, which constantly occasionecl 
 him to have some quarrel or other on his hands ; and as he possessed 
 great physical courage and strength, he became the champion of the 
 parish. It was in vain that his wife used every argument to induce 
 him to relinquish such practices ; the only reply he was in the habit 
 of making was a good-humoured slap on the back and a laugh, saying : 
 
 "* That's it, Honor ; sure and isn't that the Magraths all over, that 
 would let the manest spalpeen that ever chewed cheese thramp upon 
 them widout raising a hand in their own defence ; and I don't blame 
 you for being a coward, seeing that you have their blood in your veins 
 — not but that there ought to be something betther in you, afther all ; 
 for it's the M'Karrons, by your mother's side, that had the good dhrop 
 of their own in them, anyhow — but you're a Magrath, out and out.' 
 
 " ' And, Denis,' Honor would reply, ' it would be a blessed day for 
 the parish if all in it were as peaceable as the same Magraths. There 
 would be no sore heads, nor broken bones, nor fighting, nor slashing 
 of one another in fairs and markets, when people ought to be minding 
 their business. You're ever and always at the Magraths, bekase they 
 don't join you agin the Caseys or the Orangemen, and more fools 
 they'd be to make or meddle between you, having no spite agin either 
 of them ; and it would be wiser for you to be sed by the Magraths, 
 and 7'cd your hands out of sich ways altogether. What did ever the 
 Murphys do to sarve you or any of your family, that you'd go to make 
 a great man of yourself fighting for them ? Or what did the poor 
 Caseys do to make you go agin the honest people ? Arrah, bad 
 manners to me, if you know what you're about, or if sonse ^ or grace 
 can ever come of it ; and mind my v/ords, Denis, if God hasn't sed it, 
 you'll live to rue your folly for the same work.' 
 
 " At this Denis would laugh heartily. ' Well said, Honor Magrath, 
 bt"t not Kelly. Well, it's one comfort that our childher aren't likely 
 to follow your side of the house, anyway. Come here, Lanty — corae 
 
 ' Good luck. 
 
154 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 0'""^, acushla, to your father! Lanty, ma bouchal, what'ill you d^v 
 when you grow a man ? ' 
 
 " ' I'll buy a horse of my own to ride on, daddy.' 
 
 " * A horse, Lanty ! — and so you will, ma bouchal ; but that's not 
 it — sure that's not what I mane, Lanty. What'ill you do to the 
 Caseys ? ' 
 
 " ' Ho, ho ! the Caseys !— I'll bate the blackguards wid your black- 
 thorn, daddy ! ' 
 
 " ' Ha, ha, ha ! — that's my stout man — my brave little sodger ! 
 ll^!<s dlia lainh, avi'ck ! — give me your hand, my son ! Here, Nelly,' 
 he would say to the child's eldest sister, ' give him a brave whang of 
 bread, to make him able to bate the Caseys. Well, Lanty, who more 
 will you leather, ahagur ? ' 
 
 " 'AH the Orangemen — I'll kill all the Orangemen !' 
 
 "This would produce another laugh from the father, who would 
 again kiss and shake hands with his son for these early manifesta- 
 tions of his own spirit. 
 
 " * Lanty, ma bouchal,' he would say, ' thank God, you're not a 
 Magrathj 'tis you that's a Kelly, every blessed inch of you ! — and if 
 you turn out as good a buillagh batthali as your father afore you, I'll 
 be contint, avourneen ! ' 
 
 " ' God forgive you, Denis,' the wife would reply, ' it's long before 
 you'd think of larning him his prayers, or his catechism, or anything 
 that's good ! Lanty, agra, come over to myself, and never heed what 
 that man says ; for, except you have some poor body's blessing, he'll 
 bring you to no good.' 
 
 " Sometimes, however, Kelly's own natural good sense, joined with 
 the remonstrances of his wife, prevailed for a short time, and he would 
 withdraw himself from the connection altogether ; but the force of 
 habit and of circumstances was too strong in him to hope that he 
 could ever overcome it by his own firmness, for he was totally 
 destitute of religion. The peaceable intervals of his life were, there- 
 fore, very short. 
 
 " One summer evening I was standing in my own garden, when I 
 saw a man galloping up towards me at full speed. When he ap- 
 proached, I recognised him as one of the Murphy faction, and 
 perceived that he was cut and bleeding. 
 
 " ' Murphy,' said I, ' what's the matter?' 
 
 " ' Hard fighting, sir,' said he, ' is the matter. The Caseys gathered 
 all their faction, bekase they heard that Denis Kelly has given us up, 
 and they're sweeping the street wid us. I'm going hot foot for Kelly, 
 sir, for even the very name of him will turn the tide in our favour. 
 Along wid that, I have sint in a score of the Duggans, and, if I get in 
 Denis, plase God we'll clear the town of them !' 
 
 " He then set off, but pulled up abruptly, and said : 
 
 " ' Arrah, Mr. Darcy, maybe you'd be civil enough to lind me the 
 loan of a sword, or bagnet, or gun, or anything that way, that would 
 be sarviceable to a body on a pinch ?' 
 
 "'Yes.'' said I, 'and enable you to commit murder. No, no, 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 15$ 
 
 Murphy : I'm sorry it's not in my power to put a final stop to such 
 dangerous quarrels ! ' 
 
 " He then dashed off, and in the course of a short time I saw him 
 and Kelly, both on horseback, hurrying into the town in all possible 
 haste, armed with their cudgels. '1 he following day I got my dog 
 and gun, and sauntered about the hills, making a point to call upon 
 Kelly. I found him with his head tied up, and his arm in a sling. 
 
 " ' Well, Denis,' said I, ' I find you have kept your promise of 
 giving up quarrels !' 
 
 " ' And so I did, sir,' said Denis ; * but sure you wouldn't have me 
 go for to desart them, when the Caseys war three to one over them. 
 No : God be thanked, I'm not so mane as that, anyhow. Besides, 
 they welted both my brothers within an inch of their lives.' 
 
 " ' I think they didn't miss yourself,' said I. 
 
 " ' You may well say they did not, sir,' he replied ; ' and, to tell 
 God's thruth, they thrashed us right and left out of the town, although 
 we rallied three times, and came in again. At any rate, it's the first 
 time, for the last five years, that they dare go up and down the street 
 calling out for the face of a Murphy or a Kelly — for they're as bitter 
 now agin us as agin the Murphys themselves.' 
 
 " ' Well, I hope, Denis,' I observed, ' that what occurred yesterday 
 will prevent you from entering into their quarrels in future. Indeed, 
 I shall not give over until I prevail on you to lead a quiet and peace- 
 able life, as the father of a rising fainily ought to do.' 
 
 " ' Denis,' said the wife, when I alluded to the children, looking at 
 him with a reproachful and significant expression — ' Denis, do you 
 hear that ? — t\\Q father of a family, Denis ! Oh, then, God look down 
 on that family, but it's — Musha, God bless you and yours, sir,' said 
 she to me, dropping that part of the subject abruptly. — ' It's kind of 
 you to trouble yourself about him, at all at all ; it's what them that 
 has a bctther right to do it doesn't do.' 
 
 "' I hope,' said I, 'that Denis's own good sense will show him the 
 folly and guilt of his conduct, and that he will not, under ar^y circum- 
 stances, enter into their battles in future. Come, Denis, will you 
 promise me this ? ' 
 
 '" If any man,' replied Denis, 'could make me do it, it's yourself, 
 sir, or any one of your family ; but, if the priest of the parish was to go 
 down on his two knees before me, I wouldn't give it up till we give 
 them vagabone Caseys one glorious battherin', which, plase God, we'll 
 do, and are well able to do, before a month of Sundays goes over us. 
 Now, sir, you needn't say another word,' said he, seeing me about to 
 speak, ' for, by Him that made me, we'll do it. If any man, I say, 
 could persuade me agin it, you could ; but, if we don't pay them full 
 interest for what we got, why, my name's not Denis Kelly — ay, sweep 
 them like varmint out of the town, body and sleeves ! ' 
 
 " I saw argument would be lost on him, so I only observed that 1 
 feared it would eventually end badly. 
 
 '• * Och, many and many's the time, Mr. Darcy,' said Honor, ' 1 
 prophesied the same thing ; and if God hasn't said it, he'll be coming 
 
 (1) F 
 
156 TUP. PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 home a corpse to me some day or other, for he got as much bating, 
 sir, as would be enough to kill a horse ; and to tell you God's truth, 
 sir, he's breeding up his childher ' 
 
 " 'Honor,' said Kelly, irritated — 'whatever I do, do I lave it in youv 
 power to say that I'm a bad husband? so don't rise me by your talk, 
 for I don't like to be provoked. I kjwiu it's wrong, but what can I 
 do ? Would you have me for to show the Garran batie^ and lave 
 them like a cowardly thraitor, now that the other faction is coming up 
 to be their match ? No; let what will come of it, I'll never do the 
 mane thing — death before dishonour !' 
 
 " In this manner Kelly went on for years ; sometimes, indeed, 
 keeping quiet for a short period, but eventually drawn in, from the 
 apprehension of being reproached with want of honour and truth to 
 his connection. This, truly, is an imputation which no peasant could 
 endure ; nor, were he thought capable of treachery, would his life be 
 worth a single week's purchase. Many a time have I seen Kelly 
 reeling home, his head and face sadly cut, the blood streaming from 
 him, and his wife and some neighbour on each side of him — the poor 
 woman weeping and deploring the senseless and sanguinary feuds in 
 which her husband took so active a part. 
 
 " About three miles from this, down at the Long Ridge, where the 
 Shannons live, dwelt a family of the M'Guigans, cousins to Denis. 
 They were anything but industrious, although they might have lived 
 very independently, having held a farm on what they call an old take, 
 which means a long lease taken out when the lands were cheap. It 
 so happened, however, that, like too many of their countrymen, they 
 paid little attention to the cultivation of their farm, the consequence 
 of which neglect was that they became embarrassed and overbur- 
 dened with arrears. Their landlord was old Sam Simmonds, whose 
 only fault to his tenants was an excess of indulgence, and a generous 
 disposition, wherever he could possibly get an opportunity, to scatter 
 his money about him, upon the spur of a benevolence which it would 
 seem never ceased goading him to acts of the most Christian liberality 
 and kindness. Along with these excellent qualities, he was remark- 
 able for a most rooted aversion to law and lawyers ; for he would lose 
 one hundred pounds rather than recover that sum by legal proceedings, 
 even when certain that five pounds would effect it ; but he seldom or 
 never was known to pardon a breach of the peace. 
 
 " I have always found that an excess of indulgence in a landlord 
 never fails ultimately to injure and relax the industry of the tenant ; 
 at least, this was the effect which liis forbearance produced on them. 
 But the most extraordinary good nature has its limits, and so had his ; 
 after repeated warning, and the most unparalleled patience on his 
 part, he was at length compelled to determine on at once removing 
 them from his estate, and letting his land to some more efficient aad 
 deserving tenant. He accordingly desired them to remove their pro- 
 perty from the premises, as he did not wish, he said, to leave them 
 
 • The white horse, i. t,, be wanting in mettle. 
 
THE Party fight and funeral. 157 
 
 *vithout the means of entering upon another farm, if they felt so dis- 
 posed. This they refused to do, adding that they would at least put 
 him to the expense of ejecting them. He then gave orders to his 
 agent to seize ; but they, in the meantime, had secreted their effects 
 by night among their friends and relations, sending a cow to this one, 
 and a horse to that ; so that when the bailiff came to levy his execu- 
 tion, he found very little except the empty walls. They were, however, 
 ejected without ceremony, and driven altogether off the farm, for 
 which they had actually paid nothing for the three preceding years. 
 In the meantime the farm was advertised to be let, and several persons 
 had offered themselves as tenants ; but what appeared very remarkable 
 was that the Roman Catholics seldom came a second time to' make 
 any furj;her inquiry about it ; or if they did, Simmons observed that 
 they were sure to withdraw their proposals, and ultimately decline 
 having anything to do with it. 
 
 " This was a circumstance which he could not properly understand ; 
 but the fact was that the peasantry were, to a man, members of a 
 widely-extending system of Whiteboyism, the secret influence of 
 which intimidated such of their own religion as intended to take it, 
 and prevented them from exposing themselves to the penalty which 
 they knew those who should dare to occupy it must pay. In a short 
 time, however, the matter began to be whispered about, until it spread 
 gradually, day after day, through the parish, that those who already 
 had proposed, or intended to propose, were afraid to enter upon the 
 land on any terms. Hitherto, it is true, these threats floated about 
 only in the invisible form of rumour. 
 
 " The farm had been now unoccupied for about a year : party spirit 
 ran very high among the peasantry, and no proposals came in, or 
 were at all likely to come. Simmons then got advertisements printed, 
 and had them posted up in the most conspicuous parts of this and the 
 neighbouring parishes. It was expected, however, that they would 
 be torn down ; but instead of that, there was a written notice posted 
 up immediately under each, which ran in the following words : — 
 
 "'TAKE NOTESS. 
 '^' Any man thaV II dare to take the farm belonging to y allow Sarr 
 Simmons, and sitivated at the long ridge, will be flayed alive. 
 
 " ' Mat Midnight. 
 " ' B. N. — It's it that was latterrally ocaipied by the M^Guigans^ 
 
 " This occasioned Simmons and the other magistrates of the barony 
 to hold a meeting, at which they subscribed to the amount of fifty 
 pounds as a reward for discovering the author or authors of the 
 threatening notice ; but tne advertisement containing the reward, 
 which was posted in the usual places through the parish, was torn 
 down on the first night after it was put up. In the meantime, a man 
 nicknamed Vengeance — Vesey Vengeance, in consequence of his 
 daring and fearless spirit, and his bitterness in retaliating injury— 
 
158 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 came to Simmons, and proposed for the farm. The latter candidly 
 mentioned the circumstances of the notice, and fairly told him that he 
 was running a personal risk in taking it. 
 
 "' Leave that to me, sir,' said Vengeance ; ' if you will set me the 
 farm at the terms I offer, I am willing to become your tenant ; and let 
 them that posted up the notices go to old Nick, or if they annoy me, 
 let them take care I don't send them there. I am a true-blue, sir — a 
 purple man — have lots of firearms, and plenty of stout fellows in the 
 parish ready and willing to back me ; and, by the light of day ! if 
 they make or meddle with mc or mine, we will hunt them in the face 
 of the world, like so many mad dogs, out of the country : what are 
 they but a pack of ribils^ that would cut our throats if they dared ?' 
 
 " ' I have no objection,' said Simmons, ' that you should express a 
 firm determination to defend your life and protect your property ; but 
 I utterly condemn the spirit with which you seem to be animated. Be 
 temperate and sober, but be firm. I will afford you every assistance 
 and protection in my power, both as a magistrate and a landlord ; but 
 if you speak so incautiously, the result may be serious, if not fatal, to 
 yourself 
 
 " ' Instead of that,' said Vengeance, ' the more a man appears to be 
 afeard, the more danger he is in, as I know by what I have seen ; but, 
 at any rate, if they injure me, I wouldn't ask better sport than taking 
 down the ribils — the bloody-minded villians ! Isn't it a purty thing 
 that a man darn't put one foot past the other, only as they wish ? By 
 the light of day, I'll pepper them ! ' 
 
 " Shortly after this. Vengeance, braving all their threats, removed 
 to the farm, and set about its cultivation with skill and vigour. He 
 had not been long there, however, when a notice was posted one night 
 on his door, giving him ten days to clear off from this interdicted 
 spot, threatening, in case of non-compliance, to make a bonfire of the 
 house and offices, inmates included. The reply which Vengeance 
 made to this was fearless and characteristic. He wrote another 
 notice, which he posted on the chapel door, stating that he would not 
 budge an inch — recommending, at the same time, such as intended 
 paying him a nightly visit to be careful that they might not chance to 
 go home with their heels foremost. This, indeed, was setting them 
 completely at defiance, and would, no doubt, have been fatal to Vesey, 
 were it not for a circumstance which I will now relate. In a little 
 dell below Vesey's house lived a poor woman called Doran, a widow ; 
 she inhabited a small hut, and was principally supported by her two 
 sons, who were servants — one to a neighbouring farmer, a Roman 
 Catholic, and the other to Dr. Ableson, rector of the parish. He who 
 had been with the rector lost his health shortly before Vengeance 
 succeeded the M'Guigans as occupier of the land in question, and was 
 obliged to come home to his mother. He was then confined to his 
 bed, from which, indeed, he never rose. 
 
 "This boy had been his mother's princ'pal support — for the other 
 
 ' Rebels. 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 1^9 
 
 was unsettled, and paid her but little attention, being, like most of those 
 in his situation, fond of drinking, dancing, and attending fairs. In 
 short, he became a Ribbonman, and consequently was obliged to 
 attend their nightly meetings. Now it so happened that for a con- 
 siderable time after the threatening notice had been posted on Ven- 
 geance's door, he received no annoyance, although the period allowed 
 for his departure had been long past, and the purport of the paper un- 
 compUed with. Whether this proceeded from an apprehension on the 
 part of the Ribbonmen of receiving a warmer welcome than they might 
 wish, or whether they deferred the execution of their threat until Ven- 
 geance might be off his guard, I cannot determine ; but the fact is that 
 some months had elapsed and Vengeance remained hitherto unmolested. 
 
 " During this interval the distress of Widow Doran had become 
 known to the inmates of his family, and his mother— for she lived with 
 him — used to bring down each day some nourishing food to the sick 
 boy. In these kind offices she was very punctual ; and so great was 
 the poverty of the poor widow, and so destitute the situation of her 
 sick son, that, in fact, the burden of their support lay principally upon 
 Vengeance's family. 
 
 " Vengeance was a small, thin man, with fair hair and fiery eyes ; 
 his voice was loud and shrill, his utterance rapid, and the general ex- 
 pression of his countenance irritable. His motions were so quick that 
 he rather seemed to run than walk. He was a civil, obliging neigh- 
 bour, but performed his best actions with a bad grace ; a firm, un- 
 flinching friend, but a bitter and implacable enemy. Upon the whole, 
 he was generally esteemed and respected — though considered as an 
 eccentric character, for such, indeed, he was. On hearing of Widow 
 Doran's distress, he gave orders that a portion of each meal should be 
 regularly sent down to her and her son ; and from that period forward 
 they were both supported principally from his table. 
 
 " In this way some months had passed, and still Vengeance was un- 
 disturbed in his farm. It often happened, however, that Doran's other 
 son came to see his brother ; and during these visits it was but natural 
 that his mother and brother should allude to the kindness which they 
 daily experienced from Vesey. 
 
 " One night, about twelve o'clock, a tap came to Widow Doran's 
 door, who happened to be attending the invalid, as he was then nearly 
 in the last stage of his illness. When she opened it, the other son 
 entered, in an evident hurry, having the appearance of a man who 
 felt deep and serious anxiety. 
 
 " ' Mother,' said he, ' I was very uneasy entirely about Mick, and just 
 started over to see him, although they don't know at home that I'm 
 out, so I can't stay a crack ; but I wish you would go to the door for 
 two or three minutes, as I have something to say to him.^ 
 
 "'Why, thin, Holy Mother .'—Jack, ahagur, is there anything the 
 matther, for you look as if you had seen something ? ' 
 
 "'Nothing worse than myself, mother,' he replied; 'nor there's 
 nothing the matther at all — only I have a few words to say to Mick 
 here, that s all.' 
 
l6o THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 "The mother accordingly removed herself out of hearing. 
 
 " ' Mick,' says the boy, ' this is a bad business — I wish to God I W..6 
 clear and clane out of it.' 
 
 " ' What is it? ' said Mick, alarmed. 
 
 " ' Murther, I'm afeard, if God doesn't turn it off them somehow.' 
 
 " ' What do you mane, man, at all ?' said the invalid, raising him- 
 self, in deep emotion, on his elbow, from his poor straw bed. 
 
 " ' Vengeance,' said he — ' Vengeance, man — he's going to get it. I 
 was out with the boys on Sunday evening, and at last it's agreed on to 
 visit him to-morrow night. I'm sure and sartin he'll never escape, for 
 there's more in for him than taking the farm, and daring them so often 
 as he did — he shot two fingers off of a brother-in-law of Jem Reiily's 
 one night that they war on for threshing him, and that's coming home 
 to him along with the rest.' 
 
 " ' In the name of God, Jack,' inquired Mick, * what do you intend 
 to do with him .'' ' 
 
 "'Why,' replied Jack, ' it's agreed to put a coal in the thatch, in 
 the first place ; and although they were afeard to name what he's to 
 get besides, I doubt they'll make a spatch-cock of hii)isclf. They 
 won't meddle with any other of the family, though — but he's down 
 for it.' 
 
 "' Arej'^;/; to be one of thera ?' asked Mick. 
 
 " ' I was the third man named,' replied the other, ' bekase, they said, 
 I knew the place.' 
 
 "'Jack,' said his emaciated brother, with much solemnity, raising 
 himself up in the bed — 'Jack, if you have act or part in that bloody 
 business, God in his glory you'll never see. Fly the country — cut oft 
 a finger or toe — break your arm — or do something that may prevent 
 you from being there. Oh, my God ! ' he exclaimed, whilst the tears 
 fell fast down his pale cheeks — ' to go to murder the man, and lave his 
 little family widout a head or a father over them, and his wife a widow ! 
 To burn his place, widout rhyme, or rason, or offince. Jack, if you go, 
 I'll die cursing you. I'll appear to you — I'll let you rest neither night 
 nor day, sleeping nor waking, in bed or out of bed. I'll haunt you 
 till you'll curse the very day you war born.' 
 
 " ' Whisht, Micky,' said Jack, 'you're frightening me : I'll not go — will 
 that satisfy you ? ' 
 
 "'Well, dhrop down on your two knees, there,' said Micky, 'and 
 swear, before the God that has His eye upon you this minute, that 
 you'll have no hand in injuring him or his while you live. If you 
 don't do this, I'll not rest in my grave, and maybe I'll be a corpse 
 before mornin'.' 
 
 " ' Well, Micky,' said Jack, who, though wild and unthinking, was a 
 lad whose heart and affections were good, ' it would be hard for me to 
 refuse you that much, and you not likely to be long with me — I will,' 
 and he accordingly knelt down and swore solemnly, in words whicl 
 his brother dictated to him, that he would not be concerned in the 
 intended murder. 
 " ' Now give me your hand, Jack,' said the invalid ; * God blrss you 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. i6i 
 
 —and so he will. Jack, if I depart before I see you again, I'll die 
 happy. That man has supported me and my mother for near the last 
 three months, bad as you all think him. Why, Jack, we would both 
 be dead of hunger long ago, only for his family : and, my God ! to 
 think of su( h a murdhering intention makes my blood run cowld • 
 
 " ' You h.'.d better give him a hint, then,' said Jack, ' some way, or 
 he'll be done for, as sure as you're stretched on that bed ; but don't 
 mintion names, if you wish to keep me from being murdhered for 
 what I did. I must be off now, for I stole out of the barn ;' and only 
 
 that Atty Laghy's gone along wid the master to the fair, to help him 
 
 sell the two coults, I couldn't get over at all.' 
 
 " ' Well, go home, Jack, and God bless you, and so he will, for what 
 you did this night.' 
 
 " Jack accordingly departed, after bidding his mother and brother 
 farewell. 
 
 " When the old woman came in, she asked her son if there was 
 anything wrong with his brother, but he replied that there was not. 
 
 " ' Nothing at all,' said he ; ' but will you go up airly in the morning, 
 plase God, and tell Vesey Johnston that 1 want to see him ; and — 
 that — I have a great dale to say to him.' 
 
 '* ' To be sure I will, Micky ; but. Lord guard us, what ails you, 
 avourneen, you look so frightened ? ' 
 
 " ' Nothing at all at all, mother ; but will you go where I say airly 
 to-morrow, for me .'' ' 
 
 " 'It's the first thing I'll do, God willin',' replied the mother. And 
 the next morning Vesey was down with the invalid very early, for the 
 old woman kept her word, and paid him a timely visit. 
 
 '"Well, Micky, my boy,' said Vengeance, as he entered the hut, ' I 
 hope you're no worse this morning.' 
 
 " ' Not worse, sir,' replied Mick ; ' nor, indeed, am I anything better 
 either, but much the same way. Sure it's I that knows very well that 
 my time here is but short.' 
 
 " * Well, Mick, my boy,' said Vengeance, * I hope you're prepared for 
 death— and that you expect forgiveness, like a Christian. Look up, 
 my boy, to God at once, and pitch the priests and their craft to ould 
 Nick, where they'll all go at the long run.' 
 
 " ' I blieve,' said Mick, with a faint smile, 'that you're not very fond 
 of the priests, Mr. Johnston ; but if you knew the power they possess 
 as well as I do, you wouldn't spake of them so bad, anyhow.' 
 
 " ' Me fond of them ! ' replied the other ; ' why, man, they're a set 
 of the most gluttonous, black-looking hypocrites that ever walked on 
 neat's leather : and ought to be hunted out of the country — hunted out 
 of the coimtry, by the light of day ! every one of them ; for they do 
 nothmg but egg up the people against the Protestants.' 
 
 "'God help you, Mr. Johnston,' replied the invalid; *I pity you 
 from my heart for the opinion you hould about the blessed crathurs. 
 I suppose if you were sthruck dead on the spot wid a blast from the 
 
 ' Labouring servants in Ireland usually sleep in barns. 
 
i62 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 fairies, that you think a priest couldn't cure you by one word's 
 
 spaking ?' 
 
 '''Cure me!' said Vengeance, with a laugh of disdain; 'by the 
 light of day, if I caught one of them curing me, I'd give h-Jii the 
 puniest chase you ever saw in your life across the hills.' 
 
 "'Don't you know,' said Mick, 'thai priest Uannelly cured Bob 
 Arthurs of the falling sickness, until he broke the vow that was laid 
 upon him of not going into a church ; and the minute he crossed the 
 church-door didn't he dhrop down as bad as ever — and what could the 
 minister do for him?' 
 
 "'And don't _y£';i! know,' rejoined Vengeance, 'that that's all a 
 parcel of the most lying stuff possible ; lies — lies — all lies — and 
 vagabondism. Why, Mick, you Papishes worship the priests ; you 
 think they can bring you to heaven at a word. By the light of day, 
 they must have good sport laughing at you when they get among one 
 another. Why don't they teach you, and give you the Bible to read, 
 the ribelly rascals ? but the/re afraid you'd know too much then.' 
 
 '"Well, Mr. Johnston,' said Mick, 'I blieve you'll never have a 
 good opinion of them, at any rate.' 
 
 " ' Ay, when the sky falls,' replied Vengeance ; * but you're now on 
 your death-bed, and why don't you pitch them to ould Nick, and get 
 a Bible ? Get a Bible, man ; there's a pair of them in my house that's 
 never used at all — except my mother's, and she's at it night and day. 
 I'll send one of them down to you : turn yourself to God — to your 
 Redeemer, that died on the mount of Jchoshaphat, or somewhere 
 about Jerusalem, for your sins — and don't go out of the world from the 
 hand of a rascally priest, with a band about your eyes, as if you were 
 at blind-man's-buff ; for, by the light of day, you're as blind as a bat 
 in a religious way.' 
 
 '"There's no use in sending me a Bible,' replied the invalid, 'for I 
 can't read it : but, whatever you may think, I'm very willing to lave 
 my salvation with my priest.' 
 
 "'Why, man,' observed Vengeance, *I thought you were going to 
 have sense at last, and that you sent for me to give you some spiritual 
 consolation.' 
 
 " ' No, sir,' replied Mick ; ' I have two or three words to spake 
 to you.' 
 
 "'Come, come, Mick, now that we're on a spiritual subject, I'll 
 hear nothing from you till I try whether it's possible to give you a 
 true insight into religion. Stop, now, and let us lay our heads 
 together, that we may make out something of a dacenter creed for you 
 to believe in than the one you profess. Tell me truth, do you believe 
 in the priests?' 
 
 "' How?' replied Mick. 'I believe that they're holy men— but 1 
 know they can't save me widout the Redeemer and His blessed 
 mother.' 
 
 " ' By the light above us, you're shuffling, Mick ; I say you do 
 believe in them — now don't tell me to the contrary — I say you're 
 shuffling as fast as possible.' 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 163 
 
 " ' I tould you truth, sir,' replied Mick ; ' and if you don't blieve 
 me, I can't help it.' 
 
 ** ' Don't trust in the priests, Mick ; that's the main point to secure 
 your salvation.' 
 
 " Mick, who knew his prejudices against the priests, smiled faintly, 
 and replied : 
 
 " ' Why, sir, I trust in them as being able to make inthercession 
 wid God for me, that's all.' 
 
 " * They make intercession ! By the stool I'm sitting on, a single 
 tvord from one of them would ruin you. They, a set of ribles, to make 
 interest for you in heaven I Didn't they rise the rebellion in Ireland? 
 answer me that.' 
 
 " ' This is a subject, sir, we would never agree on,' replied Mick. 
 
 *" Have you the Ten Commandments ?' inquired Vesey. 
 
 " * I doubt my mimory's not clear enough to have them in my mind,' 
 said the lad, feeling keenly the imputation of ignorance which he 
 apprehended from Vesey's blunt observations. 
 
 " Vesey, however, had penetration enough to perceive his feelings, 
 and with more delicacy than could be expected from him, immediately 
 moved the question. 
 
 "' No matter, Mick,' said he, * if you would give up the priests, we 
 would get over that point ; as it is, I'll give you a lift in the Command- 
 ments ; and, as I said a while ago, if you take my advice I'll work up 
 a creed for you that you may depend upon. But now for the Com- 
 mandments. Let me see. 
 
 '"First : Thou shalt have no other gods but me. Don't you see, 
 man, how that peppers the priests 1 
 
 " ' Second : Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day. 
 
 " ' Third : Thou shalt not make to thyself — no — hang it, no : I'm 
 out ; that's the Second — very right. Third : Honour thy father and 
 thy mother — you understand that, Mick .'' It means that you are bound 
 to— to — ^just so — to honour your father and your mother, poor woman.' 
 
 " ' My father — God be good to him — is dead near fourteen years, 
 sir,' replied Mick. 
 
 " ' Well, in that case, Mick, you see all that's left for you is to 
 honour your mother — although I'm not certain of that either ; the 
 Commandments make no allowance at all for death, and in that case, 
 why, living or dead, the surest way is to respect and obey them — that 
 is — if the thing wer'n't impossible. I wish we had blind George 
 M'Gin here, Mick, although he's as great a rogue as ever escaped 
 hemp, yet he'd beat the devil himself at a knotty point.' 
 
 "'His breath would be bad about a dying man,' observed Mick. 
 
 " ' Ay, or a living one,' said Vesey ; ' however, let us get on — we were 
 at the Third. Fourth : Thou shalt do no murder.' 
 
 "At the word murder Mick started, and gave a deep groan, whilst 
 his eyes and features assumed a great and hollow expression, resembling 
 that of a man struck with an immediate sense of horror and affright. 
 
 "' Oh, for heaven's sake, sir, stop there,' said Doran ; ' that brings 
 to my mind the business I had with you, Mr, Johnston.' 
 
l64 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 "'What is it about?' inquired Vengeance, in his usual eagtf 
 manner. 
 
 " ' Do you mind,' said Mick, ' that a paper was stuck one nij^ht upon 
 your door, threatening you, if you wouldn't lave that farm you're in ? ' 
 
 " ' I do ; the blood-thirsty villains ! but they knew a trick worth two 
 of coming near me.' 
 
 " ' Well,' said Mick, 'a strange man, that I had ne\er seen before, 
 come into me last night, and tould me, if I'd see you, to say that you 
 would get a visit from the boys this night, and to take care of yourself.' 
 
 " ' Give me the hand, Mick,' said Vengeance — ' give me the hand : 
 in spite of the priests, by the light of day, you're an honest fellow — 
 This night, you say, they're to come ? And what are the bloody 
 wretches to do, Mick ? But I needn't ask that, for I suppose it's to 
 murder myself, and to burn my place.' 
 
 '* ' I'm afeard, sir, you're not far from the truth,' replied Mick ; ' but, 
 Mr. Johnston, for God's sake, don't mintion my name ; for if you do, 
 I'll get myself what they war laying out for you — be burned in my bed, 
 maybe.' 
 
 "'Never fear, Mick,' replied Vengeance; 'your name will never 
 cross my lips.' 
 
 '"It's a great thing,' said Mick, 'that would make me turn in- 
 former ; but sure, only for your kindness and the goodness of your 
 family, the Lord spare you to one another, mightn't I be dead long 
 ago t I couldn't have one minute's peace if you or yours came to 
 any harm when I could prevint it.' 
 
 '" Say no more, Mick,' said Vengeance, taking his hand again. * I 
 know that ; leave the rest to me. But how do you find yourself, my poor 
 fellow .'' you look weaker than you did, a good deal.' 
 
 " ' Indeed, I'm going very fast, sir,' replied Mick ; ' I know it'll soon 
 be over with me.' 
 
 "' Hut, no, man,' said Vengeance, drawing his hand rapidly across 
 his eyes, and clearing his voice. ' Not at all ; don't say so : would a 
 little broth serve you .'' or a bit of fresh meat ? — or would you have a 
 fancy for anything that I could make out for you ? I'll get you wine, 
 if you think it would do you good.' 
 
 " ' God reward you,' said Mick, feebly — ' God reward you, and open 
 your eyes to the truth. Is my mother likely to come in, do you think ? ' 
 
 "' She must be here in a few minutes,' the other replied ; ' she was 
 waiting till they'd churn, that she might bring you down a little fresh 
 milk and butter.' 
 
 " ' I wish she was wid me,' said the poor lad, ' for I'm lonely wantin' 
 her — her voice and the very touch of her hands goes to my heart. 
 Mother, come to me — and let me lay my head upon your breast, agra 
 machree, for I think it will be for the last time : we lived lonely, avour- 
 neen, wid none but ourselves — sometimes in happiness, when the 
 nabours ud be kind to us — and sometimes in sorrow, when there ud be 
 none to help us. It's all over now, mother, and I'm laving you for ever.' 
 
 " Vengeance wiped his eyes. ' Rouse yourself, Mick,' said he ; ' rouse 
 yourself.' 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 165 
 
 "'Who is that sitting along with you on the stool ?' said Mick. 
 
 " ' No one,' replied his neighbour — ' but what's the matter with you, 
 Mick ? — your face is changed.' 
 
 " Mick, however, made no reply ; but after a few slight struggles, in 
 which he attempted to call upon his mother's name, he breathed his 
 last. When Vengeance saw that he was dead — looked upon the cold, 
 miserable hut in which this grateful and affectionate young nrjan was 
 stretched — and then reflected on the important service he had just 
 rendered him, he could not suppress his tears. 
 
 ** After sending down some of the females to assist his poor mother 
 in laying him out, Vengeance went among his friends and acquaint- 
 ances, informing them of the intelligence he had received, without 
 mentioning the source from which he had it. After dusk that evening 
 they all flocked as privately as possible to his house, to the number of 
 thirty or forty, well provided with arms and ammunition. Some of them 
 stationed themselves in the outhouses, some behind the garden hedge, 
 and others in the dwelling-house" 
 
 When my brother had got thus far in his narrative, a tap came to 
 the parlour-door, and immediately a stout-looking man, having the 
 appearance of a labourer, entered the room. 
 
 " Well, Lachlin," said my brother, " what's the matter ?" 
 
 "Why, sir," said Lachlin, scratching his head, " I had a bit of a 
 favour to ax, if it would be plasin' to you to grant it to me." 
 
 " What is that .-* " said my brother. 
 
 ** Do you know, sir," said he, " I haven't been at a wake — let us see 
 — this two or three years, anyhow ; and, if you'd have no objection, 
 why, I'd slip up a while to Denis Kelly's ; he's a distant relation of 
 my own, sir ; and blood's thicker than wather, you know." 
 
 " I'm just glad you came in, Lachlin," said my brother ; *' I didn't 
 think of you— take a chair here, and never heed the wake to-night, but 
 sit down and tell us about the attack on Vesey Vengeance long ago. 
 I'll get you a tumbler of punch ; and, instead of going to the wake, I 
 will allow you to go to the funeral to-morrow." 
 
 " Ah, sir," said Lachlin, " you know whenever the punch is con- 
 sarned I'm aisily persuaded ; but not making little of your tumbler, 
 sir," said the shrewd fellow, " I would get two or three of them if I 
 went to the wake." 
 
 " Well, sit down," said my brother, handing him one, " and we 
 won't permit you to get thirsty while you're talking, at all events." 
 
 " In throth, you haven't your heart in the likes of it," said Lachlin. 
 " Gintlemen, your healths— _y(?//r health, sir, and we're happy to see 
 you wanst more. Why, thin, I remember you, sir, when you were a 
 gorsoon, passing to school wid your satchell on your back ; but I'll be 
 bound, you're by no means as soople now as you were thin. Why, 
 sir," turning to my brother, " he could fly, or kick football wid the 
 rabbits.— Well, this is raal stuff ! " 
 
 "Now, Lachlin," said my brother, "give us an account of the 
 attack you made on Vesey Vengeance's house, at the Long Ridge, 
 when all your party were chased out of the town." 
 
i66 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 ** Why, thin, sir, I ought to be ashamed to mintion it ; but you sec, 
 ginllcmcn, there was no getting over being connected vvid them — for a 
 man's hfe wouldn't be his own if he refused ; — but I hope your brother's 
 ta/e, sir ! " 
 
 " Oh, perfectly safe, Lachlin ; you may rest assured he'll never men- 
 tion it." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Lachlin, addressing himself to me, " Vesey Ven- 
 geance was " 
 
 " Lachlin," said my brother, " he knows all about Vesey ; just give 
 an account of the attack." 
 
 " The attack, sir ! — no, but the chivey we got over the mountains. 
 Why, sir, we met in an ould empty house, you see, that belonged to 
 the P'arrells of Ballyboulteen, that went over to America that spring. 
 There war none wid us, you may be sure, but them that war ^z/iy and 
 in all we might be about sixty or seventy. The M'Guigans, one way 
 or another, got it up first among them, bekase they expected that Mr. 
 Simmons would take them back when he'd find that no one else dare 
 venthur upon their land. There war at that time two fellows down 
 from the county Longford in their neighbourhood, of the name of Col- 
 lier—although that wasn't their right name — they were here upon their 
 keeping, for the murder of a proctor in their own part of the country. 
 One of them was a tall, powerful fellow, with sandy hair, and red 
 brows ; the other was a slender chap, that must have been drawn into 
 it by his brother — for he was very mild and innocent, and always per- 
 suaded us agin evil. The M'Guigans brought lashings of whisky, 
 and made them that war to go foremost amost drunk — these war the 
 two Colliers, some of the strangers from behind the mountains, and a 
 son of Widdy Doran's, that knew every inch about the place, for he was 
 bred and born jist beiow the house a bit. He wasn't wid us, however, 
 in regard of his brother being tiiidcr board that night ; but, instid of 
 him, Tim INI'Guigan went to show the way up the little glin to the 
 house, though, for that matthcr, the most of us knew as well as he 
 did — but we didn't like to be the first to put a hand to it, if we could 
 help it. 
 
 " At any rate, we sot in Farrell's empty house, drinking whisky, 
 till they war all gathered, when about two dozen of them got the damp 
 soot from the chimley, and rubbed it over their faces, making them so 
 black that their own relations couldn't know them. We then went 
 across the country in little lots of al)out six, or ten, or a score, and we 
 war glad that the wake was in Widdy Doran's, seeing that, if anyone 
 would meet us, we war going to it, you know, and the blackening of the 
 faces would pass for a frolic ; but there was no great danger of being 
 met, for it was now long beyant midnight. 
 
 " Well, jintlemen, it puts me into a tremble, even at this time, to 
 think of how little we cared about doing what we were bent upon. 
 Them that had to manage the business war more than half drunk ; 
 and, hard fortune to me, but you would think it was to a wedding they 
 went — some of them singing songs aginst the law — some of them quite 
 merry, and laughing as if they had found a marc's nest. The big 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 167 
 
 fellow, Collier, hadadarklanthern wid a half-burned turf in it to light 
 the bonfire, as they said ; others had guns and pistols — some of them 
 charged, and some of them not ; some had bagnets, and ould rusty 
 swords, pitchforks, and so on. Myself had nothing in my hand but 
 the flail I was thrashing wid that day ; and to tell the thruth, the divil 
 a step I would have gone with them, only for fraid of my health : for, 
 as I said awhile agone, if any discovery was made afterwards, them 
 that promised to go, and turned tail, would be marked as the informers. 
 Neither was I so blind but I could see that there war plenty there 
 that would stay away if they durst. 
 
 " Well, we went on till we came to a little dark corner below the 
 house, where we met and held a council of war upon what we should 
 do. Collier and the other strangers from behind the mountains war 
 to go first, and the rest war to stand round the house at a distance — 
 he carried the lantern, a bagnet, and a horse pistol ; and half a dozen 
 more war to bring over bottles of straw from Vengeance's own haggard, 
 to hould up to the thatch. It's all past and gone now— but three of 
 the Reillys were desperate against Vesey that night, particularly one of 
 them that he had shot about a year and a half before — that is, peppered 
 two of the right hand fingers off of him one night in a scuffle, as 
 Vesey came home from an Orange-lodge. Well, all went on purty fair ; 
 we had got as far as the outhouses, where we stopped to see if we 
 could hear any noise ; but all was quiet as you plase. 
 
 "'Now, Vengeance,' says Reilly, swearing a terrible oath out of 
 him — ' you murdering Orange villain, you're going to get your pay,' 
 says he. 
 
 " ' Ay,' says M'Guigan, ' what he often threatened to others, he'll 
 soon meet himself, plase God — come boys,' says he, 'bring the straw 
 and light it, and just lay it up, my darlings, nicely to the thatch here, 
 and ye'U see what a glorious bonfire we'll have of the black Orange 
 villain's blankets in less than no time.' 
 
 " Some of us could hardly stand this. ' Stop, boys,' cried one ot 
 Dan Slevin's sons — ' stop, Vengeance is bad enough, but his wife and 
 childher never offended us — we'll not burn the place. 
 
 '• ' No,' said others, spaking out when they heard anybody at all 
 having courage to do so — ' it's too bad, boys, to burn the place ; for 
 if we do,' says they, ' some of the innocent may be burned before they 
 get out from the house, or even before they waken out of their sleep.' 
 
 " ' Knock at the door first,' says Slevin, ' and bring Vengeance out ; 
 let us cut the ears off of his head, and lave him.' 
 
 " ' Damn him ! ' says another, ' let us not take the vagabone's life ; 
 it's enough to take the ears from him, and to give him a prod or two of 
 a bagnet on the ribs ; but don't kill him.' 
 
 " ' Well, well ' says Reilly, ' let us knock at the door, and get himself 
 and the family out,' says he, * and then we'll see what can be done wid 
 him.' 
 
 " ' Tattheration to me,' says the big Longford fellow, * if he had 
 sarved me, Reilly, as he did you, but I'd roast him in the flames of his 
 own house,' says he. 
 
i6S THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 *" I'd \i2M&yoH to know/ says Sicvin, ' that you have no command 
 here, Collier. I'm captain at the present time,' says he ; 'and more 
 nor what I wish shall not be done. Go over,' says he to the black 
 faces, ' and rap him up.' 
 
 "Accordingly, they began to knock at the door, commanding 
 Vengeance to get up and come out to them. 
 
 " ' Come, Vengeance,' says Collier, ' put on you, my good fellow, and 
 come out till two or three of your neighbours, that wish you well, gets 
 a sight of your purty face, you babe of grace ! ' 
 
 "'Who are you that wants me at all?' says Vengeance from 
 within. 
 
 " ' Come out first,' says Collier ; * a few friends that has a crow to 
 pluck with you : walk out, avournecn ; or if you'd rather be roasted 
 alive, why you may stay where you are,' says he. 
 
 " ' Gentlemen,' says Vengeance, ' I have never, to my knowledge, 
 offinded any of you ; and I hope you won't be so cruel as to take an 
 industrious, hard-working man from his family, in the clouds of the 
 night, to do him an injury. Go home, gentlemen, in the name of God, 
 and let me and mine alone. You're all mighty dacent gentlemen, you 
 know, and I'm determined never to make or meddle with any of you. 
 Sure, I know right well it's purtecting me you would be, dacent 
 gentlemen. But I don't think there's any of my neighbours there, or 
 they wouldn't stand by and see me injured.' 
 
 " ' Thrue for you, avick,' says they, giving at the same time a terrible 
 pattherrara agin the door with two or three big stones. 
 
 " ' Stop, stop ! ' says Vengeance, ' don't break the door, and I'll 
 open it. I know you're merciful, dacent gentlemen — I know you're 
 merciful .' 
 
 " So the thief came and unbarred it quietly, and the next minute 
 about a dozen of them that war within the house let slap at us. As 
 God would have had it, the crowd didn't happen to be fornenst the 
 door, or numbers of them would have been shot, and the night was 
 dark, too, which was in our favour. The first volley was scarcely over 
 when there was another slap fiom the outhouses : and after that, 
 another from the gardens ; and, after that, to be sure, we took to our 
 scrapers. Several of them were badly wounded ; but as for Collier, 
 he was shot dead, and M'Guigan was taken prisoner, with five more, 
 on the spot. There never was such a chase as we got ; and only that 
 they thought there was more of us in it, they might have tuck most of 
 us prisoners. 
 
 '* ' Fly, boys ! ' says M'Guigan, as soon as they fired out of the house 
 — ' we've been sould,' says he, ' but I'll die game, anyhow ' — and so he 
 did, poor fellow ; for although he and the other four war transported, 
 one of them never sould the pass or stagged. Not but that they 
 might have done it, for all that, only that there was a whisper sent to 
 them that if they did a single sowl belonging to one of them wouldn't 
 be left living. The M'Guigans were cousins of Denis Kelly's, that's 
 now laid out there above. 
 
 " From the time this tuck place till aftpr the 'sizes, ther? wasn't a 
 
THE PARTY PIGHT AND PUNERAt. i6§ 
 
 stir among them, on any side ; but when they war over, the boys began 
 to prepare. Denis, heavens be his bed, was there in his glory. This 
 was in the spring 'sizes, and the May fair soon followed. Ah ! that 
 was the bloody sight, I'm tould — for I wasn't at it — at ween the Orange- 
 men and them. The Ribbonmen war bate, though, but not till after 
 there was a desperate fight on both sides. I was tould that Denis 
 Kelly that day knocked down five-and-twenty men in about three- 
 quarters of an hour ; and only that long John Grimes hot him a 
 polthoge on the sconce with the butt-end of the gun, it was thought 
 the Orangemen would be beat. That blow broke his skull, and was 
 the manes of his death. He was carried home senseless." 
 
 "Well, Lachlin," said my brother, "if you didn't see it, I did. I 
 happened to be looking out of John Carson's upper window — for it 
 wasn't altogether safe to contemplate it within reach of the missiles. 
 It was certainly a dreadful and a barbarous sight. You have often 
 observed the calm, gloosny silence that precedes a thunderstorm ; 
 and had you been there that day you might have seen it illustrated in 
 a scene much more awful. The thick living mass of people extended 
 from the corner-house, nearly a quarter of a mile, at this end of the 
 town, up to the parsonage on the other side. During the early part 
 of the day, every kind of business was carried on in a hurry and an 
 impatience which denoted the little chance they knew there would be 
 for transacting it in the evening. 
 
 " Up to the hour of four o'clock the fair was unusually quiet, and, 
 on the whole, presented nothing in any way remarkable ; but after that 
 hour you might observe the busy stir and hum of the mass settling 
 down into a deep, brooding, portentous silence, that was absolutely 
 fearful. The females, with dismay and terror pictured in their faces, 
 hurried home ; and in various instances you might see mothers, and 
 wives, and sisters clinging about the sons, husbands, and brothers, 
 attempting to drag them by main force from the danger which they 
 knew impended over them. In this they seldom succeeded ; for the 
 person so urged was usually compelled to tear himself from them by 
 superior strength. 
 
 " The pedlars, and basket-women, and such as had tables and 
 standings erected in the streets, commenced removing them with all 
 possible haste. The shopkeepers, and other inhabitants of the town, 
 put up their shutters, in order to secure their windows from being 
 shattered. Strangers, who were compelled to stop in town that night, 
 took shelter in the inns and other houses of entertainment where they 
 lodged ; so that about five o'clock the street was completely clear and 
 free for action. 
 
 " Hitherto there was not a stroke — the scene became even more 
 silent and gloomy, although the moral darkness of their ill-suppressed 
 passions was strongly contrasted with the splendour of the sun, that 
 poured down a tide of golden light upon the multitude. This con- 
 trast between the natural brightness of the evening and the internal 
 gloom of their hearts, as the beams of the sun rested upon the ever- 
 moving crowd, would, to any man who knew the impetuosity with 
 
170 THE PARTY FTGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 which the spirit of religious hatred was soon to rage among thtm, 
 produce novel and singular sensations. For, after all, Toby "ihere is 
 a mysterious connection between natural and moral thingS; which 
 often invests both nature and sentiment with a feeling that certainly 
 would not come home to our hearts if such a connection did not 
 exist. A rose-tree beside a grave will lead us from sentiment to 
 reflection ; and any other association, where a painful or melancholy 
 thought is clothed with a garb of joy or pleasure, will strike us more 
 deeply in proportion as the contrast is strong. On seeing the sun or 
 moon struggling through the darkness of surrounding clouds, I con- 
 fess, although you may smile, that I feel for the moment a diminution 
 of enjoyment — something taken, as it were, from the sum of my 
 happiness. 
 
 " Ere the quarrel commenced you might see a dark and hateful 
 glare scowling from the countenances of the two parties as they viewed 
 and approached each other in the street — the eye was set in deadly 
 animosity, and the face marked with an ireful paleness, occasioned at 
 once by revenge and apprehension. Groups were silently hurrying 
 with an eager and energetic step to their places of rendezvous, grasp- 
 ing their weapons more closely, or grinding their teeth in the im- 
 patience of their fury. The veterans on each side were surrounded 
 by their respective followers, anxious to act under their direction ; and 
 the very boys seemed to be animated with a martial spirit, much more 
 eager than that of those who had greater experience in party quarrels. 
 
 "Jem Finigan's public-house was the head-quarters and rallying 
 point of the Ribbonmen ; the Orangemen assembled in that of Joe 
 Sherlock, the master of an Orange-lodge. About six o'clock the 
 crowd in the street began gradually to fall off to the opposite ends of 
 the town — the Roman Catholics towards the north, the Protestants 
 towards the south. Carson's window, from which I was observing their 
 motions, was exactly half way between them, so that I had a distinct 
 view of both. At this moment I noticed Dennis Kelly coming for- 
 ward from the closely condensed mass formed by the Ribbonmen : he 
 advanced, with his cravat off, to the middle of the vacant space be- 
 tween the parties, holding a fine oak cudgel in his hand. He then 
 stopped, and addressing the Orangemen, said : 
 
 " ' Where's Vengeance and his crew now ? Is there any single Orange 
 villain among you that dare come down and meet me here, like a man .'' 
 Is John Grimes there .'' for if he is, before we begin to take you out of 
 a face— to hunt you altogether out of the town, ye Orange villains — I 
 would be glad that he'd step down to Denis Kelly here for two or three 
 minutes — I'll not keep him longer.' 
 
 "Tliere was now a stir and a murmur among the Orangemen, as if 
 a rush was about to take place towards Denis ; but Grimes, whom I 
 saw endeavouring to curb them in, left the crowd and advanced to- 
 wards him. 
 
 " At this moment an instinctive movement among both masses took 
 place- ; so that when Grimes had come within a few yards of Kelly, 
 both parties were within two or three perches of them. Kelly was 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL 171 
 
 standing apparently off his guard, with one hand thrust carelessly into 
 the breast of his waistcoat, and the cudgel in the other ; but his eye 
 was fixed calmly upon Grimes as he approached. They were both 
 powerful, fine men — brawny, vigorous, and active : Grimes had some- 
 what the advantage of the other in height ; he al-"© fought with his 
 left hand, from which circumstance he was nicknamed Kitthouge. 
 He was a man of a dark, stern-looking countenance ; and the tones of 
 his voice were deep, sullen, and of appalling strength. 
 
 "As they approached each other, the windows on each side of the 
 street were crowded ; but there was not a breath to be heard in any 
 direction, nor from either party. As for myself, my heart palpitated 
 with anxiety. What //z^j might have felt I do not know : but they must 
 both have experienced considerable apprehension ; for as they were 
 the champions of their respective parties, and had never before met in 
 single encounter, their characters depended on the issue of the contest. 
 
 " ' Well, Grimes,' said Denis, ' sure I've often wished for this same 
 meetin', man, betune myself and you ; I have what you're going to get, 
 in for you this long time ; but you'll get it now, avick, plase God ' 
 
 "'It was not to scould I came, you Popish, ribly rascal/ replied 
 Grimes, * but to give you what you're long ' 
 
 " Ere the word had been out of his mouth, however, Kelly sprung 
 over to him ; and making a feint, as if he intended to lay the stick on 
 his ribs, he swung it past without touching him, and, bringing it round 
 his own head like lightning, made it tell with a powerful back-stroke 
 right on Grimes's temple, and in an instant his own face was sprinkled 
 with the blood which sprung from the wound. Grimes staggered forward 
 towards his antagonist, seeing which, Kelly sprung back, and was again 
 meeting him with full force, when Grimes, turning a little, clutched 
 Kelly's stick in his right hand, and being left-handed himself, ere the 
 other could wrench the cudgel from him, he gave him a terrible blow 
 upon the back part of the head, which laid Kelly in the dust. 
 
 "There was then a deafening shout from the Orange party ; and 
 Grimes stood until Kelly should be in the act of rising, ready then to 
 give him another blow. The coolness and generalship of Kelly, how- 
 ever, were here very remarkable ; for, when he was just getting to his 
 feet, * Look at your party coming down upon me ! ' he exclaimed to 
 Grimes, who turned round to order them back, and in the interim Kelly 
 was upon his legs. 
 
 " I was surprised at the coolness of both men ; for Grimes was by 
 no means inflated with the boisterous triumph of his party— nor did 
 Denis get into a blind rage on being knocked down. They approached 
 again, their eyes kindled into savage fury, tamed down into the 
 wariness of experienced combatants ; for a short time they stood 
 eyeing each other, as if calculating upon the contingent advantages of 
 attack or defence. This was a moment of great interest ; for, as their 
 huge and powerful frames stood out in opposition, strung and dilated 
 by passion ctnd the energy of contest, no judgment, however experi- 
 enced, could venture to anticipate the result of the battle, or name 
 the person likely to be victorious. Indeed, it was surprising how th« 
 
172 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 natural sagacity of these men threw their movements into scientific 
 form and elegance. Kelly raised his cudgel, and placed it transversely 
 in the air between himself and his opponent ; Grimes instantlv placed 
 his against it — both weapons thus forming a St. Andrew's cross — whilst 
 the men themselves stood foot to foot, calm and collected. Nothing 
 could be finer than their proportions, nor superior to their respective 
 attitudes ; their broad chests were in a line — their thick, well-set 
 necks, laid a little back, as were their bodies — without, however, losing 
 their balance — and their fierce, but calm features, grimly, but placidly 
 scowling at each other, like men who were prepared for the onset. 
 
 " At length, Kelly made an attempt to repeat his former feint, with 
 variations ; for whereas he had sent the first blow to Grimes's right 
 temple, he took measures now to reach the left ; his action was rapid, 
 but equally quick was the eye of his antagonist, whose cudgel was up 
 in ready guard to meet the blow. It met it ; and with such surprising 
 power was it sent and opposed that both cudgels, on meeting, bent 
 across each other into curves. An involuntary huzza followed this 
 from their respective parties — not so much on account of the skill 
 displayed by the combatants, as in admiration of their cudgels, and 
 of the judgment with which they must have been selected. In fact, 
 it was the staves, rather than the men, that were praised ; and certainly 
 the former did their duty. In a moment their shillelaghs were across 
 each other once more, and the men resumed their former attitudes ; 
 their savage determination, their kindled eyes, the blood which dis- 
 figured the face of Grimes, and begrimed also the countenance of 
 his antagonist into a deeper expression of ferocity, occasioned many a 
 cowardly heart to shrink from the sight. There they stood, gory and 
 stern, ready for the next onset ; it was first made by Grimes, who tried 
 to practise on Kelly the feint which Kelly had before practised on him. 
 Denis, after his usual manner, caught the blow in his open hand, and 
 clutched the staff with an intention of holding it until he might visit 
 Grimes — now apparently unguarded — with a levelling blow : but 
 Grimes's effort to wrest the cudgel from his grasp drew all Kelly's 
 strength to that quarter, and prevented him from availing himself 
 of the other's defenceless attitude. A trial of muscular power 
 ensued, and their enormous bodily strength was exhibited in the stiff 
 tug for victory. Kelly's address prevailed ; for while Grimes pulled 
 against him with all his collected vigour, the former suddenly let go his 
 hold, and the latter, having lost his balance, staggered back : lightning 
 could not be more quick than the action of Kelly, as, with tremendous 
 force, his cudgel rung on the unprotected head of Grimes, who fell, or 
 rather was shot to the ground, as if some superior power had dashed 
 him against it ; and there he lay for a short time, quivering under the 
 blow he had received. 
 
 " A peal of triumph now arose from Kelly's party ; but Kelly himself, 
 placing his arms akiml)o, stood calmly over his enemy, awaiting his re- 
 turn to the conflict. For nearly five minutes he stood in this attitude, 
 during which time Grimes did not stir ; at length Kelly stooped a little, 
 and peering closely into his face, exclaimed : 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 173 
 
 '"Why, then, is it acting you are? anyhow, I wouldn't put it past 
 you, you cunning vagabone ; 'tis lying to take breath he is— get up, 
 man, I'd scorn to touch you till you're on your legs ; not all as one, 
 for sure it's yourself would show me no such forbearance. Up with 
 you, man alive, I've none of your own thrachery in me. I'll not rise 
 my cudgel till you're on your guard.' 
 
 There was an expression of disdain mingled with a glow of honest, 
 manly generosity on his countenance as he spoke, which made him at 
 once the favourite with such spectators as were not connected with 
 either of the parties. Grimes arose ; and it was evident that Kelly's 
 generosity deepened his resentment more than the blow which had 
 sent him so rapidly to the ground ; however, he was still cool, but his 
 brows knit, his eye flashed with double fierceness, and his complexion 
 settled into a dark-blue shade, which gave to his whole visage an 
 expression fearfully ferocious. Kelly hailed this as the first appearance 
 of passion ; his brow expanded as the other approached, and a dash 
 of confidence, if not of triumph, softened, in some degree, the stern- 
 ness of his features. 
 
 " With caution they encountered again, each collected for a spring, 
 their eyes gleaming at each other like those of tigers. Grimes made 
 a motion as if he would have struck Kelly with his fist ; and, as the 
 latter threw up his guard against the blow, he received a stroke from 
 Grimes's cudgel on the under part of the right arm. This had been 
 directed at his elbow, with an intention of rendering the arm power- 
 less ; it fell short, however, yet was sufficient to relax the grasp which 
 Kelly held of his weapon. Had Kelly been a novice, this strata- 
 gem alone would have soon vanquished him ; his address, how- 
 ever, was fully equal to that of his antagonist. The staff dropped 
 instantly from his grasp, but a stout thong of black polished leather, 
 with a shining tassel at the end of it, had bound it securely to his 
 massive wrist ; the cudgel, therefore, only dangled from his arm, and 
 did not, as the other expected, fall to the ground, or put Denis to the 
 necessity of stooping for it — Grimes's object being to have struck him 
 in that attitude. 
 
 '* A flash of indignation now shot from Kelly's eye, and with the speed 
 of lightning he sprung within Grimes's weapon, determined to wrest 
 it from him. The grapple that ensued was gigantic. In a moment 
 Grimes's staff was parallel with the horizon between them, clutched in 
 the powerful grasp of both. They stood exactly opposite, and rather 
 close to each other ; their arms sometimes stretched out stiff and at 
 full length, again contracted, until their faces, glowing and distorted by 
 the energy of the contest, were drawn almost together. Sometimes 
 the prevailing strength of one would raise the staff slowly, and with 
 gradually developed power, up in a perpendicular position ; again, the 
 re-action of opposing strength would strain it back, and sway the 
 weighty frame of the antagonist, crouched and set into desperate 
 resistance, along with it ; whilst the hard pebbles under their feet were 
 crumbled into powder, and the very street itself furrowed into gravel 
 by the shock of their opposing strength. Indeed, so well matched a 
 
174 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 pair never met in contest ; their strength, their wind, their j.rtivit), 
 and their natural science appeared to be perfectly equal. 
 
 "At length, by a tremendous effort, Kelly got the staff twilled 
 nearly out of Grimes's hand, and a short shout, half encouraging, half 
 indignant, came from Grimes's party. This added shame to his other 
 passions, and threw an impulse of almost superhuman strength into 
 him: he recovered his advantage, but nothing more; they twisted- 
 they heaved their great frames against each other — they struggled — 
 their action became rapid — they swayed each other this way and that 
 — their eyes like fire— their teeth locked, and their nostrils dilated. 
 Sometimes they twined about each other like serpents, and twirled 
 round with such rapidity that it was impossible to distinguish them^ 
 sometimes, when a pull of more than ordinary power took place, tliev 
 seemed to cling together almost without motion, bending down until 
 their heads nearly touched the ground, their cracking joints seeming 
 to stretch by the effort, and the muscles of their limbs standing out 
 from the flesh, strung in ainazing tension. 
 
 " In this attitude were they, when Denis, with the eye of a hawk, 
 spied a disadvantage in Grimes's position ; he wheeled round, placed 
 his broad shoulder against the shaggy breast of the other, and giving 
 him what is called an ' inside crook,' strained him, despite of every 
 effort, until he fairly got him on his shoulder, and off the point of 
 resistance. There was a cry of alarm from the windows, particularly 
 from the females, as Grimes's huge body was swung over Kelly's 
 shoulder, until it came down in a crash upon the hard gravel of the 
 street, while Denis stood in triumph, with his enemy's staff in his hand. 
 A loud huzza followed this from all present except the Orangemen, 
 who stood bristling with fury and shame for the temporary defeat of 
 their champion. 
 
 *' Denis again had his enemy at his mercy ; but he scorned to use 
 his advantage ungenerously ; he went over, and placing the staff in his 
 hands — for the other had got to his legs— retrograded to his place, and 
 desired Grimes to defend himself. 
 
 " After considerable manccuvering on both sides, Denis, who 
 appeared to be the more active of the two, got an open on his antago- 
 nist, and by a powerful blow upon Grimes"sear sent him to the ground 
 with amazing force. I never saw such a blow given by mortal ; the 
 end of the cudgel came exactly upon the ear, and as Grimes went 
 down the blood spurted out of his mouth and nostrils ; he then kicked 
 convulsively several times as he lay upon the ground, and that moment 
 1 really thought he would never have breathed more. 
 
 " The shout was again raised by the Ribl^onmen, who threw up their 
 hats, and bounded from the ground with the most vehement exultation. 
 Both parties then waited to give Grimes time to rise and renew the 
 battle ; but he appeared perfectly contented to remain where he was, 
 for there appeared no signs of life or motion in him. 
 
 '*' Have you got yoxxr g^rue I, boy?' said Kelly, going over to where 
 he lay. ' Well, you met Denis Kelly, at last, didn't you ? and there 
 you lie; but, plase God, the moit of your sort will sorn lie in the 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 175 
 
 same state. Come, boys,' said Kelly, addressing his own party, ' now 
 lor bloody Vengeance and his crew, that thransported the M'Guigans 
 and the Caffries, and murdered Collier. Now, boys, have at the 
 murderers, and let us have satisfaction for all ! ' 
 
 " A mutual rush instantly took place; but, ere the Orangemen came 
 down to where Grimes lay, Kelly had taken his staff, and handed it to 
 one of his own party. It is impossible to describe the scene that 
 ensued. The noise of the blows, the shouting, the yellmg, the groans, 
 the scalped heads and gory visages, gave both to the eye and the ear 
 an impression that could not easily be forgotten. The battle was 
 obstinately maintained on both sides for nearly an hour and with a 
 skill of manceuvering, attack, and retreat that was astonishing. 
 
 " Both parties arranged themselves against each other, forming 
 something like two lines of battle, and these extended along the town 
 nearly from one end to the other. It was curious to remark the 
 difference in the persons and appearances of the combatants. In the 
 Orange line the men were taller and of more powerful frames ; but 
 the Ribbonmen were more hardy, active, and courageous. Man to 
 man, notwithstanding their superior bodily strength, the Orangemen 
 could never fight the others ; the former depend too much upon their 
 fire and side-arms, but they are by no means so well trained to the use 
 of the cudgel as their enemies. In the district where the scene of this 
 fight is laid, the Catholics generally inhabit the mountainous part of 
 the country, to which, when the civil feuds of worse times prevailed, 
 they had been driven at the point of the bayonet ; the Protestants and 
 Presbyterians, on the other hand, who came in upon their possessions, 
 occupy the richer and more fertile tracts of the land, living, of course, 
 more wealthily, with less labour, and on better food. The characteristic 
 features produced by these causes are such as might be expected — the 
 Catholic being, like his soil, hardy, thin, and capable of bearing all 
 weathers ; and the Protestants, larger, softer, and more inactive. 
 
 " Their advance to the first onset was far different from a faction fight. 
 There existed a silence here that powerfully evinced the inextinguish- 
 able animosity with which they encountered. For some time they 
 fought in two compact bodies, that remained unbroken so long as the 
 chances of victory were doubtful. Men went down, and were up, and 
 went down in all directions with uncommon rapidity ; and as the 
 weighty phalanx of Orangemen stood out against the nimble line of 
 their mountain adversaries, the intrepid spirit of the latter, and their 
 surprising skill and activity, soon gave symptoms of a gradual superi- 
 ority in the conflict. In the course of about half an hour the Orange 
 party began to give way in the northern end of the town ; and, as 
 their opponents pressed them warmly and with unsparing hand, the 
 heavy mass formed by their numbers began to break, and this decom- 
 position ran up their line, until in a short time they were thrown into 
 utter confusion. They now fought in detached parties ; but these 
 subordinate conflicts, though shorter in duration than the shock of tnc 
 general battle, were much more inhuman and destructive ; for when- 
 ever any particular gang succeeded in putting their adversaries to 
 
176 THE PARTY FIGHT AMD FUNERAL. 
 
 flight, they usually ran to the assistance of their friends in the nearest 
 fight — by which means they often fought three to one. In these 
 instances the persons inferior in number suffered such barbarities as 
 it would be painful to detail. 
 
 "There lived a short distance out of the town a man nicknamed 
 Jemsy Boccagh, on account of his lameness — he was also sometimes 
 called ' Hip-an'-go-constant' — who fell the first victim to party spirit. 
 He had got arms on seeing his friends likely to be defeated, and had 
 the hardihood to follow, with charged bayonet, a few Ribbonmen, 
 whom he attempted to intercept as they fled from a large number of 
 their enemies, who had got them separated from their comrades. 
 Boccagh ran across a field, in order to get before them on the road, 
 and was in the act of climbing a ditch, when one of them, who carried 
 a spade-shaft, struck him a blow on the head which put an end to his 
 existence. 
 
 " This circumstance imparted, of course, fiercer hatred to both 
 parties — triumph inspiring the one, a thirst for vengeance nerving the 
 other. Kelly inflicted tremendous punishment in every direction ; 
 for scarcely a blow fell from him which did not bring a man to the 
 ground. It absolutely resembled a military engagement, for the 
 number of combatants amounted at least to two thousand men. In 
 many places the street was covered with small pools and clots of 
 blood which flowed from those who lay insensible — while others 
 were borne away bleeding, groaning, or staggering, having been bat- 
 tered into a total unconsciousness of the scene about them. 
 
 " At length the Orangemen gave way, and their enemies, yelling 
 with madness and revenge, began to beat them with unrestrained 
 fury. The former, finding that they could not resist the impetuous 
 tide which burst upon them, fled back past the church, and stopped 
 not until they had reached an elevation, on which lay two or three 
 heaps of stones, that had been collected for the purpose of paving the 
 streets. Here they made a stand, and commenced a vigorous dis- 
 charge of them against their pursuers. This checked the latter ; and 
 the others, seeing them hesitate, and likely to retreat from the mis- 
 siles, pelted them with such effect that the tables became turned, and 
 the Ribbonmen made a speedy flight back into the town. 
 
 "In the meantime several Orangemen had gone into Sherlock's, 
 where a considerable number of arms had been deposited, with an 
 intention of resorting to them in case of a defeat at the cudgels. 
 These now came out, and met the Ribbonmen on their flight from 
 those who were pelting them with the stones. A dreadful scene 
 ensued. The Ribbonmen, who had the advantage in numbers, finding 
 themselves intercepted before by those who had arms, and pursued 
 behind by those who had recourse to the stones, fought with uncom- 
 mon bravery and desperation. Kelly, who was furious, but still col- 
 lected and decisive, shouted out in Irish, lest the opposite party might 
 understand him, ' Let every two men seize upon one of those who have 
 the arms.' 
 
 " This was attempted, and effected with partial success : and I have 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 177 
 
 no doubt but the Orangemen would have been ultimately beaten and 
 deprived of their weapons, were it not that many of them, who had 
 got their pistols out of Sherlock's, discharged them among their 
 enemies, and wounded several. The Catholics could not stand this : 
 but, wishing to retaliate as effectually as possible, lifted stones wherever 
 they could find them, and kept up the fight at a distance as they re- 
 treated. On both sides, wherever a solitary foe was caught straggling 
 from the rest, he was instantly punished with a most cruel and blood- 
 thirsty spirit. 
 
 "It was just about this time that I saw Kelly engaged with two 
 men, whom he kept at bay with great ease — retrograding, however, 
 as he fought, towards his own party. Grimes, who had some time 
 before this recovered and joined the fight once more, was returning, 
 after having pursued several of the Ribbonmen past the market-house, 
 where he spied Kelly thus engaged. With a volunteer gun in his 
 hand, and furious with the degradation of his former defeat, he ran 
 over and struck him with the butt-end of it upon the temple, and 
 Denis fell. When the stroke was given an involuntary cry of ' Murder 
 — foul, foul ! ' burst from those who looked on from the windows ; and 
 long John Steele, Grimes's father-in-law, in indignation raised his 
 cudgel to knock him down for this treacherous and malignant blow ; 
 but a person out of Neal Cassidy's back-yard hurled a round stone, 
 about six pounds in weight, at Grimes's head, that felled him to the 
 earth, leaving him as insensible, and nearly in as dangerous a state, 
 as Kelly — for his jaw was broken. 
 
 " By this time the Catholics had retreated out of the town, and 
 Denis might probably have received more punishment had those who 
 were returning from the pursuit recognised him ; but James Wilson, 
 seeing the dangerous situation in which he lay, came out, and, with 
 the assistance of his servant-man, brought him into his own house. 
 When the Orangemen had driven their adversaries off the field, they 
 commenced the most hideous yellings through the streets — got music 
 and played party tunes— offered any money for the face of a Papist ; 
 and any of that religion who were so unfortunate as to make their ap- 
 pearance were beaten in the most relentless manner. It was precisely 
 the same thing on the part of the Ribbonmen ; if a Protestant, but 
 above all an Orangeman, came in their way, he was sure to be treated 
 with barbarity: for the retaliation on either side was dreadfully unjust 
 — the innocent suffering as well as the guilty. Leaving the window, 
 1 found Kelly in a bad state below stairs. 
 
 " ' What's to be done ?' said I to Wilson. 
 
 '"I know not,' replied he, 'except I put him between us on my 
 jaunting car and drive him home.' 
 
 " This appeared decidedly the best plan we could adopt ; so, after 
 putting to the horse, we piaced him on the car, sitting one on each 
 side of him, and in this manner left him at his own house. 
 
 "'Did you run no risk,' said I, 'in going among Kelly's friends, 
 whilst they were under the influence of party feeling and exasperated 
 passion?' 
 
178 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 '* ' No,' said he ; ' we had rendered many of them acts of kindness, 
 and had never exhibited any spirit but 73. friendly one towards them ; 
 and such individuals, but only such, mii^lit walk throitgh a crowd oj 
 enras^cd Catholics or Protestants quite un molested.' 
 
 "The next morning Kelly's landlord, Sir \V. R , and two magis- 
 trates, were at his house, but he lay like a log, without sense or 
 
 motion. Whilst they were there. Surgeon S e arrived, and, after 
 
 examining his head, declared that the skull was fractured. During 
 that and the following day the house was surrounded by crowds, 
 anxious to know his state ; and nothing might be heard amongst 
 most of them but loud and undisguised expressions of the most ample 
 revenge. The wife was frantic; and, on seeing me, hid her face in 
 her hands, exclaiming : 
 
 " ' Ah, sir, I knew it would come to this ; and you, too, tould him 
 the same thing. My curse and Gnd's curse on it for quarrelling ! Will 
 it never stop in the counthry, till they rise some time, and murdher one 
 another out of the face ! ' 
 
 " As soon as the swelling in his head was reduced. Surgeon S e 
 
 performed the operation of trepanning, and thereby saved his life ; 
 but his strength and intellect were gone — and he just Hngered for four 
 months, a feeble, drivelling simpleton, until, in consequence of a cold, 
 which produced inflammation in the brain, he died, as hundreds have 
 died, the victim of party spirit." 
 
 Such was the account which I heard of my old schoolfellow, Denis 
 Kelly ; and, indeed, when I reflected upon the nature of the education 
 he received, I could not but admit that the consequences were such as 
 might naturally be expected to result from it. 
 
 The next morning a relation of Mrs. Kelly's came down to my 
 brother, hoping that, as they wished to have as decent a funeral as 
 possible, he would be so kind as to attend it. 
 
 " Musha, God knows, sir," said the man, " it's poor Denis, heavens 
 be his bed ! that had the regard and reverence for everyone, young 
 and ould, of your father's family ; and it's himself that would be the 
 proud man, if he was living, to see you, sir, riding after his coffin." 
 
 " Well," said my brother, " let Mrs. Kelly know that I shall certainly 
 attend, and so will my brother, here, who has come to pay me a visit. 
 Why, I believe, Tom, you forget him ! " 
 
 " Your brother, sir 1 Is it Master Toby, that used to cudgel the half 
 ol the counthry when he was at school .? Gad's my life, Masther Toby 
 (I was now about thirty-six), but it's your four quarters, sure enough ! 
 Arrah, thin, sir, who'd think it — you're grown so full and stout .? — but, 
 faix, you'd always the bone in you ! Ah, Mastlier Toby ! " said he, " he's 
 lying cowld, this morning, that would be the happy man to lay his 
 eyes wanst more upon you. Many an' many's the winther's evening 
 did he spind talking about the time when you and he were bouchals 
 together, and of the pranks you played at school, but especially of the 
 time you both leatliered the four Grogans, and tuck the apples from 
 them — my poor fellow ! — and now to be stretched a corpse, lavin' his 
 poor widdy and childher behind him .' " 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 179 
 
 I accordingly expressed my sorrow for Denis's death, which, indeed, 
 I sincerely regretted, for he possessed materials- for an excellent 
 character, had not all that was amiable and good in him been permitted 
 to run wild. 
 
 As soon as my trunk and travelling-bag had been brought from the 
 inn where I had left them the preceding night, we got our horses, 
 and, as we wished to show particular respect to Denis's remains, rode 
 up, with some of our friends, to the house. When we approached, 
 there were large crowds of the country-people before the door of his 
 well-thatched and respectable-looking dwelling, which had three 
 chimneys, and a set of sash-windows, clean and well-glazed. On our 
 arrival I was soon recognised and surrounded by numbers of those to 
 whom I had formerly been known, who received and welcomed me 
 with a warmth of kindness and sincerity which it would be in vain to 
 look for among the peasantry of any other nation. 
 
 Indeed, I have uniformly observed that when no religious or political 
 feeling influences the heart and principles of an Irish peasant, he is 
 singularly sincere and faithful in his attachments, and has always a 
 bias to the generous and the disinterested. To my own knowledge, 
 circumstances frequently occur in which the ebullition of party spirit 
 is altogether temporary, subsiding after the cause that produced it has 
 passed away, and leaving the kind peasant to the naturally affectionate 
 and generous impulses of his character. But poor Paddy, unfortunately, 
 is as combustible a material in politics or religion as in fighting — 
 thinking it his duty to take the weak ^ side, without any other considera- 
 tion than because it is the weak side. 
 
 When we entered the house I was almost suffocated with the strong 
 fumes of tobacco-smoke, snuff, and whisky ; and, as I had been an 
 old schoolfellow of Denis's, my appearance was the signal for a 
 general burst of grief among his relations, in which the more distant 
 friends and neighbours of the deceased joined, to keep up the 
 keening. 
 
 I have often, indeed always, felt that there is something extremely 
 touching in the Irish cry ; in fact, that it breathes the very spirit of 
 wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry, whenever a death takes 
 place, are exceedingly happy in seizing upon any contingent circum- 
 stances that may occur, and making them subservient to the excitement 
 of grief for the departed, or the exultation and praise of his character 
 and virtues. My entrance was a proof of this — I had scarcely 
 advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with the 
 
 1 A gentleman once told me an anecdote of which he was an eye-witness. Some 
 peasants, belonging to opposite factions, had met under peculiar circumstances ; 
 there were, however, two on one side, and four on the other. In this case there 
 was likely to be no fight ; but, in order to balance the number, one of the mora 
 numerous party joined the weak side — " Bekase, boys, it would be a burnin' 
 shame, so it would, for four to kick two ; and, except I join them, by the powers, 
 there's no chance of their being a bit of sport, or a row, at all at all 1 " Accord- 
 ingly, he did join them, and the result of it was that "Be'^ahd his party wera 
 victorious ; so honestly did he fight 1 
 
iSo THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels were adverted to 
 with a natural eloquence and pathos that, in spite of my firmnessi, 
 occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow. They spoke, or chaunted 
 mournfully, in Irish ; but the substance of what they said was as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Oh, Denis, Denis, avourncen ! you're iying low, this morning of 
 sorrow ? — lying low, are you, and does not know who it is (alluding to 
 me) that is standing over you, weeping for the days you spent together 
 in your youth ! It's yourself, aaishla agics astJwre machrce (the pulse 
 and beloved of my heart), that would stretch out the right hand warmly 
 to welcome him to the place of his birth, where you had both been so 
 often happy about the green hills and valleys with each other ! He's 
 here now, standing over you ; and it's he, of all his family, kind and 
 respectable as they arc, tliat was your own favourite, Denis avourncen 
 dJiccUsh! He alone was the companion that you loved! — with no 
 other could you be happy ! — For him did you fight, when he wanted a 
 friend in your young quarrels ! and if you had a dispute with him, 
 were not you sorry for it ? Are you not now stretched in death before 
 him, and will he not forgive you ? " 
 
 All this was uttered, of course, extemporaneously, and without the 
 least preparation. They then passed on to an enumeration of his 
 virtues as a father, a husband, son, and brother — specified his worth 
 as he stood related to society in general, and his kindness as a neigh- 
 bour and a friend. 
 
 An occurrence now toqk place which may serve in some measure 
 to throw light upon many of the atrocities and outrages which take 
 place in Ireland. Before I mention it, however, I think it necessary 
 to make a few observations relative to it. I am convinced that those 
 who are intimately acquainted with the Irish peasantry will grant that 
 there is not on the earth a class of people in whom the domestic 
 affections of blood-relationship are so pure, strong, and sacred. The 
 birth of a child will occasion a poor man to break in upon the money 
 set apart for his landlord, in order to keep the christening among his 
 friends and neighbours with due festivity. A marriage exhibits a 
 spirit of joy, an exuberance of happiness and delight, to be found only 
 in the Green Island ; and the death of a member of a family is 
 attended with a sincerity of grief scarcely to be expected from men so 
 much the creatures of the more mirthful feelings. In fact, their sorrow 
 is a solecism in humanity — at once deep and loud — mingled up, even 
 in its greatest paroxysms, with a laughter-loving spirit. It is impos- 
 sible that an Irishman, sunk in the lowest depths of affliction, could 
 permit his grief to flow in all the sad solemnity of affliction, even for 
 a day, without some glimpse of his natural humour throwing a faint 
 and rapid light over the gloom within him. No : there is an amal- 
 gamation of sentiments in his mind which, as I said before, would 
 puzzle any philosopher to account for. Yet it would be wrong to say, 
 though his grief has something of an unsettled and ludicrous character 
 about it, that he is incapable of the most subtle and delicate shades of 
 sentiment, or the deepest and most desolating intensity of sorrow. 
 
THP PARTY FtGHT ANt) FVNERAL \f>x 
 
 Bat he laughs off those heavy vapours which hang about the moral 
 constitution of the people of other nations, giving th;m a morbid habit 
 which leaves them neither strength nor firmness to resist calamity, 
 which they feel less keenly than an Irishman, exactly as a healthy 
 man will feel the pangs of death with more acuteness than one who 
 is wasted away by debility and decay. Let any man witness an emi- 
 gration, and he will satisfy himself that this is true. I am convinced 
 that Goldsmith's inimitable description of one in his " Deserted Vil- 
 lage " was a picture drawn from actual observation. Let him observe 
 the emigrant as he crosses the Atlantic, and he will find, although he 
 joins the jest, and the '.augh, and the song, that he will seek a silent 
 corner or a silent hour to indulge the sorrow which he still feels for the 
 friends, the companions, and the native fields that he has left behind 
 him. This constitution of mind is beneficial : the Irishman seldom or 
 never hangs himself, because he is capable of too much real feeling to 
 permit himself to become the slave of that which is factitious. There 
 is no void in his aft'ections or sentiments which a morbid and depraved 
 sensibility could occupy ; but his feelings, of what character soever 
 they may be, are strong, because they are fresh and healthy. For 
 this reason, I maintain that when the domestic affections come under 
 the influence of either grief or joy, the peasantry of no nation are 
 capable of feeling so deeply. Even on the ordinary occasions of death, 
 sorrow, though it alternates with mirth and cheerfulness in a manner 
 peculiar to themselves, lingers long in the unseen recesses of domestic 
 life : any hand, therefore, whether by law or violence, that plants a 
 wonnd here, will suffer to the death. 
 
 When my brother and I entered the house the body had just been 
 put into the coffin ; and it is usual after this takes place, and before it 
 is nailed down, for the immediate relatives of the family to embrace 
 the deceased, and take their last look and farewell of his remains. In 
 the present instance, the children were brought over, one by one, to 
 perform that trying and melancholy ceremony. The first was an infant 
 on the breast, whose little innocent mouth was held down to that of 
 its dead father ; the babe smiled upon his still and solemn features, 
 and would have played with his grave clothes, but that the murmur of 
 unfeigned sorrow which burst from all present, occasioned it to be 
 removed. The next was a fine little girl of three or four years, who 
 inquired where they were going to bring her daddy, and asked if he 
 would not soon come back to her. 
 
 " My daddy's sleepin' a long time," said the child, "but I'll waken 
 him till he sings me. ' Peggy Slevin.' I like my daddy best, bekase I 
 sleep wid him^ancl he brings me good things from the fair ; he bought 
 me this ribbon," said she, pointing to a ribbon which he had purchased 
 for her. 
 
 The rest of the children were sensible of their loss, and truly it was 
 a distressing scene. His eldest son and daughter, the former about 
 fourteen, the latter about two years older, lay on the coffin, kissing his 
 lips, and were with difficulty torn away from it. 
 
 " Oh !" said the boy, " he is going from us, and night or day we will 
 
iftl THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 never see him or hear of him more ! Oh I father — father — is that the 
 last sight we aie ever to sec of your face ? Why, father dear, did you 
 die, and leave us for ever — for ever? Wasn't your heart good to us, 
 and your words kind to us ? Oh ! your last smile is smiled — your last 
 kiss given — and your last kind word spoken to your childhre that 
 you loved, and ihat loved you as we did. Father, core of my heart, 
 are you gone for ever, and your voice departed ? Oh ! the murdherers, 
 oh ! the murdhcrers, the murdhercrs ! " he exclaimed, " that killed my 
 father ; for only for them he would be still wid us : but, by the (jod 
 that's over me, if I live, night or day I will not rest till I have blood 
 for blood ; nor do I care who hears it, nor if I was hanged the next 
 minute."* 
 
 As these words escaped him, a deep and awful murmur of sup- 
 pressed vengeance burst from his relations. At length their sorrow 
 became too strong to be repressed ; and as it was the time to take 
 their last embrace and look of him, they came up, and after fixing 
 their eyes on his face in deep affliction, their lips began to quiver, 
 and their countenances became convulsed. They then burst out simul- 
 taneously into a tide of violent grief, which, after having indulged in 
 it for some time, they checked. But the resolution of revenge was 
 stronger than their grief, for, standing over his dead body, they 
 repeated, almost word for word, the vow of vengeance which the son 
 had just sworn. It was really a scene dreadfully and terribly solemn ; 
 and I could not avoid reflecting upon the mystery of nature, wiiich 
 can, from the deep power of domestic affection, cause to spring a de- 
 termination to crime of so black a dye. Would to God that our 
 peasantry had a clearer sense of moral and religious duties, and were 
 not left so much as they are to the headlong impulse of an ardent tem- 
 perament and an impetuous character ; and would to God that the 
 clergy who superintend their education and morals had a better 
 knowledge of human nature ! 
 
 During all this time the heart-broken widow sat beyond the coffin, 
 looking upon what passed with a stupid sense of bereavement; and 
 when they had all performed this last ceremony, it was found neces- 
 sary to tell her that the time was come for the procession of the 
 funeral, and that they only waited for her to take, as the rest did, her 
 last look and embrace of her husband. Wlien she heard this, it 
 pierced her like an arrow: she became instantly collected, and her 
 complexion assumed a dark sallow shade of despairing anguish, which 
 it was an affliction even to look upon. She then stooped over the 
 coffin, and kissed him several times, after which stie ceased sobbing, 
 and lay silently with her mouth to his. 
 
 The character of a faithful wife sorrowing for a beloved husband 
 ha? that in it which compels both respect and sympathy. There was 
 not at this moment a dry eye in the house. She still lay silent on the 
 coffin ; but, as I observed that her bosom seemed not to heave as it 
 did i little before, I was convinced that she had become insensible. \ 
 
 I Such were the words. 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 183 
 
 accordingly beckoned to Kelly's brother, to whom I mentioned what I 
 had suspected ; and, on his going over to ascertain the truth, he found 
 her as I had said. She was then brought to the air, and after some 
 trouble recovered ; but I recommended them to put her to bed, and 
 not to subject her to any unnecessary anguish by a custom which was 
 really too soul-piercing to endure. This, however, was, in her opinion, 
 the violation of an old rite sacred to her heart and affections — she 
 would not hear of it for an instant. Again she was helped out between 
 her brother and brother-in-law ; and, after stooping down, and doing 
 as the others had done — 
 
 " Now," said she, " I will sit here, and keep him under my eye as 
 long as I can — surely you won't blame me for it ; you all know the 
 kind husband he was to me, and the good right I have to be sorry for 
 him ! Oh ! " she added, " is it thrue at all 1 — is he my own Denis, the 
 young husband of my early — and my first love, in good arnest. dead, 
 and going to leave me here — me, Denis, that you loved so tindherly, 
 and our childher, that your brow was never clouded against .'' Can I 
 believe myself, or is it a dhrame ? Denis, avick machire ! avick 
 mnchree J your hand was dreaded, and a good right it had, for it was 
 the manly hand, that was ever and always raised in defence of them ■ 
 that wanted a friend ; abroad, in the faction-fight, against the oppressor, 
 your name was ever feared, ncushla ! — but at home — AT HOME — luhere 
 •was your fellow ? Denis achra, do you know the lips that's spaking 
 to you .'' — your young bride — your heart's light. Oh ! I remimber the 
 day you war married to me like yesterday. Oh ! avourneen, then and 
 since wasn't the heart of your own Honor bound up in you — yet not a 
 word even to me. Well, agra machree, 'tisn't your fault, it's the first 
 time you ever refused to spake to your own Honor. But you're dead, 
 avourneen, or it wouldn't be so — you're dead before my eyes — husband 
 of my heart, and all my hopes and happiness goes into the coffin and 
 the grave along wid you tor ever ! " 
 
 All this time she was rocking herself from side to side, her com- 
 plexion pale and ghastly as could be conceived. When the coffin was 
 about to be closed, she retired until it was nailed down, after which 
 she returned with her bonnet and cloak on her, ready to accompany it 
 to the grave. I was astonished — for I thought she could not have 
 walked two steps without assistance ; but it was the custom, and to 
 neglect it, I found, would have thrown the imputation of insincerity 
 upon her grief. While they were preparing to bring the coffin out, I 
 could hear the chat and conversation of those who were standing in 
 crowds before the door, and occasionally a loud, racant laugh, and 
 sometimes a volley of them, responsive to the jokes of some rustic 
 wit, probably the same person who acted master of the revels at the 
 wake. 
 
 Before the coffin was finally closed, Ned Corrigan, whom I had put 
 to flight the preceding night, came up, and repeated the Deprofinidis 
 in very strange Latin over the corpse. When this was finished, he 
 got a jug of holy water, and after dipping his thumb in it, first made 
 the sign of the cross upon his own forehead, and afterwards sprinkled 
 
lU THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 it upon all present, giving my brother and myself an extra compliment^ 
 supposing, probably, that we stood most in need of it. When this was 
 over, he sprinkled the corpse and the coffin in particular most pro- 
 fusely. He then placed two pebbles from Lough Derg, and a bit of 
 holy candle, upon the breast of the corpse, and having said a Fater 
 and Ave, in which he was joined by the people, he closed the lid, and 
 nailed it down. 
 
 " Ned," said his brother, " are his feet and toes loose ? " 
 
 " Musha, but that's more than myself knows," replied Ned. "Are 
 they, Katty?" said he, inquiring from the sister of the deceased. 
 
 " Arrah, to be sure, avourncen," answered Katty. " Div you think 
 we would lave him to be tied that-a-way, when he'd be risin' out of 
 his last bed ? Wouldn't it be too bad to have his toes tied thin, 
 avourneen?" 
 
 The coffin was then brought out and placed upon four chairs before 
 the door to be keened ; and, in the meantime, the friends and well- 
 wishers of the deceased were brought into the room to get each a glass 
 of whisky as a token of respect. I observed, also, that such as had 
 not seen any of Kelly's relations until then, came up, and shaking 
 hands with them, said, " I'm sorry for your loss ! " This expression 
 of condolence was uniform, and the usual reply was— "Thank you, 
 Mat, or Jim !" with a pluck of the skirts, accompanied by a significant 
 nod to follow. They then got a due share of whisky ; and it was 
 curious, after they came out, their faces a little flushed, and their eyes 
 watery with the strong, ardent spirits, to hear with what heartiness and 
 alacrity they entered into Denis's praises. 
 
 When he had been keened in the street, there being no hearse, the 
 coffin was placed upon two handspikes which were fixed across, but 
 parallel to each other, under it. These were borne by four men, one 
 at the end of each, with the point of it touching his body a little below 
 his stomach ; in other parts of Ireland the coffm is borne on the 
 shoulders, but this is more convenient and less distressing. 
 
 When we got out upon the road the. funeral was of great extent — 
 for Kelly had been highly respected. On arriving at the incrin which 
 bounded the land he had owned, the coffin was laid down, and a loud 
 and wailing kccna took place over it. It was again raised, and the 
 funeral proceeded in a direction which I was surprised to see it take, 
 and it was not until an acquaintance of my brother's had explained 
 the matter that I understood the cause of it. In Ireland, when a 
 murder is perpetrated, it is usual, as the funeral proceeds to the grave- 
 yard, to bring the corpse to the house of him who committed the crime, 
 and lay it down at his door, while the relations of the deceased kneel 
 down, and, with an appalling solemnity, utter the deepest imprecations, 
 and invoke the justice of Heaven on the head of the murderer. This, 
 however, is usually omitted if the residence of the criminal be com- 
 pletely out of the line of the funeral, but if it be possible, by any 
 circuit, to approach it, this dark ceremony is never omitted. In cases 
 where the crime is doubtful, or unjustly imputed, those who are thus 
 visited come out, and laying their right hand upon the coffin, protest 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL, 185 
 
 their innocence of the blood of the deceased, caUing God to witness 
 the truth of their asseverations ; but in cases where the crime is 
 clearly proved against the murderer, the door is either closed, the 
 ceremony repelled by violence, or the house abandoned by the inmates 
 until the funeral passes. 
 
 The death of Kelly, however, could not be actually, or, at least, 
 directly, considered a murder, for it was probable that Grimes did not 
 inflict the stroke with an intention of taking away his life, and, besides, 
 Kelly survived it four months. Grimes's house was not more than 
 fifteen perches from the road ; and when the corpse was opposite the 
 little bridle-way that led up to it, they laid it down for a moment, and 
 the relations of Kelly surrounded it, offering up a short prayer, with 
 uncovered heads. It was then borne towards the house, whilst the 
 keening commenced in a loud and wailing cry, accompanied with 
 clapping of hands, and every other symptom of external sorrow. But, 
 independent of their compliance with this ceremony as an old usage, 
 there is little doubt that the appearance of anything connected with 
 the man who certainly occasioned Kelly's death awoke a keener and 
 more intense sorrow for his loss. The wailing was thus continued 
 until the coffin was laid opposite Grimes's door ; nor did it cease then, 
 but, on the contrary, was renewed with louder and more bitter lamenta- 
 tions. 
 
 As the multitude stood compassionating the affliction of the widow 
 and orphans, it was the most impressive and solemn spectacle that 
 could be witnessed. The very house seemed to have a condemned 
 look ; and, as a single wintry breeze waved a tuft of long grass that 
 grew on a seat of turf at the side of the door, it brought the vanity 
 of human enmity before my mind with melancholy force. When the 
 keening ceased, Kelly's wife, with her children, knelt, their faces 
 towards the house of their enemy, and invoked, in the strong language 
 of excited passion, the justice of Heaven upon the head of the man 
 who had left her a widow, and her children fatherless. I was anxious 
 to know if Grimes would appear to disclaim the intention of murder ; 
 but I understood that he was at market — for it happened to be market 
 day. 
 
 "Come out!" said the widow — "come out, and look at the sight 
 that's here before you ! Come and view your ozun work! Lay but 
 your hand upon the coffin, and the blood of him that you murdhered 
 will spout, before God and these Christhen people, in your guilty face! 
 But, oh ! may the Almighty God bring this home to yoii ! ^ — May you 
 never lave this life, John Grimes, till worse nor has overtaken me and 
 mine falls upon you and yours ! May our curse hght upon you this 
 day ; — the curse, I say, of the widow and the orphans, and that your 
 bloody hand has made us, may it blast you ! May you and all belong- 
 ing to you wither off the 'arth ! Night and day, sleeping and waking 
 — like snow off the ditch may you melt, until your name and your 
 place will be disremimbered, except to be cursed by them that will 
 
 ' Does not this usage illustrate the proverb of the guilt being brought home tc 
 a "nan when there is no doubt of his criminality ? 
 
1 86 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 hear of you and your hand of murdher ! Amin, we pray God this 
 day ! — and the widow and orphan's prayer will not fall tu the ground 
 while your guilty head is above ? Childher, did you ill say it ?" 
 
 At this moment a deep, terrific murmur, or rathei ejaculation, cor- 
 roborative of assent to this dreadful imprecation, per/aded the crowrl 
 in a fearful manner; their countenances darkened, their eyes gleamed, 
 and their scowling visages stiffened into an expression of determined 
 vengeance. 
 
 When these awful words were uttered, Grimes's wife and daughters 
 approached the window in tears, sobbing, at the same time, loudly and 
 bitterly. 
 
 " You're wrong," said the wife — " you're wrong. Widow Kelly, in 
 saying that my husband iniirdhcrcd him ! — he did not murdher him ; 
 for, when you and yours were far from him, I heard John Grimes 
 declare, before the God who's to judge him, that he had no thought or 
 intention of taking his life ; he struck him in anger, and the blow did 
 him an injury that was not intended. Don't curse him. Honor Kelly," 
 said she — "don't curse him so fearfully; but, above all, don't cuise 
 me and my innocent childher, for we never harmed you, nor wished 
 you ill! But it iiuis this party work did it] Oh, my God!" she 
 exclaimed, wringing her hands, in utter bitterness of spirit, "when 
 will it be ended between friends and neighbours, that ought to live in 
 love and kindness together, instead of fighting in this bloodthirsty 
 manner !" 
 
 She then wept more violently, as did her daughters. 
 
 " May (}od give me mercy in the last day, Mrs. Kelly, as I pity 
 from my heart and soul you and your orphans," she continued ; " but 
 don't curse us, for the love of God — for you know we should forgive 
 our enemies, as we ourselves, that are the enemies of God, hope to be 
 forgiven." 
 
 " May God forgive me, then, if I have wronged you or your hus- 
 band," said the widow, softened by their distress ; " but you know that, 
 whether he intended his life or not, the stroke he gave him has left my 
 childher without a father, and myself dissolate. Oh, heavens above 
 me!" she exclaimed, in a scream of distraction and despair, "is it 
 possible — is it thrue — that my manly husband, the best father that 
 ever breathed the breath of life, my own Denis, is lying dead — mur- 
 dhered before my eyes ! Put your hands on my head, some of you — 
 put your hands on my head, or it will go to pieces. Where are you, 
 Denis, where are you, the strong of hand, and the tender of heart ? 
 Come to me, darling, I want you in my distress. I want comfort, 
 Denis ; and I'll take it from none but yourself, for kind was your word 
 to me in all my afflictions !" 
 
 All present were affected ; and, indeed, it was difficult to say 
 whether Kelly's wife or Grimes's was more to be pitied at the moment. 
 The affliction of the latter and of her daughters was really pitiable : 
 their sobs were loud, and the tears streamed down their cheeks like 
 rain. When the widow's exclamations had ceased, or rather were lost 
 in the loud cry of sorrow which was uttered by the keeners and 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 1S7 
 
 friends of the deceased, they, too, standing somewhat apart from the 
 rest, joined in it bitterly; and the solitary wail of Mrs. Grimes, differ- 
 ing in character from that of those who had been trained to modulate 
 the most profound grief into strains of a melancholy nature, was par- 
 ticularly wild and impressive. At all events, her Christian demeanour, 
 joined to the sincerity of her grief, appeased the enmity of many ; so 
 true is it that a soft answer turneth away wrath. I could perceive, 
 however, that the resentment of Kelly's male relations did not at all 
 appear to be in any degree moderated. 
 
 The funeral again proceeded, and I remarked that whenever a 
 strange passenger happened to meet it he always turned back, and 
 accompanied it for a short distance, after which he resumed his 
 journey, it being considered unlucky to omit this usage on meeting a 
 funeral. Denis's residence was not more than two miles from the 
 churchyard, which was situated in the town where he had received the 
 fatal blow. As soon as we had got on about the half of this way, the 
 priest of the parish met us, and the funeral, after proceeding a few 
 perches more, turned into a green field, in the corner of which stood a 
 table with the apparatus for saying mass spread upon it. 
 
 The coffin was then laid down once more, immediately before this 
 temporary altar ; and the priest, after having robed himself, the wrong 
 side of the vestments out, as is usual in the case of death, began to 
 celebrate mass for the dead, the congregation all kneeling. When this 
 was finished, the friends of the deceased approached the altar, and 
 after some private conversation, the priest turned round, and inquired 
 aloud : 
 
 " Who will give offerings ? " 
 
 The people were acquainted with the manner in which this matter is 
 conducted, and accordingly knew what to do. When the priest put 
 the question, Denis's brother, who was a wealthy man, came forward, 
 and laid down two guineas on the altar ; the priest took this up, and 
 putting it on a plate, set out among the multitude, accompanied by two 
 or three of those who were best acquainted with the inhabitants of the 
 parish. He thus continued putting the question, distinctly, after each 
 man had paid ; and according as the money was laid down, those who 
 accompanied the priest pronounced the name of the person who gave 
 it, so that all present might hear it. This is also done to enable the 
 friends of the deceased to know not only those who show them this 
 mark of respect, but those who neglect it, in order that they may treat 
 them in the same manner on similar occasions. The amount of money 
 so received is very great ; for there is a kind of emulation among the 
 people, as to who will act with most decency and spirit, that is exceed- 
 ingly beneficial to the priest. In such instances the difference of reli- 
 gion is judiciously overlooked ; for although the prayers oi Protestants 
 are declined on those occasions, yet it seems the same objection does 
 not hold good against their money, and accordingly they pay as well 
 as the rest. When the priest came round to where I stood he shook 
 hands with my brother, with whom he appeared to be on very friendly 
 and familiar terms ; he and I were then introduced to each other. 
 (1) , G 
 
1 88 THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 "Come," said he, with a very droll expression of countenance, 
 shaking the plate at the same time up near my brother's nose — 
 "come, Mr. D'Arcy, down with your offerings, if you wish to have a 
 friend with St. Peter when you go as far as the gates ; down with yo'ii 
 money, sir, and you shall be remembered, depend upon it. " 
 
 " Ah ! " said my brother, pulling out a guinea, " I would with the 
 greatest pleasure ; but I fear this is not orthodo.x. I'm afraid it has 
 the heretical mark upon it." 
 
 " In that case," replied his reverence, laughing heartily, "your only 
 plan is tu return it to the bosom of the Church by laying it on the plate 
 here — it will then be ivithin the pale, you know." 
 
 This reply produced a good deal of good-humour among that part 
 of the crowd which immediately surrounded them — not exceptmg his 
 nearest relations, who laughed heartily. 
 
 " Well," said my brother, as he laid it on the plate, " how many 
 prayers will you offer up in my favour for this ? " 
 
 "Leave that to myself," said his reverence, looking at the fneticy — 
 " it will be before you when you go to St. Peter." 
 
 He then held the plat^ out to me in a droll manner ; and I added 
 another guinea to my brother's gift : for which I had the satisfaction 
 of having my name called out so loud that it might be heard a quarter 
 of a mile off. 
 
 " God bless you, sir," said the priest, " and I thank you." 
 
 "John," said I, when he left us, " I think that is a pleasant and 
 rather a sensible man ?" 
 
 " He's as jovial a soul," replied my brother, " as ever gave birth to a 
 jest, and he sings a right good song. Many a convivial hour have he 
 and I spent together ; but, as to being a Catholic in their sense — Lord 
 help you ! At all events, he is no bigot ; but, on the contrary, a 
 liberal — and, putting religion out of the question, a kind and benevolent 
 man." 
 
 When the offerings were all collected he returned to the altar, 
 repeated a few additional prayers in prime style, as rapid as lightning ; 
 and after hastily shaking the holy water on the crowd, the funeral 
 moved on. It was now two o'clock, the day clear and frosty, and the 
 sun unusually bright for the season. During mass, many were added 
 to those who formed the funeral train at the outset ; so that, when we 
 got out upon the road, the procession appeared very large. After this, 
 few or none joined it ; for it is esteemed by no means " dacent" to do 
 so after mass— because, in that case, the matter is ascribed to an 
 evasion of the offerings ; but those whose delay has not really been 
 occasioned by this motive make it a point to pay them at the grave- 
 yard, or after the interment, and sometimes even on the following day 
 — so jealous are the peasantry of having any degrading suspicion 
 attached to their generosity. 
 
 T!ie order of the funeral now was as follows : — Foremost the women 
 — next to them the corpse, surrounded by the relations — the eldest son, 
 in deep affliction, "led the coffin," as chief mourner, holding in his 
 hd,nd the corner of a sheet or piece of linen, fastened to the tnort-clotk. 
 
Tiik PARTY PIGHT AND PUNERAL. 
 
 After the coffin came those who were on foot, and in the reai were the 
 equestrians. When we were a quarter of a mile from the churchyard 
 the funeral was met by a dozen of singing boys, belonging to a chapel 
 choir which the priest, who was fond of music, had some time before 
 formed. They fell in, two by two, immediately behind the corpse, and 
 commenced singing the Requiem, or Latin hymn for the dead. 
 
 The scene through which we passed at this time, though not clothed 
 with the verdure and luxuriant beauty of suminer, was, nevertheless, 
 marked by that solemn and decaying splendour which characterises 
 a fine country, lit up by the melancholy light of a winter setting sun. 
 It was, therefore, much more in character with the occasion. Indeed, 
 I felt it altogether beautiful ; and as the " dying day-hymn stole aloft," 
 the dim sunbeams fell, through a vista of naked, motionless trees, upon 
 the coffin, which was borne with a slower and more funereal pace than 
 before, in a manner that threw a solemn and visionary light upon the 
 whole procession. This, however, was raised to something dreadfully 
 impressive when the long train, thus proceeding with a motion so 
 mournful, was seen each covered with a profusion of crimson ribbons, 
 to indicate that the corpse they bore owed his dea,th to a deed of 
 murder. The circumstance of the sun glancing his rays upon the 
 coffin was not unobserved by the peasantry, who considered it as a 
 good omen to the spirit of the departed. 
 
 As we went up the street which had been the scene of the quarrel 
 that proved so latal to Kelly, the coffin was again laid down on the 
 spot where he received his death-blow ; and, as was usual, the wild 
 and melancholy keena was raised. My brother saw many of Grimes's 
 friends among the spectators, but he himself was not visible. Whether 
 Kelly's party saw them or not, we could not say ; if they did, they 
 seemed not to notice them, for no expression of revenge or indignation 
 escaped them. 
 
 At length we entered the last receptacle of the dead. The coffin 
 was now placed upon the shoulders of the son and brothers of the 
 deceased, and borne round the churchyard ; whilst the priest, with his 
 stole upon him, preceded it, reading prayers for the eternal repose of 
 the soul. Being then laid beside the grave, a ^' De pro/utuiis" was 
 repeated by the priest and the mass-server ; alter which a portion of 
 fresh clay, carried from the fields, was brought to his reverence, who 
 read a prayer over it and consecrated it. This is a ceremony which 
 is never omitted at the interment of a Roman Cathohc. When it was 
 over, the coffin was lowered into the grave, and the blessed clay shaken 
 over it. The priest now took the shovel in his own hands, and threw 
 in the three first shovelsfuU — one in the name of the Father, one in the 
 name of the Son, and one in the name of the Holy Ghost. The sexton 
 then took it, and in a short time Denis Kelly was fixed for ever in his 
 narrow bed. 
 
 While these ceremonies were going forward, the churchyard pre- 
 sented a characteristic picture. Beside the usual groups who straggle 
 thnjugh the place to amuse themselves by reading the inscriptions on 
 the tombs, you might see many individuals kneeling on particular 
 
igo THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL 
 
 graves, where some relation lay, for the benefit of whose soul they 
 offered up their prayers with an atliichment and devotion which one 
 cannot but admire. Sometimes all the surviving members of the 
 family would assemble, and repeat a Rosary for the same purpose. 
 Again, you might see an unhappy woman beside a newly-made grave, 
 giving way to lamentation and sorrow for the loss of a husband or of 
 some beloved child. Here you might observe the "last bed "orna- 
 mented with hoops, decked in white paper, emblematic of the virgin 
 innocence of the individual who slept below ; there a little board- 
 cross, informing you that " this monument was erected by a disconso- 
 late husband to the memory of his beloved wife." But that which 
 excited greatest curiosity was a sycamore tree which grew in the 
 middle of the burying-ground. 
 
 It is necessary to inform the reader that in Ireland many of the 
 churchyards are exclusively appropriated to the interment of Roman 
 Catholics, and, consequently, no Protestant corpse would be per- 
 mitted to pollute or desecrate them. This was one of them : but it 
 appears that, by some means or other, the body of a Protestant had 
 been interred in it — and hear the consequence ! The next morning 
 heaven marked its disapprobation of this awful visitation by a miracle ; 
 for, ere the sun rose from the east, a full-grown sycamore had shot up 
 out of the heretical grave, and stands there to this day, a monument at 
 once of the profanation and its consequence. Crowds were looking at 
 this tree, feeling a kind of awe, mingled with wonder, at the deed 
 which drew down such a visible and lasting mark of God's displeasure. 
 On the tombstones near Kelly's grave men and women were seated, 
 smoking tobacco to their very heart's content ; for, with that profusion 
 which characterises the Irish in everything, they had brought out large 
 quantities of tobacco, whisky, and bunches of pipes. On such occa- 
 sions it is the custom for those who attend the wake or the funeral to 
 bring a full pipe home with them ; and it is expected that, as often 
 as it is used, they will remember to say, " God be merciful to the soul 
 of him that this pipe was over." 
 
 The crowd, however, now began to disperse ; and the immediate 
 friends of the deceased sent the priest, accompanied by Kelly's brother, 
 to request that we would come in, as the last mark of respect to pooi 
 Denis's memory, and take a glass of wine and a cake. 
 
 " Come, Toby," said my brother, " we may as well go in, as it will 
 gratify them ; we need not make much delay, and we will still be at 
 home in sufficient time for dinner." 
 
 " Certainly you will," said the priest ; " for you shall both come and 
 dine with me to-day." 
 
 " With all my heart," said my brother ; " I have no objection, foi I 
 know you give it good." 
 
 When we went in, the punch was already reeking from immense 
 white jugs, that couldn't hold less than a gallon each. 
 
 " Now," said his reverence, very properly, " you have had a dacent 
 and creditable funeral, and have managed everything with great pro- 
 priety ; let me request, therefore, that you will not get drunk, noi 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. \q\ 
 
 permit yourselves to enter into any disputes or quarrels ; but be 
 moderate in what you take, and go home peaceably." 
 
 " Why, thin, your reverence," replied the widow, " he's now in his 
 grave, and, thank God, it's he that had the dacent funeral all out — ten 
 good gallons did we put on you, asthore, and it's yourself that liked the 
 dacent thing, anyhow ; but sure, sir, it would shame him where he's 
 lyin' if we disregarded him so far as to go home widout bringing in 
 our friends that didn't desart us in our throuble, and thratin' them for 
 their kindness." 
 
 While Kelly's brother was filling out all their glasses, the priest, my 
 brother, and I were taking a little refreshment. When the glasses 
 were filled, the deceased's brother raised his in his hand, and said : 
 
 " Well, gintlemen," addressing us, " I hope you'll pardon me for not 
 dhrinking your healths first ; but people, you know, can't break 
 through an ould custom, at any rate — so I give poor Denis's health, 
 that's in his warm grave, and God be marciful to his sovvl." ^ 
 
 The priest now winked at me to give them their own way ; so 
 we filled our glasses, and joined with the rest in drinking " Poor 
 Denis's health, that's now in his warm grave, and God be merciful to 
 his soul." 
 
 When this was finished, they then drank ours, and thanked us for 
 cur kindness in attending the funeral. It was now past five o'clock, 
 and we left them just setting in to a hard bout of drinking, and rode 
 down to his reverence's residence. 
 
 " I saw you smile," said he, on our way, " at the blundering toast of 
 Mat Kelly ; but it would be labour in vain to attempt setting them 
 right. What do they know about the distinctions of more refined life .'' 
 Besides, I maintain that what they said was as well calculated to 
 express their affection as if they had drunk honest Denis's memory. It 
 is, at least, unsophisticated. But did you hear," said he, " of the appa- 
 rition that was seen last night on the mountain road above Denis's?" 
 
 " I did not hear of it," I replied, equivocating a little. 
 
 "Why," said he, " it is currently reported that the spirit of a mur- 
 dered pedlar, which haunts the hollow of the road at Drumfurrar, 
 chased away the two servant men as they were bringing home the 
 coffin, and that, finding it a good bit, he then got into it, and walked 
 half a mile along the road with the wooden surtout upon him ; and 
 finally that, to wind up the frolic, he left it on one end half-way 
 between the bridge and Denis's house, after putting a crowd of the 
 countrymen to flight. I suspect some droll knave has played them a 
 trick. I assure you that a deputation of them, who declared that they 
 saw the coffin move along of itself, waited upon me this morning to 
 know whether they ought to have him put into the coffin or gotten 
 another." 
 
 "Well," said my brother, in reply to him, "after dinner we will 
 probably throw some light upon that circumstance ; for I believ* 
 my brother here knows something about it." 
 
 ' A fact 
 
igj THE PARTY FiGHT AND FUNERAL. 
 
 " So, sir," said the priest, " I perceive you have been amusing your- 
 self at their expense." 
 
 I seldom spent a pleasanter evening than I did with Father Mulloy 
 (so he was called), who was, as my brother said, a shrewd, sensible 
 man, possessed of convivial powers of the first order. He sang us 
 several good songs ; and, to do him justice, he had an excellent voice. 
 He regretted very much the state of party and religious feeling, which 
 he did everything in his power to suppress, 
 
 " 15ut," said he, " I have little co-operation in my efforts to communi- 
 cate knowledge to my flock, and implant better feelings among them. 
 You must know," he added, " that I am no great favourite among them. 
 On being appointed to this parish by my bishop, I found that the 
 young man who was curate to my predecessor had formed a party 
 against me, thinking, by that means, eventually to get the parish him- 
 self. Accordingly, on coming here, I found the chapel doors closed 
 on me ; so that a single individual among them would not recognise me 
 as their proper pastor. By firmness and spirit, however, I at length 
 succeeded, after a long struggle against the inlluence of the curate, in 
 gaining admission to the altar ; and by a proper representation of his 
 conduct to the bishcp I soon made my gentleman knock under. 
 Although beginning to gain ground in the good opinion of the people, 
 I am by no means yet a favourite. The curate and I scarcely speak ; 
 and a great number of my parishioners brand me with the epithet of 
 the 0>(i>!ge priest J and this principally because I occasionally asso- 
 ciate with Protestants — a habit, gentlemen, which they will find some 
 difficulty in making me give up as long as I can have the pleasure," 
 said he, bowing, " of seeing such guests at my table as those with 
 whose company I am now honoured." 
 
 It was now near nine o'clock, and my brother was beginning to relate 
 an anecdote concerning the clergyman who had preceded Father 
 Molloy in the parish, when a messenger from Mr. Wilson, already 
 alluded to, came up in breathless haste, requesting the priest for God's 
 sake to go down into town instantly, as the Kellys and the Grimeses 
 were engaged in a fresh quarrel. 
 
 "My God !" he exclaimed — "when will this work have an end? 
 But, to tell you the truth, gentlemen, I apprehended it ; and I fear 
 something still more fatal to the parties will yet be the consequence. 
 Mr. D'Arcy, you must try what you can do with the Grimeses, and I 
 will manage the KolKs." 
 
 We then proceeded to the town, which was but a very short distance 
 from the priest's house ; and on arriving found a large crowd before 
 the door of the house in which the Kellys had been drinking, engaged 
 in hard conflict. The priest was on foot, and had brought his whip 
 with him, it being an argument, in the hands of a Roman Catholic 
 pastor, which tells so home that it is not to be gainsaid. Mr. Molloy and 
 I"./ brother now dashed in amongst them ; and by remonstrance, abuse, 
 blows, aiid entreaty, they with difficulty succeeded in terminating the 
 fight. They were also assisted by Mr. Wilson and ocher persons, who 
 dared not, until their appearance, run the risk of interftring between 
 
THE PARTY FIGHT AND FUNERAL. 193 
 
 them. Wilson's servant, who had come for the priest, was still stand- 
 ing beside me looking on ; and while my brother and Mr. Mclloy 
 were separating the parties, I asked him how the fray commenced. 
 
 " Why, sir," said he, " it bein' market-day, the Grimeses chanced to 
 be in town, and this got to the ears of the Kellys, who were drinking 
 in Cassidy's here till they got tipsy ; some then broke out, and began 
 to go up and down the street, shouting for the face of a murdhering 
 Grimes. The Grimeses, sir, happened at the time to be drinking with 
 a parcel of their friends in Joe Sherlock's, and hearing the Kellys 
 calling out for them, why, .is the dhrop, sir, was in on both sides, they 
 were soon at it. Grimes has given one of the Kellys a great bating ; 
 but Tom M'Guigan, Kelly's cousin, a little before we came I'm tould, 
 has knocked the seven senses out of him with the pelt of a brick-bat 
 in the stomach." 
 
 Soon after this, however, the quarrel was got under; and, in order 
 to prevent any more bloodshed that night, my brother and I got the 
 Kellys together, and brought them as tar as our residence, on their way 
 home. As we went along they uttered awful vows and determinations 
 of the deepest revenge, swearing repeatedly that they would shoot 
 Grimes from behind a ditch, if they could not in any other manner 
 have his blood. They seemed highly intoxicated ; and several of them 
 were cut and abused in a dreadful manner ; even the women were in 
 such a state of excitement and alarm that grief for the deceased was, 
 in many instances, forgotten. Several of both sexes were singing ; 
 some laughing with triumph at the punishment they had intlicted on 
 the enemy ; others of them, softened by what they had drunk, were 
 weeping in tones of sorrow that might be heard a couple of miles off. 
 Among the latter were many of the men, some of whom, as they 
 staggered along, with their frieze big-coats hanging off one shoulder, 
 clapped their hands and roared like bulls, as if they intended, by the 
 loudness of their grief then, to compensate for their silence when 
 sober. It was also quite ludicrous to see the men kissing each other, 
 sometimes in this maudlin sorrow, and at others when exalted into the 
 very madness of mirth. Such as had been cut in the scuffle, on finding 
 the blood trickle down their faces, would wipe it off — then look at it, 
 and break out into a parenthetical volley of curses against the 
 Grimeses ; after which they would resume their grief, hug each other 
 in mutual sorrow, and clap their hands as before. In short, such a 
 group could be seen nowhere but in Ireland. 
 
 When my brother and I had separated from them, I asked him 
 what had become of Vengeance, and if he were still in the country. 
 
 " No," said he ; " with all his courage and watchfulness, he found 
 that his life was not safe ; he accordingly sold off his property, and 
 collecting all his ready cash, emigrated to America, where, I hear, he 
 is doing well." 
 
 " God knows," I replied, " I shouldn't be surprised if one half of the, 
 population were to follow his example, for the state of society here 
 among the lower orders is truly deplorable." 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Hedge School i 
 
 The Station 52 
 
 The Midnight Mass 96 
 
 The Donagh ; or, The Horse Stealers 153 
 
 Phil Purcell, the Pig- Driver 17S 
 
 Tiie Lianliaw Sliee 19S 
 
T/TK FIEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 [^•^IHERE never was a more unfounded calumny t>ian thst which 
 ^m ^°'^^*^ impute to the Irish peasantry an indifference to educa- 
 I gajsai l jJQj^^ J niay, on the contrary, fearlessly assert that the lower 
 orders of no country ever manifested such a positive inclination for 
 literary acquirements, and that, too, under circumstances strongly cal- 
 culated to produce carelessness and apathy on this particular subject. 
 Nay, I do maintain that he who is intimately acquainted with the 
 character of our countrymen, must acknowledge that their zeal foi 
 book learning not only is strong and ardent, when opportunities of 
 scholastic education occur, but that it increases in proportion as these 
 opportunities are rare and unattainable. The very name and nature 
 of hedge schools are proof of this : for what stronger point could be 
 made out, in illustration of my position, than the fact that, despite of 
 obstacles whose very idea would crush ordinary enterprise — when not 
 even a shed could be obtained in which to assemble the children of an 
 Irish village, the worthy pedagogue selected the first green spot on the 
 sunny side of a quickset-hedge which he conceived adapted for his 
 purpose, and there, under the scorching rays of a summer sun, and in 
 defiance of spies and statutes, carried on the work of instruction. 
 From this circumstance the name of hedge school originated ; and, 
 however it may be associated with the ludicrous, I maintain that it is 
 highly creditable to the character of the people and an encouragement 
 to those who wish to see them receive pure and correct, educational 
 knowledge. A hedge school, however, i.i its original sense, was but 
 a temporary establishment, being only adopted until such a school- 
 nouse could be erected as was in those days deemed sufficient to 
 hold such a number of children as were expected, at all hazards, to 
 attend it. 
 
 The opinion, I know, which has been long entertained of hedge 
 schoolmasters was, and still is, unfavourable ; but the character of 
 these worthy and eccentric persons has been misunderstood, for the 
 stigma attached to their want of knowledge should have rather been 
 applied to their want of morals, because, on this latter point only, were 
 they indefensible. The fact is that hedge schoolmasters were a class 
 of men from whom morality was not expected by the peasantry ; for, 
 strange to say, one of their strongest recommendations to the good 
 opinion of the people, as far as their literary talents and qualifications 
 were concerned, was an inordinate love of whisky, and if to this 
 could be added a slight touch of derangement, the character was 
 complete. 
 
 On once asking an Irish peasant why he sent his children to a 
 schoolmaster who was notoriously addicted to spirituous liquors, rathei 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 than to a man of sober habits who taught in the same neighbour' 
 hood — 
 
 " Why do I sind them to Mat Mecgan, is it? " he replied ; "and do 
 you think, sir," said he, "that I'd sind them to that dry-headed dunce, 
 Mr. Frazher, with his black coat upon him, and his Caroline hat, and 
 him wouldn't taste a glass of poteen wanst in seven years ? Mat, sir, 
 likes it, and teaches the boys ten times betther whin he's dhrunk nor 
 when he's sober ; and you'll never find a good tachcr, sir, but's fond 
 of it. As for Mat, when he's half f^one, I'd turn him agin the country 
 for deepness in laming ; for it's then he rhymes it out of him, that it 
 would do one good to hear him." 
 
 " So," said i, '• you think that a love of drinking poteen is a sign of 
 talent in a schoolmaster." 
 
 "Ay, or in any man else, sir," he replied. "Look at tradesmen, 
 and 'tis always the cleverest that you'll find fond of the dhrink ! If you 
 had hard Mat and Frazher the other evening at it — what a hare Mat 
 made of him ; but he was just in proper tune for it, being, at the 
 time, purty well, I thank you, and did not lave him a leg to stand 
 upon. He took him in Euclid's Ailments and Logicals, and proved 
 in Frazher's teeth that the candlestick before them was the church- 
 steeple, and Frazher himself the parson ; and so sign was on it, the 
 other couldn't disprove it, but had to give in." 
 
 " Mat, then," I observed, "is the most learned man on this walk." 
 
 " Why, thin, I doubt that same, sir," replied he, " for all he's so 
 great in the books ; for, you see, while they were ding dust at it, who 
 comes in but mad Delany, and he attacked Mat, and in less than no 
 time rubbed the consate out of ///;;/, as clane as he did out of 
 Frazher." 
 
 " Who is Delany?" I inquired. 
 
 " He was the makings of a priest, sir, and was in Maynooth a 
 couple of years, but he took in the knowledge so fast that, bedad, he 
 got cr-acked ivid larniii' — for a dunce, you see, never cracks wid it, in 
 regard of the thickness of the skull : no doubt but he's too many for 
 Mat, and can go far beyand him in the books ; but then, like that, 
 he's still brightest whin he has a sup in his head." 
 
 These are prejudices which the Irish peasantry have long entertained 
 concerning the character of hedge schoolmasters ; but granting them 
 to be unfounded, as they generally are, yet it is an indisputable fact 
 that hedge schoolmasters were as superior in litera:ry knowledge and 
 acquirements to the class of men who are now engaged in the general 
 education of the people as they were beneath them in moral and 
 religious character. The former part of this assertion will, I am aware, 
 appear rather startling to many. But it is true ; and one great cause 
 why the character of society teachers is undervalued, in many 
 instances, by the people proceeds from a conviction on their parts 
 that they are, and must be, incapable, from the slender portion of 
 learning they have received, of giving their children a sound and 
 practical education. 
 
 But that we may put this subject in a clearer light, we will give a 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 sketch of the course of instruction which was deemed necessary for a 
 liedge schoolmaster, and let it be contrasted with that which falls to 
 the lot of those engaged in the conducting of schools patronised by 
 tae Education Societies of the present day. 
 
 When a poor man, about twenty or thirty years ago, understood 
 from the schoolmaster who educated his sons that any of them was 
 particularly " cute at his larnin'," the ambition ol the parent usually 
 directed itself to one of three objects — he would eithe. make him a 
 priest, a clerk, or a schoolmaster. The determination once fixed, the 
 boy was set apart from every kind of labour, that he might be at 
 liberty to bestow his undivided time and talents on the objects set 
 before him. His parents strained every nerve to furnish him with the 
 necessary books, and always took care that his apprarance and dress 
 should be more decent than those of any other member of the family. 
 If the Church were in prospect, he was distinguished, after he had 
 been two or three years at his Latin, by the appellation of " the young 
 priest," an epithet to him of the greatest pride and honour ; but if 
 destined only to wield the ferula, his importance in the family and the 
 narrow circle of his friends was by no means so great. If, however, 
 the goal of his future ambition as a schoolmaster was humbler, that 
 of his literary career was considerably extended. He usually remained 
 at the next school in the vicinity until he supposed that he had 
 completely drained the master of all his knowledge. This circumstance 
 was generally discovered in the following manner : — As soon as he 
 judged himself a match for his teacher, and possessed sufficient 
 confidence in his own powers, he penned him a formal challenge to 
 meet him in literary contest, either in his own school, before competent 
 witnesses, or at the chapel-green, on the Sabbath day, before the 
 arrival of the priest, or probably after it— for the priest himself was 
 generally the moderator and judge upon these occasions. This chal- 
 lenge was generally couched in rhyme, and either sent by the hands of 
 a common friend, or posted upon the chapel door. 
 
 These contests, as the reader perceives, were always public, and 
 were witnessed by the peasantry with intense interest. If the master 
 sustained a defeat, it was not so much attributed to his want of learning 
 as to the overwhelming talent of his opponent ; nor was the success of 
 the pupil generally followed by the expulsion of the master — for this 
 was but the first of a series of challenges which the former proposed 
 to undertake, ere he eventually settled himself in the exercise of his 
 profession. 
 
 I remember being present at one of them, and a ludicrous exhibition 
 it was. The parish priest, a red-faced, jocular little man, was president, 
 and his curate, a scholar of six feet two inches in height, and a school- 
 master from the next parish were judges. I will only touch upon two 
 circumstances in their conduct which evinced a close instinctive 
 knowledge of human nature in the combatants. The master would 
 not condescend to argue off his throne — a piece of policy to which, in 
 my opinion, he owed his victory (for he won): whereas the pupil 
 insisted that he should meet him on equal grwrnd, face to face, in the 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 lower end of the room. It was evident that the latter could not divest 
 himself of his boyish terrors as long as the other sat, as it were, in the 
 plenitude of his former authority, contracting his brows with habitua! 
 sternness, thundering out his arguments with a most menacing and 
 stentorian voice, while he thumped his desk with his shut fist, or 
 struck it with his great rule at the end of each argument, in a manner 
 that made the youngster put his hands behind him several times, to be 
 certain that that portion of his dress w-hich is unmentionable was tight 
 upon him. 
 
 If in these encounters the young candidate for the honours of the 
 literary sceptre was not victorious, he again resumed his studies under 
 his old preceptor with renewed vigour and becoming humility ; but if 
 he put the schoolmaster down, his next object was to seek out some 
 other teacher, whose celebrity was unclouded within his own range. 
 With him he had a fresh encounter, and its result was similar to what 
 I have already related. If victorious, besought out another and more 
 learned opponent ; and if defeated, he became the pupil of his con- 
 queror — going night-about, during his sojourn at the school, with the 
 neighbouring farmers' sons, whom he assisted in their studies as a 
 compensation for his support. He was called, during these peregrina- 
 tions, the Poor Scholar, a character which secured him the esteem and 
 hospitable attention of the peasantry, who never fail in respect to any 
 one characterised by a zeal for learning and knowledge. 
 
 In this manner he proceeded, a literary knight-errant, filled with a 
 chivalrous love of letters which would have done honour to the most 
 learned peripatetic of them all ; enlarging his own powers, and making 
 fresh acquisitions of knowledge as he went along. His contests, his 
 defeats, and his triumphs, of course, were frequent ; and his habits 
 of thinking and reasoning must have been considerably improved, his 
 acquaintance with classical and mathematical authors rendered more 
 intimate, and his powers of illustration and comparison more clear and 
 happy. After three or four years spent in this manner, he usually 
 returned to his native place, sent another challenge to the school- 
 master, in the capacity of a candidate for his situation, and, if success- 
 ful, drove him out of the district, and established himself in his 
 situation. The vanquished master sought a new district, sent a new 
 challenge, in his turn, to some other teacher, and usually put him to 
 flight in the same manner. The terms of defeat or victory, according 
 to their application, were called sackim^ and bogging. 
 
 " There was a great argument entirely, si)r," said a peasant once, 
 when speaking of these contests; "'twas at the chapel on Sunday week, 
 betune young Tom Brady, that was a poor scholar in Munsthcr, and 
 Mr. Hartigan, the schoolmaster." 
 
 "And who was victorious.'"' I inquired. 
 
 " Why, sir, and maybe 'twas young Brady that didn't sack him clane, 
 before the priest and all, and went nigh to bog \)i).Q priest himself in 
 Greek. His reverence was only two words beyant him ; but he sacked 
 the masthcr, anyhow, and showed him in the Grammatical and 
 Dixonary where he was wrong." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 "And what is Brady's object in life?" I asked. "What does he 
 intend to do r " 
 
 " Intend to do, is it ? I'm tould nothing less nor going into Thrinity 
 College in Dublin, and expects to bate them all there, out and out : 
 he's first to make something they call a seizure ; ^ and, afther making 
 that good, he's to be a counsellor. So, sir, you see what it is to resave 
 good schoolin' and to have the larnin' ; but, indeed, it's Brady that's 
 the great head-piece entirely." 
 
 Unquestionably many who received instruction in this manner have 
 distinguished themselves in the Dublin University ; and I have no 
 hesitation in saying that young men educated in Irish hedge schools, 
 as they were called, have proved themselves to be better classical 
 scholars and mathematicians, generally speaking, than any propor- 
 tionate number of those educated in our first-rate academies. The 
 Munster masters have long been, and still are, particularly celebrated 
 for making excellent classical and mathematical scholars. 
 
 That a great deal of ludicrous pedantry generally accompanied this 
 knowledge is not at all surprising, when we consider the rank these 
 worthy teachers held in life, and the stretch of inflation at which their 
 pride was kept by the profound reverence excited by their learning 
 among the people. It is equally true that each of them had a stock of 
 crambos ready for accidental encounter which would have puzzled 
 Euclid or Sir Isaac Newton himself; but even these trained their 
 minds to habits of acuteness and investigation. When a schoolmaster 
 of this class had established himself as a good mathematician, the pre- 
 dominant enjoyment of his heart and life was to write the epithet 
 Philomath after his name; and this, whatever document he subscribed, 
 was never omitted. If he witnessed a will, it was Timothy Fagan, 
 Philomath ; if he put his name to a promissory note, it was Tim. 
 Fagan, Philomath ; if he addressed a love-letter to his sweetheart, it 
 was still Timothy Fagan — or whatever the name might be — Philo- 
 math ; and this was always written in legible and distinct copyhand, 
 sufficiently large to attract the observation of the reader. 
 
 It was also usual for a man who had been a pre-eminent and extra- 
 ordinary scholar to have the epithet Great prefixed to his name. I 
 remember one of this description, who was called the Great O'Brien, 
 par excellence. In the latter years of his life he gave up teaching, and 
 led a circulating life, going round from school to school, and remaining 
 a week or a month alternately among his brethren. His visits were 
 considered an honour, and raised considerably the literary character 
 of those with whom he resided ; for he spoke of dunces with the most 
 dignified contempt, and the general impression was that he would 
 scorn even to avail himself of their hospitality. Like most of his 
 brethren, he could not live without the poteen j and his custom was to 
 drink a pint of it in its native purity before he entered into any literary 
 contest, or made any display of his learning at wakes or other Irish 
 festivities ; and most certainly, however blameable the practice, and 
 
 ' Sizar. 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 injurious to health and morals, it threw out his talents and nis powers 
 in a most surprising manner. 
 
 It was highly amusing to observe the peculiarity which the con- 
 sciousness of superior knowledge impressed upon the conversation 
 and personal appearance of this decaying race. Whatever might 
 have been the original conformation of their physical structure, it was 
 sure, by the force of acquired habit, to transform itself into a stiff, 
 erect, consequential, and unbending manner, ludicrously characteristic 
 of an inflated sense of their extraordinar)' knowledge, and a proud 
 and commiserating contempt of the dark ignorance by whicli, in 
 despite of their own light, they were surrounded. Their conversation, 
 like their own cramlms, was dark and difticult to be understood ; their 
 words truly sesquipedalian ; their voice loud and commanding in its 
 tones ; their deportment grave and dictatorial, but completely inde- 
 scribable, and certainly original to the last degree, in those instances 
 where the ready blundering but genuine humour of tlieir country 
 maintained an unyielding rivalry in their disposition against the 
 natural solemnity which was considered necessary to keep up the due 
 dignity of their character. 
 
 In many of these persons, where the original humour and gaiety 
 of the disposition were known, all efforts at the grave and dignified 
 were complete failures, and these were enjoyed by the peasantry and 
 their own pupils nearly with the sensations which the enactment of 
 Hamlet by Liston would necessarily produce. At all events, their 
 education, allowing for the usual exceptions, was by no means super- 
 ficial ; and the reader has already received a sketch of the trials which 
 they had to undergo before they considered themselves qualified to 
 enter upon the duties of their calling. Their life was, in fact, a state 
 of literary warfare ; and they felt that a mere elementary knowledge 
 of their business would have been insufficient to carry them, with 
 suitable credit, through the attacks to which they were exposed from 
 travelling teachers, whose mode of establishing themselves in schools 
 was, as I said, by driving away the less qualified and usurping their 
 places. This, according to the law of opinion and the custom which 
 prevailed, was very easily effected, for the peasantry uniformly en- 
 couraged those whom they supposed to be the most competent ; as to 
 moral or religious instruction, neither was expected from them, so that 
 the indifference of the moral character was no bar to their success. 
 
 The village of Findramore was situated at the foot of a long green 
 hill, the outline of which formed a low arch, as it rose to the eye 
 against the horizon. This hill was studded with clumps of beeches, 
 and sometimes enclosed as a meadow. In the month of July, when 
 the grass on it was long, many an hour have I spent in solitary en- 
 joyment, watching the wavy motion produced upon its pliant surface 
 bv the sunny winds, or the flight of the cloud-shadows, like gigantic 
 phantoms, as they swept rapidly over it, whilst the murmur of the 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 rocking trees, and the glancing of their bright leaves in the sun, pro- 
 duced a heartfelt pleasure, the very memory of which rises in tny 
 imagination like some fading recollection of a brighter world. 
 
 At the foot of this hill ran a clear, deep-banked river, bounded on 
 one side by a slip of rich, level meadow, and on the other Hiy a kind 
 of common for the village geese, whose white feathers, during the 
 summer season, lay scattered over its green surface. It was also the 
 playground for the boys of the village school ; for there ran that part 
 of the river which, with very correct judgment, the urchins had 
 selected as their bathing place. A little slope or watering-ground in 
 the bank brought them to the edge of the stream, where the bottom 
 fell away into the fearful depths of the whirlpool under the hanging 
 oak on the other bank. Well do I remember the first time I ventured 
 to swim across it, and even yet do I see, in imagination, the two 
 bunches of water flaggons on which the inexperienced swimmers 
 trusted themselves in the watei. 
 
 About two hundred yards above this the horeen ^ which led from the 
 village to the main road crossed the river by one of those old narrow 
 bridges whose arches rise like round ditches across the road— an 
 almost impassible barrier to horse and car. On passing the bridge, 
 in a northern direction, you found a range of low thatched houses on 
 each side of the road ; and if one o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew 
 near, you might observe columns of blue smoke curling up from a row 
 of chimneys, some made of wicker creels plastered over with a rich 
 coat of mud ; some of old, narrow, bottomless tubs ; and others, 
 with a greater appearance of taste, ornamented with thick circular 
 ropes of straw, sewed together like bees' skeps with the peel of a 
 brier ; and many having nothing but the open vent above. But the 
 smoke by no means escaped by its legitimate aperture, for you might 
 observe little clouds of it bursting out of the doors and windows ; 
 the panes of the latter, being mostly stopped at other times with old 
 hats and rags, were now left entirely open for the purpose of giving it 
 a free escape. 
 
 Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, each 
 with its concomitant sink of green, rotten water ; and if it happened 
 that a stout-looking woman, with watery eyes, and a yellow cap hung 
 loosely upon her matted locks, came, with a chubby urchin on one 
 arm and a pot of dirty water in her hand, its unceremonious ejection 
 into the aforesaid sink would be apt to send you up the village with 
 your finger and thumb (for what purpose you would yourself perfectly 
 understand) closely, but not knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But, 
 independently of this, you would be apt to have other reasons for 
 giving your horse, whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen 
 of barking curs, and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty 
 sharp touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bitterly of the odour 
 of the atmosphere. It is no landscape without figures ; and you might 
 notice, if you are, as 1 suppose you to be, a man of observation, ia 
 
 * A little road 
 
8 THE HIDGE SCHOOL, 
 
 every sink as you pass along, a "slip of a pig," stretched in themidtle 
 of the mud, the very beau ideal of luxury, givinjj occasionally a long, 
 luxuriant grunt, highly expressive of his enjoyment ; or, perhaps, an 
 old farrower, lying in indolent repose, with half a dozen young ones 
 justling each other for their draught, and punching her belly with 
 their little snouts, reckless of the fumes they are creating ; whilst the 
 loud crow of the cock, as he confidently flaps his wings on his own 
 dunghill, gives the warning note for the hour of dinner. 
 
 As you advance, you will also perceive several faces thrust out of 
 the doors, and rather than miss a sight of you, a grotesque visage 
 peeping by a short cut through the paneless windows — or a tattered 
 female flying to snatch up her urchin that has been tumbling itself, 
 heels up, in the dust of the road, lest " the gintleman's horse might 
 ride over it ; " and if you happen to look behind, you may observe a 
 shaggy-headed youth in tattered frieze, with one hand thrust indolently 
 in his breast, standing at the door in conversation with the inmates, a 
 broad grin of sarcastic ridicule on his face, in the act of breaking a 
 joke or two upon yourself or your horse ; or perhaps your jaw may be 
 saluted with a lump of clay, just hard enough not to fall asunder as it 
 flies, cast by some ragged gorsoon from behind a hedge, who squats 
 himself in a ridge of corn to avoid detection. 
 
 Seated upon a hob at the door, you may observe a toilworn man, 
 without coat or waistcoat ; his red, muscular, sun-burnt shoulder 
 peering through the remnant of a shirt, mending his shoes with a 
 piece of twisted flax, called a liiigel — or, perhaps, sewing two footless 
 stockings {or viartyeens) to his coat, as a substitute for sleeves. 
 
 In the gardens, which are usually fringed with nettles, you will sec 
 a solitary labourer, working with that carelessness and apathy that 
 characterise an Irishman when he labours for himself — leaning upon 
 his spade to look after you, and glad of any excuse to be idle. 
 
 The houses, however, are not all such as I have described — far 
 from it. You see, here and there, between the more humble cabins, a 
 stout, comfortable-looking farm-house, with ornamental thatching, 
 and well-glazed windows ; adjoining to which is a hagyard, with five 
 or six large stacks of corn, well trimmed and roped, and a fine, 
 yellow, weather-beaten old hayrick, half cut — not taking into account 
 twelve or thirteen circular strata of stones, that mark out the founda- 
 tions on which others had been raised. Neither is the rich smell of 
 oaten or wheaten bread, which the good wife is baking on the griddle, 
 unpleasant to your nostrils ; nor would the bubbling of a large pot, 
 in which you might see, should you chance to enter, a prodigious 
 square of fat, yellow, and almost transparent bacon tumbling about, 
 be an unpleasant object ; truly, as it hangs over a large fire, with 
 well-swept hearthstone, it is in good keeping with the white settle 
 and chairs, and the dresser with noggins, wooden trenchers, and 
 pewter dishes perfectly clean, and as well polished as a French 
 courtier. 
 
 As you leave the village, you have, to the left, a view of the hill 
 (fthich I have already described, and to the right a level expanse ol 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 fertile country, bounded by a good view of respectable mountains, 
 peering decently into the sky ; and in a line that forms an acute 
 angle from the point of the road where you ride is a delightful valley, 
 in the bottom of which shines a pretty lake ; and a little beyond, on 
 the slope of a green hill, rises a splendid house, surrounded by a park, 
 well-wooded and stocked with deer. You have now topped the little 
 hill above the village, and a straight line of level road, a mile long, 
 goes forward to a country town which lies immediately behind that 
 white church, with its spire cutting into the sky, before you. You 
 descend on the other side, and, having advanced a few perches, look 
 to the left, where you see a long thatched chapel, only distinguished 
 from a dwelling-house by its want of chimneys, and a small stone 
 cross that stands on the top of the eastern gable ; behind it is a grave- 
 yard, and beside it a snug public-house, well whitewashed ; then, to 
 the right, you observe a door apparently in the side of a clay bank, 
 which rises considerably above the pavement of the road. What ! 
 you ask yourself, can this be a human habitation ? — but ere you have 
 time to answer the question, a confused buzz of voices from within 
 reaches your ear, and the appearance of a little " gorsoon," with a red, 
 close-cropped head and Milesian face, having in his hand a short 
 white stick, or the thigh bone of a horse, which you at once recognise 
 as "the pass" of a village school, gives you the full information. He 
 has an ink-horn, covered with leather, dangling at the buttonhole 
 (for he has long since played away the buttons) of his frieze jacket — 
 his mouth is circumscribed with a streak of ink— his pen is stuck 
 knowingly behind his ear — his shins are dotted over with blisters, 
 black, red, and blue — on each heel a kibe — his " leather crackers," 
 videlicet — breeches, shrunk up upon him, and only reaching as far 
 down as the caps of his knees. Having spied you, he places his hand 
 ever his brows, to throw back the dazzling light of the sun, and peers 
 at you from under it, till he breaks out into a laugh, exclaiming, half 
 to himself, and half to you : 
 
 " You a gintleman ! — no, nor one of your breed never was, you 
 procthorin' thief you ! " 
 
 You are now immediately opposite the door of the seminary, when 
 half a dozen of those seated next it notice you. 
 
 " Oh, sir, here's a gintleman on a horse ! — masther, sir, here's a 
 gintleman on a horse, wid boots and spurs on him, that's looking in 
 at us." 
 
 " Silence ! " exclaims the masther ; " back from the door, boys, 
 rehearse ; everyone of you rehearse, I say, you Boeotians, till the 
 gintleman goes past ! " 
 
 " I want to go out, if you plase, sir." 
 
 " No, you don't, Phelim." 
 
 " I do, indeed, sir." 
 
 " What ! is it afther conthradictin' me you'd be P^don't you see the 
 porter's ' out, and you can't go." 
 
 " Well, 'tis Mat Meehan has it, sir, and he's out this half hour, sir. 
 I can't stay in, sir— iphfff — iphfff I " 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 "You want to be idling your lime looking at the gintleman. 
 
 Phclim." 
 
 " No indeed, sir — iphfff !" 
 
 " Phclim, I know you of ould — go to your sate — I tell you, Phelim, 
 you were born for the encouragement of the hemp manufacture, and 
 you'll die promoting it." 
 
 In the meantime, the master puts his head out of the door, his 
 body stooped to a " half bend " — a phrase, and the exact curve which 
 it forms, I leave for the present to your own sagacity — and surveys 
 you until you pass. That is an Irish hedge school, and the personage 
 who follows you with his eye a hedge schoolmaster. His name is 
 Matthew Kavanagh ; and as you seem to consider his literary esta- 
 blishment rather a curiosity in its kind, I will, if you be disposed to 
 hear it, give you the history of him and his establishment, beginning, 
 in the first place, with — 
 
 THE ABDUCTION OF MAT KAVANAGH, 
 The Hedge Schoolmaster. 
 
 For about three years before the period of which I write, the village 
 of Findramore and the parish in which it lay were without a teacher. 
 Mat's predecessor was a James Garraghty, a lame young man, the son 
 of a widow, whose husband lost his life in attempting to extinguish a 
 fire that broke out in the dwelling-house of Squire Johnston, a neigh- 
 bouring magistrate. The son was a boy at the time of this disaster, 
 and the Squire, as some compensation for the loss of his father's life 
 in his service, had him educated at his own expense ; that is to say, 
 he gave the master who taught in the village orders to educate him 
 gratuitously, on the condition of being horsewhipped out of the 
 parish if he refused. As soon as he considered himself qualified to 
 teach, he opened a school in the village on his own account, where he 
 taught until his death, which happened in less than a year after the 
 commencement of his little seminary. The children usually assem- 
 bled in his mother's cabin ; but as she did not long survive the son, 
 this, which was at best a very miserable residence, soon tottered to 
 the ground. The roof and thatch were burned for firing, the mud 
 gables fell in, and were overgrown with grass, nettles, and docks ; 
 and nothing remained but a foot or two of the little clay side-walls, 
 which presented, when associated with the calamitous fate of their 
 inoffensive inmates, rather a touching image of ruin upon a small 
 scale. 
 
 Garraghty had been attentive to his little pupils, and his instructions 
 were sufticient to give them a relish for education — a circumstance 
 which did not escape the observation of their parents, who duly ap- 
 preciated it. His death, however, deprived them of this advantage ; 
 and as schoolmasters, under the old system, were always at a 
 premium, it so happened that for three years afterwards none of that 
 class presented himself to their acceptance. Many a trial had been 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL, 
 
 made, and many a sly offer held out, as a lure to the neighbouring 
 teachers, but they did not take ; for although the country was densely 
 inhabited, yet it was remarked that no schoolmaster ever " thriiv " in 
 the neighbourhood of Findramore. The place, in fact, had got a bad 
 name. Garraghty died, it was thought, of poverty, a disease to which 
 the Findramore schoolmasters had been always known to be subject. 
 His predecessor, too, was hanged, along w.'.th two others, for burning 
 the house of an "Aagint." 
 
 Then the Findramore boys were not easily dealt with, having an 
 ugly habit of involving their unlucky teachers in those quarrels which 
 they kept up with the Ballyscanlan boys, a fighting clan that lived at 
 the foot of the mountains above them. These two factions, when they 
 met, whether at fair or market, wake or wedding, could never part 
 without carrying home on each side a dozen or two of bloody cocks- 
 combs. For these reasons, the parish of Aughindrum had for a few 
 years been afflicted with an extraordinary dearth of knowledge ; the 
 only literary establishment which flourished in it being a parochial 
 institution, which, however excellent in design, yet, like too many 
 establishments of the same nature, degenerated into a source of 
 knowledge, morals, and education exceedingly dry and unproductive to 
 every person except the master, who was enabled by his honest 
 industry to make a provision for his family absolutely surprising, when 
 we consider the moderate nature of his ostensible income. It was, in 
 fact, like a well dried up, to which scarcely anyone ever thinks of 
 going for water. 
 
 Such a state of things, however, could not last long. The youth of 
 Findramore were parched for want of the dew of knowledge : and 
 their parents and grown brethren met one Saturday evening in Barny 
 Brady's shebeen-house to take into consideration the best means for 
 procuring a resident schoolmaster for the village and neighbourhood. 
 Jt was a difficult point, and required great dexterity of management 
 to enable them to devise any effectual remedy for the evil which 
 they felt. There were present at this council, Tim Dolan, the senior 
 of the village, and his three sons, Jem Coogan, Brian Murphy, 
 Paddy Delany, Owen Roe O'Neil, Jack Traynor, and Andy 
 Connell, with five or six others, whom it is not necessary to enume- 
 rate. 
 
 *' Bring us in a quart, Barny," said Dolan to Brady, who on this 
 occasion we must designate as the host, "and let it be rale 
 hathen." 
 
 " What do you mane, Tim ? " replied the host. 
 
 " I mane," continued Dolan, " stuff that was never christened, man 
 alive." 
 
 "Thin I'll bring you the same that Father Maguiregot last night on 
 his way home, aftheranointin' ould Katty Duffy," replied Brady. "I'm 
 sure, wnatever I might be afther givin' to strangers, Tim, I'd be long 
 sorry to give yecs anything but the right sort." 
 
 " That's a gay man, Barny," said Traynor ; *' but off wid you like 
 shot, an' let us get it under our tooth first, an' then we'll tell you more 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 about it. — A bi^ rogue is the same Barny," he added, after Brady had 
 gone to bring in the poteen, "an' never sells a droph that's not one 
 whisky and live wathcrs." 
 
 " But he couldn't expose it ors yoii. Jack," observed Conncll, " you're 
 too ould a hand about \\\c. pot for that. Warn't you in the mountains 
 last week ? " 
 
 " Ay : but the curse of Cromwell upon the thief of a gauger, 
 Simpson — himself and a pack o' redcoats surrounded us when we war 
 bcginnin' to double, and the purtiest runnin^ that even you seen was 
 lost ; for, you see, before you could cross yourself, we had the bottoms 
 knocked clane out of the vessels ; so that the villains didn't get a 
 hole in our coats, as they thought they would." 
 
 " I tell you," observed O'Neil, '• there's a bad pill somewhere about 
 us." 
 
 "Ay is there, Owen," replied Traynor ; "and what is more, 
 I don't think he's a hundhred miles from the place where we're sittin' 
 in." 
 
 " Faith, maybe so, Jack,'" returned the other. 
 
 "I'd never give into that," said Murphy. "'Tis Barny Brady 
 that would never turn informer — the same thing isn't in him, nor 
 in any of his breed ; there's not a man in the parish I'd thrust 
 sooner." 
 
 " I'd jist thrust him," replied Traynor, "as far as I could throw a 
 cow by the tail. Arrah, what's the rason that the gauger never looks 
 next or near his place, an' it's well known that he sells poteen widout 
 a license, though he goes past his door wanst a week .?" 
 
 " What the h is keepin' him at all ? " inquired one of Dolan's 
 
 sons. 
 
 " Look at him," said Traynor, " comin' in out of the garden : how 
 much afeard he is ! keepin' the whisky in a phatie ridge — an' I'd kiss 
 the book that he brought that bottle out in his pocket, instead of 
 diggin' it up out o' the garden." 
 
 Whatever Brady's usual habits oi christcning\\\s poteen might have 
 been, that which he now placed before them was good. He laid the 
 bottle on a little deal table with cross legs, and along with it a small 
 drinking glass fixed in a bit of flat circular wood, as a substitute for 
 the original bottom, which had been broken. They now entered upon 
 the point in question without further delay. 
 
 "Come, Tim," said Coogan, "you're the oldest man, and must 
 spake first." 
 
 " Throth, man," replied Dolan, "beggin' your pardon, I'll dhrink 
 first — shud-jtriJi, your sowl ; success, boys— glory to ourselves, and 
 confusion to the Scanlan boys, any way." 
 
 " And maybe," observed Connell, "'tis we that didn't lick them well 
 in the last fair — they're not able to meet the Findramore birds even 
 on their own walk." 
 
 "Well, boys," said Delany, " about the masther? Our childhrc 
 will grow up like bulloc/cf ens, widout knowing a hap'orth ; and laming 
 you SCO, is a burdyen that's asy carried." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " Ay," observed O'Neil, " as Solvester Maguire, the poet, used to 
 say : — 
 
 " Labour for larnin' before you grow ould, 
 For larning is better nor riches nor gould; 
 Riches an' gould they may vanquish away, 
 But larnin" alone it will never decay.' " 
 
 *' Success, Owen ! Why, you might put down the pot and warm an 
 air to it," said Murphy. 
 
 " Well, boys, are we all safe ? " asked Traynor, 
 
 ''Safe!" said old Dolan. " Arrah, what are you talkin' abdut ? 
 Sure, 'tisn't of that same spalpeen of a gan^e* thd we'd be 
 afraid .'* " 
 
 During this observation, young Dolan pressed Traynor's foot under 
 the table, and they both went out for about five minutes. 
 
 " Father," said the son, when he and Traynor re-entered the room, 
 " you're a-wanting home." 
 
 " Who wants me, Larry, avick?" says the father. 
 
 The son immediately whispered him for a moment, when the old 
 man instantly rose, got his hat, and after drinking another bumper of 
 the poteen, departed. 
 
 " Twas hardly worth while," said Delany ; " the ould fellow's 
 mettle to the backbone, an' would never show the garran-bane at any 
 rate, even if he knew all about it." 
 
 " Bad end to the syllable I'd let the same ould cock hear," said the 
 son ; "the divil thrust any man that didn't szuitch the primer ^ for it, 
 though he is my father ; but now, boys, that the coast's clear, and all 
 safe — where will we get a schoolmaster ? Mat Kavanagh won't 
 budge from the Scanlan boys, even if we war to put our hands undhcr 
 his feet : and small blame to him, when he heads them — sure, you 
 would not expect him to be a thraitor to his own ?" 
 
 " Faith, the gorsoons is in a bad state," said Murphy, " but, boys, 
 where will we get a man that's tip ? Why, I know 'tis betther to have 
 anybody nor be whhout one ; but we might kill two birds wid one 
 stone — if we could get a masther that would carry ' Articles,' ^ an' 
 swear in the boys, from time to time — an' between ourselves, if 
 there's any danger of the hemp, we may as well lay it upon strange 
 shoulders." 
 
 "Ay, but since Corrigan swung for the Aagint," replied Delany, 
 " they're a little modest in havin' act or part wid us ; but the best plan 
 is to get an advartisment wrote out, an' have it posted on the chapel 
 door." 
 
 This hint was debated with much earnestness ; but as they were 
 really anxious to have a master — in the first place, for the simple pur- 
 pose of educating their children ; and in the next, for filling the situa- 
 tion of director and regulator of their illegal Ribbon meetings — they 
 determined on penning an advertisement, according to the suggestion 
 of Delany. After drinking another bottle, and amusing themselves 
 
 Take a^ oath » A copy of the Whiteboy oath and regulations 
 
14 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 with some further chat, one of the Dolans undertook to draw up the 
 advertisement, which ran as follows : — 
 
 " ADVARTAAISMENT. 
 ** Notes to Schoolmasthers, and to all othtrs whom it may consatn. 
 
 " Wanted, 
 " For the nabourhood and vircinity of the Townland of Findramore, 
 in the Parish of Aughindrum, in the Barony of Lisnamoghry, County 
 of SHgo, Province of Connaught, Ireland. 
 
 "To Schoolmasters. 
 
 "Take Notes — That any Schoolmaster who understands SpclHn' 
 gramatically — Readin' and Writin', in the raal way, according to the 
 Dixonary — Arithmalick, that is to say, the five common rules, namely, 
 simple addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division— and addi- 
 tion, subtraction, multiplication, and division, of Dives's denominations. 
 Also reduction up and down — cross multiplication of coin — the Rule 
 of Three direck — the Rule of Three in verse — the double Rule of 
 Three — Frackshins taught according to the vulgar and decimatin' 
 method ; and must be well practised to tache the Findramore boys 
 how to manage the Sniffle. 
 
 " N.B. He must be well grounded in iliat. Practis, Discount, and 
 Rcbaii>i\ N.B. Must be well groundevl in that also. 
 
 " Tret and Tare — Fellowship — Allegation — Barther — Rates per 
 Scent — Intherest — Exchange — Prophet in Loss — the Square Root — 
 the Kibe Root — Hippothenuse — Arithmatical and Gommetrical Pur- 
 gation — Compound Intherest — Loggerheadism — Questions for Exer- 
 cise, and the Concndix to Algibbra. He must also know Jommithry 
 accordin' to Grunther's scale — the Castigation of the Klipsticks — 
 Surveying and the use of the Jacob-staff. 
 
 " N.B. Would get a good dale of Surveyin' to do in the vircinity ' 
 of Findramore, particularly in Con-acre time. If he knew the use of 
 the globe, it would be an accusation. He must also understand the 
 Three Sets of Book-keeping, by single and double cntr}-, particularly 
 Loftus and Company of Paris, their Account of Cash and Company. 
 And above all things, he must know how to tache the Sarviii' of Mass 
 in Latin, and be able to read Doctor Gallaher s Irish Sarmints, and 
 explain Kolumkill's and Pastorini's Prophecies. 
 
 " N.B. If he understands Cudi;cl-fe)icin\ it would be an accusation 
 also — but mustn't tache us wid a staff that bends in the middle, bekase 
 it breaks one's head across the guard. Any schoolmaster capacious 
 and collified to instruct in the above-mintioned branches, would get a 
 good school in the townland Findramore and its vircinity, be well foil, 
 an' get the hoith o' good livin' among the farmers, an' would be ped — 
 
 " For Book-kecpin', the three sets, a ginny aiid a half. 
 
 '' For Gommcthry, &c., half-a-gi7uty a quarther. 
 
 " Arithmatic, aight and three-hapicns. 
 
 " Readin', Writin', &c., six IlogSt 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 15 
 
 " Given under our hands, this "^zfid of Jnne, 18004. 
 " Larry Dolan. 
 " Dick Dolan, his x mark. 
 "Jem Coogan, his x mark, 
 " Brine Murphey. 
 "Paddy D ELAN Y, his x mark. 
 " Jack Traynor. 
 " Andy Connell. 
 " Owen Roe O'Neil, his x mark. 
 
 " N.B. By making airly application to any of the u?idher-mintioneii 
 he will hear of firtJicr pay-ticklers ; and if they find that he will 
 shoot them, he may expect the best o' thratement, an' be well fed 
 among the farmers. 
 
 " N.B. Would get also a good night-school among the vircinity." 
 
 Having penned the above advertisement, it was carefully posted 
 early the next morning on the chapel doors, with an expectation on 
 the part of the patrons that it would not be wholly fruitless. The next 
 week, however, passed without an application— the second also — and 
 the third produced the same result ; nor was there the slightest 
 prospect of a schoolmaster being blown by any wind to the lovers of 
 learning at Findramore. In the mean time, the Ballyscanlan boys 
 took care to keep up the ill-natured prejudice which had been circu- 
 lated concerning the fatality that uniformly attended such school- 
 masters as settled there ; and when this came to the ears of the Fin- 
 dramore folk, it was once more resolved that the advertisement should 
 be again put up, with a clause containing an explanation on that point. 
 The clause ran as follows : — 
 
 " N.B. The two last masters that was hanged out of Findramore, 
 that is, Mickey Corrigan, who was hanged for killing the Aagent, and 
 Jem Garraghty, that died of a declension — Jem died in quensequence 
 of ill health, and Mickey was hanged contrary to his own wishes : so 
 that it wasn't either of their faults — as witness our hands this 27th of 
 July. 
 
 "Dick Dolan, his x mark." 
 
 This explanation, however, was as fruitless as the original advertis- 
 ment ; and week after week passed over without an offer from a single 
 candidate. The " vircinity " of Findramore and its " nabourhood " 
 seemed devoted to ignorance ; and nothing remained except another 
 effort at procuring a master by some more ingenious contrivance. 
 
 Debate after debate was consequently held in Barny Brady's ; and, 
 until a fresh suggestion was made by Delany, the prospect seemed as 
 bad as ever. Delany, at length, fell upon a new plan ; and it must be 
 confessed that it was marked in a peculiar manner by a spirit of 
 originality and enterprise — it being nothing less than a proposal to 
 carry off, by force or stratagem, Mat Kavanagh, who was at that time 
 fixed in the throne of literature among the Ballyscanlan boys, quite 
 unconscious of the honourable translation to the neighbourhood of 
 
• ^ THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 Findramore which was intended for him. The project, when broached, 
 was certainly a starthn^; one, and drove most of them to a pause, be- 
 fore they were sufficiently collected to give an opinion on its merits. 
 
 " Nothin', boys, is asicr," said Dclany. " There's to be a patthern 
 in Ballymagowan on next Sathurday — an' that's jist half way bctune 
 ourselves and the Scanlan boys. Let us musther an' go there, a^ty- 
 how. We can keep an eye on Mat widout much trouble, an', when 
 opportunity sarves, nick him at wanst, an' off wid him clanc." 
 
 •' But," said Traynor, " what would we do wid him when he'd be 
 here .'' Wouldn't he ait aiC rini the first opportunity } " 
 
 " How can he, ye omadhawn, if we put a manwill in our pocket, an' 
 sware him ? But we'll butther him up when he's among us ; or, be me 
 sowks, if it goes to that, force him either to settle wid ourselves, or 
 make himself scarce in the counthry entirely." 
 
 " Divil a much force it'll take to keep him, I'm thinkin'," observed 
 Murphy. " He'll have three times a betther school here ; and if he 
 was wanst settled, I'll engage he would take to it kindly." 
 
 " See here, boys," says Dick Dolan, in a whisper, " if that bloody 
 villain, Brady, isn't afther standin' this quarter of an hour, strivin' to 
 hear what we're about ; but it's well we didn't bring up anything con- 
 sarnin' the other business ; didn't I tell yees the desate was in 'im ? 
 Look at his shadow on the wall forninst us." 
 
 " Hould yer tongues, boys," said Traynor; "jist keep never 
 mindin', and, be my sowks, I'll make him sup sorrow for that thrick." 
 
 ** You had betther neither make nor meddle with him," observed 
 Delany ; "jist put him out o' that — but don't raise yer hand to him, 
 or he'll sarve you as he did Jem Flanagan — put ye three or four 
 months in the Stone yieg^." 
 
 Traynor, however, had gone out whde he was speaking, and in a 
 few minutes dragged in Brady, whom he caught in the very act of 
 eavesdropping. 
 
 "Jist come in, Brady," said Traynor, as he dragged him along — 
 " walk in, man alive ; sure, and sich an honest man as you are needn't 
 be afeard of lookin' his friend :a the face ! — ho ! — an' by sowl, is it a 
 spy we've got .-' and, I suppose, would be an informer, too, if he had 
 heard anything to tell ! " 
 
 " What's the manin' of this, boys ? " exclaimed the others, feigning 
 ignorance — " let the honest man go, Traynor. What do ye hawl him 
 that-a-way for, ye gallis pet ?" 
 
 " Honest !" replied Traynor — "how very honest he is, the desavin 
 villain — to be standin' at the windy there, wantin' to overhear the little 
 harmless talk we had." 
 
 " Come, Traynor," said Brady, seizing him in his turn by the neck, 
 *' take your hands off of me, or, bad fate to me, but I'll lave ye a mark." 
 
 Traynor, in his turn, had his hand twisted in Brady's cravat, which 
 he drew tightly about his neck, until the other got nearly black in the 
 face. 
 
 "Let me go, you villain !" exclaimed Brady, "or by this blessed 
 oigfct that's in it, it'll be worse for you," 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 17 
 
 " Villain ! is it ? " replied Traynor, making a blow at him, whilst 
 Brady snatched at a penknife which one of the others had placed 
 on the table, after picking the tobacco out of his pipe — intending 
 either to stab Traynor or to cut the knot of the cravat by which 
 he was held. The others, however, interfered, and prevented further 
 mischief. 
 
 " Brady," said Traynor, " you'll rue this night, if ever a man did, 
 you treacherous informin' villain. What an honest spy we have 
 among us !— and a short course to you ! " 
 
 " Oh, hould yer tongue, Traynor ! " replied Brady : " I blieve it's 
 best known who is both the spy and the informer. The divil a pint of 
 poteen ever you'll run in this parish until you clear yourself of bringing 
 the gauger on the Traceys, bekase they tuck Mick M'Kew in prefer- 
 ence to yourself to run it for them." 
 
 Traynor made another attempt to strike him, but was prevented. 
 The rest now interfered ; and, in the course of an hour or so, an ad- 
 justment took place. 
 
 Brady took up the tongs, and swore " by that blessed iron " that he 
 neither heard nor intended to hear anything they said, and this excul- 
 pation was followed by a fresh bottle at his own expense. 
 
 " You omadhawn," said he to Traynor, " I was ony puttin' up a 
 dozen o' bottles into the tatch of the house, when you thought I was 
 Hstenin' ; " and, as a proof of the truth of this, he brought them out 
 and showed them some bottles of poteen, neatly covered up under the 
 thatch. 
 
 Before their separation they finally planned the abduction of Kava- 
 nagh from the Patron, on the Saturday following, and after drinking 
 another round, went home to their respective dwellings. 
 
 In this speculation, however, they experienced a fresh disappoint- 
 ment ; for, ere Saturday arrived, whether in consequence of secret 
 intimation of their intention from Brady or some other friend, or in 
 compliance with the offer of a better situation, the fact was, that Mat 
 Kavanagh had removed to another school, distant about eighteen 
 miles from Findramore. But they were not to be outdone ; a new 
 plan was laid, and in the course of the next week a dozen of the most 
 enterprising and intrepid of the " boys," mounted each upon a good 
 horse, went to Mat's new residence for the express purpose of securing 
 him. 
 
 Perhaps our readers may scarcely believe that a love of learning was 
 so strong among the inhabitants of Findramore as to occasion their 
 ♦^aking such remarkable steps for establishing a schoolmaster among 
 them ; but the country was densely inhabited, the rising population 
 exceedingly numerous, and the outcry for a schoolmaster amongst 
 the parents of the children loud and importunate. Besides this, the 
 illegal principles of Whiteboyism were as deeply rooted in that neigh- 
 bourhood as in others ; and the young men stood in need of some 
 person who might regulate their proceedings, keep their registries, 
 preside at and appoint their meetings, and organise with sufficient skill 
 and precision, not only the vast numbers who had been already 
 
i8 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 enrolled as members, but who were putting forward their claims day 
 after day to be admitted as such. 
 
 God knows it is no wonder that Ireland should be as she is, and as 
 she long has been, when we consider the fact that those who conducted 
 the education of her peasantry were the most active instruments in 
 disseminating among the rising generation such pernicious principles 
 as those which characterise this system, so deeply rooted among the 
 people — men, whose moral characters were, with few exceptions, exe- 
 crable — and nine-tenths of whom held situations of authority in these 
 diabolical associations. 
 
 The fact, therefore, was that a double motive stimulated the inha- 
 bitants of Findramore in their efforts to procure a master. The old 
 and middle-aged heads of families were actuated by a simple wish, 
 inseparable from Irishmen, to have their children educated ; and the 
 young men, not only by a determination to have a properly qualified 
 person to preside at their nightly orgies, but an inclination to improve 
 themselves in reading, writing, and arithmetic. The circumstance I 
 am now relating is one which actually took place ; and any man 
 acquainted \\\\\\ the remote parts of Ireland may have often seen 
 bloody and obstinate quarrels among the peasantry in vindicating a 
 priority of claim to the local residence of a schoolmaster among them, 
 I could, within my own experience, relate two or three instances of this 
 nature. 
 
 It was one Saturday night in the latter end of the month of May 
 that a dozen Findramore "boys," as they were called, set out upon this 
 most singular of all literary speculations, resolved, at whatever risk, to 
 secure the person and effect the permanent bodily presence among 
 them of the redoubtable Mat Kavanagh. Each man was mounted on 
 a horse, and one of them brought a spare steed for the accommodation 
 of the schoolmaster. The caparison of this horse was somewhat 
 remarkable : it consisted of a wooden straddle, such as is used by the 
 peasantry for carrying wicker panicrs or creels, which are hung upon 
 tv/o wooden pins, that stand up out of its sides. Under it was a straw 
 mat, to prevent the horse's back from being stripped by the straddle. 
 On one side of this hung a large creel, and on the other a strong sack, 
 tied round a stone of sufficient weight to balance the empty creel. The 
 night was warm and clear, the moon and stars all threw their mellow 
 light from a serene, unclouded sky, and the repose of nature in the 
 short nights of this delightful season resembles that of a young virgin 
 of sixteen — still, light, and glowing. Their way, for the most part of 
 their journey, lay through a solitary mountain-road ; and, as they did 
 not undertake the enterprise without a good stock of poteen, their 
 light-hearted songs and choruses awoke the echoes that slept in the 
 mountain glens as they went along. The adventure, it is true, had as 
 much of frolic as of seriousness in it ; and merely as the means of a 
 day's fun for the boys, it was the more eagerly entered into. 
 
 It was about midnight when they left home, and as they did not \v\y\. 
 to arrive at the village to which they were bound until the morning 
 should be rather advanced, the journey was as slowly performed as 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 19 
 
 possible. Every remarkable object on the way was noticed, and its 
 history, if any particular association was connected with it, minutely 
 detailed, whenever it happened to be known. Whe'.i the sun rose, 
 many beautiful green spots and hawthorn valleys excited, even from 
 these unpolished and illiterate peasants, warm bursts of admiration at 
 their fragrance and beauty. In some places the dark flowery heath 
 clothed the mountains to the tops, from which the grey mists, lit by a 
 flood of hght, and breaking into masses before the morning breeze, 
 began to descend into the valleys beneath them ; whilst the voice of 
 the grouse, the bleating of sheep and lambs, the pee-weet of the wheel- 
 ing lap-wing, and the song of the lark threw life and animation over the 
 previous stillness of the country. Sometimes a shallow river would 
 cross the road, winding off into a valley that was overhung, on one 
 side, by rugged precipices clothed with luxuriant heath and wild ash; 
 whilst, on the other, it was skirted by a long sweep of greensward, 
 skimmed by the twittering swallow, over which lay scattered numbers 
 of sheep, cows, brood mares, and colts— many of them rising and 
 stretching themselves ere they resumed their pasture, leaving the spots 
 on which they lay of a deeper green. Occasionally, too, a sly-looking 
 fox might be seen lurking about a solitary lamb, or brushing over the 
 hills with a fat goose upon his back, retreating to his den among the 
 inaccessible rocks, after having plundered some unsuspecting farmer 
 
 As they advanced into the skirts of the cultivated country, they met 
 many other beautiful spots of scenery among the upland, considerable 
 portions of which, particularly in long sloping valleys that faced the 
 morning sun, were covered witli hazel and brushwood; where the un- 
 ceasing and simple notes of the cuckoo were incessantly plied, mingled 
 with the more mellow and varied notes of the thrush and blackbird. 
 Sometimes, the bright summer waterfall seemed, in the rays of the sun, 
 like a column of light, and the springs that issued from the sides of the 
 more distant and lofty mountains shone with a steady, dazzling bright- 
 ness, on which the eye could scarcely rest. The morning, indeed, was 
 beautiful, the fields in bloom, and everything cheerful. As the sun 
 rose in the heavens, nature began gradually to awaken into life and 
 happiness ; nor was the natural grandeur of a Sabbath summer morn- 
 ing among these piles of magnificent mountains — nor its heartfelt, but 
 more artificial beauty in the cuhivated country, lost, even upon the 
 unphilosophical " boys " of Findramore, so true is it that the appear- 
 ance of nature will force enjoyment upon the most uncultivated 
 heart. 
 
 When they had arrived within two miles of the little town in which 
 Mat Kavanagh was fixed, they turned off into a deep glen, a little to 
 the left ; and, after having seated themselves under a whitethorn 
 which grew on the banks of a rivulet, they began to devise the best 
 immediate measures to be taken. 
 
 " Boys," said Tim Dolan, " how will we manage now with this thiei 
 of a schoolmaster, at all ? Come, Jack Tray nor, you that's up to still- 
 house work — escapin' and carryin' away stills from gangers, the bloody 
 villains ! — out wid yer spake, till we hear your opinion." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 '* Do ye think, boys," said Andy Connell, "that we could f^a^^her hirn 
 lo come by fair mains ?" 
 
 " Flatthcr him ! " said Traynor ; " and, by my sow], if we flatther 
 him at all, it must be by the hair of the head. No, no ; let us bring 
 him first whether he will or not, an' ax his consent afthctwards ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you what it is, boys," continued Connell, "I'll ho ild a 
 wager, if you lave him to mc, I'll bring him wid his own consint." 
 
 " No, nor sorra that you'll do, nor could do," replied Traynor ; " for, 
 along wid everything else, he think's he's not jist doated on by the 
 Findramore people, being one of the Ballyscanlan tribe. No, no : let 
 two of us go to his place, and purtind that we 1 ave other business 
 in the fair of Clansallagh on Monday next, and ax him in to dhrink, 
 for he'll not refuse that, anyhow ; then, when he's half tipsy, ax 
 him to convoy us this far ; we'll then meet you here, an' tell him 
 some palaver or other — sit down again where we are now, and, 
 afther making him dead dhrunk, hoist a big stone in the creel, and 
 Mat in the sack on the other side, wid his head out, and off wid 
 him ; and he will know neither act nor part about it till we're at 
 Findramore." 
 
 Having approved of this project, they pulled out each a substantial 
 complement of stout oaten bread, which served, along with the whisky, 
 for breakfast. The two persons pitched on for decoying Mat were 
 Dolan and Traynor, who accordingly set out, full of glee at the 
 singularity and drollness of their undertaking. It is unnecessary to 
 detail the ingenuity with which they went about it — because, in con- 
 sequence of Kavanagh's love of drink, very little ingenuity was necessary 
 One circumstance, however, came to light, which gave them much 
 encouragement, and that was a discovery that Mat by no means 
 relished his situation. 
 
 In the meantime, those who stayed behind in the glen felt their 
 patience begin to flag a little, because of the delay made by the others, 
 who had promised, if possible, to have the schoolmaster in the glen 
 before two o'clock. But the fact was that Mat, who was far less 
 deficient in hospitality than in learning, brought them into his house, 
 and not only treated them to plenty of whisky, but made the wife 
 prepare a dinner, for which he detained them, swearing that, except 
 they stopped to partake of it, he would not convoy them to the place 
 appointed. Evening was, therefore, tolerably far advanced when 
 they made their appearance at the glen, in a very equivocal state oi 
 sobriety — Mat being by far the steadiest of the three, but still con- 
 siderably the worse for what he had taken. He was now welcomed 
 by a general huzza ; and on his expressing his surprise at the appear- 
 ances, they pointed to their horses, telling him that they were bound 
 for the fair of Clansallagh, for the purpose of selling them. This was 
 the more probable as, when a fair occurs in Ireland, it is usual for 
 cattle-dealers, particularly horse-jockeys, to effect sales and "show" 
 their horses on the evening before. 
 
 Mat now sat down, and was vigorously plied with strong poteen — 
 songs were sung, stories told, and eveiy device resorted to that was 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 calculated to draw out and heighten his sense of enjoyment ; nor were 
 their efforts without success ; for, in the course of a short time, Mat 
 was free from all earthly care, being incapable of either speaking or 
 standing. 
 
 " Now, boys," said Dolan, "let us do the thing clane an' dacent. 
 Let you, Jem Coogan, Brian Murphy, Paddy Delany, and Andy 
 Connell, go back, and tell the wife and two childher a cock-and-a-bull 
 story about Mat— say that he is coming to Findramore for good and 
 all, and that'll be thruth, you know ; and that he ordhered yees to 
 bring her and them afther him ; and we can come back for the 
 furniture to-morrow." 
 
 A word was enough — they immediately set off; and the others, not 
 wishing that Mat's wife should witness the mode of his conveyance, 
 proceeded home, for it was now dusk. The plan succeeded admirably ; 
 and in a short time the wife and children, mounted behind the "boys" 
 on the horses, were on the way after them to Findramore. 
 
 The reader is already aware of the plan they had adopted for 
 translating Mat ; but, as it was extremely original, I will explain it 
 somewhat more fully. The moment the schoolmaster was intoxicated 
 to the necessary point — that is to say, totally helpless and insensible — 
 ihey opened the sack and put him in, heels foremost, tying it in such 
 a way about his neck as might prevent his head from getting into it, 
 thus avoiding the danger of suffocation. The sack, with Mat at full 
 length in it, was then fixed to the pin of the straddle, so that he was 
 in an erect posture during the whole journey. A creel was then hung 
 at the other side, in which was placed a large stone, of sufficient 
 weight to preserve an equilibrium ; and, to prevent any accident, a 
 droll fellow sat astride behind the straddle, amusing himself and the 
 rest by breaking jokes upon the novelty of Mat's situation. 
 
 " Well, Mat, via bouchnl, how duv ye like your sitivation ? I believe, 
 for all your larnin', the Findramore boys have sacked you at last ?" 
 
 "Ay," exclaimed another, "he is sacked at last, in spite of hii 
 Matthew-maticks." 
 
 " An', be my sowks," observed Traynor, "he'd be a long time goin' 
 up a Maypowl in the state he's in — his own snail would bate him."^ 
 
 " Yes," said another, " but he desarves credit for travcllin' from 
 Clansallagh to Findramore, widout layin' a foot to the ground — 
 
 Wan drt> wia Captain Whisky I wrastled a fall. 
 But faith I was no match for the captain at all — 
 But faith I was no match for the captain at all, 
 Though the landlady's measures they were damnable small. 
 Tooral, looral, looral, looral, lido, 
 
 Whoo -hurroo ! my darlings — success to the Findramore boys ! 
 Hurroo — hurroo — the Findramore boys for ever !" 
 " Boys, did ever yees hear the sorg Mat made on Ned Mullen's 
 
 ' inis alludes to a question in Gough's Arithmetic, which is considered difficult 
 ey hedpe schoolmasters. 
 
 (2) « 
 
22 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 fight wid Jemmy Connor's gander? Well, here it is to the tune of 
 ' 13rian O'Lynn' — 
 
 As Ned and the gander wor basting each other, 
 I hard a loud cry from the grey goose his mother ; 
 I ran to assist him, wid my great speed, 
 Bud before I arrived the poor gander did bleed. 
 • Alas 1 ' says the gander, ' I'm very ill-trated, 
 For tracherous Mullen has me fairly defated ; 
 Bud had you been here for to show me fair play, 
 I could leather his puckan ' around the lee bray. 
 
 ** Bravo ! Mat," addressing the insensible schoolmaster — "success, 
 poet. Hurroo for the Findramore boys ! the Bridge boys for ever ! " 
 
 They then commenced, in a tone of mock gravity, to lecture him 
 upon his future duties — detailing the advantages of his situation, and 
 the comforts he would enjoy ainong them — although they might as 
 well have addressed themselves to the stone on the other side. In 
 this manner they got along, amusing themselves at Mat's expense, and 
 highly elated at the success of their undertaking. About two o'clock 
 in the morning they reached the top of the little hill above the village, 
 when, on looking back along the level stretch of road which I have 
 already described, they noticed their companions, with Mat's wife and 
 children, moving briskly after them. A general huzza now took place, 
 which, in a few minutes, was answered by two or three dozen of the 
 young folks, who were assembled in Barny Brady's waiting for their 
 arrival. The scene now became quite animated — cheer after cheer 
 succeeded — ^jokes, laughter, and rustic wit, pointed by the spirit of 
 Brady's poteen, flew briskly about. When Mat was unsacked, several 
 of them came up, and, shaking him cordially by the hand, welcomed 
 him among them. To the kindness of this reception, however. Mat 
 was wholly insensible, having been for the greater part of the journey 
 in a profound sleep. The boys next slipped the loop of the sack off 
 the straddle-pin ; and carrying Mat into a farmer's house, they 
 deposited him in a settle-bed, Avhere he slept, unconscious of the 
 journey he had performed, until breakfast-time on the next morning. 
 In the meantime, the wife and children were taken care of by Mrs. 
 Connell, who provided them with a bed and every other comfort 
 which they could require. The next morning, when Mat awoke, his 
 first call was for a drink. I should have here observed that Mrs. 
 Kavanagh had been sent for by the good woman in whose house Mat 
 had slept, that they might all breakfast and have a drop together, for 
 they had already succeeded in reconciling her to the change. 
 
 " Wather ! " said Mat — " a drink of wather, if it's to be had for 
 love or money, or I'll split wid druth — I'm all in a state of conflagra- 
 tion ; and my head — by the sowl of Newton, the inventor of fluxions, 
 but my head is a complete illucidation of the centrifugle motion, so it 
 is. Tundher-an-turf ! is there no wather to be had.-* Nancy, I say, 
 for God's sake, quicken yourself wid the hydraulics, or the best 
 
 ' Paunch. 
 
The Hedge school. 23 
 
 mathematician in Ireland's gone to the abode of Euclid and Pytha- 
 goras, that first invented the multiplication table." 
 
 On cooling his burning blood with the "hydraulicr/ he again lay 
 down, with the intention of composing himself for another sleep ; but 
 his eye having noticed the novelty of his situation, he once more 
 called Nancy. 
 
 " Nancy, avourneen," he inquired, "will you be afther resolving me 
 one single proposition — Where am I at the present spaking? Is it in 
 the Sijuinary at home, Nancy?" 
 
 Nancy, in the meantime, had been desired to answer in the affirma- 
 tive, hoping that if his mind was made easy on that point, he might 
 refresh himself by another hour or two's sleep, as he appeared to be 
 not at all free from the effects of his previous intoxication. 
 
 "Why, Mat, jewel, where else would you be, alannah, but at home ? 
 Sure, isn't here Jack, an' Biddy, an' myself. Mat, agra. along wid me. 
 Your head isn't well, but all you want is a good rousin' sleep." 
 
 "Very well, Nancy — very well ; that's enough — quite satisfacthory — 
 quod erat deDionstrandiim. May all kinds of bad luck rest upon the 
 Findramore boys, anyway ! The unlucky vagabonds — I'm the third 
 they've done up. Nancy, off wid ye, like quicksilver, for the priest." 
 
 " The priest ? Why, Mat, jewel, what puts that in your head ? 
 Sure, there's nothing wrong wid ye, only the sup o' drink you tuck 
 yestherday." 
 
 " Go, woman," said Mat : " did you ever know me to make a calcula- 
 tion f I tell you, I'm iion compos inentis from head to heel. Head ! 
 by my sowl, Nancy, it'll soon be a caput mortuinn wid me — I'm far 
 gone in a disease they call an ophtical delusion — the devil a thing less 
 it is — me bein' in my own place, an' to think I'm lyin' in a settle-bed ; 
 that there is a large dresser, covered wid pewter dishes and plates ; 
 and, to crown all, the door on the wrong side of the house. Off wid 
 ye, and tell his reverence that I want to be anointed, and to die in 
 pace and charity wid all men. May the most especial kind of bad 
 luck light down upon you, Findramore, and all that's in you, both man 
 and baste — you have given me my gruel along wid the rest ; but, 
 thank God, you won't hang me, anyhow ! Off, Nancy, for the priest, 
 till I die like a Christhan, in pace and forgiveness wid the world ; — 
 all kinds of hard fortune to them ! Make haste, woman, if you expect 
 me to die like a Christhan ! If they had let me alone till I'd publish 
 to the world my Treatise upon Conic Sections — but to be cut off on 
 my march to fame. Another draught of the hydraulics, Nancy, an' 
 then for the priest : but see, bring Father Connell, the curate, for he 
 understands something about Matthew-maticks ; an' never heed 
 Father Roger, for little he knows about them, not even the difference 
 between a right line — in the page of history, to his everlasting disgrace, 
 be it recorded ! " 
 
 " Mat," replied Nancy, scarcely preserving her gravity, "keep your- 
 self from talkin', an' fall asleep, then you'll be well enough." 
 
 " Is there e'er a sup at all in the house?" said Mat; "if there 
 U let me get it ; for there's an ould proverb, though it's a most ua- 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 mathematical axiom as ever was invinted— ' Try a hair of the same dog 
 that bit you.' Give me a glass, Nancy, anyhow, an' you can go lot 
 Father Connell after. Oh, by the sowl of Isaac, that invented fluxions, 
 what's this for.?" 
 
 A general burst of laughter followed this demand and ejaculation ; 
 and Mat sat up once more in the settle, and examined the place with 
 keener scrutiny. Nancy herself laughed heartily; and, as she handed 
 him the full glass, entered into an explanation of the circumstances 
 attending his translation. 
 
 Mat, at all times rather of a pliant disposition, felt rejoiced on 
 finding that he was still compos mentis ; and on hearing what took 
 place, he could not help entering into the humour of the enterprise, 
 at which he laughed as heartily as any of them. 
 
 " Mat," said the farmer, and half a dozen of the neighbours, " you're 
 a happy man ; there's a hundred of the boys have a school-house half 
 built for you this same blessed sunshiny mornin', while you're lying at 
 ase in your bed." 
 
 " By the sowl of Newton, that invinted fluxions I *' replied Mat, 
 " but I'll take revenge for the disgrace you put upon my profession, 
 by stringing up a schoolmaster among you, and I'll hang you all ! 
 It's death to stale a fourfootcd animal ; but what do you desarve for 
 Stalin' a Christian baste, a two-legged schoolmaster without feathers, 
 eighteen miles, and he not to know it ?" 
 
 In the course of a short time Mat was dressed, and having found 
 benefit from the " hair of the dog that bit him," he tried another glass, 
 which strung his nerves, or, as he himself expressed it — " they've got 
 the raal mathematical tinsion again." What the farmer said, however, 
 about the school-house had been true. Early that morning all the 
 growing and grown young men of Findramore and its " vircinity " had 
 assembled, selected a suitable spot, and, with merry hearts, were then 
 busily engaged in erecting a school-house for their general accommo- 
 dation. 
 
 The manner of building hedge school-houses being rather curious, 
 I will describe it. The usual spot selected for their erection is a ditch 
 on the roadside, in some situation where there will be as little damp 
 as possible. From such a spot an excavation is made equal to the 
 size of the building, so that, when this is scooped out, the back side- 
 wall and the two gables are already formed, the banks being dug per- 
 pendicularly. The front side-wall, with a window in each side of the 
 door, is then built of clay or green sods laid along in rows ; the gables 
 are also topped with sods, and, perhaps, a row or two laid upon the 
 back side-wall, if it should be considered too low. Having got the 
 erection of Mat's house thus far, they procured a scraw- spade, and re- 
 paired with a couple of dozen of cars to the next bog, from which they 
 cut the light heathy surface in strips the length of the roof. A scraw- 
 spade is an instrument resembling the letter T, with an iron plate at 
 the lower end, considerably bent, and well adapted to the purpose for 
 which it is intended. Whilst one party cut the scraws, another bound 
 tlie couples and bauks, and a third cut as many green branches as 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 25 
 
 were sufficient to wattle it. The couples, being bound, weie raised — 
 tlie ribs laid on — then the wattles, and afterwards the scraws. 
 
 Whilst these successive processes went forward, many others had 
 been engaged all the morning cutting rushes; and the scraws were no 
 sooner laid on than half a dozen tlt.<fchers mounted the roof, and 
 long before the evening was closed a school-house, capable of holding 
 near a hundred children, was finished. But among the peasantry no 
 new house is ever put up without a hearth-warming and i» dance. 
 Accordingly the clay floor was paired — a fiddler procured — Barny 
 Brady and his stock of poteen sent for ; the young women of the 
 village and surrounding neighbourhood attended in their best finery ; 
 dancing commenced — and it was four o'clock the next morning when 
 the merrymakers departed, leaving Mat a new home and a hard floor, 
 ready for the reception of his scholars. 
 
 Business now commenced. At nine o'clock the next day Mat's 
 furniture was settled in a small cabin, given to him at a cheap rate by 
 one of the neighbouring farmers ; for, whilst the school-house was 
 being built, two men, with horses and cars, had gone to Clansallagh, 
 accompanied by Nancy, and removed the furniture, such as it was, to 
 their new residence. Nor was Mat, upon the whole, displeased at 
 what had happened ; he was now fixed in a flourishing country — fertile 
 and well cultivated ; nay, the bright landscape which his school-house 
 commanded was sufficient in itself to reconcile him to his situation. 
 The inhabitants were in comparatively good circumstances ; many ol 
 them wealthy, respectable farmers, and capable of remunerating him 
 very decently for his literary labours ; and what was equally flattering, 
 there was a certainty of his having a numerous and well-attended 
 school, in a neighbourhood with whose inhabitants he was acquainted. 
 
 Honest, kind-hearted Paddy !— pity that you should ever feel distress 
 or hunger ! — pity that you should be compelled to seek in another 
 land, the hard-earned pittance by which you keep the humble cabin 
 over the head of your chaste wife and naked children ! Alas ! what 
 noble materials for composing a national character, of which humanity 
 might be justly proud, do the lower orders of the Irish possess, if raised 
 and cultivated by a Christian education ! Pardon me, gentle readers, 
 for this momentary ebullition ; I grant I am a little dark now. I 
 assure you, however, the tear of enthusiastic admiration is warm on 
 my eyelids, when I remember the flitches of bacon, the sacks of pota- 
 toes, the bags of meal, the niiscaiuns of butter, and the dishes of eggs 
 — not omitting crate after crate of turf — which came in such rapid 
 succession to Mat Kavanagh during the first week in which he opened 
 his school. Ay, and many a bottle of stout poteen, when 
 
 The eye of 're gauger saw it not, 
 
 was, with a sly, good-humoured wink, handed over to Mat, or Nancy, 
 no matter which, from under the comfortable drab jock, with velvet- 
 covered collar, erect about the honest ruddy face of a warm, smiling 
 farmer, or even the tattered frieze of a poor labourer — anxious to secure 
 the attention of the " masther '" to his little " Shoneen," whom, in the 
 
26 THE IlEDCE SCHOOL. 
 
 extravagance of his ambition, he destined to " wear the robes as a 
 clarj^y." Let no man say, I repeat, that the Irish arc not fond of 
 education. 
 
 In the course of a month Mat's school was full to the doorposts, for, 
 in fact, he had the parish to himself — many attending from a distance 
 of three, four, and five miles. His merits, however, were believed to 
 be great, and his character for learning stood high, though unjustly so: 
 for a more superficial, and, at the same time, a more presuming dunce 
 never existed ; but his character alone could secure liim -^ good attend- 
 ance ; he, therefore, belied the unfavourable prejudices against the 
 Findramore folk which had gone abroad, and was a proof, in his own 
 person, that the reason of the former schoolmasters' miscarriage lay 
 in the belief of their incapacity which existed among the people. But 
 Mat was one of those showy, shallow fellows, who did not lack for 
 assurance. 
 
 The first step a hedge schoolmaster took on establishing himself in 
 a school was to write out, in his best copperplate hand, a flaming 
 advertisement, detailing, at full length, the several branches he pro- 
 fessed himself capable of teaching. I have seen many of these — as 
 who that is acquainted with Ireland has not.'' — and, beyond all doubt, 
 If the persons that issued them were acquainted with the various heads 
 recapitulated, they must have been buried in the most profound 
 obscurity, as no man but a walking encyclopaedia — an Admirable 
 Crichton — could claim an intimacy with them, embracing, as they 
 often did, the whole circle of human knowledge. 'Tis true, the vanity 
 of the pedagogue had full scope in these advertisements, as there was 
 none to bring him to an account, except some rival,who could only attack 
 him on those practical subjects which were known to both. Independ- 
 ently of this, there was a good-natured collusion between them on 
 those points which were beyond their knowledge, inasmuch as they 
 were not practical but speculative, and by no means involved their 
 character or personal interests. On the next Sunday, therefore, after 
 Mat's establishment at Findramore, you might see a circle of the 
 peasantry assembled at the chapel-dooi, perusing, with suitable reve- 
 rence and admiration on their faces, the following advertisement ; or, 
 perhaps. Mat himself, with a learned, consequential air, in the act of 
 explaining it to them. 
 
 •' EDUCA TION. 
 
 " Mr. Matthew Kavanai^Ii, Philomath and Professor of the Learned 
 Latti^uages, degs leave to inform the Inhabitants of Findramore and 
 its vircinity, that he Lectures ofi the following Branches of Education^ 
 in his Seminary at the above-recited place : — 
 
 " Spelling, Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic, upon altogether new 
 principles, hitherto undiscovered by any excepting himself, and for 
 which he expects a Patent from Trinity College, Dublin ; or, at any 
 rate, from Squire Johnston. Esq., who paternizes many of the pupils : 
 Book-keeping, by single and double entry — Geometry, Trigonometry, 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 27 
 
 Stereometry, Mensuration, Navigation, Gauging, Surveying, Dialling, 
 Astronomy, Astrology, Austerity, Fluxions, Geography, ancient and 
 modem — Maps, the Projection of the Spear — Algebra, the Use of the 
 Globes, Natural and Moral Philosophy, Pneumatics, Optics, Dioptics, 
 Catroptics, Hydraulics, ^rostatics. Geology, Glorification, Divinity, 
 Mythology, Midicinality, Physic, by theory only, Metaphysics prac- 
 tically. Chemistry, Electricity, Galvanism, Mechanics, Antiquities, 
 Agriculture, Ventilation, Explosion, &c. 
 
 '' In Classics — Grammar, Cordery, ^sop's Fables, Erasmus' Collo- 
 quies, Cornelius Nepos, Phcedrus, Valerius Maximus, Justin, Ovid, 
 Sallust, Virgil, Horace, Juvenal, Persius, Terence, TuUy's Offices, 
 Cicero, Manouverius Turgidus, Esculapius, Regerius, Satanus Nigrus, 
 - Quinctilian, Livy, Thomas Aquinas, Cornehus Agrippa, and Cholera 
 Morbus. 
 
 " Greek Grammar, Greek Testament, Lucian, Homer, Sophocles, 
 Eschylus, Thucydides, Aristophanes, Xenophon, Plato, Aristotle, So- 
 crates, and the Works of Alexander the Great ; the manners, habits, 
 customs, usages, meditations of the Grecians ; the Greek digamma 
 resolved, Prosody, Composition, both in prose-verse, and oratory, in 
 English, Latin, and Greek ; together with various other branches 
 of learning and scholastic profundity — quos enuincrare ionqnm est 
 -along with Irish Radically, and a small taste of Hebrew upon the 
 Masoretic text. 
 
 " Matthew Kavanagh, Philomath.'" 
 
 Having posted this document upon the chapel-door, and in all the 
 public places and cross roads of the parish, Mat considered himself as 
 having done his duty. He now began to teach, and his school con- 
 tinued to increase to his heart's content, every day bringing him fresh 
 scholars. In this manner he flourished till the beginning of winter, 
 when those boys who, by the poverty of their parents, had been com- 
 pelled to go to service to the neighbouring farmers flocked to him in 
 numbers, quite voracious for knowledge. An addition was conse- 
 quently built to the school-house, which was considerably too small ; 
 so that, as Christmas approached, it would be difficult to find a more 
 numerous or merry establishment under the roof of a hedge school. 
 But it is time to give an account of its interior. 
 
 The reader will, then, be pleased to picture to himself such a house 
 as I have already described — in a line wit?.i the hedge ; the eave of the 
 back roof within a foot of the ground behind it; a large hole exactly 
 in the middle of the " rigffin" as a chimney ; immediately under 
 which is an excavation in the floor, burned away by a large fire of 
 turf, loosely heaped together. This is surrounded by a circle of 
 urchins, sitting on the huce earth, and exhibiting a series of speckled 
 shins, all radiating towards the fire, like sausages on a Poloni dish. 
 There they are — wedged as close a= they can sit ; one with half a 
 thigh off his breeches — another with half an arm off his tattered coat 
 — a third without breeches at all, wearing as a substitute a piece of 
 Jiis mother's old petticoat, pinned about his loins — a fourth, no coat — 
 
28 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 a fifth, with a cap on him, because he has got a scald, from having 
 sat under the juice of fresh hung bacon — a sixth with a black eye — a 
 seventh with two rags about his heels to keep his kibes clean — an 
 eighth crying to get home, because he has got a headache, though it 
 may be as well to hint that there is a drag-hunt to start from beside 
 his father's in the course of the day. In this ring, with his legs 
 stretched in a most lordly manner, sits, upon a deal chair, Mat him- 
 self, with his hat on, basking in the enjoyment of unlimited authority. 
 His dress consists of a black coat, considerably in want of repair, 
 transferred to his shoulders through the means of a clothes-broker in 
 the county town ; a white cravat, round a large stuffing, having hat 
 part which comes in contact with the chin somewhat streaked with 
 brown — a black waistcoat with one or two " tooth-an'-egg " metal 
 buttons sewed on where the original had fallen off— black corduroy 
 inexpressibles, twice dyed, and sheep's-grey stockings. In his hand 
 is a large broad ruler, the emblem of his power, the vvoful instrument 
 of executive justice, and the signal of terror to all within his juris- 
 diction. In a corner below is a pile of turf, where, on entering, every 
 boy throws his two sods with a pitch from under his left arm. He 
 then comes up to the master, catches his forelock with finger and 
 thumb, and bobs down his head, by way of making him a bow, and 
 goes to his seat. Along the walls on the ground is a series of round 
 stones, some of them capped with a straw collar or hassock, on which 
 the boys sit ; others have bosses, and many of them hobs — alight but 
 compact kind of boggy substance found in the mountains. On these 
 several of them sit ; the greater number of them, however, have no 
 seats whatever, but squat themselves down, without compunction, on 
 the hard floor. Hung about, on wooden pegs driven into the walls, 
 are the shapeless yellow " anibeens'" of such as can boast the luxury 
 of a hat, or caps made of goat or hare skin, the latter having the ears 
 of the animal rising ludicrously over the temples, or cocked out at the 
 sides, and the scut either before or behind, according to the taste or the 
 humour of the wearer. The floor, which is only swept every Saturday, is 
 strewed over with tops of quills, pens, pieces of broken slate, and tattered 
 leaves of " Reading made Easy," or fragments of old copies. In one 
 corner is a knot engaged at " Fox-and-geese," or the " Walls of Troy." 
 on their slates; in another, a pair of them are "fighting bottles," 
 which consists in striking the bottoms together, and he whose bottle 
 breaks first of course loses. Behind the master is a third set, playing 
 " heads and points " — a game of pins. Some are more industriously 
 employed in writing their copies which they perform seated on the 
 ground, with their paper on a copy-board — a piece of planed deal the 
 size of the copy, an appendage now nearly exploded — their cheek-bones 
 laid within half an inch of the left side of the copy, and the eye set to 
 guide the motion of the hand across, and to regulate the straightness 
 of the lines and the forms of the letters. Others, again, of the more 
 grown boys, are working their sums with becoming industry. In a 
 dark corner are a pair of urchins thumping each other, their eyes 
 •tcadily fixed on the master, lest he might happen to glance in that 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 29 
 
 direction. Near the master himself are the larger boys, from twenty- 
 two to fifteen — shaggy-headed slips, with loose-breasted shirts lying 
 open about their bare chests ; ragged colts, with white, dry, bristling 
 beards upon them, that never knew a razor ; strong stockings on their 
 legs ; heavy brogues, with broad, nail-paved soles ; and breeches open 
 at the knees. Nor is the establishment altogether without females ; 
 but these, in hedge schools, were too few in number to form a distinct 
 class. They were, for the most part, the daughters of wealthy farmers, 
 who considered it necessary to their respectability that they should 
 not be altogether illiterate; such a circumstance being a considerable 
 drawback, in the opinion of an admirer, from the character of a young 
 woman for whom he was about to propose — a drawback, too, which 
 was always weighty in proportion to her wealth or respectability. 
 
 Having given our readers an imperfect sketch of the interior of 
 Matt's establishment, we will now proceed, however feebly, to repre- 
 sent him at work — with all the machinery of the system in full 
 operation. 
 
 " Come, boys, rehearse — (buz, buz, buz) — I'll soon be after calling 
 up the first spelling lesson — (buz, buz, buz) — then the mathematician 
 — bookkeepers — Latinists and Grecians, successfully. (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 Silence there below ! — your pens. Tim Casey, isn't this a purty 
 hour o' the day for you to come into school at ; arrah, and what kept 
 you, Tim 1 Walk up wid yourself here, till we have a confabulation 
 together ; you see I love to be talking to you." 
 
 " Sir, Larry Branagan, here ; he's throwing spits at me out of his 
 pen." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " By my sowl, Larry, there's a rod in steep for you." 
 
 " Fly away, Jack — fly away, Jill ; come again. Jack " 
 
 " I had to go to Paddy Nowlan's for tobaccy, sir, for my father." 
 (Weeping, with his hand knowingly across his face — one eye laughing 
 at his comrades.) 
 
 " You lie, it wasn't." 
 
 " If you call me a liar agin, I'll give you a dig in the mug." 
 
 " It's not in your jacket." 
 
 "Isn't it?" 
 
 " Behave yourself ; ha ! there's the masther looking at you — ye'll 
 get it now." 
 
 " None at all, Tim ? And she's not after sinding an excuse wid you ? 
 What's that undher your arm ? " 
 
 " My Gough, sir." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " Silence, boys. And you blackguard Lilliputian, you, what kept 
 you away till this ? " 
 
 " One bird pickin', two men thrashin' ; one bird pickin', two men 
 thrashiri' ; one bird pickin' " 
 
 " Sir, they're stickin' pins in me here." 
 
 " Who is, Briney?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir ; they're all at it." 
 
 " Boys, I'll go down to yous." 
 
 *' 1 can't carry him, sir ; he'd be too heavy for me. Let Larry Toole 
 
30 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 do it, he's stronger nor me ; any way, there he's putting; a corker pin 
 in his mouth." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo ! I'll never stay away agin, sir; indeed I 
 won't, sir. Oh, sir dear, pardon me this wan time ; and if ever you 
 cotch me doing the like agin, I'll give you lave to welt the sowl out of 
 me." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " Behave yourself, Barny Byrne." 
 
 " I'm not touching you." 
 
 " Yes, you are ; didn't you make me blot my copy." 
 
 " Ho, by the livin', I'll pay you goin' home for this." 
 
 " Hand me the taws." 
 
 " Whoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo — what'll I do, at all at all ! Oh, sir 
 dear, sir dear, sir dear — hoo-hoo-hoo ! " 
 
 " Did she send no message, good or bad, before I lay on ? " 
 
 " Oh, not a word, sir, only that my father killed a pig yestherday, 
 and he wants you to go up to-day at dinner-time." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " It's time to get lave ; it isn't — it is ; it isn't — it is," &c. 
 
 " You lie, I say ; your faction never was able to fight ours. Didn't 
 we lick all your dirty breed in Buillagh-battha fair.'' " 
 
 " Silence there." — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 "Will you meet us on Sathurday, and we'll fight it out clane ?" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Tim, but you got a big fright, anyhow. Whist, ma 
 bouchal, sure I was only jokin' you ; and sorry I'd be to bate your 
 father's son, Tim. Come over and sit beside myself at the fire here. 
 Get up, Micky Donoghue, you big burnt-shinn'd spalpeen you, and let 
 the dacent boy sit at the fire." 
 
 " Hullabaloo hoo-hoo-hoo — to go to give me such a welt only for 
 sitting at the fire, and me brought turf wid me." 
 
 "To-day, Tim.?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "At dinner-time, is id?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Faith, the dacent strain was always in the s.ame family." — (Buz, 
 buz, buz.) 
 
 '' Horns, horns, cock horns : oh, you up'd wid them, you lifted 
 your fingers — that's a mark, now — hould your face till 1 blacken 
 you." 
 
 " Do you call thim two sods. Jack Lanigan 'i why, 'tis only one long 
 one broke in the middle ; but you must make it up to-morrow. Jack. 
 How is your mother's tooth.'' — did she get it pulled out yet ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, tell her to come to me, an' I'll write a charm for it that'll 
 cure her. — What kept you till now, Paddy Magouran .''" 
 
 " Couldn't come any sooner, sir." 
 
 " You couldn't, sir ; and why, sir, couldn't you come any sooner, 
 sir?" 
 
 " See, sir, what Andy Nowlaii done to my copy ?" — (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
 " Silence ! I'll massacree yees if yees don't make less noise." — 
 (Buz, buz, buz.) 
 
77/.? HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " I was down with Mrs. Kavanagh, sir." 
 
 " You were, Paddy — an' Paddy, ma bouchal, what war you doing 
 there, Paddy?" 
 
 " Masther, sir, spake to Jem Kenny here ; he made my nose bleed." 
 
 "Eh, Paddy?" 
 
 " I was bringin' her a layin' hen, sir, that my mother promised her 
 at mass on Sunday last." 
 
 "Ah, Paddy, you're a game bird yourself, wid your layin' hens ; 
 you're as full o' mischief as an egg's full o' mate — {omncs, ha, ha, ha, 
 ha !) Silence, boys — what are you laughin' at ? — ha, ha, ha ! Paddy, 
 can you spell Nebachodnazure for me ?" 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " No, nor a better scholar, Paddy, could not do that, ma bouchal; 
 but I'll spell it for you. Silence, boys — whist, all of yees, till I spell 
 Nebachodnazure for Paddy Magouran. Listen; and you yourself, 
 Paddy, are one of the letthers : — 
 
 A turf and a clod speWs Nebachod — 
 A knife and a razure spells Nebachodnazure — 
 Three pair of boots and five pair of shoes 
 Spells Nebachodnazure, the King of the Jews 
 
 Now, Paddy, that's spelling Nebachodnazure by the science of Ventila- 
 tion ; but you'll never go that deep Paddy." 
 
 '■ i want to go out, it you plase, sir." 
 
 " Is that the way you ax me, you vagabone ?" 
 
 " I want to go out, sir" — (pulling down the forelock). 
 
 '• Yes, that's something dacenter ; by the sowl of Newton, that 
 invinted fluxions, if ever you forget to make a bow again Pll flog the 
 enthrils out of you — wait till the pass comes in." 
 
 Then comes the spelling lesson. 
 
 " Come, boys, stand up to the spelling lesson." 
 
 " Micky, show me your book till I look at my word. I'm fifteenth." 
 
 " Wait till I see my own." 
 
 •' Why do you crush for." 
 
 " That's my place." 
 
 "No, it's not." 
 
 " Sir, spake to PIi tell the masther." 
 
 " What's the matther there ? " 
 
 " Sir, he won't let me into my place." 
 
 " I'm before you." 
 
 " No, you're not." 
 
 " I say I am." 
 
 " You lie, pug-face. Ha ! I called you pug-face ; tell now, if you 
 dare." 
 
 '' Well, boys, down with your pins in the book ; who's king ? " 
 
 " I am, sir." 
 
 " Who's queen?" 
 
 " Me, sir." 
 
 " Who's prince?* 
 
32 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " I am prince, sir." • 
 
 " Tag-rag and bob-tail, fall into your places." 
 
 " I've no pin, sir." 
 
 " Well, down with you to the tail — now, boys." 
 
 Having gone through the spelling task, it was Mat's custo i to give 
 out six hard words, selected according to his judgment, as a final 
 test, but he did not always confine himself to that. Sometimes he 
 would put a number of syllables arbitrarily together, forming a most 
 heterogeneous combination of articulate sounds. 
 
 " Now, boys, here's a deep word, that'll thry yees : come, Larry, 
 spell vic-vio-man-drati-saji-ti-fi-caii-du-ban-dan-ti-al'i-ty, or viis-an- 
 thro-po-7nor-phi-ta-7ii-a-iius-mi-ca'li-a-tion J — that's too hard for you, 
 is it ? Well, then, spell phthisic. Oh, that's physic you're spellin'. 
 Now, Larry, do you know the difference between physic and 
 phthisic ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, I'll expound it : phthisic, you see, manes — whisht, boys ; 
 will yees hould yer tongues there — phthisic, Larry, signifies — that is, 
 phthisic — mind, it's not physic I'm expounding, phthisic — boys, will 
 
 yees stop yer noise there — signifies but, Larry, it's so deep a word 
 
 in larnin' that I should draw it out on a slate for you : and now I 
 remimber, man alive, you're not far enough on yet to undherstand it : 
 but what's physic, Larry 1 " 
 
 " Isn't that, sir, what my father tuck the day he got sick, sir ? " 
 
 " That's the very thing, Larry : it has what larned men call a 
 medical property, and resembles little rickety Dan Reilly there — it 
 retrogrades. Och ! och ! I'm the boy that knows things — you sec now 
 how I expounded them two hard words for yees, boys — don't yees ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," &c. &c. 
 
 " So, Larr)', you haven't the larnin' for that either : but here's an 
 'asier one — spell me Ephabridotas (Epaphroditas) — you can't ! hut ! 
 man — you're a big dunce entirely, that little shoneen Sharkey there 
 below would sad'. God be wid the day when I was the likes of you ; 
 it's I that was the bright gorsoon entirely — and so sign was on it, when 
 a great larned traveller — silence, boys, till I tell yees this (a dead 
 silence)— from Thrinity College, all the way in Dublin, happened to 
 meet me one day — seeing the slate and Gough, you see, undher my 
 arm, he axes me, 'Arrah, Mat,' says he, ' what are you /;/ ?' says he. 
 ' Faix, I'm in my waistcoat, for one thing," says I, off-hand— silence, 
 childhre, and don't laugh so loud — (ha, ha, ha !) So he looks closer at 
 me : ' I see that,' says he, 'but what are you reading?' ' Nothing, at 
 all at all,' says I ; ' bad manners to the taste, as you may see, if you've 
 your eyesight.' ' I think,' says he, ' you'll be apt to die in your v/aist- 
 coat ; ' and set spurs to a fine saddle mare he rid — faith, he did so — 
 thought me so cute — {omnes : ha, ha, ha !) Whisht, boys, whisht ; 
 isn't it a terrible thing that I can't tell yees a joke, but you split your 
 sides laughing at it — (ha, ha, ha !)— don't laugh so loud, Barney 
 Casey " — (ha, ha, ha !). 
 
 Barney ; " I wart to go out, if you plase, sir." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 33 
 
 " Go, avick ; you'll be a good scholar yet, Barney. Faith, Barney 
 knows whin to laugh, anyhow. 
 
 " Well, Larry, you can't spell Ephabridotas ? -thin here's a short 
 weeshy one, and whoever spells it will get the pins ; — spell a red rogue 
 wid three letters. You, Micky? Dan.? Jack.? Natty? Alick ? Andy? 
 Pether ? Jim ? Tim ? Pat ? Rody ? you ? you ? you ? Now, boys, I'll 
 hould ye my little Andy here, that's only beginning the Rational 
 Spelling Book, bates you all ; come here, Andy, alanna : now, boys, 
 if he bates you, you must all bring him a little miscawn of butter 
 between two kale blades, in the mornin', for himself ; here, Andy 
 avourneen, spell red rogue wid three letthers." 
 
 Andy : " M a t— Mat." 
 
 " No, no, avick, that's myself, Andy ; it's red rogue, Andy — hem !— 
 F " 
 
 " F o X— fox." 
 
 *' That's a man, Andy. Now, boys, mind what you owe Andy in 
 the mornin', plase God, won't yees ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." " Yes, sir." "Yes, sir." " I will, sir." "And I will, 
 sir." "And so will I, sir," &c. &c. &c. 
 
 I know not whether the Commissioners of Education found the 
 monitorial system of instruction in such of the old hedge schools as 
 maintained an obstinate resistance to the innovations of modern plans. 
 That Bell and Lancaster deserve much credit for applying and extend- 
 ing the principle (I speak without any reference to its merits) I do not 
 hesitate to grant : but it is unquestionably true that the principle was 
 reduced to practice in Irish hedge schools long before either of these 
 worthy gentlemen were in existence. I do not, indeed, at present 
 remember whether or not they claim it as a discovery, or simply as an 
 adaptation of a practice which experience, in accidental cases, had 
 found useful, and which they considered capable of more extensive 
 benefit. I remember many instances, however, in which it was applied 
 — and applied, in my opinion, though not as a permanent system, yet 
 more judiciously than it is at present. I think it a mistake to suppose 
 that silence, among a number of children in school, is conducive to the 
 improvement either of health or intellect. That the chest and the 
 lungs are benefited by giving full play to the voice I think will not be 
 disputed ; and that a child is capable of more intense study and 
 abstraction in the din of a school-room than in partial silence (if I may 
 be permitted the word) is a fact which, I think, any rational observa- 
 tion would establish. There is something cheering and cheerful in the 
 noise of friendly voices about us — it is a restraint taken off the mind, 
 and it will run the lighter for it; it produces more excitement, and 
 puts the intellect in a bettei frame for study. The obligation to silence, 
 though it may give the master more ease, imposes a new moral duty 
 upon the child, the sense of which must necessarily weaken his appli- 
 cation. Let the boy speak aloud, if he pleases — that is, to a certain 
 pitch ; let his blood circulate ; let the natural secretions take place, 
 and the physical effluvia be thrown off by a free exercise of voice and 
 unibs : but do not keep him dumb and motionless as a statue — hi-s 
 
34 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 blood and his intellect both in a state of stagnation, and his spirit 
 below zero. Do not send him in quest of knowledge alone, but let 
 him have cheerful companionship on his way ; for depend upon it 
 that the man who expects too much either in discipline or morals from 
 a boy is not, in my opinion, acquainted with human nature. If an 
 urchin titter at his own joke, or that of another, if he give him a jagg 
 of a pin under the desk, imagine not that it will do him an injury, 
 whatever phrenologists may say concerning the organ of destructive- 
 ncss. It is an exercise to the mind, and he will return to his business 
 with greater vigour and effect. Children are not men, nor influenced 
 by the same motives — they do not reflect, because their capacity for 
 reflection is imperfect ; so is their reason : whereas, on the contrary, 
 their faculties for education (excepting judgment, which strengthens my 
 argument) are in greater vigour in youth than in manhood. The 
 general neglect of this distinction is, I am convinced, a stumbling- 
 block in the way of youthful instruction, though it characterises all our 
 modern systems. We should never forget that they are children ; nor 
 should we bind them by a system whose standard is taken from the 
 maturity of human intellect. We may bend our reason to theirs, but 
 we cannot elevate their capacity to our own. We may produce an 
 external appearance sufficiently satisfactory to ourselves ; but, in the 
 meantime, it is probable that the child may be growing in hypocrisy, 
 and settling down into the habitual practice of a fictitious character. 
 
 But another and more serious objection may be urged against the 
 present strictness of scholastic discipline — which is, that it deprives 
 the boy of a sense of free and independent agency. I speak this with 
 limitations, for a master should be a monarch in his school, but by no 
 means a tyrant ; and decidedly the very worst species of tyranny is 
 that which stretches the young mind upon the bed of too rigorous a disci- 
 pline — like the despot who exacted from his subjects so many barrels 
 of perspiration whenever there came a long and severe frost. Do not 
 familiarise the mind when young to the toleration of slavery, lest it 
 prove afterwards incapable of recognising and relishing the principle 
 of an honest and manly independence. I have known many children 
 on whom a rigour of discipline, affecting the mind only (for corporal 
 punishment is now almost exploded), impressed a degree of timidity 
 almost bordering an pusillanimity. Away, then, with the specious 
 and long-winded arguments of a false and mistaken philosophy. A 
 child will be a child, and a boy a boy, to the conclusion of the chapter. 
 Bell or Lancaster would not relish the pap or caudle-cup three times 
 a day : neither would the infant on the breast feel comfortable after a 
 gorge of ox-beef. Let them, therefore, put a little of the mother's milk 
 of human kindness and consideration into their strait-laced systems. 
 
 A hedge schoolmaster was the general scribe of the parish, to whom 
 all who wanted letters or petitions written uniformly applied — and 
 these were glorious opportunities for the pompous display of pedantry. 
 The remuneration usually consisted of a bottle of whisky. 
 
 A poor woman, for instance, informs Mat that she wishes to have « 
 letter written to her son, who is a soldier abroad. 
 
TffE HEDGE SCffOOL 3S 
 
 •'An' how long is he gone, ma'am? " 
 
 " Och, thin, masther, he's from me goin' an fifteen years ; an' a 
 comrade of his was spakin' to Jim Dwyer, an' says his ridgment's 
 lyin' in the Island of Budanages, somewhere in the back parts of 
 Africa." 
 
 " An' is it a letther or petition you'd be afther havin' me to indite 
 for you, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Och, a letther, sir — a letther, masther ; an' may the Lord grant you 
 all kinds of luck, good, bad, an' indifferent, both to you an' yours : an' 
 well it's known, by the same token, that it's yourself has the nice hand 
 at the pen entirely, an' can indite a letther or pertition that the priest 
 o' the parish mightn't be ashamed to own to it." 
 
 " Why, then, 'tis I that ud scorn to deteriorate upon the superimi- 
 nence of my own execution at inditin' wid a pen in my hand : but 
 would you feel a delectability in my superscriptionizin' the epistolary 
 correspondency, ma'am, that I'm about to adopt?" 
 
 " Eagh ? och, what am I sayin' ! — sir — masther — sir ? — the noise of 
 the crathurs, you see, is got into my ears ; and, besides, I'm a bit 
 bothered on both sides of my head, ever since I had that weary 
 weed." 
 
 " Silence, boys ; bad manners to yees, will ye be aisy, you Lilliputian 
 
 Boeotians — by my s hem — upon my credit, if I go down to that 
 
 corner, I'll castigate yees in dozens : I can't spake to this dacent 
 woman, with your insuperable turbulentiality." 
 
 " Ah, avourneen, masther, but the larnin's a fine thing, anyhow ; an' 
 maybe 'tis yourself that hasn't the tongue in your head, an' can spake 
 the tall, high-flown English ; a-wurrah, but your tongue hangs well, 
 anyhow — the Lord increase it ! " 
 
 " Lanty Cassidy, are you gettin' on wid yer Stereometry ? festina, 
 mi discipiili; vocabo Homerum^ mox atque mox. You see, ma'am, I 
 must tache thim to spake an' effectuate a translation of the lamed 
 languages sometimes." 
 
 " Arrah, masther dear, how did you get it all into your head, at all 
 at all?" 
 
 "Silence, boys — tace — ' conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant! 
 Silence, I say agin." 
 
 " You could slip over, maybe, to Doran's, masther, do you see ? 
 You'd do it betther there, I'll engage : sure an' you'd want a dhrop to 
 steady your hand, anyhow." 
 
 " Now, boys, I am goin' to indite a small taste of literal correspon- 
 dency over at the public-house here ; you literati will hear the lessons 
 for me, boys, till afther I'm back agin ; but mind, boys, absente dojiiino, 
 strepuunt servi — meditate on the philosophy of that ; and, Mick 
 Mahon, take your slate and put down all the names ; and, upon my 
 sou — ^hem — credit, I'll castigate any boy guilty of misty inanners on 
 my retrogadation thither ; ergo vionientote, cave ne tituhes inanda- 
 taqjie frangas" 
 
 "In throth, sir, I'd be long sarry to throuble you ; but he's away 
 bfteen years, and 1 wouldn't thrust it to another , and the corplar tha<! 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 commands the ridgmcnt would regard your hand-write and your »q- 
 dilin'." 
 
 " Don't, ma'am, plade the smallest taste of apology." 
 
 "Eagh?" 
 
 " I'm happy that I can sarve you, ma'am." 
 
 " Alusha, long life to you, masther, for that same, anyhow — but it's 
 yourself that's deep in the larnin' and the langridges ; the Lord incrase 
 yer knowledge — sure, an' we all want his blessin', you know." 
 
 THE RETURN. 
 
 " Well, boys, ye've been at it — here's swelled faces and bloody noses 
 What blackened your eye, Callaghan 1 You're a purty prime ministher, 
 ye boxing blackguard, you : I left you to keep pace among these factions, 
 and you've kicked up a purty dust. What blackened your eye— egh V 
 
 " I'll tell you, sir, whin I come in, if you plase." 
 
 " Ho, you vagabones, this is the ould work of the faction between 
 the Bradys and the Callaghans — bastin' one another ; but, by my sowl, 
 I'll baste you all through other. You don't want to go out, Callaghan. 
 You had fine work here since ; there's a dead silence now ; but I'll 
 pay you presently. Here, Duggan, go out wid Callaghan, an' see that 
 you bring him back in less than no time. It's not enough for your 
 fathers and brothers to be at it, who have a rif^ht to fight, but you 
 must battle betune you — have your field days itself ! " 
 
 {Dti^gan rettirns) — " Hoo — hoo — sir, my nose. Oh, murdher 
 shcay, my nose is broked ! " 
 
 " Blow your nose, you spalpeen, you — where's Callaghan ?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, bad luck to him every day he rises out of his bed ; he got 
 a stone in his fist, too, that he hot me a pelt on the nose wid, and then 
 made off home.'' 
 
 " Home, is id .'' Start, boys, off — chase him, lie into him— asy, curse 
 yees, take time gettin' out : that's it — keep to him — don't wait for me ; 
 take care, you little spalpeens, or you'll brake your bones, so you will : 
 blow the dust of this road, I can't see my way in it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! murdher, Jem, agra, my knee's out of joint." 
 
 " My elbow's smashed, Paddy. Bad luck to him —the divil fly away 
 wid him — oh ! ha ! ha ! — oh ! ha ! ha ! murdher — hard fortune to me, 
 but little Mickey Geery fell, an' thripped the masther, an' himself's 
 disabled now — his black breeches split too — look at him feelin' them 
 — oh ! oh ! ha ! ha ! — by tare-an'-outy, Callaghan will be murdhered 
 if they cotch him." 
 
 This was a specimen of civilisation which Ireland only could fur- 
 nish : nothing, indeed, could be more perfectly ludicrous than such a 
 chase ; and such scenes were by no means uncommon in hedge schools ; 
 for, wherever severe punishment was dreaded — and, in truth, most of 
 the hedge-masters were unfeeling tyrants — the boy. if sufficiently 
 grown to make a good race, usually broke away, and lied home at the 
 top of his speed. The pack then were usually led on by the i.iaster, 
 who mostly headed them himself, all in full cry, exhibiting such a scene 
 ai should be witnessed in order to be enjoyed. The neighbours, men, 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 37 
 
 women, and children, ran out to be spectators ; the labourers suspended 
 their work to enjoy it, assembling on such eminences as commanded 
 a full view of the pursuit. 
 
 " Bravo, boys — success, masther ; lie into him — where's j our 
 huntin'-horn, Mr. Kavanagh — he'll bate yees, if ye don't take the 
 wind of him. Well done, Callaghan, keep up your heart, your sowl, 
 and you'll do it asy — yer gaining on them, ma boiichal — the masther's 
 down, you gallows clip, an' there's none but the scholars afther ye — 
 he's safe." 
 
 " Not he ; I'll hould a naggin, the poor scholar has him ; don't you 
 see he's close at his heels." 
 
 " Done, by my song— they'll never come up wid him ; listen to their 
 leather crackers and cord-a-roys, as their knees bang agin one another. 
 Hark forrit, boys ! hark forrit ! huzzaw, you thieves, huzzaw ! " 
 
 " Yer beagles is well winded, Mr. Kavanagh, an' gives good tongue." 
 
 " Well, masther, you had your chase for nothin', I see." 
 
 " Mr. Kavanagh," another would observe, " I didn't think you war 
 so stiff in the hams as to let the gorsoon bate you that-a-way— youi 
 wind's failin', sir." 
 
 " The schoolmaster was abroad " then, and never was the " march 
 of intellect " at once so rapid and unsuccessful. 
 
 During the summer season it was the usual practice for the scholars 
 to transfer their paper, slates, and books to the green which lay im- 
 mediately behind the schoolhouse, where they stretched themselves on 
 the grass, and resumed their business. Mat would bring out his chair, 
 and, placing it on the shady side of the hedge, sit with his pipe in his 
 mouth, the contented lord of his little realm, whilst nearly a hundred 
 and fifty scholars of all sorts and sizes lay scattered over the grass, 
 basking under the scorching sun in all the luxury of novelty, naked- 
 ness, and freedom. The sight was original and characteristic, and 
 such as Mr. Brougham would have been delighted with — "The school, 
 master was abroad again." 
 
 As soon as one o'clock drew near, Mat would pull out his Ring-dial^ 
 holding it against the sun, and declare th? hour. 
 
 " Now, boys, to yer dinners, and the rest to play." 
 
 " Hurroo, darlins, to play — the masther says it's dinner-time ! — 
 whip-spur-an'-away-grey— hurroo — whack — hurroo ! " 
 
 " Masther, sir, my father bid me ax you home to yer dinner." 
 
 " No, he'll come to huz — come wid me, if you plase, sir." 
 
 " Sir, never heed them ; my mother, sir, has some of what you 
 know — of the flitch I brought to Shoneen on last Aisther, sir." 
 
 This was a subject on which the boys gave themselves great liberty, 
 an invitation, even when not accepted, being an indemnity for the 
 day ; it was usually followed by a battle between the claimants, and 
 bloody noses were the issue. The master himself, after deciding to 
 go where he was certain of getting the best dinner, generally put an 
 end to the quarrels by a reprimand, and then gave notice to the dis- 
 appointed claimants of the successive days on which he would .'itterid 
 at their respective houses. 
 
7.^ THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " Boys, you all know my maxim ; to go, for fear of any jealousies, 
 boys, wherever I get the 7iforsf dinner ; so tell me now, boys, what 
 ycr dacent mothers have all got at home for me?" 
 
 " My mother killed a fat hen yesterday, sir, an' you'll have a lump 
 of bacon and ' flat dutch' along wid it." 
 
 " We'll have hang beef and greens, sir." 
 
 " We tried the Draties this mornin', sir, an' we'll have new praties, 
 and bread and butthcr, sir." 
 
 " Well, it's all good, boys ; but rather than show favour or affection, 
 do you see, I'll go wid Andy, here, and take share of the hen an' 
 bacon ; but, boys, for all ibat, I'm fonder of the other things, you 
 persave ; and as I can't go wid you, Mat, tell your respectable mother 
 that I'll be with her to-morrow ; and with you, Larry, ma bouchal, the 
 day afther." 
 
 if a master were a single man, he usually "went round" with the 
 scholars each night ; but there were generally a few comfortable 
 farmers, leading men in the parish, at whose house he chiefly resided ; 
 and the children of these men were treated with the grossest and most 
 barefaced partiality. They were altogether privileged persons, and 
 had liberty to beat and abuse the other children of the school, who 
 were certain of being most- unmercifully flogged if they even dared 
 to prefer a ccrmplaint against the favourites. Indeed, the instances of 
 atrocious cruelty in hedge schools were almost incredible, and such 
 as, in the present enlightened time, would not be permitted. As to 
 the state of the " poor scholar," it exceeded belief ; for he was friend- 
 less and unprotected. But though legal prosecutions in those days 
 were never resorted to, yet, according to the characteristic notions of 
 the Irish retributive justice, certain cases occurred in which a signal, 
 and, at times, a fatal vengeance was executed on the person of the 
 brutal master. Sometimes the brothers and other relatives of the 
 mutilated child would come in a body to the school, and flog the 
 pedagogue with his own taws until his back was lapped in blood. 
 Sometimes they would beat him until few symptoms ot life remained. 
 Occasionally he would get a nocturnal notice to quit the parish in a 
 given time, under a penalty which seldom proved a dead letter in case 
 of non-compliance. Not unfrequently did those whom he had, when 
 boys, treated with such barbarity go back to him, when young men, 
 not so much for education's sake, as for the especial purpose of 
 retaliating upon him for his former cruelty. When cases of this 
 nature occurred, he found himself a mere cipher in his school, never 
 daring to practise excessive severity in their presence. Instances 
 have come to our own knowledge of masters who, for their mere 
 amusement, would go out to the next hedge, cut a large branch of 
 furze or thorn, and having first carefully arranged the children in a 
 row round the walls of the school, their naked legs stretched out 
 before them, would sweep round the branch, bristling with spik'^s and 
 prickles, with all their force against their limbs, until, in a few minutes, 
 a circle of blood was visible on the ground where they sat, their legs 
 appearing as if they had been scarified. This the master did when- 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. '^'^ 
 
 ever he happened to be drunk or in a remarkably good humour. 
 The poor children, however, were obliged to laugh loud, and enjoy it, 
 though the tears were falling down their cheeks in consequence of the 
 pain he inflicted. To knock down a child with the fist was considered 
 nothing harsh ; nor, if a boy were cut or prostrated by a blow of s, 
 cudgel on the head, did he ever think of representing the master's 
 cruelty to his parents. Kicking on the shins with the point of a 
 brogue or shoe, bound round the edge of the sole with iron nails, 
 until the bone was laid open, was a common punishment ; and as for 
 the usual slapping, horsing, and flogging, they were inflicted with a 
 brutality that in every case richly deserved for the tyrant, not only a 
 peculiar whipping by the hand of the common executioner, but a 
 separation from civilised society by transportation for life. It is 
 a fact, however, that in consequence of the general severity practised 
 in hedge schools, excesses of punishment did not often produce 
 retaliation against the master ; thes>3 were only exceptions, isolated 
 cases that did not affect the general character of the discipline in 
 such schools. 
 
 Now, when we consider the total absence of all moral and religious 
 principles in these establishments, and the positive presence of all 
 that was wicked, cruel, and immoral, need we be surprised at the 
 character of Ireland at this enlightened day. But her education and 
 herself were neglected, and now behold the consequence ! 
 
 I am sorry to perceive the writings of many respectable persons on 
 Irish topics imbued with a tinge of spurious liberality that frequently 
 occasions them to depart from truth. To draw the Irish character as 
 it is, as the model of all that is generous, hospitable, and magnanimous, 
 is in some degree fashionable ; but although I am as warm an admirer 
 of all that is really excellent and amiable in my countrymen as any 
 man, yet I cannot, nor will I, extenuate their weak and indefensible 
 points. That they possess the elements of a noble and exalted national 
 character, I grant ; nay, that they actually do possess such a character, 
 under hmitations, I am ready to maintain. Irishmen, setting aside 
 their religious and political prejudices, are grateful, affectionate, 
 honourable, faithful, generous, and even magnanimous ; but under the 
 stimulus of religious and political feeling they are treacherous, cruel, 
 and inhuman — will murder, burn, and exterminate, not only without 
 compunction, but with a Satanic delight worthy of a savage. Their 
 education, indeed, was truly barbarous ; they were trained and habit- 
 uated to cruelty, revenge, and personal hatred in their schools. Their 
 knowledge was directed to evil purposes ; disloyal principles were 
 industriously insinuated into their minds by their teachers, every one 
 of whom was a leader of some illegal association. The matter placed 
 in their hands was of a most inflammatory and pernicious nature as 
 regarded politics j and as far as religion and morality were concerned, 
 nothing could be more gross and superstitious than the books which 
 circulated among them. Eulogiums on murder, robbery, and theft 
 were read with delight in the histories of Freney the Robber, and 
 the Irish Rogues and Rapparees ,• ridicule of the Word of God, and 
 
40 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 hatred to the Protestant religion, in a book called Ward s Cantos, 
 written in Hudibrastic verse ; the downfall of the Protestant Esta- 
 blishment, and the exaltation of the Romish Church, in Columb- 
 kili's Prophecy, and latterly in that of Pastcrini ; a belief in every 
 species of religious imposture, in the Lives of the Saints, of 
 St. Patrick, of St. Columbkill, of St. Teresa, St. Francis Xavicr, 
 the Holy Scapular, and several other works, disgraceful to human 
 reasoii. Political and religious ballads cf the vilest doggrcl, mira- 
 culous legends of holy friars persecuted by Protestants, and of signal 
 vengeance inflicted by the divine power on their persecutors, were 
 in the mouths of the young and old, and of course firmly fixed in 
 their credulity. 
 
 Their weapons of controversy were drawn from the Fifty Reasons, 
 the Doleful Fall of Andrew Sail, the Catholic Christian, the Grounds 
 of the Catholic Doctrine, a Net for the Fishers of Men, and several 
 other publications of the same class. The books of amusement read 
 in these schools, including the first mentioned in this list, were the 
 Seven Champions of Christendom, the Seven Wise Masters and 
 Mistresses of Rome, Don Belianis of Greece, the Royal Fairy Tales, 
 the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, Valentine and Orson, (Jesta 
 Romanorum, l^orastus and Faunia, the History of Reynard the Fox, 
 the Chevalier Faublax ; to those I may add the Battle of Aughrim, 
 Siege of Londonderry, History of the Young Ascanius (a name by 
 which the Pretender was designated), and the Renowned History of 
 the Siege of Troy ; the Forty Thieves, Robin Hood's Garland, the 
 Gaiden of Love and Royal P'lower of Fidelity, Parimus and Paris- 
 menus ; along with others, the names of which shall not appear in 
 these pages. With this specimen of education before our eyes, is it 
 at all extraordinary that Ireland should be as she is ? 
 
 "Thady Bradly, will you come up wid your slate till I examine you 
 in your figures ? Go out, sir, and blow your nose first, and don't be 
 after making a looking-glass out of the sleeve of your jacket. Now 
 that Thady's out, I'll hould you, boys, that none of yees know how to 
 expound his name— eh ? do yees ? But I needn't ax — well, 'tis 
 Thadeus ; and, maybe, that's as much as the priest that christened 
 him knew. Boys, you see what it is to have the larnin' — to lade the 
 life of a gintleman, and to be able to talk deeply wid the clargy ! 
 Now, I could run down any man in arguin', except a priest ; and if 
 the bishop was afther consecratin' me, I'd have more larnin' than the 
 most of them ; but you see I'm not consecrated — and — well, 'tis no 
 maither — I only say that the more's the pity. 
 
 " Well, Thady, when did you go into subtraction ?" 
 
 "The day beyond yesterday, sir ; yarra musha, sure 'twas yourself, 
 sir, that shet me the first sum." 
 
 " Masther, sir, Thady Bradly stob my cutter— that's my cutter, 
 Thady Bradly." 
 
 "No it's not " (in a low voice). 
 
 " Sir, that's my cutter — an' there's three nick?; in id." 
 
 " Thady, is that his cutter? " 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " There's your cutter for you. Sir, I found it on the flure, and didn't 
 kmvv who own'd it." 
 
 " You know'd very well who own'd it ; didn't Dick Martin see you 
 liftin' it off o' my slate, when I was out ? " 
 
 " Well, if Dick Martin saw him it's enough : an' 'tis Dick that's the 
 tindher-hearted boy, an' would knock you down wid a lump of a stone 
 if he saw you murtherin' but a fly ! 
 
 " Well, Thady — throth Thady, I fear you'll undherstand subtraction 
 better nor your tacher : I doubt you'll apply it to ' Practice' all your 
 life, ma bouchal, and that you'll be apt to find it ' the Rule of False' 
 at last. Well, Thady, from one thousand pounds, no shilUngs and no 
 pince, how will you subtract one pound ? Put it down on your slate 
 — this waj — 
 
 lOOO OO DO 
 
 I OO oo" 
 
 " I don't know how to shet about it, masther." 
 
 " You don't ? an' how dare you tell me so, you shingawn, you — you 
 Cornelius Agrippa, you— go to your sate and study it, or I'll — ha ! be 
 
 off, you 
 
 " Pierce Mahon, come up wid your multiplication. Pierce, multiply 
 four hundred by two — put it down — that's it, 
 
 400 
 By 2." 
 
 " Twice nought is one." (Whack, whack.) " Take that as an illus 
 tration — is that one ? " 
 
 " Faith, masther, that's two, anyhow ; but, sir, is not wanst nought 
 nothin' ? now, masther, sure there can't be less than nothin'." 
 
 " Very good, sir." 
 
 " If wanst nought be nothin', then twice nought must be somethin', 
 for it's double what wanst nought is — see how J'jn sthruck for nothin', 
 an' me knows it — hoo ! hoo ! hoo ! " 
 
 " Get out, you Esculapian ; bud I'll give you somethin' by-and-by, 
 just to make you remimber that you know noihiti' — off wid you to your 
 sate, you spalpeen, you — to tell me that there can't be less than 
 nothin', when it's well known that sporting Squire O'Canter is worth a 
 thousand pounds less than nothin'. 
 
 " Paddy Doran, come up to your * Intherest.' Well, Paddy, what's 
 the intherest of a hundred pound at five per cent. ? Boys, have 
 manners, you thieves, you." 
 
 " Do you mane, masther, per cent, per annum ? " 
 
 " To be sure I do — how do you state it ! " 
 
 " I'll say, as a hundher pound is to one year, so is five per cent, per 
 annum." 
 
 " Hum — why — what's the number of the sum, Paddy ?" 
 
 "'Tis No. 84, sir." (The master steals a glance at the Key to 
 Gough.) 
 
 " I only want to look at it in the Gough, you see, Paddy — an' how 
 dare you give me such an answer, you big-headed dunce, you — go otf 
 
42 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 an' study it, you rascally Lilliputian — off wid you, and don't let me see 
 your ugly mug till you know it. 
 
 " Now, gintlcmen, for the Classics : and first for the Latinaarians^ 
 Larry Cassidy, come up wid your Asop. Larry, you're a year at Latin, 
 an' I don't think you know Latin iox frize, what your own coat is made 
 of, Larry. But, in the first place, Larry, do you know what a man that 
 tachcs Classics is called.'"' 
 
 " A schoolmasthcr, sir." (Whack, whack, whack.) 
 
 " Take that for your ignorance — and that to the back of it — ha ! 
 that'll tache you — to call a man that taches Classi.cs a schoolmasthcr, 
 indeed ! 'Tis a Profissor of Humanity itself he is — (whack, whack, 
 whack) — ha! you ringleader, you ; you're as bad as Dick O'Connell, 
 that no masther in the county could get any good of, in regard that he 
 put the whole school together by the ears, whprever he'll be, though 
 the spalpeen wouldn't stand fight himself. Haid fortune to you ! to go 
 to put such an afront upon me, an' me a Profissor of Humanity. 
 What's Latin for pantaloons?" 
 
 " Fem — fern — femi." 
 
 " No, it's not, sir." 
 
 " Femora " 
 
 "Can you do it?" 
 
 " Don't strike me, sir ; don't strike me, sir, an' I will." 
 
 " I say, can you do it ? " 
 
 " Femorali — (whack, whack, whack) — Ah, sir ! ah, sir ! 'tis femorali 
 — a]i, sir ! 'tis femorali — ah, sir ! " 
 
 " This thratement to a Profissor of Humanity." (Drives him head 
 over heels to his seat.) " Now, sir, maybe you'll have Latin for 
 throwscrs agin, or, by my sowl, if you don't, you must peel, and I'll 
 tachc you what a Profissor of Humanity is ! 
 
 " Dan Shiel, you little starved-lo'»king spalpeen, will you come up 
 to your lUocution ? — and a purty figme you cut at it, wid a voice like a 
 penny thrumpct, Dan ! Well, what speech have you got now, Dan, 
 ma bouchal. Is it ' Romans, counthrymin, and lovers ' ?" 
 
 " No, sliir ; yarrah, didn't I spake that speech before? 'Tis wan, 
 masther, that I'm 2S.\.\iQX pennen myself!" 
 
 " No, you didn't, you fairy ; ah, Dan, little as you are, you take 
 credit for more than ever you spoke, Dan, agrah ; but faith, the same 
 thrick will come agin you some time or other, avick ! Go and get 
 that speech bctther ; I see by your face you haven't it : off wia you, 
 and get a patch ui^on your breecnes ; your little knees are through 
 them, though 'tisn't by prayin' you've wore them, anyhow, you little 
 hop-o'-my-thumb, you, wid a voice like a rat in a thrap ; and yet you'll 
 be practisin' illocution : off wid you, man alive ! You little spitfire, 
 you ; if you and your schoolfellow, Dick O'Connell, had been wid 
 the Jews whin they wanted to burn down the standin' corn of the 
 Philistins,the divil a fox they might bother their heads about, for yees 
 both would have carried firebrands by the hundher for them. Spake 
 the next speech bitther — bct%Yeen you and Dick, you keep the school 
 in perpetual agitation." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 43 
 
 Sometimes the neighbouring gentry used to call into Mat's esta- 
 blishment, moved probably by a curiosity excited by his character and 
 the general conduct of the school. On one occasion Squire Johnston 
 and an English gentleman paid him rather an unexpected visit. Mai 
 had that morning got a new scholar, the son of a dancing tailor in the 
 neighbourhood ; and as it was reported that the son was nearly equal 
 to the father in that accomplishment. Mat insisted on having a 
 specimen of his skill. He was the more anxious on this point, as it 
 would contribute to the amusement of a travelling schoolmaster, who 
 had paid him rather a hostile visit, which Mat, who dreaded a hterary 
 challenge, feared might occasion him some trouble. 
 
 " Come up here, you little sartor, till we get a dacent view of you. 
 You're a son of Ned Malone's — aren't you t " 
 
 " Yes, and of Mary Malone, my mother, too, sir." 
 
 " Why thin, that's not bad, anyhow — what's your name ? " 
 
 "Dick, sir." 
 
 " Now, Dick, ma bouchal, isn't it true that you can dance a horn- 
 pike ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Here, Larry Brady, take the door off the hinges, an' lay it down 
 on the flure, till Dick JNIalone dances the Humours of Glynn : silence, 
 boys, not a word ; but just keep lookin' an." 
 
 " Who'll sing, sir ? for I can't be aflher dancin' a step widout the 
 music." 
 
 " Boys, which of yees 'ill sing for Dick ? I say, boys, will none of 
 yees give Dick the harmony? Well, come, Dick, I'll sing for you 
 myself : — 
 
 Torral lol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lorral, lol — 
 Toldherol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lal," &c. &c. 
 
 " I say, Misther Kavanagh," said the strange master, " what angle 
 does Dick's heel form in the second step of the treble, from the kibe 
 on the left foot to the corner of the door forninst him ?" 
 
 To this mathematical poser Mat rmade no reply, only sang the tune 
 with redoubled loudness and strength, whilst little Dicky pounded the 
 old crazy door with all his skill and alacrity. The " boys " were 
 delighted. 
 
 " Bravo, Dick, that's a man — welt the flure — cut the buckle — mur- 
 dher the clocks — rise upon suggaun, and sink upon gad — down the 
 flure flat, foot about — keep one foot on the ground, and t'other never 
 off it," saluted him from all parts of the house. 
 
 Sometimes he would receive a sly hint, in a feigned voice, to call for 
 " Devil stick the Fiddler," alluding to tlie master. Now a squeaking 
 voice would chime in ; by-and-by another, and so on, until the mas- 
 ter's bass had a hundred and forty trebles, all in chorus, to the same 
 tune. 
 
 Just at this moment the two gentlemen entered ; and, reader, you 
 may conceive, but I Ci^nnot describe, the face which Mat (who sat with 
 his back to the door, and did not see them until they were some time 
 
44 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 In tlio house) exhibited on the occasion. There he sung ore rotunda, 
 throwing forth an astounding tide of voice ; whilst httle Dick, a thin, 
 pale-faced urchin, with his head, from which the hair stood erect, sunk 
 between his hollow shoulders, was performing prodigious feats of agility. 
 "What's the matter? what's the matter?" said the gentlemen. 
 " Good morning, Mr. Kavanagh ? " 
 
 -Torral lol, lol- 
 
 Oh, good oh, good morning gintlemen, with extrame kindness," 
 
 replied Mat, rising suddenly up, but not removing his hat, although 
 the gentlemen instantly uncovered. 
 
 " Why, thin, gentlemen," he continued, " you have caught us in our 
 little relaxations to-day : but — hem ! — I mane to give the boys a holi- 
 day for the sake of this honest and respectable gintleman in the frieze 
 jock, who is not entirely ignorant, you persave, of litherature : and we 
 had a small taste, gintlemen, among ourselves, of Sathurnalian licen- 
 tiousness, ut ita dicam, in regard of — hem ! — in regard of this lad here, 
 who was dancing a hornpipe upon the door, and we, in absence of 
 betther music, had to supply him with the harmony ; but, as your 
 honours know, gintlemen, the greatest men have bent themselves on 
 espacial occasions." 
 
 " Make no apology, Mr. Kavanagh ; it's very commendable in you 
 to (5^;/<^ yourself by condescending to amuse your pupils." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Squire, I can take fre';doms with you ; but 
 perhaps the concomitant gintleman, your friend here, would be pleased 
 to take my stool. Indeed, I always use a chair, but the back of it, if 
 I may be permitted the use of a small portion of jocularity, was as 
 frail as the fair sect : it went home yisterday to be minded. Do, sir, 
 condescind to be sated. Upon my reputation, Squire, I'm sorry that 
 I have not accommodation for you too, sir ; except one of these 
 hassocks, which, in joint considheration with the length of your 
 honour's legs, would be, I anticipate, rather low ; but you, sir, will 
 honour me by taking the stool." 
 
 By considerable importunity he forced the gentleman to comply 
 with his courtesy ; but no sooner had he fixed himself upon the seat 
 than it overturned, and stretched him, black coat and all, across a 
 wide concavity in the floor, nearly filled up with wnite ashes produced 
 from mountain turf. In a moment he was completely white on one 
 side, and exhibited a most laughable appearance ; his hat, too, was 
 scorched and nearly burned on the turf coals. Squire Johnston 
 laughed heartily, as did the other schoolmaster, whilst the Englishman 
 completely lost his temper — swearing that so uncivilised an establish- 
 ment was not between the poles. 
 
 " I solemnly supplicate upwards of fifty pardons," said Mat ; " bad 
 manners to it for a stool ! but, your honour, it was my own defect of 
 speculation, bekase, you see, it's minus a leg — a circumstance of 
 which you warn't in a proper capacity to take cognation, as not being 
 personally acquainted with it. I humbly supplicate upwards of fifty 
 pardons." 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 45 
 
 The Englishman was now nettled, and determined to wreak his 
 ill temper on Mat by turning him and his establishment into ridicule 
 
 " Isn't this, Mister I forget your name, sir.'"' 
 
 " Mat Kavanagh, at your sarvice." 
 
 " Very well, my learned friend, Mr, Mat Kavanagh, isn't this 
 precisely what is called a hedge school f' 
 
 "A hedge school!" replied Mat, highly offended; "my siminary 
 a hedge school ! No, sir ; 1 scorn the cognomen, in toto. This, sir, 
 is a Cla-ssical and Mathematical Siminary, under the personal super- 
 intendence of your humble servant." 
 
 " Sir," replied the other master, who till then was silent, wishing, 
 perhaps, to sack Mat in presence of the gentleman, "it is a hedge 
 school ; and he is no scholar, but an ignoramus, whov«s I'd sack in 
 three minutes, that would be ashamed of a hedge school." 
 
 ■'Ay," says Mat, changing his tone, and taking the cue from his 
 friend, whose learning he dreaded, " it's just, for argument's sake, a 
 hedge school ; and, what is more, I scorn to be ashamed of it." 
 
 "And do you not teach occasionally under the hedge behind the 
 house here.-"' 
 
 " Granted," replied Mat ; " and now, where's your vis conseqiientice ?" 
 
 *' Yes," subjoined the other, " produce your vis consequential 
 
 The Englishman himself was rather at a loss for the vis conse- 
 qtienticc, and replied, " Why don't you live, and learn, and teach like 
 civilised beings, and not assemble like wild asses — pardon me, my 
 friend, for the simile — at least, like wild colts, in such clusters behind 
 the ditches?" 
 
 " A clusther of wild coults ! " said Mat ; " that shows what you are ; 
 no man of classical larnin' would use such a word." 
 
 " Permit me, sir," replied the strange master, " to ax your honour 
 one question — did you receive a classical education .-' Are you college- 
 bred?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the Englishman ; " I can reply to both in the 
 affirmative. I'm a Cantabrigian." 
 
 " You're are what?" asked Mat. 
 
 " 1 am a Cantabrigian." 
 
 " Come, sir, you must explain yourself, if you plase. I'll take my 
 oath that's neither a classical nor a mathematical tarm." 
 
 The gentleman smiled. " I was educated in the English College 
 of Cambridge." 
 
 "Well," says Mat, "and ma/be you would be as well off if you 
 had picked up your larnin' in our own Thrinity ; there's good picking 
 in Thrinity for gintlemen like you, that are sober and harmless about 
 the brains, in regard of not beirig overly bright." 
 
 " You talk with contempt lif a hedge school," replied the other 
 master. " Did you never heai , for all so long as you war in Cambridge, 
 of a nate little spot in Greece, called the Groves of Academus ? 
 
 Inter lucos Academi; quaerere verum. 
 
 What was Plato himself but a hedge schoolmaster ? and, with humble 
 
46 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 submission, it casts no slur on an Irish tachcr to be compared to hiu., 
 I think. You forget, also, sir, that the Dhruids taught under theii 
 oaks." 
 
 " Ay," added Mat, "and the Tree of Knowledge, too. Faith, an' if 
 that same tree was now in being, if there wouldn't be hedge school- 
 masters, there would be plinty of hedge scholars, anyhow — particu- 
 larly if the fruit was \Tell tasted." 
 
 " I believe, Millbank, you must give in," said Squire Johnston. " 1 
 think you have got the worst of it." 
 
 " Why," said Mat, " if the gintleman's not afthcr bein' sacked clanc, 
 I'm not here." 
 
 " Are you a mathematician," inquired Mat's friend, determined to 
 follow up his victory ; " do you know Mensuration ? " 
 
 " Come, I do know Mensuration," said the Englishman, with con- 
 fidence. 
 
 " And how would you find the solid contents of a load of thorns ? " 
 said the other. 
 
 "Ay, or how will you consthcr and parse mi this sintince?" said 
 Mat :— 
 
 R ?gibus et clotibus solemus stopere windous, 
 ^los numerus suniiis fruges consumen- nati, 
 Stercora flat stire rara terra-tantaro bungo." 
 
 " Aisy, Mister Kavanagh," replied the other, " let the Cantabrigian 
 resolve the one I propounded him first." 
 
 "And let the Cantabrigian then take up mine," said Mat : "and if 
 he can expound it I'll give him a dozen more to bring home in hi? 
 pocket, for the Cambridge folk to crack after their dinner along wid 
 their nuts." 
 
 " Can you do the ' Snail ' .' " inquired the stranger. 
 
 " Or ' A and B on opposite sides of a wood,' without the Key?" 
 said Mat. 
 
 " Maybe," said the stranger, who threw off the frieze jock, and ex- 
 hibited a muscular frame of great power, cased in an old black coat 
 — " maybe the gintleman would like to get a small tuste of the 
 * Scuffle: " 
 
 " Not at all," replied the Englishman ; " devil the least curiosity I 
 have for it— I tissure you 1 have not. What the deuce do they 
 mean, Johnston ? I hope you have intluence over them." 
 
 " Hand me down that cudgt^l, Jack Brady, till 1 show the gintleman 
 the ' Snail ' and the * Maypole,' " said Mat. 
 
 " Never mind, my lad ; never mind, Mr. a Mr. Kavanagh. 
 
 I give up the contest, I resign you the pahn, gentlemen. The hedge 
 school has beaten Cambridge hollow." 
 
 " One poser more, before you go, sir," said Mat. " Can you give 
 Latin for z. g^amc-egg in two words .'' " 
 
 "Eh, a game egg? No, by my honour I cannot — gentlemen, I 
 yield." 
 
 "Ay, I tuought so," replied Mat; " bring it home to Cam-bridge^ 
 
THE if EDGE SCtiOOL. 47 
 
 anyhow, and let them chew their cuds upon it, you persave ; and, by 
 the sowl of Newton, it will puzzle the whole establishment, or my 
 name's not Kavanagh." 
 
 " It will, I am convinced," replied the gentleman, eyeing the hercu- 
 lean frame of the strange teacher, and the substantial cudgel in Mat's 
 hand ; " it will, undoubtedly. But who is this most miserable naked 
 lad here, Mr. Kavanagh ? " 
 
 " Why, sir," replied Mat, with his broad Milesian face expanding 
 with a forthcoming joke, " he is, sir, in a sartin and especial particu- 
 larity, a namesake of your own." 
 
 " How is that, Mr. Kev.magh ?" 
 
 " My name's not K^^vanagh," replied Mat, " but Krtvanagh ; the 
 Irish A for ever !" 
 
 " Well, but how is the lad a namesake of mine ?" said the English- 
 man. 
 
 " Bekase, you see, he's ?l poor scJiolar, sir," replied Mat ; " an' hope 
 your honour will pardon me for the facetiousness — 
 
 Quid vetat ridentem dicere verum ? 
 
 as Horace says to Maecenas, on the first of the Sathirs ?" 
 
 " There, Mr. Kavanagh, is the price of a suit of clothes for him." 
 
 " Michael, will you rise up, sir, and make the gintleman a bow ? he 
 has given you the price of a shoot of clothes, ma bouchal." 
 
 Michael came up with a thousand rags dangling about him ; and, 
 catching his forelock, bobbed down his head after the usual manner, 
 saying, " Musha yarrah, long life to your honour every day you rise, 
 an' the Lord grant your sowl a short stay in purgatory, wishin' ye, at 
 the same time, a happy death aftherwards ! " 
 
 The gentlemen could not stand this, but laughed so heartily that 
 the argument was fairly knocked up. 
 
 It appeared, however, that Squire Johnston did not visit Mat's school 
 from mere curiosity. 
 
 " Mr. Kavanagh," said he, " I would be glad to have a little private 
 conversation with you, and will thank you to walk down the road a 
 little with this gentleman and me." 
 
 When the gentlemen and Mat had gone ten or fifteen yards from 
 the school door, the Englishman heard himself congratulated in the 
 following phrases : — 
 
 " How do you feel afther bein' sacked, gintleman ? The masther 
 sacked you ! You're a purty scholar ! It's not you, Mr. Johnston, 
 it's the other. "You'll come to argue agin, will you ? Where's your 
 head now .'' Bah ! Come back till we put the soogaun ^ about your 
 neck. Bah ! You must go to school to Cam-bridge agin, before you 
 can argue an Irisher ! Look at the figure he cuts ! Why duv ye put 
 the one foot past the other, when ye walk, for ? Bah ! Dunce ! ! " 
 
 • The soogaun was a collar of straw which was put round the necks of the 
 dunces, who were then placed at the door, that their disgrace might be as public 
 as possible. 
 
48 THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 
 
 " Well, boys, never heed yees for that," shouted Mat ; " never fear 
 but I'll castigate yees, ye spalpeen villains, as soon as I go back. Sir," 
 said Mat, " 1 supplicate upwards ot fifty pardons. I assure you, sir, 
 I'll give them a most inordinate castigation for their want of respect- 
 ability." 
 
 "What's the Greek for tobaccy?" they continued, "or for Lai y 
 O'Toole ? or for bletherum skite.'' How many beans make five.-' 
 What's Latin for poteen and flummery ! You a mathemathitician i 
 Could you measure a snail's horn .? How does your hat stay up and 
 nothing undher it ? Will you fight Barny Farrell wid one hand tied ? 
 I'd lick you myself! What's Greek for gosther?" with many other 
 expressions of a similar stamp, 
 
 " Sir," said Mat, " lave the justice of this in my hands. By the sowl 
 of Newton, your own counthryman, ould Isaac, I'll flog the mirrow 
 out of them." 
 
 " You have heard, Mr. Kavanagh," continued Mr. Johnston, as they 
 went along, " of the burning of Moore's stables and horses, the night 
 before last. The fact is that the magistrates of the county are 
 endeavouring to get the incendiaries, and would render a service to 
 any person capable, either directly or indirectly, of facilitating that 
 object, or stumbling on a clue to the transaction." 
 
 " And how could I do you a sarvice in it, sir ?" inquired Mat. 
 
 "Why," replied Mr. Johnston, "from the children. If you could 
 sift them in an indirect way, so as, without suspicion, to ascertain the 
 absence of a brother or so on that particular night, I might have it in 
 my power to serve you, Mr. Kavanagh. There will be a large reward 
 offered to-morrow, besides." 
 
 " Oh, damn the penny of the reward ever I'd finger, even if I knew 
 the whole conflagratior," said Mat ; " but lave the siftin' of the 
 children wid myself, and if I can get anything out of them, you'll hear 
 Irom me ; but your honour must keep a close mouth, or you might 
 have occasion lo lend me the money for my own funeral, some o' 
 these days. Good morning, gintlemen." 
 
 The gentlemen departed. 
 
 " May the most ornamental kind of hard fortune pursue you every 
 day you rise, you desavin' villain, that would have me turn informer, 
 bekase your brother-in-law, rack-rintin' Moore's stable and horses 
 were burnt ; but I'd see you and all your breed in the flames o' hell 
 first." Such was Mat's soliloquy as he entered the school on his 
 return. 
 
 " Now, boys, I'm afther giving yees to-day and to-morrow for a 
 holiday : to-morrow we will have our Gregory : a fine faste, plinty of 
 poteen, and a fiddle ; and you will tell your brothers and sisters to 
 come in the evening to the dance. You must bring plinty of bacon, 
 hung beef, and fowls, bread and cabbage — not forgetting the phaties, 
 and sixpence a head for the crathur, boys, wont yees ? " 
 
 The next day, of course, was one of festivity ; every boy brought, in 
 fact, as much as would serve six ; but the surplus gave Mat some good 
 dinners for three months to come. This feast was always held upon 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. 19 
 
 St. Gregory's day, from which circumstance it had its name. The 
 pupils were at liberty, for that day, to conduct themselves as they 
 pleased : and the consequence was that they became generally intoxi- 
 cated, and were brought home in that state to their parents. If the 
 children of two opposite parties chanced to be at the same school, 
 they usually had a fight, of which the master was compelled to feign 
 if^norance ; for if he identified himself with either faction, his resi- 
 dence in the neighbourhood would be short. In other districts, where 
 Protestant schools were in existence, a battle-royal commonly took 
 place between the opposite establishments, in some field lying half- 
 way between them. This has often occurred. 
 
 Everyone must necessarily be acquainted with the ceremony of 
 barring out. This took place at Easter and Christmas. The master 
 was brought or sent out on some fool's errand, the door shut and 
 barricaded, and the pedagogue excluded until a certain term of 
 vacation was extorted. With this, however, the master never complied 
 until all his efforts at forcing an entrance were found to be ineffectual ; 
 because, if he succeeded in getting in, they not only had no claim to a 
 long vacation, but were liable to be corrected. The schoolmaster had 
 also, generally, the clerkship of the parish ; an office, however, which, 
 in the country parts of Ireland, is without any kind of salary beyond 
 what results from the patronage of the priest ; a matter of serious 
 moment to a teacher, who, should he incur his reverence's displeasure, 
 would be immediately driven out of the parish. The master, there- 
 fore, was always tyrannical and insolent to the people in proportion as 
 he stood high in t/ e estimation of the priest. He was also the master 
 of ceremonies at all wakes and funerals, and usually sat among a 
 crowd of the village sages, engaged in exhibiting his own learning, and 
 in recounting the number of his religious and literary disputations. 
 
 One day, soon after the visit of the gentlemen above mentioned, 
 two strange men came into Mat's establishment — rather, as Mat 
 thought, in an unceremonious manner. 
 
 " Is your name Matthew Kavanagh ? " said one of them. 
 
 "That is indeed the name that's upon me," said Mat, with rather 
 an infirm voice, whilst his face got pale as ashes. 
 
 " Well," said the fellow, " we'll jist trouble you to walk with us a 
 bit." 
 
 "How far, with submission, are yees goin' to bring me?" said 
 Mat. 
 
 " Do you know Johnny Short's hotel .'' " ' 
 
 " My curse upon you, Findramore," exclaimed Mat, in a paroxysm 
 of anguish, "every day you rise! but your breath's unlucky to a school • 
 masther ; and it's no lie what was often said, that no schoolmasther 
 ever thruv in you, but something ill came over him." 
 
 " Don't curse the town, man alive," said the constable, "but curse 
 your own ignorance and folly ; any way, I wouldn't stand in your coat 
 for the wealth of the three kingdoms. You'll undoubtedl\r swing, 
 
 ' The county gaol. 
 
5" THE HEDCE SCHOOL. 
 
 unless you turn king's evidence. It's about Moore's business, Mr. 
 Kavanagh." 
 
 " Dang the that I'd do, even if I knew anything about it ; but, God 
 be praised for it, I can set them all at defiance— that I'm sure of. 
 Gintlemen, innocence is a jewel." 
 
 " But Barny Brady, that keeps the shebeen house — you know him — 
 is of another opinion. You and some of the Findramore boys took a 
 sup in Barny's on a sartin night ?" 
 
 " Ay, did we, on many a night, and will agin, plase Providence — no 
 harm in takin' a sup, anyhow — by the same token, that maybe you 
 and yer friend here would have a drop of rale stuff, as a thrate 
 from me ? " 
 
 " I know a thrick worth two of that," said the man ; " I thank ye 
 kindly, Mr. Kavanagh." 
 
 One Tuesday morning, about six weeks after this event, the largest 
 crowd ever remembered in that neighbourhood was assembled at 
 Findramore Hill, whereon had been erected a certain wooden machine, 
 — yclept a gallows. A little after the hour of eleven o'clock two carts 
 were descried winding slov/ly down a slope on the southern side of the 
 town and church, which I have already mentioned as terminating the 
 view along the level road north of the hill. As soon as they were 
 observed, a low, suppressed ejaculation of horror ran through the 
 crowd, painfully perceptible to the ear — in the expression of ten 
 thousand murmurs all blending into oi\e deep groan — and to the eye, 
 by a simultaneous motion that ran through the crowd like an electric 
 shock. The place of execution was surrounded by a strong detach- 
 ment of military ; and the carts that conveyed the convicts were also 
 strongly guarded. 
 
 As the prisoners approached the fatal spot, which was within sight 
 of the place where the outrage had been perpetrated, the shrieks and 
 lamentations of their relations and acquaintances were appalling 
 indeed. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins, and all persons 
 to the most remote degree of kindred and acquaintanceship, were 
 present — all excited by the alternate expression of grief and low- 
 breathed vows of retaliation ; not only relations, but all who were 
 connected with them by the bonds of their desperate and illegal oatlis. 
 Every eye, in fact, corruscated with a wild and savage fire, that shot 
 from under brows knit in a spirit that seemed to cry out blood, ven- 
 geance — blood, vengeance. The expression was truly awful, and what 
 rendered it more terrific was the writhing reflection that numbers 
 and physical force were unavailing against a comparatively small body 
 of armed troops. This condensed the fiery impulse of the moment 
 into an expression of subdued rage, that really shot like livid gleams 
 from their visages. 
 
 At length the carts stopped under the gallows ; and, after a short 
 interval spent in devotional exercise, three of the culprits ascended 
 the platform, who, after recommendmg themselves to God, and avow- 
 ing their innocence, although the clearest possible evidence of guilt 
 had been brought against them, were launched into another life, 
 
THE HEDGE SCHOOL. S^ 
 
 among the shrieks and groans of the multitude. The other three then 
 ascended ; two of them either declined or had not strength to address 
 the assembly. The third advanced to the edge of the boards — it was 
 Mat. After two or three efforts to speak, in which he was umuccess- 
 ful from bodily weakness, he at length addressed them as follows : — 
 
 " My friends and good people — In hopes that you may be all able 
 to demonstrate the last proposition laid down by a dying man, I 
 undertake to address you before I depart to that world where Euclid, 
 De Carts, and many other lamed men are gone before me. There is 
 nothing in all philosophy more true than that, as the multiplication 
 fable says, ' two and two makes four ; ' but it is equally veracious and 
 worthy of credit that if you do not abnegate this system that you 
 work the common rules of your proceedings by — if you don't become 
 loyal men, and give up burnin' and murdherin', the solution of it will 
 be found on the gallows. I acknowledge myself to be guilty, for not 
 separatin' myself clane from yees ; we have been all guilty, and may 
 God forgive thim that jist now departed wid a lie in their mouth." 
 
 Here he was interrupted by a volley of execrations and curses, 
 mingled with "stag," "informer," " thraithor to the thrue cause !" 
 which, for some time, compelled him to be silent. 
 
 " You may curse," continued Mat ; " but it's too late now to abscond 
 the truth — the ' su7n ' of my wickedness and folly is worked out, and 
 you see the ' answer? God forgive me, many a young crathur I enticed 
 into the Ribbon business, and now it's to ind in Hemp ! Obey the 
 law ; or, if you don't, you'll find it a lex talionis — the construction of 
 which is, that if a man burns or murdhers, he won't miss hanging ; 
 take warning by me — by us all ; for, although I take God to witness 
 that I was not at the perpetration of the crime that I'm to be sus- 
 pinded for, yet I often connived, when I might have superseded the 
 carrying of such intintions into effectuality, I die in pace wid all the 
 world, save an' except the Findramore people, whom may the male- 
 dictionary execration of a dying man follow into eternal infinity ! 
 
 My manuscription of conic sections " Here an extraordinary buzz 
 
 commenced among the crowd, which rose gradually into a shout of 
 wild, astounding exultation. The sheriff followed the eyes of the 
 multitude, and perceived a horseman dashing with breathless fury up 
 towards the scene of execution. He carried and waved a white hand- 
 kerchief on the end of a rod, and made signals with his hat to stop 
 the execution. He arrived, and brought a full pardon for Mat, and a 
 commutation of sentence to transportation for life for the other two. 
 What became of Mat I know not ; but in Findramore he never dared 
 to appear, as certain death would have been the consequence of his 
 not dying game. With respect to Barny Brady, who kept the shebeen, 
 and was the principal evidence against those who were concerned in 
 this outrage, he was compelled to enact an exteinpore^&^xh. in less than 
 a month afterwards ; having been found dead, with a slip of paper ii» 
 his mouth, inscribed, " This is the fate of all Informers." 
 
52 THE STATION. 
 
 THE STATION. 
 
 UR readers are to suppose the Reverend Philemy M'Guirk, 
 parish priest ot Tir-neer, to be standing upon the aUar of the 
 chapel, facing the congregation, after having gone through the 
 canon of the mass ; and having nothing more of the service to perform 
 than the usual prayers with which he closes the ceremony. 
 
 " Take notice, that the Stations for the following week will be held 
 as follows : — 
 
 " On Monday, in Jack Gallagher'' s, of Corraghnamoddagh. Are 
 you there, Jack ? " 
 
 " To the fore, yer reverence." 
 
 " Why, then. Jack, there's something ominous — something auspi- 
 cious — to happen, or we wouldn't have you here ; for it's very seldom 
 that you make part or parcel of the present congregation ; seldom are 
 you here. Jack, it must be confessed : however, you know the old 
 classical proverb, or \i you don't, / do, which will just answer as well 
 — No}i semper ridit Apollo — it's not every day Mantis kills a bullock ; 
 so, as you are here, be prepared for us on Monday." 
 
 " Never fear, yer reverence, never fear ; I think you ought to know 
 that the grazm' at Corraghnamoddagh's not bad." 
 
 " To do you justice, Jack, the mutton was always good with you, 
 only if you would get it better killed it would be an improvement." 
 
 " Very well, yer reverence, I'll do it." 
 
 " On Tuesday, hi Peter Murlagh's, of the Crooked Commons. Are 
 you there, Peter .-' '* 
 
 " Here, yer reverence." 
 
 " Indeed, Peter, I might know you are here ; and I wish that a 
 great many of my flock would take example by you : if they did, I 
 wouldn't be so far behind in getting in my dues. Well, Peter, I sup- 
 pose you know that this is Michaelmas? " 
 
 " So fat, yer reverence, that they're noi able to wag ; but, any way, 
 Katty has them marked for you — two fine young crathurs, only last 
 year's fowl, and the ducks isn't a taste behind them — she's crammin' 
 them this month past." 
 
 " I believe you, Peter, and I would take your word for more than 
 the condition of the geese — remember me to Katty, Peter." 
 
 " On Wednesday, in Parrah More S levin'' s, of Mullaghfadh. Arc 
 you there, Parrah More.'"' — No answer. " Parrah More Slcvin ? "-- 
 Silence. " Parrah More Slevin, of Mullaghfadh ? "— No reply. " Dan 
 Fagan .'' " 
 
 " Present, sir." 
 
 " Uo you know what keeps that reprobate from mass ? " 
 
 " I bleeve he's takin' advantage, sir, of the frast, to gel in his praties 
 
THE STATION. 53 
 
 to-day, in respect of the bad footin', sir, for the horses in the bog when 
 there's not a frast. Anyhow, betune that and a bit of a sore head that 
 he got, yer reverence, on Thursday last in takin' part wid the O'S'ialla- 
 ghans agin the Bradys, I beheve he had to stay away to-day." 
 
 " On the Sabbath day, too, without my leave ! Well, tell him from 
 me that I'll make an example of him to the whole parish, if he doesn't 
 attend mass better. Will the Bradys and the O'Scallaghans never be 
 tione with their quarrelling ? I protest, if they don't live like Christians 
 I'll read them out from the altar. Will you tell Parrah More that I'll 
 hold a station in his house on next Wednesday ?" 
 
 " I will, sir ; I will, yer reverence." 
 
 " On T/mrsday, in Pliaddhy Slieeinus Phaddhy's, of the Esker, Are 
 you there, Phaddhy ? " 
 
 " Wid the help of God, I'm here, sir." 
 
 " Well, Phaddhy, how is yer son Briney, that's at the Latin ? I hope 
 he's coming on well at it .'' " 
 
 " Why, sir, he's not more nor a year and a half at it yet, and he's 
 got more books amost nor he can carry — he'll break me buying books 
 for him." 
 
 "Well, that's a good sign, Phaddhy, but why don't you bring him to 
 me till I examine him ? " 
 
 " Why, never a one of me can get him to go, sir, he's so much 
 afeard of your reverence." 
 
 " Well, Phaddhy, we were once modest and bashful ourselves, and 
 I'm glad to hear that he's afraid of his clarf;yj but let him be prepared 
 for me on Thursday, and maybe I'll let him know something he never 
 heard before ; I'll give him a Rlaynooth touch."" 
 
 " Do you hear that, Briney," said the father, aside, to the son, who 
 knelt at his knee — " ye must give up yer hurling and idling now, you 
 see. Thank yer reverence, thank you, docthor." 
 
 " On Friday, in Barny O'Darby's, alias Bartiy Butter's. Are you 
 there, Barny? " 
 
 " All that's left of me is here, sir." 
 
 " Well, Barny, how is the butter trade this season ? " 
 
 " It's a little on the rise now, sir ; in a month or so I'm expecting it 
 will be brisk enough ; Boney, sir, is doing that much for us, any way." 
 
 "Ay, and Barny, he'll do more than that for us : God prosper him 
 at all events — I only hope the time's coming, Barny, when everyone 
 will be able to eat his own butter and his own beef, too." 
 
 " God send it, sir." 
 
 " Well, Barny, I didn't hear from your brother Ned these two or 
 three months ; what has become of him .'' " 
 
 " Ah, yer reverence, Pentland done him up." 
 
 " What ! the gauger } " 
 
 "He did, the thief; but maybe he'll sup sorrow for it afore he's 
 much oulder." 
 
 " And who do you think informed, Barny ? " 
 
 " Oh, I only wish we knew that, sir." 
 
 " I wish / knew it ; and if I thought any miscreant her would 
 
 (2) c 
 
54 7HR STA TIOS\ 
 
 become an informer I'd make an example c/ him. Well, Barny, on 
 Friday next ; but I suppose Ned has a drop still — eh, Barny?" 
 
 " Why, sir, we'll be apt to have something stronger norwather, any- 
 how." 
 
 " Very well, Barny : your family was always a daccnt and spirited 
 family, I'll say that for them : but tell me, Barny, did you begin to dam 
 the river yet ? ^ I think the trouts and eels are running by this time." 
 
 "The creels are made, yer reverence, though we did not set them 
 yet ; but on Tuesday night, sir, wid the help o' God, we'll be ready." 
 
 " You can corn the trouts, Barny, and the eels too ; but, should you 
 catch nothing, go to Pat Hartigan, Captain Sloethorn's gamekeeper, and 
 if you tell him it's for me, he'll drag you a batch out of the fish-pond." 
 
 " Ah ! then, yer reverence, it's 'imself that 'ill do that wid a heart 
 an' a half." 
 
 Such was the conversation which took place between the Reverend 
 IMiilemy M'Guirk and those of his parishioners in whose houses he 
 had appointed to hold a series of stations for the week ensuing the 
 Sunday laid in this our account of that hitherto undescribed portion of 
 the Romish discipline. 
 
 Now, the reader is to understand that a station in this sense differs 
 from a station made to any peculiar spot remarkable for local sanctity. 
 There, a station means the performance of a pilgrimage to a certain 
 place, under peculiar circumstances, and the going through a stated 
 number of prayers and other penitential ceremonies, for the purpose 
 of wiping out sin in this life, or of relieving the soul of some relation 
 from the pains of purgatory in the other ; here, it simply means the 
 coming of the parish priest and his curate to some house in the town- 
 land, on a day publicly announced from the altar for that purpose on 
 the preceding Sabbath. 
 
 This is done to give those who live within the district in which the 
 station is held an opportunity oi coming tc their duty, as frequenting 
 the ordinance of confession is emphatically called. Those who attend 
 confession in this manner once a year are considered merely to have 
 done their duty ; it is expected, however, that they should approach 
 the tribunal, as it is termed, at least twice during that period — that is, 
 at the two great feasts of Christmas and Easter. The observance or 
 omission of this rite among Roman Catholics establishes, in a great 
 degree, the nature of individual character. The man who frequents 
 his duty will seldom be pronounced a bad man, let his conduct and 
 his principles be what they may in other respects ; and he who neglects 
 it is looked upon by those who attend it as in a state little short of 
 reprobation, no matter how correct or religious he may be, either in 
 public or private life. 
 
 ' It is usual among the peasantry to form, about Michaelmas, small artificial 
 cascades, called dams, under which they place long deep wicker creels, shaped 
 like inverted cones, for the purpose of securing the fish that are now on their 
 return to the large rivers, after havine; deposited their spawn in the higher and 
 remoter streams. It is surprising what a number of fish, particularly of eels, are 
 caught in this manner — sometimes from one barrel to three in the course of a 
 tingle night 1 
 
llfE STATION. 55 
 
 When the " giving out " of the stations was over, and a few more 
 jests were broken by his rever'^oce, to which the congregation paid 
 the tribute of a general and uproarious laugh, he turnerf round on his 
 heel, and with the greatest sajig froid resumed the performance of the 
 mass, whilst his " flock " began to finger their beads with faces as 
 grave as if nothing of the kind had occurred. When mass was 
 finished, and the holy water sprinkled upon the people, ott of a tub 
 carried by the mass-server through the chapel for that purpose, the 
 priest gave them a fine Latin benediction, and they dispersed. 
 
 Now, of the four individuals in whose houses the " stations " were 
 appointed to be held, we will select Phaddhy Sheefnits Phaddhy for our 
 purpose ; and this we do because it was the first time in which a station 
 was ever kept in his house, and consequently Phaddhy and his wife 
 had to undergo the initiatory ceremony of entertaining Father Philemy 
 and his curate, the Reverend Coti UPCoul, at dinner. 
 
 Phaddhy Sheemiis Phaddhy had been, until a short time before the 
 period in question, a very poor man ; but a little previous to that event 
 a brother of his, who had no children, died very rich — that is, for a 
 farmer — and left him his property, or, at least, the greater part of it. 
 While Phaddhy was poor it was surprising what little notice he excited 
 from his reverence; in fact, I have heard him acknowledge that 
 during all the days of his poverty he never got a nod of recognition 
 or kindness from Father Philemy, although he sometimes did, he said, 
 from Father Con, his curate, who honoured him on two occasions so 
 far as to challenge him to a bout at throwing the shoulder-stone, and 
 once to a leaping match, at both of which exercises Father Con, but 
 for the superior power of Phaddhy, had been unrivalled. 
 
 "It was an unlucky day to him," said Phaddhy, " that he went to 
 challenge me, at all at all ; for I was the only man that ever bate him, 
 and he wasn't able to hould up his head in the parish for many a day 
 afther." 
 
 As soon, however, as Phaddy became a man of substance one 
 would almost think that there had been a secret relationship between 
 his good fortune and Father Philemy's memory ; for, on their first 
 meeting after Phaddhy's getting the property, the latter shook him 
 most cordially by the hand — a proof that, had not his recollection 
 been as much improved as Phaddhy's circumstances, he could by no 
 means have remembered him ; but this is a failing in the memory of 
 many, as well as in that of Father Philemy. Phaddhy, however, was 
 no Domiell, to use his own expression, and saw as far into a deal 
 board as another man. 
 
 "And so, Phaddhy," said the priest, " how are all your family? — six 
 you have, I think ? " 
 
 " Four, yer rev'rence, only four," said Phaddhy, winking at Tim 
 Dillon, his neighbour, who happened to be present — " three boys an' 
 one girl." 
 
 " Bless my soul, and so it is, indeed, Phaddhy, and I ought to know 
 it ; and how is your wife Sarah ? — I mean, I hope Mrs. Sheemus 
 Phaddhy is well : by-the-by, is that old complaint of her's gone yet ?— 
 
56 THE STATION. 
 
 a pain in the stomach, I think it was, that used to trouble her— I hope 
 in God, Phaddhy, she's getting over it, poor thing. Indeed, I remem- 
 ber telling her, last Easter, when she came to her duty, to eat oaten 
 bread and butter with water-grass every morning, fasting; it cured 
 myself of the same complaint." 
 
 " Why, thin, I'm very much obliged to your rev'rence for purscribin' 
 for her," replied Phaddhy ; " for, sure enough, she has neither pain 
 nor ache at the present time, for the best rason in the world, docthor 
 that she'll be dead jist seven years, if God spares yer rev'rence an' 
 myself till to-morrow fortnight, about five o'clock in the mornin'." 
 
 This was more than father I'hilemy could stand with a good 
 conscience, so, after getting himself out of the dilemma as well as he 
 could, he shook Phaddhy again very cordially by the hand, saying, 
 " Well, good-bye, Phaddhy, and God be good to poor Sarah's soul — I 
 now remember her funeral, sure enough, and a dacent one it was, for 
 indeed she was a woman that had everybody's good word — and, 
 between you and me, she made a happy death, that's as far as we can 
 judge here ; for, after all, there may be danger, Phaddhy, there 
 maybe danger, you understand — however, it's your own business, and 
 your duty, too, to think of that ; but I believe you're not the man 
 that would be apt to forget her." 
 
 " Phaddhy, ye thief o' the world," said Tim Dillon, when Father 
 Philemy was gone, " there's no comin' up to ye ; how could you make 
 sich a fool of his rev'rence as to tell 'im that Katty was dead, an' that 
 you had ony four childher, an' you has eleven o' them, an' the wife in 
 good health ? " 
 
 " Why, jist, Tim," replied Phaddhy, with his usual shrewdness, "to 
 tachc his rev'rence himself to practise truth a little : if he didn't know 
 that I got the stockin' of guineas and the Lisnaskey farm by my 
 brother Barny's death, div ye think that he'd notish me at all at all.'' 
 — not himself, avick ; an' maybe he won't be afther comin' round to 
 me for a sack of my best oats, instead of the bushel I used to give 
 him, and houldin' a couple of stations wid me every year." 
 
 " But won't he go mad when he hears you tould him nothing but lies .'' " 
 
 " Not now, Tim," answered Phaddhy — " not now ; thank God, I'm 
 not a poor man, an' he'll keep his tcmuer. I'll warrant you the horse- 
 whip won't be up now, although, afore this, I wouldn't say but it might 
 — though the poorest day- 1 ever was, id's myself that wouldn't let a 
 priest or friar lay a horsewhip to my back, an' that j'<7« know, Tim." 
 
 Phaddhy's sagacity, however, was correct ; for, a short time after 
 this conversation. Father Philemy, when collecting his oats, gave him 
 a call, laughed heartily at the sham account of Katty's death, examined 
 young Brineyin his Latin, who was called after his uncle — pronounced 
 him very acte., and likely to become a great scholar — promised his 
 interest with the bishop to get him into Maynooth, and left the family, 
 after having shaken hands with, and stroked down the heads of, all the 
 children. 
 
 When Phaddhy, on the Sunday in question, heard the public notice 
 given of the station about to be held in his house, notwithstanding his 
 
THE STATION. 5" 
 
 correct knowledge of Father Philemy's character, on which h*. looked 
 with a competent portion of contempt, he felt a warmth of pride 
 about his heart that arose from the honour of having a station, and of 
 entvjrtaining the clergy in their official capacity, under his owr roof 
 and at his own expense, that gave him, he thought, a personal conse- 
 quence which even the "stockin' of guineas " and the Linsaskey farm 
 were unable, of themselves, to confer upon him. He did enjoy, 'tis 
 true, a very fair proportion of happiness on succeeding to his brother's 
 property : but this would be a triumph over the envious and ill- 
 natured remarks which several of his neighbours and distant relations 
 had taken the liberty of indulging in against him on the occasion of 
 his good fortune. He left the chapel, therefore, in good spirits, whilst 
 Briney, on the contrary, hung a lip of more melancholy pendency than 
 usual, in dread apprehension of the examination that he expected to 
 be inflicted on him by his reverence at the station. 
 
 Before I introduce the conversation which took place between 
 Phaddhy and Briney as they went home on the subject of this literary 
 ordeal, I must observe that there is a custom, hereditary in some Irish 
 families, of calling fathers by their Christian names instead of by the 
 usua' appellation of " father." This usage was observed, not only by 
 Phaddhy and his son, but by all the Phaddhys of that family gener- 
 ally. Their surname was Doraii, but in consequence of the great 
 numbers in that part of the country who bore the same name, it was 
 necessary, as of old, to distinguish the several branches of it by the 
 Christian names of their fathers and grandfathers, and sometimes 
 this distinction went as far back as the great grandfather. For 
 instance — Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy, meant Phaddhy the son of 
 Sheemus, the son of Phaddhy : and his son, Briney, was called 
 Brian Phaddhy Sheemus Phaddhy, or anglicc, Bernard the son of 
 Patrick, the son of James, the son of Patrick. But the custom of 
 children calling fathers, in a vitui voce manner, by their Christian 
 names, was independent of the other more general usage of the 
 patronymic. 
 
 " Well, Briney," said Phaddhy, as the father and son returned home, 
 cheek by jowl, from the chapel, " I suppose Father Philemy will go 
 very deep in the Latin wid ye on Thursday ; do ye think ye'll be able 
 to answer him ? " 
 
 " Why, Phaddhy," replied Briney, " how could / be able to answer 
 a clargy .'' — doesn't he know all the languages, and Pm only in the 
 FibulcB ^^siopii yet." 
 
 " Is that Latin or Greek, Briney?" 
 
 " It's Latin, Phaddhy." 
 
 " And what's the translation of that t " 
 
 " It signifies the Fables of ^siopius." 
 
 " Bliss my sowl ! and, Briney, did ye consther that out of yer own 
 head ? " 
 
 " Hogh ! that's little of it. If ye war to hear me consther Galius 
 Callinaceus, a dunghill cock ! " 
 
 "And, Briney, are ye in Greek at all yet ?" 
 
S8 THE .STATION. 
 
 " No, Phaddhy, I'll not be in Greek till I'm in Virgil and Horace, 
 and thin I'll be near finished." 
 
 " And how Ion j will it be till that, Briney ? " 
 
 " Why, Phaddhy, ye know I'm only a year and a half at the Latia 
 and in two years more I'll be in the Greek?" 
 
 "Do ye think will ye ever be as larned as Father Philemy, 
 Briney?" 
 
 " Don't ye know whin I'm a clargy I will ; but I'm only a lignum 
 sacerdotis yet, Phaddhy." 
 
 " What's ligdu7n saiicerdoaiis, Briney ? " 
 
 "A block of a priest, Phaddhy." 
 
 " Now, Briney, I suppose Father Philemy knows everything?" 
 
 " Ay, to be sure he does ; all the languages that's spoken through 
 the world, Phaddhy." 
 
 "And must all the priests know them, Briney? — how many are 
 they?" 
 
 " Seven — sartinly, every priest must know them, or how could they 
 lay the divil, if he'd spake to them in a tongue they couldn't under- 
 stand, Phaddhy ? " 
 
 '' Ah, I declare, Briney, I see it now ; ony for that, poor Father 
 Philip, the heavens be his bed, wouldn't be able to lay ould Warnock, 
 thSt haunted Squire Sloethorn's stables." 
 
 "Is that when the two horses was stole, Phaddhy ?" 
 
 " The very time, Briney ; but God be thanked, Father Philip 
 settled him to the day of judgment." 
 
 "And where did he put him, Phaddy ?" 
 
 " Why, he wanted to be put anundher the hearth-stone ; but Father 
 Philip made him walk away with himself into a thumb-bottle, and tied 
 a stone to it, and then sent him to where he got a cooling, the thief, at 
 the bottom of the lough behind the house." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what I'm thinking I'll be apt to do, Phaddy, 
 when I'm a clargy." 
 
 "And what is that, Briney?" 
 
 " Why, I'll but, Phaddhy, don't be talking of this, bekase, if it 
 
 should come to be known, I might get my brains knocked out by some 
 of the heretics." 
 
 " Never fear, Briney ; there's no danger oS. that. But what is it?" 
 
 " Why, I'll translate all the Protestants into asses, and then we'll 
 get our hands red of them altogether." 
 
 " Well, that flogs for cuteness, and it's a wondher the clargy ^ 
 doesn't do it, and them has the power ; for 'twould give us pace 
 entirely. But, Briney, will you spake in Latin to Father Philemy oq 
 Thursday ? " 
 
 "To tell you the thruth, Phaddhy, I would rather he wouldn't examine 
 me this bout, at all at all." 
 
 " Ay, but you know we couldn't go agin him, Briney, bekase lie 
 
 > I have no liesit.ition in assertinsj that the hulk of the Irish peasantry rea'JV 
 tx-lieve tliat the komish priests have this power. 
 
THE STA TION. 59 
 
 promised to get you into the college. Will you spake some Latin now 
 till I hear you ? " 
 
 "Hem! — Verbii7n personaley cohairit cum nomftaiibo nuvtbera at 
 parsona at nuqumain sera yeast at bonis moras voia." 
 
 " Bless my heart ! — and, Briney, where's that taken from ?" 
 
 •' From Syntax, Phaddhy." 
 
 " And who was Shintax — do you know, Briney ? " 
 
 ** He was a Roman, Phaddhy, bekase there's a Latin prayer in the 
 beginning of the book." 
 
 "Ay, was he? — a priest, I'll warrant him. Well, Briney, do you 
 mind yer Latin, and get on wid your larnin', and when you grow up 
 you'll have a pair of boots, and a horse of your own (and a good broad- 
 cloth black coat, too) to ride on, every bit as good as fathe»- Philemy's, 
 and maybe betther nor Father Con's." 
 
 From this point, which usually wound up these colloquies between 
 the father and son, the conversation usually diverged into the more 
 spacious fields of science ; so that, by the time they reached home, 
 Briney had probably given the father a learned dissertation upon the 
 elevation of the clouds above the earth, and told him within how 
 many thousand miles they approached it at their nearesc point of 
 approximation. 
 
 " Katty," said Phaddhy, when he got home, " we're to have a station 
 here on Thursday next ; 'twas given out from the altar to-day by 
 Father Philemy." 
 
 " Oh, wurrah, wurrah ! " exclaimed Katty, overwhelmed at the con- 
 sciousness of her own incapacity to get up a dinner in sufficient style 
 for such guests — " wurrah, wurrah ! Phaddhy, ahagur, what on the 
 livin' earth will we do, at all at all ! Why, we'll nevCi.' be able to 
 manage it." 
 
 " Arrah why, Katty, woman ; what do they want but their skinful to 
 eat and dhrink, and I'm sure we're able to allow them that, any way ! " 
 
 " Arrah, bad manners to me, but you're enough to vex a saint 
 — * their skinful to eat and dhrink ! ' — you common crathur, you, to 
 spake that-a-way of the clargy, as if it was ourselves or the labourers 
 you war spaking of." 
 
 " Ay, and aren't we every bit as good as they are, if you go to 
 that ? — haven't we sowls to be saved as well as themselves ? " 
 
 " * As good as they are ! ' As good as the clargy ! ! Mattum a yea, 
 agus a wurrah ! ^ — listen to what he says ! Phaddhy, take care of 
 yourself. You've got rich now ; but, for all that, take care of your- 
 self. You had better not bring the priest's ill-will or his bad heart 
 upon us. You know they never thruv that had it ; and maybe it's a 
 short time your riches might stay wid you, or maybe it's a short time 
 you might staj wid them : at any rate, God forgive you, and I hope 
 He will, for makin' use of sich unsanctified words to your lawful clargy." 
 
 " Well, but what do you intind to do ? or what do you think of 
 getting for them?" inquired Phaddy. 
 
 ' My soul to Go>l and the Virgin I 
 
6o THE STATION. 
 
 " Indeed, it's very little matther wha^ 1 get for them, or what I'll do 
 cither — sorrow one of myself cares almost : for a man in his senses, 
 that ought to know better, to make use of such low language about 
 the blessed and holy crathurs, that hasn't a stain of sin about them no 
 more than the child unborn ! " 
 
 ''^o you think?" 
 
 " So / think ! ay, and it would be betther for you that you thought 
 so, too ; but ye don't know what's before ye yet, Phaddhy ; and now, 
 take warnin' in time, and mend your life." 
 
 " Why, what do you see wrong in my life ? Am I a drunkard ? am I 
 lazy ? did ever I neglect my business ? was I ever bad to you or to the 
 childher ? didn't I always give yees yer fill to ate, and kept yees as 
 well clad as yer neighbours that was richer ? don't I go on my knees, 
 too, every night and morning ? " 
 
 " That's true enough ; but what signifies it all ? When did ye cross 
 a priest's foot to go to your duty ? Not for the last five years, Phaddhy 
 — not since poor Torly (God be good to him) died of the mazlcs, and 
 that'll be five years a fortnight before Christmas." 
 
 " And what are you the betther of all yer confessions ? did they ever 
 mend yer temper, avourneen ? No, indeed, Katty, but you're ten times 
 worse tempered coming back from the priest than before ye go to him." 
 
 " Oh, Phaddhy ! Phaddhy ! God look down upon you this day, or 
 any man that's in yer hardened state — I see there's no use in spaking 
 to you, for you'll still be the ould cut." 
 
 " Ay, will I ; so yoL' may as well give up talking about it. Arrah, 
 woman ! " said Phaddhy, raising his voice, " who cloes it ever make 
 betther— show me a man now, in all the neighbourhood, that's a pin- 
 point the holier of it ? Isn't there Jemmy Shields, that goes to his 
 duty wanst a month, malivogues his wife and family this minute, and 
 then claps them to a Rosary the next ; but the ould boy's a thrifle to 
 him of a fast day, afther coming from the priest. Betune ourselves, 
 Katty, you're not much behind him." 
 
 Katty made no reply to this, but turned up her eyes, and crossed 
 herself, at the wickedness of her unmanageable husband. 
 
 " Well, Briney," said she, turning abruptly to the son, " don't take 
 patthern by that man, if you expect to do any good ; let him be a 
 warning to you to mind yer duty, and respect yer clargy — and prepare 
 yerself, now that I think of it, to go to Father Philemy or Father Con 
 on Thursday : but don't be said or led by that man, for I'm sure I 
 dunno how he intinds to face the man above when he laves this world 
 — and to keep from his duty, and to spake of his clargy as he does ! " 
 
 There are few men without their weak sides. Phaddhy, although 
 the priests were never very much his favourites, was determined to 
 give what he himself called a let-out on this occasion, simply to show 
 his ill-natured neighbours that, notwithstanding their unfriendly re- 
 marks, he knew " what it was to be daccnt," as well as his betters and 
 Katty seconded him in his resolution, from her profound veneration 
 lor the clargy. 
 
 Every preparation was accordingly entered into, and every plan 
 
THE STATION. 6i 
 
 adopted, that could possibly be twisted into a capability of contributing 
 to the entertainment of Fathers Philemy and Con. 
 
 One of those large round stercoraceous nosegays, that, like many 
 other wholesome plants, make up by odour what is wanting in floral 
 beauty, and which lay rather too contagious, as Phaddhy expressed 
 it, to the door of his house, was transplanted by about half a doz*^n 
 labourers and as many barrows, in the course of a day or two, to a bed 
 some yards distant from the spot of its first growth ; because, without 
 any reference whatsoever to the nasal sense, it was considered that it 
 might be rather an eye-sore to their reverences on approaching the 
 door. Several concave inequalities, which constant attrition had worn 
 in the earthen floor of the kitchen, were filled up with blue clay, 
 brought on a car from the bank of a neighbouring river for the pur- 
 pose. The dresser, chairs, tables, pots, and pans all underwent a 
 rigour of discipline, as if some remarkable event was about to occur ; 
 nothingless, it must be supposed, than a complete domestic revolution, 
 and a new state of things. Phaddhy himself cut two or three large 
 furze bushes, and, sticking them on the end of a pitchfork, attempted 
 to sweep down the chimney. For this purpose he mounted on the 
 back of a chair, that he might be able to reach the top with more 
 ease ; but, in order that his footing might be firm, he made one of the 
 ser 'ant-men sit upon the chair to keep it steady during the operation. 
 Unfortunately, however, it so happened that this man was needed to 
 assist in removing a meal chest to another part of the house ; this was 
 under Katty's superintendence, who, seeing the fellow sit rather more 
 at his ease than she thought the hurry and importance of the occasion 
 permitted, called him, with a little of her usual sharpness and energy, 
 to assist in removing the chest. For some reason or other, which it is 
 not necessary to mention here, the fellow bounced from his seat in 
 obedience to the shrill tones of Katty, and the next moment Phaddhy 
 (who was in a state of abstraction in the chimney, and totally uncon- 
 scious of what was going forward below) made a descent decidedly 
 contrary to the nature of that which most aspirants would be inclined 
 to relish. A severe stun, however, was the most serious injury he 
 received oi his own part, and several round oaths, with a good drub- 
 bing, fell to the servant ; but unluckily he left the furze bush behind 
 him in the highest and narrowest p art of the chimney ; and were it not 
 that an active fellow succeeded in d ragging it up from the outside of the 
 roof, the chimney ran c jnsiderable risk, as Katty said, of being choked. 
 
 But along with the lustration which every fixture within the house 
 was obliged to undergo, it was necessary that all the youngsters 
 should get new clothes ; and for this purpose Jemmy Lynch, the 
 tailor, with his two journeymen and three apprentices, were sent for in 
 all haste, that he might fit Phaddh y and each of his six sons in suits, 
 from a piece of home-made frieze, which Katty did not intend to break 
 up till " towarst Christmas ." 
 
 A station is no common event, and accordingly the web was cut up, 
 and the tailor left a wedding-suit half-made, belonging to Edy Dolan, 
 3 thin old bachelor, who took it into his head to try his hand at be- 
 
62 THE STATION. 
 
 coming a husband ere he'd die. As soon as Jemmy and his train 
 arrived, a door was taken off the hinges, and laid on the floor, for 
 himself to sit upon, and a new drugget quilt was spread beside it for 
 his journeymen and apprentices. With nimble fingers they plied the 
 needle and thread, and when night came a turf was got, into which 
 was stuck a piece of rod, pointed at one end and split at the other ; 
 the "white candle," slipped into a shaving of the fringe that was 
 placed in the cleft end of the stick, was then lit, whilst many a 
 pleasant story, told by Jemmy, who had been once in Dublin for six 
 weeks, delighted the circle of lookers-on that sat around them. 
 
 At length the day previous to the important one arrived. Hitherto, 
 all hands had contributed to make everything in and about the house 
 look " dacent : " scouring, washing, sweeping, pairing, and repairing 
 had been all disposed of. The boys got their hair cut to the quick 
 with the tailor's scissors ; and such of the girls as were not full grown 
 got only that which grew on the upper part of the head taken off by a 
 cut somewhat resembling the clerical tonsure, so that they looked 
 extremely wild and unsettled, with their straight locks projecting over 
 their ears ; everything, therefore, of the less important arrangements 
 had been gone through — but the weighty and momentous concern was 
 as yet unsettled. 
 
 This was the feast ! and alas ! never was the want of experience 
 more strongly felt than here. Katty was a bad cook, even to a 
 proverb ; and bore so indifferent a character in the country for clean- 
 liness that very few would undertake to eat her butter : indeed, she 
 was called Katty Sallagli ^ on this account. However, this prejudice, 
 whether ill or well founded, was wearing fast away since Phaddhy had 
 succeeded to the stocking of guineas and the Lisnaskey farm. It 
 might be, indeed, that her former poverty helped her neighbours to 
 see this blemish more clearly : but the world is so seldom in the habit 
 of judging people's qualities or failings through this medium that the 
 supposition is rather doubtful. Be this as it may, the arrangements 
 for the breakfast and dinner must be made. There was plenty of 
 bacon, and abundance of cabbages — eggs ad vifinitum — oaten and 
 wheaten bread in piles — turkeys, geese, pullets, as fat as aldermen — 
 cream as rich as Crcesus — and three gallons of poteen, one sparkle of 
 which, as Father Philemy said in the course of the evening, would lay 
 the hairs on St. Francis himself in his most self-negative mood, if he 
 saw it. So far so good : everything excellent and abundant in its way. 
 Still the higher and more refined items — the dclicice epularuvi — must 
 be added. IVIiite bread, and tea, and sugar were yet to be got ; and 
 lump-sugar for the punch ; and a teapot and cups and saucers to be 
 borrowed — and what else .'' Let me see. Yes ; there was boxty bread 
 to be made, to take, if they liked, with their tea ; and for this purpose 
 a number of raw-peeled potatoes were ground upon the rough side of a 
 tin colander, and afterwards put into a sheet (for table-cloths they hcd 
 none), which was twisted in contrary directions by two of the stoutest 
 
 Dirty Katty. 
 
THE STA TION 63 
 
 men about ihe house, until it was shrunk up into a round hard lump 
 in the middle, and made quite dry ; it was then taken and (being 
 mixed with a little flour, and some of Katty's questionable butter) 
 formed into flat cakes, and baked upon the griddle. 
 
 Well, suppose all things disposed for to-morrow's least — suppose 
 Phaddhy himself to have butchered the fowl, because Katty, who was 
 not able to bear the sight of blood, had not the heart to kill " the 
 crathurs ;" and imagine to yourself one of the servant-men taking his 
 red-hot tongs out of the fire, and squeezing a large lump of hog's lard, 
 placed in a grisset, or Kam, on the hearth, to grease all their brogues ; 
 then see in your mind's eye those two fine, fresh-looking girls, slily 
 taking their old rusty fork out of the fire, and going to a bit of three- 
 cornered looking-glass, pasted into a board, or, perhaps, to a pail of 
 water, there to curl up their rich-flowing locks, that had hitherto never 
 known a curl but such as nature gave them. 
 
 On one side of the hob sit two striplings, "thryin' wan another in 
 their catechise," that they may be able to answer, with some credit, 
 to-morrow. On the other hob sits Briney, hard at his Syntax, with 
 the FibulcE Ai^siopii, as he called it, placed open at a particular 
 passage, on the seat under him, with a hope that, when Father Philemy 
 will examine him, the book may open at his favourite fable of the 
 " Callus Gallinaceiis — a dung-hill cock." Phaddhy himself is obliged 
 to fast this day, there being one day of his penance yet unperformed 
 since the last time he was at his duty, which was, as aforesaid, about 
 five years ; and Katty, now that everything is cleaned up and ready, 
 kneels down in a corner to go over her beads, rocking herself in a 
 placid silence that is only broken by an occasional malediction against 
 the servants, or the cat, when it attempts the abduction of one of the 
 dead fowl. 
 
 The next morning the family were up before the sun, who rubbed his 
 eyes, and swore that he must have overslept himself, on seeing such a 
 merry column of smoke dancing over Phaddhy's chimney. A large 
 wooden dish was placed upon the threshold of the kitchen door, filled 
 with water, in which, with a trencher of oatmeal for soap, they succes- 
 sively scrubbed their faces and hands to some purpose. In a short 
 time afterwards Phaddhy and the sons were cased, stiff and awkward, 
 in their new suits, with the tops of their fingers just peeping over the 
 sleeve cuffs. The horses in the stable were turned out to the fields, 
 being obliged to make room for their betters, that were soon expected 
 under the reverend bodies of Father Philemy and his curate ; whilst 
 about half a bushel of oats was left in the manger, to regale them on 
 their arrival. Li^.tle Richard Maguire was sent down to the fii'e-acres 
 with the pigs, on purpose to keep them from about the house, they not 
 being supposed fit company at a set dinner. A roaring turf fire, which 
 blazed two yards up the chimney, had been put down ; on this was 
 placed a large pot, filled with water for the tea, because they had no 
 kettie. 
 
 By this time the morning was tolerably advanced, and the neigh- 
 bours were beginning to arrive in twos and threes, to wipe out old 
 
64 THE STATION. 
 
 scores. Katty had sent several of the gorsoons " to sec if they cojld 
 see any sight of the clargy," but hitherto their reverences were in- 
 visible. At length, after several fruitless embassies of this description, 
 Father Con was seen jogging along on his easy-going hack, engaged 
 in the perusal of his Office^ previous to his ccmmencing the duties of 
 the day. As soon as his approach was announced, a chair was imme- 
 diately placed for him in a room off the kitcl en — the parlour, such as 
 it was, having been reserved for Father Phiiemy himself, as the place 
 of greater honour. This was an arrangement, however, which went 
 against the grain of Phaddhy, who, had he got his will, would have 
 established Father Con in the most comfortable apartmerit of the 
 house : but that old vagabond, human nature, is the same under all 
 circumstances — or, as Katty would have (in her own phraseology) 
 expressed it, " still the ould cut " — for even there the influence of rank 
 and elevation was sufficient to throw merit into the shade ; and the 
 parlour seat was allotted to Father Phiiemy, merely for being parish 
 priest, although it was well known that he could not " tare off" mass 
 in half the time that Father Con could ; could not throw a sledge, or 
 shoulder-stone, within a perch of him, nor scarcely clear a street- 
 channel, whilst the latter could jump one-and-tw^enty feet at a running 
 leap. But these are rubs which men of merit must occasionally bear ; 
 and, when exposed to them, they must only rest satisfied in the con- 
 sciousness of their own deserts. 
 
 From the moment that Father Con became visible the conversation 
 of those who were collected iu 5>tiaddhy's dropped gradually, as he 
 approached the house, into a silence which was only broken by an 
 occasional short observation, made by one or two of those who were 
 in habits of the greatest familiarity with the priest ; but when they 
 heard the noise of his horse's feet near the door, the silence became 
 general and uninterrupted. 
 
 There can scarcely be a greater contrast in anything than that 
 presented by the beginning of a station-day and its close. In the 
 morning the faces of those who are about to confess present an ex- 
 pression in which terror, awe, guilt, and veneration may be easily 
 traced ; but in the evening all is mirth and jollity. Before confession 
 every man's memory is employed in running over the catalogue of 
 crimes, as they are to be found in the prayer-books, under the ten 
 commandments, the seven deadly sins, the Coiiiniandinents of the 
 Church, the four sins that cry to heaven for vengeance, and the seven 
 sins against the Holy Ghost. How is it possible, therefore, that a 
 man who is thus engaged in endeavouring to recollect and classify 
 his individual offences, can possibly feel sincere sorrow, or the fear of 
 God? According to the constitution of the human mind it cannot be 
 done. 
 
 It is wrong to say that the Roman Catholic peasantry go sponta' 
 nco7isly to comply with this unnatural rite : in many instances, it is 
 true, they do ; but they generally approach it with terror and the 
 most unequivocal reluctance ; and nothing but the strange and super- 
 •titious belief that the priests can absolve tliem from the guilt of theii 
 
THE STATION. 65 
 
 individual sins, how black and enormous soever they may be, induces 
 them to go at all. 
 
 When Father Con arrived, Phaddhy and Katty were instantly at the 
 door to welcome him. 
 
 " Mus/ia, cead milliah failtha ghud, to our house, Father Con, 
 avourneen ! " said Katty, dropping him a low curtsy, and spreading 
 her new brown quilted petticoat as far out un each side of her as it 
 would go. " Musha, and it's you that's welcome from my heart out." 
 
 " I thank you," said honest Con, who, as he knew not her name, 
 did not pretend to know it. 
 
 " Well, Father Con," said Phaddhy, " this is the first time you have 
 ever come to us this-a-way ; but, plase God, it won't be the last, I hope." 
 
 " I hope not, Phaddhy," said Father Con, who, notwithstanding his 
 simplicity of character, loved a good dinner in the very core of his 
 heart, " I hope not, indeed, Phaddhy," 
 
 He then threw his eye about the premises, to see what point he 
 might set his temper to during the remainder of the day ; for it is 
 right to inform our readers that a priest's temper, at a station, 
 generally rises or falls according to the prospect of his cheer. 
 
 Here, however, a little vista, or pantry, jutting out from the kitchen, 
 and left ostentatiously open, presented him with a view which made 
 his very nose curl with kindness. What it contained we do not 
 pretend to say, not having seen it ourselves ; we judge, therefore, 
 only by its effects upon his physiognomy. 
 
 " Why, Phaddhy," he says, " this is a very fine house you've got 
 over you," throwing his eye again towards a wooden buttress which 
 supported one of the rafters that was broken. 
 
 '' Why then, your riverence, it would not be a bad one," Phaddhy 
 replied, " if it had a new roof and new side-walls ; and I intend to 
 get both next summer, if God spares me till then." 
 
 " Then, upon my word, if it had new side- walls, a new roof, and 
 new gavels, too," replied Father Con, "it would certainly look a great 
 deal the better for it ; and do you intend to get them next summer, 
 Phaddhy?" 
 
 " If God spares me, sir." 
 
 " Are all these fine gorsoons yours, Phaddhy ? " 
 
 " Why, so Katty says, your reverence," replied Phaddhy, with a 
 good-humoured laugh. 
 
 " Haven't you got one of them for the Church, Phaddhy.?" 
 
 " Yes, your reverence, there's one of them that I hope will live to 
 have the robes upon him. Come over, Briney, and speak to Fathei 
 Con, He's not very far in his Latin yet, sir ; but his master tells me 
 that he hasn't the likes of him in his school for brightness — Briney, 
 will you come over, I say ; come over, sirrah, and spake to the 
 gintleman, and him wants to shake hands wid you — come up, man, 
 what are you afeard of.? — sure Father Con's not going to examine 
 you now." 
 
 " No, no, Briney," said Father Con ; " I'm not about to examine 
 you at present." 
 
66 THE STATION. 
 
 " He's a little dashed, yer reverence, bekase he thought you war 
 going to put him through some of his Latin," said the father, bringing 
 him up like a culprit to Father Con, who shook hands with him, and, 
 after a few questions as to the books he read, and his progress, 
 dismissed him. 
 
 "But, Father Con, wid submission," said Katty, "where's Father 
 Philemy from us? — sure, we expected him along wid you, and he 
 wouldn't go to disappoint us." 
 
 " Oh, you needn't fear that, Katty," replied Father Con— "he'll be 
 here presently — before breakfast, I'll engage for him, at any rate ; 
 but he had a touch of a headache this morning, and wasn't able to 
 rise so early as I was." 
 
 During this conversation a little crowd collected about the door of 
 the room in which he was to hear the confessions, each struggling 
 and fighting to get the first turn ; but here, as in the more important 
 concerns of this world, the weakest went to the wall. He now went 
 into the room, and, taking Katty herself first, the door was closed 
 upon them, and he gave her absolution ; and thus he continued to 
 confess and absolve them, one by one, until breakfast. 
 
 Whenever a station occurs in Ireland, a crowd of mendicants and 
 other strolling impostors seldom fail to attend it ; on this occasion, at 
 least, they did not. The day, though frosty, was fine ; and the door 
 was surrounded by a train of this description, including both sexes, 
 some sitting on stones, some on stools, with their blankets rolled up 
 under them ; and others, more ostensibly devout, on their knees, 
 hard at prayer, which, lest their piety might escape notice, our 
 readers may be assured they did not offer up in silence. On one 
 side you might observe a sturdy fellow, with a pair of tattered urchins 
 secured to his back by a sheet or blanket pinned across his breast 
 with a long iron skewer, their heads just visible at his shoulders, 
 munching a thick piece of wheaten bread, and the father on his 
 knees, with a huge wooden cross in his hand, repeating his padereens, 
 and occasionally throwing a jolly eye towards the door, or, through 
 the window opposite which he knelt, into the kitchen, as often as any 
 peculiar stir or commotion led him to suppose that breakfast, the 
 loadstar of his devotion, was about to be produced. 
 
 Scattered about the door were knots of these, men and women, 
 occasionally chatting together ; and when the subject of their conver- 
 sation happened to be exhausted, resuming their beads until some 
 new topic would occur, and so on alternately. 
 
 The interior of the kitchen where the neighbours were assembled 
 presented an appearance somewhat more decorous. Andy Lawlor, the 
 mass-server, in whom the priest had the greatest confidence, stood in 
 a corner, examining in their catechism those who intended to confess ; 
 and, if they were able to stand the test he gave them a bit of twisted 
 brown paper as a ticket, and they were received at the tribunal. 
 
 The first question the priest uniformly puts to the penitent is, " Can 
 you repeat the Confiteor?" If the latter answers in the affirmative, 
 he goes on until he comes to the words, vtta ailpa. mea culpa, ttito 
 
THE ST A TION. 67 
 
 7)iaxima culpa, when he stops, it being improper to repeat the 
 remainder until after he has confessed ; but, if he is ignorant of tht 
 Conjiieor, the priest repeats it for him ! and he commences the 
 rehearsal of his offences specifically as they occurred ; and not only 
 does he reveal his individual crimes, but his very thoughts and inten- 
 tions. By this wily regulation our readers may easily perceive that the 
 pen'itent is completely at the mercy of the priest — that all family feuds, 
 quarrels, and secrets are laid open to his eye — that the ruhng passions 
 of men's lives are held up before him, and all the weaknesses and 
 propensities of a corrupt nature, all the unguarded avenues of the 
 human heart and character, are brought within his positive knowledge, 
 and that, too, as they exist in the young and the old, the married and 
 the single, the male and the female. It has been often wondered at, 
 why there is, and has been, such a deplorable prostration of /eason 
 and moral independence before the priesthood of the Church of 
 Rome in the persons of their followers ; but, let me ask, would it not 
 be a greater anomaly were it otherwise ? How is it possible for any 
 individual who throws open the secret corruptions and failings of his 
 heart before the eye of a priest — who puts him in possession of all the 
 crimes and delinquencies of his life — to stand in the confidence of a 
 manly and erect independence before him ? Is it possible that he 
 should be able to look him in the face, or bear the force of his glance ? 
 Under these circumstances, without at all considering the influence 
 produced by the spiritual power with which Roman Catholics believe , 
 the priests to be invested, let us not think it strange that such a 
 melancholy debasement characterises the laity of the Romish Church. 
 
 It was curious to remark the ludicrous expression of temporary 
 sanctity v.'hich was apparent on the countenances of many young men 
 and maidens who were remarkable in the neighbourhood for attending 
 dances and wakes, but who, on the present occasion, were sobered 
 down to a gravity which sat very awkwardly upon them ; particularly 
 in the eyes of those who knew the lightness and drollery of their 
 characters. This, however, was observable only before confession ; 
 for, as soon as " the priest's blessed hand had been over them," their 
 gloom and anxiety passed away, and the thoughtless buoyancy of 
 their natural disposition resumed its influence over their minds. A 
 good-humoured nod, or a sly wink, from a young man to his female 
 acquaintance would now be indulged in ; or, perhaps, a small joke 
 would escape, which seldom failed to produce a subdued laugh from 
 such as had confessed, or an impatient rebuke from those who had 
 not. 
 
 " Tim ! " one would exclaim, " aren't ye ashamed or afeard to get an 
 that-a-way, and his reverence undher the wan roof wid ye ?" 
 
 " Tim, you had better dhrop your joking," a second would observe, 
 "and not be putting us through other, wherein we have our offinces to 
 temimber ; you have got your job over, and now you have nothing to 
 trouble you." 
 
 " Indeed, it's fine behaviour," a third would say, " and you afcher 
 coming from the priest's knee ; and what is more, didn't resave yet ; 
 
68 THE STATION. 
 
 but wait till Father Con appears, and I'll warrant you'll be as •^ ave 
 35 another, for all you're so stout now." 
 
 The conversation would then pass to the merits of FatJier Philemy 
 and Father Con as confessors. 
 
 " Well," one would observe, " for my part I'd rather go to Father 
 Philemy fifty times over than wanst to Father Con, bekase he never 
 axes questions ; but whatever you like to tell him, he hears it, and 
 forgives you at wanst." 
 
 " And so sign's an it," observed another, " he could confess more in 
 a day than Father Con could in a week." 
 
 " But for all that," observed Andy Lawlor, " it's still best to go to 
 the man that puts the questions, you persave, and that won't let the 
 turning of a straw escape him. Whin myself goes to Father Philemy, 
 somehow or other, I totally disremember more nor wan half of what I 
 intinded to tell him, but Father Con misses nothing, for he axes it." 
 
 When the last observation was finished, Father Con. finding that 
 the usual hour for breakfast had arrived, came into the kitchen to 
 prepare for the celebration of mass. For this purpose a table was 
 cleared, and just in the nick of time arrived old Moll Brian, the vest- 
 ment woman, or itinerant sacristan, whose usual occupation was to 
 carry the priests' robes and other apparatus from station to station. 
 In a short time Father Con was surpliced and robed ; Andy Lawlor, 
 whose face was charged with commensurate importance during the 
 ceremony, sarvcd mass, and answered the priest stoutly in Latin, 
 altliough he had not the advantage of understanding that sacerdotal 
 language. Those who had confessed now comniiuiicatedj after 
 which each of them took a draught of water out of a small jug, which 
 was handed round from one to another. The ceremony then closed, 
 and those who had partaken of the sacrament, with the exception of 
 such as were detained for breakfast, after filling their bottles with holy 
 water, went home with a light heart. A little before the m.ass had 
 been finished Father Philemy arrived ; but, as Phaddhy and Katty 
 were then preparing to receive, they could not at that moment give 
 him a formal reception. As soon, however, as communion was ovei, 
 the cead inilUah failiah was repeated with the usual warmth by both, 
 and by all their immediate friends. 
 
 Breakfast was now laid in Katty's best style, and with an originality 
 of arrangement that scorned all precedent. Two tables were placed, 
 one after another, in the kitchen ; for the other rooms were not suf- 
 ficiently large to accommodate the company. Father Philemy filled 
 the seat of honour at the head of the table, with liis back to an im- 
 mense fire. On his right hand sat Father Con ; on his left, 
 Phaddhy himself, "to keep the clarc^y in company ; " and, in due suc- 
 cession after them, their friends and neighbours, each taking prece- 
 dence according to tlie most scrupulous notions of respectability. 
 Beside Father Con sat " Pcthcr M alone," a " young collegian," who had 
 been sent home from IMaynooth to try his native air for the recovery 
 of his health, which was declining. He arrived only a few minutes 
 after father I'hilemy, and was a welcome reinforcement to PhadJhy 
 
THE STA TIOI^. 69 
 
 in the arduous task of sustaining the conversation with s litable 
 credit. 
 
 With respect to the breakfast I can only say that it was super- 
 abundant — that the tea was as black as bog water — that there were 
 hen, turkey, and geese eggs— plates of toast soaked, crust and crumb, 
 in butter, and, lest there might be a deficiency, one of the daughters 
 sat on a stool at the fire, with her open hand, by way of a fire-screen 
 across her red, half-scorched brows, toasting another plateful ; and, to 
 crown all, on each corner of the table was a bottle of whisky. At the 
 lower board sat the youngsters, under the sitrveillance of Katty's 
 sister, who presided in that quarter. When they were commencing 
 breakfast, " Father Philemy," said Katty, " won't yer rev'rence bless 
 the mate, if ye plase .'' " 
 
 " If I don't do it myself," said Father Philemy, who was just after 
 sweeping the top off a turkey fg^y " I'll get them that will. Come," said 
 he to the collegian, " give us grace, Peter, you'll never learn younger." 
 
 This, however, was an unexpected blow to Peter, who knew that an 
 English grace would be incompatible with his " college breeding," yet 
 was unprovided with any in Latin. The eyes of the company were 
 now fixed upon him, and he blushed like scarlet on finding himself in 
 a predicament so awkward and embarrassing. " Aliqnid, Petre, 
 aliquidj ^ de profiindis' — si habes 7iiJiil aliud" said Father Philemy, 
 feeling for his embarrassment, and giving him a hint. This was not 
 lost, for Peter began, and gave them the De profundis, a Latin psalm 
 which Roman Catholics repeat for the relief of the souls in purgatory. 
 They forgot, however, that there was a person in company who con- 
 sidered himself as having an equal claim to the repetition of at least 
 the one-half of it ; and accordingly, when Peter got up and repeated 
 the first verse, Andy Lawlor got also on his legs, and repeated the 
 response. 1 This staggered Peter a little, who hesitated, as uncertain 
 how to act. 
 
 " Perge, Pcire, Pcrge," said Father Philemy, looking rather wistfully 
 at his egg — ^^ Perge, stultus est et asimis quogne." Peter and Andy 
 proceeded until it was finished, when they resumed their seats. 
 
 The conversation during breakfast was as sprightly, as full of fun 
 and humour, as such breakfasts usually are. The priest, Phaddhy, and 
 the young collegian had a topic of their own, whilst the rest were 
 engaged in a kind of by-play until the meal was finished. 
 
 " Father Philemy," said Phaddhy, in his capacity of host, " before 
 we begin we'll all take a dhrop of what's in the bottle, if it's not dis- 
 plasing to yer reverence ; and, sure, I know 'tis the same doesn't come 
 wrong at a station, anyhow." 
 
 This, more majortim, was complied with ; and the glass, as usual, 
 went round the table, beginning with their reverences. They had not, 
 however, been long at breakfast when a circumstance occurred which, 
 that our readers may be enabled to form an opinion upon it, renders it 
 necessary for us to go back a little in our narrative. 
 
 This prayer is generally repeated by two perBons. 
 
70 THE STATION. 
 
 In the immediate vicinity of the scene of our present sketch lived a 
 man named Jack Shields, who was considered by his neighbours 
 to be a person of an amiable, benevolent disposition : moral and 
 inoft'ensive in his conduct, as well as upright and honest in his 
 principles and dealings — but looked upon to be somewhat eccentric 
 in his general manners. Shields was a man very much addicted 
 to reading, and had entertained for years before the period in 
 question rather singular opinions upon several tenets of his own 
 Church. He read both the Douay and the Protestant Bibles, in 
 defiance of the priest ; gave mass up altogether, except when he 
 understood that the priest was to preach, and tlien he was punctual in 
 his attendance. He had also abandoned confession — having often 
 been heard to say that he did not think his brother sinner had any 
 power to absolve his soul from the guilt which he incurred in relation 
 to God, " I know," he would say, " / avi sure that God can forgive 
 me; but I have not the same certainty as to the priest. God has 
 commanded me to come to Himself, repenting, and has promised 
 to pardon me : now this is enough for me, so I'll take the sure side.'" 
 
 When this came to the priest's ears, together with the account of his 
 absenting himself from mass, he sent for him one day that he held a 
 station in the neighbourhood, and Shields, with his Bible in his pocket, 
 waited upon him without any reluctance. 
 
 "Jack," said the priest, " is all this true that I hear about you ?" 
 
 *' Now, doesn't yer reverence know," replies Jack, " t.iat that's more 
 than I can say till I hear it?" 
 
 " I'm told," said the priest, addressing himself to what he considered 
 to be the root of the evil — " I'm told, Jack, that you've got a Protestant 
 Bible under your roof." 
 
 "I have," replied Shields, "and a Catholic one to the back of that, 
 which I suppose your reverence didn't hear." 
 
 " I should think," said the other, " the Bible of your own Church 
 ought to be sufficient for you." 
 
 " The doctrines of our Church are all just and true, I suppose ? " re- 
 plied Jack, more skilfully than his reverence was prepared for. 
 
 " You suppose I " replied the other. " Why, do you doubt it, sir ? " 
 
 " I'm not saying I do, your reverence," responded Jack. " I suppose 
 the Bible is equal to the Church in soundness — I mean our own Bible." 
 
 " Undoubtedly," said the priest ; " it is the written word of God." 
 
 " Well, now, it's comfortable to hear your reverence say so ; be- 
 cause, as our Church is true in all her doctrines and practices, and as 
 our Bible is equally sound and uncorrupt, why, wid the help of God, 
 I'll go home and examine both ; and surely, as you have no fear that 
 by doing so I can find out anything wrong in the Church, you can't 
 object against this." 
 
 "If you believe the Church to be pure," said the priest, " what ne- 
 cessity is there for your entering upon such a task .■* " 
 
 "Why, I believe it to be so," replied the other ; "yet, somehow, if 
 you were to ax me why I believe this — may I never do harm, but your 
 reverence would puzzle me." 
 
THE STATION. 7i 
 
 " Don't you believe, sir," said Father Philemy, " whatever the 
 Church proposes for your behef ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what," replied Jack, " to make short vi^ork of it, I don't 
 know the tithe of what the Church proposes to my belief : no, nor the 
 tythe of that again : and now, your reverence, how can I believe what 
 I don't know ? How-an'-ever, I'm sartinly very willing that the Church 
 should give me proper instructions in what I'm to believe ; but then, 
 docthor, on the other hand, where am I to go to look for the 
 Church?" 
 
 Father Philemy closed his eyes a little, and peered at Shields, as if 
 he would have looked into his very spirit. " Shields," said he, drop- 
 ping the subject, however, " I perceive clearly that you are verging 
 into heres3', which is the result of your reading heretical books : you 
 must send me that Bible — you must send me both Bibles ; and, more- 
 over, you must mind your business, and let theology alone." 
 
 " I don't neglect my business," said the other ; " and I'm very 
 willing to send you both back ; but before I do, yer reverence must 
 tell me where I'm to find the Church ; may I never do harm, but I'm 
 longing to have one meeting with her. Somehow or other, I think it 
 would be pleasant to hear a few words upon the subject from her own 
 lips, that is, if one cotild stumble on her ; for, although it's said she's 
 ' visible,' not a wan of myself ever was able to lay my two living eyes 
 upon her yet." 
 
 " Sir," says Father Philemy, " you should have better breeding than 
 to address me, or speak of the Church, in that sneering, disrespectful 
 manner — there is more reverence due to us both." 
 
 " I declare it, your reverence," replied Shields, " I'm in the hoith 
 of good humour with both of you ; but I've got no answer to my 
 question. Now, suppose I want the Church, where am I to find her, 
 docthor?" 
 
 " Jack, the doctrines of our Church are specified and promulgated 
 in her own councils and decrees, and they are to be found there." 
 
 " Very good, sir ; there's some satisfaction in that ; I like to come 
 to the point : and may I ask yer reverence how many councils there 
 were ? " 
 
 " What's that to you, sir, how many there were," replied Father 
 Philemy ; " it's not the number of councils you are to believe, but 
 the c octrines contained in their decrees. " 
 
 " Well, sir, I don't object against that same, for there's rason in it ; 
 but will yer reverence lend me the book they're in, until I run my 
 eye over them — I'll not keep it more nor a day or two, and I'll take 
 especial good care of it ; for, to tell the truth, I think it ought to be in 
 everybody's hands." 
 
 " In the first place, Jack," replied Father Philemy, " I'll show you 
 now the nature of implicit faith. The doctrines of our Church are 
 contained in several large folio books, not one word of which you 
 could understand, for you are not a classical scholar ; you see, there" 
 fore. Jack, that it's not for an ignorant fellow like you to be turning 
 your brain about what does not come under your line of duty ; but, 
 
72 THE STATION. 
 
 for all that, you're bound to believe them under pain of excommunica- 
 tion. These doctrines are laid down and explainer i by the pastors of 
 our Church, whose duty it is to enforce them ; and in case of obstinacy 
 or unbelief, to exercise the authority which the Church has delegated 
 to them against the refractory and disobedient." 
 
 During this cogent argument of the priest's, Shields stood with a 
 countenance on which astonishment was very strongly depicted. "The 
 short and the long of it is this," he replied, " that the Church won't 
 show herself to the poor and ignorant, at all at all — to none but the 
 priests ; and so we're to believe what we don't know, and what we 
 can't know, and without having an opportunity of knowing whcthci 
 it's true or not. That's not fair, I think ; then, in the next place, the 
 priest is all the Church we have to go to, whatever we want to know." 
 
 " And is not that sufficient ?" said the priest. 
 
 " Yes ; but how arc we to know that the priest sticks to the Church, 
 whin we can't see her rale doctrines .-' And agin, Docthor — how are 
 we to know that all these doctrines are right, if we're not allowed to 
 try and compare them with the word of God, which you grant can't be 
 wrong .-' May I never sin, Doclhor, but I think it's a little too hard to 
 keep us from thj Church and the word of God both." 
 
 " Jack, my dear friend," said Father Philemy, in a softened, concilia- 
 ting tone, "you are bewildering yourself — indeed, you are ; and I am 
 sorry to see you in such a perplexed state of mind ; but, as T said 
 before, it is the consequence of your endeavouring to go beyond your 
 depth, to understand more than you are bound to know. I'm sorry 
 also to find that you neglect your duty of late, and that you are never 
 seen at mass." 
 
 '' I would rather, sir," said Shields, " that you had brought about a 
 meeting between me and the Church — but the truth is that ycr 
 reverence represints the Church." 
 
 "Ay, now, John, it's something about that; you are beginning to 
 speak sense ; I certainly stand in that capacity to every one of my 
 parishioners, and, for that reason, they are bound to hear mc as they 
 would the Church." 
 
 " Yet," said Jack, with a sarcastic pertinacity that was by no means 
 savoury to his reverence, " the Church is holy, and apostolical, and 
 universal?" 
 
 " She is," replied the priest. 
 
 " And yer reverence represints her ! " said the other. " Now, Father 
 Philemy, do you remimber the day that you held the station in my 
 own house.-"' 
 
 " I do, about Easter last," replied the priest. 
 
 " Well, so do I ;" said Shields, without adding another woid. 
 
 Father Philemy now lost his temper ; for, although he fairly exposed 
 himself to the ari^nvienlum ad hoinincni, yet he was incapable of 
 bearing it with patience. " Shields," said he, " I have borne your 
 sneers with too much indulgence, because I have a regard for your 
 family and for yourself; but i tell you nov/ that I insist, sir, on your 
 depositing both your Bibles in my hands — 1 say I instsi on it ; aiid if 
 
THE ST AT J ON. Ti 
 
 you do not come to your duty, and attend mass as usual, I will expos© 
 you from the altar ; and if that doesn't do, I'll take other measures — 
 so look to it." 
 
 " If yer rev'rence," replied the other, " wishes to get any good of me, 
 convince me — otherwise, sir, you needn't resort to bullying, for that's 
 the very thing would make me stiffer ; and, in respect of denc»jncing 
 me from the althar — if ye did, I wouldn't stay two days in yer Church." 
 
 " I see," said the priest, " you're nothing but a headstrong fool, and 
 it is only a loss of time ar.d a waste of patience to speak to you." 
 
 " I know I'm very little that's good," says Shields ; " but I know yer 
 rev'rence has given me no satisfaction consarning the Church. Now, 
 sir, before I lave you " 
 
 "And that can't be a moment too soon, you blackguard, you," in- 
 terrupted Father Philemy. 
 
 " I say, sir, before I lave you, let me ask, did not the Son of God 
 himself spake and prache, and address himself to the poor? — didn't he 
 instruct them in all things necessary for them to know.'' didn't he 
 command them, with his own blessed lips, to sarche the Scriptures, 
 for that they contained eternal life.'' You desire me to come to my 
 duty : did ever the Lord himself tell us that a fellow-crathur could 
 forgive us our sins i* — or, whether did he bid us come to you or him- 
 self ? Will yer rev'rence answer me these questions ? You say, you 
 can forgive me my sins, and that I ought to come to you for that 
 purpose. My Redeemer says that HE can and will forgive me my 
 sins, if I repent and go to him ; which am I to follow — you or the 
 Almighty.'' ' Come to me,' he says, ' all ye that labour and are heavy 
 laden, and I will give j'ou rest ; if your sins were like scarlet, they 
 shall be as white as snow.' Your rev'rence stands there as the Church, 
 and you bid me close the Word of God, and not read it. The Lord 
 desires me to search it ; and, indeed, docthor, I'm very far from going 
 to obey you or the Church either, before God himself, when you and 
 he command different things. And with respect of going to mass, did 
 Christ or his Apostles spake to the people in an unknown tongue that 
 they did not understand.'' Instead of that same, didn't the Apostles 
 get the gift of tongues, that the strange nations might understand their 
 prayers and instructions ? No ; as God has promised to forgive, I'll go 
 to God, and, with his blessing, I'll tache my childher to do the same." 
 
 " Get out, yon reprobate," replied Father Philemy, wholly losing his 
 temper ; " out with you, and don't pollute the dacent man's house with 
 your heretical brea.*.h, you vagabone, you. I'll lay my horse-whip to 
 your back." 
 
 " Ay, that's your strongest argument," replied Jack. " That's your 
 usual method of convi./cing — and a creditable one it is." 
 
 Shields then withdrew ; and when he was gone, " That man's going 
 straight to hell," observed his reverence, " and, what is more, he'll 
 bring his children along with him." 
 
 " The Lord be about us, Father Philemy," observed those who were 
 present, "don't prophesy bich a thing ! — who would think 't, and he so 
 good and sensible a ma:i ? " 
 
74 THE STATION. 
 
 " Tom," said the priest, " after all, I believe there is but one way 
 wiih him, and that's mildness— the fellow may lead but he won't Urive ; 
 run after him and tell him to stop and eat his dinner with u« ; J 
 suppose you'll have no objection to that, Phaddhy ?" 
 
 " Is it me, your rev'rence?— och, och. and it's his father's son that 
 would be welcome to a pratie and wathcr, if I had but that." 
 
 " Well, tell him to stop and spend the evening with us ; say that I 
 wish to have some conversation with him in a friendly way." 
 
 Shields, however, saw through this Jincssc, and was determined to 
 disappoint his reverence. " Tell him that I'll hear him some other 
 time," said he, smiling. " I know that the argument his rev'rence 
 would bring against me might lay vie on my back, but it couldn't 
 convince me for all that. Didn't I give him a right hit about the 
 station.'' " 
 
 " I tell ye, Jack," replied the other, " it's a big shame for ye to be 
 getting an as ye Co ; you should go to ycr duty and to mass like 
 another." 
 
 " Ah, Tom," said Jack, "lave that to myself; do you think I'd do 
 anything that would go against my own salvation ? But yc may tell 
 him this, that, excepting he goes to drive me out of it, I'll never lave 
 the Church I'm in, bekase I believe I can be saved in it as well as in 
 any other, although my knee I'll never bend under him, or any other 
 man, by way of confession, while I live." So saying, he pursued his 
 way home. 
 
 When the man returned, he repeated the conversation that passed 
 between him and Shields, not omitting a word. 
 
 " Well," said the priest, " I'm not surprised that the Church inter- 
 dicts the Word of God to the laity ; for, when one of them gets it 
 for any length of time into his hands, he becomes as cunning as a bag 
 fox : did you only hear that fellow just now ? Nothing will do him, 
 indeed, but conviction .' — however, he is a stiff-necked animal, and 
 must only be allowed to take his own swing and be damned his own 
 way." 
 
 Shields literally kept his word ; for, true to his views, he neither 
 went to mass nor confession afterwards. In such tenets of his own 
 Church as he believed were true and scriptural he educated and 
 instructed his son and daughter, the only children he had. He also 
 permitted both to attend mass, and the former to go to confession ; 
 but the daughter he would by no means allow to frequent that distress- 
 ing rite. 
 
 His wife, however, who was as weak and as bigoted as the husband 
 was firm and liberal, perpetually harassed the daughter about the sin 
 ot neglecting confession ; but the latter was intimately acquainted 
 with the Bible, and without at all being aware of it, was considerably 
 more attached to the Protestant than to her own Church. For two or 
 three years — that is, during the period in which the mere girl appro.\i- 
 mates to the full-grown woman — the mother's arguments to induce her 
 to go to her duty were fruitless — for the father had drawn by no means 
 a favourable character of confession, and the daughter, possessing a 
 
THE STATION. 75 
 
 pure and modest mi:id, entertained a rooted aversion against it. But 
 a little before the time of Phaddhy's station the mother began to 
 exhibit symptoms of a decline, and as she never ceased piissing the 
 former on this point, the affection which was excited in the daughter's 
 breast by the apprehension of losing her induced a compliance on her 
 part which no other circumstances could have affected — for Mary (so 
 she was called) possessed much of her father's good sense, firmness, 
 and independence. 
 
 The mother having at length prevailed, she and Mary attended at 
 Phaddhy's early on the morning of the station in question. As soon 
 as they entered the house, there was an especial welcome for both, 
 particularly for the daughter, because the peculiar principles in which 
 Shields had educated her, and her own firm adherence to them, were 
 well known. 
 
 ''Well, Katty, avourneen," said her mother — "blessed be the holy 
 mother of God for it, she has come at long last ; and it's well for her, 
 ahagur, that she took my advice, I hope, for, indeed, Phaddhy," 
 turning the discourse to ///w, " I won't be long with her — see how 
 that bit of a walk up here has left me without a blast of breath in my 
 body ! " 
 
 The mother was certainly very much exhausted, and had every 
 appearance of being in a deep and rapid decline. As she uttered 
 these words, the daughter, who sat removed from the crowd that 
 occupied the lower end of the house, fixed her eyes upon her, and, in 
 an instant, her long dark lashes were filled with tears. Mary, indeed, 
 was a girl of uncommon personal beauty and fine figure, and as 
 she sat with her pocket-handkerchief between her hands, and 
 her dark eyes shining through her tears, she was certainly calcu- 
 lated to excite a strong interest in her favour. She wore no cap, but 
 had a dark ribbon tied simply round her head, from which her brown 
 clustering locks fell in thick luxuriant curls over her fair neck and 
 shoulders. Her hair was divided before, and showed a white polished 
 forehead, that would have graced a higher station in life. It might 
 have been easily remarked that her attendance here was involuntary, 
 for there was a feverish anxiety about her amounting to a visible 
 tremor. She was wrapped in thought, and sometimes appeared so 
 pale that one might almost feel apprehensive of her swooning away- — 
 at other times so flushed that her face and neck were suffused with 
 one glow of crimson. In this state of agitation she remained until 
 the person who had been in with Father Con came out ; her mother 
 then said, " Mary, come now, acushla, there's nobudy with Father 
 Con : come and pluck up courage, alannah — you won't be long, and 
 the best way for you is to get it over you, and then your mind will be 
 aisy." Mary, however, got as pale as death, and her lips became 
 white. She rose up, but was obliged to sit down again until she 
 regained more strength. In the meantime her mother and Katty, and 
 several other of the women then present, afforded her every assistance ; 
 as her lips were parched, she asked for a drink of water, but this she 
 could not get. 
 
76 THE STATION. 
 
 " Mar>-, asthore," said the mother, " you know you couldn't get a 
 dhrink of wathcr till afther you resave the sacrament," 
 
 " I wish, mother dear," said the modest girl, " my father was with 
 me ; if he was, I wouldn't be so weak, I think." 
 
 This she spoke in a very feeble voice, for all the moral instincts and 
 delicate sensibilities of a modest disposition were up in arms against 
 this profane violation — this daring intrusion into those recesses of the 
 human heart which are, and ought to be, visible only to that God to 
 whom all things are known. 
 
 At last, by the force of flattery and persuasion, eked out with several 
 melancholy allusions by the mother to her own state of health, Mary 
 went in to comply with an ordinance which she felt to be revolting and 
 indelicate in the highest degree ; one which her soul detested and 
 shrunk from with mingled detestation and horror. On her return from 
 the confessional she walked up to the remote seat she had before 
 occupied, which was instantly vacated on her approach to it ; for the 
 beauty of her person and her modesty commanded general admiration 
 and respect. There was now a marked change visible in her coun- 
 tenance and demeanour ; for although she sat as quiet as usual, there 
 was on her complexion a flush of deeper hue than had mantled her 
 cheek before ; her eye, too, was lit with a spark much more vivid than 
 the mild and mellow light which usually shone there. Instead of 
 appearing timid, her nerves were evidently strung to a high degree of 
 firmness and tension, and her whole air betrayed marks of distress, 
 indignation, and disgust. When she came out, her mother went in to 
 confess, who was the last Father Con heard before mass. From the 
 lime Mary left Father Con until breakfast, she was certainly suffering 
 intensely from her own feelings and reflections ; for it was with much 
 difficulty that she suppressed the tears which started to her eyes. 
 Indeed, it was evident that if she had been alone she would have 
 relieved herself very much by weeping ; but an apprehension of attract- 
 ing notice restrained her tears, whilst it increased her distress. This 
 state of prolonged excitement was more than she could bear ; for, a 
 short time afterwards, a powerful reaction in the state of her animal 
 spirits and nerves took place. She became deadly and fearfully pale ; 
 and after many struggles against the weight which sank down her 
 spn-its so heavily, she at length fell into a fit of strong and alarming 
 convulsions. This was an interruption to the harmony of the break- 
 fast which was by no means expected. She was now removed into 
 another room ; the women, wilh much difficulty, succeeded in restoring 
 her to consciousness, or, at least, in assisting nature to restore herself. 
 When she foimd herself among none but her own sex, she gave full 
 vent to her tears, and wept long and bitterly. She then insisted on 
 going home to her father, a determination which no force or entreaty 
 could prevent her from putting into execution. She accordingly 
 departed without noticing anyone in the house, and the breakfast 
 went on gloomily enough until it was finished. 
 
 .Such was the effect which the unnatural and gross act of disclosing 
 the frailties and weaknesses of a female to a man in private had upon 
 
THE STATION. 77 
 
 the natural modesty of a young woman. To make such an act a 
 religious ceremony, when we consider the weakness of human passion, 
 is probably the best clue to the complacency with which the Roman 
 Catholic priesthood bear a life of celibacy. Of Mary it is, only neces- 
 sary to say that, ere many years passed, she and her father both em- 
 braced the Protestant faith. 
 
 Hitherto Father Philemy had not had time to bestow any attention 
 on the state of Katty's larder, as he was in the habit of doing, with a 
 view to ascertain the several items contained therein for dinner. But 
 as soon as the breakfast things were removed, and the coast clear, he 
 took a peep into the pantr}',and after throwing his eye over its contents, 
 sat down at the fire, making Phaddhy take a seat beside him, for the 
 especial purpose of sounding him as to the practicability of effecting 
 a certain design which was then snugly latent in his reverence's fancy. 
 The fact was, that on taking the survey of the premises aforesaid, he 
 discovered that, although there was abundance of fowl, and fish, and 
 bacon, and hung-beef — yet, by some unaccountable and disastrous 
 omission, there was neither fresh mutton nor fresh beef. The priest, 
 it must be confessed, was a man of considerable fortitude, but this 
 was a blow for which he was scarcely prepared — particularly as a 
 boiled leg of mutton was one of his fifteen favourite joints at dinner. 
 He accordingly took two or three pinches of snuff in rapid succession, 
 and a seat at the fire, as I have said, placing Phaddhy, uncoi.scious of 
 his design, immediately beside him. 
 
 Now, the reader knows that Phaddhy was a man possessing a con- 
 siderable portion of dry, sarcastic humour, along with that natural 
 quickness of penetration and shrewdness for which most of the Irish 
 peasantry are, in a very peculiar degree, remarkable ; add to this that 
 Father Philemy, in consequence of his contemptuous bearing to him 
 before he came in for his brother's property, stood not very high in his 
 estimation. The priest knew this, and consequently felt that the point 
 in question would require to be managed, on his part, with suitable 
 address. 
 
 " Phaddhy," says his reverence, " sit down here till we chat a little, 
 before I commence the duties of the day. Fm happy to see that you 
 have such a fine thriving family : how many sons and daughters 
 have you ? " 
 
 " Six sons, yer reverence," replied Phaddhy, " and five daughters : 
 indeed, sir, they're as well to be seen as their neighbours, considher- 
 ing all things. Poor crathurs, they get fair pJay^ now, thank God, 
 compared to what they used to get — God rest their poor uncle's sowl 
 for that. Only for him, your reverence, there would be very tew 
 inquiring this or any other day about "hem." 
 
 ''Did he die as rich as they said, Phaddhy?" inquired his 
 reverence. 
 
 '^ Hut, sir," replied Phaddhy, determined to take what he afterwards 
 called a rise out of the priest ; " they knew little about it — as rich as 
 
 ' By this is meant good food and clothing. 
 
7S rilE STA TION. 
 
 they said, sir! no, but three times as rich, itself: but, anyhow, he 
 was the man that could make the money." 
 
 " I'm very happy to hear it, Phaddhy, on your account and that of 
 your children. God be good to him — rcquiescat animus ejus in pace, 
 per omnia seaila seculoriun, Amen! — he liked a drop in his time, 
 I'haddhy, as well as ourselves, eh.'" 
 
 " ^Imen, amen — the heavens be his bed ! — he did, poor man ! but 
 he had it at first cost, your reverence, for he run it all himself in the 
 mountains : he could aftbrd to take it." 
 
 " Yes, Phaddhy, the heavens be his bed, I pray ; no Christmas or 
 Easter ever passed but he was sure to send me the little keg of stuff 
 that never saw water ; but, Phaddhy, there's one thing that concerns 
 me about him, in regard of his love of drink — I'm afraid it's a trouble 
 to him where he is at present ; and 1 was sorry to find that, although 
 he died full of money, he didn't think it worth his while to leave even 
 the price of a mass to be said for the benefit of his own soul." 
 
 " Why, sure you know, Father Philemy, that he wasn't what they 
 call a dhrinking man: once a quarther, or so, he sartinly did take a 
 jorum ; and, except at these times, he was very sober. But God look 
 upon us both, yer reverence — or upon myself, anyway; for I haven t 
 yer excuse for dhrinking, seeing I'm no clargy ; but if /le's to suffer 
 for his doings that-a-way, I'm afeard w//l have a troublesome 
 reck'ning of it." 
 
 " Hem, a- hem ! — Phaddhy," replied the priest, "he has raised you 
 and your children from poverty, at all events, and you ought to 
 consider t/taf. If there is anything in your power to contribute to the 
 relief of his soul, you have a strong duty upon you to do it ; and a 
 number of masses, offered up devoutly, would " 
 
 " Why, he did, sir, raise both myself and my childhre from poverty," 
 said Phaddhy, not willing to let that point go farther — " //la/ I'll 
 always own to ; and I hope in God that whatever little trouble might 
 be upon him for the dhrop of dhrink, will be wiped off by this kindness 
 to us." 
 
 " He hadn't even a month's jnind!" 
 
 " And it's not but I spoke to him about both, yer reverence." 
 
 " And what did he say, Phaddhy?" 
 
 " ' Phaddhy,' said he, ' I have been giving Father M'Guirk, one way 
 or another, between whisky, oats, and dues, a great deal of money 
 every year ; and now, afther I'm dead,' says he, ' isn't it an ungrateful 
 thing of him not to offer up one mass for my sowl, except 1 leave hun 
 payment for it.' " 
 
 " Did he say that, Phaddhy ?" 
 
 ** I'm giving you his very words, yer reverence." 
 
 " Phaddhy, I deny it ; it's a big lie— he could not make use of such 
 words, and he going to face death. I say you could not listen to 
 them ; the hair would stand on your head if he did : but God forgive 
 him !— that's the worst I wish him. Didn't the hair stand on your 
 head, Phaddhy, to hear him .'' " 
 
 " Why, then, to tell yer reverence God's truth, I can't say it did." 
 
THE STA TIOI^. 79 
 
 " You can't say it did ! and if I was in your coat, I would be 
 ashamed to say it did not. I was always troubled about the way the 
 fellow died, but I hadn't the slightest notion that he went off such a 
 reprobate. I fought his battle and yours hard enough yesterday ; 
 but I knew less about him then than I do now." 
 
 " And what, wid submission, did you fight our battles about, /«r 
 reverence.'"' inquired Phaddhy. 
 
 " Yesterday evening, in Parrah More Slevin's, they had him a miser, 
 and yourself they set down as very little better." 
 
 " Then I don't think I desarved that from Parrah More, anyhow, 
 Father Philemy ; I think I can show myself as dacent as Parrah 
 More or any oii his faction." 
 
 " It was not Parrah More himself, or his family, that said anything 
 about you, Phaddhy," said the priest, " but others that were present. 
 You must know that we were all to be starved here to-day." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " exclaimed Phaddhy, who was hit most palpably upon 
 the weakest side — the very sorest spot about him, " they think bekase 
 this is the first station that ever was held in my house, that you won't 
 be thrated as you ought ; but they'll be disappointed ; and I hope, for 
 so far, that yer reverence and yer friends had no rason to complain." 
 
 " Not in the least, Phaddhy, considering that it was a first station ; 
 and if the dinner goes as well off as the breakfast, they'll be biting 
 their nails : but I should not wish myself that they would have it in 
 
 their power to sneer or throw any slur over you about it. Go 
 
 along, Dolan," exclaimed his reverence to a countryman who came 
 in from the street, where those stood who were for confession, to 
 see if he had gone to his room — " Go along, you vagrant, don't you 
 
 see I'm not gone to the tribunal yet ? But it's no matter about that, 
 
 Phaddhy ; it's of other things you ought to think : when were you at 
 your duty?" 
 
 " This morning, sir," replied the other — " but I'd have them to un- 
 derstand that had the presumption to use my name in any such 
 manner that I know when and where to Le dacint with any mother's 
 son of Parrah More's faction ; and that I'll be afther whispering to 
 them some of these mornings, plase goodness." 
 
 " Well, well, Phaddhy, don't put yourself in a passion about it, par- 
 ticularly so soon after having been at confession — it's not right ; I told 
 them myself that we'd have a leg of mutton and a bottle of wine at al) 
 events, for that was what they had ; but that's not worth talking 
 about ; when were you with the priest before, Phaddhy.''" 
 
 '* If I wasn't able, it would be another thing, but, as long as I'm 
 able, I'll let them know that I have the spirit " — said Phaddhy, smart- 
 ing under the imputation of niggardliness — " when was I at confession 
 before, Father Philemy.'' Why, then, dear forgive me, not these five 
 years ; and I'd surely be the first of the family that would show a 
 mane spirit, or a want of hospitality." 
 
 " A leg of mutton is a good dish, and a bottle of wine is fit for the 
 first man in the land ! " observed his reverence — " five years ! — why, is 
 it possible you stayed away so long, Phaddhy !— how could you e.xpect 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or 
 
 "V^C^LlFORH^Jfe 
 
 J 
 
8o THE STATION 
 
 to prosper with five years' burden of sin upon your conscience — what 
 would it cost you ? " 
 
 "Indeed, myselfs no judge, your rev'rence, as to that; but cost 
 what it will, Mi get both 
 
 " I say, Phaddhy, what trouble would it cost you to come to your 
 duty twice a year at the ver>' least ; and, indeed, I would advise you 
 to become a monthly communicant. Parrah More was speaking of it 
 as to himself, and you ought to go 
 
 " And I will go and bring Parrah More here to his dinner, this very 
 day, if it was only to let him see with his own pyes " 
 
 " You ought to go once a month, if it was on.y to set an example to 
 your children, and to show the neighbours how a man of substance 
 and respectability, and the head of a family, ought to carry himself." 
 
 " Where is the best wine got, yer rev'rence ?" 
 
 " Alick M'Loughlin, my iiephcw, I believe, keeps the best wine and 
 spirits in Ballyslantha. You ought also, Phaddhy, to get a scapular, 
 and become a scapularian ; I wish your brother had thought of t]iat, 
 and he wouldn't have died in so hardened a state, nor neglected to 
 make a provision for the benefit of his soul, as he did." 
 
 " Lave the rest to me, yer rev'rence, I'll get it — Mr. M'Loughlin will 
 give me the right sort, if he has it betune him and death." 
 
 " M'Loughlin ! what are you talking about .''" 
 
 " Why, what is your rev'rence talking about ?" 
 
 " The scapular," said the priest. 
 
 " But I mane the wine and the mutton," says Phaddhy. 
 
 " And is that the way you treat me, you reprobate, you?" replied his 
 reverence, in a passion : " is that the kind of attention you're paying 
 me, and 1 advising you, all this time, for the good of yom- soul? 
 Phaddhy, I tell you, you're enough to vex me to the core — five years ! 
 — only once at confession in five years ! What do I care about your 
 mutton and your wine ! — you may get dozens of them if you wish ; or, 
 maybe, it would be more like a Christian to never mind them, and let 
 the neighbours Uutgh away. It would teach you humility, you hard- 
 ened creature, and God knows you want it ; for my part, I'm speaking 
 to you about other things ; but that's the way with the most of you — 
 mention any spiritual subject that concerns your soul, and you turn a 
 deaf ear to it — here, Dolan, come in to your duty. In the meantime 
 you may as well tell Katty not to boil the mutton too much ; it's on 
 your knees you ought to be at your rosary or the seven penitential 
 psalms." 
 
 " Thrue for you, sir," said Phaddhy ; " but as to going wanst a month, 
 I'm afeard, yer rev'rence, if it would shorten my timper as it docs 
 Katty's, that we'd be bad company for one another ; she comes home 
 from confession newly set, like a razor, every bit as sharp ; and I'm 
 sure that I'm within the truth when I say there's no bearing her." 
 
 'That's because you have no relish for anything spiritual yourself, 
 you, nager, you," replied his reverence, " or you wouldn't see her temper 
 in that light— but. now that I think of it, where did you gel thai stufif 
 ■we had at breakfast ? " 
 
THE STATION. 8i 
 
 " Ay, that's the sacret ; but I knew yer rev'rence would like it : did 
 Parrah More equal it ? No, nor one of his faction couldn't lay his 
 finger on such a dhrop." 
 
 " I wish you could get me a few gallons of it," said the priest ; "but 
 iet us dhrop that ; I say, Phaddhy, you're too worldly and careless ^bout 
 your duty." 
 
 " Well, Father Philemy, there's a good time coming ; I'll mend 
 yet." 
 
 " You want it, Phaddhy." 
 
 " Would three gallons do, sir?" 
 
 " I would rather you would give me five, Phaddhy ; but go to your 
 rosary." 
 
 " It's the penitential psalm, first, sir," said Phaddhy, " and the 
 rosary at night. I'll try, anyhow ; and if I can make off five for you 
 I will." 
 
 " Thank you, Phaddhy ; but I would recommend you to say the 
 rosary before night." 
 
 " 1 believe yer reverence is right," replied Phaddhy, looking some- 
 what slyly in the priest's face ; " I think it's best to make sure of it 
 now, in regard that in the evening your reverence — do you persave ?" 
 
 " Yes," said his reverence, " you're in a better frame of mind at pre- 
 sent, Phaddhy, being fresh from confession." So saving, his reverence, 
 for whom Phaddhy, with all his shrewdness in general was not a 
 match, went into his room, that he might send home about four dozen 
 of honest, good-humoured, thoughtless, jovial, swearing, drinking, 
 fighting, and murdering Hilaernians, free from every possible stain of 
 sin and wickedness ! 
 
 " Are you all ready now ? " said the priest to a crowd of country 
 people who were standing about the kitchen door, pressing to get the 
 "first turn" at the tribunal, which, on this occasion, consisted of a 
 good oak chair with his reverence upon it. 
 
 " Why do you crush forward in that manner, you ill-bred spalpeens ? 
 Can't you stand back and behave yourselves like common Christians ? 
 — back with you, or, if you make me get my whip, I'll soon clear you 
 from about the dacent man's door. Hagarty, why do you crush them 
 two girls there, you great Turk, you ? Look at the vagabonds ! — 
 — Where's my whip?" said he, running in, and coming out in a fury, 
 when he comm.enced cutting about him, until they dispersed in all 
 directions. He then returned into the house ; and, after calling in 
 about two dozen, began to catechise them as follows, still holding the 
 whip in his hand, whilst many of those individuals, who, at a party 
 quarrel in fair or market, or in the more inhuman crimes of murder or 
 nightly depredations, were as callous and hardened specimens of 
 humanity as ever set the laws of civilised society at defiance, stood 
 trembling before him like slaves, absolutely pale and breathless with 
 fear. 
 
 " Come, Kelly," said he to one of them, " are you fully prepared for 
 the two blessed sacraments of Penance and the Eucharist, that you 
 are about to receive ? Can you read, sir ? " 
 
THE STATION. 
 
 " Can I read, is id ? — my brother Barney can, yer reverence," replied 
 Kelly, sensible, amid all the disadvantages around him, of the degra- 
 dation of his ignorance. 
 
 " What's that to me, sir ? " said the priest, " what your brother 
 Barney can do — can you not read yourself? — and, maybe," he con- 
 tinued, parenthetically, "your brother Barney's not much the holier 
 for his knowledge." 
 
 " I cannot, yer reverence," said Kelly, in a tone of 'egret. 
 
 " I hope you have your Christian Doctrine, at all events," said the 
 priest — " Go on with the Contiteor." 
 
 Kelly went on — " Confeetur Dimniportenti batchy Mary semplar 
 virginy, batchy Mickletoe Archy Angela batchy Johtiny Bariisty, 
 sanctris postlis — Petncm hit Paiiliini, omnium sani Iris, et tabby, pas- 
 ture quay a pixavit minus coglety ashy hony verbum et offer him 
 smaxy qiiilta smaxy quilta smaxy maxiti in quilta." ^ 
 
 " Very well, Kelly, right enough, all except the pronouncing, which 
 wouldn't pass muster in Maynooth, however. How many kinds of 
 commandments are there ? " 
 
 '*Two, sir." 
 
 " What are they ? " 
 
 " God's and the Church's." 
 
 " Repeat God's share of them." 
 
 He then repeated the first commandment according to his cate- 
 chism. 
 
 " Very good, Kelly, very good. Now, you must know that the 
 heretics split that into two, for no other reason in the world only to 
 knock our blessed images on the head ; but we needn't expect them 
 to have much conscience. Well, now repeat the commandments of 
 the Church." 
 
 " First — Sundays and holidays, Mass thou shalt sartinly hear ; 
 
 Second — All holidays sanctiticate throughout all the whole year. 
 
 Third — Lent, Ember days, and Virgils, thou shalt be sartin to fast ; 
 
 Fourth — Fridays and Saturdays flesh thou shalt not, good, bad, or indif- 
 ferent, taste. 
 
 Fifth — In Lent and Advent, nuptial fastes gallantly forbear ; 
 
 Si.\th— Confess your sins, at laste once dacently and soberly every year. 
 
 Seventh — Receive your God at confission about great Easter-day ; 
 
 Eighth — And to his Church and his own frolicsome clargy neglect not tides to 
 pay." 
 
 " Well," said his reverence, " now, the great point is, do you under- 
 •stand them ? " 
 
 ' We subjoin the original for the information of our readers : — 
 " Confiteor Deo Omnipotent!, beatos Marias, semper Virgini, beato Michnelo 
 Archangelo, beato Jchanni Baptistoe, Sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus 
 Sanctis, et tibi. Pater, quia, peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, et opera, mea culpa, 
 mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." Let not our readers suppose that the above 
 vcrsi.3n in the mouth of a totally illiterate peasant is overcharged, for we have the 
 advantage of remembering how we ourselves used to hear it pronounced in our 
 early days. We will back the version in the text against Edward Irving's new 
 language for any money. 
 
THE STATION. 83 
 
 " Wid the help of God I hope so, yer rev'rence — and I have also the 
 three thriptological vartues." 
 
 " Theological, sirrah ' " 
 
 " Theojollyological vartues ; the four sins that cry to heaven for 
 vingeance ; the Jive carnal vartues — prudence, justice, timptation, and 
 solitude ;^ the six holy Christian gifts ; the seven deadly sins ; the 
 eight grey attitudes " 
 
 " Grey attitudes ! Oh, the Boeotian ! " exclaimed his revei-ence : 
 " listen to the vi^ay in which he's playing havoc among them — stop, 
 sir," for Kelly was going on at full speed — " stop, sir ; I tell you it's 
 not ^^rey attitudes, but da_y attitudes — doesn't everyone know the eight 
 beatitudes ? " 
 
 " The eight day attitudes ; the nine ways of being guilty of another's 
 sins ; the ten commandments ; the twelve fruits of a Christian ; the 
 fourteen stations of the cross ; the fifteen mystheries of the pas- 
 sion " 
 
 " Kelly," said his reverence, interrupting him, and heralding the 
 joke, for so it was intended, with a hearty chuckle, " you're getting 
 fast out of you're teens, ma bouchal ! " and this was, of course, 
 honoured with a merry peal, extorted as much by an effort at softening 
 the rigour of examination, as by the traditionary duty which entails 
 upon the Irish laity the necessity of laughing at a priest's jokes, 
 without any reference at all to their quality. Nor was his reverence's 
 own voice the first to subside into that gravity which became the 
 solemnity of the occasion ; for, even whilst he continued the interro- 
 gatories, his eye was laughing at the conceit, with which it was evident 
 the inner man was not competent to grapple. " Well, Kelly, I can't 
 say but you've answered very well, as far as the repeating of them 
 goes : but do you perfectly understand all the commandments of the 
 Church?" 
 
 " I do, sir," replied Kelly, whose confidence kept pace with his 
 reverence s good humour. 
 
 " Well, what is meant by the fifth ? " 
 
 " The fifth, sir," said the other, rather confounded — " I must begin 
 agin, sir, and go on till I come to it." 
 
 " Well," said the priest, " never mind that ; but tell us what the 
 eighth means .'' " 
 
 Kelly stared at him a second time, but was not able to advance. 
 " First — Sundays and holidays, mass thou shalt hear ; " but before he 
 had proceeded to the second, a person who stood at his elbow began 
 to whisper to him the proper reply, and, in the act of doing so, received 
 a lash of the whip across the ear for his pains, 
 
 " You blackguard, you ! " exclaimed Father Philemy, " take that — 
 how dare you attempt to prompt any person that /'m examining?" 
 
 Those who stood round Kelly now fell back to a safe distance, and 
 all was silence, terror, and trepidation once more. 
 
 " Come, Kelly, go on — the eighth ? " 
 
 ' Temperance and fortitude. 
 
84 THE STATION. 
 
 Kelly was still silent. 
 
 " Why, you Ninny, you, didn't you repeat it just now. ' Eighth — 
 And to his Church neglect not tithes to pay.' Now that I have put 
 the words in your mouth, what does it mean i " 
 
 Kelly having thus got the cue, replied in the words of the catechism, 
 *' To pay /I'dc's to the lawful paster)is of the Church, sir." 
 
 "^Pasterns I oh, you ass, you; pasterns! You poor, base, con- 
 temptible, crawling reptile ; as if we trampled you under our hooves — 
 oh, you scruff of the earth ! Stop, I say — \x:spa5tors" 
 
 " Pasthors of the Church." 
 
 " And tell me, do you fulfU that commandment ? " 
 
 " I do, sir." 
 
 " It's a lie, sir," replied the priest, brandishing the whip over his 
 head, whilst Kelly instinctively threw up his guard to protect himself 
 from the blow ; " It's a lie, sir," repeated his reverence, "you don't 
 fulfil it. What is the Church ?" 
 
 " The Church is the congregation of the faithful that purfiss the 
 true faith, and are obadient to the pope." 
 
 " And who do you pay your tithes to ? " 
 
 " To the parson, sir." 
 
 " And, you poor varmint you, is he obadient to the pope ? " 
 
 Kelly only smiled at the want of comprehension which prevented 
 him from seeing the thing according to the view which his reverence 
 took of it. 
 
 " Well, now," continued Father Philemy, " who are the lawful pas- 
 tors of God's Church ?" 
 
 " You are, sir, and all our own priests." 
 
 " And who ought you to pay your tithes to ? " 
 
 " To you, sir, in coorse ; sure I always knew that, yer rev'rence." 
 
 " And what's the reason, then, you don't pay them to me instead of 
 the parson ? " 
 
 This was a puzzler to Kelly, who only knew his own side of the 
 fjuestion. "You have me there, sir," he replied with a grin. 
 
 " liecause," said his reverence, " the Protestants, for the present, 
 have the law of the land on their side, and power over you to compel 
 the payment of tithes to themselves ; but we have right, justice, and 
 the law of God on ours ; and, if everything was in its proper place, it 
 is not to the parsons, but to us, that you would pay them." 
 
 " Well, well, sir," replied Kelly, who now experienced a community 
 of feeling upon the subject with his reverence that instantly threw 
 him into a familiarity of manner which he thought the point between 
 them justified— "who knows, sir.?" said he, with a knowing smile, 
 " there's a good time coming, yer rev'rence." 
 
 "Ay," said Father Philemy, "wait till we get once into the Big 
 House, and if we don't turn the scales — if the Established Church 
 doesn't go down, why, there's no truth in Scripture. Now, Kelly, 
 all's right but the money — have you brought your dues?" 
 
 " Here it is, sir," said Kelly, handing him his dues for the last year. 
 
 It is to be observed here that, according as the penitents went l-o 
 
THE ST A TION. 85 
 
 be examined, or to kneel down to confess, a certain sum was exacted 
 from each, which varied according to the arrears that might have 
 been due to the priest. Indeed, it is not unusual for the host and 
 hostess, on these occasions, to be refused a participation in the 
 sacrament until they pay this money, notwithstanding the consider- 
 able expense they are put to in entertaining not only the clergy, but a 
 certain number of their own friends and relations. 
 
 " Well, stand aside, I'll hear you first ; and now come up here, you 
 young gentleman, that laughed so heartily a while ago at my joke — 
 ha, ha, ha ! — come up here, child." 
 
 A lad now approached him whose face, on a first view, had some- 
 thing simple and thoughtless in it, but in which, on a closer in- 
 spection, might be traced a lurking, sarcastic humour, of which his 
 reverence never dreamt. 
 
 " You're for confession, of course," said the priest. 
 
 " Of coo7'se" said the lad, echoing him, and laying a stress upon 
 the word, which did not much elevate the meaning of the blind com- 
 pliance in general with the rite in question. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed the priest, recognising him when he approached — 
 *' you are Dan Fegan's son, and designed for the Church yourself ; 
 you are a good Latinist, for I remember examining you in Erasmus 
 about two years ago — Quomodo se habet corpus tuum Charum lignum 
 sacerdotis .? " 
 
 " Valde, Domine,^' replied the lad, " Qtiomodo se habet anima tua, 
 charum exemplar sacerd.o\.z.gQj et fulcrum robustissimum Ecclcsice 
 sacrosancicB ." 
 
 " Very good, Harry," replied his reverence, laughing — " stand aside ; 
 I'll hear you after Kelly." 
 
 He then called up a man with a long, melancholy face, which he 
 noticed before to have been proof against his joke, and after making 
 two or three additional fruitless experiments upon his gravity, he 
 commenced a cross fire of peevish interrogatories, which would have 
 excluded him from the "tribunal" on that occasion, were it not that 
 the man was remarkably well prepared, and answered the priest's 
 questions very pertinently. 
 
 This over, he repaired to his room, where the work of absolution 
 commenced ; and, as there was a considerable number to be rendered 
 sinless before the hour of dinner, he contrived to unsin them with an 
 alacrity that was really surprising. 
 
 Immediately after the conversation already detailed, between his 
 reverence and Phaddhy, the latter sought Katty, that he might com- 
 municate to her the unlucky oversight which they had committed, in 
 neglecting to provide fresh meat and wine. " We'll be disgraced for 
 ever," said Phaddhy, " without either a bit of mutton or a bottle of 
 wine for the gintlemen, and that Parrah More Slevin had both." 
 
 '• And I hope," replied Katty, " that you're not so mane as to let 
 any of that faction outdo you in dacency, the nagerly set ! It was 
 enough for them to bate us in the law-shoot about the horse, and not 
 to have the laugh agin at us about this.'"' 
 
 (2) 
 
S6 THF STA TION. 
 
 " Well, that same law-shoot is not over with them yet," said 
 Phaddhy ; '' wait till the spring fair comes, and if I don't have a 
 faction gathered that'll sweep them out of the town, why my name's 
 not Phaddhy ! But where is Mat, till we sind him off?" 
 
 ' Arrah, Phaddhy," said Katty, "wasn't it friendly of Father 
 Philemy to give us the hard word about the wine and mutton ? " 
 
 " Very friendly," retorted Phaddhy, who, after all, appeared to have 
 suspected the priest — " very friendly, indeed, when it's to put a good 
 joint before himself, and a bottle of wine in his jacket. No, no, Katty ! 
 it's not altogether for the sake of Father Philemy, but I wouldn't have 
 the neighbours say that I was near and undacent ; and, above all 
 things, I wouldn't be worse nor the Slevins — for the same set would 
 keep it up agin us long enough." 
 
 Our readers will admire the tact with which Father Philemy worked 
 upon the rival feeling between the factions ; but, independently of 
 this, there is a generous hospitality in an Irish peasant which would 
 urge him to any stratagem, were it even the disposal of his only cow, 
 sooner than incur the imputation of a narrow, or, as he himself terms 
 it, " an undacent " or " nagerly " spirit. 
 
 In the course of a short time Phaddhy despatched two messengers, 
 one for the wine, and another for the mutton ; and, that they might 
 not have cause for any unnecessary delay, he gave them the two 
 reverend gentlemen's horses, ordering them to spare neither whip nor 
 spur until they returned. This was an agreeable command to the 
 messengers, who, as soon as they found themselves mounted, made a 
 bet of a " trate," to be paid on arriving in the town to which they were 
 sent, to him who should first reach a little stream that crossed the 
 road at the entrance of it, called the " pound burn." But I must not 
 forget to state that they not only were mounted on the priests' horses, 
 but took their great-coats, as the day had changed and threatened to 
 rain. Accordingly, on getting out upon the main road, they set off, 
 whip and spur, at full speed, jostling one another and cutting each 
 other's horse as if they had been intoxicated ; and the fact is that, 
 owing to the liberal distribution of the bottle that morning, they were 
 not far from it. 
 
 "Bliss us !" exclaimed the country people, as they passed, "what 
 on airth can be the matthcr with Father Philemy and Father Con, that 
 they're abusing wan another at sich a rate ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed another, " it's apt to be a sick call, and they're 
 thrying to be there before the body grows cowld." 
 
 "Ay, or maybe," a third conjectured, " it's to ould Magennis, that's 
 on the point of death, and going to lave all his money behind him, and 
 they're striving to see who'll get there first." 
 
 But their astonishment was not a whit lessened when, m about an 
 hour afterwards, they perceived them both return ; the person who 
 represented Father Con having an overgrown leg of mutton slung 
 behind his back like an Irish harp, reckless of its friction against his 
 reverence's coat, which it had completely saturated with grease, 
 and the duplicate of Father Philemy with a sack over his shoulder, 
 
THE ST A TION. 
 
 in the bottom of which was half a dozen of Mr. M'loughlin's best 
 port. 
 
 Phaddhy, in the meantime, being determined to mo/tify his rival/ 
 Parrah More, by a superior display of hospitality, waited upon that 
 personage, and exacted a promise from him to come down and partake 
 of the dinner — a promise which the other was not slack in fulfilling. 
 Phaddhy's heart was now ce» the point of taking its rest, when it 
 occurred to him that there yet remained one circumstance in which 
 he might utterly eclipse his rival, and that was to ask Captain Wilson, 
 his landlord, to meet their reverences at dinner. He accordingly went 
 over to him, for he only lived a few miles distant, having first com- 
 municated the thing privately to Katty, and requested that, as their 
 reverences that day held a station in his house, and would dine there, 
 he would have the kindness to dine along with them. To this the 
 captain, who was intimate with both the clergymen, gave a ready com- 
 pliance, and Phaddhy returned home in high spirits. 
 
 In the meantime the two priests were busy in the work of absolution ; 
 the hour of three had arrived, and they had many to shrive : but in 
 the course of a short time a reverend auxiliary made his appearance, 
 accompanied by one of Father Philemy's nephews, who was then 
 about to enter Maynooth. This clerical gentleman had been ap- 
 pointed to a parish, but owing to some circumstances which were 
 known only in the distant part of the diocese where he had resided, he 
 was deprived of it, and had, at the period I am writing of, no appoint- 
 ment in the Church, though he was in mil orders. If I mistake not he 
 incurred his bishop's displeasure by being too warm an advocate for 
 domestic nomination — a piece of discipline the re-establishment of 
 which was then attempted by the junior clergymen of the diocese 
 wherein the scene of this station is laid. Be this as it may, he came 
 in time to assist the gentlemen in absolving those penitents (as we 
 must call them so) who still remained unconfessed. 
 
 During all this time Katty was in the plenitude of her authority, 
 and her sense of importance manifested itself in a manner that was 
 by no means softened by having been that morning at her duty. Her 
 tones were not so shrill nor so loud as they would have been had not 
 their reverences been within hearing ; but what was wanting in loud- 
 ness was displayed in a firm and decided energy, that vented itself 
 frequently in the course of the day upon the backs and heads of her 
 sons, daughters, and servants, as they crossed her path in the im- 
 patience and bustle of her employment. It was truly ludicrous to see 
 her, on encountering one of them in these fretful moments, give him 
 a drive head foremost against the wall, exclaiming, as she shook her 
 fist at him, " Ho, you may bless your stars that they're under the roof, 
 or it wouMn't go so asy wid you ; for if goodness hasn't said it, you'll 
 make ma lose my sowl this blessed and holy day : but this is still the 
 case — the very time I go to my duty, the devil (between us and harm) 
 is sure to throw fifty temptations acrass me, and to help him, you must 
 come in my way— but wait till to-morrow, and if I don't pay you for 
 I his, I'm not here." 
 
^S THE STATION, 
 
 That a station is an expensive ordinance to the peasant who is 
 honoured by having one held in his house, no one who knows the 
 characteristic hospitahty of the Irish people can doubt. I have 
 reason, however, to think, that since the Church of Rome and her 
 discipline have undergone so rigorous a scrutiny by the advocates of 
 scriptural truth, she has been much more cautious in the manner in 
 which they have been conducted. The policy of Romanism has uni- 
 formly been to adapt herself to the circumstances by which she may 
 be surrounded, and as the unbecoming licentiousness, which about 
 twenty, or even so late as fifteen years ago trod so closely upon the 
 heels of a ceremony which the worship of God and the administration 
 of sacramental rites should have in a peculiar manner solemnized, 
 was utterly disgraceful and shocking — she felt that it was expedient, 
 as knowledge advanced around her, to practise a greater degree of 
 external decorum and circumspection, lest her little ones should be 
 scandalized. This, however, did not render it necessary that she 
 should effect much reformation on this point in those parts of the 
 kingdom which are exclusively Catholic ; and accordingly stations, 
 with some exceptions in a certain diocese, go on much in the old 
 manner as to the expense which they occasion the people to incur, 
 and the jolly, convivial spirit which winds them up. 
 
 About four o'clock the penitents were at length all despatched ; and 
 those who were to be detained for dinner, many of whom had not 
 eaten anything until then, in consequence of the necessity of receiv- 
 ing the Eucharist fasting, were taken aside to taste some of Phaddhy's 
 poteen. Of course, no remorse was felt at the impiety of mingling it 
 so soon with the sacrament they had just received, believing, as they 
 did, the latter to contain the immaculate Ueily ; but, indeed, their 
 reverences at breakfast had set them a pretty example on that point. 
 At length the hour of dinner arrived, and along with it the redoubtable 
 Parrah More Slevin, Captain Wilson, and another nephew of Father 
 Philemy's, who had come to know what detained his brother who had 
 conducted the auxiliary priest to Phaddhy's. It is surprising, on these 
 occasions, to think how many uncles, and nephews, and cousins, to 
 the forty-second degree, find it needful to follow their reverences on 
 messages of various kinds ; and it is equally surprising to observe 
 with what exactness they drop in during the hour of dinner. Of 
 course, any blood-relation or friend of the priest's must be received 
 with cordiality ; and consequently they do not return without solid 
 proofs of the good-natured hospitality of poor Paddy, who feels no 
 greater pleasure than in showing his " dacency " to any belonging to 
 his reverence. 
 
 I daresay it would be difllicult to find a more motley and diversified 
 company than sat down to the ungarnished fare which Katty laid 
 before them. There were first, Fathers Philemy, Con, and tiie 
 auxiliary from the far part of the diocese ; next followed Captain 
 Wilson, Peter Malone, and Father Philemy's two nephews ; after these 
 came Phaddhy himself, Parrah More Slevin, with about two dozen 
 more of the most remarkable and uncouth personages that could sit 
 
THE STATION. 89 
 
 down to table. There were besides about a dozen of females, most 01 
 whom by this time, owing to Katty's private kindness, and a llight 
 thirst occasioned by the long fast, were in a most independent and 
 placid state of feeling. Father Philemy, ex officio, filled the chair — he 
 was a small man, with cherub cheeks as red as roses, black twinkling 
 eyes, and double chin ; was of the fat-headed genus, and, if phreno- 
 logists be correct, must have given indications of early piety, for he 
 was bald before his time, and had the organ of veneration standing 
 visible on his crown ; his hair, from having once been black, had 
 become an iron-grey, and hung down behind his ears, resting on the 
 collar of his coat, according to the old school, to which, I must remark, 
 he belonged, having been educated on the Continent. His coat had 
 large double breasts, the lappels of which hung down loosely on each 
 side, being the prototype of his waistcoat, whose double breasts fell 
 downwards in the same manner ; his black small-clothes had silver 
 buckles at the knees, and the gaiters, which did not reach up so far 
 discovered a pair of white lamb's-wool stockings, somewhat retreating 
 from their original colour. 
 
 Father Con was a tall, muscular, able-bodied young man, with 
 an immensely broad pair of shoulders, of which he was vain ; his 
 black hair was cropped close, except a thin portion of it, which was 
 trimmed quite evenly across his eyebrows ; he was rather bow-limbed 
 and when walking looked upwards, holding out his elbows from his 
 body, and letting the lower parts of his arms fall down, so that 
 he went as if he carried a keg under each j his coat, though not well 
 made, was of the best glossy broadcloth, and his long clerical boots 
 went up about his knees like a dragoon's ; there was an awkward stiff- 
 ness about him, in very good keeping with a dark, melancholy cast of 
 countenance, in which, however, a man might discover an air of sim- 
 plicity not to be found in the visage of his superior, Father Philemy. 
 
 The latter gentleman tilled the chair, as I said, and carved the 
 goose ; on his right sat Captain Wilson ; on his left, the auxiliary — 
 next to them Father Con, the nephews, Peter Malone, et cetera. To 
 enumerate the items of the dinner is unnecessary, as our readers have 
 a pretty accurate notion of them from what we have already said. We 
 can only observe that when Phaddhy saw it laid, and all the wheels 
 of the system fairly set a-going, he looked at Parrah More with an air 
 of triumph which he could not conceal. It is also unnecessary for us 
 to give the conversation in full ; nor, indeed, would we attempt givino- 
 any portion of it, seeing it was not very edifying, except for the 
 purpose of showing the spirit in which a religious ceremony, looked 
 upon by its advocates as one of particular solemnity, is too frequently 
 closed. 
 
 The talk in the beginning was altogether confined to the clergymen 
 and Mr. Wilson, including a few diffident contributions from " Pether 
 Malone," and the " two nephews." 
 
 " Mr. M'Guirk," observed Captain Wilson, after the conversation 
 had taken several turns, "I'm sure that in the course of your pro- 
 fessional duties, sir, you must have had occasion to make many 
 
Oo THE STATION. 
 
 observations upon human nature, from the circumstance ol seeing it 
 in every condition and state of feeling possible ; from the baptism of 
 the infant, until the aged man receives the last rites of your Church 
 and the sweet consolations of religion from your hand." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it, Phaddhy," said Father Philemy to Phaddhy, 
 whom he had been addressing at the time, " not a doubt of it ; and I'll 
 do everything in my power to get him in too, and I am told he 
 is bright." 
 
 " Uncle," said one of the nephews, " this gentleman is speaking to 
 you." 
 
 " And why not ? " continued his reverence, who was so closely 
 engaged with Phaddhy that he did not hear even the nephew's appeal 
 — '• a bishop — and why not .'' Has he not as good a chance of being a 
 bishop as any of them .? though, God knows, it is not always merit 
 
 that gets a bishopric in any church, or I myself might But let that 
 
 pass," said he, fixing his eyes on the bottle. 
 
 "Father Philemy," said Father Con, "Captain Wilson was address- 
 ing himself to you in a most especial manner." 
 
 " Oh ! Captain, I beg ten thousand pardons. I was engaged talk- 
 ing with Phaddhy here about his son, who is a young shaving of our 
 cloth, sir ; he is intended for the mission. Phaddhy, I will either 
 examine him myself, or make Father Con examine him, by-and-by. 
 Well, captain.^" 
 
 The Captain now repeated what he had said. 
 
 " Very true, Captain, and we do see it in as many shapes as ever- 
 Con, what do you call hin??— put on him." 
 
 " Proteus," subjoined Con, who was famous at the classics. 
 
 Father Philemy nodded for the assistance, and continued : " But 
 as for human nature. Captain, give it to me at a good roasting christen- 
 ing ; or, what is better again, at a jovial wedding between two of my 
 own parishioners — say this pretty, fair-haired daughter of Phaddhy 
 Sheemus Phaddhy's here, and long Ned Slevin, Parrah More's son 
 there — eh, Phaddhy, will it be a match? — what do you say, Parrah 
 More? Upon my veracity I must bring that about." 
 
 "Why, then, yer reverence," replied Phaddhy, who was now a little 
 softened, and forgot his enmity against Parrah More for the present, 
 *' unlikelier things might happen." 
 
 " It won't be my fault," said Parrah More, " if my son Ned has no 
 objection." 
 
 " He object ! " replied Father Philemy, " if / take it in hand, let me 
 see who'll dare to object; doesn't the scripture say it? and sure we 
 can't go against the scripture." 
 
 " By-thc-by," said Captain Wilson, who was a dry humourist, " I 
 am happy to be able to infer from what you say. Father Philemy, that 
 you are not, as the clergymen of your Church are supposed to be, 
 inimical to the Bible." 
 
 " Me an enemy to the Bible ! no such thing, sir ; but. Captain, 
 begging your pardon, we'll have nothing more about the Bible : you 
 see we are met here, as friends and good fellows, to enjoy ourselves 
 
THE STATION. 91 
 
 after the severity of our spiritual duties, and we must relax a little ; 
 tve can't always carry long faces like Methodist parsons — come, Parrah 
 More, let the Bible take a nap, and give us a song." 
 
 His reverence was now seconded in his motion by the most of all 
 present, and Parrah More accordingly gave them a song. After a 
 few songs more, the conversation went on as before. 
 
 " Now, Parrah More," said Phaddhy, " you must try t/ty winej I 
 hope it's as good as whatjf// gave his reverence yesterday." 
 
 The words, however, had scarcely passed his lips, when Father 
 Philemy burst out into a fit of laughter, clapping and rubbing his 
 hands in a manner the most astonishing. " Oh, Phaddhy, Phaddhy !" 
 shouted his reverence, laughing heartily, " I done you for once — I done 
 you, my man, cute as you thought yourself : why, you nager, you, did 
 you think to put us off with punch, and you have a stocking of hard 
 guineas hid in a hole in the wall.''" 
 
 " What does yer rev'rence mane," said Phaddhy ; ** for myself can 
 make no undherstanding out of it, at all at all .-' " 
 
 To this his reverence only replied by another laugh. 
 
 " / gave his reverence no wine," said Parrah More, in reply to 
 Phaddhy's question. 
 
 " What ! " said Phaddhv, " none yesterday, at the station held with 
 you ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of me ever thought of it." 
 
 " Nor no mutton?" 
 
 " Why, then, devil a morsel of mutton, Phaddhy ; but we had a rib 
 of beef." 
 
 Phaddhy now looked over to his reverence rather sheepishly, with the 
 sm.ile of a man on his face who felt himself foiled. *' Well, yer reve- 
 rence has done me, sure enough," he replied, rubbing his head — " I 
 give it up to you. Father Philemy ; but, anyhow, I'm glad I got it, and 
 you're all welcome from the core of my heart. I'm only sorry I 
 haven't as much more now to thrate you all like gintlemen ; but there's 
 some yet, and as much punch as will make all our heads come 
 round." 
 
 Our readers must assist us with their own imaginations, and suppose 
 the conversation to have passed very pleasantly, and the night, as v/ell 
 as the guests, to be somewhat y^i'r^fw^. The principal part of the 
 conversation was borne by the three clergymen, Captain Wilson, and 
 Phaddhy; that of the two nephews and Peter Malone ran in an under- 
 current of its own ; and in the preceding part of the night those who 
 occupied the bottom of the table spoke to each other rather in 
 whispers, being too much restrained by that rus*'': bashfulness which 
 ties up the tongues of those whe feel that their consequence is over- 
 looked among their superiors. According as the punch circulated, 
 however, their diffidence began to wear off; and occasionally an odd 
 laugh or so might be heard to break the monotony of their silence. 
 The youngsters, too, though at first almost in a state of terror, soon 
 commenced plucking each other ; and a titter, or a suppressed burst 
 of laughter, would break forth from one of the more waggish, who was 
 
92 THE STATION. 
 
 put to a severe task in afterwards composing his countenance into 
 sufficient gravity to escape detection, and a competent portion of 
 chastisement the next day, for not being able to " b' have himself with 
 betther manners." 
 
 During these juvenile breaches of decorum, Kruty would raise her 
 arm in a threatening attitude, shake her head at them, and look up 
 at the clergy, intimating more by her earnestness of gesticulation than 
 met the ear. Several songs again went round, of which, truth to tell. 
 Father Philemy's were by far the best : for he possessed a rich comic 
 expression of eye, which, added to suitable ludicrousness of gesture 
 and a good voice, rendered him highly amusing to the company. 
 Father Con declined singing, as being decidedly serious, though he 
 was often solicited. 
 
 "He!" said Father Philemy, " he's no more voice than a wool- 
 pack ; but Con's a cunning fellow. What do you think. Captain 
 Wilson, but he pretends to be too pious to sing, and gets credit for 
 piety — not because he is devout, but because he has a bad voice ; now, 
 Con, you can't deny it, for there's not a man in the three kingdoms 
 knows it better than myself ; you sit there with a face upon you that 
 might go before the Lamentations of Jeremiah the Prophet, when you 
 ought to be as jovial as another." 
 
 " Well, Father Philemy," said Phaddhy, "as he won't sing, maybe, 
 wid submission, he'd examine Briney in hia Latin, till his mother and 
 I hear how he's doing at it." 
 
 " Ay, he's fond of dabbling at Latin, so he may try him — I'm sure I 
 have no objection So, Captain, as I was telling you " 
 
 " Silence there below ! " said Phaddhy to those at the lower end of 
 the table, who were now talkative enough ; " will yees whisht there 
 till Father Con hears Briney a lesson in his Latin. Where are you, 
 Briney ? come here, ma bouchal." 
 
 But Briney had absconded when he saw that the tug of war was 
 about to commence. In a few minutes, however, the father returned, 
 pushing the boy before him, who, in his reluctance to encounter the 
 ordeal of examination, clung to every chair, table, and person in his 
 way, hoping that his restiveness might induce them to postpone the 
 examination till another occasion. The father, however, was in- 
 exorable, and by main force dragged him from all his holds and placed 
 him beside Father Con. 
 
 " What's come over you, at all at all, you insignified shiugaion, you, 
 to affront the gintleman in this way, and he kind enough to go for to 
 give you an exa>iiination ? — come now, you had betther not vex me, I 
 tell you, but hould up your head and spake out loud, that we can all 
 hear you : now, Father Con, achora, you'll not be too hard upon him 
 in the beginning, till he gets into it, for he's aisy dashed." 
 
 " Here, Briney," said Father Philemy, handing hmi his tumbler, 
 " take a pull of this, and if you have any courage at all in you it will 
 raise it ; take a good pull." 
 
 Briney hesitated. 
 
 " Why, but you take the glass out of his reverence's hand, sarrah," 
 
THE STATION. , 93 
 
 said the father — " what ! is it without dhrinking his reverence's health 
 first!" 
 
 Briney gave a most melancholy nod at his reverence, as he put the 
 tumbler to his mouth, which he nearly emptied, notwithstanding his 
 shyness, 
 
 " For my part," said his reverence, looking at the almost empty 
 tumbler, " I am pretty sure that that same chap will be able to take 
 
 care of himself through life. And so, Captain " said he, resuming 
 
 the conversation with Captain Wilson, for his notice of Briney was 
 only parenthetical. 
 
 Father Con now took the book, which was ^sop's Fables, and, in 
 accordance with Briney's intention, it opened exactly at the favourite 
 fable of Gallus Gallinaceus. He was not aware, however, that Briney 
 had kept that place open during the preceding part of the week, in 
 order to effect this point. Father Philemy, however, was now begin- 
 ning to relate another anecdote to the captain, and the thread of his 
 narrative twined rather ludicrously with that of the examination. 
 
 Briney, after a few hems, at length proceeded — " Gallus Galli- 
 naceus, a dunghill cock " 
 
 "So, Captain, I was just after coming out of Widow Moylan's — it 
 was in the Lammas fair — and a large one, by-the-by, it was — so, sir, 
 who should come up to me but Branagan. ' Well, Branagan,' said I, 
 * how does the world go now with you .'' ' " 
 
 " Gallus Gallinaceus, a dunghill cock " 
 
 " Says he. 'And how is that.^' says I " 
 
 " Gallus Gallinaceus " 
 
 " Says he. 'Hut tut, Branagan,' says I — 'you're drunk.' 
 
 ' That's the thing, sir,' says Branagan, ' and I want to explain it all to 
 your reverence.' ' Well,' said I, 'go on' " 
 
 " Gallus Gallinaceus, a dunghill cock " 
 
 " Says he Let your Gallus Gallinaceus go to roost for this 
 
 night, Con," said Father Philemy, who did not relish the interruption 
 of his story. " I say, Phaddhy, send the boy to bed, and bring him 
 down in your hand to my house on Saturday morning, and we will 
 both examine him, but this is no time for it, and me engaged in con- 
 versation with Captain Wilson. So, Captain 'Well, sir,' says 
 
 Branagan, and he staggering, ' I took an oath against liquor, and I 
 want your reverence to break it,' says he. ' What do you mean .f" I 
 inquired. ' Why, please your reverence,' said he, ' I took an oath 
 against liquor, as I told you, not to drink more nor a pint of whisky in 
 one day, and I want your reverence to break it for me, and make it 
 only half a pint ; for I find that a pint is too much for me ; by the 
 same token, that when 1 get that far, your reverence, I disremember 
 the oath entirely.' " 
 
 The influence of the bottle now began to be felt, and the conver- 
 sation absolutely blew a gale, wherein hearty laughter, good strong 
 singing, loud argument, and general good-humour blended into one 
 uproarious peal of hilarity, accompanied by some smart flashes o( 
 wit and humour, which would not disgrace a prouder banquet. 
 
94 THE STATION. 
 
 Pliaddhy, in particular, melted into a spirit of the most unbounded 
 benevolence — a spirit that would (if by any possible means he could 
 effect it) embrace the whole human race ; that is to say, he would 
 raise them — man, woman, and child— to the same elevated state of 
 happiness which he enjoyed himself. That, indeed, was happiness in 
 perfection, as pure and unadulterated as the poteen which created it. 
 How could he be otherwise than happy.'' — he had succeeded to a good 
 property and a stocking of hard guineas, without the hard labour of 
 acquiring them ; he had the " clargy " under his roof at last, partaking 
 of a hospitality which he felt himself well able to afford them ; he had 
 settled with his reverence for five years' arrears of sin, all of which 
 had been wiped out of his conscience by the blessed absolving hand 
 of the priest ; he was training up Briney for the Mission, and, though 
 last not least, he was — far gone in his seventh tumbler ! 
 
 " Come, jinteels," said he, " spare nothing here — there's lashings of 
 everything ; thrate yourselves dacent, and don't be saying to-morrow 
 or next day that ever my father's son was nagerly. Death alive. 
 Father Con, what are you doin' ? Why, then, bad manners to me if 
 that'll sarve, anyhow." 
 
 " Phaddhy," replied Father Con, " I assure you I have done my 
 duty." 
 
 " Very well, Father Con, granting all that, it's no sin to repate a 
 good turn, you know. Not a word I'll hear, yer reverence — one 
 tumbler along with myself, if it was only for ould times." He then 
 filled Father Con's tumbler, with his own hand, in a truly liberal spirit. 
 " Arrah, Father Con, do you remember the day we had the leapin'- 
 match, and the bout at the shoulder-stone ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I'll not forget it, Phaddhy." 
 
 " And it's yourself that may say that ; but I bleeve I rubbed the 
 consate off of your reverence — only that's betune ourselves, you 
 persave." 
 
 " You did win the palm, Phaddhy, I'll not deny it ; but you are the 
 only man that ever bet me at either of the athletics." 
 
 " And I'll say this for yer reverence, that you are one of the best and 
 most able-bodied gintlemen I ever engaged with. Ah ! Father Con, 
 I'm past all that now — but no matter, here's yer reverence's health, and 
 a shake hands ; Father Philemy, yer health, docthor : yer strange 
 reverence's health — Captain Wilson, not forgetting you, sir : Mr. 
 Pether, yours ; and I hope to see you soon with the robes upon you, 
 and to be able to prache us a good sarmon. Parrah More — wits d/ia 
 lauv^ — give me yer hand, you steeple, you ; and I haven't the smallest 
 taste of objection to what Father Philemy hinted at — ye'll obsarve. 
 Katty, yoa thief o' the world, where are you .-" Your health, avourneen; 
 come here, and give us your fist, Katty : bad manners to me if I could 
 forget you afther all ; — the best crathur, your reverence, undher the 
 sun, except when yer reverence puts yer comedJicr on her at confession, 
 and then she's a little sharp or so, not a doubt of it ; but no matther, 
 
 • The translation follows it. 
 
THE STATION. 95 
 
 Katty ahagur, you do it all for the best. And Father Philemy, n.aybe 
 it's myself didn't put the thrick upon you in the Maragy More, about 
 Katty's death — ha, ha, ha ! Jack M' Cramer, yer health — all yer 
 healths, and yer welcome here, if you war seven times as many. 
 Briney, where are you, ma bouchal .'' Come up and shake hands wid 
 yer father, as well as another — come up, acushla, and kiss me. Ah, 
 Briney, my poor fellow, ye'U never be the cut of a man yer father was ; 
 but no matther, avourneen, ye'U be a betther man, I hope ; and God 
 knows you may asy be that, for, Father Philemy, I'm not what I ought 
 to be, yer reverence ; however, I may mend, and will, maybe, before a 
 month of Sundays goes over me : but, for all that, Briney, I hope to 
 see the day when you'll be sitting, an ordained priost, at my own table ; 
 if I once saw that, I could die contented — so mind yer laming, acushla, 
 and his reverence here will back you, and make intherest to get you 
 into the college. Musha, God pity them crathurs at the door — aren't 
 they gone yet.'' Listen to them coughin', for fraid we'd forget them : 
 and throth and they won't be forgot this bout, anyhow — Katty, avour- 
 neen, give them everyone, bit and little, young and ould, their skinfuU 
 — don't lave a wrinkle in them ; and see, take one of them bottles — 
 the crathurs, they're starved sitting there all night in the could — and 
 give them a couple of glasses apiece — it's good, yer reverence, to have 
 the poor body's blessing at all times ; and now, as I was saying, Here's 
 all yer healths ! and from the very veins of my heart yer welcome 
 here:' 
 
 Our readers may perceive that Phaddhy 
 
 "Was not only blest, but glonous, 
 O'er a" the ills o' life victorious ; 
 
 for, like the generality of our peasantry, the native drew to the surface 
 of his character those warm, hospitable, and benevolent virtues which 
 a purer system of morals and education would most certainly keep in 
 full action, without running the risk, as in the present instance, of 
 mixing bad habits with frank, manly, and generous qualities. 
 
 * ****** 
 
 ♦ «*♦*•»* 
 
 " I'll not go. Con — I tell you I'll not go till I sing another song. 
 Phaddhy, you're a prince — but where's the use of lighting more candles 
 now, man, than you had in the beginning of the night ? Is Captain 
 Wilson gone ? Then peace be with him ; it's a pity he wasn't on the 
 right side, for he's not the worst of them. Ph?.ddhy, where are you ?" 
 
 " Why, yer reverence," replied Katty, " he's got a little unwell, and 
 jist laid down his head a bit." 
 
 " Katty," said Father Con, " you had better get a couple of the men 
 to accompany Father Philemy home ; for, though the night's clear, he 
 doesn't see his way very well in the dark — poor man, his eyesight's 
 failing him fast." 
 
 " Then the more's the pity. Father Con. Here, Denis, let yourself 
 and Mat go home wid Father Philemy." 
 
96 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " Good night, Katty," said Father Con — " Good night : and may our 
 blessing sanctify you all ! " 
 
 "Good night, Father Con, ahagur," replied Katty ; "and for good- 
 ness' sake see that they take care of Father Philemy, for it's himself 
 that's the blessed and holy crathur, and the pleasant gintleman, out 
 and out." 
 
 " Good night, Katty," again repeated F"ather Con, as the cavalcade 
 proceeded in a body—" Good night ! " And so ended the station. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 V^^lRANK M'KENNA was a snug farmer, frugal and indus- 
 , ^^ trious in his habits, and, what is rare amongst most men 
 ^^■^^ \ of his class, addicted to neither drink nor quarrelling. He 
 lived at the skirt ol a mountain, which ran up in long successive 
 undulations, until it ended in a dark, abrupt peak, very perpendicular 
 on one side, and always, except on a bright clay, capped with clouds. 
 Before his door lay a hard plain, covered only with a kind of bent, 
 and studded with round grey rocks, protruding somewhat above its 
 surface. Through this plain, over a craggy channel, ran a mountain 
 torrent, that issued, to the right of M'Kenna's house, from a rocky 
 and precipitous valley, which twisted itself round the base of the 
 mountain until it reached the perpendicular side, where the peak 
 actually overhung it. On looking either from the bottom of the 
 valley or the top of the peak the depth appeared immense ; and on 
 a summer's day, when the blackthorns and other hardy shrubs that in 
 some places clothed its rocky sides were green, to view the river spark- 
 ling below you in the sun, as it llung itself over two or three cataracts 
 of great depth and boldness, filled the mind with those undefinablc 
 sensations of pleasure inseparable from a contemplation of the sub- 
 limities of nature. Nor did it possess less interest when beheld in 
 the winter storm. Well do we remember, though then ignorant of our 
 own motives, when we have, in the turmoil of the elements, climbed 
 its steep, shaggy sides, disappearing like a speck, or something not of 
 earth, among the dark clouds that rolled over its summit, for no other 
 purpose than to stand upon its brow, and look down on the red 
 torrent dashing with mipetuosity from crag to crag, whilst the winds 
 roared ai.d the clouds tlew in dark columns around us, giving to the 
 natural wildness of the place an air of wilder desolation. Dcyoiul this 
 glen the mountains stretched away for eight or ten miles in swelling 
 masses, between which lay many extensive sweeps, well sheltered and 
 abundantly stocked with game, particularly with hares and grouse. 
 M'Kenna's house stood, as I said, at the foot of this mountain, just 
 where the yellow surface of the plain began to darken into the deeper 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 97 
 
 hues of the heath ; to the left lay a considerable tract of stony land in 
 a state of cultivation ; and beyond the river, exactly opposite the 
 house, rose a long line of hills, studded with houses, and in summer 
 diversified with fallow, pasture, and corn fields, the beauty of which 
 was heightened by the columns of smoke that slanted across the hills, 
 as the breeze carried them through the lucid haze of the atmosphere. 
 
 M'Kenna's family consisted of himself, his wife, two daughters, and 
 two sons. One of these was a young man addicted to drink, idle, 
 ill-tempered, and disobedient ; seldom taking a part in the labours of 
 the family, but altogether devoted to field sports, fairs, markets, and 
 dances. In many parts of Ireland it is usual to play at cards for 
 mutton, loaves, fowls, or whisky, and he was seldom absent from 
 such gambling parties, if held within a reasonable distance. Often 
 had the other members of the family remonstrated with him on his 
 idle and immoral courses ; but their remonstrances only excited his 
 bad passions, and produced, on his part, angry and exasperating 
 language, or open determinations to abandon the family altogether 
 and enlist. For some years he went on in this way, a hardened, 
 ungodly profligate, spurning the voice of reproof and of conscience, 
 and insensible to the entreaties of (domestic affection, or the commands 
 of parental authority. Such was his state of mind and mode of life 
 when our story opens. 
 
 At the time in which the incidents contained in this sketch took 
 place, the peasantry of Ireland, being less encumbered with heavy 
 rents, and more buoyant in spirits than the decay of national pros- 
 perity has of late permitted them to be, indulged more frequently, and 
 to a greater stretch, in those rural sports and festivities so suitable to 
 their natural love of humour and amusement. Dances, wakes, and 
 weddings were then held according to the most extravagant forms of 
 ancient usage ; the people were easier in their circumstances, and 
 consequently indulged in them with lighter hearts and a stronger 
 relish for enjoyment. When any of the great festivals of theii 
 religion approached, the popular mind, unrepressed by poverty and 
 national dissension, gradually elevated itself to a species of wild and 
 reckless mirth, productive of incidents irresistibly ludicrous and 
 remarkably characteristic of Irish manners. It is not, however, to be 
 expected that a people whose love of fighting is so innate a principle 
 jn their disposition should celebrate these festive seasons without an 
 occasional crime, which threw its deep shadow over the mirthful 
 character of their customs. Many such occurred ; but they were 
 looked upon then with a degree of horror and detestation of which we 
 can form but a very inadequate idea at present. 
 
 It was upon the advent of one of those festivals — Christmas — that 
 the family of M'Kenna, like every other family in the neighbourhood, 
 were making preparations to celebrate it with the usual hilarity. 
 They cleared out their barn in order to have a dance on Christmas 
 Eve, and for this purpose the two sons and the servant man wrought 
 with that kind of industry produced by the cheerful prospect of some 
 happy event. For a week or fortnight before the evening on which 
 
9S THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 the dance was appointed to be held, due notice of it had been given 
 to the neighbours, and, of course, there was no doubt but that it 
 would be numerously attended. 
 
 Christmas Eve, as the day preceding Christmas is called, has been 
 always a day of great preparation and bustle. Indeed, the whole week 
 previous to it is also remarkable, as exhibiting the importance attached 
 by the people to those occasions on which they can give a loose to 
 cheir love of fun and frolic. The farmhouse undergoes a thorough 
 cleansing. Father and sons are, or rather used to be, all engaged m 
 repairing the out-houses, patching them with thatch where it was 
 wanted, mending mangers, paving stable floors, fixing cow-stakes, 
 making boraghs,' removing nuisances, and cleaning streets. 
 
 On the other hand, the mothers, daughters, and maids were also 
 engaged in their several departments; the latter scouring the furniture 
 with sand ; the mother making culinary preparations, baking bread, 
 killing fowls, or salting meat, whilst the daughters were unusually 
 intent upon the decoration of their own dress, and the making up of 
 the family linen. All, however, was performed with an air of gaiety 
 and pleasure ; the ivy and holly were disposed about the dressers and 
 collar beams with great glee ; the chimneys were swept amidst songs 
 and laughter ; many bad voices, and some good ones, were put in 
 requisition ; whilst several, who had never been known to chaunt a 
 itave, alarmed the listeners by the grotesque and incomprehensible 
 nature of their melody. Those who were inclined to dtrvoiion — and 
 there is no lack of it in Ireland— took to carols and hymns, which they 
 sang, for want of better airs, to tunes highly comic. We have ourselves 
 often heard the Doxology sung in Irish verse to the facetious air of 
 " Paudeen O'Rafferty," and other hymns to the tune of " Peas upon a 
 Trencher," and " Cruskeen Lawn." Sometimes, on the contrary, many 
 of them, from the very fulness of jollity, would become pathetic, and 
 indulge in those touching old airs of their country which may be truly 
 called songs of sorrow, from the exquisite and simple pathos with 
 which they abound. This, though it may seem anomalous, is but 
 natural ; for there is nothing so apt to recall to the heart those friends, 
 whether absent or dead, with whom it has been connected, as a stated 
 festival. Affection is then awakened, and summons to the hearth 
 where it presides those on whose faces it loves to look. If they 
 be living, it places them in the circle of happiness which surrounds it ; 
 and if they be removed for ever from such scenes, their memory, 
 which, amidst the din of ordinary life, has almost passed away, is 
 now restored, and their loss felt as if it had been only just then 
 sustained. 
 
 For this reason, at such times, it is not at all unusual to see the 
 elders of Irish families touched by pathos as well as humour. The 
 Irish are a people whose affections are as strong as their imaginations 
 are vivid ; and, in illustration of this, we may add that many a time 
 have we seen them raised to mirth and melted into tears, almost at the 
 
 ' The rope with which a cow is tied in the co\r-house. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 93 
 
 same time, by a song of the most comic character. The mirth, how- 
 ever, \vas for the song, and the sorrow for the memory ot some beloved 
 relation who had been remarkable for singing it, or with whom it had 
 been a favourite. 
 
 We do not affirm that in the family of the M'Kennas theie were, 
 upon the occasion which we are describing, any tears shed. The 
 enjoyments of the season, and the humours of the expected dance, 
 both combined to give them a more than usual degree of mirth and 
 frolic. At an early hour all that was necessary for the due celebration 
 of that night and the succeeding day had been arranged and com- 
 pleted. The whisky had been laid in, the Christmas candles bought, 
 the barn cleared out, the seats laid ; in short, everything in its place, 
 and a place for everything. About one o'clock, however, the young 
 members of the family began to betray some symptoms of uneasiness ; 
 nor was M'Kenna himself, though i\\Q fariihee, or man of the house, 
 altogether so exempt from what they felt, as might, if the cause of it 
 were known to our readers, be expected from a man of his years and 
 experience. 
 
 From time to time one of the girls tripped out as far as the stile 
 before the door, where she stood looking in a particular direction, 
 until her sight was fatigued. 
 
 " Och, och," her mother exclaimed during her absence, " but that 
 colleen's sick about Barny !— musha, but it would be the beautiful 
 joke, all out, if he'd disappoint the whole of yees. Faix, it wouldn't be 
 unlike the same man, to go to wherever he can make most money ; 
 and sure small blame to him for that : what's one place to him more 
 than another ? " 
 
 " Hut," M'Kenna replied, rising, however, to go out himself, " the 
 girsha's niakin' a bauliore'^ of herself." 
 
 " An' Where's yourself slippin' out to ? " rejoined his wife, with a 
 wink of shrewd humour at the rest. " I say, Frank, are yoic goin' to 
 look for him too ? Mavrone, but that's sinsible ! Why, thin, you 
 snakin' ould rogue, is that the way wid you ? Throth I have often 
 hard it said that ' one fool makes many ; ' but sure enough, ' an ould 
 fool'j worse nor any.' Come in here this minute, I say — walk back — 
 you to have your horn up ! — Faix, indeed ! " 
 
 " Why, I am only goin' to get the small phaties boiled for the pigs, 
 poor crathurs, for their Christmas dinner. Sure we oughtn't to neglect 
 thim no more nor ourselves, the crathurs, that can't spake their wants 
 except by gruntin'." 
 
 " Saints above ! — the Lord forgive me for bringin' down their names 
 upon a Christmas Eve ! — but it's beside himself the man is ! — an' him 
 knows that the phaties wor boiled an' made up in balls for them arly 
 this mornin' !" 
 
 In the meantime the wife's good-natured attack upon her husband 
 produced considerable mirth in the family. In consequence of what 
 she said, he hesitated ; but ultimately was proceeding towards the 
 
 ' A laughing-stock. 
 
100 Tim MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 door, when the daughter returned, her brow flushed, and her fvc 
 sparkUng with mirth and dehght. 
 
 "Ha!" said the father, with a complacent smile, "all's right, 
 r'eggy ; you seen him, alanna. The music's in your eye, acushla ; an' 
 the feet of you can't keep themselves off o' the ground ; an' all bekase 
 you seen Barny DJial pokin' acrass the fields, wid his head up, an' his 
 skirt stickin' out behind him wid Granua Waile."^ 
 
 The father had conjectured properly, for the joy which animated the 
 girl's countenance could not be misunderstood. 
 
 " Barny's comin '," she exclaimed, clapping her hands with great 
 glee, "an' our Frank wid him ; they're at the river, and Frank has him 
 on his back, and Granua Waile undher his arm ! Come out, come 
 out ! You'll die for good, lookin' at them staggerin' acrass. I knew 
 he'd come ! I knew it ! God be good to thim that invinted 
 Christmas ; it's a brave time, faix ! " 
 
 In a moment the inmates were grouped before the door, all anxious 
 to catch a glimpse of Barny and Granua Waile. 
 
 " Faix, ay ! Sure enough. Sarra doubt of it ! Whethen, I'd never 
 mistrust Barny ! " might be heard in distinct exclamations from each. 
 
 " Faith, he's a Trojan," said the faritJiee, " an' must get lashins of 
 the best we have. Come in, childhcr, an' red the hob for him. 
 
 "Och, Christmas comes but wanst a year, 
 An' Christmas comes but wanst a year ; 
 An' the divil a mouth 
 Shall be friends wid drouth, 
 While I have whisky, ale, or beer. 
 
 " Och, Christmas comes but wanst a yeai 
 An' Christmas comes but wanst a year 
 
 Wid han' in han'. 
 
 An' can to can, 
 Then Hi for the whisky, ale, an' bfter. 
 
 "Och, Christmas comes but wanst a yeriT, 
 An' Christmas comes but wanst a year . 
 
 Then the high an' the low 
 
 Shall shake their toe. 
 When prim'd wid whisky, ale, an' beer. 
 
 For all that, the sorra fig I care for either ale or beer, barrin' in 
 regard of mere drouth ; give me the whisky. Eh, Alley — won't we 
 have a jorum anyhow .-'" 
 
 "Why, thin," replied the wife, "the devil be from me (the crass 
 about us for namin' him) but you're a greater Brinoi^e than some of 
 your childhcr ! I suppose it's your capers Frank has in him. Will 
 you behave yourself, you ould slingpoke.'' Behave, I say, an' let me 
 go. Childher, will you help me to flake this man out o' the place.'' 
 Look at him, here, caperin' an' crackin' his fingers afore me, an' 
 puUin ine out to dance ! " 
 
 " Och, och, murdher alive," exclaimed the good man, out of bre.-ith, 
 
 » Hib fiddle. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. »oi 
 
 "I seen the day, anj'way ! An', maybe, could show a step or two 
 yet, if I was well vexed. You can't forget ould times, Alley ? Eh, 
 you thief? " 
 
 " Musha, have sinse, man alive," replied the wife, in a tone of 
 placid gravity, which only betrayed the pleasure she herself fel'; in his 
 happiness. " Have sinse, an' the strange man comin' in, an' don't 
 let him see you in sich figaries." 
 
 The observation of the good woman produced a loud laugh among 
 them. "Arrah, what are yees laughin' at?" she inquired. 
 
 " Why, mother," said one of her daughters, " how could Barny 
 Dhal, a blind man, see anybody ?" 
 
 Alley herself laughed at her blunder, but wittily replied, " Faith, 
 avourneen, maybe he can often see as nately through his ear as you 
 can do wid your eyes open ; sure they say he can hear the grass 
 growin'." 
 
 " For that matther," observed the fariihee, joining in the joke, " he 
 can see as far as any of us — while we're asleep." 
 
 The conversation was thus proceeding, when Barny Z?//rt/and young 
 Frank M'Kenna entered the kitchen. 
 
 In a moment all hands were extended to welcome Barny : *' Milltn 
 failte ghud, Barny!" " Cead tiiilh'a faille ghud, Barny!" "Oh, 
 Barny, did you come at last ?" " You're welcome, Barny !" " Barny. 
 my Trojan, how is every cart-load of you ? " " How is Granua Waile, 
 Barny?" 
 
 " Why thin, holy music, did you never see Barny Dhal afore ? 
 Clear off from about me, or, by the sweets of rosin, I'll play the devil 
 an' brake things. 'You're welcome, Barny 1' — an' 'How are you, 
 Barny?' Why thin, piper o' Moses, don't I know I'm welcome, an' 
 yit you must be tellin' me what everybody knows ! But sure I have 
 great news for you all ! " 
 " What is that, Barny ?" 
 
 " Well, but can yees keep a sacret ? Can yees, girls ? " 
 " Faix can we, Barny, achora." 
 
 " Well, so can I — ha, ha, ha ! Now are yees sarved? Come, let 
 me to the hob." 
 
 " Here, Barny ; I'll lead you, Barny." 
 
 " No, I have him ; come, Barny, /'// lead you : here, achora, this 
 is the spot— that's it. Why, Barny," said the arch girl, as she placed 
 him in the corner, " sorra one o' the hob but knows you : it never 
 stirs — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Throth, a colleen, that tongue o' yours will delude some one afore 
 long, if it hasn't done so already." 
 " But how is Granua Waile, Barny?" 
 
 " Poor Granua is it ? Faith, times is hard wid her often. ' Granua,' 
 says I to her, ' what do you say, acushla? we're axed to go to two or 
 three places to-day — what do you say ? Do you lead, an' I'll follow : 
 your will is my pleasure.' ' An' where are we axed to?' says Granua, 
 sinsible enough. 'Why,' says I, 'to Paddy Lanigan's, to Mike 
 ifartigan's, to Jack Lynch's, an', at the heel o' the hunt, to Frank 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 M'Kenna's, of the Mountain Bar.' ' By my song,' says she, ^ yon may 
 go where you plase ; for me, Fm off to Frank M'Kenna's, one of thf 
 dacenlcst men in Europe, an' his wife the same. Divil a toe I'll set a 
 waggin' in any other place this night,' says she, ' for 'tis there we're 
 both well thrated wid the best the house can afford. So,' says she, 
 ' in the name of all that's musical, you're welcome to the poker an' 
 tongs anywhere else : for me, I'm off to Frank's.' An' faith, sure 
 enough, she took to her pumps ; an' it was only comin' over the hill 
 there that young Frank an' I overtuck her : divil a lii in it." 
 
 In fact, 15arny, besides being a fiddler, was a shanahus of the first 
 water ; could tell a story or trace a genealogy as well as any man 
 living, and draw the long bow in either capacity much better than he 
 could in the practice of his more legitimate profession. 
 
 " Well, here she is, Barny, to the fore," said the aforesaid arch girl, 
 " an' now give us a tune." 
 
 " What ! " replied xhe fan thee, " is it widout either aitin' or dhrinkin' ? 
 Why the girsha's beside herself! Alley, aroon, get him the linin', 
 an' a sup to tighten his elbow." 
 
 The good woman instantly went to provide refreshments for the 
 musician. 
 
 " Come, girls," said Barny, " will yees get me a scythe or a hand- 
 saw." 
 
 " A scythe or a handsaw ! ethen what to do, Barny ? " 
 
 " Why, to pare my nail, to be sure," replied Barny, with a loud 
 laugh ; " but stay — come back here — I'll make shift to do wid a pair 
 of scissors this bout. 
 
 " The paarent finds his sons, 
 The tutherer whips them ; 
 The nailer makes his nails, 
 The fiddler clips them." 
 
 Wherever Barny came there was mirth, and a disposition to be 
 pleased, so that his jokes always told. 
 
 " Musha, the sorra pa7-e you, Barny," said one of the girls, " but 
 there's no bein' up to you, good or bad." 
 
 "The sorra pair me, is it? faix, Nancy, you'll soon be paired 
 yourself wid some one, avourneen. Do you know a sarlin young man 
 wid a nose on him runnin' to a point like the pin of a sun-dial, his 
 knees brakin' the king's pace, strikin' one another ever since he was 
 able to walk, an' that was about four years afther he could say his 
 PatJier Nosthcr ; an' faith, whatever you may think, there's no makin' 
 them paceable except by puttin' between them ! The wrong side of 
 his shin, too, is foremost ; an' though the one-half of his two feet is 
 all heels, he keeps the same heels for set days an' bonfire niglits, an' 
 savinly walks on his ankles. His leg, too, Nancy, is stuck in the 
 middle of his foot, like a poker in a pickaxe ; an', along wid all, " 
 
 " Here, Barny, thry your hand at this," said the good woman, who 
 had not heard his ludicrous description of her fictitious son-in-law— 
 "^M arran agus bee laudher, Barny, ate bread an' be strong. I'll 
 warrant when you begin to play tliey'll give you little time to do 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 103 
 
 anything but scrape away ; — taste the dhrink first, anyway, in the 
 name o' God," — and she filled him a glass. 
 
 " Augh, augh ! faith you're the moral of a woman. Are you there, 
 M'Kenna? — here's a sudden disholution to your family! May they 
 be scattered wid all speed— manin' the girls — to all corners o' the 
 parish ! — ha, ha, ha ! Well, tJiat won't vex them, anyhow ; an' next, 
 here's a merry Chris'mas to us, an' many o' them ! Whooh ! blur- 
 an'-age ! — whooh ! oh, by gorra ! — that's — that's — Frank run afther 
 my breath — I've lost it — run, you tory : oh, by gor, that's stuff as 
 sthrong as Sampson, so it is. Arrah, what well do you dhraw that 
 from ? for, faith, 'twould be mighty convanient to live near it in a hard 
 frost." 
 
 Barny was now silent for some time, which silence was produced 
 by the industry he displayed in assailing the substantial refreshments 
 before him. When he had concluded his repast he once more tasted 
 the liquor, after which he got Granua Waile, and continued playing 
 their favourite tunes, and amusing them with anecdotes, both true 
 and false, until the hour drew nigh when his services were expected 
 by the young men and maidens who had assembled to dance in the 
 barn. Occasionally, however, they took a preliminary step, in which 
 they were joined by a few of their neighbours. Old Frank himself 
 felt his spirits elevated by contemplating the happiness of his children 
 and their young associates. 
 
 " Frank," said he, to the youngest of his sons, " go down to Owen 
 Reillaghan's, and tell him an' his family to come up to the dance early 
 in the evenin', Owen's a pleasant man," he added, " and a good 
 neighbour, but a small thought too strict in his duties. Tell him to 
 come up, Frank, arly I say ; he'll have time enough to go to the 
 Midnight Mass afther dancin' the 'Rakes of Ballyshanny,' and the 
 Baltihorum jig ; an' maybe he can't do both in style." 
 
 " Ay," said Frank, in his jeering manner, " he carries a handy heel 
 at the dancin', and a soople tongue at the prayin' ; but let him alone 
 for bringin' the bottom of his glass and his eyebrow acquainted. But 
 if he'd pray less " 
 
 " Go along, a veehonee^ an' bring him up," replied the father : " you 
 to talk about prayin' ! Them that ud catch you at a prayer ought to 
 be showed for the world to wonder at : a man wid two heads an him 
 would be a fool to him.- Go along, I say, and do what you're bid." 
 
 "I'm goin'," said Frank, "I'm off: but what if he doesn't come? 
 I'll then have my journey for nothin'." 
 
 " An' it's good payment for any journey ever you'll make, barrin' it's 
 to the gallows," replied the father, nearly provoked at his reluctance in 
 obeying him : " won't j/^im have dancin' enough in the coorse o' the 
 night, {or you'll not go to the Midnight Mass, and why don't you be 
 off wid you at wanst ? " 
 
 Frank shrugged his shoulders two or three times, being loth to leave 
 the mv"^ic ^nd dancing ; but on seeing his father about to address him 
 
 • You profligate. 
 
'04 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 in sharper language, he went out with a frown on his brows and a hall- 
 smothered imprecation bursting from his lips. 
 
 He had not proceeded more than a few yards from the door when 
 he met Rody Teague, his father's servant, on his way to the kitchen. 
 " Rody," said he, " isn't this a purty business ? My father wantin' to 
 send me down to Owen Reillaghan's ; when, by the vartuc o' my oath, 
 I'd as soon go half-way into hell as to any place where his son, Mike 
 Rcillaghan, ud be. How will I manage, Rody ?" 
 
 " Why," replied Rody, "as to meetm' wid Alike, take my advice and 
 avoid him. And what is more, I'd give up Peggy Gartland for good. 
 Isn't it a mane thing for you, Frank, to be hangin' afther a girl that's 
 fonder of another than she is of yourself By this and by that, I'd no 
 more do it — awouh ! catch me at it — I'd have spunk in me." 
 
 Frank's brow darkened as Rody spoke ; instead of instantly reply- 
 ing he was silent, and appeared to be debating s'^mc point in his own 
 mind on which he had not come to a determination. 
 
 " iMy father didn't hear of the fight between Mike and me.'"' said 
 ho, interrogatively — " do you think he did, Rody.'" 
 
 " Not to my knowledge," replied the servant ; " if he did he wouldn't 
 surely send /<?« down ; but, talking of the fl,^ht, you are known to be a 
 stout, well-fought boy — no doubt of that — still, I say, you'd no right to 
 provoke Mike as you did, who, it's well known, could bate any two 
 men in the parish ; and so sign, you got yourself dacently trounced 
 about a girl that doesn't love a bone in your skin." 
 
 " He disgraced me, Rody," observed Frank — " I can't rise my head; 
 and you know I was thought by all the parish as good a man as him. 
 No, I wouldn't, this blessed Christmas Eve above us, for all that ever 
 my name is worth, be disgraced by him as I am. But — hould, man — 
 have patience ! " 
 
 " Throth, and, Frank, that's what you never had," said Rody ; " and 
 as to bein' disgraced, you disgraced yourself. What right had you to 
 challenge the boy to fight, and to strike him into the bargain, bekase 
 Peggy Gartland danced wid hrj)i and wouldn't go out v^\d )ou? Death 
 alive, sure that wasn't his fault." 
 
 Every word of reproof which proceeded f;om Rody's lips but 
 strengthened Frank's rage, and added to his sense of shame ; he 
 looked first in the direction of Reillaghan's house, and immediately 
 towards the little village in which Peggy Gartland lived. 
 
 "Rody," said he, slapping him fiercely on the shoulder, "go in — 
 I've — I've made up my mind upon what I'll do ; go in, Rody, and get 
 your dinner ; but don't be out of the way when I come back." 
 
 "And what have you made up your mind to?" inquired Rody. 
 
 "Why, be the sacred Mother o' Heaven, Rody, tc — to — be friends 
 wid Mike." 
 
 " Ay, there's sinse and rason in that," replied Rody ; " and if you'd 
 take my advice you'd give up Peggy Gartland too." 
 
 " I'll see you when 1 come back, Rody ; don't be from about the place." 
 
 And as he spoke a single spring brought him over the stile at which 
 they held the foregoing conversation. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 105 
 
 On advancing he found himself in one of his father's fields, under 
 the shelter of an eider hedge. Here he paused, and seemed still 
 somewhat uncertain as to the direction in which he should proceea. 
 At length he decided ; the way towards Peggy Gartland's was that 
 which he took, and as he walked rapidly, he soon found himself at the 
 village in which she lived. 
 
 It was now a little after twilight ; the night was clear, the moon 
 being in her first quarter, and the clouds through which she appeared 
 to struggle were light and fleecy, but rather cold-looking ; such, in 
 short, as would seem to promise a sudden fall of snow. Frank had 
 passed the first two cabins of the village, and was in the act of parry- 
 ing the attacks of some yelping cur that assailed him, when he 
 received a slap on the back, accompanied by 2i gho manhi Dhea gJuidy 
 a FrancJias, co will thii guiUi a ?itsh, a rogora dhii ? ^ 
 
 "Who's this.?" exclaimed Frank: "eh! why, Darby More, you 
 suilin' thief o' the world, is this you ?" 
 
 " Ay, indeed ; an' you're goin' down to Peggy's ? " said the other, 
 pointing significantly towards Peggy Gartland's house. " Well, man, 
 what's the harm.-' She may get worse, that is, hopin' still that you'll 
 mend your manners, a bouchal : but isn't your nose out o' joint there, 
 Frank, darlin' .? " 
 
 " No sich thing at all, Darby," replied Frank, gulping down his 
 indignation, which rose afresh on hearing that the terms on which he 
 stood with Peggy were so notorious. 
 
 " Throth but it is," said Darby ; " an' to tell the blessed thruth, I'm 
 not sarry that it's out o' joint ; for when I tould you to lave the case in 
 711}' hands, along wid a small thrifle o' silver that didn't signify much to 
 you — whoo ! not at all ; you'd rather play it at cards, or dhrink it, or 
 spind it wid no good. Out o' joint ! musha, if ever a man's nose was 
 to be pitied and yours is : why, didn't Mike Reillaghan put it out 
 o' joint twiist ? first in regard to Peggy, and secondly by the batin' he 
 gave you an it." 
 
 " It's well known, Darby," replied Frank, " that 'twas by a chance 
 blow he did it ; and, you know, a chance blow might kill the divil." 
 
 "But there was no danger of Mike's gettin' the chance blow," 
 observed the sarcastic vagrant, for such he was. 
 
 " Maybe it's afore him," replied his companion : " we'll have another 
 thrial for it, anyhow : but where are you goin' Darby? Is it to the 
 dance .'' " 
 
 "Mel Is it a man wid five holy ordhers an him? No, no! I 
 might go up, maybe, as far as your father's, merely to see the family, 
 only for the night that's in it; but I'm goin' to another frind's place to 
 spind my Chris'mas, an', over an' above, I must go to the Midnight 
 Mass. Frank, change your coorses, an' mend your life, an' don't be 
 the talk o' the parish. Remimber me to the family, an' say I'll see 
 them soon." 
 
 " How long will you stop in the neighbourhood?" inquired Frank. 
 
 ' God save you, Frank I Where are you going now, you black rogue i 
 
lofS THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " Arrah, why, acushla ?" replied the mendicant, softening his lan- 
 guage. 
 
 " I might be wantin' to see you some o' these days," said the other : 
 " indeed, it's not unlikely. Darby ; so don't go, anyhow, widout seein' 
 me." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Darby, " had you taken a fool's advice — but it can't be 
 helped — the harm's done, I doubt ; how-an'-ever, for the matther o' 
 that, maybe I have as good as Peggy in my eye for you ; by the same 
 token, as the night's could, warm your tooth, avick ; there's wakcr 
 wather nor this in Lough Corr. Sorra sup of it ever I keep for my own 
 use at all, barrin' when I take a touch o' configuration in my bowels, 
 or, maybe, when I'm too long at my prayers ; for, God help me, sure 
 I'm but sthrivin,' wid the help of one thing an' another, to work out 
 my salvation as well as I can ! Your health, anyho\/, an' a merry 
 Chris'mas to you ! — not forgettin' myself," he added, putting to his lips 
 a large cow's horn, which he kept slung beneath his arm, like the 
 bugle of a coach-guard, only that this was generally concealed by an 
 outside coat, no two inches of which were of the same material or 
 colour. Having taken a tolerably large draught from this, v.'hich, 
 by the way, held near two quarts, he handed it with a smack and a 
 shrug to Frank, who immediately gave it a wipe with the skirt of his 
 coat, and pledged his companion. 
 
 " I'll be wantin','' observed Frank, " to see you in the hollydays — 
 faith, that stuff's to be christened yet. Darby — so don't go till we have 
 a dish o' discoorse about somcthin' I'll mintion to you. As for Peggy 
 Gartland, I'm done wid her ; she may marry ould Nick for me." 
 
 " Or you for ould Nick," said the cynic, " which would be nearly the 
 same thing : but go an, avick, an' never heed me ; sure I must have 
 my spake— doesn't everybody know Darby More ? " 
 
 "I've nothin' else to say ;/(7a'," added Frank, "and you have my 
 authority to spread it as far as you plase. I'm done wid her : so good 
 night, an' good cuttin' ' to your horn, Darby ! — You damn ould villain!" 
 he subjoined in a low voice, when Darby had got out of his hearing ; 
 " surely it's not in yourself, but in the blessed words and things you 
 have about you, that there is any good." 
 
 " Musha, good night, Frank, alanna," replied the other; "an' the 
 divil sweep you for a skamin' vagabonc, that's a curse to the country, 
 and has kep me out o' more wcddins than anyone I ever met wid, by 
 your roguery in puttin' evil between frinds an' neighbours, jist when 
 they'd be ready for the priest to say the words over them! Good won't 
 come of you, you profligate." 
 
 The last words were scarcely uttered by the sturdy mendicant, when 
 he turned round to observe whether or not Frank would stop at Larry 
 Gartland's, the father of the girl to whom he had hitherto unsuccessfully 
 avowed his attachment. 
 
 " I'd depind on him," said he, in a soliloquy, " as soon as I'd depind 
 upon ice of an hour's growth : an', whether or not, sure as I'm an rry 
 
 ' Good cuttin'— May *havs in it ucvu faiL 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 107 
 
 way to Owen Reillaghan's, the father of the dacent boy that he's 
 slrivin' to outdo, mayn't I as well watch his motions, anyway?" 
 
 He accordingly proceeded along the shadowy side of the street, in 
 order to avoid Frank's eye, should he chance to look back, and quietly 
 dodged on until he fairly saw him enter the house. 
 
 Having satisfied himself that the object of Frank's visit to the 
 village was in some shape connected with Peggy Gartland, the men 
 dicant immediately retraced his steps, and at a pace more rapid than 
 usual strided on to Owen Reillaghan's, whither he arrived just in time 
 to secure an excellent Christmas Eve dinner. 
 
 In Ireland that description of mendicants w'hich diffeis so strik- 
 ingly from the common crowd of beggars as to constitute a distinct 
 species, comprehends within itself as anomalous an admixture of fun 
 and devotion, external rigour and private licentiousness, love of super- 
 stition and of good whisky, as might naturally be supposed, without 
 any great stretch of credulity, to belong to men thrown among a 
 people in whom so many extremes of character and morals meet. The 
 known beggar, who goes his own rounds, and has his own walk, always 
 adapts his character to that of his benefactor, whose whims and 
 peculiarities of temper he studies with industry, and generally with 
 success. By this means, joined to a dexterity in tracing out the private 
 history of families and individuals, he is enabled to humour the 
 caprices, to manage the eccentricities, and to touch with a masterly 
 hand the prejudices and particular opinions of his patrons ; and this 
 he contrives to do with great address and tact. Such was the cha- 
 racter of Darby More, whose person, naturally large, was increased 
 to an enormous size by the number of coats, blankets, and bags with 
 which he was encumbered. A large belt, buckled round his body, 
 contained within its girth much more of money, meal, and whisky 
 than ever met the eye ; his hat was exceedingly low in the crown ; his 
 legs were cased in at least three pairs of stockings ; and in his hand 
 he carried a long cant, spiked at the lower end, with which he slung 
 himself over small rivers and dykes, and kept dogs at bay. He was 
 a devotee, too, notwithstanding the whisky-horn under his arm ; 
 attending wakes, christenings, and weddings ; rubbed for the rose ' 
 and king's evil (for the variet insisted that he was a seventh son); 
 cured toothaches, colics, and headaches by charms ; but made 
 most money by a knack which he possessed of tattooing into the 
 naked breast the representation of Christ upon the cross. This was 
 a secret of considerable value, for many of the superstitious people 
 believed that by having this stained in upon them they would escape 
 unnatural deaths, and be almost sure of heaven. 
 
 When Darby approached Reillaghan's house he was considering 
 the propriety of disclosing to his son the fact of his having left his 
 rival with Peggy Gartland. He ultimately determined that it would 
 be proper to do so ; for he was shrewd enough to suspect that the 
 wish Frank had expressed of seeing him before he left the country was 
 
 A scrofulous swelling. 
 
•O'^ THE M/DSrrCriT AfASS. 
 
 but a ruse to purchase his silence touching his appearance in the 
 village. In this, however, he was mistaken. 
 
 " God save the hoube !" exclaimed Darby, on entering—" God save 
 the house, an' all that's in it ! God save it to the north ! " and he 
 formed the sign of the cross in every direction to which he turned ; 
 " God save it to the south ! * to the aiste ! * and to the waiste ! ^ 
 Save it upwards ! *if and save it downwards ! >J" Save it backwards ! ►I" 
 and save it forwards ! ^ Save it right ! ^ and save it left ! ^ Save 
 it by night ! ►> save it by day ! * Save it here ! * save it there ! ^ 
 Save it this way ! * an' save it that way ! * Save it atin' * •!' >& 
 an' save it drinkin' ! >i« >!• ^^ •!< ►I< ^^ ^ *. Oxis Doxis Gvorioxis — 
 Amin. An' now that I've blessed the place in the name of the nine 
 Patriarchs, how are yees all, man, woman, an' child .>" An' a merry 
 Christmas to yees, says Darby More ! " 
 
 Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, received a sincere 
 welcome, was placed up near the fire, a plate filled wiih the best food 
 on the table laid before him, and requested to want nothing for the 
 asking. 
 
 " \Vhy, Darby," said Reillaghan, " we expected you long ago : why 
 didn't you come sooner } " 
 
 "The Lord's will be done ! for ev'ry man has his throubles," replied 
 Darby, stuffing himself in the corner like an epicure : " an' why should 
 a sinner like me, or the likes o' me, be widout thim ? 'Twas a dhrame 
 1 had last night that kep me. They say, indeed, that dhrames go by 
 contraries, but not always, to my own knowledge." 
 
 "And what was the dhrame about, Darby?" inquired Reillaghan's 
 wife. 
 
 " Why, ma'am, about some that I see on this hearth, well, an' in 
 good health ; may they long live to be so ! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis— 
 Amin ! " >I< ►!» ►> 
 
 " Blessed Virgin ! Darby, sure it would be nothin' bad that's to 
 happen .'' Would it. Darby ?" 
 
 " Keep yourself asy on that head. I have widin my own mind the 
 power of makin' it come out for good — I know the prayer for it. Oxis 
 Doxis ! " ►!< * 
 
 " God be praised for that. Darby : sure it would be a terrible 
 business, all out, if anything was to happen. Here's Mike, that was 
 born on Whissle Monday, of all days in the year, an', you know, they 
 say that any child born on that day is to die an unnatural death. We 
 named Mike after St. Michael, that lie mi.nht purtect him." 
 
 " Make yourself asy, I say ; don't I tell you 1 have the prayer to 
 keep it back — hach ! hach ! — why, there's a bit stuck in my throalh, 
 some way ! IVurrnh dheelish, what's this ! Maybe you could give me 
 a sup o' dhrink— wather, or anything to moisten the morsel I'm 'atin'? 
 Wtirrah, ma'am dear, make haste, its goin' agin the breath wid me ! " 
 
 " Oh, the sorra taste o' wather. Darby," said Owen ; " sure this is 
 Christmas Eve, you know ; so you see, Daiby, for ould acquaintance 
 sake, an' that you may put up an odd prayer now an' thin tor \\%, jist 
 be thryin' this." 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 109 
 
 Darby honoured the gift by immediate acceptance. 
 
 "Well, Owen Reillaghan," said he, "you make me take more o' 
 this stuff nor any man I know ; and particularly by rason that bein' 
 given, wid a blessin', to the ranns, an' prayers, an' holy charms, 1 don't 
 think it so good ; barrin', indeed, as Father Dannellan towld me, 
 when the wind, by long fastin', gets into my stomach, as was the case 
 to-day, I'm often throubled, God help me, wid a configuration in the 
 — hugh ! ugh ! — and thin it's good for me — a little of it." 
 
 " This would make a brave powdher-horn. Darby More," observed 
 one of Reillaghan's sons, " if it wasn't so big. What do you keep in 
 it. Darby?" 
 
 "Why, a villish, nothin' indeed but a sup o' Father Dannellan's 
 holy wather, that they say, by all accounts, it costs him great trouble 
 to make, by rason that he must fast a long time, and pray by the day, 
 afore he gets himself holy enough to consecrate it." 
 
 '• It smells like whisky, Darby," said the boy, without any intention, 
 however, of offending him : " it smells very \\ke. poteen." 
 
 " Hould yer tongue, Risthard," said the elder Reillaghan; "what 
 ud make the honest man have whisky in it ? Didn't he tell you what's 
 in it ? " 
 
 " The gorsoon's right enough," replied Darby : " I got the horn 
 from Barny Dalton a couple o' days agone ; 'twas whisky he had in it, 
 an' it smells of it sure enough, an' will, indeed, for some time longer. 
 Och ! och ! the heavens be praised, I've made a good dinner 1 May 
 they never know want that gave it to me ! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — 
 Amin ! " 'i< >7f *b 
 
 " Darby, thry this agin," said Reillaghan, offering him another 
 bumper. 
 
 " Throth an' I will, thin, for I find myself a great dale the betther of 
 the one I tuck. Well, here's health ar^' happiness to us, an' may we all 
 meet in heaven ! Risthard, hand me that horn till I be going out to 
 the barn, in ordher to do somethin' for my sowl. The holy wather's 
 a good thing to have about one." 
 
 " But the dhrame, Darby ? " inquired Mrs, Reillaghan. " Won't 
 you tell it to us ?" 
 
 "Lr;t Mike follow me to the barn," he replied, "an' I'll tell him as 
 much of it as he ought to hear. An' now let all of yees prepare for 
 the Midnight Mass : go there wid proper intintions, an' not to be 
 coortin' or dhrinkin' by the way. We're all sinners, anyway, an' 
 oughtn't to neglect our sowls. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis. Amir\,!" 
 
 He immediately strode, with the horn under his arm, towards the 
 barn, where he knelt, and began his orisons in a tone sufficiently loud 
 to be heard in the kitchen. 
 
 When he was gone, Mrs. Reillaghan, who, with the curiosity natural 
 to her sex, and the superstition peculiar to her station in life, felt 
 anxious to hear Darby's dream, urged Mike to follow him forthwith, 
 that he might prevail on him to detail it at full length. 
 
 Darby, who knew not exactly what the dream ought to be, replied 
 to Mike's inquiries vaguely. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " Mike," said he, "antil the proper time comes, I can't tell it ; but 
 listen : take my advice, an' slip down to Peggy Gartland's by-and-by. 
 I have strong suspicions, if my dhrame is thrue, that Frank M'Kenna 
 has a design upon her. People may be abroad this night widout bein' 
 noticed, by rason o' the Midnight Mass ; Frank has friends in Kilna- 
 heery, up behind the mountams : an' the divil might timpt him to 
 bring her there. Keep your eye an him, or r-ther an Peggy. If my 
 dhramc's true, he was there this night." 
 
 " I thought I gave him enough on her account," said Mike. " The 
 poor girl hasn't a day's pace in regard of him ; but, plase goodness, 
 ril soon put an end to it, for I'll marry her durin' the hollydays." 
 
 " Go, avick, an' let me finish my Pjidhcran Partlia : I have to get 
 through it before the Midnight Mass comes. Slip down, and find out 
 what he was doin' ; and when you come back, let mc know." 
 
 Mike, perfectly aware of young M'Kcnna's character, immediately 
 went towards Lisdrum, for so the village where Peggy Gartland lived 
 was called. He felt the danger to be apprehended from the inter- 
 ference of his rival the more acutely, inasmuch as he was not ignorant 
 of the feuds and quarrels which the former had frequently produced 
 between friends and neighbours by the subtle poison of his falsehoods, 
 which were both wanton and malicious. He therefore advanced at 
 an unusually brisk pace, and had nearly reached the villa<Te, when he 
 perceived in the distance a person resembling Frank approaching 
 him at a pace nearly as rapid as his own. 
 
 " If it's Frank M'Kenna," thought he, " he must pass me, for this is 
 his straight line home." 
 
 It appeared, however, that he had been mistaken ; for he whom he 
 had supposed to be the object of his enmity crossed the field by a 
 different path, and seemed to be utterly ignorant of tlie person whom 
 he was about to meet, so far, at least, as a quick, free, unembarrassed 
 step could intimate his unacquaintance with him. 
 
 The fact, however, was that Reillaghan, had the person whom he 
 met approached him more nearly, would have found his first suspi- 
 cions correct. Frank was then on his return from Gartland's, and no 
 sooner perceived Reillaghan, whom he immediately recognised by his 
 great height, than he took another path in order to avoid him. The 
 enmity between these rivals was deep and implacable ; aggravated on 
 the one hand by a sense of unmerited injury, and on the other by 
 personal defeat and the bitterest jealousy. For this reason neither of 
 them wished to meet, particularly Frank M'Kenna, who not only 
 hated, but feared his enemy. 
 
 Having succeeded in avoiding Reillaghan, the latter soon reached 
 home ; but here he found the door closed, and the family, with a 
 single exception, in the barn, which was now nearly crowded with tlie 
 youngsters of both sexes from the surrounding villages. 
 
 Frank's arrival among them gave a fresh impulse to their mirth and 
 enjoyment. Plis manners were highly agreeable, and his spirits 
 buoyant aim ost to levity. Notwithstanding the badness of his charac- 
 ter in the opinion of the sober, steady, and respectable inhabitants ot 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 the parish, yet he was a favourite with the dissolute and thoughtless, 
 and with many who had not an opportunity of seeing him except in 
 his most favourable aspect. Whether he entertained on this occasion 
 any latent design that might have induced him to assume a frankness 
 of manner, and an appearance of goodhumour, which he did not feel, 
 it is difficult to determine. Be this as it may, he made himself 
 generally agreeable, saw that everyone was comfortable, suggested an 
 improvement in the arrangement of the seats, broke several jests on 
 Barny and Granua Waile — which, however, were returned with in- 
 terest — and, in fact, acquitted himself so creditably that his fa'her 
 whispered with a sigh to his mother : 
 
 " Alley, achora, wouldn't we be the happy family if that misfortunate 
 boy of ours was to be always the thing he appears to be ? God help 
 him ! the gommach, if he had sinse, and the fear o' God before him, 
 he'd not be sich a piece o' desate to sthrangers, and sich a divil's limb 
 wid ourselves : but he's young, an' may see his evil coorses in time, 
 wid the help o' God." 
 
 " Musha, may God grant it !" exclaimed his mother. "A fine slip 
 he is, if his heart ud only turn to the right thoughts. One can't help 
 feelin' pride out o' him, when they see him actin' wid any kind o' 
 rason." 
 
 The Irish dance, like every other assembly composed of Irishmen 
 and Irishwomen, presents the spectator with those traits which enter 
 into our conception of rollicking fun and broad humour. The very 
 arrangements are laughable ; and when joined to the eccentric strains 
 of some blind fiddler like Barny Dltal, to the grotesque and carica- 
 turish faces of the men, and the modest, but evidently arch and 
 laughter-loving countenances of the females, they cannot fail to 
 impress an observing mind with the obvious truth that a nation of 
 people so thoughtless and easily directed from the serious and useful 
 pursuits of life to such scenes can seldom be industrious and wealthy, 
 nor, despite their mirth and humour, a happy people. 
 
 The barn in which they danced on this occasion was a large one. 
 Around the walls were placed as many seats as could be spared from 
 the neighbours' houses ; these were eked out by sacks of corn laid 
 lengthwise, logs of round timber, old creels, iron pots with their 
 bottoms turned up, and some of them in their usual position. On 
 these were the youngsters seated, many of the "boys" with their 
 sweethearts on their knees, the arms of the fair ones lovingly around 
 their necks ; and, on the contrary, many of the young women with 
 their bachelors on their laps, their own necks also gallantly encircled 
 by the arms of their admirers. Up in a. corner sat Barny, surrounded 
 by the seniors of the village, sawing the fiddle with indefatigable 
 vigour, and leading the conversation with equal spirit. Indeed, his 
 laugh was the loudest and his joke the best, whilst, ever and anon, 
 his music became perfectly furious — that is to sa)'^, when he rasped the 
 fiddle with a desperate effort "to overtake the dancers," from whom, 
 in the heat of the conversation, he had unwittingly lagged behind. 
 
 Dancing in Ireland, like everything else connected with the amuse- 
 
112 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 ment of the people, is frequently productive of bloodshed. It \s not 
 unusual for crack dancers from opposite parishes, or from oistant 
 parts of the same parish, to meet and dance against each other for 
 victory. But as the judges in those cases consist of the respective 
 friends or factions of the champions, their mode of decision may 
 readily be conjectured. Many a battle is fought in consequence 
 of such challenges, the result usually being that not he who has 
 the lightest heel, but the hardest head, generally comes off the con- 
 queror. 
 
 While the usual variety of Irish dances — the reel, jig, fling, thrce- 
 part-reel, four-part-reel, rowly-powly, country-dance, cotillion, or cut- 
 along (as the peasantry call it), and minuet, vulgarly minion, and 
 minionet — were going forward in due rotation, our readers may be 
 assured that those who were seated around the walls did not permit 
 the time to pass without improving it. Many an attachment is formed 
 at such amusements, and many a bitter jealousy is excited : the prude 
 and coquette, the fop and rustic Lothario, stand out here as pro- 
 minently to the eye of him who is acquainted with human nature as 
 they do in similar assemblies among the great : perhaps more so, as 
 there is less art, and a more limited knowledge of intrigue, to conceal 
 their natural character. 
 
 The dance in Ireland usually commences with those who sit next 
 the door, from whence it goes round with the sun. In this manner it 
 circulates two or three times, after which the order is generally 
 departed from, and they dance according as they can. This nep;lect 
 of the established rule is also a fertile source of discord ; for when two 
 persons rise at the same time, if there be not room for both, the right 
 of dancing first is often decided by blows. 
 
 At the dance we are describing, however, there was no dissension ; 
 every heart appeared to be not only elated with mirth, but also free 
 from resentment and jealousy. The din produced by the thumping of 
 vigorous feet upon the floor, the noise of the fiddle, the chat between 
 Barny and the little sober knot about him, together with the brisk 
 murmur of the general conversation, and the expression of delight 
 which sat on every countenance, had something in them elevating to 
 the spirits. 
 
 liarny, who knew the voices, and even the mode of dancing peculiar 
 to almost everyone in the barn, had some joke for each. When 
 a young man brings out his sweetheart— which he frequently does in a 
 manner irresistibly ludicrous, sometimes giving a spring from the 
 earth, his caubeen set with a knowing air on one side of his head, ad- 
 vancing at a trot on tiptoe, catching her by the ear, leading her out to 
 her position, which is " to face the fiddler," then ending by a snap of 
 the fingers, and another spring, in which he brings his heel backwards 
 in contact with his ham ; we say, when a young man brings out his 
 sweetheart, and places her facing the fiddler, he asks her what she 
 will dance ; to which, if she has no favourite tune, she uniformly 
 replies, " Your will is my pleasure." This usually made Barny groan 
 aloud. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. » '3 
 
 *' What ails you, Barny?" 
 
 " Oh, thin, murdher ahve, how little thruth's in this world ! 'Your 
 will's my pleasure'! Baithershiti! but, sowl, if things goes an, it won't 
 be long so ! " 
 
 "Why, Barny," the young man would exclaim, "is the ravin' fit 
 comin' over you ?" 
 
 " No, in throth, Jim ; hit ifs thinkiiC of home I am. How-and-iver, 
 do you go an ; but, naboklish ! What'U you have ? " 
 
 "'Jig Polthouge,' Barny : but oil your wrist, a bouchal, or Katty 
 will lave us both out o' sight in no time. Whoo ! success ! clear the 
 coorse. Well done, Barny ! That's the go !" 
 
 When the youngsters had danced for some time, the fathers and 
 mothers of the village were called upon " to step out." This was 
 generally the most amusing scene in the dance. No excuse is ever 
 taken on such occasions, for, when they refuse, about a dozen young 
 fellows place them, will they nil they, upright upon the floor, from 
 whence neither themselves nor their wives are permitted to move until 
 they dance. No sooner do they commence than they are mis- 
 chievously pitted against each other by two sham parties, one en- 
 couraging the wife, the other cheering on the good man ; whilst the 
 fiddler, falling in with the frolic, plays in his most furious style. The 
 simplicity of character, and, perhaps, the lurking vanity of those who 
 are the butts of the mirth on this occasion, frequently heighten the jest. 
 
 " Why thin, Paddy, is it strivin' to outdo me you are .'' Faiks, 
 avourneen, you never seen that day, anyway," the old woman would 
 exclaim, exerting all her vigour. 
 
 " Didn't 1 1 Sowl, I'll sober you before I lave the flure, for all that," 
 her husband would reply. 
 
 " An' do you forget," she would rejoin, "that the M'Carthy dhrop is 
 in me ; ay, an' it's to the good still." 
 
 And the old dame would accompany the boast with a fresh attempt 
 at agility ; to which Paddy would respond by " cutting the buckle," 
 and snapping his fingers, whilst fifty voices, amidst roars of laughter, 
 were loud in encouraging each. 
 
 " Handle your feet, Katty, darlin' — the mettle's lavin' him !" 
 
 " Off wid the brogues, Paddy, or she'll do you. That's it ; kick off 
 the other, an' don't spare the flure." 
 
 " A thousand guineas an Katty ! M'Carthy agin Gallagher for 
 ever ! — whirroo ! " 
 
 " Blur alive, the flure's not benefittin' by you, Paddy. Lay an it, 
 man ! — That's it ! — Bravo ! — Whish !— our side agin Europe ! " 
 
 " Success, Paddy ! Why, you could dance the ' Dusty Miller ' upon 
 a flure paved wid drawn razures, you're so soople." 
 
 " Katty for ever ! The blood's in you, Katty ; you'll win the day, 
 a ban choir /^ More power to you ! " 
 
 " I'll hould a quart on Paddy. Heel an' toe, Paddy, you sinner !** 
 
 " Right an' left, Katty ; hould an, his breath's goin'." 
 
 ' Desem womea. 
 
n4 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 " Right an' wrong, Paddy, you spalpeen. The whisky's an you, 
 man alive ; do it dacently, an' don't let me lose the wager." 
 
 In this manner would they incite some old man, and, perhaps, his 
 older wife, to prolonged exertion, and keep them bobbing- and jigging 
 about amidst roars of laughter, until ihe worthy couple rould dance 
 no longer. 
 
 During stated periods of the night those who took the most pro- 
 minent part in the dance got a plate and hat, with which they went 
 round the youngsters, to make collections for the fiddler. Rarny 
 reserved his best and most sarcastic jokes for these occasions ; for so 
 correct was his ear that he felt little difficulty in detecting those 
 whose contributions to him were such as he did not relish. 
 
 The aptitude of the Irish for enjoying humorous images was well 
 displayed by one or two circumstances which occurred on this night. 
 A few of both sexes, who had come rather late, could get no other 
 seats than the iron pots to which we have alluded. The young women 
 were dressed in white, and their companions, who were also their 
 admirers, exhibited, in proud display, each a brand new suit, consisting 
 of broadcloth coat, yellow buff vests, and corduroy small-clothes, 
 with a bunch of broad silk ribbons standing out at each knee. They 
 were the sons and daughters of respectable farmers, but as all dis- 
 tinctions here entirely ceased, they were fain to rest contented with 
 such seats as they could get, which on this occasion consisted of the 
 pots aforesaid. No sooner, however, had they risen to dance than 
 the house was convulsed with laughter, heightened by the sturdy 
 vigour with which, unconscious of their appearance, they continued to 
 dance. That part of the white female dresses which had come in 
 contact with the pots exhibited a circle like the full moon, and was 
 black as pitch. Nor were their partners more lucky: those who sat 
 on the mouths of the pots had the back part of their dresses streaked 
 with dark circles, equally ludicrous. The mad minh with which 
 they danced, in spite of their grotesque appearance, was irresistible. 
 This, and other incidents quite as pleasant — such as the case of a 
 wag who purposely sank himself into one of the pots, until it stuck to 
 him through half the dance — increased the laughter, and disposed 
 them to peace and cordiality. 
 
 No man took a more active part in these frolics than young Frank 
 M'Kenna. It is true a keen eye might have noticed under his gaiety 
 something of a moody and dissatisfied air. As he moved about from 
 time to time, he whispered something to above a dozen persons who 
 were well known in the country as his intimate companions, young 
 fellows whose disposition and character were notoriously bad. When 
 he communicated the whisper, a nod of assent was given by his con- 
 fidants, after which it might be remarked that they moved round to 
 the door with a caution that betrayed a fear of observation, and 
 quietly slunk out of the barn, though Frank himself did not imme- 
 diately follow them. In about a quarter of an hour aft(irwards Rody 
 came in, gave him a signal, and sat down. Frank then followed his 
 companions, and after a few minutes Rody also disappeared. This 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MA SS. 115 
 
 was about ten o'clock, and the dance was proceeding with great gaiety 
 and animation. 
 
 Frank's dread of openly offending his parents prevented him from 
 assembling his associates in the dwelling-house ; the only convenient 
 place of rendezvous, therefore, of which they could avail themselves, 
 was the stable. Here they met, and Frank, after uncorking a bottle 
 of poteen, addressed them to the following effect : 
 
 " Boys, there's great excuse for me, in regard of my fight wid Mike 
 Reillaghan ; that you'll all allow. Come, boys, your healths ! I can 
 tell yees you'll find this good, the divil a doubt of it ; be the same 
 token, that I stole it from my father's Christmas drink ; but no 
 matther for that — I hope we'll never do worse. So, as I was sayin', 
 you must bear me out as well as you can, when I'm brought before 
 the Dilegates to-morrow, for challengin' and strikin' a brother.^ But 
 I think, you'll stand by me, boys.'' " 
 '' By the tarn-o'-war, Frank, myself will fight to the knees for you." 
 " Faith, you may depend on tis, Frank, or we're not to the fore." 
 " I know it boys : and now for a piece of fun for this night. You 
 see — come, Lanty, tare-an'-ounkers, drink, man alive — you see, wid 
 regard to Peggy Gartland— eh? what the hell ! is that a cough?" 
 " One o' the horses, man — go an." 
 
 " Rody, did Darby More go into the barn before you came out of it ? " 
 
 " Darby More ? not he. If he did, I'd a seen him, surely." 
 
 " Why, thin, I'd kiss the book I seen him goin' towards the barn as 
 
 I was comin' into the stable. Sowl, he's a made boy, that ; an' if I 
 
 don't mistake, he's in Mike Reillaghan's intherest. You know devil a 
 
 sacret can escape him." 
 
 " Hut ! the prayin' ould crathur was on his way to the Midnight 
 Mass ; he thravels slow, and, of coorse, has to set out early ; besides, 
 you know, he has Carols, and Bades, and the likes, to sell at the 
 chapel." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Rody : why, I thought he might take it into his 
 head to watch my motions, in regard that, as I said, I think him in 
 Mike's intherest." 
 
 " Nonsense, man, what the dickens ud bring him into the stable 
 loft ? Why, you're beside yourself ? " 
 
 " Begor, I bleeve so, but no matther. Boys, I want yees to stand 
 to me to-night. I'm given to know for a sartinty that Mike and 
 Peggy will be buckled to durin' the hollydays. Now I wish to get 
 the girl myself ; for if I don't get her, may I be ground to atoms if he 
 will." 
 
 " Well, but how v/ill you manage ? for she's fond of him." 
 " Why, I'll tell you that. I was over there this evenin', and I 
 understand that all the family is goin' to the Midnight Mass, barrin' 
 herself. You see, while they're all gone to the ' mallet-office,' ^ we'll 
 
 * Those connected with illegal combinations are sworn to have no private or 
 personal quarrels, not to strike, nor provoke ^acb other to fight. He and Mika 
 were members of such societies. 
 
 ' Mass. 
 
' '6 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 slip down wid a thrifle o' soot on our mugs, and walk off wid her to 
 Kilnahccry, beyant the mountains, to an uncle's o' mine ; an' afther 
 that, let any man marry her who chooses to run the risk. Be the 
 contints o' the book, Atty, if you don't dhrink I'll knock your head 
 agin the wall, you gommoch !" 
 
 "Why, thin, by all that's beautiful, it's a good spree; an' we Jl 
 stick to you like pitch." 
 
 " Be the vartue o' my oath, you don't dcsarve to be in it, or you'd 
 dhrink dacent. Why, here's another bottle, an' maybe there's more 
 where that was. Well, let us finish what we have, or be the tive 
 Grasses, I'll give up the whole business." 
 
 "Why, thin, here's success to us, anyway; an' high hangin' to 
 tlicm that ud desart you ui your skame this blessed an' holy night 
 that's in it !' 
 
 This was re-echoed by his friends, who pledged themselves by the 
 most solemn oaths not to abandon him in the perpetration of the 
 outrage which they had concerted. The other bottle was immediately 
 opened, and while it lasted the details of the plan were explained at 
 full length. This over, they entered the barn one by one, except 
 Frank and Rody, who, as they were detennined to steal another bottle 
 from the father's stock, did not appear among the dancers until this 
 was accomplished. 
 
 The re-appearance of these rollicking and reckless young fellows in 
 the dance was hailed by all present ; for their outrageous mirth was 
 in character with the genius of the place. The dance went on with 
 spirit ; brag dancers were called upon to exhibit in hornpipes, and for 
 this purpose a table was brought in from Frank's kitchen, on which 
 they performed in succession, each dancer applauded by his respective 
 party as the best in the barn. 
 
 In the meantime the night had advanced ; the hour might be about 
 half-past ten o'clock ; all were in the zenith of enjoyment, when old 
 Frank M'Kenna addressed them as follow^s : 
 
 " Neighbours, the dickens o' one o' me would like to break up the 
 sport — an', in throth, harmless and dacent sport it is ; but you all know 
 that this is Christmas night, and that it's our duty to attind the 
 Midnight Mass. Anybody that likes to hear it may go, for it's near 
 time to be home an' prepare for it : but the sorra one o' me wants to 
 take any of yees from your sport, if you prefer it ; all I say is that 1 
 must lave yecs ; so God be wid yees till we meet agin ! " 
 
 This short speech produced a general bustle in the barn ; many of 
 the elderly neighbours left it, and several of the young persons also. 
 It was Christmas Eve, and the Midnight Mass had from time im- 
 memorial so strong a hold upon their prejudices and atifections that 
 the temptation must indeed have been great which would have pre- 
 vented them from attending it. When old Frank went out, about 
 one-third of those who were present left the dance along with him, 
 and as the hour for mass was approaching, they lost no time in 
 preparing for it. 
 
 The Midnight Mass is, no doubt, a phrase familiar to our Irish 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 1 1 7 
 
 readers ; but we doubt whether those in the sister kingdoms who may 
 honour our book with a perusal would, without a more particular 
 description, clearly understand it. 
 
 This ceremony was performed as a commemoration not only of 
 the night, but of the hour in which Christ was born. To coijnect it 
 either with edification or the abuse of religion would be invidious ; 
 so we overlook that, and describe it as it existed within our own 
 memory, remarking, by the way, that though now generally dis- 
 continued, it is in some parts of Ireland still observed, or has been 
 till within a few years ago. 
 
 The parish in which the scene of this story is laid was large, con- 
 sequently the attendance of the people was proportionably great. On 
 Christmas day a Roman Catholic priest has, or is said to have, the 
 privilege of saying three masses, though on every other day in the 
 year he can celebrate but two. Each priest, then, said one at mid- 
 night, and two on the following day. 
 
 Accordingly, about twenty or thirty years ago, the performance of 
 the Midnight Mass was looked upon as an ordinance highly im- 
 portant and interesting. The preparations for it were general and 
 fervent ; so much so, that not a Roman Catholic family slept till 
 they heard it. It is true it only occurred once a year ; but had 
 any person who saw it 07ice been called upon to describe it, he 
 would say that religion could scarcely present a scene so wild and 
 striking. 
 
 The night in question was very dark, for the moon had long disap- 
 peared, and as the inhabitants of the whole parish were to meet in one 
 spot, it may be supposed that the difficulty was very great of traversing, 
 in the darkness of midnight, the space between their respective resi- 
 dences and the place appointed by the priest for the celebration of 
 mass. This difSculty they contrived to surmount. From about eleven 
 at night till twelve or one o'clock the parish presented a scene singu- 
 larly picturesque, and, to a person unacquainted with its causes, 
 altogether mysterious. Over the surface of the surrounding country 
 were scattered myriads of blazing torches, all converging to one point; 
 whilst at a distance, in the central part of the parish, which lay in a 
 valley, might be seen a broad focus of red light, quite stationary, with 
 which one or more of the torches that moved across the fields mingled 
 every moment. These torches were of bog-fir, dried and split for the 
 occasion ; all persons were accordingly furnished with them, and by 
 their blaze contrived to make way across the country with comparative 
 ease. This mass having been especially associated with festivity and 
 enjoyment, was always attended by such excessive numbers that the 
 ceremony was in most parishes celebrated in the open air, if the 
 weather were at all favourable. Altogether, as we have said, the ap- 
 pearance of the country at this dead hour of the night was wild and 
 impressive. Being Christmas, every heart was up, and every pocket 
 replenished with money, if it could at all be procured. This general 
 elevation of spirits was nowhere more remarkable than in contem- 
 plating the thousands of both sexes, old and young, each furnished, as 
 
 (2) E 
 
I iS THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 before said, with a blazing flambeau of bog-fir, all streaming down the 
 mountain sides, along the roads, or across the fields, and settling at 
 last into one broad sheet of fire. Many a loud laugh might then 
 be heard ringing the night echo into reverberation ; mirthful was the 
 gabble in hard, guttural Irish ; and now and then a song from some 
 one whose potations had been rather copious would rise on the night 
 breeze, to which a chorus was subjoined by a dozen voices from the 
 neighbouring groups. 
 
 On passing the shebeen and public houses, the din of mingled voices 
 that issued from them was highly amusing, made up, as it was, of 
 songs, loud talk, rioting and laughter, with an occasional sound of 
 weeping from some one who had become penitent in his drink. In the 
 larger public-houses (for in Ireland there usually are one or two of 
 these in the immediate vicinity of each chapel) family parties were 
 assembled, who set in to carouse both before and after mass. Those, 
 however, who had any love affairs on hand generally selected the 
 shebeen house, as being private, and less calculated to expose them to 
 general observation. As a matter of course, these jovial orgies fre- 
 quently produced such disastrous consequences both to human life and 
 female reputation, that the intrigues between the sexes, the quarrels, 
 and violent deaths resulting from them ultimately occasioned the 
 discontinuance of a ceremony which was only productive of evil. To 
 this day it is an opinion among the peasantry in many parts of Ireland 
 that there is something unfortunate connected with all drinking bouts 
 held upon Christmas Eve. Such a prejudice naturally arises from a 
 recollection of the calamities which so frequently befell many indi- 
 viduals while Midnight Masses were in the habit of being celebrated. 
 
 None of Frank M'Kenna's family attended mass but himself and 
 his wife. His children, having been bound by all the rules of courtesy 
 to do the honours of the dance, could not absent themselves from it ; 
 nor, indeed, were they disposed to do so. Frank, however, and his 
 " good woman" carried their torches, and joined the crowds which 
 flocked to this scene of fun and devotion. 
 
 When they had arrived at the cross-roads beside which the chapel 
 was situated, the first object that presented itself so prominently as to 
 attract observation was Darby More, dressed out in all his parapher- 
 nalia of blanket and horn, in addition to which he held in his hand an 
 immense torch, formed into the figure of a cross. He was seated upon 
 a stone, surrounded by a ring of old men and women, to whom he 
 sang and sold a variety of Christmas carols, many of them rare 
 curiosities in their way, inasmuch as they were his own composition. 
 A little beyond them stood Mike Reillaghan and Peggy Gartland, 
 toY/ards both of whom he cast from time to time a glance of latent 
 humour and triumph. He did not simply confine himself to singing 
 his carols ; but, during the pauses of the melody, addressed the 
 wondering and attentive crowd as follows : — 
 
 " Good Christians — this is the day— how-and-iver, it's night now, 
 glory be to God — that the angel Lucifer appeared to Shud'orth, 
 Meeshach, an' To-bed-we-go, in the village of Constantinople, near 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. "9 
 
 Jerooslem. The heavens be praised for it, 'twas a blessed an' holy 
 night, an' remains so from that day to this — Oxis Doxis Glorioxis, 
 Amin ! Well ; the sarra one of him but appeared to thim at the 
 hour o' midnight, but they were asleep at the time, you see, and cidn't 
 persave him. So wid that he pulled out a horn like mine — an', by the 
 same token, it's lucky to wear horns about one from that day to this — 
 an' he put it to his lips, an' ticck a good dacent — I mane, gave a good 
 dacent blast that soon roused them. 'Are yees asleep?' says he, 
 when they awoke: 'why then, bud-an'-age ! ' says he, 'isn't it a 
 burnin' shame for able stout fellows like yees to be asleep at the hour 
 o' midnight of all hours o' the night. Tare-an-age ! ' says he, ' get up 
 wid yees, you dirty spalpeens ! There's St. Pathrick in Jerooslem 
 beyant ; the Pope's signin' his mittimus to Ireland, to bless it in 
 regard that neither corn, nor barley, nor phaties will grow an the land 
 in quensequence of a set of varmint that ates it up ; an' there's not a 
 glass o' whisky to be had in Ireland for love or money,' says Lucifer. 
 ' Get up wid yees,' says he, ' an' go in an' get his blessin'; sure there's 
 not a Catholic in the counthry, barrin' Swaddlers, but's in the town 
 by this,' says he : ' ay, an' many of the Protestants themselves, and 
 the black-mouths, an' blue-bellies, are gone in to get a share of it. 
 And now,' says he, 'bekase you wor so heavy-headed, I ordher it from 
 this out, that the present night is to be obsarved in the Catholic Church 
 all over the world, an' must be kep holy ; an' no thrue Catholic ever 
 will miss from this pariod an opportunity of bein' awake at midnight,' 
 says he, ' glory be to God ! ' An' now, good Christians, you have an 
 account o' the blessed carol I was singin' for yees. They're but 
 hapuns apiece ; an' anybody that has the grace to keep one o' these 
 about them will never meet wid sudden deaths or accidents, sich as 
 hangin', or drownin', or bein' taken suddenly wid a configuration 
 inwardly. I wanst knew a holy man that had a dhrame— about a 
 
 friend of his, it was Will any of yees take one ? — Thank you, a 
 
 colleen : my blessin', the blessin' o' the pilgrim, be an you ! God 
 bless you, Mike Reillaghan ; an' I'm proud that he put it into your 
 heart to buy one, for the rasons you know. An' now that Father 
 Hoolaghan's comin', any of yees that 'ill want them 'ill find me here 
 agin when mass is over — Oxis Doxis Glorioxis, Amin ! " 
 
 The priest at this time made his appearance, and those who had 
 been assembled on the cross-roads joined the crowd at the chapel. 
 No sooner was it bruited among them that their pastor had arrived 
 than the noise, gabble, singing, and laughing were immediately 
 hushed ; the shebeen and public houses were left untenanted ; and 
 all flocked to the chapel-green, where mass was to be said, as the 
 crowd was too large to be contained within the small chapel. 
 
 Mike Reillaghan and Peggy Gartland were among the last who 
 sought the "green ;" as lovers, they probably preferred walking apart 
 to the inconvenience of being jostled by the multitude. As they 
 sauntered on slowly after the rest, Mike felt himself touched on the 
 shoulder, and on turning round found Darby More beside him. 
 
 " It's painful to my feelins," observed the mendicant, " to have to 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 say this b'.essed night that your father's son should act so shabby an' 
 ondacent." 
 
 " Saints above ! how, Darby.''" 
 
 "Why, don't you know that only for me — for what I heaiJ, an 
 what I tould you — you'd not have the purty girl here at your elbow? 
 Wasn't it, as I said, his intintion to come an' whip up the colleen to 
 Kilnaheery while the family ud be at mass ; sure only for this, I sav, 
 you bosthoon, an' that / made you bring her to mass, where ud the 
 purty colleen be? why, half way to Kilnaheery, an' the girl disgraced 
 for ever ! " 
 
 " Thrue for you, Darby, I grant it : but what do you want me 
 to do?" 
 
 '• Oh, for that matther, nothin' at all, Mike ; only I suppose thai 
 when your tailor made the clothes an you, he put no pockets to 
 them?" 
 
 " Oh, I see where you are, Darby ! Well, here's a crown for you ; 
 an' when Peggy an' I's made man an' wii'e you'll get another." 
 
 " Mike, achora, I see you are your fathers son still ; now listen to 
 me : first, you needn't fear sudden death while you keep that blessed 
 carol about you : next, get your friends together goin' home, for 
 Frank might jist take the liberty, wid about a score of his 'boys,' to 
 lift her from you even thin. Do the thing I say — don't thrust him ; 
 an', moreover, watch in her father's house to-night wid your friends. 
 Thirdly, make it up wid Frank; there's an oath upon you both,j/c;« 
 persave. Make -it up wid him, if he axes you : don't have a broken 
 oath upon you ; for if you refuse, he'll get you put out o' connection,^ 
 an' that ud plase him to the backbone." 
 
 Mike felt the truth and shrewdness of this advice, and determined 
 to follow it. Both young men had been members of an illegal society, 
 and, in yielding to their passions so far as to assault each other, had 
 been guilty of perjury. The following Christmas Day had been 
 appointed by their parish delegates to take the quarrel into considera- 
 tion ; and the best means of escaping censure was certainly to express 
 regret for what had occurred, and to terminate the hostility by an 
 amicable adjustment of their disputes. 
 
 They had now reached the chapel-green, where the scene that pre- 
 sented itself was so striking and strange that we will give the reader 
 an imperfect sketch of its appearance. He who stood at midnight 
 upon a little mount which rose behind the chapel might see between 
 five and six thousand torches, all blazing together, and forming a 
 level mass of red, dusky light, burning against the dark horizon. 
 These torches were so close to each other that their light seemed to 
 blend, as if they had constituted one wide surface of flame ; and 
 nothing could be more preternatural looking than the striking and 
 devotional countenances of those who were assembled at their mid- 
 night worship, when observed beneath this canopy of fire. The mass 
 was performed under the open sky, upon a table covered with the 
 
 ' Secret party. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 sacrificial linen and other apparatus for the ceremony. The priest 
 stood, robed in white, with two large torches on each side of his book, 
 reciting the prayers in a low, rapid voice, his hands raised, whilst the 
 congregation were hushed and bent forward in the reverential silence 
 of devotion, their faces touched by the strong blaze of the torches 
 into an expression of deep solemnity. The scenery about the place 
 was wild and striking ; and the stars, scattered thinly over the 
 heavens, twinkled with a faint rehgious light, that blended well with 
 the solemnity of this extraordinary worship, and rendered the rugged 
 nature of the abrupt cliffs and precipices, together with the still out- 
 line of the stern mountains, sufficiently visible to add to the wildness 
 and singularity of the ceremony. In fact, there was an unearthly 
 character about it ; and the spectre-like appearance of the white-robed 
 priest, as he 
 
 " Muttered his prayer to the midnight air," 
 
 would almost impress a man with the belief that it was a meeting of 
 the dead, and that the priest was repeating, like the Gr.?v Friar, his 
 
 " Mass of the days that were gone." 
 
 On the ceremony being concluded, the scene, however, was instantly 
 changed : the lights were waved and scattered promiscuously among 
 each other, giving an idea of confusion and hurry that was strongly 
 contrasted with the death-like stillness that prevailed a few minutes 
 before. The gabble and laugh were again heard loud and hearty, and 
 the public and shebeen houses once more became crowded. Many of 
 the young people made, on these occasions, what is called " a run- 
 away ;"^ and other peccadilloes took place, for which the delinquents 
 were either " read out from the altar," or sent probably to St. Patrick's 
 Purgatory at Lough Derg to do penance. Those who did not choose 
 to stop in the whisky houses now hurried home with all speed, to take 
 some sleep before early mass, which was to be performed the next 
 morning about daybreak. The same number of lights might therefore 
 be seen streaming in different ways over the parish ; the married men 
 holding the torches, and leading their wives ; bachelors escorting 
 their sweethearts, and not unfrequcntly extinguishing their flambeaux, 
 that the dependence of the females upon their care and protection 
 might more lovingly call forth their gallantry. 
 
 When Mike Reillaghan considered with due attention the hint which 
 Darby More had given him touching the necessity of collecting his 
 friends as an escort for Peggy Gartland, he had strong reasons to 
 admit its justness and propriety. After mass he spoke to about two 
 dozen young fellows, who joined him, and under their protection Peggy 
 now returned safely to her father's house. 
 
 Frank M'Kenna and his wife reached home about two o'clock ; the 
 dance was comparatively thin, though still kept up with considerable 
 spirit. Having solemnized himself by the grace of so sacred a rite, 
 
 ' Rustic elopement. 
 
'22 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Frank thought proper to close the amusement, and recommend those 
 whom he found in the barn to return to their respective dwelhngs. 
 
 "You have had a merry night, childher," said he ; " but too much 
 o' one thing's good for nothin' ; so don't make a toil of a pleasure, but 
 go all home dacently an' soberly, in the name o' God." 
 
 This advice was accordingly followed. The youngsters separated, 
 and M'Kenna joined his family, " to have a sup along wid the man' 
 Barny, in honour of what they had hard." It was upon this occasion 
 he missed his son Frank, whose absence from the dance he had not 
 noticed since his return until then. 
 
 " Musha, Where's Frank .^" he inquired: "I'll warrant him away 
 wid his blackguards upon no good. God look down upon nim ! Many 
 a black heart has that boy left us ! If it's not the will o' heaven, I 
 fear he'll come to no good. Barny, is he long gone from the dance ? " 
 
 " Throth, Frank, wid the noise an' dancin', an' me bein' dark" re- 
 plied Barny, shrewdly, " I can't take an me to say. For all you spake 
 agin him, the sorra one of him but's a clane, dacent, spirited boy as 
 there is widin a great ways of him. Here's all your healths ! Faix, 
 girls, you'll all sleep sound to night." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. M'Kenna, "the knowledge of that Darby More 
 is onknowable ! Here's a carol I bought from him, an' if you wor but 
 to hear the explanations he put to it ! Why Father Hoolaghan could 
 hardly outdo him ! " 
 
 " Divil a man in the five parishes can dance 'Jig Polthogue' wid 
 him, for all that," said Barny. "Many a time Granua an' I played it 
 for him, an' you'd know the tune upon his feet. He undhcrstands a 
 power o' ranns an' prayers, an' has charms an' holy herbs for all kinds 
 of ailments, no doubt." 
 
 " These men, you see," observed Mrs. M'Kenna, in the true spirit 
 of credulity and superstition, " may do many things that the likes of 
 us oughtn't to do, by rason of their great fastin' an' prayin'." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Alley," replied her husband ; " but come, let us 
 have a sup more in comfort : the sleep's gone a shraugran an us this 
 night, anyway, so, Barny, give us a song, an' afiher that we'll have a 
 taste o' prayers, to close the night." 
 
 " But you don't think of the long journey I've before me," replied 
 Barny : " how-and-iver, if you promise to send some one home wid me, 
 we'll have the song. I wouldn't care, but the night bein' dark, you see, 
 I'll want somebody to guide me." 
 
 " Faith, an' it's but rasonable, Barny, an' you must get Rody home 
 wid you. I suppose he's asleep in his bed by this, but we'll rouse him !" 
 
 Barny replied by a loud triumphant laugh, for this was one of his 
 standing jests. 
 
 " Weil, Frank," said he, " I never thought you war so soft, an' me 
 can pick my steps the same at night as in daylight. Sure that's the 
 way I (lone them to-night, when one o' Granua's string's broke. 
 • Sweets o' rosin,' says I ; ' a candle — bring me a candle immedintly.' 
 An' down came Rody in all haste wid a candle. ' Six eggs to you, 
 Rody,' says myself, ' an' half-a-dozen o' them ratten ! but you're i 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 123 
 
 bright boy, to bring a lit candle to a blind man ! ' and then he stoc^ a 
 bouloare to the whole house~ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 Barny, who was not the man to rise first from the whisk> . com- 
 menced the relation of his choicest anecdotes ; old Frank and the 
 family, being now in a truly genial mood, entered into the spirit of his 
 jesl5, so that between chat, songs, and whisky, the hour had now 
 advanced to four o'clock. The fiddler was commencing another song, 
 when the door opened, and Frank presented himself, nearly, but not 
 altogether, in a state of intoxication ; his face was besnieared with 
 blood ; and his whole appearance that of a man under the influence 
 of strong passion, such as would seem to be produced by disappoint- 
 ment and defeat. 
 
 " What ! " said the father ; " is it snowin', Frank ? Your clothes are 
 covered wid snow ! " 
 
 " Lord, guard us ! " exclaimed the mother, " is that blood upon your 
 face, Frank ? " 
 
 " It is snowin', and it is blood that's upon my face," answered 
 Frank, moodily. " Do you want to know more news ? " 
 
 " Why, ay indeed," replied his mother, " we want to hear how you 
 came to be cut ! " 
 
 " You won't hear it, then," he replied. 
 
 The mother was silent, for she knew the terrible fits of passion to 
 which he was subject. 
 
 The father groaned deeply, and exclaimed, " Frank, Frank, God 
 help you, an' show you the sins you're committin', an' the heart- 
 scaldin' you're givin' both your mother an' me ! What fresh skrim- 
 mage had you that you're in that state ? " 
 
 " Spare yourself the throuble of inquirin'," he replied : *' all I can 
 say," he continued, starting up into sudden fury — " all I can say, an' I 
 say it — I swear it — where's the prayer-book .'"' and he ran franticiy to 
 a shelf beside the dresser on which the prayer-book lay, — " ay ! by 
 him that made me I'll sware it — by this sacred book, while 1 live, 
 Mike Reillaghan, the husband of Peggy Gartland you'll never be, if I 
 should swing for it ! Now you all seen I kissed the book ! " As he 
 spoke, he tossed it back upon the shelf. 
 
 The mirth that had prevailed in the family was immediately hushed, 
 and a dead silence ensued ; Frank sat down, but instantly rose again, 
 and flung the chair from him with such violence that it was crashed to 
 pieces ; he muttered oaths and curses, ground his teeth, and betrayed 
 all the symptoms of jealousy, hatred, and disappointment. 
 
 " Frank, abouchal," said Barny, commencing to address him in a 
 conciliatory tone — " Frank, man alive " 
 
 " Hould your tongue, I say, you blind vagabone, or, bv the night 
 above us, I'll break your fiddle over your skull, if you dare to say 
 another word. What I swore I'll do, an' let no one crass me." 
 
 He was a powerful young man, and such was his temper, and so 
 well was it understood, that not one of the family durst venture a word 
 of remonstrance. 
 
 The father rose, went to the door, and returned. " Barny," said he^ 
 
124 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 "you must contint yourself where you are for this night. It'- snowin' 
 heavily, so you had betther sleep wid Rody ; I see a light in tne barn ; 
 1 suppose he's after bringin' in his bed an' makin' it " 
 
 " 1 11 do anything," replied the poor fiddler, now apprehensive of 
 violence from the outrageous temper of young Frank. 
 
 " Well, thin," added the good man, " let us all go to bed, in the name 
 of God. Micaul, bring Barny to the barn, and see that he's com- 
 fortable." 
 
 This was complied with, and the family quietly and timidly retired 
 to rest, leaving the violent young man storming and digesting his 
 passion behind them. 
 
 Mass on Christmas morning was then, as now, performed at day- 
 break, and again the Roman Catholic inhabitants of the parish were 
 up betimes to attend it. Frank M'Kenna's family were assembled, 
 notwithstanding their short sleep, at an early breakfast ; but their 
 meal, in consequence of the unpleasant sensation produced by the 
 outrage of their son, was less cheerful than it would otherwise have 
 been. Perhapj;, too, the gloom which hung over them was increased 
 by the snow that had fallen the night before, and by the wintry 
 character of the day, which was such as to mar much of their expected 
 enjoyment. There was no allusion made to their son's violence over- 
 night ; neither did he himself appear to be in any degree affected by 
 it. When breakfast was over they prepared to attend mass, and, 
 what was unusual, young Frank was the first to set out for the chapel. 
 
 " Maybe," said the father, after he was gone — " maybe that fool of 
 a boy is sarry for his behaviour. It's many a day since I knew him 
 to go to mass of his own accord. It's a good sign, anyway." 
 
 " Musha," inquired his mother, " what could happen atween him an' 
 that civil boy, Mike Reillaghan .'' " 
 
 " The sorra one o' me knows," replied his father ; " an' now that I 
 think of it, sure enough there was none o' them at the dance last 
 night, although I sent himself down for them. Micaul," he added, 
 addressing the other son, " will you put an your big coat, slip down to 
 Reillaghan's, an' bring me word what came atween them at all ; an' 
 tell Owen himself the thruth, that this boy's brakin' our hearts by his 
 coorses." 
 
 Micaul, who, although he knew the cause of the enmity between 
 these rivals, was ignorant of that which occasioned his brother's rash 
 oath, also felt an.xious to ascertain the circumstances of the last 
 quarrel. For this purpose, as well as in obedience to his father's 
 wishes, he proceeded to Reillaghan's, and arrived just as Darby More 
 and young Mike had set out for mass. 
 
 " What," said the mendicant, " can be bringin' Micaul down, I 
 wondher ? Somcthin' about that slip o' grace, his brother." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Mike ; " an' I wish the same slip was as 
 dacentan' inoffensive as he is. I don't know a boy livin' I'd go farther 
 for nor the same Micaul. He's a credit to the family as much as the 
 other's a stain upon them." 
 
 " Well, anyhow, you war Frank's match, an' more, last night. How 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 125 
 
 bitther he was bint on bringin' Peggy aff, when he an' his set waited 
 till they seen the country clear, an' thought the family aslft^p ! Had 
 you man for man, Mike ?" 
 
 " Ay, about that ; an' we set so snug in Peggy's that you'd hear a 
 pin fallin'. A hard tug, too, there was in the beginnin' ; but whin they 
 found that we had a strong back, they made away, an' we gave them 
 purshute from about the house." 
 
 " You may thank me, anyhow, for havin' her to the good ; but I 
 knew by my dhrame, wid the help o' God, that there was somethin' to 
 happen ; by the same a token, that your mother's an the high horse 
 about that dhrame. I'm to tell it to her, wid the sinse of it, in the 
 evenin', when the day's past, an' all of us in comfort." 
 
 " What was it, Darby ? sure you may let me hear it." 
 
 " Maybe I will in the evenin'. It was about you an' Peggy, the 
 darlin'. But how will you manage in regard of brakin' the oath, and 
 sthrikin' a brother ? " 
 
 " Why, that I couldn't get over it, whin he sthruck me first : sure 
 he's worse off. I'll lave it to the dilegates, an' whatever judgment they 
 give out, I'll take wid it." 
 
 " Well," observed Darby, sarcastically, " it made him do one good 
 turn, anyway." 
 
 " What was that, Darby ? for good turns are but scarce wid him." 
 
 "Why, it made him hear mass to-day," replied the mendicant ; "an* 
 ihat's what he hadn't the grace to do this many a year. It's away in 
 the mountains wid his gun he'd be, thracin', an' a fine day it is for it — 
 only this business prevints him. Now, Mike," observed Darby, "as 
 we're comin' out upon the borecii, I'll fall back, an' do you go an : I 
 have part of my padareens to say, before I get to the chapel, wid a 
 blessin'; an' we had as good not be seen together." 
 
 The mendicant, as he spoke, pulled out a long pair of beads, on 
 which he commenced his prayers, occasionally accosting an acquaint- 
 ance with a gho mhaiiy Deah glucd,^ and sometimes taking a part 
 in the conversation for a minute or two, after which he resumed the 
 prayers as before. 
 
 The day was now brightening up, although the earlier part of the 
 morning had threatened severe weather. Multitudes were flocking to 
 the chapel ; the men well secured in frieze great-coats, in addition to 
 which many of them had their legs bound with straw ropes, and 
 others with leggings made of old hats cut up for the purpose. The 
 women were secured with cloaks, the hoods of which were tied with 
 kerchiefs of some showy colour over their bonnets or their caps, 
 which, together with their elbows projecting behind, for the purpose 
 of preventing their dress from being dabbled in the snow, gave them a 
 marked and most picturesque appearance. 
 
 Reillaghan and M'Kenna both reached the chapel a considerable 
 time before the arrival of the priest ; and as a kind of Whiteboy 
 committee was to sit for the purpose of investigating their conduct in 
 
 ' God save you I 
 
126 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 holding out so dangerous an example as they did, by striking each 
 other, contrary to their oaths as brothers under the same system, they 
 accordingly were occupied each in collecting his friends, and con- 
 ciliating those whom they supposed to be hostile to them on the 
 opposite party. It had been previously arranged that this committee 
 should hold a court of inquiry, and that, provided they could not 
 agree, the matter was to be referred to two hedge schoolmasters, who 
 should act as umpires ; but if it happened that the latter could not 
 decide it, there was no other tribunal appointed to which a fir.ctl 
 appeal could be made. 
 
 According to these regulations a court was opened in a shebeen 
 house that stood somewhat distant from the road. Twelve young 
 fellows seated themselves on each side of a deal table, with one of the 
 umpires at each end of it, and a bottle of whisky in the middle. In 
 a higher sphere of life it is usual to refer such questionable conduct as 
 occurs in duelling to the arbitration of those who are known to 
 be qualified by experience in the duello. On this occasion the practice 
 was not departed from, those who had been thus selected as the 
 committee heiv.g the most notoriously pugnacious "boys" in the 
 whole parish. 
 
 " Now, boys," said one of the schoolmasters, "let us proceed to 
 operations wid proper spirit," and he filled a glass of whisky as 
 he spoke. " Here's all your healths, and next, pace and unanimity to 
 us ! Call in the culprits." 
 
 Both were accordingly admitted, and the first speaker resumed : 
 " Now, in the second place, I'll read yees that part o' the oath which 
 binds us all under the obligation of not strikin' one another— hem ! 
 hem! — 'No brother is co strike another, knowing him to be such; 
 he's to strike him — hem ! — neither in fair nor market, at home nor 
 abroad, neither in public nor in private, neither on Sunday nor week- 
 day, present or absent, nor " 
 
 " I condimn that," observed the other master. " I condimn it, as 
 bein' too latitudinarian in principle, an' containmig a paradogma ; 
 besides, it's bad grammar." 
 
 " You're rather airly in the market wid your bad grammar," replied 
 the other. " I'll grant you the paradogma, but I'll stand up for the 
 grammar of it while I'm able to stand up for anything." 
 
 " Faith, an' if you rise to stand up for that," replied his friend, "and 
 doesn't choose to sit down till you prove it to be good grammar, 
 you'll be a standin' joke all your life." 
 
 " I bleeve it's purty conspicuous in the parish that I have often, in 
 our disputations about grammar, left you widout a leg to stand upon 
 at all," replied the other. 
 
 This sally was well received, but his opponent was determined to 
 push home the argument at once. 
 
 " I would be glad to know," he inquired, "by what beautiful invin- 
 tion a man could contrive to strike another in his absence? Have you 
 good grammar for that?" 
 
 "And did you never hear of df traction?" replied his opponent ; 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 127 
 
 " that is, a man who's in the habit of spaking falsehoods of his friends 
 whin their backs arc turned — that is to say, whin they are absent. 
 Now, sure, if a man's absent whin his back's turned, mayn't any man 
 whose back's turned be said to be absent — ergo, to strike a man 
 behind his back is to strike him whin he's absent. Does that con- 
 found you ? where's your logic and grammar to meet proper ratio- 
 cination like what I'm displaying?" 
 
 " Faith," replied the other, " you may have had logic and grammar, 
 but I'll take my oath it was in your younger years, for both have been 
 absent ever since I knew you : they turned their hacks upon you, 
 man alive : for they didn't like, you see, to be kecpin' bad company — 
 ha, ha, ha?" 
 
 " Why, you poor cratur," said his antagonist, " if I choose to let 
 myself out, I'd make a hare of you in no time entirely." 
 
 " And an ass of yourself," retorted the other ; " but you may save 
 yourself the throuble in regard of the last, for your frinds know you to 
 be an ass ever since they remimber you. You have them here, man 
 alive — the auricles," and he pointed to his ears. 
 
 " Hut ! get out wid you, you poor Jamaica-headed castigator, 
 you ; sure you never had more nor a thimbleful o' sinse on any 
 subject." 
 
 " Faith, an' the thimble that measured yours was a tailor's, one 
 widout a bottom in it, an' good measure you got, you miserable flagel- 
 lator ! what are you but a nnx vomica f A fit o' the ague's a thrifie 
 compared to your asinity." 
 
 Tlie " boys " were delighted at this encounter, and, ut*.erly forgetful 
 of the pacific occasion on which they had assembled, began to pit 
 them against each other with great glee. 
 
 " That's a hard hit, Misther Costigan ; but you won't let it pass, 
 anyhow." 
 
 " The ague an' you are ould acquaintances," retorted Costigan ; 
 " whenever a scrimmage takes place, you're sure to resave a visit 
 from it." 
 
 " Why, I'm not such a haro as 3'ourself," replied his rival, " nor such 
 a great hand at batin' the absent — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Bravo, Misther Connell — that's a leveller ; come, Misther Costigan, 
 bedad, if you don't answer that you're bate." 
 
 " By this and by that, man alive, if you don't mend your manners, 
 maybe I'd make it betther for you to be absent also. You'll only put 
 me to the throuble of mendin' them for you." 
 
 " Mend my manners ! " exclaimed his opponent, with a bitter sneer 
 • — ''^ yoit to mend them ! Out wid your budget and your hammer, then ; 
 you're the very tinker of good manners — bekase for one dacency you'd 
 mend, you'd spoil twenty." 
 
 " I'm able to hammer you, at all events, or, for that matther, any one 
 of your illiterate gineration. Sure it's well known that you can't taclie 
 Vobhter (Voster) widout the Kay." 
 
 " Hould there, if you plase," exclaimed one of his opponent's rela- 
 tions " don't lug in his family ; thafs known to be somewhat afore 
 
I 2S THE MIDNTGIIT MASS. 
 
 your own, I blceve. There's no informers among them, Misther 
 Costigan : keep at home, masther, if you plase." 
 
 " At hofne ! that's more tlian some o' your own rlcavceiis^ have been 
 able to do," rejoined Costigan, alluding to one of the young fellow's 
 acquaintances who had been transported. 
 
 " Do you mane to put an affront upon me ?" said the other. 
 
 " Since the barrhad^ fits you, wear it," replied Costigan. 
 
 " Very right, masther, make him a present of it," exclaimed one 
 of Costigan's distant relations ; " he desarves that, an' more if he'd 
 get it." 
 
 " Do I .'' " said the other ; " an' what have_y^7^ to say on the head of 
 it 1 " 
 
 " Why, not much," answered Bartle, " only that you ought to've left 
 it bctune them ; an' that /'// back Misther Costigan agin any rascal 
 that ud say there was ever a drop of his blood in an informer's veins." 
 
 " / say it, for one," replied the other. 
 
 "And I, for another," said Connell ; "an', what's worse, I'll hould 
 a wager that, if he was searched this minute, you'd find a Kay to 
 Gough in his pocket, although he throws Vosther in my teeth : the 
 dunce never goes widout one. Sure he's not able to set a dacent copy, 
 or headline, or to make a dacent hook, nor a hanger, nor a down- 
 stroke, and was a poor scholar, too ! " 
 
 " I'll give you a down-stroke in the manetime, you ignoramus," said 
 the pedagogue, throwing himself to the end of the table at which his 
 enemy sat, and laying him along the floor by a single blow. 
 
 He was instantly attacked by the friend of the prostrate academician, 
 who was in his turn attacked by the friend of Costigan. The adherents 
 of the respective teachers were immediately rushing to a general 
 engagement, when the door opened, and Darby More made his ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 "Asy! — stop wid yees ! — hould back, ye disgraceful villains!" 
 exclaimed the mendicant, in a thundering voice ; " be asy, I say. 
 Saints in glory, is this the way you're settling the dispute between the 
 two dacent young men, that's sorry, both o' them, I'll go bail, for 
 what they done. Sit down, every one of yees, or, by the blessed 
 ordhcrs 1 wear about me, I'll report yees to Father Hoolaghan, an' 
 have yees read out from the althar, or sint to Lough Derg ! Sit down 
 I say ! " 
 
 As he spoke he extended his huge cant between the hostile parties, 
 and thrust them one by one to their seats with such muscular energy 
 that he had them sitting before another blow could be given. 
 
 " Saints in glory ! " he exclaimed again, "isn't this blessed doins au 
 the sacred day that's in it ! that a poor, helpless oukl man like me 
 can't come to get somethin' to take away this misfortunit touch o' 
 configuration that I'm afflicted wid in cowld weather — that I can't take 
 a little sup of the only thing that cures me, widout your ructions and 
 battles ! You came here to make pace between two dacent men's 
 
 ' Distant relations. * Cap. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 129 
 
 childher, and you're as bad, if not worse, yourselves ! — Oh, wurrah 
 dheelish, what's this ! I'm in downright agony ! Oh, murdb ;r 
 sheery ! Has none o' yees a hand to thry if there's e'er a dhrop of 
 rehef in that bottle ? or am I to die all out, in the face o' the world, for 
 want of a sup o' something to warm me ? " 
 
 *' Darby, thry the horn," said M'Kenna. 
 
 " Here, Darby," said one of them, " dhrink this )ff, an' my life for 
 yours, it'll warm you to the marrow ! " 
 
 " Och, musha, but I wanted it badly," replied Darby, swallowing it 
 at once ; " it's the only thing does me good when I'm this way. 
 Deah Grasihias !^ Oxis Doxis Glorioxis ! Amin." 
 
 " I think," said M'Kenna, " that what's in the horn's far afore it." 
 
 " Oh, thin, you thoughtless crathur, if you knew somethin' I hard 
 about you a while ago, you'd think otherwise. But, indeed, it's thrue 
 for you ; I'm sure I'd be sarry to compare what's in it to anything 
 o' the kind I tuck. Deah Grasthias ! Throth, I'm asier now a great 
 dale nor I was." 
 
 " Will you take another sup. Darby ? " inquired the young fellow in 
 whose hands the bottle was now nearly empty ; " there's jist about 
 another glass." 
 
 " Indeed an' I will, a villish ; ^ an' sure you'll have my blessin' for 
 it, an' barrin' the priest's own, you couldn't have a more luckier one, 
 blessed be God for it — sure thafs well known. In throth, they never 
 came to ill that had it, an' never did good that got my curse ! Houp ! 
 do you hear how that rises the wind off my stomach ? Houp ! — Deah 
 Grasthias for that ! " 
 
 " How did you larn all the prayers an' charms you have, Darby ? " 
 inquired the bottle-holder. 
 
 " It would take me too long to tell you that, a villish / But. 
 childher, now that you're ail together, make it up wid one another. 
 Aren't you all frinds an' brothers, siuorn brothers, an' why would you 
 be fightin' among other .? Misther Costigan, give me your hand ; sure 
 I heard a thrifle o' what you were sayin' while I was suckin' my dudeen 
 at the fire widout. Come here, Misther Connell. Now, before the 
 saints in glory, I lay my bitther curse an him that refuses to shake 
 hands wid his inimy. There now — I'm proud to see it. Mike, avour- 
 neen, come here — Frank M'Kenna, gutsho^ walk over here ; my 
 bitther heart's curse upon both of yees if you don't make up all 
 quarrels this minnit ! Are you willin', Mike Reillaghan?" 
 
 " I have no objection in life," replied Mike, " if he'll say that Peggy 
 Gartland won't be put to any more throuble through his manes." 
 
 " There's my hand, Mike," said Frank, " that I forget an' forgive all 
 that's past ; an' in regard o' Peggy Gartland, why, as she's so dark 
 agin me, I lave her to you for good." ■* 
 
 " Well ! see what it is to have the good intintions ! — to be makin' 
 pace an' friendship atween inimies ! That's all I think about, an' 
 nothin' gives me greater pleas Saints o' glory ! — what's this ! — oh, 
 
 ' God be praised. ^ My sweet — an epithet of endearment 
 
 * Cone hither. * In future — altogether. 
 
13° THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 wurra ! — that thief of a — wurrah dhcclish ! — that touch o' confi;4ura' 
 tion's comhi' back agin ! — oh, thin, but it's hard to get it undher ! — 
 oh ! " 
 
 "I'm sarry for it, Darby," repHed he who held the now empty 
 bottle, " for the whisky's out." 
 
 " Throth, an' I'm sarry myself, for nothin' else does me good ; an' 
 P'ather Hoolaghan says nothin' can keep it down barrin' the sup o' 
 whisky. It's best burnt, wid a little bit o' butthcr an it ; but I can't 
 get that always, it overtakes me so suddenly. Glory be to God ! " 
 
 "Well," said M'Kenna, "as iSIike an' myself was the manes of 
 brinf^rin' us together, why, if he joins me, we'll have another bottle." 
 
 "Throth, an' it's fair an' daccnt, an' he must do it ; by the same a 
 token, that I'll not lave the house till it's dhrunk, for there's no thrustin' 
 yees together, you're so hc'-headed an' ready to rise the hand," said 
 Darby. 
 
 M'Kenna and Mike, having been reconciled, appeared in a short 
 time warmer friends than ever. While the last bottle went round those 
 who had before been on the point of engaging in personal conflict 
 now laughed at their own foibles, and expressed the kindness and 
 good-will which they felt for each other at heart. 
 
 " Now," said the mendicant, "go all of you to mass, an' as soon as 
 you can to confission, for it's not good to have the broken oath an' the 
 sin of it over one. Confiss it, an' have your consciences light : sure 
 it's a happiness that you can have the guilt taken off o' yees, childher." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Darby," they replied ; " an' we'll be thinkin' of your 
 advice." 
 
 "Ay, do, childher ; an' there's Father Hoolaghan comin' down the 
 road, so, in the name o' goodness, we haven't a minnit to lose." 
 
 They all left the shebeen house as he spoke except Frank and him- 
 self, who remained until they had gone out of hearing. 
 
 " Darby," said he, " I want you to come up to our house in the 
 mornin', an' bring along wid you the things that you stamp the crass 
 upon the skin wid : I'm goin' to get the crucifix put upon me. But on 
 the paril o' your life don't brathe a word of it to mortual." 
 
 " God enable you, avick ! it's a good intintion. I will indeed be up 
 wid you— airly, too, wid a blessin'. It is that, indeed — a good intintion, 
 sure enough." 
 
 The parish chapel was about one hundred perches from the shebeen 
 house in which the " boys" had assembled ; the latter were proceeding 
 there in a body when Frank overtook them. 
 
 "Mike," said he aside to Reillaghan, "we'll have time enough — 
 walk back a bit. I'll tell you what I'm thinkin'; you never seen in 
 your life a finer day for thracin'; what ud you say if we give the boys 
 the slip, never heed mass, an' set off to the mountains ?" 
 
 " Won't we have time enough afther mass ?" said Reillaghan. 
 
 " Why, man, sure you dia hear mass o}ice to-day. Weren't you at it 
 last night? No, indeed, we won't be time enough afther it ; for this 
 bein' Chris'mas Day we must be home at dinner time ; you know it's 
 not lucky to be from the family upon set days. Hang-an-ounty. come; 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 we'll have fine sport ! I have cock-sticks ^ enough. The best part of 
 the day'll be gone if we wait for mass. Come, an' let us start." 
 
 " V/ell, well," replied Reillaghan, " the sarra hair I care ; so let us 
 go. I'd like myself to have a rap at the hares in the Black Hills, sure 
 enough ; but as it ud be remarkable for us to be seen lavin' mass, 
 why let us crass the field here, an' get out upon the road above the 
 bridge." 
 
 To this his companion assented, and they both proceeded at a brisk 
 pace, each apparently anxious for the sport, and resolved to exhibit 
 such a frank cordiality of manner as might convince the other that all 
 their past enmity was forgotten and forgiven. 
 
 Their direct path to the mountains lay by M'Kenna's house, where 
 it was necessary they should call, in order to furnish themselves with 
 cock-sticks and to bring dogs, which young Frank kept for the 
 purpose. The inmates of the family were at mass, with the exception 
 of Frank's mother, and Rody, the servant man, whom they found 
 sitting on his own bed in the barn, engaged at cards, the right hand 
 against the left. 
 
 " Well, Rody," said Frank, " who's winnin' ? " 
 
 " The left entirely," replied his companion : " the divil a game at 
 all the right's gettin', whatever's the rason of it, an' I'm always turnin' 
 up black. I hope none of my frinds or acquaintances will die soon." 
 
 " Throw them aside — quit of them," said Frank, " give them to me, 
 I'll put them past ; an' do you bring us out the gun. I've the powdher 
 an' shot here ; we may as well bring her, an' have a slap at them. 
 
 One o' the officers in the barracks of keeps me in powdher an' 
 
 shot, besides givin' me an odd crown, an' I keep him in game." 
 
 " Why, thin, boys," observed Rody, " what's the manin' o' this ? — 
 two o' the biggest inimies in Europe last night an' this mornin', an' 
 now as great as two thieves ! How does that come "}" 
 
 " Very asy, Rody," replied Reillaghan ; " we made up the quarrel, 
 shuck hands, an's good frinds as ever." 
 
 " Bedad, that bates cock-fightin'," said Rody, as he went to bring 
 in the gun. 
 
 In the meantime, Frank, with the cards in his hand, went to the 
 eave of the barn, thrust them up under the thatch, and took out of the 
 same nook a flask of whisky. 
 
 " We'll want this," said he, putting it to his lips, and gulping down 
 a portion. " Come, Mike, be tastin' : an' aftherwards put this in your 
 pocket." 
 
 Mike followed his example, and was corking the flask when Rody 
 returned with the gun. 
 
 " She's charged," said Frank ; " but we'd betther put in fresh 
 primin', for fraid of her hangin' fire." 
 
 He then primed the gun, and handed it to Reillaghan. " Tio yo?c 
 keep the gun, Mike," he added, " an' I'll keep the cock-sticks. Rody, 
 
 * A cock-stick was so called from being used on Cock-Monday to throw at 3 
 cock tied to a stake. It was about the length of a common stick, but much heavier 
 und thicker at one end. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 I'll bet you a shillin' I kill more wid the cock-stick nor he will wid 
 the gun. Will you take mc up ? " 
 
 " I know a safer thrick," replied Rody. " You're a dead aim wid 
 the cock-stick, sure enough, an' a deader aim wid the gun, too : catch 
 me at it." 
 
 " You show some sinse, for a wondhcr," observed Frank, as he and 
 his companion left the barn, and turned towards the mountain, which 
 rose frowning behind the house. 
 
 Rody stood looking after them until they wound up slowly out of 
 sight among the hills ; he then shook his head two or three times, 
 and exclaimed, " By dad, there's somethin' in this, if one could make 
 out what it is. I know Frank." 
 
 Christmas Day passed among the peasantry as it usually passes in 
 Ireland. Friends met before dinner in their own, in their neighbours', 
 in shebeen or in public houses, where they drank, sang, or fought, 
 according to their natural dispositions, or the quantity of liquor they 
 had taken. The festivity of the day might be known by the unusual 
 reek of smoke that danced from each chimney, by the number of 
 persons who crowded the roads, by their brand-new dresses — for if a 
 young man or counti^' girl can afford a dress at all, they provide it for 
 Christmas — and by the striking appearance of those who, having 
 drunk a little too much, were staggering home in the purest happi- 
 ness, singing, stopping their friends, shaking hands with them, or 
 kissing them, without any regard to sex. Many a time might be seen 
 two Irishmen, v;ho had got drunk together, leaving a fair or market, 
 their arms about each other's necks, from whence they only removed 
 them to kiss and hug one another the more lovingly. Notwithstanding 
 this, there is nothing more probable than that these identical two will 
 enjoy the luxury of a mutual battle, by way of episode, and again 
 proceed on their way, kissing and hugging as if nothmg had happened 
 to interrupt their friendship. All the usual effects of jollity and 
 violence, fun and fighting, love and liquor, were, of course, to be seen, 
 felt, heard, and understood on this day, in a manner much more 
 remarkable than on common occasions ; for it may be observed that 
 the national festivals of the Irish bring out their strongest points of 
 character with peculiar distinctness. 
 
 The family of Frank IM'Kenna were sitting down to their Christmas 
 dinner ; the good man had besought a blessing upon the comfortable 
 and abundant fare of which they were about to partake, and nothing 
 was amiss, save the absence of their younger son. 
 
 " Musha, where on earth can this boy be stayin'?" said the father. 
 " I'm sure this, above all days in the year, is one he oughtn't to be 
 from home an." 
 
 The mother was about to inform him of the son's having gone to 
 the mountains, when the latter returned, breathless, pale, and horror- 
 struck. 
 
 Kody eyed him keenly, and laid down the bit he was conveying lo 
 his mouth. 
 
 " Heavens above us ! " exclaimed his mother, " what ails vou ? " 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. I33 
 
 He only replied by dashing his hat on the ground, and exclaiming, 
 " Up wid yees ! — up wid yees ! — quit your dinners ! Oh, Rody ! 
 what'll be done ? Go down to Owen Reillaghan's — go 'way — go 
 down — an' tell thim — oh, vick-na-hoie ! but this was the unfortunate 
 day to us all ! Mike Reillaghan is shot wid my gun ; she went off in 
 his hand goin' over a snow wreath, an' he's lyin' dead in the moun- 
 tains ! " 
 
 The screams and the wailings which immediately rose in the family 
 were dreadful. Mrs. M'Kenna almost fainted ; and the father, after 
 many struggles to maintain his firmness, burst into the bitter tears of 
 disconsolation and affliction. Rody was calmer, but turned his eyes 
 from one to another with a look of deep compassion, and again eyed 
 Frank keenly and suspiciously. 
 
 Frank's eye caught his, and the glance which had surveyed him 
 with such scrutiny did not escape his observation. " Rody," said he, 
 " do you go an' brake it to the Reillaghans : you're the best to do it ; 
 for, when we were settin' out, you saw that he carried the gun, an' not 
 vie." 
 
 " Thrue lor ) ou," said Rody ; " I saw that, Frank, and can swear to 
 it ; but that's all I did see. I know nothing of what happened in the 
 mountains." 
 
 '^'^ Damnho seery orth .'^ What do you mane, you villain ?" exclaimed 
 Frank, seizing the tongs, and attempting to strike him : " do you dar 
 to suspect that I had any hand in it .'' " 
 
 " Wurrah dheelisli,'* Frank," screamed the sisters, "are you goin' to 
 murdher Rody .? " 
 
 " Murdher" he shouted, in a paroxysm of fury, " why, the curse o' 
 God upon you all, what puts murdher into your heads.'' Is it my own 
 family that's the first to charge me wid it ?" 
 
 " Why, there's no one chargin' you wid it," replied Rody, " not one ; 
 whatever makes yuu take it to yourself.'"' 
 
 " An' what did you look at me for, thin, the way you did .'' What 
 did you look at me for, I say .'"' 
 
 " Is it any wondher," replied the servant, coolly, " when you had 
 sich a dreadful story to tell ? " 
 
 " Go off," replied Frank, now hoarse with passion ; " go off, an' tell 
 the Reillaghans what happened ; but, by all the books that ever was 
 opened or shut, if you breathe a word about murdh — about — if you do, 
 you villain, I'll be the death o' you ! " 
 
 When Rody was gone on this melancholy errand, old M'Kenna first 
 put the tongs, and everything he feared might be used as a weapon by 
 his frantic son, out of his reach ; he then took down the book on 
 which he had the night before sworn so rash and mysterious an oath, 
 and desired the son to look upon it. 
 
 " Frank," said he, solemnly, " you swore on that blessed book last 
 night that Mike Reillaghan never would be the husband of Peggy 
 Gartland— ^if'.f a corpse to-day! Yes," he continued, " the good, the 
 
 ' Eternal perdition on you I • Sweet Virgin. 
 
134 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 honest, tlie industhiious boy is " — his sobs became so loud and thick 
 that he appeared ahnost suffocated. " OIi," said he, " may God pity 
 Its! As 1 hope to meet my blessed Saviour, who was born on this 
 day, I would rather you war tlie corpse, an' not Mike Reillaghan ! " 
 
 " I don't doubt that," said the son, fiercely ; "you never showed me 
 much.^n?//,' sure enough." 
 
 " Did you ever desarve it ?" replied the father. " Heaven above me 
 knows it was too much kindness was showed you. When you ought 
 to have been well corrected, you got your will an your way, an' now 
 see the upshot." 
 
 " Well," said the son, " it's the last day ever I'll slay in the family ; 
 thrate me as bad as you plase. I'll take the king's bounty, an' list, if 
 I live to see to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, thin, in the name o' goodness, do so," said the father ; "an' so 
 f.ir from previntin' you, we'll bless you when you're gone, for goin'." 
 
 " Arrah, Frank, aroon," said Mrs. M'Kenna, who was now recovered, 
 " maybe, afihcr all, it was only an accident : sure, we often hard of 
 sich things. Don't you remimber Squire Elliott's son, that shot him- 
 self by accident, out fowlin' .-' Frank, can you clear yourself afore 
 us .? " 
 
 " Oh, Alley ! Alley ! " exclaimed the father, wiping away his tears, 
 " don't you remimber his oath, last night ? " 
 
 "What oath?" inquired the son, with an air of surprise ; "what 
 oath last night ? I know I was dhrunk last night, but I remimber 
 nothing about an oath." 
 
 " Do you deny it, you hardened boy ?" 
 
 " I do deny it ; an' I'm not a hardened boy. What do you all 
 mane? do yecs want to dhrive me mad? I know nothin' about any 
 oath last night," replied the son in a loud voice. 
 
 The grief of the mother and daughters was loud during the pauses 
 of the conversation. Micaul, the eldest son, sat beside his father in 
 tears. 
 
 " Frank," said he, " many an advice I gave you between ourselves, 
 and you know how you tuck them. When you'd stale the oats, an' 
 the meal, and the phaties, an' hay, at night, to have money for your 
 cards an' dhrinkin', I kept it back, an' said nothin' about it. I wish I 
 hadn't done so, for it wasn't for your good ; but it was my desire to 
 have as much pace and quietness as possible." 
 
 " Frank," said the father, eyeing him solemnly, " it's possible that 
 you do forget the oath you made last night, for you war in liquor : I 
 would give the wide world that it was thrue. Can you now, in the 
 presence of God, clear yourself of havm' act or part in the death of 
 Mike Reillaghan?" 
 
 " What ud ail r..e," said the son, " if I liked ? " 
 
 " Will you do it now for our satisfaction, an' take a load of misery 
 off of our hearts ? It's the laste you may do, if you can do it In the 
 presenc? of the great God, will you clear yourself now ?" 
 
 ' AfTection. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASi. 
 
 " I suppose," said the son, " I'll have to clear myself to-morrow, an' 
 there's no use in my doin' it more than wanst. When the time ujilies 
 I'll do it." 
 
 The father put his hands on his eyes, and groaned aloud : so deep 
 was his affliction that the tears trickled through his fingers during this 
 fresh burst of sorrow. The son's refusal to satisfy them renewed the 
 grief of all, as well as of the father : it rose again, louder than before, 
 whilst young Frank sat opposite the door, silent and sullen. 
 
 It was now dark, but the night was calm and agreeable. M'Kenna's 
 family felt the keen affliction which we have endeavoured to describe ; 
 the dinner was put hastily aside, and the festive spirit peculiar to this 
 night became changed into one of gloom and sorrow. In this state 
 they sat, when the voice of grief was heard loud in the distance ; the 
 strong cry of men, broken and abrupt, mingled with the shrieking wail 
 of female lamentation. 
 
 The M'Kennas started, and Frank's countenance assumed an ex- 
 pression which it would be difficult to describe. There was, foined to 
 his extreme paleness, a restless, apprehensive, and determined look ; 
 each trait apparently struggling for the ascendency in his character, 
 and attempting to stamp his face with its own expression. 
 
 " Do you hear f/iai ? " said his father. " Oh, musha, Father of 
 Heaven, look down an' support that family this night ! Frank, if you 
 take my advice, you'll lave their sight ; for surely, if they brained you 
 on the spot, who could blame them .f"' 
 
 " Why ought I lave their sight ? " replied Frank. " I tell you all 
 that I had no hand in his death. The gun went off by accident as he 
 was crassin' a wreath o' snow. I was afore him, and when I heard 
 the report, an' turned round, there he lay, shot an' bleedin'. I thought 
 it mightn't signify, but on lookin' at him closely I found him quite 
 dead. I then ran home, never touchin' the gun at all, till his family 
 an' the neighbours ud see him. Surely, it's no wondher I'd be dis- 
 tracted in my mind ; but that's no rason you should all open upon me, 
 as if / had murdhered the boy ! " 
 
 " Well," said the father, " I'm glad to hear you say even that much. 
 I hope it may be betther wid you than we all think ; an' oh ! grant it, 
 sweet Mother o' Heaven, this day ! Now carry yourself quietly afore 
 the people. If they abuse you, don't fly into a passion, but make 
 allowance for their grief and misery." 
 
 In the meantime the tumult was deepening as it approached 
 M'Kenna's house. The report had almost instantly spread through 
 the village in which Reillaghan lived ; and the loud cries of his father 
 and brothers, who, in the wildness of their despair, continually called 
 upon his name, had been heard at the houses which lay scattered over 
 the neighbourhood. Their inmates, on listening to such unusual 
 sounds, sought the direction from which they proceeded, for it was 
 quite evident that some terrible calamity had befallen the Reillaghans, 
 in consequence of the son's name being borne on the blasts of night 
 with such loud and overwhelming tones of grief and anguish. The 
 assembly, on reaching M'Kenna's, might, therefore, be numbered at 
 
^3^ T//£ A//DAr/G//T AfASS. 
 
 thirty, including the females of Reillaghan's immediate family, who 
 had been strung by the energy of despair to a capability of bearing 
 any fatigue, or, rather, to an utter insensibility of all bodily suffering. 
 
 We must leave the scene which ensued to the reader's imagination, 
 merely observing that as neither the oath which young Frank had 
 taken the preceding night, nor, indeed, the peculiar bitterness of his 
 crunity towards the deceased, was known by the Reillaghans, they did 
 not, therefore, discredit the account of his death which they had heard. 
 
 Their grief was exclamatory and full of horror ; consisting of 
 prolonged shrieks on the part of the women, and frantic bowlings on 
 that of the men. The only words they uttered were his name, with 
 epithets and ejaculations. " 0/i,a VicJiaul dJieelish — a Vichaiil dhcclish 
 — a boiiclial bane machree — ivtiill i/ui viarra — wuill tliu viarra ? " 
 " Oh, Michael, the beloved — Michael, the beloved — fair boy of our 
 heart — are you dead ? — are you dead .'' " 
 
 From M'Kenna's the crowd, at the head of which was Darby More, 
 proceeded towards the mountains, many of them bearing torches, such 
 as had been used on their way to the midnight mass. The moon had 
 disappeared, the darkness was deepening, and the sky was overhung 
 with black, heavy clouds, that gave a stormy character to scenery in 
 itself remarkably wild and gloomy. 
 
 Young M'Kenna and the pilgrim led them to the dreary waste in 
 which the corpse lay. It was certainly an awful spectacle to behold 
 these unhappy people toiling up the mountain solitude at such an 
 hour, their convulsed faces thrown into striking relief by the light of 
 the torches, and their cries rising in wild, irregular cadences upon the 
 blast which swept over them with a dismal howl, in perfect character 
 with their affliction and the circumstances which produced it. 
 
 On arriving within view of the corpse there was a slight pause ; for, 
 notwithstanding the dreadful paroxysms of their grief, there was some- 
 thing still more startling and terrible in contemplating the body thus 
 stretched out in the stillness of death on the lonely mountain. The 
 impression it produced was peculiarly solemn : the grief was hushed 
 for a moment, but only for a moment ; it rose again wilder than before, 
 and in a few minutes the friends of Keillaghan were about to throw them- 
 selves upon the body under the strong impulse of sorrow and affection. 
 
 The mendicant, however, stepped forward. " Hould back," said he ; 
 "it's hard to ax yees to do it, but still you must. Let the neighbours 
 about us here examine the body, in ordhcr to see whether it mightn't 
 be possible that the dacent boy came by his death from somebody 
 else's hand than his own. Hould forrid the lights," said he, " till we 
 see how he's lyin', an' how the gun's lyin'." 
 
 " Darby," said young Frank, " I can't but be oblaged to you for 
 that. You're the last man livin' ought to say what you said, afther 
 you seein' us both forget an' forgive this day. I call upon you now to 
 say whether you didn't sec him an' me shakin' hands, an' buryin' all 
 bad feelin' between us?" 
 
 " I'll spake to you jist now," replied the mendicant. " See here, 
 neighbours, obsarve this : the boy was shot in the breast, an' here's 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 137 
 
 not a snow wreath, but a weeshy dhrift that a child ud step acrass 
 widout an accident. I tell yees all that I suspect foul play in this." 
 
 " H 's fire ! " exclaimed the brother of the deceased, " what's^ 
 
 that you say ? What ? Can it be — can it — can it — that you mnrdhered 
 him, you villain, that's known to be nothin' but a villain ? But I'll do 
 for you ! " He snatched at the gun as he spoke, and would probably 
 have taken ample and fearful vengeance upon Frank had not the 
 mendicant and others prevented him. 
 
 " Have sinse," said Uarby ; " this is not the way to behave, man : 
 lave the gun lyin' where she is till we see more about us. Stand back 
 there, an' let me look at these marks : ay, about five yards — there's the 
 track of feet about five yards before him — here they turn about, an' 
 go back. Here, Saviour o' the world ! see here ! the mark, clane an' 
 clear, of the butt o' the gun ! Now if that boy stretched afore us had 
 the gun in his hand the time she went off, could the mark of it be 
 here ? Bring me down the gun— an' the curse o' God upon her for an 
 unlucky thief, whoever had her ! It's thrue ! — it's too thrue ! " he 
 continued — " the man that had the gun stood on this spot." 
 
 " It's a falsity," said Frank, "it's a damnable falsity. RodyTeague, 
 I call upon you to spake for me. Didn't you see, when we went to 
 the hills, that it was Mike carried the gun, an' not me?" 
 
 " I did," replied Rody ; " I can swear to that." 
 
 "Ay," exclaimed Frank, with triumph, "an' you yourself, Darby, 
 saw us, as I said, makin' up whatsomever little difference there was 
 betwixt us." 
 
 " I did," replied the mendicant, sternly ; " but I heard you say, no 
 longer ago than last night — say! why, you shwore it, man alive ! — that 
 vi you wouldn't have Peggy Gartland, he never should. In your own 
 stable I heard it, an' I was the manes of disappointing you and your 
 gang when you thought to take away tke girl by force. You're well 
 known too often to carry a fair face when the heart under it is black 
 wid you." 
 
 " All I can say is," observed young Reillaghan, " that if it comes 
 out agin you that you played him foul, all the earth won't save your 
 life. I'll have your heart's blood, if I should hang for it a thousand 
 times." 
 
 This dialogue was frequently interrupted by the sobbings and 
 clamour of the women, and the detached conversation of some of the 
 men, who were communicating to each other their respective opinions 
 upon the melancholy event which had happened. 
 
 Darby More now brought Reillaghan's father aside, and thus 
 addressed him : — 
 
 " Gluntho !^ — to tell God's thruth, I've strong suspicions that your 
 son was murdhered. This sacred thing, that I put the crass upon 
 people's breasts wid, saves people from hangiti' an' unnatural deaths. 
 Frank spoke to me last night, no longer ago, to come up an' mark li. 
 an him to-morrow. My opinion is that he intinded to murdher him at 
 
ijS THE MIDNlGffT hTASS. 
 
 that time, an' wanted to have a protection agin what migh thaopen to 
 him in regard o' the black deed." 
 
 " Can we prove it agin him ? " inquired the disconsolate father. " I 
 know it'll be hard, as there was no one present but themselves ; an' if 
 he did it, surely he'll not confess it." 
 
 "We may make him do it, maybe," said the mendicant. "The 
 villain's aisily frightened, an' fond o' charms an' pishthrogues,'' an' 
 sich holy things, for all his wickedness. Don't say a word. We'll 
 take him by surprise. I'll call upon him to TOUCH the corpse. 
 Make them women — an' och, it's hard to expect it — make them stop 
 clappin' their hands an' cryin'; an' let there be dead silence, if you 
 can." 
 
 During this and some other observations made by Darby, Frank had 
 got the gun in his possession, and whilst seeming to be engaged in 
 looking at it and examining the lock, he actually contrived to reload it 
 without having been observed. 
 
 " Now, neighbours," said Darby, " hould your tongues for a weeshy 
 start, till 1 a.ii Frank M'Kenna a question or two. Frank M'Kenna, 
 :.5 you hope to meet God at judgment, did you take his life that's lyin' 
 ■-. corpse before us .'"' 
 
 " I did «<?/," replied M'Kenna ; " I could clear myself, on all the 
 Oooks in Europe, that he met his death as I tould yees ; an' more nor 
 that," he added, dropping upon his knees and uncovering his head, 
 " may I die widoiti priest or prayer — uuidotit help, hope, or happiness, 
 UPON THE SPOT WHERE HE'S NOW STRETCHED, ij I murdhercd or 
 shot him" 
 
 " I say amin to that," replied Darby. " Oxis Doxis Glorioxis ! So 
 far, that's right, if the blood of him's not an you. But there's one 
 thing more to be done : will you walk over, jindher the eye of God, an' 
 TOUCH THE CORPSE ? Hould back, neighbours, an' let him come 
 ov^er alone : I an' Owen Reillaghan will stand here wjd the lights to 
 see if the corpse bleeds." 
 
 " Give me, too, a light," said M'Kenna's father ; " my son rrmst get 
 fair play, anyway : /must be a witness myself to it, an' will, too." 
 
 "It's but rasonable," said Owen Reillaghan; "come over beside 
 Darby an' myself : I'm willin' that your son should stand or fall by 
 what'll happen." 
 
 Frank's father, with a taper in his hand, immediately went, with a 
 pale face and trembling steps, to the place appointed for him beside 
 the corpse, where he took his stand. 
 
 When young M'Kenna heard Darby's last question he seemed as if 
 seized by an inward spasm : the start which he gave, and his gaspings 
 for breath, were visible to all present. Had he seen the spirit of the 
 murdered man before him his horror could not have been greater ; 
 for this ceremony had been considered a most decisive test in cases 
 of suspicion of murder — an ordeal, indeed, to which few murderers 
 wished to submit themselves. In addition to this, v/e may observe 
 
 ' Superstitious spells and witclierles. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 139 
 
 that Darby's knowledge of the young man's character was correct ; 
 with all his crimes he was weak-minded and superstitious. 
 
 He stood silent for some time after the ordeal had been proposed to 
 him ; his hair became literally erect with the dread of this formidable 
 scrutiny, his cheeks turned white, and the cold perspiration fell from 
 him in large drops. All his strength appeared to have departed from 
 him ; he stood as if hesitating, and even the energy necessary to 
 stand seemed to be the result of an effort. 
 
 " Remember," said Darby, pulling out the large crucifix which was 
 attached to his beads, "that the eye of God is upon you. If you've 
 committed the murdher, thrimble ; if not, Frank, you've little to fear 
 in touchin' the corpse." 
 
 Frank had not yet uttered a word ; but, leaning himself on the 
 gun, he looked wildly around him, cast his eyes up to the stormy sky, 
 then turned them with a dead glare upon the corpse and the crucifix. 
 
 " Do you confiss the murdher?" said Darby. 
 
 "Murdher!" rejoined Frank: "no; I confess no murdher: you 
 villain, do you want to make me guilty? do you want to make 
 me guilty, you deep villain ? " 
 
 It seemed as if the current of his thoughts and feelings had taken a 
 new direction, though it is probable that the excitement which 
 appeared to be rising within him was only the courage of fear. 
 
 " You all wish to find me guilty," he added ; " but I'll show yees that 
 I'm not guilty." 
 
 He immediately walked towards the corpse, and stooping down, 
 touched the body with one hand, holding the gun in the other. The 
 interest of that moment was intense, and all eyes were strained towards 
 the spot. Behind the corpse, at each shoulder — for the body lay 
 against a small snow wreath, in a recumbent position — stood the father 
 of the deceased and the father of the accused, each wound up by feel- 
 ings of a directly opposite character to a pitch of dreadful excitement. 
 Over them, in his fantastic dress and white beard, stood the tall 
 mendicant, who held up his crucifix to Frank, with an awful menace 
 upon his strongly marked countenance. At a little distance to the 
 left of the body stood the other men who were assembled, having their 
 torches held aloft in their hands, and their forms bent towards the 
 corpse, their faces indicating expectation, dread, and horror. The 
 female relations of the deceased stood nearest his remains, their 
 torches extended in the same direction, their visages exhibiting the 
 passions of despair and grief in their wildest characters, but as if 
 arrested by some supernatural object immediately before their eyes, 
 that produced a new and more awful feehng than grief. When the 
 body was touched, Frank stood as if himself bound by a spell to the 
 spot. At length he turned his eyes to the mendicant, who stood silent 
 and motionless, with the crucifix still extended in his hand. 
 
 " Are you satisfied now?" said he. 
 
 " That's wanst," said the pilgrim : " you're to touch it three times." 
 
 Frank hesitated a moment, but immediately stooped again, and 
 touched it twice in succession ; but it remained still and unchanged 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 as before. His father broke the silence by a fervent ejaculation of 
 thanksgiving to God for the vindication of his son's character which 
 he had just witnessed. 
 
 '■■ Now ! " exclaimed M'Kenna, in a loud, exulting tone, " you all see 
 that I did not murdher him ! " 
 
 " You DID ! " said a voice, which was immediately recognized to be 
 that of the deceased. 
 
 M'Kenna shrieked aloud, and immediately fled with his gun towards 
 the mountains, pursued by Reillaghan's other son. The crowd rushed 
 in towards the body, whilst sorrow, affright, exultation, and wonder 
 marked the extraordinary scene which ensued. 
 
 " Queen o' Heaven ! " exclaimed old M'Kenna, " who could believe 
 this only they hard it ! " 
 
 " The murdher wouldn't lie ! " shrieked out Mrs. Reillaghan — " the 
 murdher wouldn't lie ! — the blood o' my darlin' son spoke it ! — his 
 blood spoke it ; or God, or his angel, spoke it for him ! " 
 
 "It's beyant anything ever known!" some exclaimed, "to come 
 back an' tell the deed upon his murdherer ! God presarve us an' 
 save us this night ! I wish we wor at home out o' this wild place ! " 
 
 Others said they had heard of such things ; but this, having hap- 
 pened before their eyes, surpassed anything that could be conceived. 
 
 The mendicant now advanced, and once more mysteriously held up 
 his crucifix. 
 
 " Keep silence ! " said he, in a solemn, sonorous voice. " Keep 
 silence, I say, an' kneel down all o' yees before what I've in my hand. 
 If you want to know who or what the voice came from, I can tell yees 
 
 —IT WAS THE CRUCIFIX THAT SPOKE !" 
 
 This communication was received with a feeling of devotion too 
 deep for words. His injunction was instantly complied with : they 
 knelt, and bent down in worship before it in the mountain wilds. 
 
 " Ay," said he, " little yees know the virtues of that crucifix ! It was 
 consecrated by a friar so holy that it was well known there was but the 
 shadow of him upon the earth, the other part of him bein' night an' 
 day in heaven among the archangels. It shows the power of this 
 crass, anyway ; an' you may tell your frinds that I'll sell blades 
 touched wid it to the faithful at sixpence apiece. They can be put an 
 your padareens as Dicades, wid a blessin'. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — 
 Amin ! Let us now bear the corpse home, antil it's dressed an' laid 
 out dacently, as it ought to be." 
 
 The body was then placed upon an easy litter, formed of great- 
 coats buttoned together, and supported by the strongest men present, 
 wjio held it one or two at each corner. In this manner they advanced 
 at a slow pace until they reached Owen Reillaghan's house, where they 
 found several of the country people assembled waiting for their return. 
 
 It was not until the body had been placed in an inner room, where 
 none were admitted until it should be laid out, that the members of 
 the family first noticed the prolonged absence of Reillaghan's other 
 son. The moment it had been alluded to they were seized with new 
 alarm and consternation. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. Hi 
 
 ^^ Hanvn a7i diouol!" said Reillaghan, bitterly, in Irish, "but I 
 doubt the red-handed villain has cut short the lives of two brave sons. 
 1 only hope he may stop in the counthry : I'm not widout frinds an' 
 followers that ud think it no sin in a just cause to pay him in his own 
 coin, an' to take from him 'an his a pound o' blood for every ounce ol 
 ours they shed." 
 
 A number of his friends instantly volunteered to retrace their way 
 to the mountains, and search for the other son. " There's little dangei 
 of his life," said a relation ; " it's a short time Frank ud stand him, 
 particularly as the gun wasn't charged. We'll go, at any rate, for fraid 
 he might lose himself in the mountains or walk into some o' the lochs 
 on his way home. We had as good bring some whisky wid us, for he 
 may want it badly." 
 
 While they had been speaking, however, the snow began to fall, and 
 the wind to blow in a manner that promised a heavy and violent storm. 
 They proceeded, notwithstanding, on their search, and, on whisthng for 
 the dog, discovered that he was not to be found. 
 
 " He went wid us to the mountains, I know," said the former 
 speaker ; " an' I think it likely he'll be found wid Owen, wherever he 
 is. "Come, boys, step out: it's a dismal night, anyway, the Lord 
 knows — och, och ! " And with sorrowful but vigorous steps they went 
 in quest of the missing brother. 
 
 Nothing but the preternatural character of the words which were 
 so mystei'iously pronounced immediately before Owen's pursuit of 
 M'Kenna could have prevented that circumstance, together with the 
 flight of the latter, from exciting greater attention among the crowd. 
 His absence, however, now that they had time to reflect on it, produced 
 unusual alarm, not only on account of M'Kenna's bad character, but 
 from the apprehension of Owen being lost in the mountains. 
 
 The inextinguishable determination of revenge with which an Irish- 
 man pursues any person who, either directly or indirectly, takes the 
 life of a near relation, or invades the peace of his domestic affections, 
 was strongly illustrated by the nature of Owen's pursuit after M'Kenna, 
 considering the appalling circumstances under which he undertook it. 
 It is certainly more than probable that M'Kenna, instead of flying, 
 would have defended himself with the loaded gun, had not his super- 
 stitious fears been excited by the words which so mysteriously charged 
 him with the murder. The direction he accidentally took led both 
 himself and his pursuer into the wildest recesses of the mountains. 
 The chase was close and desperate, and certainly might have been 
 fatal to Reillaghan had M'Kenna thought of using the gun. His 
 terror, however, exhausted him, and overcame his presence of mind to 
 such a degree that, so far from using the weapon in his defence, he 
 threw it aside, in order to gain ground upon his pursuer. This he did 
 but slowly, and the pursuit was as yet uncertain. At length Owen 
 found the distance between himself and his brother's murderer in- 
 creasing ; the night was dark, and he himself feeble and breathless : 
 he therefore gave over all hope of securing him, and returned to follow 
 those who had accompanied him to the spot where his brother's body 
 
142 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 lay. It was when retracing his path that the nature of his situation 
 occurred to him : the snow had not begun to fall, but the appearance 
 of the sky was strongly calculated to depress him. 
 
 Every person knows with what remarkable suddenness snowstorms 
 descend. He had scarcely advanced homewards more than twenty 
 minutes, when the grey tempest spread its dusky wings over the 
 heavens, and a darker shade rapidly settled upon the white hills — novr 
 becoming indistinct in the gloom of the air, which was all in commo- 
 tion, and groaned aloud with the noise of the advancing storm. 
 When he saw the deep gloom, and felt the chilling coldness pierce his 
 flesh so bitterly, he turned himself in the direction which led by the 
 shortest possible cut towards his father's house. He was at this time 
 nearly three miles from any human habitation ; and as he looked into 
 the darkness his heart began to palpitate with an alarm almost bor- 
 dering on hopelessness. His dog, which had, up till this boding 
 change, gone on before him, now partook in his master's apprehensions, 
 ar.d trotted anxiously at his feet. 
 
 In the meantime the winds howled in a melancholy manner along 
 the mountains, and carried with them from the upper clouds the 
 rapidly descending sleet. The storm current, too, was against him, 
 and as the air began to work in dark confusion, he felt for the first 
 time how utterly helpless a thing he was under the fierce tempest in 
 this dreadful solitude. 
 
 At length the rushing sound which he first heard in the distance 
 approached him in all its terrors ; and in a short time he was stag- 
 gering like a drunken man under the incessant drifts which swept 
 over him and about him. Nothing could exceed the horrors of the 
 atmosphere at this moment. From the surface of the earth the whirl- 
 winds swept immense snow-clouds that rose up instantaneously, and 
 shot off along the brows and ravines of the solitary wild, sometimes 
 descending into the valleys, and again rushing up the almost perpen- 
 dicular sides of the mountams, with a speed, strength, and noise that 
 mocked at everything possessing life ; whilst in the air the tumult and 
 the darkness continued to deepen in the most awful manner. The 
 winds seemed to meet from every point of the compass, and the falling 
 drifts flew backward and forward in every direction ; the cold became 
 intense, and Owen's efforts to advance homewards were beginning to 
 fail. He was driven about like an autumn leaf, and his dog, which 
 kept close to him, had nearly equal difficulty in proceeding. No sound 
 but that of the tempest could now be heard, except the screaming of 
 the birds as they were tossed on sidewing through the commotion 
 which prevailed. 
 
 In this manner was Owen whii'led about, till he lost all knowledge 
 of his local situation, being ignorant whether he advanced towards 
 home or otherwise. His mouth and eyes were almost filled with 
 driving sleet ; sometimes a cloud of light sand-like drift would almosl 
 bury him, as it crossed, or followed, or opposed his path ; sometimes 
 he would sink to the middle in a snow-wreath, from which he extri- 
 cated himself with great difficulty ; and among the many terrors hy 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 143 
 
 which he was beset, that of walking into a lake, or over a precipice, 
 was not the least paralysing. Owen was a young man of great per- 
 sonal strength and activity, for the possession of which, next to his 
 brother, he had been distinguished among his companions ; but he 
 now became totally exhausted : the chase after M'Kenna, his former 
 exertion, his struggles, his repeated falls, his powerful attempts to get 
 into the vicinity of life, the desperate strength he put forth in breaking 
 through the vortex of the whirlwind, all had left Lim faint and com- 
 pletely at the mercy of the elements. 
 
 The cold sleet scales were now frozen to ice on his chttks ; his 
 clothes were completely encrusted with the hard snow which had been 
 beaten into them by the strength of the blast, and his joints were 
 getting stiff and benumbed. The tumult of the tempest, the whirling 
 of the snow-clouds, and the thick snow, now falling, and again tossed 
 upwards by sudden gusts to the sky, deprived him of all power of 
 reflection, and rendered him, though not altogether blind or deaf, yet 
 incapable of forming any distinct opinion upon what he saw or heard. 
 Still, actuated by the unconscious principle of self-preservation, he 
 tottered on, cold, feeble, and breathless, now driven back like a reed 
 by the strong rush of the storm, or prostrated almost to suffocation 
 under the whirlwinds that started up like savage creatures of life about 
 him. 
 
 During all this time his faithful dog never abandoned him ; but his 
 wild howlmgs only heightened the horrors of his situation. When he 
 fell, the affectionate creature would catch the flap of his coat, or his 
 arm, in his teeth, and attempt to raise him ; and as long as his master 
 had presence of mind,with the unerring certainty of instinct he would 
 turn him, when taking a wrong direction, into that which led home- 
 wards. 
 
 Owen was not, however, reduced to this state without experiencing 
 sensations of which no language could convey adequate notions. At 
 first he struggled heroically with the storm ; but when utter darkness 
 threw its impervious shades over the desolation around him, and the 
 fury of the elements grew so tremendous, all the strong propensities 
 to life became roused, the convulsive throes of a young heart on the 
 steep of death threw a wild and corresponding energy into his vigorous 
 frame, and occasioned him to cling to existence with a tenacity 
 rendered still stronger by the terrible consciousness of his unprepared 
 state, and the horror of being plunged into eternity unsupported by 
 the rites of his Church, whilst the crime of attempting to take away 
 human life lay on his soul. Those domestic affections, too, which in 
 Irishmen are so strong, became excited ; his home, his fireside, the 
 faces of his kindred, already impressed with affliction for the death of 
 one brother, and the mild countenance of the fair girl to whom he 
 was about to be united, were conjured up in the powerful imagery of 
 natural feeling, the fountains of which were opened in his heart, and 
 his agonizing cry for life rose wildly from the mountain desert upon 
 the voice of the tempest. Then, indeed, when the gulf of a two- 
 fold death yawned before him, did the struggling spirit send up its 
 
144 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 shrieking prayer to heaven with desperate impulse. These struggles, 
 however, as well as those of the body, became gradually weaker as the 
 storm tossed him about, and with the chill of its breath withered him 
 into total helplessness. He reeled on, stiff and insensible, without 
 knowing whither he went, falling with every blast, and possessing 
 scarcely any faculty of life except mere animation. 
 
 After about an hour, however, the storm subsided, and the clouds 
 broke away into light fleecy columns before the wind ; the air, too, 
 became less cold, and the face of nature more visible. The driving 
 sleet and hard granular snow now ceased to fall ; but were succeeded 
 by large feathery flakes, that descended slowly upon the still air. 
 
 Had this trying scene lasted much longer, Owen must soon have 
 been a stiffened corpse. The child-like strength, however, which just 
 enabled him to bear up without sinking in despair to die, now supported 
 him when there was less demand for energy. The dog, too, by rubbing 
 itself against him, and licking his face, enabled him, by a last eftbrt, to 
 recollect himself, so as to have a glimmering perception of his situa- 
 tion. His confidence returned, and with it a greater degree of strength. 
 He shook, as well as he could, the snow from his clothes, where it had 
 accumulated heavily, and felt himself able to proceed, slowly, it is 
 true, towards his father's house, which he had nearly reached when he 
 met his friends, who were once more hurrying out to the mountains in 
 quest of him, having been compelled to return, in consequence of the 
 storm, when they had first set out. The whisky, their companionship, 
 and their assistance soon revived him. One or two were despatched 
 home before them, to apprise the afflicted family of his safety ; and 
 the intelligence was hailed with melancholy joy by the Reillaghans. 
 A faint light played for a moment over the gloom which had settled 
 among them, but it was brief ; for on ascertaining the safety of their 
 second son, their grief rushed back with renewed violence, and nothing 
 could be heard but the voice of sorrow and affliction. 
 
 Darby More, who had assumed the control of the family, did every- 
 thing in his power to console them ; his efforts, however, were viewed 
 with a feeling little short of indignation. 
 
 " Darby," said the afflicted mother^ * you have, undher God, in some 
 sinse, my fair son's death to account for. You had a dhrame, but you 
 wouldn't tell it to us. If you had, my boy might be livin' this day, for 
 it would be asy for him to be an his guard." 
 
 " Musha, poor woman," replied Darby, " sure you don't know, you 
 afflicted crathur, what you're speakin' about. Tell my dhrame ! Why 
 thin, it's myself towld it to him from beginnin' to ind, and that whin 
 we wor goin' to mass this day itself. I desired him, on the peril of his 
 life, not to go out a tracin' or toards the mountains, good or bad." 
 
 " You said you had a prayer that ud keep it back," observed the 
 mother, " an' why didn't you say it ? " 
 
 " I did say it," replied Darby, " an' that afore a bit crossed my 
 throath this mornin' ; but, you see, he broke his promise of not goin' 
 to the mountains, an' that was what made the dhrame come thrue." 
 
 " Well, well, Darby, I beg your pardon, an' God's pardon, for judging 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. »45 
 
 you in the wrong. Oh, wurraw sthrue ! my brave son, is it there 
 you're lyin' wid us, avourneen machree ! " and she again renewed h-^r 
 grief. 
 
 " Oh, thin, ['m sure I forgive you," said Darby; "but keep > our 
 grief in for a start, till 1 say the Dcprowhinjis over him, for the pace 
 an' repose of his sowl. Kneel down, all of yees." 
 
 He repeated this prayer in language which it would require one of 
 Edward Irving's adepts in the unknown tongues to interpret. When 
 he had recited about the half of it, Owen and those who had gone to 
 seek him entered the house, and, after the example of the others, 
 reverently knelt down until he finished it. 
 
 Owen's appearance once more renewed their grief. The body of his 
 brother had been removed to a bed beyond the fire in the kitchen ; 
 and when Owen looked upon the features of his beloved companion, 
 he approached and stooped down to kiss his lips. He was still too 
 feeble, however, to bend by his own strength ; and it is also probable 
 that the warm air of the house relaxed him. Be this, however, as it 
 may, he fell forward, but supported himself by his hands, which were 
 placed upon the body ; a deep groan was heard, and the apparently 
 dead man opened his eyes, and feebly exclaimed — " A dhrink ! a 
 dhrink ! " 
 
 Darby More had, on concluding the De profiatdis, seated himself 
 beside the bed on which Mike lay ; but on hearing the groan, and the 
 call for drink, he leaped rapidly to his legs, and exclaimed, " My sowl 
 to hell an' the divil, Owen Reillaghan, but your son's alive ! Off wid 
 two or three of yees, as hard as the divil can dhrive yees, for the priest 
 an' docthor ! ! Off wid yees ! ye damned lazy spalpeens, aren't ye 
 near there by this ? Give us my cant ! Are yees gone ? Oh, by this 
 an' by that — hell — eh — aren't yees gone ? " but ere he could finish the 
 sentence they had set out. 
 
 " Now," he exclaimed, in a voice whose tremendous tones were 
 strongly at variance with his own injunctions — " now, neighbours, 
 
 d n yees, keep silence. Mrs. Reillaghan, get a bottle of whisky 
 
 an' a mug o' wather. Make haste. Hanir)' an diouol! don't be all 
 night ! " 
 
 The poor mother, however, could not stir ; the unexpected revulsion 
 of feeling which she had so suddenly experienced was more than she 
 could sustain. A long fainting fit was the consequence, and Darby's 
 commands were obeyed by the wife of a friendly neighbour. 
 
 The mendicant immediately wetted Mike's lips, and poured some 
 spirits, copiously diluted with water, down his throat ; after which he 
 held the whisky bottle, Hke a connoisseur, between himself and the 
 light. " I hope," said he, "this whisky is the ra-al crathur." He put 
 the bottle to his mouth as he spoke, and on holding it a second time 
 before his eye, he shook his head complacently. " Ay," said he, " if 
 anything could bring the dead back to this world, my sowl to glory, 
 but ihal would. Oh, thin, it would give the dead life, sure enough ! " 
 He put it once more to his lips, from which it was not separated with- 
 out relinquishing a considerable portion of its contents. 
 
H^^ THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 '^ DIu-a Grasliihias !" he exclaimed; " throth, I find myself the 
 betther o' that sup, in regard that it's good for this touch of configuration 
 that I'm throubled wid inwardly! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis ! Amin!" 
 These words he spoke in a low, placid voice, lest the wounded man 
 might be discomposed by his observations. 
 
 The rapidity with which the account of Mike's restoration to life 
 spread among the neighbours was surprising. Those who had gone 
 for the priest and doctor communicated it to all they met, and these 
 again to others : so that in a short time the house was surrouruied by 
 great numbers of their acquaintances, all anxious to hear th-. parti- 
 culars more minutely. Darby, who never omitted an opportunity of 
 impressing the people with a belief in his own sanctity, and in that of 
 his crucifix, came out among them, and answered their inquiries by a 
 solemn shake of his head, and a mysterious indication of his finger to 
 the crucifix, but said nothing more. This was enough. The murmur 
 of reverence and wonder spread among them, and ere long there were 
 few present who did not believe that Reillaghan had been restored 
 to life by a touch of Darby's crucifix ; an opinion which is not wholly 
 exploded to this day. 
 
 Peggy Gartland, who, fortunately, had not heard the report of her 
 lover's xlcath until it was contradicted by the account of his revival, 
 now entered, and by her pale countenance betrayed strong symptoms 
 of affection and sympathy. She sat by his side, gazing mournfully on 
 his features, and with difficulty suppressed her tears. 
 
 P"or some time before her arrival the mother and sisters of Mike 
 had been removed to another room, lest the tumultuous expression of 
 their mingled joy and sorrow might disturb him. The fair, artless 
 girl, although satisfied that he still lived, entertained no hopes of his 
 recovery ; but she ventured, in a low, trembling voice, to inquire from 
 Darby some particulars of the melancholy transaction which was 
 likely to deprive her of her betrothed husband. 
 
 "Where did the shot sthrike him. Darby ?" 
 
 " Clanc through the body, a villish ; jist where Captain Cramer was 
 shot at the battle o' Bunker's Hill, where he lay as gocd as dead for 
 twelve hours, an' was near bein' bcrrid a cofp, an' him alive all the 
 time, only that as they were pullin- him off o' the cart, he gev a shout, an' 
 thin, a colleen dhas, they began to think he might be livin' still. Sure 
 enough, he was, too, an' lived successfully, till he died wid dhrinkin' 
 brandy as a cure for the gout ; the Lord be praised ! " 
 
 " Where's the villain. Darby } " 
 
 " He's in the mountains, no doubt, where he had thim to fight wid 
 that's a match for him — God, an' the dark storm that fell a while 
 agone. They'll pay him, never fear, for his thrachery to the noble boy 
 that chastised him for your sake, acushla ogel Sthrong was your 
 hand, a Veehnl, an' ginerous was your affectionate heart ; an' well you 
 loved the fair girl that's sittin' beside you ! Throth, Peggy, my 
 heart's black wid sorrow about the darlin' young man. Still life's in 
 Vfim ; an' while there's life there's hope ; glory be to God ! " 
 
 The eulogium of the pilgrim, who was, in truth, much attached to 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. H7 
 
 Mike, moved the heart of the affectionate girl, whose love and sym- 
 pathy were pure as the dew on the grass-blade, and now as easily 
 affected by the slightest touch. She remained silent for a time, but 
 secretly glided her hand towards that of her lover, which she clasped 
 in hers, and by a gentle and timid pressure strove to intimate to him 
 that she was beside him. Long, but unavailing, was the struggle to 
 repress her sorrow : her bosom heaved ; she gave two or three loud 
 sobs, and burst into tears and lamentations. 
 
 *' Don't cry, avourneen," whispered Darby — " don't cry ; I'll warrcnt 
 you that Darby More will ate share of your weddin' dinner an' his yit. 
 There's a small taste of colour comin' to his face, which, I think, 
 undher God, is owin' to my touchin' him wid the cruciuhix. Don't 
 cry, a colleen, he'll get over it, an' more than it, yit, colleen bawn ! " 
 
 Darby then hurried her into the room where Mike's mother and 
 sisters were. On entering she threw herself into the arms of the former, 
 laid her face on her bosom, and wept bitterly. This renewed the 
 mother's grief : she clasped the interesting girl in a sorrowful 
 embrace ; so did his sisters. They threw themselves into each 
 other^s arms, and poured forth those touching but wild bursts of 
 pathetic language which are never heard but when the heart is struck 
 by some desolating calamity. 
 
 "Husht!" said a neighbouring man who v/as present; " husht ! 
 it's a shame for yees, an' the boy not dead yit." 
 
 " I'm not ashamed," said Peggy ; " why should I be ashamed of 
 bein' sarry for the likes of Mike Reillaghan ? Where was his aquil? 
 Wasn't all hearts upon him ? Didn't the very poor on the road bless 
 him whin he passed .-' Who ever had a bad word agin him but the 
 villain that murdhered him ? Murdhered him ! Heaven above me ! 
 an' why ? For my sake ! For my sake the pride o' the parish is laid 
 low! Ashamed! Is it for cr>'in' for my bethrothed husband, that 
 was sworn to me, an' I to him, before the eye of God above us .'' This 
 day week I was to be his bride ; an' now — now Oh, Vread Reil- 
 laghan, take me to you 1 Let me go to his mother ! My heart's 
 broke, Vread Reillaghan ! Let me go to her : nobody's grief for him 
 is like ours. You're his mother, an' I'm his wife in the sight o' God. 
 Proud was I out of him : my eyes brightened when they seen him, an' 
 my heart got light Avhen I heard his voice ; an' now what's afore me .'' — 
 what's afore me but sorrowful days an' a broken heart ! " 
 
 Mrs. Reillaghan placed her tenderly and affectionately beside her, 
 on the bed whereon she herself sat. With the corner of her hand- 
 kerchief she wiped the tears from the weeping girl, although her own 
 flowed fast. Her daughters, also, gathered about her, and, in language 
 of the most endearing kind, endeavoured to soothe and console her. 
 
 " He may live yet, Peggy, avourneen," said his mother : "my brave 
 an' noble son may live yet, an' you may be both happy. Don't be 
 cryin' so much, asthore cralh machree ; ^ sure he's in the hands o' God, 
 avourneen ; an' your young heart won't be broke, I hope. Och, the 
 
 * The beloved white (girl) of my heart. 
 
148 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 Lord pity her young feclins ! " exclaimed the mother, affected even bj 
 the consolation she offered to the betrothed bride of her son. " Is it 
 any wondher she'd sink undhcr sich a blow ! for, sure enough, where 
 was the likes of him? No, asthore ; it's no wondher — it's no wondher ! 
 Lonesome will your heart be widout him : for I know what he'd feel 
 ii a hair oi your head was injured." 
 
 " Oh, 1 know it — I know it ! There was music in his voice, an' 
 ^rah 1 an' kindness to every crathur an God's earth ; but to me — to 
 me — oh, no one knew his love to me but myself an' God. Oh, if I 
 was dead, that I couldn't feel this, or if my life could save his ! Why 
 didn't the villain — the black villain, wid God's curse upon him -why 
 didn't he shoot me, thin I could never be Mike's wife, an' his hand o' 
 murdher might be satisfied ? If he had, I wouldn't feel as I do. Ay ; 
 the warmest, an' the best, an' the dearest blood of my heart, I could 
 shed for him. That heart was his, an' he had a right to it. Our love 
 wasn't of yisterday : afore the links of my hair came to my showlders 
 I loved him, an' thought of him ; an' many a time he tould me that I 
 was his first ! God knows he was my first, an' he will be my last, let 
 him live or die." 
 
 " Well, but, Peggy achora," said his sister, " maybe it's sinful to be 
 cryin' this-a-way, an' he not dead." 
 
 " God forgive me, if it's a sin," replied Peggy ; ** I'd not wish to do 
 anything sinful or displasin' to God ; an' I'll sthrive to keep dow^n my 
 grief : I will, as well as I can." 
 
 She put her hands on her face, and by an effort of firmness subdued 
 the tone of her grief to a low continuous murmur of sorrow. 
 
 "An' along wid that," said the sister, "maybe the noise is disturbin' 
 him. Darby put us all out o' the kitchen, to have pace an' quietness 
 about him." 
 
 "An"twas well thought o' Darby," she replied, "an' may the blessin' 
 o' God rest upon him for it ! A male's mate, or a night's lodgin' he'll 
 never want undher my father's roof for that goodness to him. I'll be 
 quiet thin." 
 
 There was now a short pause, during which those in the room 
 heard a smack, accompanied by the words, '■'' D]iea Grashthias I 
 Throth, I'm the betther o' that sup, so I am. Nothin' keeps this thief 
 of a configuration down but it. DJica Grashtliias for that ! Oh, 
 thin, this is the stuff ! It warms a body to the tops o' tlie nails ! " 
 
 " Don't spare it, Darby," said old Reillaghan, " if it does you good." 
 
 " Avourneen," said Darby, " it's only what gives me a little relief I 
 ever take, jist by way of cure, for it's the only thing does me good 
 when I'm this-a-way." 
 
 Several persons in the neighbourhood were, in the meantime, flock- 
 ing to Reillaghan's house. A worthy man, accompanied by his wife, 
 entered as the pilgrim had concluded. The woman, in accordance 
 with the custom of the country, raised the Irish cry, in a loud, melan- 
 choly wail, that might be heard at a great distance. 
 
 ' Affection. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. '49 
 
 Darby, who prided himself on maintaining silence, could not pre- 
 serve the consistency of his character upon this occasion, any more 
 than on that of Mike's recent symptoms of life. 
 
 " Your sowl to the divil, you faggot !" he exclaimed, "what do you 
 mane? The divil wliip the tongue out o' you, are you goin' to come 
 here only to disturb the boy that's not dead yet. Get out o' th' j, or be 
 asy wid your skhreechin', or, by the crass that died for us, on'/ you're 
 a woman, I'd tumble you wid a lick o' my cant. Keep asy, you 
 vagrant, an' the dacent boy not dead yet. Hell bellows you, what do 
 you mane ? " 
 
 "Not dead !" exclaimed the woman, with her body bent in the 
 proper attitude, her hands extended, and the crying face turned with 
 amazement to Darby. " Not dead ! Wurrah, man alive, isn't he 
 murdhered ?" 
 
 "Hell resave the matther for that !" replied Darby. "I tell you, 
 he's livin', an' will live, I hope, barrin' your skirlin' dhrives the life that's 
 in him out of him. Go into the room there to the women, an' make 
 yourself scarce out o' this, or, by the padareens about me, I'll malivogue 
 you." 
 
 " We can't be angry wid tke dacent woman," observed old Reilla- 
 ghan, " in regard that she came to show her friendship and respect." 
 
 " I'd be angry wid St. Pether," said Darby, " an' ud not scruple to 
 
 give him a lick o' my c Lord presarve us ! what was I goin' to 
 
 say ! Why, throth, I believe the little wits I had are all gone a 
 shaughran ! I must fast a Friday or two for the same words agin St. 
 Pether. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis — Amin." 
 
 Hope is strong in love and in life. Peggy, now that grief had eased 
 her heart of its load of accumulated sorrow, began to retlect upon 
 Darby's anecdote of Captain Cramer, which she related to those 
 about her. They all rejoiced to hear that it was possible to be 
 wounded so severely and live. They also consoled and supported 
 each other, and expressed their trust that Mike might also recover. 
 The opinion of the doctor was waited for with such anxiety as a felon 
 feels when the foreman of the jury hands down the verdict which 
 consigns him to life or death. 
 
 Whether Darby's prescription was ths result of chance or sagacity 
 we know not. We are bound, however, to declare that Reillaghan's 
 strength was in some degree restored, although the pain he sutfered 
 amounted to torture. T he surgeon (who was also a physician, and, 
 moreover, supplied his own medicines) and the priest, as they lived in 
 the same town, both arrived together. The latter administered the 
 rites of his Church to him ; and the former, who was a skilful man, 
 left nothing undone to accomplish his restoration to health. He had 
 been shot through the body with a bullet — a circumstance which was 
 not known until the arrival of the surgeon. This gentleman expressed 
 much astonishment at his surviving the wound, but said that circum- 
 stances of a similar nature had occurred, particularly on the field of 
 battle, although he admitted that they were few. 
 
 Darby, however, who resolved to have something like a decided 
 
 (2) F 
 
ISO THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 opinion from him, without at all considering whether si ch a ihing wa* 
 possible, pressed him strongly upon the point. 
 
 " Arrah, blur-an-ager, Docthor Swilhcr, say one ihir.g or other. I? 
 he to live or die ? Plain talk, docthor, is all we want, an' r\o ft ast/ui- 
 
 "The bullet, I am inclined to think," rc[)lied the doctor, "must 
 either not have touched a vital part, or touched it only slightly. I 
 have known cases similar, it is true ; but it is impossible for me to 
 pronounce a decisive opinion upon him just now." 
 
 " The divil resave the yarrib - ever I'll gather for you agin, so long as 
 my name's Darby More, except you say either ' life' or ' death,'" said 
 Darby, who forgot his character of sanctity altogether. 
 
 " Darby, achora," said Mrs. Reillaghan, " don't crass the gintlcman, 
 an' him stlirivin' to do his best. Here, Paddhy Gormly, bring some 
 wather till the docthor washes his hands." 
 
 " Darby," replied the doctor, to whom he was well known, " you are 
 a good herbalist, but even although you should not serve me as usual 
 in that capacity, yet I cannot say exactly either life or death. The 
 case is too critical a one ; but I do not despair. Darby, if that will 
 satisfy you." 
 
 " More power to you, docthor, achora. Hell-an-age, where's that 
 bottle? bring it here. Thank you, Vread. Docthor, here's wishin' 
 you all happiness, an' may you set Mike on his legs wanst more ! See 
 docthor — see, man alive — look at this purty girl here, wid her wet 
 cheeks ; give her some hope, ahagur, if you can ; keep the crathur's 
 spirits up, an' I'll furnish you wid every yarrib in Europe, from the 
 nettle to the rose." 
 
 " Don't despair, my good girl," said the doctor, addressing Peggy, 
 " I hope, I trust, that he may recover, but he must be kept easy and 
 quiet.' 
 
 " May the blessin' of God, sir, light down on you for the same words," 
 replied Peggy, in a voice tremulous with gratitude and joy. 
 
 " Are you done wid him, docthor ? " said old Reillaghan. 
 
 " At present," replied the doctor, " I can do nothing more for him ; 
 but I shall see him early to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Bekase, sir," continued the worthy man, "here's Darby More, 
 who's afflicted wid a conOamboration, or some sich thing, inwardly, 
 an' if you could ase him, sir, I'd pay the damages, whatever they 
 might be." 
 
 The doctor smiled slightly. " Darby's complaint," said he, " is 
 beyond my practice ; there is but one cure for it, and that is, if I have 
 any skill, a little of what's in the bottle here, taken, as our prescriptions 
 sometimes say, * when the patient is inclined for it.'" 
 
 " By my sou — sanctity, docthor," said Darby, " you're a man o' 
 skill, anyhow, an' that's well known, sir. Nothin', as Father Hoolaghan 
 says, but the sup o' whisky docs this sarra of a configuration good. \\ 
 rises the wind off o' my stomach, docthor ! " 
 
 ' Nonsense. * Herb* 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MAS^ iS? 
 
 " It does, Darby, it does. Now let all be peace and quietness," 
 continued the doctor : " take away a great part of this fire, and don't 
 attempt to remove him to any other bed until I desire you. I shall 
 call again to-morrow morning, early." 
 
 The doctor's attention to his patient was unremitting ; everything 
 that human skill, joined to long experience and natural talent, could 
 do to restore the young man to his family was done ; and in the course 
 of a few weeks the friends of Reillaghan had the satisfaction '^' 
 seeing him completely out of danger. 
 
 Mike declared, after his recovery, that, though incapable of motion 
 on the mountains, he was not altogether insensible to what passed 
 around him. The loud tones of their conversation he could hear. 
 The oath which young M'Kenna uttered in a voice so wild and exalted, 
 fell clearly on his ear, and he endeavoured to contradict it, in order 
 that he might be secured and punished in the event of his death. He 
 also said that the pain he suffered irl the act of being conveyed home 
 occasioned him to groan feebly ; but that the sobs, and cries, and loud 
 conversation of those who surrounded him prevented his moans from 
 being heard. It is probable, after all, that were it not for the accidental 
 fall of Owen upon his body, he might not have survived the wound, 
 inasmuch as the medical skill which contributed to restore him, would 
 not have been called in. 
 
 Though old Frank M'Kenna and his family felt an oppressive load 
 of misery taken off their hearts by the prospect of Reillaghan's 
 recovery, yet it was impossible for them to be insensible to the fate of 
 their son, knowing as they did that he must have been out among the 
 mountains during the storm. His unhappy mother and Rody sat u,o 
 the whole night, expecting his return, but morning arrived without 
 bringing him home. For six days afterwards the search for him was 
 generx) and strict : his friends and neighbours traversed the mountain 
 wastes tintil they left scarcely an acre of them unexplored. On the 
 sixth day there came a thaw, and towards the close of the seventh he 
 was found a " stiffened corpse," Jipon the very spot where he had shot 
 his rival, and on which he had challeneed the Almighty to stretch 
 him in death, without priest or prayer, * he were guilty of the crime 
 with which he had been charged. He was found lying with a circle 
 drawn round him, his head pillowed upon the innocent blood which 
 he had shed with the intention of murder, and a bloody cross marked 
 upon his breast and forehead. It was thought that in the dread of 
 approaching death he had formed it with his hand, which came acci- 
 dentally in contact with the blood that lay in clots about him. 
 
 The manner of hi - death excited a profound and wholesome feeling 
 among the people with respect to the crime which he attempted to 
 commit. The circumstances attending it, and his oath upon the spot 
 where he shot Reillaghan, are still spoken of by the father'; of the 
 neighbouring villages, and even by some who were presenV at the 
 search for his body. It was also doubly remarkable on account of a 
 case of spectral illusion which it produced, and which was ascribed to 
 the effect of IVI'Kenna's supernatural appearance at the time. The 
 
THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 daughter of a herdsman in the mountains was strojigly affected by the 
 spectacle of his dead body borne past her father's door. In about a 
 fortnight afterwards she assured her family that he appeared to her. 
 She saw the apparition, in the beginning, only at night ; but ere long 
 it ventured, as she imagined, to appear in daylight. Many imaginary 
 conversations took place between them ; and the fact of the peasantry 
 tlocking to the herd's house, to satisfy themselves as to the truth of the 
 rumour, is yet well remembered in the parish. It was also affirmed 
 that as the funeral of M'Kenna passed to the churchyard a hare 
 crossed it, which someone present struck on the side with a stone. 
 The hare, says the tradition, was not injured, but the sound of the 
 stroke resembled that yjroduced on striking an empty barrel. 
 
 \-\'e have nearly wound up our story, in which we have feebly 
 endeavoured to illustrate scenes that were, some t'T-e ago, not un- 
 usual in Irish life. There is little more to be added, except that Mike 
 Reillaghan almost miraculously recovered : that he and Peggy Gart- 
 land were happily married, and that Darby More lost his character as 
 a dreamer in that part of the parish. Mike, with whom, however, he 
 still continued a favourite, used frequently to allude to the speaking 
 i;7/c/yf.r, the dream aforesaid, and his bit of fiction in assuring his mother 
 that he had dissuaded him against "tracing" on that eventful day. 
 
 " Well,avourneen," Darby would exclaim, "the holiest of us has our 
 failins ; but, in throth, the truth of it is that myself didn't know what 
 I was sayin', I was so tJirough other j'^ for I remimber that I was badly 
 afflicted wid this thief of a configuration inwardly at the time. That, 
 you see, an' your own throubles, put my mind ashaughran for a start. 
 But, upon my sanctity, — an' sure that's a great oath wid ;«^^only for 
 the holy carol you bought from me the night before, an' above all, 
 touchin' you wid the blessed crucifix, you'd never ha' got over the same 
 accident. Oh, you may smile an' shake your head, but it's thruth 
 whether or not ! Glory be to God ! " 
 
 The priest of the parish, on ascertaining correctly the incidents 
 mentioned in this sketch, determined to deprive the people of at least 
 one pretext for their licentiousness. He represented the abuses con- 
 nected with such a ceremony to the bishop : and from that night to 
 the present time the inhabitants of Kilnaheery never had, in their own 
 parish, an opportunity of hearing a Midnight Mass. 
 
 ^ Aijitatccl. 
 
THE DOAAGH; OR, 15: 
 
 THE nONAGH; 
 
 Or, 'J' he Hutse Sieui'tfs. 
 
 ARNMORE, one of those small villages that are to be I'cand 
 in the outskirts of many parishes in Ireland, whose distinct 
 boundaries are lost in the contiguous mountain-wastes, was 
 situated at the foot of a deep gorge, or pass, overhung by two bleak 
 hills, from the naked sides of which the storm swept over it, without 
 discomposing the peaceful little nook of cabins that stood below. 
 About a furlong farther down were two or three farm-houses, inhabited 
 by a family named Cassidy, men of simple, inoffensive mannfirs, and 
 considerable wealth. They were, however, acute and wise in their 
 generation ; intelligent cattle-dealers, on whom it would have been a 
 matter of some difficulty to impose an unsound horse, or a cow older 
 than was intimated by her horn-rings, even when conscientiously 
 dressed up for sale by the ingenious aid of the file or burning-iron, 
 llctween their houses and the hamlet rose a conical pile of rocks, 
 loosely heaped together, from which the place took its name of 
 Carnmore. 
 
 About three years before the time of this story there came two men 
 with their families to reside in the upper village, and the house which 
 they chose as a residence was one at some distance from those which 
 composed the little group we have just been describing. They said 
 their name was Meehan, although the general report went that this 
 was not true ; that the name was an assumed one, and that some dark 
 mystery, which none could penetrate, shrouded their history and 
 character. They were certainly remarkable men. The elder, named 
 Anthony, was a dark, black-browed person, stern in his manner and 
 atrociously cruel in his disposition. His form was Herculean, his 
 bones strong and hard as iron, and his sinews stood out in undeniable 
 evidence of a life hitherto spent in severe toil and exertion, to bear 
 which he appeared to an amazing degree capable. His brother Denis 
 was a small man, less savage and daring in his character, and con- 
 sequently more vacillating and cautious than Anthony ; for the points 
 in which he resembled him were superinduced upon his natural dis- 
 position by the close connection that subsisted between them, and by 
 the identity of their former pursuits in life, which, beyond doubt, had 
 been such as could not bear investigation. 
 
 The old proverb of " birds of a feather flock together" is certainly 
 a true one, and in this case it was once more verified. Before the 
 arrival of these men in the village there had been five or six bad 
 characters in the neighbourhood, whose delinquencies were pretty well 
 known. With these persons the strangers, by that sympathy which 
 assimilates with congenial good or evil, soon became acquainted ; and 
 although their intimacy was as secret and cautious as possible, still it 
 
tS4 THE HOUSE STEALERS. 
 
 had been observed, and was known j for they had frequently been seen 
 skulking together at daybreak, or in the dusk of evening. 
 
 It is unnecessary to s ly that Mechan and his brother did not mingle 
 much in the society of Carnmore. In lact, the villagers and they 
 mutually avoided each other. A mere return of the common phrases 
 of salutation was generally the most that passed between them : thty 
 never entered into that familiarity which leads to mutual intercourse, 
 and justifies one neighbour in freely entering the cabin of another, to 
 spend a winter's night, or a summer's evening, in amusing conversation. 
 Few had ever been in the house of the Meehans since it became 
 theirs ; nor were the means of their subsistence known. They led an 
 idle life, had no scarcity of food, were decently clothed, and never 
 wanted money ; circumstances which occasioned no small degree of 
 conjecture in Carnmore and its vicinity. 
 
 Some said they lived by theft ; others that they were coiners ; and 
 there were many who imagined, from the diabolical countenance of 
 the elder brother, that he had sold himself to the devil, who, they 
 affirmed, set his mark upon him, and was his paymaster. Upon this 
 hypothesis several were ready to prove that he had neither breath nor 
 shadow : they had seen him, they said, standing under a hedge-row 
 of elder — that unholy tree which furnished wood for the cross, and on 
 which Judas hanged himself — yet, although it was noon-day in the 
 month of July, his person threw out no shadow. Worthy souls ! 
 because the man stood in the shade at the time. But with these simple 
 explanations superstition had nothing to do, although we are bound 
 in justice to the reverend old lady to affirm that she was kept exceed- 
 ingly busy in Carnmorp. If a man had a sick cow, she was elf-shot ; 
 if his child became consumptive, it had been overlooked, or received a 
 d/iis/ from the fairies ; if the hooping-cough was rife, all the afflicted 
 children were put three times under an ass ; or when they happened to 
 have the " mumps," were led before sunrise to a south-running stream 
 with a halter hanging about their necks, under an obligation of silence 
 during the ceremony. In short, there could not possibly be a more 
 superstitious spot than that which these men of mystery had selected 
 for their residence. Another circumstance which caused the people to 
 look upon them with additional dread was their neglect of mass on Sun- 
 days and holidays, though they avowed themselves Roman Catholics. 
 They did not, it is true, join in the dances, drinking-matches, football, 
 and other sports with which the Carnmore folk celebrated the Lord's 
 Dny; but they scrupled not, on the other hand, to mend their garden- 
 diich or mould a row of cabbages on the Sabbath — a circumstance for 
 which two or three of the Carnmore boys were, one Sunday evening 
 when tipsy, well-nigh chastising thein. Their usual manner, however, of 
 spending that day was by sauntering lazily about the fields, or stretch- 
 ing themselves supinely on the sunny side of the hedges, their arms 
 foi^^ed into their bosoms, and their hats lying over their faces to keep 
 off the sun. 
 
 In the meantime, loss of property was becoming quite common in 
 the neighbourhood. Sheep were stolen from the farmeis, and cow» 
 
THE DONAGH ; OR, I5S- 
 
 and horses from the more extensive graziers in the parish. The com- 
 plaints against the authors of these depredations were loud and 
 incessant ; watches were set, combinations for mutual security formedj 
 and subscriptions to a considerable amount entered into with a hope 
 of being able, by the temptation of a large reward, to wo.'k upon the 
 weakness or cupidity of some accomplice to betray the gang of villains 
 who infested the neighbourhood. AH, however, was in vain ; every 
 week brought some new act of plunder to light, perpetrated upon such un- 
 suspecting persons as had hitherto escaped the notice of the robbers ; 
 but no trace could be discovered of the perpetrators. Although theft 
 had from time to time been committed upon a small scale before the 
 arrival of the Meehans in the village, yet it was undeniable that since 
 that period the instances not only rnuUiplied, but became of a more 
 daring and extensive description. They arose in a gradual scale from 
 the hen-roost to the stable ; and with such ability were they planned 
 and executed, that the people, who in every instance identified Mechan 
 and his brother with them, began to believe and hint that, in conse- 
 quence of their compact with the devil, they had power to render 
 themselves invisible. Common fame, who can best treat such subjects, 
 took up this, and never laid it aside until, by narrating several exploits 
 which Meehan the elder was said to have performed in other parts of 
 the kingdom, she wound it up by roundly informing the Carnn)orians 
 that, having been once taken prisoner for murder, he was caught by 
 the leg when half through a hedge, but that, being most wickedly 
 determined to save his neck, he left the leg with the officer who took 
 him, shouting out that it was a new species of leg-bail ; and yet he 
 moved away with surprising speed upon two of as good legs as any 
 man in his Majesty's dominions might wish to walk off upon from the 
 insinuating advances of a bailiff or a constable I 
 
 The family of the Meehans consisted of their wives and three chil- 
 dren, two boys and a girl; the former were the offspring of the younger 
 brother, and the latter of Anthony. It has been observed, with truth 
 and justice, that there is no man, how hardened and diabolical soever 
 in his natural temper, who does not exhibit to some particular object 
 a peculiar species of affection. Such a man was Anthony Meehan. 
 That sullen hatred which he bore to human society, and that in- 
 herent depravity o^ ieart which left the trail of vice and crime upon 
 his footsteps, were flung off his character when he addressed his 
 daughter Anne. To him her voice was like music ; to her he was not 
 the reckless villain, treacherous and cruel, which the helpless and un- 
 suspecting found him ; but a parent kind and indulgent as ever pressed 
 an only and beloved daughter to his bosom. Anne was handsome : 
 had she been born and educated in an elevated rank in society she 
 would have been softened by the polish and luxury of life into perfect 
 beauty ; she was. however, utterly without education. As Anne ex- 
 perienced from her father no unnatural cruelty, no harshness, nor even 
 indifference, she consequently loved him in return ; for she knew that 
 tenderness from mch a man was a proof of parental love rarely to be 
 fouiid in life. Perhaps she loved not her father the less on perceiving 
 
156 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 that he was proscribed by the world; a circumstance which nii<;ht ako 
 have enhanced in his eyes the affection she bore him. When Meehan 
 came to Carnmore she was sixteen ; and, as that was three years 
 before the incitlcnt occurred on which we have founded this narrative. 
 the reader may now suppose her to be about nineteen ; an interesting^ 
 country girl as to person, but with a mind completely neglected, yet 
 remarkable for an uncommon stock of good-nature and credulity. 
 
 About the hour of eleven o'clock one winter's night in the beginning 
 of December, Meehan and his brother sat moodily at their hearth. 
 The fire was of peat which had recently been put down, and from 
 between the turf the ruddy blaze was shooting out in those little 
 tongues and gusts of sober light which throw around the rural hearth 
 one of those charms which make up the felicity of domestic life. The 
 night was stormy, and the wind moaned and howled along the dark 
 hills beneath which the cottage stood. Every object in the house was 
 shrouded in a mellow shade, which afforded to the eye no clear out- 
 line, except around the hearth alone, where the light brightened into 
 a golden hue, giving the idea of calmness and peace. Anthony 
 Meehan sat on one side of it, and his daughter opposite him, knitting : 
 before the tire sat Denis, drawing shapes in tlie ashes for his own 
 amusement. 
 
 " Bless me," said he, " how sthrange it is ! " 
 
 " What is .'"' inquired Anthony in his deep and grating tones. 
 
 " Why, thin, it is sthrange ! " continued the other, who, despite of 
 the severity of his brother, was remarkably superstitious — " a coflin I 
 made in the ashes three times runnin' t Isn't it very quare, Anne .'' " 
 he added, addressing the niece. 
 
 " Sthrange enough, of a sartinty," she replied, being unwilling to 
 express before her father the alarm which the incident, slight as it was 
 created in her mind ; for she, like the uncle, was subject to such 
 ridiculous intluences. " How did it happen, uncle .''" 
 
 "Why, thin, no way in life, Anne; only, as I was thryin' to make a 
 shoe, it turned out a coffin on my hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, 
 and began agin, an' sorra bit of it but was a coffm still. Well, says I, 
 I'll give you another chance — here goes once more ; m\\ as sure as 
 a gun's iron, it was a coffin the third time ! Heaven be about us, it's 
 odd enough ! " 
 
 " It would be little matlher you were nailed down in a coffin," replied 
 Anthony, fiercely ; "the world would have little loss. W'hat a pitiful, 
 cowardly rascal you are ! Afraid o' your own shadow afther the sun 
 goes down, except Fm at your elbow ! Can't you dhrive all them 
 palavers out o' your head? Didn't the sargint tell us, an' prove to 
 us, the time we broke the guard-house, an' took Frinch lave o' the 
 ridgnient for good, that the whole o' that, an' more along wid it, is all 
 priestcraft .-' " 
 
 " I remiinber he did, sure enough : I dunna where the same sargint 
 is now, Tony? About no good, anyway, I'll be bail. Howsornever, 
 in regard o' that, why doesn't yourself give up fastin' froin the mate of 
 a Friday ? " 
 
THE DONAGH; OR, 1S7 
 
 "Do you want me to sthretch you on the hearth ?" replied the 
 savage, whilst his eyes kindled into fury, and his grim visage darkened 
 into a Satanic expression. " I'll tache you to be puttin' me through 
 my catechiz about atin' mate. I may manage that as I plase ; it 
 comes at first cost, anyhow ; but no cross-questions to me about it, if 
 you regard your health ! " 
 
 " I must say for you," replied Denis, reproachfully, " that you're a 
 good warrant to put the health astray upon us of an odd start : we're 
 not come to this time o' day widout carryin' somethin' to remimber 
 you by. For my own part, Tony, I don't like such tokens ; an' more- 
 over, I wish you had resaved a thrifle o' larnin', espishily in the writin' 
 line ; for whenever we have any difference you're so ready to prove 
 your opinion by settin' your mark upon me, that I'd rather, fifty times 
 over, you could write it with pen an' ink." 
 
 " My father will give that up, uncle," said the niece ; " it's bad for 
 anybody to be fightin', but worst of all for brothers, that ought to live 
 in peace and kindness. Won't you, father .'' " 
 
 " Maybe I will, dear, some o' these days, on your account, Anne ; 
 but you must get this creature of an uncle of yours to let me alone, 
 an' not be aggravatin' me with his folly. As for your mother, she's 
 worse ; her tongue's sharp enough to skin a flint, and a batin' a day 
 has little effect on her." 
 
 Anne sighed, for she knew how low an irreligious life, and the in- 
 famous society with which, as her father's wife, her mother was com- 
 pelled to mingle, had degraded her. 
 
 " Well, but, father, you don't set her a good example yourself," said 
 Anne ; " and if she scoulds and drinks now, you know she was a 
 different woman when you got her. You allow this yourself; and the 
 crathur, the dhrunkest time she is, doesn't she cry bittherly, remim- 
 berin' what she has been. Instead of one batin' a day, father, thry no 
 batin' a day, an' maybe it'll turn out betther than thumpin' an' smash- 
 in' her, as you do." 
 
 " Why, thin, there's thruth an' sinse in what the girl says, Tony," 
 observed Denis. 
 
 " Come," replied Anthony, "whatever she may say, I'll suffer none 
 o^ your interference. Go an' get us the black bottle from \h.Q place j 
 it'll soon be time to move. I hope they won't stay too long." 
 
 Denis obeyed this command with great readiness, for whisky in 
 some degree blunted the fierce passions of his brother, and deadened 
 his cruelty; or, rather, diverted it from minor objects to those which 
 occurred in the lawless perpetration of his villainy. 
 
 The bottle was got, and in the meantime the fire blazed up brightly ; 
 the stwrm without, however, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his 
 brother wish that it should. As the elder of them took the glass from 
 the hands of the other, an air of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on 
 reflecting that the tempest of the night was favourable to the execution 
 of the villainous deed on which they were bent. 
 
 " More power to you ! " said Anthony, impiously personifying the 
 storm : " sure that's one proof that "God doesn't ihrouble his head 
 
THE HOkSR STEALKHS. 
 
 ahout what we do, or we would not get such a muctherin' fine night as 
 is m it, anyhow. That's it ! blow an' tundhcr away, an' keep yourself 
 an' us as black as hell, sooner than we should fail in what we intind ! 
 Anne, your health, acushla !— Yours, Dinny ! If you keep your tongue 
 off o' me, I'll neither make nor meddle in regard o' the batin' o' you." 
 
 " I hope you'll stick to that, anyhow," replied Denis ; " for my part 
 I'm sick and sore o' you every day in the year. Many another man 
 would put salt wather between himself and yourself, sooner nor become 
 a batin'-slonc for you, as I have been. Few would bear it when they 
 could mend themselves." 
 
 " What's that you say ? " replied Anthony, suddenly laying down his 
 glass, catching his brother by the collar, and looking him with a mur- 
 derous scowl in the face. ."Is it thrachery you hint at ?~eh ? Sarpent, 
 is it thrachery you mane'';" and as he spoke he compressed Denis's 
 neck between his powerful hands until the other was black in the face. 
 
 Anne flew to her uncle's assistance, and with much difficulty suc- 
 ceeded in rescuing him from the deadly gripe of her father, who ex- 
 claimed, as he loosed his hold, " You may thank the girl, or you'd not 
 spake, nor dare to spake, about crossin' the salt-wather, or lavin' me 
 in a desatcful way agin. If I ever suspect that a thought of thrachery 
 comes into your heart, I'll do for you ; and you may carry your story 
 to the world I'll send you to." 
 
 " Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my uncle?" said Anne; 
 "sure he's a longtime livin' with you, an' goin' step for step in all the 
 danger you meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas agin you, 
 he might a-done it long agone ; not to mintion the throuble it would 
 bring on his own head, seein' he's as deep in everything as you are." 
 
 " If that's all that's throubling you," replied Denis, trembling, " you 
 may make yourself asy on the head of it ; but well I know 'tisn't 
 that that's on your mind. 'Tis your own conscience ; but sure it's 
 not fair nor rasonable for you to vent your evil thoughts on me ! " 
 
 " Well, he won't," said Anne, " he'll quit it ; his mind's throublcd ; 
 an', dear knows, it's no wondher it should. Och, I'd give the world 
 wide that his conscience was lightened of the load that's upon it ! My 
 mother's lameness is nothin' ; but the child, poor thing ! An' it was 
 only widin three days of her lyin'-in. Och, it was a cruel sthroke, 
 father ! An' when I seen its little innocent face, dead, an' me widout 
 a brother, I thought my heart would break, thinkin' upon who did it ! " 
 The tears fell in showers from her eyes, as she added, " Father, 1 don't 
 want to vex you ; but I wish you to feel sorry for t/tat at lastc. Oh, 
 if you'd bring the priest, an' give up sich coorses, father dear, how 
 happy we'd be, an' how happy yourself 'ud be ! " 
 
 Conscience ibr a moment started from her sleep, and uttered a cry 
 ofguiltinhis spirit: his face became ghastly, and his eyes full of 
 horror ; his lips quivered, and he was about to upraid his daughter 
 with more harshness than usual, when a low whistle, resembling that of 
 a curlew, was heard at a chink of the door. In a moment he gulped 
 down another glass of spirits, and was on his feet : "Go, Denis, an" 
 g^t the arms," said his brother, "while I let them in." 
 
Tlit. DOXAGIJ ; OR, rqg 
 
 On opening the door, three men entered, having their great coats 
 muffled about them, and their hats slouched. One of them, named 
 Kenny, was a short villain, but of a thick-set, hairy frame. The othci 
 was known as "the Big Mower," in consequence of his following that 
 employment every season, and of his great skill in pet forming it. He 
 had a deep-rooted objection against permitting the palm of his hana 
 to be seen ; a reluctance which common fame attributed to the fact of 
 his having received on that part the impress of a hot iron, in the shape 
 of the letter T, not forgetting to add that T was the hieroglyphic for 
 Thief. The villain himself affirmed it was simply the mark of a cross, 
 burned into it by a blessed friar, as a charm against St. Vitus's dance, 
 to which he had been subject. The people, however, were rather 
 sceptical, not of the friar's power to cure that malady, but of the fact 
 of his ever having moved a limb under it ; and they concluded with 
 telling him,good-humouredly enough, that, notwithstanding the charm, 
 he was destined to die " wid the threble of it in his toe." The third 
 was a noted pedlar called Martin, who, under pretence of selling 
 tape, pins, scissors, &c., was very useful in setting such premises as 
 this virtuous fraternity might, without much risk, make a descent 
 upon. 
 
 " I thought yecs would out-stay your time," said the elder Meehan, 
 relapsing into his determined hardihood of character; "we're ready, 
 hours agone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew an' two patrich-calls to- 
 day. Now pass the glass among yecs, while Denny brings the arms. 
 I know there's danger in this business, in regard of the Cassidys livin' 
 so near us. If I see anybody afut, I'll use the curLio call ; an' if not, 
 I'll whistle twice on the patricJi'^ one, an' yees may come an. The 
 horse is worth aighty guineas if he's worth a shillin' ; an' we'll make 
 sixty of him ourselves." 
 
 For some time they chatted about the plan in contemplation, and 
 drank freely of the spirits, until at length the impatience of the elder 
 Meehan at the delay of his brother became ungovernable. His voice 
 deepened into tones of savage passion as he uttered a series of blas- 
 phemous curses against this unfortunate butt of his indignation and 
 malignity. At length he rushed out furiously to know why he did not 
 return ; but, on reaching a secret excavation in the mound against 
 which the house was built, he found, to his utter dismay, that Denis 
 had made his escape by an artificial passage, scooped out of it to 
 secure themselves a retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened 
 behind the house among a clump of blackthorn and brushwood, and 
 was covered with green turf in such a manner as to escape the notice 
 of all who were not acquainted with the secret. Meehan's face, on his 
 return, was worked up into an expression truly awfuk 
 
 "We're sould !" said he; "but, stop, I'll tache the thraithur what 
 revinge i ; ! " 
 
 In a rr oment he awoke his brother's two sons, and dragged them by 
 the neck, one in each hand, to the hearth. 
 
 ' Pariridi.'c 
 
i6o THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 " Your villain of a father's off," said he, " to betray us : go an' folly 
 him ; bring him back, an' he'll be safe from me : but let him become 
 a sta<^ agin us, an' if I should hunt you both into the bowels of the 
 airth, I'll send yees to a short account. I don't care that," and he 
 snapped his fingers—" ha, ha — no, I don't care that for the law ; 
 I know how to dale with it when it comes ! An' what's the stuff 
 about the fftlier world but priestcraft and lies ?" 
 
 " Maybe," said the Big Mower, " Denis is gone to get the foreway 
 of us, an' to take the horse himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, 
 at all events ; so let us hurry, for fraid the night might happen to 
 clear up." 
 
 " lie !" said Meehan, "he go alone ! No : the miserable wretch is 
 afeard of his own shadow. I only wondhcr he stuck to me so long ; 
 but sure he wouldn't, only I bate the courage in, and the fear out of 
 him. You're right, Brian," said he, upon reflection, " let us lose no 
 time, but be off. Do yees mind.-"' he added to his nephews ; "did 
 yees hear me.'' If you see him, let him come back, an' all will be 
 berrid ; but if he doesn't you know your fate," saying which, he and 
 his accomplices departed amid the howling of the storm. 
 
 The next morning Carnmore, and indeed the whole parish, was in 
 an uproar ; a horse, worth eighty guineas, had been stolen in the mo>t 
 daring manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and-cry was lip after 
 the thief or thieves who took him. For several days the search was 
 closely maintained, but without success : not the slightest trace could 
 be found of him or them. The Cassidys could very well bear to lose 
 him ; but there were many struggling farmers, on whose property 
 serious depredations had been committed, who could not sustain their 
 loss so easily. It was natural, under the se circumstances, that suspicion 
 should attach to many persons, some of whom had but indifl'erent 
 characters before, as well as to several who certainly had never 
 deserved suspicion. When a fortnight or so had elapsed, and no cir- 
 jumstances transpired that might lead to discovery, the neighbours, 
 including those who had principally suffered by the robberies, de- 
 termined to assemble upon a certain day at Cassidy's house, for the 
 purpose of clearing themselves, on oath, of the imputations thrown out 
 against some of them as accomplices in the thefts. In order, how- 
 ever, that the ceremony should be performed as solemnly as possible, 
 they determined to send for Father Farrell and Mr. Nicholson, a 
 magistrate, buth of whom they requested to undertake the task of 
 jointly presiding upon this occasion ; and, that the circumstance 
 should have every publicity, it was announced from the altar by the 
 priest on the preceding Sabbath, and published on the church-gate in 
 large legible characters, ingeniously printed with a pen by the village 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 In fact, the intended meeting, and the object of it, were already 
 notorious ; and much conversation was held upon its probable result, 
 and the measures which might be taken against those who should 
 refuse to swear. Of the latter description there was but one opinion, 
 which was that their refusal in such a case would be tantamount to 
 
THE DONAGTI; OR, i6i 
 
 guilt. The innocent were anxious to vindicate themselves from 
 suspicion : and, as the suspected did not amount to more than a 
 dozen, of course the whole body of the people, including the thieves 
 themselves, who applauded it as loudly as the others, all expressed 
 their satisfaction at the measures about to be adopted. A day was 
 therefore appointed on which the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, 
 particularly the suspected persons, should come to assemble at 
 Cassidy's house, in order to have the characters of the innocent 
 cleared up, and the guilty made known. 
 
 On the evening before this took place were assembled in Meehan's 
 cottage the elder Meehan and the rest of the gang, including Denis, 
 who had absconded on the night of the theft. 
 
 " Well, well, Denny," said Anthony, who forced his rugged nature 
 into an appearance of better temper, that he might strengthen the 
 timid spirit of his brother against the scrutiny about to take place on 
 the moriow — perhaps, too, he dreaded him — " Well, well, Denny, I 
 thought, sure enough, that it was some new piece of cowardice came 
 over you. Just think of him," he added, " shabbin' off, only because 
 he made, with a bit of a rod, three strokes in the ashes that he thought 
 resembled a coffin ! — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 This produced a peal of derision at Denis's pusillanimous terror. 
 
 " Ay ! " said the Big Mower, " he was makin' a coffin, was he .'' I 
 wondher it wasn't a rope you drew, Denny. If any here dies in the 
 coil, it will be the greatest coward, an' that's yourself." 
 
 " You may all laugh," replied Denis, ''but I know such things to 
 have a manin'. When my mother died, didn't my father, the heavens 
 be his bed ! see a black coach about a week before it .'' an' sure from 
 the first day she tuck ill, the dead-watch was heard in the house every 
 night : and what was more nor that, she kept tuarm until she went into 
 her grave ; ' an', accordingly, didn't my sisther Shibby die within a 
 year afther ? " 
 
 " It's no matther about thim things," replied Anthony ; "it's thruth 
 about the dead-watch, my mother keepin' warm, an' Shibby's death, 
 anyway. But on the night we tuck Cassidy's horse I thought you 
 were goin' to betray us : I was surely in a murdherin' passion, an' 
 would have done harm, only things turned out as they did." 
 
 " Why," said Denis, "the thruth is, I was afeard some of us would 
 be shot, an' that the lot would fall on myself; for the coffin, thinks I, 
 was sent as a warnin'. How-and-ever, I spied about Cassidy's stable 
 till I seen that the coast was clear ; so whin I heard the low cry of 
 the patrich that Anthony and I agreed on, I joined yees." 
 
 " Well, about to-morrow," observed Kenny — "ha, ha, ha ! — there'll 
 be lots o' swearin'. Why, the whole parish is to switch the primer , 
 many a thumb and coat-cuff will be kissed in spite of priest or magis- 
 trate. I remimber once, whin I was swearin' an alibi for long Paddy 
 Murray, that suffered for the M'Gees, I kissed my thumb, I thought, 
 
 * It is supposed in Ireland, when a corpse retains, for a longer space of time than 
 usual, anything lil<e animal heat, that some person belonging to the fantily of the 
 decevied will die within a year. 
 
ifi2 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 so smoothly that no one would notish it ; but I had a keen oi c to 
 dale with, so says he, ' You know, for the matther o' that, my guo-l 
 fellow, that you have your iJuoiit to kiss every day in the •Keek,' sa-j s 
 he, * but you mi;:;ht salute the book out o' dacency and good manners ; 
 not,' says he, ' that you an' it are strangers aither ; for, if I don't mis- 
 take, you're an ould hand at swearin' alibis.' At all evints, I had 
 to smack the book itself, and it's I, and Barney Green, and Tim 
 Casserly, that did swear stiffly for Paddy, but the thing was too cle.ir 
 agin him. So he suffered, poor fellow, an' died right game, for he said 
 over his dluop — ha, ha, ha ! — that he was as innocent o' the murder as 
 a child unborn ; an' so he was in one sinse, bein' afther gettin' abso- 
 lution." 
 
 "As to thumb-kissin'," observed the elder Mcehan, " let there be 
 none of it .^mong us to-morrow ; if we're caught at it 'twould be as bad 
 as stayin' away altogether ; for my part, I'll give it a smack like a 
 pistol shot^ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " I hope they won't bring the priest's book," said Denis. " I haven't 
 the laste objection agin pay in' my respects to the magistrate'' s paper, 
 but somehow I don't like tastin' \)i^Q. priesfs in a falsity." 
 
 " Don't you know," said the Big Mower, "that whin a magistrate's 
 present, it's ever an' always only the Tistament by law that's used. 
 1 myself wouldn't kiss the mass-book in a falsity." 
 
 " There's none of us sayin' we'd do it in a lie," said the elder Mee- 
 han ; " an' it's well for thousands that the law doesn't use the priest's 
 book ; though, afther all, aren't there books that say religion's all a 
 sham? I think myself it is ; for if what they talk about jubtice 
 an' Providence is thrue, would Tom Dillon be transported for the 
 robbery we committed at Bantry ? Tom, it's true, was an ould offen- 
 der ; but he was innocent of //zi^?/, anyway. The world's all chance, 
 boys, as Sargint Eustace used to say, and whin we die there's no more 
 about us ; so that I don't see why a man mightn't as well sivitch the 
 priest's book as any other, only that, somehow, a body can't shake the 
 terror of it off o' them." 
 
 " I dunna, Anthony, but you an' I ought to curse that sargint ; only 
 for him we mightn't be as we are, sore in our conscience, an' afeard of 
 every fut we hear passin'," observed Denis. 
 
 " Spake for your own cowardly heart, man alive," replied Anthony ; 
 "for my part, I'm afeard o' nothin'. Put round the glass, and don't 
 be nursin' it there all night. Sure we're not so bad as the rot among 
 the sheep, nor the black leg among the bullocks, nor the staggers 
 among the horses, anyhow ; an' yet they'd hang us up only for bein' 
 fond of a bit o' mate — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Thrue enough," said the Big Mower, philosophising. " God made 
 the beef and the mutton, and the grass to feed it ; but it was man made 
 the ditches ; now we're only bringin' things back to the right way that 
 Providence made them in, when ould times were in it, manin' before 
 ditches war invinted— ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " 'Tis a good argument," observed Kenny, " only that judge and jury 
 would be a little delicate in actin' up to it ; an' the morc's the puy 
 
THE DONAGH ; OR, '63 
 
 Howsomever, as Providence made the mutton, sure it's no harm for 
 us to take what he sends." 
 "Ay ; but," said Denis — 
 
 " God made man, an' man made money ; 
 God made bees, an' bees made honey ; 
 God made Satan, an' Satan made sin ; 
 An' God made a hell to put Satan in. 
 
 Let nobody say there's not a hell ; isn't there it plain from Scripthur ?" 
 
 " I wish you had Scripthur tied about your neck ! " replied Anthony. 
 "How fond of it one o' the greatest thieves that ever missed the 
 rope is ! Why the fellow could plan a roguery with any man that ever 
 danced the hangman's hornpipe, an' yit he be'srepatin' bits an' scraps 
 of ould prayers, an' charms, an' stuff. Ay, indeed ! Sure he has a 
 varse out o' the Bible that he thinks can prevint a man from bein' 
 hung up any day ! " 
 
 While Denny, the Big Mower, and the two Meehans were thus 
 engaged in giving expression to their peculiar opinions, the pedlar 
 held a conversation of a different kind with Anne. 
 
 With the secrets of the family in his keeping, he commenced a 
 rather penitent review of his own life, and expressed his intention of 
 abandoning so dangerous a mode of accumulating wealth. He said 
 he thanked heaven that he had already laid up sufficient for the wants 
 of a reasonable man ; that he understood farming and the manage- 
 ment of sheep particularly well : that it was his intention to remove to 
 a different part of the kingdom, and take a farm ; and that nothing 
 prevented him from having done this before but the want of a help- 
 mate to take care of his establishment. He added that his present 
 wife was of an intolerable temper, and a greater villain by fifty degrees 
 than himself He concluded by saying that his conscience twitched 
 him night and day for Hving with her, and that, by abandoning her 
 immediately, becoming truly religious, and taking Anne in her place, 
 he hoped, he said, to atone in some measure for his few errors. 
 
 Anthony, however, having noticed the earnestness which marked 
 the pedlar's manner, suspected him of attempting to corrupt the 
 principles of his daughter, having forgotten the influence which his 
 own opinions were calculated to produce upon her heart. 
 
 " Martin," said he, " 'twould be as well you ped attintion to what 
 we're sayin' in regard o' the trial to-morrow, as to be palaverin' talk 
 into the girl's ear that can't be good comin' from your lips. Quit it, 
 1 say, quit it ! Corp an duowol — I won't allow such proceedings ! " 
 
 " Swear till you blister your lips, Anthony," replied Martin : " as for 
 me, bein' no residenthur, I'm not bound to it ; an' what's more, I'm not 
 suspected. 'Tis settin' some other bit o' work for yees I'll be, while 
 you're all clearin' yourselves from stealin' honest Cassidy's horse. I 
 wish we had him safely disposed of in the manetime, an' the money 
 for him an' the other beasts in our pockets." 
 
 Much more conversation of a similar kind passed between them 
 upon various topics connected with their profligacy and crimes. At 
 
jC4 the noRsn stealers. 
 
 length they separated for the night, after having concerted their plan 
 of action for the ensuing scrutiny. 
 
 Tlie next morning, before the hour appointed arrived, the parish, 
 particuhirly the neighbourhood of Carnmore, was struck with deep 
 consternation. Labour became suspended, mirth disappear?'., and 
 every face was marked with paleness, anxiety, and apprelicnsion. If 
 two men met, one shook his head mysteriously, and ir.quired from the 
 other, " Did you hear the news ? " 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! the Lord be about us all ! I did : an' I pray God it may 
 lave the counthry as it came to it ! " 
 
 " Oh, an' that it may, 1 humbly make supplication this day ! " 
 
 If two women met, it was with similar mystery and fear. " l/Vead. 
 do you know what's at the Cassidys'.'"' 
 
 " Whisht, a-hagur ! I do ; but let what wil happen, sure it's best for 
 us to say nothin'." 
 
 " Say ! the blessed Virgin forbid ! I'd cut my hand off o' me, afore 
 I'd spake a word about it ; only that " 
 
 " Whisht woman ! — for mercy's sake — don't " 
 
 And so they would separate, each crossing herself devoutly. 
 
 The meeting at Cassidy's was to take place that day at twelve 
 o'clock ; but, about two hours before the appointed time, Anne, who 
 had been in some of the other houses, came into her father's, quite 
 pale, breathless and trembling. 
 
 " Oh ! " she exclaimed, with clasped hands, whilst the tears fell fast 
 from her eyes, " we'll be lost, ruined ; did yees hear what's in the 
 neighbourhood wid the Cassidys ? " 
 
 " Girl," said the father, with more severity than he had ever 
 manifested to her before, '" I never yit ris my hand to you, but, w i 
 corp an dnowol, if you open your lips, I'll fell you where you stand. 
 Do you want that cowardly uncle o' yours to be the manes o' hangin' 
 your father .'' Maybe that was one o' the lessons Martin gave you last 
 night .'' " And as he spoke he knit his brows at her with that 
 murderous scowl which was habitual to him. The girl trembled, and 
 began to think that, since her father's temper deepened in domestic 
 outrage and violence as his crimes multiplied, the sooner she left the 
 family the belter. Every day, indeed, diminished that specie? of in- 
 stinctive affection which she had entertained towards him ; and this 
 in proportion as her reason ripened into a capacity for comprehending 
 the dark materials of which his character was composed. Whether 
 he himself began to consider detection at hand or not, we cannot say; 
 but it is certain that his conduct was marked with a callous reckless- 
 ness of spirit, which increased in atrocity to such a degree that even 
 his daughter could only not look at him with disgust. 
 
 " What's the matter now .'' " inquired Denis, with alarm : " is it any- 
 thing about us, Anthony?" 
 
 " No, 'tisn't," replied the other, " anything about us ! What ud it be 
 about us for "i ' ris a lyin' report that some cunnin' knave spread, 
 hopin' to find out the guilty. But hear me, Denis, once for all ; we're 
 going to clear ourselves — now listen — an' let my words sink deep into 
 
THE bOMAGH; OR, t6S 
 
 your heart : if you refuse to swear this day — no matther whaVs put 
 into your hand — you'll do harm — that's all : have courage, man ; but 
 should you cow^ your coorse will be short ; an' mark, even if you 
 escape me, your sons won't. I have it all planned ; an' corp an 
 duowol! thim you won't know from Adam will revinge me if I'm 
 taken up through your unmanliness." 
 
 "'Twould be betther for us to lave the counthry," said Anne. " We 
 might slip away as it is." 
 
 " Ay," said the father, " an' be taken by the neck afore we'd get two 
 miles from the place ! No, no, girsha ; it's the safest way to brazen 
 thim out. Did you hear me, Denis ?" 
 
 Denis started, for he had been evidently pondering on the mysterious 
 words of Anne, to which his brother's anxiety to conceal them gave 
 additional mystery. The coffin, too, recurred to him ; and he feared 
 that the death shadowed out by it would in some manner or other 
 occur in the family. He was, in fact, one of those miserable villains 
 with but half a conscience — that is to say, as much as makes them 
 the slaves of the fear which results from crime, without being the 
 slightest impediment to their committing it. It was no wonder he 
 started at the deep, pervading, tones of his brother's voice, for the 
 question was put with ferocious energy. 
 
 On starting, he looked with vague terror on his brother, fearing, but 
 not comprehending, his question. 
 
 " What is It, Anthony .'' " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, for that matther," replied the other, " nothin' at all : think of 
 what I said to you, anyhow ; swear through thick an' thin, if you have 
 a regard for your own health, or for your childher. Maybe I had 
 betiher repate it agin for you," he continued, eying him with mingled 
 hatred and suspicion. " Denis, as a friend, I bid you mind yourself 
 this day, an' see you don't bring aither of us ii\to throuble." 
 
 There lay before the Cassidys' houses a small flat of common, 
 trodden into rings by the young horses they were in the habit of 
 training. On this level space were assembled those who came, either 
 to clear their own character from suspicion, or to witness the ceremony. 
 The day was dark and lowering, and heavy clouds rolled slowly across 
 the peaks of the surrounding mountains ; scarcely a breath of air could 
 be felt ; and, as the country people silently approached, such was the 
 closeness of the day, their haste to arrive in time, and their general 
 anxiety, either for themselves or their friends, that almost every man, 
 on reaching the spot, might be seen taking up the skirts of his '" cotha- 
 more," or " big coat " (the peasant's handkerchief), to wipe the sweat 
 from his brow ; and as he took off his dingy woollen hat, or caubcen. 
 the perspiration rose in strong exhalations from his head. 
 
 " iVlichael, am I in time .'' " might be heard from such persons, as 
 they arrived. " Did this business begin yit ?" 
 
 " Full time, Larry ; myself's here an hour ago, but no appearance of 
 anything as yit. Father Farrell an' Squire Nicholson are both in 
 Cassidy's, waitin' till they're all gather, whin they'll begin to put thim 
 through their facin's. You hard about what they've got ? " 
 
le-s THE iionsE stealers. 
 
 " No ; for I'm only on my way home from the berril of a chaveen 
 of mine, that we put down this mornin' in Tullyard. What is it .''" 
 
 " Why, man alive, it's through the whole parish inready !" He then 
 went on, lowering his voice to a whisper, and speaking in a tone 
 bordering on dismay. 
 
 The other crossed himself, and betrayed symptoms of awe and 
 astonishment, not unmingled with fear. 
 
 "Well," he replied, " I dunna whether I'd come here if I'd known 
 that ; for, innocent or guilty, I wouldn't wish to be near it. Och, may 
 God pity thim that's to come acrass it, espishly if they dare to do it in 
 a lie ! " 
 
 "They needn't, I can tell yees both," observed a third person, "be 
 a hair afeard of it, for the best rason livin', that there's no thruth at all 
 in the report, nor the Cassidys never thought of sindin' for anything 
 o' the kind. I have it from Larry Cassidy's own lips, an' he ougfit to 
 know best." 
 
 The truth is that two reports were current among the crowd : one 
 that the oath was to be simply on the Bible ; and the other that a 
 more awful means of expurgation was to be resorted to by the 
 Cassidys. The people, consequently, not knowing which to credit, felt 
 the most painful of all sensations — uncertainty. 
 
 I"'uring the period which intervened between their assembling and 
 the commencement of the ceremony, a spectator, interested in con- 
 templating the workings of human nature in circumstances of deep 
 interest, would have had ample scope for observation. The occasion 
 was to them a solemn one. There was little conversation among 
 them ; for when a man is wound up to a pitch of great interest, he is 
 seldom disposed to relish discourse. Every brow was anxious, every 
 cheek blanched, and every arm folded : they scarcely stirred, or when 
 they did, only with slow, abstracted movements, rather mechanical 
 thar voluntary. If an individual made his appearance about Cassidy's 
 door a sluggish stir among them was visible, and a low murmur of a 
 peculiar character might be heard ; but on perceiving that it was only 
 some ordinary person, all subsided again into a brooding stillness that 
 was equally singular and impressive. 
 
 Under this peculiar feeling was the multitude when Median and 
 his brother were seen approaching it from their own house. The elder, 
 with folded arms, and hat pulled over his brows, stalked grimly 
 forward, having that remarkable scowl upon his face which had 
 contributed to establish for him so diabolical a character. Denis 
 walked by his side with his countenance strained to inflation — a 
 miserable parody of that sullen effrontery which marked the unshrink- 
 ing miscreant beside him. He had not heard of the ordeal, owing to 
 the caution of Anthony ; but, notwithstanding his effort at indifference. 
 a keen eye might have observed the latent anxiety of a man who was 
 \ .ibitually villainous and naturally timid. 
 
 When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret glances, too rapid to 
 be noticed by the people, passed between them and their accomplices. 
 Denis, on seeing them present, took fresh courage, and looked with the 
 
THE DONAGH; OR, 167 
 
 heroism of a blusterer upon those who stood about him, especially 
 whenever he found himself under the scrutinizing eye of his brother. 
 Such was the horror and detestation in which they were held, that on 
 advancing into the assembly the persons on each side turned away 
 and openly avoided them : eyes full of fierce hatred were b^nt on 
 them vindictively, and " curses, not loud, but deep," were muttered 
 with an indignation which nothing but a divided state of feeling could 
 repress within due limits. Every glance, however, was paid back by 
 Anthony with interest from eyes and black shaggy brows tremendously 
 ferocious ; and his curses, as they rolled up half smothered from his 
 huge chest, were deeper and more diabolical by far than their own. He 
 even jeered at them ; but, however disgusting his frown, there was 
 something truly appalling in the dark gleam of his scoff, which threw 
 them at an immeasurable distance behind him in the power of dis- 
 playing on the countenance the worst of human passions. 
 
 At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and his curate, attended 
 by the Cassidys and their friends, issued from the house ; two or three 
 servants preceded them, bearing a table and chairs for the magistrate 
 and priests, who, however, stood during the ceremony. When they 
 entered one of the rings before alluded to, the table and chairs were 
 placed in the centre of it, and Father Farrell, as possessing most in- 
 fluence over the people, addressed them very impressively. 
 
 " There are," said he, in conclusion, " persons in this crowd whom 
 we know to be guilty ; but we will have an opportunity of now wit- 
 nessing the lengths to which crime, long indulged in, can carry them. 
 To such people I would say, beware / for they know not the situation 
 in which they are placed." 
 
 During all this time there was not the slightest allusion made to the 
 mysterious ordeal which had excited so much awe and apprehension 
 among them — a circumstance which occasioned many a pale, downcast 
 face to clear up, and reassume its usual cheerful expression. The 
 crowd now were assembled around the ring, and every man on whom 
 an imputation had been fastened came forward, when called upon, to 
 the table at which the priests and magistrate stood uncovered. The 
 form of the oath was framed by the two clergymen, who, as they knew 
 the reservations and evasions commonest among such characters, had 
 ingeniously contrived not to leave a single loophole through which the 
 consciences of those who belonged to this worthy fraternity might 
 escape. 
 
 To those acquainted with Irish courts of justice there was nothing 
 particularly remarkable in the swearing. Indeed, one who stood 
 among the crowd might hear from those who were stationed at the 
 greatest distance from the table such questions as the following : — 
 
 " Is the thing in it, Art ? " 
 
 " No ; 'tis nothin' but the law Bible, the magistrate's own one." 
 
 To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied nod of the head, 
 " Oh, is that all ? I heard they war to have it" on which he would 
 push himself through the crowd until he reached the table, where he 
 took his oath as readily as another. 
 
\0S THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 "Jem Hartif^an," said the magistrate to one of those perso'is, "are 
 yoti to swear ? " 
 
 " Faix, myself doesn't know, your honour ; only that I hard them say 
 that the Cassidys mintioncd our names along wid many other honest 
 people ; an' one wouldn't, in that case, lie under a false report, your 
 honour, from anyone, when we're as clear as them that never s:.w the 
 light of anything of the kind." 
 
 The magistrate then put the book into his hand, and Jem, in return, 
 fixed his eye, with much apparent innocence, on his face. *' Now, Jem 
 Hartigan," &c. &c.,and the oath was accordingly administered. Jem 
 put the book to his mouth, with his thumb raised to an acute angle on 
 the back of it ; nor was the smack by any means a silent one which 
 he gave it (his thumb). 
 
 The magistrate set his ear with the air of a man who had experience 
 in discriminating such sounds. " Hartigan," said he, " you'll conde- 
 scend to kiss the hook, sir, if you please : there's a hollowncss in that 
 smack, my good fellow, that can't escape ;;zt'." 
 
 " Not kiss it, your honour ? why, by this staff in my hand, if ever a 
 man kissed " 
 
 " Silence, you impostor," said the curate ; " I watched you closely, 
 and am confident your lips never touched the book." 
 
 " My lips never touched the book ! Why, you know I'd be sarry to 
 conthradict either o' yees ; but I was jist gom' to observe, wid simmis- 
 sion, that my own lips ought to know best ; an' don't you hear them 
 tellin' you that they c//V/ kiss it .'"' and he grinned with contidcnce in 
 their faces. 
 
 " You double dealing reprobate," said the parish priest," I'll lay my 
 whip across your jaws. 1 saw you, too, an' you did not kiss the 
 book." 
 
 " By dad, an' maybe 1 did not, sure enough," he replied. " Any m;m 
 may make a mistake unknownst to himself; but I'd give my oath, an' 
 
 be the five crasses, I kissed it as sure as however, a good thing's 
 
 never the worse o' bein' twice done, gintlcmcn ; so here goes, jist to 
 satisfy yees," and, placing the book near his mouth, and altering his 
 position a little, he appeared to comply, though, on the contrary, he 
 touched neither it nor his thumb. " It's the same thing to me," he 
 continued, laying down the book with an air of confident assurance, 
 "it's the same thing to me if I kissed it fifty times over, which I'm 
 ready to do if that doesn't satisfy yees." 
 
 As every man acquitted himself of the charges brought against him, 
 the curate immediately took down his name. Indeed, before the 
 " clearing" commenced, he requested that such as were to swear would 
 stand together within the ring, that, after having sworn, he might hand 
 each of them a certificate of the fact, which they appeared to think 
 might be serviceable to them, should they happen to be subsequently 
 indicted for the same crime in a court of justice. This, however, was 
 only a plan to keep them together for what was soon to take place, 
 
 1 he detections of thumb-kissing were received by those who had 
 already sworn, and by several in the outward rrowd, with mwch mirth. 
 
THE DONACH; OH, 169 
 
 It is but justice, however, to many of those assembled, to state that 
 they appeared to entertain a serious opinion of the nature of the cere- 
 mony, and no small degree of abhorrence against those who seemed 
 to trifle with the solemnity of an oath. 
 
 Standing on the edge of the circle, in the innermost row, were 
 Meehan and his brother. The former eyed, with all the hardness of a 
 stoic, the successive individuals, as they passed up to the table. His 
 accomplices had gone forward, and, to the surprise of many who 
 strongly suspected them, in the most indifferent manner " cleared " 
 themselves, in the trying words of the oath, of all knowledge of and 
 participation in the thefts that had taken place. 
 
 The grim visage of the elder Meehan was marked by a dark smile, 
 scarcely perceptible ; but his brother, whose nerves were not so firm, 
 appeared somewhat confused and distracted by the imperturbable 
 villainy 1 f the perjurers. 
 
 At length they were called up. Anthony advanced slowly, but 
 collectedly, to the table, only turning his eye slightly about to observe 
 if his brother accompanied him. " Denis," said he, " which of us will 
 swear first .'' You may ; " for as he doubted his brother's firmness, he 
 was prudent enough, should he fail, to guard against having the sin of 
 perjury to answer for, along with those demands which his country 
 had to make for his other crimes. Denis took the book, and cast a 
 slight glance at his brother, as if for encouragement ; their eyes met, 
 and the darkened brow of Anthony hinted at the danger of flinching 
 m this crisis. The tremor of his hand was not, perhaps, visible to any 
 but Anthony, who, however, did not overlook this circumstance. He 
 held the book, but raised not his eye to meet the looks of either the 
 magistrate or the priests ; the colour also left his face, as with shrink- 
 ing lips he touched the Word of God in deliberate falsehood. Having 
 then laid it down, Anthony received it with a firm grasp, and whilst 
 his eye turned boldly in contemptuous mockery upon those who 
 presented it, he impressed it vvith the kiss of a man whose depraved 
 conscience seemed to goad him only to evil. After "clearing" himself 
 he laid the Bible upon the table with the affected air of a person who 
 felt hurt at the imputation of theft, and joined the rest wiih a frown 
 upon his countenance and a smothered curse upon his lips. 
 
 Just at this moment a person from Cassidy's house laid upon the 
 table a small box covered with black cloth ; and our readers will be 
 surprised to hear that, if fire had come down visibly from heaven, 
 greater awr and fear could not have been struck into their hearts or 
 depicted upon their countenances. The casual conversation, and the 
 commentaries upon the ceremony they had witnessed, instantly settled 
 into a most profound silence, and every eye was turned towards it with 
 an interest absolutely fearful. 
 
 " Let," said the curate, " none of those who have sworn depart from 
 
 with'n the ring until they once more clear themselves upon this," and 
 
 as he spoke, he held it up. " Behold !" said he, "and tremble— behold 
 
 The Donagh ! ! ! " 
 
 A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst from the people 
 
17° THE hORSE STEALERS. 
 
 in general, whilst those within the ring, who, with few exceptions, 
 were the worst characters in the parish, appeared ready to sink into 
 the earth. Their countenances, for the most part, paled inf the con- 
 demned hue of guilt ; many of them became almost unable to stand ; 
 and, altogether, the state of trepidation and terror in which they stood 
 was strikingly wild and extraordinary. 
 
 The curate proceeded ; " Let him now who is guilty depart ; or, if 
 he wishes, advance, and challenge the awful penalty annexed to 
 perjury upon i HIS ! Who has ever been known to swear falsely upon 
 the Donagh without being visited by a tremendous punishment, either 
 on the spot, or in twenty-four hours after his perjury.-' If we ourselves 
 have not seen such instances with our own eyes, it is because none 
 liveth who dare incur such a dreadful penalty ; but we have heard of 
 those who did, and of their awful punishment afterwards. Sudden 
 death, madness, paralysis, self-destruction, or the murder of someone 
 dear to them, are the marks by which perjury on the Donagh is 
 known and visited. Advance now, ye who are innocent, but let the 
 guilty withdraw; for we do not desire to witness the terrible vengeance 
 which would attend a false oath upon the Donagh. Pause, therefore, 
 and be cautious ! for if this grievous sin be committed, a heavy 
 punishment will fall, not only upon you, but upon the parish in which 
 it occurs ! " 
 
 The words of the priest sounded to the guilty like tlie death-sentence 
 of a judge. Before he had concluded, all, except Mcehan and his 
 brother and a few who were really innocent, had srlunk back out of 
 the circle into the crowd. Denis, however, became pale as a corpse ; 
 and from time to time wiped the large drops from his haggard brow. 
 Even Anthony's cheek, despite of his natural callousness, was less red ; 
 his eyes became disturbed ; but by their influence he contrived to 
 keep Denis in sufficient dread to prevent him from mingling, like the 
 rest, among the people. The few who remained along with them 
 advanced, and, notwithstanding their innocence, when the Donagh 
 was presented, and the figure of Christ and the Twelve Apostles dis- 
 played in the solemn tracery of its rude carving, they exhibited 
 symptoms of fear. With trembling hands they touched the Donagh, 
 and with trembling lips kissed the crucifix, in attestation of their 
 guiltlessness of the charge, of which they had been accused. 
 
 "Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward," said the curate, "and 
 declare your innocence of the crimes with which you are charged by 
 the Cassidys and others." 
 
 Anthony advanced ; but Denis stood rooted to the ground ; on 
 perceiving which the former sternly returned a step or two, and catch- 
 ing him by the arm with an admonitory grip that could not easily be 
 misunderstood, compelled him to proceed with himself step by step to 
 the table. Denis, however, could feel the strong man tremble, and 
 perceive that although he strove to lash himself into the energy of 
 despair, and the utter disbelief of all religious sanction, yet ihe trial 
 before him called every slumbering prejudice and apprehension of his 
 mind into active power. This was a death-blow to his own resolution^ 
 
THE DONaGH; or, t7t 
 
 or, rather, it confirmed him in his previous determination not to swear 
 on the Donagh, except to acknowledge his guilt, which he could 
 scarcely prevent himself from doing, such was the vacillating »tate of 
 mind to which he felt himself reduced. 
 
 When Anthony reached the table his huge form seemed to dilate by 
 his effort at maintaining the firmness necessary to support him in this 
 awful struggle between conscience and superstition on the one hand, 
 and guilt, habit, and infidelity on the other. He fixed his deep, 
 dilated eyes upon the Donagh in a manner that betokened somewhat 
 of irresolution : his countenance fell ; his colour came and went, but 
 eventually settled in a flushed red ; his powerful hands and arms 
 trembled so much that he folded them to prevent his agitation from 
 being noticed : the grimness of his face ceased to be stern, while it 
 retained the blank expression of guilt ; his temples swelled out witn 
 the terrible play of their blood vessels ; his chest, too, heaved up and 
 down with the united pressure of guilt and the tempest which shook 
 him within. At length he saw Denis's eye upon him, and his 
 passions took a new direction ; he knit his brows at him with more 
 than usual fierceness, ground his teeth, and with a step and action of 
 suppressed fury he placed his foot at the edge of the table, and 
 bowing down under the eye of God and man, took the awful oath on 
 the mysterious Donngh in a falsehood ! When it was finished a 
 feeble groan broke from his brother's lips. Anthony bent his eye on 
 him with a deadly glare ; but Denis saw it not. The shock was 
 beyond his courage — he had become insensible. 
 
 Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, seeing Denis 
 apparently lifeless, thought he must have sworn falsely on the Donagh, 
 and exclaimed, " He's dead! Gracious God ! Denis Median's struck 
 dead by the Donngh ! He swore in a lie, and is now a corpse!" 
 Anthony paused, and calmly surveyed him as he lay with his head 
 resting upon the hands of those who supported him. At this moment 
 a silent breeze came over where they stood ; and as the Donagh lay 
 upon the table, the black ribbons with which it was ornamented 
 Hutiered with a melancholy appearance that deepened the sensations 
 of the people into something peculiarly solemn and preternatural. 
 Denis at length revived ; and stared wildly and vacantly about him. 
 When composed sufficiently to distinguish and recognise individual 
 objects, he looked upon the gloomy visage and threatening eye of his 
 brother, and shrunk back with a terror almost epileptical. " Oh ! " 
 he exclaimed, " save me ! save me from that man, and I'll discover 
 all ! " 
 
 Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, and his lip quivered 
 with the united i-.-.fluence of hatred and despair. 
 
 " Hould him ! " shrieked a voice, which proceeded from his daughter, 
 "hould my father, or he'll murdher him ! Oh ! oh ! merciful heaven ! " 
 
 Ere the words were uttered she had made an attempt to clasp the 
 arms of her parent, whose motions she understood ; but only in time 
 to receive from the pistol, which he had concealed in his breast, the 
 bullet aimed at her uncle ! She tottered ; and the blood spouted out 
 
t?2 THE ffOkHE STEALEffS. 
 
 of her neck upon her father's brows, wlio hastily put up his hand and 
 wiped it away, for it had actually blinded him. 
 
 The elder Mcchan was a tall man, and as he stood, elevated neari/ 
 a head above the crowd, his grim brows red with his daughter's blood 
 — which, in attempting to wipe away, he had deeply streaked across 
 his face— his eyes shooting fiery gleams of his late resentment, mingled 
 with the wildness of unexpected horror — as he thus stood, it would be 
 impossible to contemplate a more revolting picture of that state to 
 which the principles that had regulated his life must ultimately lead, 
 even in this world. 
 
 On perceiving what he had done, the deep working of his powerful 
 frame was struck into sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his 
 bleeding daughter with a fearful perception of her situation. Now 
 was the harvest of his creed and crimes reaped in blood ; and he 
 felt that the stroke which had fallen upon him was one of those by 
 which God will sometimes bare his arm and vindicate his justice. The 
 reflection, however, shook him not : the reality of his misery was too 
 intense and pervading, and grappled too strongly with his hardened 
 and unbending spirit to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It 
 was abstracted, and beyond the reach of bodily suffering. From the 
 moment his daughter fell he moved not: his lips were half open with 
 the conviction produced by the blasting truth of her death, effected 
 prematurely by his own hand. 
 
 Those parts of his face which had not been stained with her blood 
 assumed an ashy paleness, and rendered his countenance more terrific 
 by the contrast. Tall, powerful, and motionless, he appeared to the 
 crowd, glaring at the girl, like a tiger an.xious to join his offspring, yet 
 stunned with the shock of the bullet which has touched a vital part. 
 His iron-gre) hair, as it fell in thick masses about his neck, was moved 
 slightly by the blast, and a lock which fell over his temple was blown 
 back with a motion rendered more distinct by his statue-like attitude, 
 immovable as death. 
 
 A silent and awful gathering of the people around this impressive 
 scene intimated their knowledge of what they considered to be a 
 judicial punishment annexed to perjury upon the Donagh. This relic 
 l.iy on the table, and the eyes of those who stood within view of it, 
 turned from Anthony's countenance to it, and again back to his blood- 
 stained visage, with all the overwhelming inlluence of superstitious 
 fear. Shudderings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations marked 
 their conduct and feeling ; for though the incident in itself was 
 simply a fatal and uncommon one, yet ihey considered it supernatural 
 and miraculous. 
 
 At length a loud and agonizing cry burst from the lips of Meehan — 
 "Oh, God! — God of heaven an' earth! — have 1 murdhered my 
 daughter.-"' and he cast down the fatal weapon with a force which 
 buried it some inches into the wet clay. 
 
 'J'he crowd had closed upon Anne ; but, with the strength of a giant 
 he flung them aside, caught the girl in his arms, and pressed hoi 
 bleeding to his bosom, lie gasped for breath. " Annf-,'' said he, 
 
THE DONAGH; OR, 173 
 
 " Anne, I am wiihout hope, an' there's none to forgive me except you 
 — none at all : from God, to the poorest of his creatures, I am hated 
 an' cursed by all except you ! Don't curse me, Anne ; don't curse me. 
 Oh, isn't it enough, darlin', that my sowl is now stait. id with your 
 blood, along with my other crimes ? Oh, think, darlin', of my broken 
 heart ! In hell, on earth, an' in heaven, there's none to forgive your 
 father but yourself! — NONE ! none I Oh, what's comin' over me ! 
 I'm dizzy an' shiverin'! How covvld the day's got of a sudden ! Hould 
 up, avoin-iiccn machree / I ivas a bad man ; but to you, Anne, I was 
 no} as I was to everyone ! Darlin', oh, look at me with forgiveness in 
 your eye, or, anyway, don't curse me ! Oh ! I'm far cowlder now ! Tell 
 me that you forgive me, acuslila oge tnachree I — Maniiii attlicc Iiic^ 
 darlin', say it. 5 DARN't LOOK TO GOD I but oh ! do you say the 
 forgivin' word to your father before you die ! " 
 
 " Father," said she, " I deserve this — it's only just. I had plotted 
 with that divilish Martin to betray them all, except yourself, an' to 
 get the reward ; an' then we intended to go — an' — live at a distance 
 — an' in wickedness — where we — might not be known — he's at our 
 house — let him be — secured. Forgive me, father ; you said so 
 often that there was no thruth in religion — that I began to— think 
 so. Oh ! — God ! have mercy upon me ! " And with these words 
 she expired. 
 
 Meehan's countenance, on hearing this, was overspread with a 
 ghastly look of the most desolating agony ; he staggered back, and 
 the body of his daughter, which he strove to hold, would have fallen 
 from his arms, had it not been caught by the bystanders. His eye 
 sought out his brother, but not in resentment. " Oh ! she died, but 
 didn't say, 'I FORGIVE YOU!' Denis, bring me aome— I'm sick- 
 very sick — oh, but it's cowld — everything's reeling — cowld — cowld it 
 is ! " — and as he uttered the last words he shuddered, fell down in a 
 fit of apoplexy, never to rise again ; and the bodies of his daughter 
 and himself were both waked and buried together. 
 
 The result is brief. The rest of the gang were secured ; Denis 
 became appi f>ver, by whose evidence they suffered that punishment 
 decreed by law to the crimes of which they had been guilty. The two 
 events which we have just related of course added to the supernatural 
 fear and reverence previously entertained for this terrible relic. It is 
 still used as an ordeal of expurgation in cases of stolen property ; and 
 we are not wrong in asserting that many of those misguided creatures, 
 who too frequently hesitate not to swear falsely on the word of God, 
 would suffer death itself sooner than commit a perjury on the 
 Donagh. 
 
 The story of the Donagh, the Author has reason to believe, was the means of first 
 bringing this curious piece of antiquity into notice. There is httle to be added here 
 to what is in the sketch concerning its influence over the people, and the use of it 
 as a blessed relic, sought for by those who wished to apply a certain test of guilt or 
 innocence to such well-known thieves as scrupled not to perjure themselves on the 
 
 ' Young pulse of my heart ! my soul is within thee. 
 
174 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 Bible. Vox this purpose it was a perfect conscience-trap, the most hai loncd mis- 
 creant never having been known to risk a false oath upon it. Mai.y singular 
 anecdotes are related concerning it. 
 
 The Author feels great pleasure in subjoining two very interesting letters >pon the 
 subject — one from an accomplished scholar, the Rev. Dr. O'Beirne, master of the 
 distinguished school of Poriora at Enniskillen ; the other from Sir William Betham, 
 one of the soundest and most learned of our Irish antiquaries. Both gentlemen 
 differ in their opinion respecting the antiquity of the Donagh ; and, as the Author 
 is incompetent to decide between them, he gives their respective letters to the 
 public. 
 
 " Stradbrook House, October, 1832. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — I have read Dr. O'Beirne's important letter on the Dona : the 
 account he has collected of its recent history is full of interest, and for the mo.st 
 part, I have no doubt, correct. His speculations respecting its antiquity I cannot 
 give my adhesion to not feeling a doubt myself on the subject. When I have time 
 to investigate it fully. I am satiiti(.d that this box, like the others, of which accounts 
 have already been published, will be found mentioned in the Irish Annals. The 
 inscriptions, however, fully identify the MS. and the box, and show that antiquaries, 
 from the execution of the workmanship and figures on these interesiing reliques. 
 often underrate their antiquity — a fault wliich the world are little inclined to give 
 them credit for, and whicli they fall into from an anxiety to err on what they con- 
 sider the side which )s least likely to produce the smile of contempt or the sneer of 
 incredulity, forgetting that it is tiie sole business of an antiejuarian and historian to 
 speak the truth, disregarding even contempt for so doing. 
 
 " I had been somewhat lengthy in my description of the Dona, and, from habit, 
 entered into a minute account of all its parts, quite forgetting thatyor, perhaps, do 
 not possess an appetite for antiquarian detail, and therefore might be belter pleased 
 to have a general outline than such a recital. I therefore proceed to give it as briefly 
 as possible, not, however omitting any material points. 
 
 "The Irish word Donmach, which is pronounced Dona, means the Lord's 
 day, or the first day in the week, sanctified or consecrated to the service of the 
 Lord. It is also '.n that sense used for a house, church, or ch.ipel. Donui^h 
 more means the great church or chapel dedicated to God. This box, being holy, 
 as containing the Gospels, and having the crucifix thereon, was dedicated or con- 
 secrated to the service of God. Like the Caah, the Meeshach, and Dhimma's box. 
 it is of brass, covered with plates of silver, and resembles the two former in having 
 a box of yew inside, which was the original case of the MS., and became venerated 
 so much, on that account, as to be deemed worthy of being inclosed with it in the 
 shrine made by permission of John O'Carberry, Abbot of Cloumacnois in tiie 14th 
 century. 
 
 " The top of the Dona is divided by a cross, on the lower arm of which is a 
 figure of the Saviour; over his head is a shield, divided /«>■/«/(•, between two 
 crystal settings ; on the dexter is a hand holding a scourge or whip of three thongs, 
 and on a chief a ring ; on the sinister, on a chief, the same charge and three 
 crucifixion nails. In the first compartment or quarter of the cross are representa- 
 tions of St. Columbkill, St. Bridget, and St. Patrick. In the second, a bishop 
 pierced with two arrows, and two figures of St. Peter and St. Paul. In the ihird, 
 the archangel Michael treading on the dragon, and the Virgin Mary and the infaiu 
 
 Iesus. In the fourth, St. Tigernach handing to his successor, St. Sinellus, tht 
 )ona ; and a female figure, perhaps Mary Magdalen. 
 
 "The front of the Dona is ornamented with three crystal settings, surmounted 
 by grotesque figures of animals. Between these are four horsemen with swords 
 drawn, in full speed. 
 
 "The right hand end S^s a figure of St. Tigernach and St. John ihe Baptist. 
 The left hand end a figure of St. Catherine with her wheel. 
 
 "The Dona is nine inches and a half long, seven wide, and not quite four 
 thick. 
 
 ' ' So far I have been enabled to describe the Dona from the evidently accurate 
 and well-executed drawing you were so good as to present to me. Why tnc 
 
THE DON AG II; Ok, l?; 
 
 description is less particular than it should have been, I shall take anothe. 
 opportunity of explaining to you." 
 
 "There are three inscriptions on the Dona : one on a scroll from the hand o( 
 the figure of the Baptist, of ECCE AGNUS DEI. The two others are on pktes 
 of silver, but their exact position on the box is not marked in the drawing, but 
 may be guessed by certain places which the plates exactly fit. 
 
 " The first is — 
 
 'Johannes : Obarrdan : Fabricavit. 
 
 " The second — 
 
 "Joiis: Okarbri : Comorbanvs : S. Tignacii : Pmisit. 
 
 " i. e.: — 
 
 " 'John O Barrdan made this box by the permission of John O CotI'ij, svcu\sor 
 of St. Tiaeniach.' 
 
 "St. T'lerney, or St. Tigernach, was third B'shop of Clogher, having succeeded 
 St. Maccarlin in the year 506. In tlie list of bishops, St. Patrick is reckoned the 
 first, and founder of the see. Tigern.ich died the 4th of April, 548. 
 
 "John O'Carbry was abbot of Clones, or Clounish, in the County of Monaghan, 
 and as such was comorb, or corb ' — i. e., successor — of Tigernach, who was founder 
 of the abbey, and removed the episcopal seat from Cloger to Clounish. Many of 
 the abbots were also bishops of the see. He died in 1353 How long he was 
 abbot does not appear ; but the age of the outside covering of the Dona is fixed 
 to the r4th century. 
 
 " Since the foregoing was written I have seen the Dona, which was exhibited at 
 the last meeting of the Royal Irish Academy. Ii has been put together at a guess, 
 but different from the drawing. There is inside O' Barrdan 's case another of silver 
 plate some centuries older, and inside that the yew box, which originally contained 
 the manuscripts, now so united by damp as to be apparently inseparable, and 
 nearly illegib'e ; for they have lost the colour of velhmi, and are quite black and 
 very much decayed. The old Irish version of the New Testament is well worthy 
 of being edited ; it is, I conceive, the oldest Latin version extant, and varies much 
 from the Vulgate or Jerome's. 
 
 "The MS. enclosed in the yew box appears, from the two .nembranes handed 
 me by your friend, Mr. , to be a copy of the Gospels —at least, those mem- 
 branes were part of the two fust membranes of the Gospel of St. Matthew, and, I 
 would say, written in the fifth or sixth century ; were probably the property of St. 
 I'igernach himself, and passed most likely to the abbots of Blounish, his successors, 
 as an heirloom, until it fell into the hands of the Magviires, the most powerful of 
 the princes of the country now comprising the diocese of Clogher. Dr. O'Beirne's 
 letter I trust you will publish. I feel much indebted to that gentleman for his 
 courteous expressions towards me, and shall be most happy to have the pleasm^e 
 of being personally known to him. 
 
 " You must make allowance for the hasty sketch which is here given. The ad- 
 vanced state of your printing would not allow me time for a more elaborate in- 
 vestigation. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear sir, 
 
 " Very sincerely yours, W. Betham." 
 
 " Portora, August 15, 1832. 
 
 " My Dear . — ft is well you wrote to me about the Dona. Your letter, 
 
 which reached me this day, has proved that I was mistaken in supposing that the 
 promised drawing was no longer necessary. I had imagined that, as you must 
 have seen the Dona with Mr. Smith, any communication from me on the subject 
 must be superfluous. And now that I have taken up my pen in compliance with 
 
 ' All the successors of the founder saints were calleJ by the Irish, comarbs, or carls. The 
 reader will perceive thai O'Carbry was a distant, but not the immediate, successor ol 
 Si Tigernach. 
 
176 THE HORSE STEALERS. 
 
 ^ jvr wish, what can I tell you that you have not perhaps conveyed to yourself by 
 ocular inspect ion, and better than I can detail it ? 
 
 " I accompanied Mr. S. to Brookborouyh, and asked very particularly of the 
 old woman, late the possessor of the Dona, what she knew of its histor) ; but she 
 could say nothing about it, only that it had belonged to ' the Lord of Enniskillen.' 
 This was the Fermanagh Magnire, who took an active part in the shocking rebellion 
 of 1641, and was subsequently executed. His castle, the ruins of which are on tlie 
 grounds of Portora, was stormed during the wars of that miserable time. When 
 1 entered on my inquiries for you, I anticipated much in the way of tradition, 
 which. I hoped, might prove amusing at least ; but disappointment met me on 
 every hand. The old woman could not even detail distinctly how the Dona had 
 come into her possession : it was brought into her family, she said, by a priest. The 
 country people had imagined wonders relative to the contents of the bo.x. The 
 chief treasure it was supposed to contain was a lock of the Virgin Mary's hair 1 ! ! 
 
 " After much inquiry. I received the following vague detail from a person in this 
 county ; and let me remark, by-the-by, that though the possession of the Dona 
 was a matter of boast to the Maguires, yet I could not gain the slightest informa- 
 tion respecting it from even the most intelligent of the name. But now for the 
 detail :— 
 
 ■' ' Donagh O Tlanlon, an inhabitant of the upper part of this county (Fer- 
 managh), went, about 600 years ago (longer than which time, in the opinion of a 
 celebrated antiquary, the kind of engraving on it could not have been made), on a 
 pious pilgrimage to Rome. His holiness of the Vatican, whose name has escaped 
 the recollection of the person who gave this information, as a reward for this 
 supererogatory journey, presented him with the Dona. As soon as Donagh le- 
 turned, the Dona was placed in the Monastery of Aughadurciier (now Aughalur- 
 cher). But at the time when Cromwell was in this country the monastery was 
 destroyed, and this Afk of the Covenant hid by some of the faithful at a small 
 lake, named Lough Eye, between Lisbellaw and Tempo. It was removed thence 
 when peace was restored, and again placed in some one of the neighbouring 
 chapels, wlien, as before in Aughadurcher, the oaths were adminibteied by the 
 jiriests with all the superstition that a depraved imagination could invent, as "that 
 their thighs might rot off," " that they might go mad," &c. &c. 
 
 " ' When Kings James and William made their appearance, it was again con- 
 cealed in Largy, an old castle at Sir H. Brooke's deer park. Father Antony 
 Maguire, a priest of the Romish Church, dug it up from under the stairs in this old 
 castle, after the Battle of the Boyne, deposited it in a chapel, and it was used as 
 before. 
 
 " ' After Father Antony's death it fell into the possession of his niece, who took 
 it over to the neighbourhood of F'lorence Court. But the Maguires were not 
 satisfied that a thing so sacred should depart from the family, and at their request 
 it was brought back.' 
 
 " For the confirmation of the former part of this account, tlie informant refers 
 you to Sir James Ware. I have not Ware's book, and cannot therefore tell you 
 how much of this story is given by him, or whether any. In my opinion there is 
 nothing detailed by him at all bearing on the subject. The latter part of the story 
 rests, we are told, on tradition. 
 
 " As I confess myself not at all versed in Irish antiquities, it may appear some- 
 what presumptuous in me to venture an opinion respecting this box and its contents, 
 which is, I understand, opposed to that of our spirited and intelligent antiquary. 
 Sir Wni. Beiham. I cannot persuade myself that either the box or the contained 
 MSS. were of such an age as he claims for them. And, first, of the box : — 
 
 " At present the MSS. are contained in a wooden bjx : the wood is, I believe, 
 ynv. It cannot be pronounced, I think, with any cettainty, whether tlie wooden 
 box was originally part of the shrine of the precious MSS. It is very rude in its 
 construction, and has not a top or lid. Indeed, it appears to me to liave been a 
 coarse, botehed-up thing to receive the MSS. after the oiiginalbox, wiiich was made 
 Ol br.iss, had fallen to pieces. 
 
TUE nONAGH. 17? 
 
 "The next thing that presents itself to us is the remnant of a brass box. 
 washed with silver, and rudely ornamented with tracery. The two ends and tin- 
 front are all that remain of the brass box. 
 
 " You may then notice what was evidently an addition of later times, the highly 
 ornamented gilt-silver work, made fast on the remains of the brass box, and the 
 chased compartments, which seemed to have formed the top or lid of the box. 
 But, as you have seen the whole, I need not perhaps have troubled you with this 
 description. 1 shall only direct your attention to the two inscriptions. In the 
 chasing you will see that they are referred (o their supposed places. 
 
 "The upper inscription, when deciphered, is— 
 
 " 'Johannes : O'Karbri : Comorbanus : S. Tignacii : Pmisit." For 5. Tignacii 
 I would conjecture St. Ignacii. P, I should conjecture to be Presbyterus. On this 
 I should be very glad to have Sir William's opinion. I cannot imagine, if P stands 
 part of a compound with misit^ what it can mean. I wjutd read and translate it 
 thus — 'John O'Carbery, coadjutor, priest of the order of St. Ignatius, sent it." 
 
 " This inscriptiot 's on a narrow slip of silver, and is presumed to have formed 
 part of the under edge of the upper part of the back of the box. The lower in- 
 scription is — 
 
 " ' Johatuies O' Darrdan fabricavit ' 
 
 "This also is on a slip of silver, and appears to have fitted into a space on the 
 upper surface, which is supposed to have been the top, and to have lain in between 
 the two square compartments on the left hand : this is marked in the drawing. I 
 have expressed myself here in the language of doubt, for the box is all in confusion. 
 
 " Now, on the inscriptions, I would say that they indicate to me a date much 
 later than some sf^Litlemen who have seen the box are willing to ascribe to it. In 
 the island of Devenish, in our lake (Lough Erne), is an inscription that was dis- 
 covered in the ruins (still standing) of a priory that was built there A. d. 1449. 1 he 
 characters in this inscription are much more remote from the Roman character in 
 use among us than those used in the inscriptions on the box. The letters on the 
 box bespeak a later period, when English cultivation had begun to produce some 
 effect in our island, and the Roman character was winning its way into general 
 use. I shall probably be able to let you see the Devenish inscription, and s. juxta- 
 position of it and the others will satisfy you, I think, on this point. In my opinion, 
 then, the box, with all its ornaments, must have been made at some time since the 
 year 1449. I cannot think it reasonable to suppose that an inscription, coutainino- 
 many letters like the Roman characters, should be more ancient than one not only 
 having fewer letters i esembling them, but also having the letters that differ differing 
 essentially. 
 
 "Now for the MSS. 
 
 " I am deficient in antiquarian lore : this I have already confessed ; but perhaps 
 I want also the creative fancy and devoted faith of the genuine antiquary. I can- 
 not, for e.xample, persuade myself that a MS. written in a clear, uniform, small 
 character of tlie Roman form could have been written in remote times, when there 
 is reason to thmk that MSS. were written in uncial character only, without stops. 
 and with few or no divisions into words, sentences, or paragraphs. The palim- 
 prest MS. examined by Dr. Barrett is in uncial characters, and is referred by him 
 to the sixth or seventh century. Cic. de Kepublica, published by Angelo Mai, is 
 assigned to much the same period. Small letters, and the diainciions above 
 mentioned, were the invention of later times. I cannot therefore persuade myself 
 that this MS. is of so early an age as some would ascribe to it, though I will not 
 take it upon me to assign the precise time in which it was written. The characters 
 aie decidedly and distinctly those now called the Roman : they have not many 
 abbreviations, as far as I could j ^dge, and they are written with much clearnebs 
 and regularity. They are not the Uteres ct<rsivcs, or those used in writing for tiie 
 sake of facility and connection : they seemed rather formed more in imitation of 
 printed letters. SECUNDUM— This imperfect attempt to present one of the 
 words will explain my meaning. But I had better not weary you any more with 
 
I7S />////, PURCRL, THE P/G- DRIVER. 
 
 my crude notions. I shall be very glad to hear your opinion, or thai of Sir WiUiam 
 Bctham, to whom I should bow with all the respect due to tali-ni and worth. I 
 must avow my distrust of Irish antiquities ; yel, allow me to add iliat ther^ is do 
 man more willing to be converted fiom my heresy, if you would call it so. th.^n 
 
 " My dear . 
 
 " Your Irieiid and servant, A. O'Blikne." 
 
 r/r/I. PURCRL, THE PJG DRIVER. 
 
 ,-/ n Ok (line. 
 
 HIL PURCEL was a sin^rular character, fur he was never 
 married ; but notwithstanding his singularity, no man ever 
 possessed, for practical purposes, a more plentiful stock of 
 duplicity. All his acquaintances knew that Phil was a knave of the 
 first water, yet was he decidedly a general favourite. Now, as we hate 
 mystery ourselves, we shall reveal the secret of this remarkable popu- 
 larity ; though, after all, it can scarcely be called so, for Phil was not 
 the first cheat who has been popular in his day. The cause of his 
 success lay simply in this : — that he never laughed ; and none of our 
 readers need be told that the appearance of a grave cheat in Ireland 
 is an originality which almost runs up into a miracle. Tliis gravity 
 induced everyone to look upon him as a phenomenon. The assumed 
 simplicity of his manners was astonishing, and the ignorance wliich he 
 feigned so apparently natural that it was scarcely passible for the 
 most k en sighted searcher into human motives to detect him. The 
 only way of understanding the man was to deal with him ; if, after 
 tiiat, you did not comprehend him thoroughly, the fault was not Phil's, 
 but your own. Although not mirthful himself, he was the cause of 
 "mirth in others ; for, without ever smiling at his own gains, he con- 
 trived to make others laugh at their losses. His disposition, setting 
 aside laughter, was strictly anomalous. The most incompatible, the 
 most unamalgamatable, and the most uncomeatable qualities that ever 
 refused to unite in the same individual had no scruple to unite in Phil. 
 But we hate metaphysics, which we leave to the mechanical philoso- 
 phers, and proceed to state that Phil was a miser, which is the best 
 explanation we can give of his gravity. 
 
 Ireland, owing to the march of intellect, and the superiority of 
 modern refinement, has been for some years past, and is at present, 
 well supplied with an abundant variety of professional men, every one 
 of whom will undertake, for proper considerations, to teach us 
 Irish all manner of useful accomplishments. The drawing-master 
 talks of his profession ; the dancing master of his profession ; the 
 fidd'er, tooth -drawer, and corn-cutter (who, by the way, reaps a richer 
 hari'cst than we do), since the devil has tempted the schoolmaster to 
 go abroad, are all practising in his absence as professional men. 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. ^"79 
 
 Now Phil must be included among this class of grandiloquent 
 gentlemen, for he entered life as a Professor of Pig-driving ; and it is 
 but justice towards him to assert that no corn-cutter of them all ever 
 elevated his profession so high as Phil did that in which he practised. 
 In fact, he raised it to the most exalted pitch of improvement of which 
 it was then susceptible ; or, to use the cant of the day, he soon arrived 
 at " the head of his profession." 
 
 In Phil's time, however, pig-driving was not so general, nor had it 
 made such rapid advances as in modern times. It was then simply 
 pig-driving, unaccompanied by the'improvements of poverty, sickness, 
 and famine. The governments of those days were not so enlightened 
 as the governments of these. Political economy had not taught the 
 people how to be poor upon the most scientific principles ; free trade 
 had not shown the nation the most improved plan of reducing itself 
 to the lowest possible state of distress ; nor liberalism enabled the 
 working classes to scoff at religion, and wisely to stop at the very line 
 that lies between outrage and rebellion. Many errors and inconveni- 
 ences, now happily exploded, were then in existence. The people, it 
 is true, were somewhat attached to their landlords, but still they were 
 burdened with the unnecessary appendages of good coats and stout 
 shoes ; were tolerably industrious, and had the mortification of being 
 able to pay their rent, and feed in comfort. They were not, as they 
 are now, free from new coats and old prejudices, nor improved by the 
 intellectual march of politics and poverty. When either a man or a 
 nation starves, it is a luxury to starve in an enlightened manner ; and 
 nothing is more consolatory to a person acquainted with public rights 
 and constitutional privileges than to understand those liberal princi- 
 ples upon which he fasts and goes naked. 
 
 From all we have said, the reader sees clearly that pig-driving did 
 not then proceed upon so extensive a scale as it does at present. The 
 people, in fact, killed many of them for their own use ; and we know 
 not how it happened, but political ignorance and good bacon kept 
 them in more flesh and comfort than those theories which have since 
 succeeded so well in introducing the science of starvation as the 
 basis of national prosperity. Irishmen are frequently taxed with ex- 
 travagance, in addition to their other taxes ; but we should be glad to 
 know what people in Europe reduce economy in the articles of food 
 and clothing to such close practice as they do. Our governments and 
 our landlords appear to be trying such an exptriment upon our great 
 power of living on a little food as the man did who entertained the 
 warm expectation of being able to bring his horse to live without it : 
 but who, when he had brought him to one straw per diem, found that 
 the animal was compelled to decline the comforts of such economy, 
 by dying in his own defence. In our ignorant days we had a trade, 
 but no Custom-house ; and now, in our enlightened days, we have a 
 Custom-house, but no trade. Our institutions have become absentees, 
 like our landlords, and are to be found spending their money in Lon- 
 don, in order to increase the prosperity and secure the attachment 
 of Irishmen. 
 
I So PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 An old bachelor uncle of ours, in the country, seduced by the 
 plausiljility of a tailor's puff in the metropolis, sent him, in reliance 
 upon what he professed in it, his height and wci^^htfor a suit of clothes. 
 The clothes came ; but as the old gentleman happened tr> be ury- 
 ncckcd, wore his head, in fact, upon one of his shoulders, aiid was a 
 little humpbacked into the bargain— points which he either forgot, 
 or declined mentioning — it is unnecessary to say that the clothes did 
 not fit. 
 
 " I ought to have known," said the old gr ntleman, " from the peculi- 
 arity of my make, that no tailor could fit me without taking my 
 measure." 
 
 In like manner may we say that England is legislating for us with- 
 out taking our measure ; and that her laws, consequently, are a bad 
 fit, considering the unconscionable price we pay for them. 
 
 There was, in Ireland, an old breed of swine, which is now nearly 
 extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where they are 
 still useful in the hunting season, particularly if dogs happen to be 
 scarce.' They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual 
 length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for sedition, 
 and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were also of 
 such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross a field 
 with more agility or speed. Their backs formed a rainbow arch, 
 capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable degree ; 
 and their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, 
 or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, 
 whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a three- 
 quarter gallop. 
 
 In the middle of summer, when all nature reposed under the united 
 influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a 
 drove of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own 
 raising ; their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the 
 shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the east. 
 
 But, alas ! for those hapi)y days ! This breed is now a curiosity — 
 few specimens of it remaining except in the mountainous parts of the 
 country, whither these lovers of liberty, like the free natives of the 
 back settlemc-nts of America, have retired to avoid the encroachments 
 of civilization, and exhibit their Irish antipathy to the slavish comforts 
 of steamboat navigation, and the relaxing luxuries of English feeding. 
 
 Indeed, their patriotism, as evinced in an attachment to Ireland and 
 Irish hal)its, was scarcely more remarkable than their sagacity. There 
 is not an anticpiarian among the members of that learned and useful 
 body, the Irish Academy, who can boast such an intimate knowledge 
 of the Irish language in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty 
 \^^% did this once flourishing class of animals. Nor were they confined 
 to the Irish tongue alone; many of them understood English too ; and 
 it was said of those that belonged to a convent, the members of which, 
 in their intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, that they were 
 
 • Wo assuri.- John Hull, on the authority of Fhil Purcel, that this is a fact. 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. t8i 
 
 tolerable masters of that language, and refused '.o leave a potato field 
 or plot of cabbages except when addressed in it. To the English^ 
 tongue, however, they had a deep-rooted antipathy ; whether it pro- 
 ceeded from the national feeling, or the fact of its not being sufficiently 
 guttural, I cannot say : but be this as it may, it must be admitted that 
 they were excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising degree oi 
 deference and obedience to whatever was addressed to them in their 
 own language. In Munster, too, such of them as belonged to tlrs 
 hedge schoolmasters were good profic. ents in Latin ; but it is on a 
 critical knowledge of their native tongue that I take my stand. On 
 this point they were unrivalled by the most learned pigs or antiquarians 
 of their day ; none of either class possessing, at that period, such a 
 knowledge of Irish manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tracing out 
 Irish roots. / 
 
 Their education, it is true, was not neglected, and their instructors 
 had the satisfaction of seeing that it was not lost. Nothing could 
 preso:;; a finer display of true friendship, founded upon a sense of 
 equality, mutual mterest, and good-will, than the Irisnman and his 
 pig. The Arabian and his horse are proverbial ; but had our English 
 neighbours known as much of Ireland as they did of Arabia, they 
 would have found as signal instances of attachment subsisting between 
 the former as between the latter ; and, perhaps, when the superior 
 comforts of an Arabian hut are contrasted with the squalid poverty of 
 an Irish cabin, they would have perceived a heroism and a disinter- 
 estedness evinced by the Irish parties that would have struck them 
 with greater admiration. 
 
 The pigs, however, of the present day are a fat, gross, and de- 
 generate breed ; and more hke well-fed aldermen than Irish pigs of 
 the old school. They are, in fact, a proud, lazy, carnal race, entirely 
 of the earth, earthy. John Bull assures us it is one comfort, however, 
 that we do not eat, but ship them out of the country ; yet, after all, 
 with great respect to John, it is not surprising that we should repine a 
 little on thinking of the good old times of sixty years since, when every '^ 
 Irishman could kill his own pig, and eat it when he pleased. We 
 question much whether any measure that might make the eating of 
 meat compulsory upon us would experience from Irishmen a very 
 decided opposition. But it is very condescending in John to eat our 
 beef and mutton ; and as he happens to want both, it is particularly 
 disinterested in him to encourage us in the practice of self-denial. It 
 is possible, however, that we may ultimately refuse to banquet by 
 proxy on our own provisions ; and that John may not be much longer 
 troubled to eat for us in that capacity. 
 
 The education of an Irish pig, at the time of which we write, was 
 an important consideration to an Irishman. He, and his family, and 
 his pig, like the Arabian and his horse, all slept in the same bed ; the 
 pig generally, for the sake of convenience, next the " stock." At 
 meals the pig usually was stationed at the scrahag, or potato-basket ; 
 where the only instances of bad temper he ever displayed broke out in 
 petty and unbecoming squabbles with the younger branches of the 
 
 (2) G 
 
iS? PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 family. Indeed, if he ever descended from his high station as a 
 member of the domestic circle, it was upon these occasions, when, 
 with a want of dignity accounted for only by the grovelling motive of 
 self-interest, he embroiled himself in a series of miserable feuds and 
 contentions about scraping the pot, or carrying off from the jealous 
 urchins about him more than came to his share. In these heart- 
 burnings about the good things of this world he was treated with un- 
 common forbearance : in his master he always had a friend, from 
 whom, when he grunted out his appeal to him, he was certam of 
 receiving redress. " Barney, behave, avick : lay down the potstick, 
 an' don't be batin' the pig, the crathur." 
 
 In fact, the pig was never mentioned but with this endearing 
 epithet of " crathur " annexed. " Barney, go an' call home the pig, 
 the crathur, to his dinner, before it gets cowld an him.* " Barney, go 
 an' see if you can see the pig, the crathur ; his buckwhist will soon be 
 ready." " Barney, run an' dhrive the pig, the crathur, out of Larry 
 Neil's phatie-field : an', Barney, whisper, a bouchal bawn, don't run 
 too hard, Barney, for fraid you'd lose your breath. What if the 
 crathur does get a taste o'the new phaties — small blame to him for the 
 same ! " 
 
 In short, whatever might hav-e been the habits of the family, such 
 were those of the pig. The latter was usually out early in tlie 
 morning to take exercise, and the unerring regularity with which )ie 
 returned at meal time gave sufficient proof that procuring an appetite 
 was a work of supererogation on his part. If he came before the meal 
 was prepared, his station was at the door, which they usually shut to 
 keep him out of the way until it should be ready. In the meantime, 
 so far as a forenoon serenade and an indift'erent voice could go, his 
 powers of melody were freely exercised on the outside. But he did 
 not stop here : every stretch of ingenuity was tried by which a possi- 
 bility of gaining admittance could be established. The hat and rags 
 were repeatedly driven in from the windows, which from practice and 
 habit he was enabled to approach on his hind legs ; a cavity was also 
 worn by the frequent grubbings of his snout under the door, the lower 
 part of which was broken away by the sheer strength of his tusks, so 
 that he was enabled, by thrusting himself between the bottom of it and 
 the ground, to make a most unexpected appearance on the hearth, 
 before his presence was at all convenient or acceptable. 
 
 But, independently of these two modes of entrance — i.e., the door 
 and window — there was also a third, by which he sometimes scrupled 
 not to make a descent upon the family. This was by the chimney. 
 There are many of the Irish cabins built for economy's sake against 
 slopes in the ground, so that the labour of erecting either a gable or 
 side-wall is saved by the perpendicular bank that remains after the 
 site of the house is scooped away. Of the facilities presented by this 
 peculiar structure the pig never failed to avail himself. He imme- 
 diately mounted the roof (through which, however, he sometimes took 
 an unexpected flight), and traversing it with caution, reached the 
 chimney, into which he deliberately backed himself, and, with no small 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 183 
 
 share of courage, went down precisely as the northern bears are said 
 to descend the trunks of trees during the winter, but -with far different 
 motives. 
 
 In this manner he cautiously retrograded downwards with a hardi- 
 hood which set furze bushes, brooms, tongs, and all other available 
 weapons of the cabin at defiance. We are bound, however, to declare 
 that this mode of entrance, which was only resorted to when every 
 other failed, was usually received by the cottager and his family with 
 a degree of mirth and good humour that were not lost upon the 
 sagacity of the pig. In order to save him from being scorched, which 
 he deserved for his temerity, they usually received him in a creel, 
 often in a quilt, and sometimes in the tattered blanket, or large pot, 
 out of which he looked with a humorous conception of his own enter- 
 prise that was highly diverting. We must admit, however, that he 
 was sometimes received with the comforts of a hot poker, which Paddy 
 pleasantly called " givin' him a warm welcome." 
 
 Another trait in the character of these animals was the utter scorn 
 with which they treated all attempts to fatten them. In fact, the 
 usual consequences of good feeding were almost inverted in their case ; 
 and although I might assert that they became leaner in proportion to 
 what they received, yet I must confine myself to truth by stating 
 candidly that this was not the fact ; that there was a certain state of 
 fleshlessness to which they arrived, but from which they neither ad- 
 vanced nor receded by good feeding or bad. 
 
 At this point, despite of all human ingenuity, they remained sta- 
 tionary for life ; received the bounty afforded them with a greatness of 
 appetite resembling the fortitude of a brave man, which rises in 
 energy according to the magnitude of that which it has to encounter. 
 The truth is they were scandalous hypocrites ; for, with the most 
 prodigious capacity for food, they were spare as philosophers, and 
 fitted evidently more for the chase than the sty ; rather to run down a 
 buck or a hare for the larder, than to have a place in it themselves. If 
 you starved them, they defied you to diminish their flesh ; and if you 
 stuffed them like aldermen, they took all they got, but disdained to 
 carry a single ounce more than if you gave them whey thickened with 
 water. In short, they gloried in maceration and liberty ; were good 
 Irish scholars, sometimes acquainted with Latin ; and their flesh, after 
 the trouble of separating it from a superfluity of tough skin, was 
 excellent venison so far as it went. 
 
 Now Phil Purcel, whom we will introduce more intimately to the 
 reader by-and-by, was the son of a man who always kept a pig. His 
 father's house had a small loft, to which the ascent was by a step- 
 ladder through a door in the inside gable. The first good thing ever 
 Phil was noticed for was said upon the following occasion. His father 
 happened to be called upon, one morning before breakfast, by his 
 landlord, who, it seems, occasionally visited his tenantry to encourage, 
 direct, stimulate, or reprove them, as the case might require. Phil 
 was a boy then, and sat on the hob in the corner, eyeing the landlord 
 and his father durine their conversation. In the meantime the pig 
 
iS4 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG- DRIVER. 
 
 came in, and deliberately began to ascend the ladder with an air of 
 authority that marked him as one in the exercise of an established 
 right. The landlord was astonished at seeing the animal enter the 
 best room in the house, and could not help expressing his surprise to 
 old Purcel. 
 
 " Why, Purcel, is your pig in the habit of treating himselt to the 
 comforts of your best room ? " 
 
 " The pig is it, the crathur ? Why, your haner," said Purcel, after a 
 little hesitation, " it sometimes goes up of a mornin' to waken the 
 cnildhre, particularly when the buckwhist happens to be late. It doesn't 
 like to be waitin' ; and sure none of us like to be kept from the male's 
 mate, your haner, when we want it, no more than it, the crathur." 
 
 " But I wonder your wife permits so filthy an animal to have access 
 to her rooms in this manner." 
 
 " Filthy ! " replied Mrs. Purcel, who felt herself called upon to defend 
 the character of the pig. as well as her own, '• why, one would think, 
 sir, that any crathur that's among Christyeen childiire, like one o' 
 themselv-es, couldn't be filthy. I could take it to my dyin' day, that 
 there's not a claner or dacenter pig in the kingdoj:- than the same piL,. 
 It never misbehaves, the crathur, but goes out, v-. wise an' riglar, jist 
 by a look, your haner, the poor crathur ! " 
 
 " I think," observed Phil, from the hob, "that Viobody has a betther 
 right to the run of the house, whedher upstairs or downstairs, than 
 him that pays the 7'inr" 
 
 " Well said, mv lad ! " observed the landlord, laughing at the quaint 
 ingenuity of Phil's defence. " His payment of the rent is the best 
 defence possible, and no doubt should cover a multitude of his 
 errors." 
 
 " A multitude of his shins you mane, sir," said Phil, '" for thrath he's 
 all shin." 
 
 In fact, Phil from his infancy had an uncommon attachment to 
 these animals, and by a mind naturally shrewd and observing made 
 himself as intimately acquainted with their habits and instincts, and 
 the best modes of managing them, as ever the celebrated Caliir na 
 Cappiil did with those of the horse. Before he was fifteen he could 
 drive the most vicious and obstinate pig as quietly before him as a 
 lamb ; yet no one knew how nor by what means he had gained the 
 secret that enabled him to do it. VVhenever he attended a fair, his 
 time was principally spent among the pigs, where he stood handling 
 and examining, and pretending to buy them, although he seldom had 
 half a crown in his pocket. At length, by hoarding up such small sums 
 as he could possibly lay his hands on, he got together the price of a 
 "slip," which he bought, reared, and educated in a manner that did 
 his ingenuity great credit. When this was brought to its ne plus ultra 
 of fatness he sold it, and purchased two more, which he fed in the 
 same way. On disposing of these, he made a fresh purchase, and 
 thus proceeded, until, in the course of a few years, he was a well- 
 known pig-jobber. 
 
 Phil's journeys as a pig-driver to the leading sea-port town nearest 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 him were always particularly profitable. In Ireland swine are not 
 kept in sties, as they are among English feeders, but permitted to go 
 at liberty through pasture fields, commons, and along roadsides, wher** 
 they make up as well as they can for the scanty pittance allowed them 
 at home during meal-times. We do not, however, impeach Phil's 
 honesty ; but simply content ourselves with saying that when his 
 journey was accomplished he mostly found the original number with 
 which he had set out increased by three or four, and sometimer by half 
 a dozen. Pigs in general resemble each other, and it surely was not 
 Phil's fault if a stray one, feeding on the roadside or conmion, thought 
 proper to join his flock and see the world. Phil's object, we presume, 
 was only to take care that his original number was not diminished, its 
 increase being a matter in which he felt little concern. 
 
 He now determined to take a professional trip to England, and 
 that this might be the more productive, he resolved to purchase a 
 drove of the animals we have been describing. No time was lost in 
 this speculation. The pigs were bought up as cheaply as possible, 
 and Phil set out, for the first time in his life, to try with what success 
 he could measure his skill against that of a Yorkshireman. On this 
 occasion he brought with him a pet, which he had with considerable 
 pains trained up for purposes hereafter to be explained. 
 
 There was nothing remarkable in the passage, unless that e%ery 
 creature on board was sea-sick, except the pigs ; even to them, how- 
 ever, the change was a disagreeable one ; for to be pent up in the 
 hold of a ship was a depriv^ation of liberty which, fresh as they were 
 from their native hills, they could not relish. They felt, therefore, as 
 patriots, a loss of freedom, but not a whit of appetite ; for, in truth, 
 of the latter no possible vicissitude short of death could deprive 
 them. 
 
 Phil, however, with an assumed air of simplicity absolutely stupid, 
 disposed of them to a Yorkshire dealer at about twice the value they 
 would have brought in Ireland, though, as pigs went in England, it 
 was low enough. He declared that they had been fed on tip-top 
 feeding ; which was literally true, as he afterwards admitted that the 
 tops of nettles and potato stalks constituted the only nourishment 
 they had got for three weeks before. 
 
 The Yorkshireman looked with great contempt upon what he con- 
 sidered a miserable essay to take him in. 
 
 "What a fule this Hirishmun mun bea," said he, "to think to 
 teake me in ! Had he said that them there Hirish swoine were badly 
 feade, I'd ha' thought it fairish enough on un ; but to seay that they 
 was oil weal feade on tip-top feeadin' ! Nea, nea ! I knaws weal 
 enough that they was noat feade on nothin' at oil, which meakes 
 them looak so poorish ! Howsomever, I shall fatten them. I'se 
 warrant — I'se warrant I shall!" 
 
 When driven home to sties somewhat more comfortable than the 
 cabms of unfortunate Irishmen, they were well supplied with food 
 which would have been verj' often considered a luxury by poor Paddy 
 himself, much less by his pigs. 
 
iS'^ PHIL PURCEL. THE PIG- DRIVER. 
 
 " Measter," said the boor who had seen them fed, " them there 
 Hirish pigs ha' not teasted nout for a moonth yet : they feade like 
 nout I never seed o' my laife ! " 
 
 " Ay ! ay ! " replied the master, " I'se warrant they'll soon fatten — 
 I'se warrant they shall, Hodge — they be praime feeders — I'se warrant 
 they shall ; and then, Hodge, we've bit the soft Hirishmun." 
 
 Hodge gave a knowing look at bis master, and grinned at this 
 observation. 
 
 The next morning Hodge repaired to the sties to see how they 
 were thriving ; when, to his great consternation, he found the feeding 
 troughs clean as if they had been washed, and not a single Irish pig 
 to be seen or heard about the premises ; but to what retreat the 
 animals could have betaken themselves was completely beyond his 
 comprehension. He scratched his head, and looked about him in 
 much perplexity. 
 
 '' Dang un ! " he exclaimed, " I never seed nout like this." 
 
 He would have proceeded in a strain of cogitation equally enlight- 
 ened, had not a noise of shouting, alarm, and confusion in the neigh- 
 bourhood excited his attention. He looked about him, and to his 
 utter astonishment saw that some extraordinary commotion prevailed, 
 that the country was up, and the hills alive with people, who ran, and 
 shouted, and wheeled at full flight in all possible directions. His 
 first object was to join the crowd, which he did as soon as possible, 
 and found that the pigs he had shut up the preceding night in stie- 
 whose enclosures were at least four feet high had cleared them like 
 so many chamois, and were now closely pursued by the neighbours, 
 who rose en masse to hunt down and secure such dreadful depre- 
 dators. 
 
 The waste and mischief they had committed in one night were 
 absolutely astonishing. Bean and turnip-fields, and vegetable enclo- 
 sures of all descriptions, kitchen-gardens, corn-fields, and even 
 flower-gardens, were rooted up and destroyed with an appearance of 
 system which would have done credit to Terry Alt himself. 
 
 Their speed was the theme of every tongue. Hedges were taken 
 in their flight, and cleared in a style that occasioned the country 
 people to turn up their eyes and scratch their thick, incomprehensive 
 heads in wonder. Dogs of all degrees bit the dust, and were caught 
 up dead in stupid amazement by their owners, who began to dou'ot 
 whether or not these extraordinary animals were swine at all. The 
 depredators in the meantime had adopted the Horatian style of 
 battle. Whenever there was an ungenerous advantage taken in the 
 pursuit, by slipping dogs across or before their path, they shot off at 
 a tangent through the next crowd, many of whom they prostrated in 
 their flight ; by this means they escaped the dogs until the latter 
 were somewhat exhausted, when, on finding one in advance of the 
 rest, they turned, and, with standing bristles and burning tusks, 
 fatally checked their pursuer in his full career. To wheel and fly 
 until another got in advance w^as then the plan of fight ; but, in fact, 
 the conflict wis conducted on the part of the Irish pigs with a fertilit)i 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PI J- DRIVEN. '^7 
 
 of expediency that did credit to their country, and established for 
 those who displayed it the possession of intellect far superior to that 
 of their opponents. The pigs now began to direct their course 
 towards the sties in which they had been so well fed the night before. 
 This being their last flight, they radiated towards one comnun centre 
 with a fierceness and celerity that occasioned the women and children 
 to take shelter within doors. On arriving at the sties, the ease with 
 which they shot themselves over the four-feet walls was incredible. 
 The farmer had caught the alarm, and just came out in time to 
 witness their return ; he stood with his hands driven down into the 
 pockets of his red, capacious waistcoat, and uttered not a word. 
 When the last of them came bounding into the sty, Hodge approached, 
 quite breathless and exhausted. 
 
 " Oh, measter," he exclaimed, "these be not Hirish pigs at oil, they 
 be Hirish deevils ; and you mun ha' bought 'em fra a cunning mon ! " 
 
 " Hodge," replied his master, " I'se be bit — I'se heard feather talk 
 about un. That breed's trice Hirish ; but I'se try and sell 'em to 
 Squoire Jolly to hunt wi' as beagles, for he v/ants a pack. They do 
 say all the swoine that the deevils were put into ha' been drawned ; 
 but for my peart, I'se sure that some on un must ha' escaped to Hire- 
 land." 
 
 Phil, during the commotion excited by his knavery in Yorkshire, 
 was traversing the country in order to dispose of his remaining pig ; 
 and the manner in which he effected his first sale of it was as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 A gentleman was one evening standing with some labourers by the 
 wayside, when a tattered Irishman approached, equipped in a pair of 
 white dusty brogues, stockings without feet, old patched breeches, a bag 
 slung across his shoulder, his coarse shirt lying open about a neck 
 tanned by the sun into a reddish yellow, a hat nearly the colour of the 
 shoes, and a hay-rope tied for comfort about his waist : in one hand he 
 also held a straw-rope, that depended from the hind leg of a pig which 
 he drove before him ; in the other was a cudgel, by the assistance of 
 which he contrived to hmp on after it, his two shoulder-blades rising 
 and falling alternately with a shrugging motion that indicated great 
 fatigue. 
 
 When he came opposite where the gentleman stood he checked the 
 pig, which instinctively commenced feeding upon the grass by the 
 edge of the road. 
 
 " Och," said he, wiping his brow with the cuff of his coat, " mavrone 
 orth a anuuk,'^ but I'm kilt wit you. Musha, Gad bless yer hauer, an' 
 maybe ye'd buy a slip of a pig fwhrom me, that has my heart bruck, 
 so she has, if ever anybody's heart was bruck wit the likes of her ; an' 
 sure so there was, no doubt, or I wouldn't be as I am wit her. I'll 
 give her a dead bargain, sir ; for it's only to get her aff av my hands 
 I'm wantin', plase yer haner — hiisth, amuck — hiisth, a veehoneel^ Be 
 asy, an' me in conwersation wit his haner here ! " 
 
 * My sorrow on you for a pig. » Silence, pig 1 Silence, you vagabond t 
 
iSS PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 ''You are an Irishman?" the gentleman inquired. 
 
 " I am, sir, from Cannaught, yer haner, an' 'ill sell the crathur dag 
 cheap, all out. Asy, you thief i " 
 
 " I don't want the pig, my good fellow," replied the Englishman, 
 without evincing curiosity enough to inquire how he came to have 
 such a commodity for sale. 
 
 " She'd be the darlint in no time wit you, sir ; the run o' your 
 kitchen 'ud make her up a beauty, your haner, along wit no throuble 
 to the sarwints about sweepin' it, or anything. You'd only have to 
 lay down the sct'ahag on the flure, or the misthress, Gad bless her, 
 could do it, an' not lave a crumblin' behind her, besides sleepin', yer 
 haner, in the earner beyant, if she'd take the throuble." 
 
 The sluggish phlegm of the Englishman was stirred up a little by 
 the twisted and somewhat incomprehensible nature of these instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 " How far do you intend to proceed to-night, Paddy .?" said he. 
 
 " The sarra one o' myself knows, plase yer haner : sure we've an 
 ould sayin' of our own in Ireland beyant — that he's a wise man can 
 tell how far he'll go, sir, till he comes to his journey's ind. I'll give 
 this crathur to you at more nor her value, yer haner." 
 
 " More ! — why the man knows not what he's saying," observed the 
 gentleman ; " less you mean, I suppose, Paddy ? " 
 
 " More or less, sir, you'll get her a bargain ; an' Gad bless you, 
 sir!" 
 
 " But it is a commodity which I don't want al present. I am very 
 well stocked with pigs as it is. Try elsewhere.'' 
 
 " She'd flog the counthry side, sir ; an' if the misthress herself, sir, 
 ud shake the wishp o' sthraw fvvhor her in the kitchen, sir, near the 
 vvhoire. Yer haner could spake to her about it ; an' in no time put a 
 knife in her whin you plased. In regard o' the other thing, sir — she's 
 like a Christyeen, yer haner, an' no throuble, sir, if you'd be seein' 
 company or anything." 
 
 " It's an extraordinary pig this of yours." 
 
 " It's no lie fvvhor you, sir ; she's as clane an' dacent a crathur, sir ! 
 Och, if the same pig ud come into the care o' the misthress. Gad 
 bliss her ! an' I'm sure if she has as much gudness in her face as the 
 hanerable dimiha ousahl — the handsome gintleman she's married 
 upon! — you'll have her thrivin' bravely, sir, shartly, plase God, if you'll 
 take courage. Will I dhrive her up the aveny fwhor you, sir.-* A 
 good gintlewoman I'm sure, is the same misthriss ! Will I dhrive her 
 up fwhor you, sir.f" Shadh amuck — shadh dheriin /"^ 
 
 " No, no ; I have no further time to lose ; you may go forward." 
 
 " Thank yer haner : is it whorid toarst the house abow, sir ? I 
 wouldn't be standin' up, sir, wit you about a thrifle ; an' you'll have 
 her, sir, fwhor anything you plase beyant a pound, yer haner ; an' 'tis 
 throwin' her away it is : but one cant be hard wit a rale gintleman, 
 anyway." 
 
 ' Behave yourself, pig — behave. I sa». 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG- DRIVER. >89 
 
 " You only annoy me, man ', besides, I don't want the pig ; you lose 
 time ; I don't want to buy it, I repeat to you." 
 
 " Gad bliss you, sir — Gad bliss you ! Maybe if I'd make up to the 
 misthress, yer baner ! Thrath she wouldn't turn the crathur from 
 the place, in regard that the tindherness ow the feelin' would come 
 ower her — the rale gintlewoman, anyhow ! 'Tis dag chape y ^u have 
 her at what I said, sir ; an' Gad bliss you ! " 
 
 " Do you want to compel me to purchase it whether I will or no ? " 
 
 " Thrath, it's whor next to nothin' I'm givin' her to you, sir ; but 
 sure you can make your own price at anything beyant a pound. 
 Htirrish aimick — stadh I anish — be asy, you crathur, sure you're 
 gettin' into good quarthers, anyhow — goin' to the hanerable English 
 gintleman's kitchen ; an' Gad knows it's a pleasure to dale wit 'em. 
 Och, the world's differ there is betuxt thim an' our own dirty Irish 
 buckeens, that 'ud shkin a bad skilleen, an' pay their debts wit the 
 remaindher. The gateman ud let m.e in, yer haner, an' I'll meet 
 you at the big house abow," 
 
 " Upon my honour, this is a good jest," said the gentleman, abso- 
 lutely teased into compliance ; "you are forcing me to buy that which 
 I don't want." 
 
 " Sure you will, sir ; you'll want more nor that yit, plase Gad, if you 
 be spared. Come, amuck — come, you crathur ; faix, you're in luck, 
 so 3'ou are — gettin' so good a place wid his haner here, that you won't 
 know yourself shortly, plase Gad." 
 
 He immediately commenced driving his pig towards the gentle- 
 man's residence with such an air of utter simplicity as would have 
 imposed upon any man not guided by direct inspiration. Whilst he 
 approached the house, its proprietor arrived there by another path a 
 few minutes before him, and, addressing his lady, said ; 
 
 " My dear, will you come and look at a purchase which an Irishman 
 has absolutely compelled me to make. You had better come and see 
 himself too, for he's the greatest simpleton of an Irishman I have ever 
 seen." 
 
 The lady's curiosity was more easily excited than that of her hus- 
 band. She not only came out, but brought with her some ladies who 
 had been on a visit, in order to hear the Irishman's brogue and to 
 amuse themselves at his expense. Of the pig, too, it appeared she 
 was determined to know something. 
 
 " George, my love, is the pig also from Ireland ? " 
 
 " I don't know, my dear ; but I should think so from its fleshless 
 appearance. I have never seen so spare an animal of that class in 
 this country." 
 
 " Juliana," said one of the ladies to her companion, " don't go too 
 rear him. Gracious ! look at the bludgeon, or beam, or something he 
 carries in his hand, to fight and beat the people, I suppose : yet," she 
 added, putting up her glass, " the man is actually not ill-looking ; and 
 though not so tall as the Irishman in Sheridan's Rivals, he is well 
 made." 
 
 "His eyes are good," said her companion — "a bright grey and 
 
•93 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 keen ; and were it not that his nose is rather short and turned up, he 
 would be human." 
 
 " George, my love," exclaimed the lady of the mansion, " he is like 
 most Irishmen of his class that I have seen ; indeed, scarcely so in- 
 telligent, for he docs appear quite a simpleton, except, perhaps, a lurk- 
 ing kind of expression, which is a sign of their humour, I suppose. 
 Don't you think so, my love ?" 
 
 " No, my dear ; I think him a bad specimen of the Irishman. 
 Whether it is that he talks our language but imperfectly, or that he is 
 a stupid creature, I cannot say ; but in selling the pig just now he 
 actually told me that he would let me have it for viore than '*■ was 
 worth." 
 
 " Oh, that was so laughable ! We will speak to him, though." 
 
 The degree of estimation in which these civilised English held Phil 
 was so low that this conversation took place within a few yards of 
 him, precisely as if he had been an animal of an inferior species, or 
 one of the aborigines of New Zealand. 
 
 " Pray what is your name .'' " inquired the matron. 
 
 " Phadhrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer haner : my fadher carrid the 
 same name upon him. We're av the Corfuffles av Leatheraum Laghy, 
 my lady ; but my granmudher was a Dornyeen, an' my own mudher, 
 plase yer haner, was o' the Shudhurthaghans o' Ballymadoghy, my 
 ladyship. Stadk anish, amuck bradagh — be asy, can't you, an' me in 
 conwershation wit the beauty o' the world that I'm spakin' to." 
 
 "That's the Negus language," observed one of the young ladies, 
 who affected to be a wit and a blue-stocking ; " it's Irish and English 
 mixed." 
 
 , " Thrath, an' but that the handsome young lady's so purty," observed 
 Phil, " I'd be sayin' myself that that's a quare remark upon a poor 
 unlarned man ; but Gad bless her, she is so purty what can one say 
 for lookin' an her ! " 
 
 "The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as he can," replied the 
 lady, rather reprovingly : " he is by no means so wild as one would 
 have expected." 
 
 " Candidly speaking, much tamer than / expected," rejoined the 
 wit. " Indeed, I meant the poor Irishman no offence." 
 
 "Where did you get the pig, friend? and how came you to have it 
 for sale so far from home?" 
 
 " Fwhy it isn't whor sale, my lady," replied Phil, evading the former 
 question; "the masther here. Gad bless him an' spare him to you, 
 ma'am ! — thrath an' it's his four quarthers that knew how to pick out 
 a wife, anyhow, whor beauty an' all hanerable whormations o' grand- 
 heur — so he did ; an' well he desarvcs you, my lady : faix, it's a fine 
 houseful o' thim you'll have, plase God — an' fwhy not ? whin it's all in 
 the coorse o' Providence, bein' both so handsome ; — he gev me a 
 pound note whor her, my ladyship, an' his own plisure aftherwards ; 
 an' I'm now watin' to be ped." 
 
 " What kind of a country is Ireland, as I understand you are an 
 Irishrran? ' 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PfG-DRIVER. 
 
 *' Thrath, my lady, it's like fwhat maybe you never seen — a fool'; 
 purse, ten guineas goin' out whor one that goes in." 
 
 " Upon my word, that's wit," observed the young blue-stocking. 
 
 " What is your opinion of Irishwomen ?" the lady continued ; " are 
 they handsomer than the English ladies, think you.'"' 
 
 " Murdher, my lady," says Phil, raising his caubeen, and scratching 
 his head, in pretended perplexity, with his finger and thumb, " fwhat 
 am I to say to that, ma'am, and all of yees to the fwhore ? But the 
 sarra one av me will give it agin the darlins beyant." 
 
 " But which do you think the more handsome?" 
 
 "Thrath I do, my lady; the Irish and English women would flog 
 the world, an' sure it would be a burnin' shame to go to set them 
 agin one another fwhor beauty." 
 
 "Whom do you mean by the 'darlins beyant'?" inquired the blue- 
 stocking, attempting to pronounce the words. 
 
 " Faix, miss, who but the crathurs ower the wather, that kills us 
 entirely, so they do." 
 
 " I cannot comprehend him," she added to the lady of the mansion. 
 
 " Arrah, maybe I'd make bould lo take up the manners from you 
 fwhor a while, my lady, plase yer haner ?" said Phil, addressing the 
 latter. 
 
 " I do not properly understand you," she replied, " speak plainer," 
 
 " Throth, that's fwhat they do, yer haner ; they never gos about the 
 bush wit yees — the gintlemen, ma'am, of our counthry, fwhin they do 
 be coortin' yees ; an' I want to ax, ma'am, if you plase, fwhat j'^« 
 think of thini, that is, if ever any of them had the luck to come acrass 
 you, my lady ? " 
 
 " I have not been acquainted with many Irish gentlemen," she re- 
 plied ; " but I hear they are men of a remarkable character." 
 
 " Faix, 'tis you may say that," replied Phil ; " sowl, my lady, 'tis 
 well for the masther here, plase yer haner, sir, that none o' them met 
 wit the misthress before you was both marrid, or, wit riverence be it 
 spoken, 'tis the sweet side o' the tongue they'd be layin' upon you, 
 ma'am, an' the rough side to the masther himself, along wit a few 
 scrapes of a pen on a slip o' paper, jist to appoint the time and place, 
 in regard of her ladyship's purty complexion — an' who can deny that, 
 anyway? Faix, ma'am, they've a way wit them, my counthrymin, 
 that the ladies like well enough to thravel by. Asy, you deludher, an' 
 me in conwersaytion wit the quality." 
 
 " I am quite anxious to know how you came by the pig, Paddy?" 
 said the wit. 
 
 " Arrah, miss, sure 'tisn't pigs you're thinkin' on, an' us discoorsin' 
 about the gintlemen from Ireland, that you're all so fond ow here ; 
 faix, miss, they're the boys that can fwhoight for yees, an' ud rather 
 be bringin' an Englishman to the j«^ fwhor your sakes, nor atin' bread 
 an' butther. Fwhy, now, miss, if you were beyant wit us, the sarra 
 ounce o' gunpowdher we'd have in no time, for love or money." 
 
 " Upon my word, 1 should like to see Ireland ! " exclaimed the blue- 
 stocking ; "and why would the gunpowder get scarce, pray?" 
 
'^- PHIL PURGE L, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 " Faix, fighiin' about you, miss, an' all of yees sure ; for myself sees 
 no differ at all in your hanerable fwhormations of beauty an' grandeur, 
 an' all high-flown admirations." 
 
 " But tell us where you got the pig, Paddy ? " persisted the wit, 
 struck naturally enough with the circumstance. " How do you come 
 to have an Irish pig so far from home "i " 
 
 " Fwhy thin, miss, 'twas to a brodher o' my own I was bringin' it, 
 that was livin' down the counthry here, an' fwhin I came to fwhere he 
 lived, the sarra one o' me knew the place, in regard o' havin' forgot the 
 name of it entirely, an' there was I wit the poor crathur an my hands 
 till his haner here bought it whrom me — Gad bless you, sir ! " 
 
 "As I live, there's a hne Irish blunder," observed the wit ; " I shall 
 put it in my commonplace book — it will be so genuine. 1 declare I'm 
 quite delighted ! " 
 
 " Well, Paddy," said the gentleman, " here's your money. There's 
 a pound for you, and that's much more than the miserable animal is 
 worth." 
 
 " Thrath, sir, you have the crathur at what we call in Ireland a bar- 
 gain.^ Maybe yer haner ud spit upon the money fvvhor luck, sir. It's 
 the way we do, sir, beyant." 
 
 " No, no, Paddy, take it as it is. Good heavens ! what barbarous 
 habits these Irish have in all their modes of life, and how far they are 
 removed from anything like civilization ! " 
 
 " Thank yer haner. Faix, sir, this'll come so handy for the landlord 
 at home, in regard o' the rint for the bit o' phatie ground, so it will, if I 
 can get home agin widout brakin' it. Arrah, maybe yer haner ud give 
 me the price o" my bed, an' a bit to ate, sir, an' keep me from brakin' 
 in upon this, sir, Gad bless the money 1 I'm thinkin' o' the poor wife 
 an' childher, sir — strivin', so I am, to do fwhor the darlins." 
 
 " Poor soul," said the lady, " he is affectionate in the midst of his 
 wretchedness and ignorance." 
 
 "Here— here," replied the Englishman, anxious to get rid of him, 
 " there's a shilling, which I give because you appear to be attached to 
 your family." 
 
 " Och, och, fwhat can I say, sir, only that long may you reign ower 
 your family an' the hanerable ladies to the fwhore, sir. Gad fwhor 
 ever bliss you, sir, but you're the kind, noble gintleman, 'an all be- 
 longin' to you, sir ! " 
 
 Having received the shilling, he was in the act of departing, when, 
 after turning it deliberately in his hand, shrugging his shoulders two 
 or three times, and scratching his head, with a vacant face he ap- 
 proached the lady. 
 
 " Alusha, ma'am, an' maybe ye'd have the tindherness in your heart, 
 seein' that the gudness is m yer hanerable face, anyway, an' it would 
 save the skillyeen that the masther gev'd me for payin' my passage, so 
 it would, jist to bid the steward, my ladyship, to ardher me a bit to ate 
 in the kitchen below. The hunger, ma'am, is hard upon me, my lady ; 
 
 ' Ironically— a take in. 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. ^93 
 
 an' fwhat I'm doin', sure, is in regard o' the wife at home, an' the 
 ♦;hildher, the crathurs, an' me far fwhrom them, in a sthrange counthry, 
 Gad help me ! " 
 
 " What a singular being, George ! and how beautiful is the eccnon y 
 of domestic aftection exemplified, notwithstanding his half-savage 
 state, in the little plans he devises for the benefit of his wife and 
 children ! " exclaimed the good lady, quite unconscious that Phil 
 was a bachelor. "Juliana, my love, desire Simmons to give him 
 his dinner. Follow this young lady, good man, and she will order 
 you refreshment." 
 
 " Gad's blessin' upon your beauty an' gudness, my lady ; an' a 
 man might thravel far afore he'd meet the likes o' you for aither o' 
 them. Is it the other handsome young lady I'm to folly, ma'am .'' " 
 
 " Yes," replied the young wit, with an arch smile ; " come after me."* 
 
 '* Thrath, miss, an' it's an asy task to do that, anyway ; wit a heart 
 an' half I go, acushla ; an' I seen the day, miss, that it's not much o' 
 mate an' dhrink ud throuble me, if I jist got lave to be lookin' at you, 
 wit nothin' but yourself to think an. But the wife an' childher, miss, 
 makes great changes in us entirely." 
 
 " Why you are quite gallant, Paddy." 
 
 " Thrath, I suppose I am now, miss ; but you see, my hanerable 
 young lady, that's our fwhailin' at home : the counthry's poor, an' we 
 can't help it, whedher or not. We're fwhorced to it, miss, whin we 
 come ower here, by you, an' the likes o' you, mavourneen !" 
 
 Phil then proceeded to the house, was sent to the kitchen by the 
 young lady, and furnished through the steward with an abundant 
 supply of cold meat, bread, and beer, of which he contrived to make 
 a meal that somewhat astonished the servants. Having satisfied his 
 hunger, he deliberately, but with the greatest simplicity of countenance, 
 filled the wallet, which he carried slung across his back, with whatever 
 he had left, observing as he did it : — 
 
 " Fwhy, thin, 'tis sthrange it is that the same custom is wit us in 
 Ireland beyant that is here ; fwhor whinever a traveller is axed in, he 
 always brings fwhat he doesn't ate along wit him. An sure enough it's 
 the same here amongst yees," he added, packing up the bread and 
 beef as he spoke; "but Gad bliss the cu.stom, anyhow, fwhor it's a 
 good one ! " 
 
 When he had secured the provender, and was ready to resume his 
 journey, he began to yawn, and to exhibit the most unequivocal 
 symptoms of fatigue. 
 
 " Arrah, sir," said he to the steward, " you wouldn't have e'er an 
 ould barn that I'd throw myself in fwhor the night ? The sarra leg I 
 have to put undher me, now that I've got stiff wit the sittin' so lang ;^ 
 that, an' a wishp o' sthraw, sir, to sleep an, an' Gad bliss you ! "' 
 
 " Paddy, I cannot say," replied the steward ; " but I shall ask my 
 master, and if he orders it, you shall have the comfort of a hard floor 
 and clean straw, Paddy — that you shall." 
 
 * This is pronounced as in the first syllable of " Langolee," — not like the Scotch 
 " '.ang." 
 
194 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 " Many thanks to you, sir : it's in your face, in thrath, the san., 
 gudness an' ginerosity." 
 
 The gentleman, on hearing Phil's request to be permitted a sleeping 
 place in the barn, was rather surprised at his wretched notion of com- 
 fort than at the request itself. 
 
 " Certainly, Timmins, let him sleep there," he replied ; " give him 
 sacks and straw enough. I daresay he will feel the privilege a luxury, 
 poor devil, after his fatigue. Give him his breakfast in the morning, 
 Timmins. Good heavens," he added, " what a singular people ! Wh? 
 an amazing progress civilization must make before these Irish can b_ 
 brought at all near the commonest standard of humanity ! " 
 
 At this moment Phil, who was determined to back the steward's 
 request, approached them. 
 
 " Paddy," said the gentleman, anticipating him, " I have ordered 
 you sacks and straw in the barn, and your breakfast in the morning 
 before you set out." 
 
 " Thrath," said Phil, " if there's e'er a sthray blissin' goin', depind an 
 it, sir, you'll get it, fwhor your hanerable ginerosity to the sthranger. 
 But about the ' slip,' sir — if the misthress herself ud shake the wishp 
 o' sthraw fwhor her in the far earner o' the kitchen below, an' see her 
 gettin' her supper, the crathur, before she'd put her to bed, she'd be 
 thriven' like a salmon, sir, in less than no time ; an' to ardher the 
 sarwints, sir, if you plase, not to be defraudin' the crathur of the big 
 piatees. Fwhor in regard it cannot spake fwhor itself, sir, it frets as 
 wise as a Christyeen, when it's not honestly thrated." 
 
 " Never fear, Paddy ; we shall take good care of it." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. But I aften heerd, sir, that you dunna how to feed 
 pigs in this counthry in ardher to mix the fwhat an' lane, lair (layer) 
 about." 
 
 " And how do you manage that in Ireland, Paddy ?" 
 
 " Fwhy, sir, I'll tell you how the mishthress, Gad bliss her, will 
 manage it fwhor you. Take the crathur, sir, an' feed it to-morrow till 
 it's as full as a tick — that's fwhor the fwhat, sir ; thin let her give it 
 nothin' at all the next day, but keep it black fwhastin' — that's fwhor 
 the lane (lean). Let her stick to that, sir, keepin' it atin' one day an 
 fastin' anodher, for six months, thin put a knife in it, an' if you don't 
 have the fwhat an' lane, lair about, beautiful all out, fwhy niver bleeve 
 Phadrumshagh Corfuffle agin. Ay, indeed ! " 
 
 The Englishman looked keenly at Phil, but could only read in his 
 countenance a thorough and implicit belief in his own recipe for mixing 
 the fat and lean. It is impossible to express his contempt for the sense 
 and intellect of Phil ; nothing could surpass it but the contempt which 
 Phil entertained for him. 
 
 " Well," said he to the ser\'ant, " I have often heard of the barbarous 
 habits of the Irish, but I must say that the incidents of this evening 
 have set my mind at rest upon the subject. Good heavens ! when 
 will ever this besotted country rise in the scale of nations ! Did ever 
 a human being hear of such a method of feeding swine ! I should 
 have thouglit it incredible had I heard it from any but an Irishman 1" 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. '95 
 
 Phil then retired to the kitchen, where his assumed simplicity highly -^ 
 amused the servants, who, after an hour or two's fun with " Paddy,' 
 conducted him in a kind of contemptuous procession to the barn, 
 where they left him to his repose. 
 
 The next morning he failed to appear at the hour of breakfast, but 
 his non-appearance was attributed to his fatigue, in consequence of 
 which he was supposed to have overslept himself. On going, how- 
 ever, to call him from the barn, they discovered that he had decamped ; 
 and on looking after the " slip " it was found that both had taken 
 French leave of the Englishman. Phil and the pig had actually 
 travelled fifteen miles that morning before the hour on which he was 
 missed — Phil going at a dog's trot, and the pig following at such a 
 respectful distance as might not appear to identify them as fellow- 
 travellers. In this manner Phil sold the pig to upwards of two dozen 
 intelligent English gentlemen and farmers, and after winding up his 
 bargains successfully, both arrived in Liverpool, highly delighted by 
 their commercial trip through England. 
 
 The passage from Liverpool to Dublin, in Phil's time, was far diffe- 
 rent from that which steam and British enterprise have since made it. 
 A vessel was ready to sail for the latter place on the very day of Phil's 
 arrival in town ; and, as he felt rather anxious to get out of England 
 as soon as he could, he came, after selling his pig in good earnest, to 
 the aforesaid vessel to ascertain if it were possible to get a deck pas- 
 sage. The year had then advanced to the latter part of autumn ; so 
 that it was the season when those inconceivable hordes of Irishmen 
 who emigrate periodically for the jjurpc^e of lightening John Bull's 
 labour were in the act of returnmg to that country in which they find 
 little to welcome them — but domestic affection and misery. 
 
 When Phil arrived at the vessel, he found the captain in a state of 
 peculiar difficulty. About twelve or fourteen gentlemen of rank and 
 property, together with a score or upwards of highly respectable 
 persons, but of less consideration, were in equal embarrassment. The 
 fact was, that as no other vessel left Liverpool that day, about five 
 hundred Irishmen, mostly reapers and mowers, had crowded upon 
 deck, each determined to keep his place at all hazards. The captain, 
 whose vessel was small, and none of th*^ stoutest, flatly refused to put 
 to sea with such a number. He told them it was madness to think of 
 it ; he could not risk the lives of the other passengers, nor even their 
 own, by sailing with five hundred on the deck of so small a vessel. If 
 one half would withdraw peaceably, he would carry the other half, 
 which was as much as he could possibly accomplish. They were very 
 willing to grant that what he said w-is true ; but, in the meantime, not 
 a man of them would move, and to clear out such a number of fellows, 
 who loved nothing better than fighting, armed, too, with sickles and 
 scythes, was a task beyond either his ability or inclination to execute. 
 He remonstrated with them, entreated, raged, swore, and threatened, 
 but all to no purpose. His threats and entreaties were received with 
 equal good humour. Gibes and jokes were broken on him without 
 uumber, and as his passion increased, so did their mirth, until nothing 
 
'96 PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. 
 
 could be seen but the captain in vehement gesticulation, the Irishmen 
 huzzaing him so vociferously that his damns and curses, uttered against 
 ihem, could not reach even his own ears. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he to his cabin passengers, " for the love of 
 Heaven, tax your invention to discover some means whereby to get 
 one-half of these men out of the vessel, otherwise it will he impossible 
 that we can sail to-day. I have already proffered to take one-half of 
 them by lot, but they will not hear of it ; and how to manage I am 
 sure I don't know." 
 
 The matter, however, was beyond their depth : the thing seemed 
 utterly impracticable, and the chances of their putting to sea were be- 
 coming fainter and fainter. 
 
 " Bl — t their eyes ! " he at length exclaimed, " the ragged, hungry 
 devils ! If they heard me with decency, I could bear their obstinacy 
 better : but no, they must turn me into ridicule, and break their jests 
 and turn their cursed barbarous grins upon me in my own vessel. I 
 say, boys," he added, proceeding to address them once more — " I say, 
 savages, I have just three observations to make. The first is " 
 
 " Arrah, captain, avourneen, hadn't you betther get upon a stool," 
 said a voice, " an' put a text before it, thin divide it dacently into three 
 halves, an' make a sarmon of it." 
 
 " Captain, you wor intindcd for the Church," added another. " You're 
 the moral ' of a Methodist preacher, if you wor dressed in black." 
 
 " Let him alone," said a third ; " he'd be a jinteel man enough in a 
 wilderness, an' ud make an illigant dancin'-masther to the bears." 
 
 " He's as graceful as a shaved pig on its hind legs, dancin' the 
 ' Baltihorum jig.' " 
 
 The captain's face was literally black with passion : he turned away 
 with a curse, which produced another huzza, and swore that he would 
 rather encounter the Bay of Biscay in a storm than have anything to 
 do with such an unmanageable mob. 
 
 ( " Captain," said a little, shrewd-looking Connaught man, " what ud 
 you be willin' to give anybody, over an' abow his free passage, that 
 ud tell you how to get one half o' them out.''" 
 
 " I'll give him a crown," replied the captain, " together with grog 
 and rations to the eyes : I'll be hanged if I don't." 
 
 " Then I'll do it fwhor you, sir, if you keep your word wit me." 
 
 " Done," said the captain, " it's a bargain, my good fellow, if you 
 accomplish it ; and what's more, I'll consider you a knowing one." 
 
 " I'm a poor Cannaught man, your haner," replied our friend Phil, 
 " bui what's to prevint me thryin' ! Tell thim," he continued, " that 
 you must go ; purtind to be fwhor takin' thim wit you, sir. Put 
 Munshther agin Cannaught, one half an this side, an' the odher an 
 that, to keep the crathur of a ship steady, your haner ; an' fwhin you 
 have thim half an' half, wit a little room betuxt thim, ' Now,' says your 
 haner, ' boys, you're divided into two halves ; if one side kicks the 
 other out o' the ship, I'll bring thecunquircrs." 
 
 ' Model. 
 
PHIL PURCEL, THE PIG-DRIVER. '97 
 
 The captain said not a word in reply to Phil, but immediately 
 ranged the Munster and Connaught men on each side of the deck — a 
 matter which he found little difficulty in accomplishing, for each party, 
 hoping that he intended to take themselves, readily declared their 
 province, and stood together. When they were properly separated, 
 there still remained about forty or fifty persons belonging to neither 
 province ; but, at Phil's suggestion, the captain paired them off to 
 each division, man for man, until they were drawn up into two bodies. 
 
 " Now," said he, "there you stand : let one half of }0u drub the 
 other out of the vessel, and the conquerors shall get their passage." 
 
 Instant was the struggle that ensued for the sake of securing a 
 passage, and from the anxiety to save a shilling, by getting out of 
 Liverpool on that day. The saving of the shilling is, indeed, a con- 
 sideration with Paddy which drives him to the various resources of 
 begging, claiming kindred with his resident countrymen in England, 
 pretended illness, coming to be passed from parish to parish, and all 
 the turnings and shiftings which his reluctance to part with money 
 renders necessary. Another night, therefore, and probably another 
 day in Liverpool would have been attended with expense. This 
 argument prevailed with all : with Munster as well as with Connaught, 
 and they fought accordingly. 
 
 When the attack first commenced each party hoped to be able to 
 expel the other without blows. This plan was soon abandoned. In a 
 few minutes the sticks and fists were busy. Throttling, tugging, cuff- 
 ing, and knockmg down — shouting, hallooing, huzzaing, and yelling 
 gave evident proofs that the captain, in embracing Phil's proposal, had 
 unwittingly applied the match to a mine whose explosion was likely 
 to be attended with disastrous consequences. As the fight became 
 warm, and the struggles more desperate, the hooks and scythes were 
 resorted to ; blood began to flow, and men to fall, disabled and 
 apparently dying. The immense crowd which had now assembled to 
 witness the fight among the Irishmen could not stand tamely by and 
 see so many lives likely to be lost, without calling in the civil authori- 
 ties. A number of constables in a few minutes attended ; but these 
 worthy officers of the civil authorities experienced very uncivil treat- 
 ment from the fists, cudgels, and sickles of botli parties. In fact, they 
 were obliged to get from among the rioters with all possible celerity, 
 and to suggest to the magistrates the necessity of calling in the 
 military. 
 
 In the meantime the battle rose into a furious and bitter struggle 
 for victory. The deck of the vessel was actually slippery with blood, 
 and many were lying in an almost lifeless state. Several were pitched 
 into the hold, and had their legs and arms broken by the fall ; some 
 were tossed over the sides of the vessel, and only saved from drowning 
 by the activity of the sailors ; and not a few of those who had been 
 knocked down in the beginning of the fray were trampled into insensi- 
 bility. 
 
 The Munster men at length gave way ; and their opponents, follow- 
 ing up their advantage, succeeded in driving them to a man out of the 
 
198 THE LTANHAN SHEE. 
 
 vessel just as the military arrived. Fortunately their interference was 
 unnecessary. The ruffianly captain's object was accomplished ; and 
 as no lives were lost, nor any injury more serious than broken bones 
 and flesh-wounds sustained, he got the vessel in readiness, and put to 
 sea. 
 
 Who would not think that the Irish were a nation of miseu, when 
 our readers are informed that all this bloodshed arose from their 
 unwillingness to lose a shilling by remaining in Liverpool another 
 night ? Or who could believe that these very men, on reaching home, 
 and meeting their friends in a fair or market, or in a public-hoase after 
 mass on a Sunday, would sit down and spend, recklessly and foolishly, 
 that very money which in another country they part with as if it were 
 their very heart's blood ? Yet so it is ! Unfortunate Paddy is wiser 
 anywhere than at home, where wisdom, sobriety, and industry are best 
 calculated to promote his own intersts. 
 
 This slight sketch of Phil Purcel we have presented to our readers 
 as a specimen of the low, cunning Connaught man ; and we have only 
 to add that neither the pig-selling scene, nor the battle on the deck of 
 the vessel in Liverpool, is fictitious. On the contrary, we have pur- 
 posely kept the tone of our description of the latter circumstance 
 beneath the reality. Phil, however, is not drawn as a general portrait, 
 i*ut as one of that knavish class of men called "jobbers," a description 
 of swindlers certainly not more common in Ireland than in any other 
 country. We have known Connaught men as honest and honourable 
 as it was possible to be ; yet there is a strong prejudice entertained 
 against them in every other province of Ireland, as is evident by the 
 old adage, " Never trust a Connaught man," 
 
 THE LIANHAN SHEB. 
 
 An Irish Siipersiition. 
 
 NE summer evening Mary Sullivan wa^i sitting at her own 
 well-swept hearth-stone, knitting feet to -i pair of sheep's-grey 
 stockings, for Bartley, her husband. Jt was one of those 
 serene evenings in the month of June, when the decline of day 
 assumes a calmness and repose resembling what we might suppose 
 to have irradiated Eden when our first parent « sat in it before their 
 fall. The beams of the sun shone through the windows in clear 
 shafts of amber light, exhibiting millions of those atoms which float 
 to the naked eye within its mild radiance. The dog lay barking in 
 his dream at her feet, and the grey cat sat purring placidly upon his 
 back, from which even his occasional agitation did not dislodge her. 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy farmer, and niece to the 
 Rev. P'elix O'Rourke ; her kitchen was consequently laige, comfort- 
 
'IIIR LIANHAN SHEE. ^99 
 
 able, and warm. Over where she sat jutted out the " brace," well 
 lined with bacon ; to the right hung a well-scoured salt-box, and to 
 ' he left was the jamb, with its little Gothic paneless window to admit 
 he light. Within it hung several ash rungs, seasoning for flail- 
 jooples, a dozen of eel-skins, and several stripes of horse-skin, as 
 hangings for them. The dresser was a "parfit white," and well 
 _iirnished with the usual appurtenances. Over the door and on the 
 "threshel" were nailed, "for luck," two horse-shoes that had been 
 found by accident. In a little "hole" in the wall, beneath the salt- 
 box, lay a great bottle of holy water to keep the place purified ; and 
 against the cope-stone of the gable, on the outside, grew a large lump 
 of house-leek, as a specific for sore eyes. 
 
 In the corner of the garden were a few stalks of tansy, "to kill the 
 Ihievin' worms in the childhre, the crathurs," together with a little 
 Rosenoble, Solomon's Seal, and Bugloss, each for some medicinal 
 purpose. The "lime wather" Mrs. Sullivan could make herself, and 
 :he "bog bane" for the link roe, or heart-burn, grew in their own 
 meadow-drain ; so that, in fact, she had within her reach a very 
 decent pharmacopoeia, perhaps as harmless as that of the profession 
 itself. Lying on the top of the salt-box was a bunch of fairy flax, and 
 sewed in the folds of her own scapular was the dust of what had once 
 been a four-leafed shamrock, an invaluable specific " for seein' the 
 good people," if they happened to come within the bounds of vision. 
 Over the door in the inside, over the beds, and over the cattle in the 
 outhouses, were placed branches of withered palm that had been 
 consecrated by the priest on Palm Sunday ; and when the cows 
 happened to calve, this good woman tied, with her own hands, a 
 woollen thread about their tails, to prevent them from being over- 
 looked by evil eyes, or elf-shot by the fairies, who seem to possess a 
 peculiar power over females of every species during the season of 
 parturition. It is unnecessary to mention the variety of charms 
 which she possessed for that obsolete malady the colick, for tooth- 
 aches, headaches, or for removing warts, and taking motes out of the 
 eyes ; let it suffice to inform our readers that she was well stocked 
 with them ; and that, in addition to this, she, together with her 
 husband, drank a potion made up and administered by a herb- 
 doctor, for preventing for ever the slightest misunderstanding or \, 
 quarrel between man and wife. Whether it produced this desirable 
 object or not our readers may conjecture, when we add that the 
 herb-doctor, after having taken a very liberal advantage of their 
 generosity, was immediately compelled to disappear from the neigh- 
 bourhood, in order to avoid meeting with Bartley, who had a sharp 
 look out for him, not exactly on his own account, but "in regard," he 
 said, " that if had no effect upon Mary, at all at all ; " whilst Mary, 
 on the other nand, admitted its efficacy upon herself, but maintained 
 " that Bartley was worse nor ever afther it." 
 
 Such was Mary Sullivan, as she sat at her own hearth, quite alone, 
 engaged as we have represented her. What she may have been 
 meditating on we cannot pretend to ascertain ; but after some time 
 
THE LIANHAN SIIEE. 
 
 5.*ie looked sharply into the " backstone," or hob, with an air of 
 anxiety and alarm. By-and-by she suspended her knitting, and 
 listened with much earnestness, leaning her right ear over to the hob, 
 from whence the sounds to which she paid such deep attention pro- 
 ceeded. At length she crossed herself devoutly, and exclaimed, 
 " Queen of saints about us I — is it back yees are? Well, surr there's 
 no use in talkin', bekase they say you know what's said of you, or to 
 you — an' we may as well spake yees fair. Hem — musha, yees are 
 welcome back, crickets, avourneenee ! I hope that, not like the last 
 visit ye ped us, yees are comin' for luck now ! Moolyeen^ died, any- 
 way, soon afthcr your other kailyce," ye crathurs, ye. Here's the bread, 
 an' the salt, an' the male for yees, an' we wish yees well. Eh .'' — saints 
 above, if it isn't listcnin' they are jist like a Christhen ! Wurrah, 
 but yees are the wise an' the quare crathurs all out." 
 
 She then shook a little holy water over the hob, and muttered to 
 herself an Irish charm or prayer against the evils which crickets are 
 often supposed by the peasantry to bring with them, and requested, 
 still in the words of the charm, that their presence might, on that 
 occasion, rather be a presage of good fortune to man and beast 
 belonging to her. 
 
 " There now, ye dJionhans ye, sure ye can't say that ye're ill 
 thratcd here, anyhow, or ever was mocked or made game of in the 
 same family. You have got your hansel, an' full an' plenty of it ; 
 hopin' at the same time that you'll have no rason in life to cut our 
 best clothes from rivinge. Sure an' I didn't desarve to have my brave 
 stuff long body cut an' riddled the way it was the last time yees wor 
 here, an' only bekase little Barny, that has but the sinse of a gorsoon, 
 tould yees in a joke to pack off wid yourselves somewhere else. 
 Musha, never heed what the likes of him says ; sure he's but a candy,'' 
 that doesn't mane ill, only the bit o' divarsion wid yees." 
 
 She then resumed her knitting, occasionally stopping, as she changed 
 her needles, to listen, with her ear set, as if she wished to augur, from 
 the nature of their chirping, whether they came for good or evil. This, 
 however, seemed to be beyond her faculty of translating their language ; 
 for after sagely shaking her head two or three times, she knit more 
 busily than before. 
 
 At this moment the shadow of a person passing the house darkened 
 the window opposite which she sat, and immediately a tall female, of 
 a wild dress and aspect, entered the kitchen. 
 
 " Gho Dianhy dhca g}iiid,a ban chohrl the blessin' o' goodne-«s upon 
 you,dacent woman," said Mrs. Sullivan, addressing her in those kindly 
 phrases s") peculiar to the Irish language. 
 
 Instead of making her any reply, however, the woman, whose eye 
 glistened with a wild depth of meaning, exclaimed in low tones, appa- 
 rently of much anguish, " Hushf, /lusht, dhcrujn! husht, husht, I say 
 — let me alone — I will do it — will you husht.-' I will, I say— I will — 
 there now — that's it — be quiet, an' I will do it — be Cfiiiet ! " and as she 
 
 ' A cow without horns. » Short visit. ' A little boy. 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 thus spoke, she tirned her face back over her left shoulder, as if some 
 invisible being dogged her steps, and stood bending over her. 
 
 " Gho niauhy a/iea ghiid,a ban choJir^dher/uini areesht ! the bless. n' 
 o' God on you, honest woman, I say again," said Mrs. Sullivan, 
 repeating that sacred form of salutation with which the peasantry 
 address each other. " 'Tis a fine evenin', honest woman, glory be to 
 Him that sent the same, and amin ! If it was cowld, I'd be a.xin' you 
 to draw your chair into the fire ; but, anyway, won't you sit down .?" 
 
 As she ceased speaking the piercing eye of the strange woman 
 became riveted on her with a glare which, whilst it startled Mrs. 
 SuUivan, seemed full of an agony that almost abstracted her from 
 external life. It was not, however, so wholly absorbing as to prevent 
 it from expressing a marked interest, whether for good or evil, in the 
 woman who addressed her so hospitably. 
 
 " Husht, now — husht," she said, as if aside — " husht, won't you — 
 sure I may speak iJie thing to her— you said it — there now, husht ! " 
 And then fastening her dark eyes on Mrs. Sullivan, she smiled bitterly 
 and mysteriously. 
 
 " I know you well," she said, without, however, returning the blessing 
 contained in the usual reply to Mrs. Sullivan's salutation — " I know 
 you well, Mary Sullivan— husht, now, husht— yes, I know you well, and 
 the power of all that you carry about you ; but you'd be better than 
 you are — and that's well enough nozo—xl you had sense to know — ah, 
 ah, ah ! — what's this ! " she exclaimed abruptly, with three distinct 
 shrieks, that seemed to be produced by sensations of sharp and piercing 
 agony. 
 
 'In the name of goodness, what's over you, honest woman.'"' in- 
 quired Mrs. Sullivan, as she started from her chair, and ran to her in 
 a state of alarm, bordering on terror. " Is it sick you are .'"' 
 
 The woman's face had got haggard, and its features distorted ; but 
 in a few minutes they resumed their peculiar expression of settled 
 wildness and mystery. " Sick ! " she replied, licking her parched lips, 
 " aiuirck, awi?rk, look ! look !" and she pointed, with a shudder that 
 almost convulsed her whole frame, to a lump that rose on her shoulders : 
 this, be it wha'. it might, was covered with a red cloa'K, closely pinned 
 and tied with great caution about her body. " 'Tis here !— I have it ! " 
 
 " Blessed mother ! '' exclaimed I\Irs. Sullivan, tottering over to her 
 chair, as finished a picture of horror as the eye could witness — "this 
 day's Friday ; the saints stand betwixt me an' all harm ! Oh, holy 
 .Mary, protect me ! Nhanini an airh" &c., and she forthwith pro- 
 ceeded to bless herself, which she did thirteen times in honour of the 
 blessed Virgrn and the twelve Apostles. 
 
 '' Ay, it's as you see ! " replied the stranger, bitterly. " It is here — 
 husht, now— husht, I say — I will say the thing to her, mayn't I } Ay, 
 indeed, I^Iary Sullivan, 'tis with me always— always. Well, well, no, I 
 won't, I won't — easy — oh, blessed saints, easy, and I won't ! " 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Sullivan had uncorked her bottle of holy 
 water, and plentifully bedewed herself with it, as a preservative against 
 thii mysterious woman and her dreadful secret. 
 
THE UAMHAN SHEE. 
 
 "Blessed mother above!" she ejaculated, " the liniihan Shet!" 
 And as she spoke, with the holy water in the palm of her hand, she 
 advanced crutiously, and with great terror, to throw it upon the 
 stranger and the unearthly thing she bore. 
 
 " Don't attempt it !" shouted the other, in tones of mingled fierce- 
 ness and terror ; " do you want to give me pain without keeping _y^//;- 
 bt'lf anything at all safer ? Don't you know it doesn't care about you. 
 holy water ? But I'd suffer for it, an' perhaps so would you." 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan, terrified by the agitated looks of the woman, drew 
 back with affright, and threw the holy water with which she intended 
 fo purify the other on her own person. 
 
 " Why, thin, you lost crathur, who or what are you at all ? — don't, 
 don't — for the sake of all the saints and angels of heaven, don't come 
 next or near me — keep your distance — but what are you, or how did 
 you come to get that ' good thing ' you carry about wid you ?" 
 
 " Ay, indeed !" replied the woman bitterly, " as if I would or could 
 tell you that ! 1 say, you woman, you're doing what's not right in 
 asking me a question you ought not let cross your lips — look to your- 
 self, and what's over you." 
 
 The simple woman, thinking her meaning literal, almost leaped off 
 her seat with terror, and turned up her eyes to ascertain whether cr 
 not any dreadful appearance had approached her, or hung over her 
 where she sat. 
 
 " Woman," said she, " I spoke you kind an' fair, an' I wish you well 
 — but " 
 
 " But what } " replied the other — and her eyes kindled into deep and 
 profound excitement, apparently upon very slight grounds. 
 
 " Why — hem — nothin' at all sure, only " 
 
 " Only what ? " asked the stranger, with a face of anguish that 
 seemed to torture every feature out of its proper lineaments. 
 
 " Dacent woman," said Mrs. Sullivan, whilst the hair began to stand 
 with terror upon her head, " sure it's no wondher in life that I'm in a 
 perplexity, whin Liatihan Shce'xs undher the one roof wid me. 'Tisn't 
 that I want to know anything at all about it — the dear forbid I should; 
 but I never hard of a person bein' tormented wid it as you sre. 1 always 
 iiiod to hear the people say that it thrated its friends well." 
 
 " Husht !" said the woman, looking wildly over her shoulder, " I'll 
 not tell : it's on myself I'll leave the blame ! Why, will you never pity 
 me .'' Am I to be night and day tormented? Oh, you're wicked and 
 auel for no reason ! " 
 
 ' Thry," said Mrs. Sullivan, " an' bless yourself ; call on God." 
 
 ** Ah ! " shouted the other, " are you going to get me killed ? " and 
 as she uttered the words a spasmodic working which nust have occa- 
 sioned great pain, even to torture, became audible in her throat ; her 
 bosom heaved up and down, and her head was bent repeatedly on her 
 breast, as if by force. 
 
 '• Don't mention that name," said she, " in my presence, except you 
 mean to drive me to utter distraction. I mean," she continued, aftsr 
 considerable effort to recover her former tone and manner — " hear me 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 203 
 
 with attention — I mean, woman — you, Mary Sullivan — that if yoa 
 mention that holy name, you might as well keep plunging sharp knives 
 into my heart ! Husht ! peace to me for one minute, tormentor ! 
 Spare me something ; I'm in your power !" 
 
 " Will you ate anything ?" said ^\lrs. Sullivan ; " poor crathur, you 
 look like hunger an' distress ; there's enough in the house, blessed be 
 them that sent it ! an' you had betther ihry an' take some nourishment, 
 anyway," and she raised her eyes in a silent prayer of relief and ease 
 for the unhappy woman, whose unhallowed associations had, in her 
 opinion, sealed her doom. 
 
 " Will I ? — will I ? — oh ! " she replied, " may you never know misery 
 for offering it ! Oh, bring me something — some refreshment — some 
 food — for I'm dying with hunger." 
 
 Airs. Sullivan, who, w th all her superstition, was remarkable for 
 charity and benevolence, immediately placed food and drink before 
 her, which the stranger absolutely devoured — taking care occasionally 
 to secrete under the protuberance which appeared behind her neck a 
 portion of what she ate. This, however, she did, not by stealth, but 
 openly ; merely taking means to prevent the concealed thing from 
 being, by any possible accident, discovered. 
 
 When the craving of hunger was satisfied, she appeared to suffer 
 less from the persecution of her tormentor than before ; whether it 
 was, as Mrs. Sullivan thought, that the food with which she plied it 
 appeased in some degree its irritability, or lessened that of the stranger, 
 it was difficult to say ; at all events, she became more composed ; her 
 eyes resumed somewhat of a natural expression ; each sharp, ferocious 
 glare, which shot from them with such intense and rapid flashes, par- 
 tially disappeared ; her knit brows dilated, and part of a forehead which 
 had once been capacious and handsome lost the contractions which 
 deformed it by deep wrmkles. Altogether the change was evident, and 
 very much relieved Mrs. Sullivan, who could not avoid observing it. 
 
 " It's not that I care much about it, if you'd think it not right o' me, 
 but it's odd enough for you to keep the lower part of your face muffled 
 up in that black cloth, an' then your forehead, too, is covered down on 
 your face a bit ? If they're part of the bargain " — and she shuddered 
 at the thought — " between you an' anything that's not good — hem ! — 
 I think you'd do well to throw thim off o' you, an' turn to thim that 
 can protect you from everything that's bad. Now, a scapular would 
 keep all the divils in hell from one ; an' if you'd " 
 
 On looking at the stranger she hesitated, for the wild expression of 
 her eyes began to return. 
 
 " Don't begin my punishment again," replied the woman ; " make 
 
 no alius don't make mention in my presence of anything that's 
 
 good. Husht — husht — it's beginning — easy now — easy ! No," said 
 she, " I came to tell you that only for my breaking a vow I made to this 
 thing upon me, I'd be happy instead of miserable with it. I say, it's a 
 good thing to have, if the person will use this bottle," she added, pro- 
 ducing one, " as I will direct them." 
 
 " I wouldn't wish, for my part," replied Mrs, Sullivan, '* to have any- 
 
^ot THE LI ANNAN SHEE. 
 
 thing to do wid it — neither act nor part ; " and she crossed herself de- 
 voutly on contemplating such an unholy alliance as that at which her 
 companion hinted. 
 
 " Mary Sullivan," replied the other, " I can put good fortune and 
 happiness in the way ot you and yours. It is for you the good is in- 
 tended ; if you don't get both, no other can," and her eyes k:ind.£d as 
 she spoke like those of the Pythoness in the moment of inspiration. 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan looked at her with awe, fear, and a strong mixture of 
 curiosity ; she had often heard that the Lianhan Slice had, through 
 means of the person to whom it was bound, conferred wealth upon 
 several, although it could never render this important service to those 
 who exercised direct authority over it. She, therefore, experienced 
 something like a conflict between her fears and a love of that wealth 
 the possession of which was so plainly intimated to her. 
 
 " '1 he money," said she, " would be one thing, but to have the Lian- 
 han Shee planted over a body's shouldher — och ! the saints preserve 
 us ! — why, if it could be managed widout havin' act or part wid tJiat 
 thing, people would do anything in rason an' fairity." 
 
 " You have this day been kind to me," replied the woman, " and 
 that's what 1 can't say of many — dear help me ! — husht ! Every door 
 is shut in my face ! Does not every cheek get pale when 1 am seen ? 
 If I meet a fellow-creature on the road, they turn into the field to avoid 
 me : if I ask for food, it's to a deaf ear I speak ; if I am thirsty, they 
 send me to the river. What house would shelter me ? In cold, in 
 hunger, in dhruth, in storm, and in tempest, I am alone and un- 
 friended, hated, feared, an' avoided ; starving in the winter's cold, and 
 burning in the summer's heat. All this is my fate here ; and — oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! — have mercy, tormentor — have mercy ! I will not lift my 
 thoughts there — I'll keep the paction — but spare me nozv ! " 
 
 She turned round as she spoke, seeming to follow an invisible 
 object, or, perhaps, attempting to get a more complete view of the 
 mysterious being which exercised such a terrible and painful influence 
 over her. Mrs. Sullivan, also, kept her eye fixed upon the lump, and 
 actually believed that she saw it move. Fear of incurring the dis- 
 pleasure of what it contained, and a superstitious reluctance harshly 
 to thrust a person from her door who had eaten of her food, prevented 
 her from desiring the woman to depart. 
 
 " In the name of goodness," she replied, " I will have nothing to do 
 wid your gift. Providence, blessed be his name, has done well for me 
 an' mine ; and it mightn't be right to go beyant what it has pleased 
 him to give me." 
 
 " A rational sentiment ! — 1 mean there's good sense in what you 
 say," answered the stranger : " but you need not be afraid," and she 
 accompanied the expression by holding up the bottle and kneeling. 
 " Now," she added, " listen to me, and judge for yourself if what I say, 
 when I swear it, can be a lie." She then proceeded to utter oaths of 
 the most solemn nature, the purport of which was Xo assure Mrs. 
 Sullivan that drinking of the bottle would be attended with no danger. 
 
 " You see this httle bottle : drink it. Oh, for my sake and your own, 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 205 
 
 drink it ; it will give wealth without end to you, and to all belonging 
 to you. Take one half of it before sunrise, and the other half when 
 he goes down. You must stand while drinking it with your face to 
 the east in the morning ; and at night to the west. Will you promise 
 to do this ? " 
 
 "How would drinkin' the bottle get me money .'"' inquired Mrs. 
 Sullivan, who certainly felt a strong tendency of heart to the wealth. 
 
 " That 1 can't tell now, nor would you understand x even if I 
 could ; but you will know all when what I say is complied with." 
 
 " Keep your bottle, dacent woman. I wash my hands out of it : the 
 saints above guard me from the timptation ! I'm sure it's not right, 
 for as I'm a sinner, 'tis gettin' stronger every minute widin me ! 
 Keep it ; I'm loth to bid anyone that ett o' my bread to go from my 
 hearth, but if you go, I'll make it worth your while. Saints above, 
 what's comin'over me. In my whole life I never had such a hankerin' 
 afther money ! Well, well, but it's quare entirely ! " 
 
 " Will you drink it.'"' asked her companion. " If it does hurt or 
 harm to you or yours, or anything but good, may what is hanging over 
 me be fulfilled ! " and she extended a thin but, considering her years, 
 not ungraceful arm, in the act of holding out the bottle to her kind 
 entertainer. 
 
 " For the sake of all that's good and gracious, take it without scruple 
 — it is not hurtful; a child might drink every drop that's in it. Oh, for 
 the sake of all you love, and of all that love you, take it ! " and as she 
 urged her, the tears streamed down her cheeks. 
 
 '• No, no," replied Mrs. Sullivan, " it'll never cross my lips ; not if it 
 made me as rich as ould Henderson, that airs his guineas in the sun, 
 for fraid they'd get light by lyin' past." 
 
 " I entreat you to take it ! " said the strange woman. 
 
 " Never, never ! — once for all — I say I won't ; so spare your 
 breath." 
 
 The firmness of the good housewife was not, in fact, to be shaken ; 
 so, after exhausting all the motives and arguments with which she 
 could urge the accomplishment of her design, the strange woman, 
 having again put the bottle into her bosom, prepared to depart. 
 
 She had now once more become calm, and resumed her seat with 
 the languid air of one who has suffered much exhaustion and excite- 
 ment. She put her hand upon her forehead for a few moments, as if 
 collecting her faculties, or endeavouring to remember the purport of 
 their previous conversation. A slight moisture had broken through 
 her skin, and altogether, notwithstanding her avowed criminality in 
 entering into an unholy bond, she appeared an object of deep com- 
 passion. 
 
 In a moment her manner changed again, and her eyes blazed out 
 once more, as she asked her alarmed hostess : 
 
 "Again, Mary Sullivan, will you take the gift that I have it in my 
 power to give you ? aye or no ? Speak, poor mortal, if you know what 
 is for your own good 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Sullivan's fears, however, had overcome her love of money, 
 
^"'^^ THE UANHAN' SHEE. 
 
 particularly as she thoujjht that wealth obtained in such a manner 
 could not prosper ; her only objection being to the means of acquiring 
 it. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the stranger, " am I doomed never to meet with anvone 
 who will take the promise off me by drinking of this bottle ? Oh ! 
 but I am unhappy ! What it is to fear — ah ! ah ! — and keep his 
 ':ommandments. Had /done so in my youthful time, I wouldn't now 
 — ah— merciful mother, is there no relief? kill me, tormentor ; kill me 
 outright, for surely the pangs of hereafter cannot be greater than those 
 you now make me suffer. Woman," said she, and her muscles stood 
 out in extraordinar}' energ)^ — "woman, Mary Sullivan — ay, if you 
 should kill me — blast me — where I stand, I will say the word — woman 
 
 — you have daughters — teach them— to fear " Having got so far, 
 
 she stopped — her bosom heaved up and down — her frame shook 
 dreadfully — her eyeballs became lurid and fiery — her hands were 
 clenched, and the spasmodic throes of inward convulsion worked the 
 white froth up to her mouth ; at length she suddenly became like a 
 statue, with this wild supernatural expression intense upon her, and 
 with an awful calmness, by far more dreadful than excitement could 
 be, concluded by pronouncing, in deep, husky tones, the name of God. 
 Having accomplished this with such a powerful struggle, she turned 
 round with pale despair in her countenance and manner, and with 
 streaming eyes slowly departed, leaving Mrs. Sullivan in a situation 
 not at all to be envied. 
 
 In a short time the other members of the family, who had been out 
 at their evening employments, returned. Bartley, her husband, having 
 entered somewhat sooner than his three daughters from milking, was 
 the first to come in ; presently the girls followed, and in a few minutes 
 they sat down to supper, together with the servants, who dropped in 
 one by one, after the toil of the day. On placing themselves alaout the 
 table, Bartley as usual took his seat at the head ; but Mrs. Sullivan, 
 instead of occupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncommon 
 agitation. Every two or three minutes she would cross herself de- 
 voutly, and mutter such prayers against spiritual influences of an evil 
 nature as she could compose herself to remember. 
 
 " Thin why don't you come to your supper, Mary," said the husband, 
 " while the sovvans are warm .'' Brave and thick they are this night, 
 anyway." 
 
 His wife was silent, for so strong a hold had the strange woman and 
 her appalling secret upon her mind, that it was not till he repeated his 
 question three or four times — raising his head with surprise, and ask- 
 iiig, " Eh, thin, Mary, what's come over you — is it unwell you are ?" — 
 that she noticed what he sa.id. 
 
 "Supper! "she exclaimed, " unwell ! 'tis a good right I'd have \.n. 
 be unwell, even if I svas, which I am not — that is to ^ay, unwell — but 
 I'm all through other — I hope nothin' bad will happen, anyway. Feel 
 my face, Nannie," she added, addressing one of her daughters, "it's 
 as cowld an' v/et as a limestone — ay, an' if you fcund me a corpse 
 before you, it wouldn't beat all strange," 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 207 
 
 There was a general pause at the seriousness of this intimation. 
 The husband rose from his supper, and went up to the hearth where 
 she sat. 
 
 " Turn round to the light," said he ; " why, Mary dear, in the name 
 of wondher, what ails you ? for you're like a corpse sure enough. Can't 
 you tell us what has happened, or what put you in such a state .'' Why, 
 childhre, the covvld sweat's teemin' off her 1 '' 
 
 The poor woman, unable to sustain the shock produced by her in 
 terview with the stranger, found herself getting more weak, and 
 requested a drink of water ; but before it could be put to her lips, she 
 laid her head upon the back of the chair and fainted. Grief and 
 uproar and confusion followed this alarming incident. The presence 
 of mind, so necessary on such occasions, was wholly lost ; one ran 
 here, and another there, all jostling against each other, without being 
 V.00I enough to render her proper assistance. The daughters were in 
 i=;ars, and Bartley himself was dreadfully shocked by seeing his wife 
 apparently lifeless before him. 
 
 She soon recovered, however, and relieved them from the appre- 
 hension of her death, which they thought had actually taken place. 
 " Mary," said her husband, " something quare entirely has happened, 
 or you wouldn't be in this state ! " 
 
 " Did any of you see a strange woman lavin' the house a minute or 
 two before yees came in ? " she inquired. 
 
 " No," they replied, " not a stim of anyone did we see." 
 
 " Wurrah dheelish ! No? — now is it possible yees didn't?" She 
 then described her, but all declared they had seen no such person. 
 
 " Bartley, whisper," said she, and beckoning him over to her, in few 
 words she revealed the secret. The husband grew pale and crossed 
 himself. " Mother of Saints ! childhre," said he, " a Lianhan SJiee!" 
 The words were no sooner uttered than every countenance assumed 
 the pallidness of death : and every right hand was raised in the act 
 of blessing the person and crossing the forehead. " The Lianhan 
 Shee I " all exclaimed in fear and horror. " This day's Friday, God 
 betwixt us an' harm ! " 
 
 It was now after dusk, and the hour had already deepened into the 
 darkness of a calm, moonless summer night ; the hearth, therefore, 
 in a short time, became surrounded by a circle consisting of every 
 person in the house ; the door was closed and securely bolted ; a 
 struggle for the safest seat took place ; and to Bartley's shame be it 
 spoken, he lodged himself on the hob within the jamb, as the most 
 distant situation from the fearful being known as the Lianhan Shee. 
 The recent terror, however, brooded over them all ; their topic of con- 
 versation was the mysterious visit, of which Mrs. Sullivan gave a 
 painfully accurate detail ; whilst every ear of those who composed her 
 audience was set, and every single hair of their heads bristled up, as 
 if awakened into distinct life by the story. Bartley looked into the fire 
 soberly, except when the cat, in prowling about the dresser, electrified 
 him into a start of fear, which sensation went round every link of the 
 living chain about the hearth. 
 
2o8 THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 The next day the story spread through the whole parish accumu- 
 lating in interest and incident as it went. Where it received the 
 touches, embellishments, and emendations with which it was amplified, 
 it would be difficult to say ; eveiyone told it, forsooth, exactly as he 
 heard it from another ; but, indeed, it is not improbable that those 
 through whom it passed were unconscious of the additions it had 
 received at their hands. It is not unreasonable to suppose that 
 imagination in such cases often colours highly without a premeditated 
 design of falsehood. Fear and dread, however, accompanied its 
 progress ; such families as had neglected to keep holy water in their 
 houses borrowed some from their neighbours ; every old prayer which 
 had become rusty from disuse was brightened up ; charms were hung 
 about the necks of cattle, and gospels about those of children ; crosses 
 were placed over the doors and windows ; no unclean water was 
 thrown out before sunrise or after dusk ; 
 
 •* E'en those prayed now who never prayed before, 
 And those who always prayed still prayed the more." 
 
 The inscrutable woman who caused such general dismay in the 
 parish was an object of much pity. Avoided, feared, and detested, 
 she could find no rest for her weary feet, nor any shelter for her un- 
 protected head. If she was seen approaching a house, the door and 
 windows were immediately closed against her; if met on the way, she 
 was avoided as a pestilence. How she lived no one could tell, for 
 none would permit themselves to know. It was asserted that she 
 existed without meat or drink, and that she was doomed to remain 
 possessed of life, the prey of hunger and thirst, until she could get 
 some one weak enough to break the spell by drinking her hellish 
 draught, to taste which, they said, would be to change places with 
 herself and assume her despair and misery. 
 
 There had lived in the country, about six months before her appear- 
 ance in it, a man named Stephenson. He was unmarried, and the 
 last of his family. This person led a solitary and secluded life, 
 exhibiting during the last years of his existence strong symptoms of 
 eccentricity, which, for some months before his death, assumed a 
 character of unquestionable deraetfement. He was found one morning 
 hanging by a halter in his own stable, where he had, under the influence 
 of his malady, committed suicide. At this time the public press had 
 not, as now, familiarised the minds of the people to that dreadful crime, 
 and it was consequently looked upon tlien with an intensity of horror 
 of which we can scarcely entertain any adequate notion. His farm 
 remained unoccupied, for while an acre of land could be obtained in 
 any other quarter no man would enter upon such unhallowed premises. 
 The house was locked up, and it was currently reported that Stephen- 
 son and the devil each night repeated the hanging scene in the stable ; 
 and that when the former was committing the " hopeless sin," the 
 Tialter slipped several times from the beam of the stable loft, when 
 Satan came, in the shape of a dark-complexioned man with a hollow 
 voice, and secured the rope until Stephenson's end was accomplished. 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 209 
 
 In this stable did the wanderer take up her residence at night ; and 
 when we consider the belief of the people in the night-scenes which 
 occurred in it, we need not be surprised at the new feature of horror 
 which this circumstance superadded to her character. Her presence 
 and appearance in the parish were dreadful ; a public outcry was soon 
 raised against her, which, were it not from fear of her power over their 
 lives and cattle, would have ended in her death. None, however, had 
 courage to grapple with her, or to attempt expelling her by violence, 
 lest a signal vengeance might be taken on any who dared to injure a 
 woman that could call in the terrible aid of the Lianhan Shee. 
 
 In this state of feeling they applied to the parish priest, who, on 
 hearing the marvellous stories related concerning her, and on question- 
 ing each man closely upon his authority, could perceive that, like most 
 other reports, they were to be traced principally to the imagination 
 and fears of the people. He ascertained, how<n'er, enough from 
 Bartley Sullivan to justify a belief that there was something certainly 
 uncommon about the woman ; and being of a cold, phlegmatic dis- 
 position, with some humour, he desired them to go home, if they were 
 wMse — he shook his head mysteriously as he spoke — " and do the 
 
 woman no injury, if they didn't wish" and with this abrupt hint he 
 
 sent them about their business. 
 
 Thif;^ ifiCACver, did not satisfy them. In the same parish lived a 
 suspended priest, called Father Philip O'Dallaghy, who supported 
 himself, as most of them do, by curing certain diseases of the people — 
 miraculously ! He had no other means of subsistence, nor, indeed, 
 did he seem strongly devoted to life, or to the pleasures it afforded. 
 He was not addicted to those intemperate habits which characterise 
 " blessed priests " in general ; spirits he never tasted, nor any food 
 that could be termed a luxury, or even a comfort. His communion 
 with the people was brief and marked by a tone, of severe, contemptu- 
 ous misanthropy. He seldom stirred abroad except during morning, 
 or in the evening twilight, when he might be seen gliding amidst the 
 coming darkness like a dissatisfied spirit. His life was an austere 
 one, and his devotional practices were said to be of the most remorse- 
 ful character. Such a man, in fact, was calculated to hold a powerful 
 sway over the prejudices and superstitions of the people. This was 
 true. His power was considered almost unlimited, and his life one 
 that would not disgrace the highest saint in the calendar. There were 
 not wanting some persons in the parish who hinted that Father Felix 
 O'Rourke, the parish priest, was himself rather reluctant to incur the 
 displeasure, or challenge the power of the Lianhan Shce^ by driving 
 its victim out of the parish. The opinion of these person was, in its 
 distinct, unvarnished reality, that Father Felix absolutely showed the 
 white feather on this critical occasion — that he became shy, and 
 begged leave to decline being introduced to this intractable pair — 
 seeming to intimate that he did not at all relish adding them to the 
 stock of his acquaintances. 
 
 Father Philip they considered as a decided contrast to him on this 
 point. His stern and severe manner, rugged, and when occasion 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 demanded, daring, they believed suitable to the qualities requis'te for 
 sustaining such an interview. They accordingly waited on him ; and 
 after Bartley and his friends had given as faithful a report of the 
 circumstances as, considering all things, could be expected, he told 
 Bartley he would hear from Mrs. Sullivan's own lips the authentic 
 narrative. This was quite satisfactory, and what was expected from 
 him. As for himself, he appeared to take no particular interest in the 
 matter, further than that of allaying the ferment and alarm which had 
 spread through the parish. 
 
 " Plase your reverence," said Bartley, " she came in to Mary, and 
 she alone in the house, and for the matther o' that, I believe she laid 
 hands upon her, and tossed and tumbled the crathur, and she but a 
 sickly woman, thi'ough the four corners of the house. Not that Mary 
 lets an so much, but I know from her way when she spakes about her 
 that it's thruth, your reverence." 
 
 " But didn't the Lianhan Shec," said one of them, " put a sharp- 
 pointed knife to her breast, wid a divilish intintion of makin' her give 
 the best of atin' an' dhrinkin' the house afforded .-" " 
 
 " She got the victuals, to a sartinty," replied Bartley, " and ' over- 
 looked ' my woman for her pains ; for she's not the picture of herself 
 since." 
 
 Everyone now told some magnified and terrible circumstance illus- 
 trating the formidable power of the Lianhan Shee. 
 
 When they had finished, the sarcastic lip of the priest curled into an 
 expression of irony and contempt ; his brow, which was naturally 
 black and heavy, darkened ; and a keen, but rather ferocious-looking 
 eye, shot forth a glance which, while it intimated disdain for those to 
 whom it was directed, spoke also of a dark and troubled spirit in him- 
 self. The man seemed to brook with scorn the degrading situation of a 
 religious quack, to which some uncontrollable destiny had doomed him. 
 
 " I shall see your wife to-morrow," said he to Bartley ; " and after 
 hearing the plain account of what happened, I will consider what is 
 best to be done with this dark, perhaps unhappy, perhaps guilty 
 character ; but whether dark, or unhappy, or guilty, I, for one, should 
 not, and will not, avoid her. Go, and bring me word to-morrow 
 evening, when I can see her on the following day. Begone ! " 
 
 When they withdrew, Father Philip paced his room for some time 
 in silence and anxiety. 
 
 " Ay," said he, " wretches ! sunk in the grossest superstition and 
 ignorance, and yet, perhaps, happier in your degradation than those 
 who, in the pride of knowledge, can only look back upon a life of 
 crime and misery. What is a sceptic? What is an infidel.'' Men 
 who, when they will not submit to moral restraint, harden themselves 
 into scepticism and infidelity, until, in the headlong career of guilt, 
 that which was first adopted to lull the outcry of conscience, is sup- 
 ported by the pretended pride of principle. Principle in a sceptic I 
 Hollow and devilish lie ! Would /have plunged into scepticism had 
 I not first violated the moral sanctions of religion ? Never. I became 
 an infidel because I first became a villain ! Writhing nnder a load of 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 guilt, that which I wished might be true I soon forced myself to 
 think true : and now " — he here clenched his hands and groaned — 
 " now — ay, now — and hereafter — oh, that hereafter ! Why can I not 
 shake the thoughts of it from my conscience ? Religion ! Chris- 
 tianity ! With all the hardness of an infidel's heart, I feel your truth ; 
 because, if every man were the villain that infidelity would make him, 
 then, indeed, might every man curse God for the existence bestoweo 
 upon him — ^as I would, but dare not do. Yet why can I not believe. 
 Alas ! why should God accept an unrepentant heart ? Am I not a 
 hypocrite, mocking Him by a guilty pretension to His power, and 
 leading the dark into thicker darkness 1 Then these hands — blood \ 
 — broken vows — ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, go — let misery have its laugh, 
 like the light that breaks from the thunder cloud. Prefer Voltaire to 
 Christ ; sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind, as I have done — ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! Swim, world — swim about me ! I have lost the ways of 
 Providence, and am dark ! She awaits me : but I broke the chain 
 that galled us : yet it still rankles — still rankles ! " 
 
 The unhappy man threw himself into a chair in a paroxysm of 
 frenzied agony. For more than an hour he sat in the same posture, 
 until he became gradually hardened into a stiff, lethargic insensibility, 
 callous and impervious to feeling, reason, or religion — an awful tran- 
 sition from a visitation of conscience so terrible as that which he had 
 just suffered. At length he arose, and by walking moodily about, 
 relapsed into his usual gloomy and restless character. 
 
 W^hen Bartley went home, he communicated to his wife Father 
 Philip's intention of calling on the following day, to hear a correct 
 account of the Lianhan Shee. 
 
 " Why, thin," said she, " I'm glad of it, for I intinded myself to go 
 to him, anyway, to get my new scapular consecrated. How-an-ever, 
 as he's to come, I'll get a set of gospels for the boys an' girls, an' he 
 can consecrate all when his hand's in. Aroon, Bartley, they say that 
 man's so holy that he can do anything — ay, melt a body off the face 
 o' the earth, like snow off of a ditch. Dear me, but the power they 
 have is strange, all out ! " 
 
 " There's no use in gettin' him anything to ate or dhrink," replied 
 Bartley ; " he wouldn't take a glass o' whisky once in seven years. 
 Throth, myself thinks he's a little too dhry ; sure he might be holy 
 enough, and yet take a sup of an odd time. There's Father Felix, 
 an' though we all know he's far from bein' so blessed a man as he is, 
 yet he has friendship and neighbourliness in him, an' never refuses a 
 glass in rason." 
 
 " But do you know what I was tould about Father Philip, Bartley ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you that afther I hear it, Mary, my woman ; you won't 
 expect me to tell what I don't know ? — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Behave, Bartley, an' quit yourjokin' now, at all evints ; keep it till 
 we're talkin' of somethin' else, an' don't let us be committin' sin, maybe, 
 while we're spakin' of what we're spakin' about ; but they say it's as 
 thrue as the sun to the dial : — the Lint afore last it was — he never 
 tasted mate or dhrink durin' the whole seven weeks ! Oh, you 
 
THE LIANHAl^ SHEE. 
 
 needn't stare ! it's well known by thim that has as much sirvje as you 
 — no, not so much as you'd carry on the point o' this knittin' needle, 
 Well, sure, the housekeeper an' the two sarvants wondhered — faix, 
 they couldn't do less— an' took it into their heads to watch him closely ; 
 an' what do you think — blessed be all the saints above ! — what do you 
 think they seen?" 
 
 " The goodness above knows ; for me — I don't." 
 
 "Why, thin, whin he was asleep they seen a small silk thread in 
 his mouth that came down through the ceilin' from heaven, and he 
 suckin' it, just as a child would his mother's breast whin the crathur 
 ud be asleep : so that was the way he was supported by the angels ! 
 An' I remimber myself, thoucrh he's a dark, spare, yallow man at all 
 times, yet he never looked half so fat an' rosy as he did the same Lint ! " 
 
 " Glory be to heaven ! Well, well — it is sthrange the power they 
 have ! As for him, I'd as lee meet St. Pcther, or St. Pathrick himself, 
 as him ; for one can't but fear him, somehow." 
 
 " Fear him ! Och, it ud be the pity o' thim that ud do anything to 
 vex or anger that man. Why, his very look ud wither thim, till there 
 wouldn't be the thrack ' o'thim on the earth ; an' as for his curse, why 
 it ud scorch thim *• • ashes ! " 
 
 As it was generally known that Father Philip was to visit I\Irs. Sulli- 
 van the next day, in order to hear an account of the mystery which 
 filled the parish with such fear, a very great number of the parishioners 
 were assembled in and about Hartley's long before he made his 
 appearance. At length he was seen walking slowly down the road, 
 with an open book in his hand, on the pages of which he looked from 
 time to time. When he approached the house those who were stand- 
 ing about it assembled in a body, and, with one consent, uncovered 
 their heads and asked his blessing. His appearance bespoke a mind 
 ill at ease ; his face was haggard, and his eyes bloodshot. On seeing 
 the people kneel, he smiled with his usual bitterness, and, shaking his 
 hand with an air of impatience over them, muttered some words, 
 -ather in mockery of the ceremony than otherwise. They then rose, 
 and blessing themselves, put on their hats, rubbed the dust off their 
 knees, and appeared to think themselves recniited by a peculiar acces- 
 sion of grace. 
 
 Ok entering the house the same form was repeated ; and when it 
 was over, the best chair was placed for him by Mary's own hands, and 
 the fire stirred up, and a line of respect drawn, within which none was 
 to intrude, lest he might feel in any degree incommoded. 
 
 "My good neighbour," said he to Mrs. Sullivan, "what strange 
 woman is this, who has thrown the parish into such a ferment ! I'm 
 told she paid you a visit ? Pray sit down." 
 
 " I huribly thank your reverence," said Mary, curtseying lowly, "but 
 I'd rather not sit, sir. if you plase. I hope 1 know what respect manes, 
 your reverence .'* Barny Bradagh, I'll thank you to stand up, if you 
 plase, an' his reverence to the fore, Barny.' 
 
 ' Track, foot-niajk, pui for life. 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 "I ax your reverence's pardon, an' yours, too, Mrs. Sullivan : sure 
 we didn't mane the disrespect, anyhow, sir, plase your reverence." 
 
 " About this woman, and the Liafihati Shee ? " said the priesi., 
 without noticing Barny's apology. "Pray what do you precisely 
 understand by a Lianhan Shee ? " 
 
 " Why, sir," replied Mary, " some sthrange bein' from the good 
 people, or fairies, that sticks to some persons. There's a bargain sir, 
 your reverence, made atween thim ; an' the divil, sir, that is the cAild 
 boy — the saints about us ! — has a hand in it. The Lianhan Shee, 
 your reverence, is never seen only by thim it keeps wid ; but — hem ! 
 — it always, wid the help of the ould boy, conthrives, sir, to make the 
 person brake the agreement, an' thin it has thi7n in its power ; but if 
 they don^t brake the agreement, thin Ws in tkeir power. If they can 
 get anybody to put in their place, they may get out o' the bargain ; for 
 they can, of a sartinty, give oceans o' money to people, but can't take 
 any themselves, plase your reverence. But sure where's the use o' me 
 to be tellin' your reverence what you know betther nor myself? — 
 an' why shouldn't you, or anyone that has the power you have ?" 
 
 He smiled again at this in his own peculiar manner, and was pro- 
 ceeding to inquire more particularly into the nature of the interview 
 between them, when the noise of feet, and sounds of general alarm, 
 accompanied by a rush of people into the house, arrested his attention, 
 and he hastily inquired into the cause of the commotion. Before he 
 could receive a reply, however, the house was almost crowded ; and it 
 was not without considerable difficulty that, by the exertions of Mrs. 
 Sullivan and Bartley, sufficient order and quiet were obtained to hear 
 distinctly what was said. 
 
 " Plase your reverence," said several voices at once, " they're comin' 
 hot-foot, into the very house to us ! Was ever the likes seen ? an' 
 they must know right well, sir, that you're widin it." 
 
 " Who are coming ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Why, the woman, sir, an' her good pet, the Lianhan Shee, your 
 reverence." 
 
 " Well," said he, " but why should you all appear so blanched with 
 iCrror '? Let her come in, and we shall see how far she is capable of 
 injuring her fellow creatures : some maniac," he muttered, in a low 
 soliloquy, " whom the villainy of the world has driven into derange- 
 ment — some victim to a hand like m Well, they say there is a 
 
 Providence, yet such things are permitted ? " 
 
 " He's sayin' a prayer now," observed one of them ; *' haven't we a 
 good right to be thankful that he's in the place wid us while she's in 
 it, or dear knows what harm she might do us — maybe rise the wind ! " 
 
 As the latter speaker concluded, there was a dead silence. The 
 persons about the door cnashed each other backwards, their feet set 
 out before them, and their shoulders laid with violent pressure against 
 those who stood behind, for each felt anxious to avoid all danger of 
 contact with a being against whose power even a blessed priest found 
 it necessary to guard himself by a prayer. 
 
 At length a low murmur ran among the people — "Father O'Rourke ' 
 
 (?0 " 
 
; 1 V THE LTANHAN SHEE. 
 
 — here's Father O'Rourke ! — he has turned the corner afther her, an' 
 they're both comin' in." Immediately they entered, but it was quite 
 evident, from the manner of the worthy priest, that he was unacquainted 
 with the person of this singular being. When they crossed the 
 threshold, the priest advanced, and expressed his surprise at the 
 throng of people assembled. 
 
 " Plase your reverence," said Bartley, " tliafs the woman," nodding 
 significantly towards her as he spoke, but without looking at her 
 person, lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet his, and give 
 him " the blast." 
 
 The dreaded female, on seeing the house in such a crowded state, 
 started, paused, and glanced with some terror at the persons assem- 
 bled. Her dress was not altered since her last visit ; but her counte- 
 nance, though more meagre and emaciated, expressed but little of the 
 unsettled energy which then flashed from her eyes, and distorted her 
 features by the depth of that mysterious excitement by which she had 
 been agitated. Her countenance was still muffled as bofore, the awful 
 protuberance rose from her shoulders, and the same band which Mrs. 
 Sullivan had alluded to during their interview was bound about the 
 upper part of her forehead. 
 
 She had already stood upwards of two minutes, during which the 
 fall of a feather might be heard, yet none bade God bless her — no 
 kmd hand was extended to greet her — no heart warmed in affection 
 towards her ; on the contrary, ever}' eye glanced at her, as a being 
 marked with enmity towards God. Blanched faces and knit brows, 
 the signs of fear and hatred, were turned upon her ; her breath was 
 considered pestilential, and her touch paralysis. There she stood, 
 proscribed, avoided, and hunted like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, 
 yet wishing to exterminate her ! Who could she be } — or what had 
 she done, that the finger of the Almighty marked her out for such a 
 fearful weight of vengeance .'' 
 
 Father Philip rose and advanced a few steps, until he stood con- 
 fronting her. His person vas tall, his features dark, severe, and 
 solemn : and when the natura of the investigation about to take place 
 is considered, it need not be wondered at that the moment was, to 
 those present, one of deep and impressive interest — such as a visible 
 conflict between a supposed champion of God and a supernatural 
 being was calculated to excite. 
 
 " Woman," said he, in his deep, stern voice, " tell me who and what 
 you are, and why you assume a character of such a repulsive and 
 mysterious nature, when it can entail only misery, shame, and per- 
 secution on yourself.' I conjure you, in the name of Him after whose 
 image you are created, to speak truly ! " 
 
 He paused, and the tall figure stood mute before him. The silence 
 was dead as death — every breath was hushed — and the persons 
 assembled stood immovable as statues ! Still she spoke not ; but the 
 violent heaving of her breast evinced the internal working of some 
 dreadful struggle. Her face before was pale — it was now ghastly; 
 her lips became blue, and her eyes vacant. 
 
,tv) 
 
 
 THE LIANHAN SHEE. "^"■^'^ 215 
 
 " Speak ! " said he, " I conjure you in the name of the power by 
 whom you live ! " 
 
 It is probable that the agitation under which she laboured was 
 produced by the severe effort made to sustain the unexpected trial 
 she had to undergo. 
 
 For some minutes her struggle continued ; but having begun at its 
 highest pitch, it gradually subsided until it settled in a calmness 
 which appeared fixed and awful as the resolution of despair. With 
 breathless composure she turned round, and put back that part of her 
 dress which concealed her face, except the band on her forehead, 
 which she did not remove ; having done this, she turned again, and 
 walked calmly towards Father Philip, with a deadly smile upon her 
 thin lips. When within a step of where he stood, she paused, and 
 riveting her eyes upon him, exclaimed : 
 
 " Who and what am I ? The victim of infidelity and you, the 
 bearer of a cursed existence, the scoff and scorn of the world, the 
 monument of a broken vow and a guilty life, a being scourged by the 
 scorpion lash of conscience, blasted by periodical insanity, pelted by 
 the winter's storm, scorched by the summer's heat, withered by star- 
 vation, hated by man, and touched into my inmost spirit by the 
 anticipated tortures of future misery. I have no rest for the sole of 
 my foot, no repose for a head distracted by the contemplation of a 
 guilty life ; I am the unclean spirit which walketh to seek rest and 
 findeth none; I am — what yon made me! Behold," she added, 
 holding up the bottle, "this failed, and I live to accuse you. But no, 
 you are my husband — though our union was but a guilty form, and I 
 will bury that in silence. You thought me dead, and you flew to 
 avoid punishment — did you avoid it.? No; the finger of God has 
 written pain and punishment upon your brow. I have been in all 
 characters, in all shapes, have spoken with the tongue of a peasant, 
 moved in my natural sphere ; but my knees were smitten, my brain 
 stricken, and the wild malady which banishes me from society has 
 been upon me for years. Such I am, and such, I say, have you made 
 me. As for you, kind-hearted woman, there was nothing in this 
 bottle but pure water. The interval of reason returned this day, and 
 having remembered glimpses of our conversation I came to apologise 
 to you and to explain the nature of my unhappy distemper, and to 
 beg a little bread, which I have not tasted for two days. I at times 
 conceive myself attended by an evil spirit, shaped out by a guilty 
 conscience, and this is the only familiar which attends me, and by it 
 I have been dogged into madness through every turning of life. 
 Whilst it lasts I am subject to spasms and convulsive starts which 
 are exceedingly painful. The lump on my back is the robe I wore 
 when innocent in my peaceful convent." 
 
 The intensity of general interest was now transferred to Father 
 Philip ; every face was turned towards him, but he cared not. A 
 solemn stillness yet prevailed among all present. From the moment 
 she spoke, her eye drew his with the power of a basilisk. His pale 
 face became like marble, not a muscle moved ; and when she ceased 
 
2i6 THE UAh'HAN SHEE. 
 
 speaking, his bloodshot eyes were still fixed upon her countenance 
 with a gloomy calmness like that which precedes a tempest. They 
 stood before each other, dreadful counterparts in guilt, for truly his 
 spirit was as dark as hers. 
 
 At length he glanced angrily around him. — " Well," said he "what 
 is it now, ye infatuated wretches, to trust in the sanctity of man? 
 Learn from me to place the same confidence in God which you place 
 in his guilty creatures, and you will not lean on a broken reed. 
 Father O'Rourke, you too witness my disgrace, but not my punish- 
 ment. It is pleasant, no doubt, to have a topic for conversation at 
 your conferences ; enjoy it. As for you, Margaret, if society lessen 
 miser}'^, we may be less miserable. But the band of your order and 
 the remembrance of your vow is on your forehead, like the mark of 
 Cain — tear it off, and let it not blast a man who is the victim of pre- 
 judice still, nay, of superstition, as well as of guilt ; tear it from my 
 sight." His eyes kindled fearfully as he attempted to pull it away by 
 force. 
 
 She calmly took it off, and he immediately tore it into pieces, and 
 stamped upon the fragments as he flung them on the ground. 
 
 " Come," said the despairing man, " come — there is a shelter for 
 you, but no peace ! — food, and drink, and raiment, but no peace ! — NO 
 PEACE ! " As he uttered these words, in a voice that rose rapidly to 
 its highest pitch, he took her hand, and they both departed to his own 
 residence. 
 
 The amazement and horror of those who were assembled in Bartle\-'s 
 house cannot be described. Our readers may be assured that they 
 deepened in character as they spread through the parish. An unde- 
 fined fear of this mysterious pair seized upon the people, for their 
 images were associated in their minds with darkness and crime, and 
 supernatural communion. The departing words of Father Philip rang 
 in their ears ; they trembled, and devoutly crossed themselves, as fancy 
 again repeated the awful exclamation of the priest — " No peace ! no 
 peace ! " 
 
 When Father Philip and his unhappy associate went home he 
 instantly made her a surrender of his small property ; but with diffi- 
 culty did he command sufficient calmness to accomplish even this. 
 He was distracted — his blood seemed to have been turned to fire — he 
 clenched his hands, and he gnashed his teeth, and e.xhibited the wildest 
 symptoms of madness. About ten o'clock he desired fuel for a large 
 fire to be brought into the kitchen, and got a strong cord, which he 
 coiled and threw carelessly on the table. The family were then 
 ordered to bed. About eleven they were all asleep ; and at the solemn 
 hour of twelve he heaped additional fuel upon the living turf, until the 
 blaze shone with scorching light through the kitchen. Dark and deso- 
 lating was the tempest within him, as he paced, with agitated steps, 
 before the crackling fire. 
 
 " She is risen ! " he exclaimed — " the spectre of all my crimes is 
 risen, to haunt me through life ! I avi a murderer — yet she lives, and 
 my guilt is not the less ! The stamp of eternal infamy is upon me — 
 
THE LIANHAN SHEE. 217 
 
 the finger of scorn will mark me out — the tongue of reproach will 
 sting me like that of the serpent — the deadly touch of shame will 
 cover me like a leper — the laws of society will crush the murderer, 
 not the less that his wickedness in blood has miscarried : after that 
 comes the black and terrible tribunal of the Almighty's vengeance — 
 of his fiery indignation ! Hush ! — What sounds are those ? The> 
 deepen — they deepen i Is it thunder ? It cannot oe the crackling of 
 the blaze ! It is thunder ! — but it speaks only to my ear ! Hush ! — 
 Great God, there is a change in my voice ! It is ho'low and superna- 
 tural ! Could a change have come over me ? Am I living ? Could I 
 have — hah ! — Could I have departed ? and am I now at length given 
 over to the worm that never dies ? If it be at my heart I may feel it. 
 God ! — I am damned ! Here is a viper twined about my limbs, trying 
 to dart its fangs into my heart ! Hah ! there are feet pacing in the 
 room, too, and I hear voices ! I am surrounded by evil spirits ! 
 Who's there ? — What are you ? — Speak ! — They are silent ! — There is 
 no answer ! Again comes the thunder ! But perchance this is not 
 my place of punishment, and I will try to leave these horrible spirits !" 
 He opened the door, and passed out into a small green field that lay 
 behind the house. The night was calm, and the silence profound as 
 death. Not a cloud obscured the heavens ; the light of the moon 
 fell upon the stillness of the scene around him with all the touching 
 beauty of a moonlit midnight in summer. Here he paused a moment, 
 felt his brow, then his heart, the palpitations of which fell audibly 
 upon his ear. He became somewhat cooler ; the images of madness 
 which had swept through his stormy brain disappeared, and were suc- 
 ceeded by a lethargic vacancy of thought which almost deprived him 
 of the consciousness of his own identity. From the green field he 
 descended mechanically to a little glen which opened beside it. It 
 was one of those delightful spots to which the heart clingeth. I^g 
 sloping sides were clothed with patches of wood, on the leaves 
 which the moonlight glanced with a soft lustre, rendered more beautiful 
 by their stillness. That side on which the light could not lall lay in 
 deep shadow, which occasionally gave to the rocks and small project- 
 ing precipices an appearance of monstrous and unnatural life. Having 
 passed through the tangled mazes of the glen, he at length reached its 
 bottom, along which ran a brook, such as, in the description of the 
 poet — 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 Unto the sleeping woods all night, 
 Singeth a quiet tune." 
 
 Here he stood, and looked upon the green winding margin of the 
 streamlet — but its song he heard not. With the terrors of a guilty 
 conscience the beautiful in nature can have no association. He looked 
 up the glen, but its picturesque windings, soft vistas, and wild under- 
 wood mingling with grey rocks and taller trees, all mellowed by the 
 moonbeams, had no charms for him. He maintained a profound 
 silence — but it was not the silence of reflection. He endeavoured to 
 
2iS THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 recall the scenes of the past day, but could not bring them back to his 
 memory. Even the fiery tide of thought which, like burning lava, 
 seared his brain a few moments before, was now cold and hardened. 
 He could remember nothing. The convulsion of his mind was over, 
 and his faculties were impotent and collapsed. 
 
 In this state he unconsciously retraced his steps, and had again 
 reached the paddock adjoining his house, when, as he thought, the 
 figure of his paramour stood before him. In a moment his former 
 paroxysm returned, and with it the gloomy images of a guilty mind, 
 charged with the extravagant horrors of brain-struck madness. 
 
 " What ! " he exclaimed, " the band still on your forehead ! Tear 
 it off!" 
 
 He caught at the form as he spoke, but there was no resistance to 
 his grasp. On looking again towards the spot she had ceased to be 
 visible. The storm within him arose once more : he rushed into the 
 kitchen, where the fire blazed out with fiercer heat ; again he imagined 
 that the thunder came to his ears, but the thunderings which he heard 
 were only the voice of conscience. Again his own footsteps and his 
 voice sounded in his fancy as the footsteps and voices of fiends, with 
 which his imagination peopled the room. His state and his existence 
 seemed to him a confused and troubled dream; he tore his hair — threw 
 it on the table — and immediately started back with a hollow groan. 
 His locks, which but a few hours before had been as black as the 
 raven's wing, were now white as snow ! 
 
 On discovering this he gave a low but frantic laugh. " Ha, ha, ha ! "■ 
 ne exclaimed ; " here is another mark — here is food for despair. 
 Silently, but surely, did the hand of God work this, as a proof that I 
 am hopeless ! But I will bear it ; I will bear the sight ! I now feel 
 myself a man blasted by the eye of God himself ! Ha, ha, ha I Food 
 for despair ! Food for despair ! " 
 
 Immediately he passed into his own room, and approaching the 
 looking-glass beheld a sight calculated to move a statue. His hair had 
 become literally white, but the shades of his dark complexion, now dis- 
 torted by terror and madness, flitted, as his features worked under the 
 influence of his tremendous passions, into an expression so frightful 
 that deep fear came over himself. He snatched one of his razors, and 
 fled from the glass to the kitchen. He looked upon the fire, and saw 
 the white ashes lying around its edge. 
 
 " Ha ! " said he, " the light is come ! I see the sign. I am directed 
 and I will follow it. There is yet one hope. The immolation ! I 
 shall be saved, yet so as by fire. It is for this my hair has become 
 white — the sublime warning for my self-sacrifice ! The colour of 
 ashes ! — white — white ! It is so ! — I will sacrifice my body in material 
 fire, to save my soul from that which is eternal ! But I had antici- 
 pated the Sign ! The self-sacrifice is accepted ! " 
 
 We must here draw a veil over that which ensued, as the descrip- 
 tion of it would be both unnatural and revolting. Let it be sufficient 
 to say that the next morning he was burned to a cinder, with the ex- 
 ception of his feet and legs, which remained as monuments of, perhaps. 
 
THE LIANHAN SHRE. 219 
 
 the most dreadful suicide that ever was committed by man. His razor, 
 too, was found bloody, and several clots of gore were discovered about 
 the hearth ; from which circumstances it was plain that he had reduced 
 his strength so much by loss of blood that when he committed him- 
 self to the flames he was unable, even had he been willing, to avoid 
 the fiery and awful sacrifice of which he made himself the victim. If 
 anything could deepen the impression of fear and awe already so 
 general among the people, it was the unparalleled nature of his death. 
 Its circumstances are well known in the parish and county wherein it 
 occurred— :/<7r // is no fiction, gentle reader ! and the titulai bishop who 
 then presided over the diocese declared that while he lived no per- 
 son bearing the unhappy man's name should ever be admitted to the 
 clerical order. 
 
 The shock produced by his death struck the miserable woman into 
 the darkness of settled derangement. She survived him some years, 
 but wandered about through the province, still, according to the super- 
 stitious belief of the people, tormented by the terrible enmity of the 
 Lianhan Shee. 
 
 As the reader may be disposed to consider the nature of the priest's death an 
 unjustifiable stretch of fiction, I have only to say, in reply, that it is no fiction at all. 
 It is not, I believe, more than forty, or perhaps fifty, years since a priest committed 
 his body to the flames for the purpose of saving his soul by an incrematory sacrifice. 
 The object of a suicide unparalleled in the history of that mad and melancholy 
 crime was ascertained by a letter which he left behind him. There is an old 
 dormant superstition still to be found in Ireland on this very subject. It isbeheved 
 by some that a priest guilty of great crimes possesses the privilege of securing 
 salvation by self-sacrifice. We have heard two or three legends among the people 
 in which this principle predominated. The outlines of one of these, called " The 
 Young Priest and Brian Braar," were as follows : — 
 
 A young priest on his way to the College of Valladolid, in Spain, was benighted, 
 but found a lodging in a small inn on the road-side. Here he was tempted by a 
 young maiden of great beauty, who, in the moment of his weakness, extorted from 
 him a bond signed with his blood, binding himself to her for ever. She turned 
 out to be an evil spirit ; and the young priest proceeded to Valladolid with a heavy 
 heart, confessed his crime to the superior, who sent him to the Pope, who sent him 
 to a friar in the county of Armagh, called Brian Braar, who sent him to the 
 devil. The devil, on the strength of Brian Braar's letter, gave him a warm recep- 
 tion, held a cabinet council immediately, and laid the despatch before his colleagues, 
 who agreed that the claimant should get back his bond from the brimstone lady 
 who had inveigled him. She, however, obstinately refused to surrender it, and 
 stood upon her bond, until threatened with being thrown three times into Brian 
 Braar's furnace. This tamed her : the man got his bond, and returned to Brian 
 Braar on earth. Now Brian Braar had for three years past abandoned God, and 
 taken to the study of magic with the devil ; a circumstance which accounts for his 
 influence below. The young priest, having possessed himself of his bond, went to 
 Lough Derg to wash away his sins ; and Brian Braar having also become penitent, 
 the two worthies accompanied each other to the lake. On entering the boat, how- 
 ever, to cross over to the island, such a storm arose as drove them back. Brian 
 assured his companion that he himself was the cause of it. 
 
 " There is now," said he, " but one more chance for me, and we must have re- 
 course to it." 
 
 He then returned homewards, and both had reached a hill-side near Brian's 
 ho'ise, when the latter desired the young priest to remain there a few minutes, and 
 he K'ould return to him ; which he did with a hatchet in his hand. 
 
220 THE LIANHAN SHEE. 
 
 "Now," said he, "you must cut me into four quarters, and mince my body into 
 small bits, then cast them into the air, and let them go with the wind." 
 
 The priest, by much entreaty, complied with his wishes, and returned to Lough 
 Derg, where he lived twelve yesrs upon one meal of bread and water per diem. 
 Having now purified himself, he returned home; but on passing the hill where he 
 had minced the Friar, he was astonished to see the same man celebrating mass 
 attended by a very penitential looking congregation of spirits. 
 
 "Ah," said Brian Braar, when mass was over, "you are now a happy man. 
 With regard to my state, for the voluntary sacrifice I have made of tnyself, I am to 
 be saved; but I must remain on this mountain until the Day of Judgment." So 
 saying, he disappeared. 
 
 There is little to be said about the superstition of the Lianhan Shee, except that 
 it existed as we have drawn it, and that it is now fading fast away. There is also 
 something appropriate in associating the heroine of this little story with the being 
 called the Lianhan Shee, because, setting the superstition aside, any female who 
 fell into her crime was called Lianhan Shee. Lianhan Shee an Sagarth signifies 
 s priest's paramour, or, as the country people say, " Miss," Both terms have now 
 nearly become obsolete. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 THIRD SERIES. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 — >^3>-< — 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Geography of an Irish Oath i 
 
 An Essay on L-ish Swearing 64 
 
 The Poor Scholar 7^ 
 
 Wildgoose Lodge 17° 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH 
 
 ETER CONNELL was for many years of his life a pattern and 
 a proverb for industry and sobriety. He first began the world 
 as keeper of a shebeen-house at the cross-roads, about four 
 miles from the town of Ballypoteen. He was decidedly an honest 
 man to his neighbours, but a knave to excisemen, whom he hated by 
 a kind of instinct that he had, which prompted him, in order to satisfy 
 his conscience, to render them every practicable injury within the 
 compass of his ingenuity. Shebeen-house keepers and excisemen 
 have been, time out of mind, destructive of each other; the exciseman 
 pouncing like a beast or bird of prey upon the shebeen man and his 
 illicit spirits ; the shebeen man staving m the exciseman, like a barrel 
 of doublings, by a knock from behind a hedge, which sometimes sent 
 him to that world which is emphatically called the world of spirits. 
 For this, it sometimes happened that the sheebeen man was hanged ; 
 but as his death only multiplied that of the excisemen in a geometrical 
 ratio, the sharp-scented fraternity resolved, if possible, not to risk 
 their lives either by exposing themselves to the necessity of travelling 
 by night or prosecuting by day. In this they acted wisely and 
 prudently : fewer of the unfortunate peasantry were shot in their 
 encounters with the yeomanry or military on such occasions, and the 
 retaliations became by degrees less frequent, until, at length, the 
 murder of a gauger became a rare occurrence in the country. 
 
 Peter, before his marriage, had wrought as labouring servant to 
 a man who kept two or three private stills in those caverns among the 
 remote mountains to which the gauger never thought of penetrating, 
 because he supposed that no human enterprise would have ever 
 dreamt of advancing farther into them than appeared to him to 
 be practicable. In this he was frequently mistaken ; for though the 
 still-house was in many cases inaccessible to horses, yet by the con- 
 trivance oi siipes — a kind of sledge — a dozen men could draw a couple 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 of sacks of barley with less trouble, and at a quickei pace, than 
 if horses only had been employed. By this, and many other similar 
 contrivances, the peasantry were often able to carry on the work of 
 private distillation in places so distant that few persons could suspect 
 them as likely to be chosen for such purposes. The uncommon 
 personal strength, the daring spirit and great adroitness of Peter 
 Connell rendered him a very valuable acquisition to his master in the 
 course of his illicit occupations. Peter was, in addition to his other 
 qualities, sober and ready-witted, so that whenever the gauge: m;«de 
 his appearance, his expedients to baffle him were often inimitable. 
 Those expedients did not, however, always arise from the exigency of 
 the moment ; they were often deliberately, and with much exertion of 
 ingenuity, planned by the proprietors and friends of such establish- 
 ments, perhaps for weeks before the gauger's visit occurred. But, on 
 the other hand, as the gauger's object was to take them, if possible, by 
 surprise, it frequently happened that his appearance was as un- 
 expected as it was unwelcome. It was then that the prompt ingenuity 
 of the people was fully seen, felt and understood by the baffled 
 e.xciseman, who too often had just grounds for bitterly cursing their 
 talent at outwitting him. 
 
 Peter served his master as a kind of superintendent in such places, 
 until he gained the full knowledge of distilling, according to the pro- 
 cesses used by the most popular adepts in the art. Having acquired 
 this, he set up as a professor, and had excellent business. In the 
 meantime, he had put together by degrees a small purse of money, to 
 the amount of about twenty guineas, no inconsiderable sum for a 
 young Irishman who intends to begin the world on his own account. 
 He accordingly married, and as the influence of a wife is usually not 
 to be controlled during the honeymoon, Mrs. Connell prevailed on 
 Peter to relinquish his trade of distiller, and to embrace some other 
 mode of life that might not render their living so much asunder 
 necessary. Peter suffered himself to be prevailed upon, and promised 
 to have nothing more to do with private distillation as a distiller. 
 One of the greatest curses attending this lawless business is the idle and 
 irregular habit of life which it gradually induces. Peter could not now 
 relish the labour of an agriculturist, to which he had been bred ; and 
 yet he was too prudent to sit down and draw his own and his wife's 
 support from so exhaustible a source as twenty guineas. Two or 
 three days passed, during which " he cudgelled his brains," to use his 
 own subsequent expression, in plans for future subsistence ; two or 
 three consultations were held with EUish, in which their heads were 
 laid together, and, as it was still the honeymoon, the subject-matter of 
 the consultation, of course, was completely forgotton. Before the 
 expiration of a second month, however, they were able to think of 
 many other things, in addition to the fondlings and endearments of a 
 new-married couple. Peter was ever)' day becoming more his own 
 man, and Ellish by degrees more her own woman. "The purple light 
 of love," which had changed Peter's red head into a rich auburn, and 
 his swivel eye into a knowing wink — exceedingly irresistible in his 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 bachelorship, as he made her believe, to the country girls— had passed 
 away, taking the aforesaid auburn along with it, and leaving nothing 
 but the genuine carrot behind. Peter, too, on opening his eyes one 
 morning about the beginning of the third month, perceived that his 
 wife was, after all, nothing more than a thumping red-cheeked wench, 
 with good eyes, a mouth rather large, and a nose very much resem- 
 bling, in its curve, the seat of a saddle, allowing the top to correspond 
 with the pommel. 
 
 " Pether," said she, " it's like a dhrame to me that you're neglectin' 
 your business, alanna." 
 
 " Is it, you beauty .'' but, maybe, you'd first point out to me what 
 business, barrin' buttherin' up yourself, I have to mind, you phanix 
 bright ? " 
 
 " Quit yourself, Pether ! it's time for you to give up your ould ways ; 
 you caught one bird wid them, an' that's enough. What do you intind 
 to do ? It's full time for you to be lookin' about you." 
 
 " Lookin' about me ! What do you mane, Ellish ?" 
 
 " The dickens a bit o' me thought of it," replied the wife, laughing 
 at the unintentional allusion to the circumspect character of Peter's 
 eyes — " upon my faix, I didn't — ha, ha, ha ! '" 
 
 " Why, thin, but you're full o' your fun, sure enough, if that's what 
 you're at. Maybe, avourneen, if I had looked right afore me, as I 
 ought to do, it s Katty Murray an' her snug farm I'd have, instead 
 of " 
 
 Peter hesitated. The rapid feelings of a woman, and an Irishwoman, 
 quick and tender, had come forth and subdued him. She had not 
 voluntarily alluded to his eyes ; but on seeing Peter offended, she 
 immediately expressed that sorrow and submission which are most 
 powerful when accompanied by innocence, and when meekly assumed 
 to pacify rather than to convince. A tear started to her eye, and with 
 a voice melted into unaffected tenderness, she addressed him, but he 
 scarcely gave her time to speak. 
 
 " No, avourneen, no ; I won't say what I was goin' to mintion. I 
 won't indeed, Ellish, dear ; an' forgive me for voundin' your feelins, 
 alanna dhas. Hell resave her an' her farm ! I dunna what put her 
 into my head at all ; but I thought you wor jokin' me about my eyes : 
 an' sure if you war, acushla, that's no rason that I'd not allow you to 
 do that and more wid your own Pether. Give me a slewsther^ agrah 
 — a sweet one, now ! " 
 
 He then laid his mouth to hers, and immediately a sound, nearly 
 resembhng a pistol-shot, was heard through every part of the house. 
 It was, in facf:, a kiss upon a scale of such magnitude and magnificence 
 that the Emperor of Morocco might not blush to be charged with it. 
 A reconciliation took place, and in due time it was determined that 
 Peter, as he understood poteen, should open a shebeen-house. 
 
 The moment this resolution was made, the wife kept coaxing him 
 nntil he took a small house at the cross-roads before alluded to, 
 
 ' A kiss of fondness. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 where, in the course of a short time, he was estabhshed, if not in his 
 line, yet in a mode of life approximating to it as nearly as the inclina- 
 tion of Ellish would permit. The cabin which they occupied had a 
 kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end of it, in one of which 
 was their own humble chaft' bed, with its blue qui'ted drugget cover ; 
 in the other stood a couple of small tables, some stools, a sh-jrt form, 
 and one chair, being a present from his father-in-law. These con- 
 stituted Peter's whole establishment, so far as it defied the gauger. 
 To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits hid in the garden 
 and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he bottled, over 
 night, as much as was usually drunk the following day ; and from the 
 tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with the same 
 caution, as much as to-morrow's exigencies might require. This he 
 kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never think 
 of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and penny worths, ounces, 
 or half-ounces, according as it might be required ; and, as he had it 
 without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his neigh- 
 bours soon brought him a large increase of custom. 
 
 Peter's wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant, 
 good-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers 
 of amusement were of a high order, considering his, station in life and 
 his want of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, 
 to bring both the young and the old to his house during the long 
 winter nights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he 
 related his frequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the 
 summer evenings he usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a 
 dance, a contrivance by which he not only rendered himself popular, 
 but increased his business. 
 
 In this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and 
 Ellish was the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to 
 give them credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, 
 devised to obviate this evil ; but all failed. A short board was first 
 procured, on which they got written with chalk — 
 
 " No credit giv'n — barrin' a thrifle to Pether's friends." 
 
 Before a week passed after this intimation, the number of " Pether's 
 friends " increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half 
 of them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him : 
 the drinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him 
 and Ellish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his 
 firmest resolutions too often (;avc way before the open flattery with 
 which he was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to 
 bear the brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons 
 were seen approaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an 
 attack upon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept 
 his eye to the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the 
 road, he immediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape 
 them. In the meantime they enter. 
 
 " God save all here ! Ellish, agra machree, how are you ? " 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 5 
 
 " God save you kindly ! Faix, I'm middlin', I thank you, Condy : 
 how is yourself, an' all at home ? " 
 
 " Devil a heartier, barrin' my father, that's touched wid a loss of 
 appetite afther his meals — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Musha, the dicken's be an you, Conny, but you're your father's son, 
 anyway ; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth, 
 whether you're jokin' or not, I'd be sarry to hear of anything to his 
 disadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won't yees go down to the other 
 room ? " 
 
 " Go way wid yees, boys, till I spake to EUish here about the affairs 
 o' the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the 
 contints o' the book, you do ; Pether doesn't stand it half so well. 
 How is he, the thief.'' " 
 
 " Throth, he's not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin' about the 
 heart he tuck this morning' afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself 
 on the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him — God be praised for 
 all his marcies ! " 
 
 " Thin, upon my solevaX.\on, I'm sorry to hear it, and so will all at 
 home, for there's not in the parish we're sittin' in a couple that our 
 family has a greater regard an' friendship for than him an' yourself. 
 Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued down 
 Bartle Meegan's throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two port- 
 liest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I was 
 near quarrellin' wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my modher's 
 jjart, as I had good right to do." 
 
 " Thrath, I'm thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness." 
 
 " Oh, the sarra taste o' kindness was in it all, Ellish, 'twas only the 
 truth ; an' as long as I live I'll stand up for that." 
 
 " Arrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall ? " 
 
 " Indeed, thin, but middlin', not gettin' her health : she'll soon give 
 the crow a puddin', anyway ; thin, Ellish, you thief, I'm in for the 
 yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid nie .^ " 
 
 " Why, thin, I can't say I do. Who are they, Condy ? " 
 
 " Why, one o' thim's a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent 
 boy, indeed — him wid the frieze jock upon him, an' the buckskin 
 breeches. The other three's from Teenabraighera beyant. They're 
 related to my brother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife's brother- 
 in-law's uncle. They're come to this neighbourhood till the 'Sizes, 
 bad luck to them, goes over ; for, you see, they're in a little throuble." 
 
 " The Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys ! " 
 
 " I brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows ; an' Ellish, 
 avourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The 
 thruth is, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of 
 dhrinkin', or I'd a put a something in my pocket, so that I'm taken at 
 an average. — Bud-an'-age — how is little Dan .'' Sowl, Ellish, that goor- 
 soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don't think there's 
 a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn't." 
 
 " Indeed, he's a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about 
 givin' credit : — by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 in the parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night <hat I 
 made a promise against doin' sich a thing for man or mortual. We're 
 a'most broken an' harrish'd ouL o' house an' home by it ; ar tvhat's 
 more, Condy, we intend to give up the business. The landloru's at us 
 every day for his rint, an' we owe for the two last kegs we got, but 
 hasn't a rap to meet aither o' thim ; an' enough due to us if we could 
 get it together : an' whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that's what ails 
 Pether, although he doesn't wish to let an to anyone about it." 
 
 " Well, but you know I'm safe, EUish .''" 
 
 " I know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself ; an' should have 
 what you want wid a heart an' a half, only for the promise I made an 
 my two knees last night aginst givin' credit to man or woman. Why 
 the dickens didn't you come yistherday?" 
 
 " Didn't I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an' that 
 I wished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, EUish ; 
 don't disgrace me afore my sisther's bachelor an' the sthrange boys 
 that's to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn't for the best 
 cow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim ; an' besides, there's a 
 cleeveoiship atween your family an' ours." 
 
 " Condy, avourneen, say no more : if you were fed from the same 
 breast wid me, I couldn't, nor wouldn't break my promise. I wouldn't 
 have the sin of it an me for the wealth o' the three kingdoms." 
 
 " Bedad, you're a quare woman ; an' only that my regard for you is 
 great entirely, we would be two, Ellish ; but I know you're dacent 
 still." 
 
 He then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was 
 appropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he related 
 the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter and 
 Ellish. 
 
 " Boys," said he, " she's too many for us ! St. Pether himself wouldn't 
 make a hand of her. Faix, she's a cute one. I palavered her at the 
 rate of a hunt, an' she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent in- 
 therest — but no whisky ! — Now to take a rise out o' Pether. Jist sit 
 where yees are, till I come back." 
 
 He then left them enjoying the intended "spree," and went back to 
 Ellish. 
 
 "Well I'm sure, Ellish, if anyone had tuck their book oath that 
 you'd refuse my father's son sich a thrifle, I wouldn't believe them. It's 
 not wid Pether's knowledge you do it, I'll be bound. But bad as you 
 thrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate." 
 
 As he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed 
 into the room where Peter lay. 
 
 " Why, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o' the 
 day.?" 
 
 " Eh > What's that— who's that ? Oh ! " 
 
 " Why, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you ? " 
 
 "Oh!— oh! Eh? Is that Condy ?" 
 
 ** All that's to the fore of him. What's asthray wid you, man 
 alive .? " 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 7 
 
 " Throth, Condy, I don't know rightly. I went out, wantin' my 
 coat, about a week ago, an' got cowld in the small o' the back : I've a 
 pain in it ever since. Be sittin'." 
 
 " Is your heart safe ? You have no smotherin' or anything upon 
 it? 
 
 " Why, thin, thank goodness, no ; it's all about my back an' my 
 hinches." 
 
 " Divil'a thing it is but a complaint they call an allovernen ails pou, 
 you shkaimer o' the world wide. 'Tis the oil o' the hazel, or a rubbin' 
 down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this an' by 
 that, I'll flail you widin an inch o' your life." 
 
 " Is it beside yourself you are, Condy .'' " 
 
 " No, no, faix ; I've found you out : Ellish is afther teUin' me that 
 it was a smotherin' on the heart ; but it's a pain in the small o' the 
 back W\d yojirself. Oh, you born desaver ! Get up, I say agin, afore 
 I take the stick to you !" 
 
 " Why, thin, all sorts o' fortune to you, Condy — ha, ha, ha ! — ^but 
 you're the sarra's pet, for there's no escapin' you. What was that I 
 hard atween you an' Ellish } " said Peter, getting up. 
 
 " The sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you 
 into the wrong side o' the sacret afore you die. Go an' get us a pint o' 
 what you know," replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen. 
 
 " Ellish," said Peter, " I suppose you must give it to thim. Give it — 
 give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin '11 you pay me for this .<' " 
 
 " Never fret yourself about that ; you'll be ped. Honour bright, as 
 the black said whin he stole the boots." 
 
 " Now, Pether," said the wife, " sure it's no use axin me to give it, 
 afther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I'll 
 have no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we'll soon get out 
 of it altogether, for myself's sick an' sore of it, dear knows ! '' 
 
 Peter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise 
 that Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday, 
 which was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exube- 
 rant at Condy's success : they drank, and laughed, and sang, until 
 pint after pint followed in rapid succession. 
 
 Every additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from 
 Ellish ; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations 
 deepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after 
 having first overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest 
 friendship, promising that in future she exclusively should reap what- 
 ever benefit was to be derived from their patronage. 
 
 In the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next 
 Sunday passed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen 
 at mass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month 
 afterwards — an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor 
 extremely. The latter, who felt that it was a take in, resolved to cut 
 short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In about a 
 week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a more 
 vigorous refusal of scoi-e than the former. His friends, who were more 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this occasion 
 were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to the 
 following effect : — 
 
 ' • Notice to the Public, and to Pcther Connel'sf> Knds in fartu lar — Devil resave 
 the morsel of credit will be got or given in this house, while thers is stick or stone 
 of it together, barrin' them that axes it has the ready money. 
 
 " Pether X CONNELL, his mark. 
 "Ellish X CoNNELL, her mark." 
 
 This regulation, considering everything, was a very proper one. It 
 occasioned much mirth among Peter's customers ; but Peter cared 
 little about that, provided he made the money. 
 
 The progress of his prosperity, dating it from so small a beginning, 
 was certainly slow. He owed it principally to the careful habits of 
 Ellish and his own sobriety. He was prudent enough to avoid placing 
 any sign in his window by which his house could be known as a 
 shebeen; for he was not ignorant that there is no class of men more 
 learned in this species of hieroglyphics than excisemen. At all events, 
 he was prepared for them, had they come to examine his premises. 
 Nothing that could bring him within the law was ever kept visible. 
 The cask that contained the poteen was seldom a week in the same 
 place of concealment, which was mostly, as we have said, under- 
 ground. The tobacco was weighed and subdivided into small quanti- 
 ties, which, in addition to what he carried in his pocket, were distri- 
 buted in various crevices and crannies of the house ; sometimes under 
 the thatch, sometimes under a dish on the dresser, but generally in a 
 damp place. 
 
 When they had been about two or three years thus employed, Peter, 
 at the solicitation of the wife, took a small farm. 
 
 " You're stout an' able," said she : " an' as I can manage the house 
 widout you, wouldn't it be a good plan to take a bit o' ground — nine or 
 ten acres, suppose — an' thry your hand at it ? Sure you war wanst the 
 greatest man in the parish about a farm. Surely that ud be dacenter 
 nor to be slungein! about, intin' truth and lies for other people, whin 
 they're at their work, to make thim laugh, an' you doin' nothin' but 
 standin' over thim, wid your hands down to the bottom o' your pockets 1 
 Do, Pether, thry it, avick, an' you'll see it '11 prosper wid us, plase 
 God." 
 
 " Faix, I'm ladin' an asicr life, Ellish." 
 
 " Rut are you ladin' a dacenter or a more becominer life ? " 
 
 " Why, I think, widout doubt, that it's more becominer to walk about 
 like a gintleman nor to be workin' like a slave." 
 
 *' Gintleman ! Musha, is it to the fair you're bringin' yourself? Why, 
 you great big bosthoon, isn't it both a sin an' a shame to see you 
 sailin' about among the neighbours, like a shtray turkey, widout a 
 hand's turn to do .-' But, anyway, take my advice, a villish, — will you, 
 aroon .'' — an' faix you'll see how rich we'll get, wid a blessin' .'' " 
 
 " Ellish, you're a deludher ! " 
 
 " Well, an' what suppose ? To be sure I am. Usen't you be followin* 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 
 
 me, like a calf afther the finger ?— ha, ha, ha ! — Will you do my 
 biddin', Pether darlin'?" 
 
 Peter gave her a shrewd, significant wink, in contradiction to what 
 he considered the degrading comparison she had just made. 
 
 "Ellish, you're beside the mark, you beauty ; always put the saddle 
 on the right horse, woman alive ! Didn't you often an' often swear to 
 me, apon two green ribbons acrass one another, that you liked a red 
 head best, and that the redder it was you liked it the betther." 
 
 " An' it was thruth, too ; an' sure, by the same a token, where could 
 I get one half so red as your own ? Faix, I knew what I was about ! 
 I wouldn't give you yet for e'er a young man in the parish, if I was a 
 widow to-morrow. Will you take the land 1 " 
 
 " So thin, afther all, if the head hadn't been an me, I wouldn't be a 
 favourite wid you .'' — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Get out wid you, an' spake sinse. Throth, if you don't say aither 
 av or no, I'll give myself no more bother about it. There we are now 
 wid some guineas together, an' Faix, Pether, you're vexin' me 1 " 
 
 " Do you want an answer ? " 
 
 " Why, if it's plasin' \.o yoicr honour, I'd have no objection." 
 
 "Well, will you have my new big coat made agin ShraftV'^ 
 
 "Ay, will I, in case you do what I say ; but if you don't, the sarra 
 stitch of it '11 go to your back this twelvemonth, maybe, if you vex me. 
 Now ! " 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what : my mind's made up — I will take the 
 land ; an' I'll show the neighbours what Pether Connell can do yit." 
 
 " Augh ! augh ! mavourneen, that you wor ! Throth, I'll fry a bit 
 o' the bacon for our dinner to-day, on the head o' that, although I 
 didn"t intind to touch it till Sunday. Ay, faix, an' a pair o' stockins, 
 too, along wid the coat ; an' somethin' else, that you didn't hear of 
 yit ! " 
 
 Ellish, in fact, was a perfect mistress of the science of wheedling ; 
 but as it appears instinctive in the sex, it is not to be wondered at. 
 Peter himself was easy, or rather indolent, till properly excited by the 
 influence of adequate motives ; but no sooner were the energies that 
 slumbered in him called into activity than he displayed a firmness of 
 purpose, and a perseverance in action, that amply repaid his exer 
 tions. 
 
 The first thing he did, after taking his little farm, was to prepare for 
 its proper cultivation and to stock it. His funds were not, however, 
 sufficient for this at the time. A horse was to be bought, but the last 
 guinea they could spare had been already expended, and this purchase 
 was, therefore, out of the question. The usages of the small farmers, 
 however, enabled him to remedy this inconvenience. Peter made a 
 bargain with a neighbour, in which he undertook to repay him, by an 
 exchange of labour, for the use of his plough and horses in getting 
 down his crop. He engaged to give him, for a stated period in the 
 slack season, so many days' mowing as would cover the expenses of 
 
 * Shrovetide. 
 
lo THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 ploughing and harrowing his land. There was, however, a consider 
 able portion of his holding potato-ground : this Peter himself dug with 
 his spade, breaking it as he went along into fine mould. He then 
 sowed the seed— got a hatchet, and selecting the best thorn-bush he 
 could find, cut it down — tied a rope to the trunk, seized the rope, and 
 in this manner harrowed his potato-ground. Thus did he proceed, 
 struggling to overcome difficulties by skill, and substituting for the 
 more efficient modes of husbandry such rude artificial resources as 
 his want of capital compelled him to adopt. 
 
 In the meantime, Ellish, seeing Peter acquitting himself in his 
 undertaking with such credit, determined not to be outdone in her 
 own department- She accordingly conceived the design of extending 
 her business, and widening the sphere of her exertions. This intention, 
 however, she kept secret from Peter, until, by putting penny to penny, 
 and shilling to shilling, she was able to purchase a load of crockery. 
 Here was a new source of profit opened exclusively by her own 
 address. Peter was astonished when he saw the car unloaded, and 
 the crockery piled in proud array by EUish's own hands. 
 
 " I knew," said she, " I'd take a start out o' you. Faix, Pether, 
 you'll see how I'll do, never fear, wid the help o' Heaven ! I'll be off 
 to the market in the mornin', plase God, where I'll sell rings round 
 me o' them crocks an' pitchers. An' now, Pether, the sarra one o' me 
 would do this, good or bad, only bekase you're managin' the farm so 
 cleverly. Tady Gormley's goin' to bring home his meal from the 
 mill, and has promised to lave these in the market for me, an' never 
 fear but I'll get some o' the neighbours to bring them home, so that 
 there's cart-hire saved, Faix, Pether, there's nothin' like givin' the 
 people sweet words, anyway ; sure they come chape." 
 
 " Faith, an' I'll back you for the sweet words agin any woman in 
 the three kingdoms, Ellish, you darlin'. But don't you know the 
 proverb - ' Sweet words butther no parsnips ' .'' " 
 
 " In throth the same proverb's a lying one, and ever was ; but it's 
 not parsnips I'll butther wid 'em, you gommoch." 
 
 " Sowl, you butthered me wid 'em long enough, you deludher — 
 devil a lie in it ; but thin, as you say, sure enough, I was no parsnip 
 — not so soft as that aithcr, you phanix ! " 
 
 "No.'' Thin I sildom seen your beautiful head widout thinkin' of 
 a carrot, an' it's well known they're related— ha, ha, ha ! — Behave, 
 Pether — behave, I say — Pether, Pether — ha, ha, ha ! — let me alone ' 
 Katty Hacket, take him away from me— ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 " Will ever you, you shaver wid the tongue that you are ? Will evei 
 you, I say .'' Will ever you make delusion to my head agin — eh ? " 
 
 '■ Oh, never, never — but let me go, an' me so full o' tickles ! Oh. 
 Pether, avourneen, don't, you'll hurt me, an' me the way I'm in — quit, 
 a villish ! " 
 
 " Bedad, if you don't let my head alone, I'll — will ever you?" 
 
 " Never, never. There now — ha, ha, ha ! — oh, but I'm as wake as 
 wather wid what I laughed. Well, now, Pether, didn't I manage 
 bravely- didn't I.?" 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. ii 
 
 " Wait till we see the profits first, Ellish — crockery's very tindher 
 goods." 
 
 " Ay !— jist wait, an' I'll engage I'll turn the penny. The family's 
 risin' wid us " 
 
 " Very thrue," replied Peter, giving a sly wink at the wife — " no 
 doubt of it." 
 
 " Risin' wid us — I tell you to have sinse, Pether ; — an' it's our 
 
 duty to have something for the crathurs when they grow up." 
 
 " Well, that's thruth— sure I'm not sayin' against it." 
 
 " I know that ; but what I say is, if we hould an we may make 
 money. Everything, for so far, has thruv wid us, God be praised for 
 it. There's another thing in my mind, that I'll be tdlin' you some o' 
 these days." 
 
 " I believe, Ellish, you dhrame about makin' money." 
 
 " Well, an' I might do worse ; when I'm dhramin' about it, I'm 
 doin' no sin to anyone. But listen, you must keep the house to- 
 morrow while I'm at the market. Won't you, Pether .-' " 
 
 " An' who's to open the dhrain in the bottom below ? " 
 
 " That can be done the day afther. Won't you, abouchal ?" 
 
 " Ellish, you're a deludher, I tell you. Sweet words — sowl, you'a 
 smooth a furze bush wid sweet words. Hovv-an'-ever, I will keep the 
 house to-morrow, till we see the great things you'll do wid your 
 crockery." 
 
 ElUsh's success was, to say the least of it, quite equal to her expecta- 
 tions. She was certainly an excellent wife, full of acuteness, industry, 
 and enterprise. Had Peter been married to a woman of a disposition 
 resembling his own, it is probable that he would have sunk into 
 indolence, filth, and poverty. These miseries might have soured their 
 tempers, and driven them into all the low excesses and crimes at- 
 tendant upon pauperism. Ellish, however, had sufficient spirit to act 
 upon Peter's natural indolence so as to excite it to the proper pitch. 
 Her mode of operation was judiciously suited to his temper. Playful- 
 ness and kindness were the instruments by which she managed him. 
 She knew that violence, or the assumption of authority, would cause a 
 man who, like him, was stern when provoked, to re-act and meet her 
 with an assertion of his rights and authority not to be trifled with. This 
 she consequently avoided, not entirely from any train of reasoning on 
 the subject, but from that intuitive penetration which taught her to 
 know that the plan she had resorted to was best calculated to make 
 him subservient to her own purposes without causing him to feel that 
 he was governed. 
 
 Indeed, every day brought out her natural cleverness more clearly. 
 Her intercourse with the world afforded her that facility of under- 
 standing the tempers and dispositions of others which can never be 
 acquired when it has not been bestowed as a natural gift. In her 
 hands it was a valuable one. By. degrees her house improved in its 
 appearance, both inside and outside. From crockery she proceeded 
 to herrings, then to salt, in each of which she dealt with surprising 
 success. There was, too, such an air of bustle, activity, and good- 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 ^lumour about her that people loved to deal with her. Her appearance 
 was striking, if not grotesque. She was tall and strong, walked 
 rapidly, and when engaged in fair or market, disposing of her coarse 
 merchandise, was dressed in a short red petticoat, blue stockings, 
 strong brogues, wore a blue cloak, with the hood turned up over her 
 head, on the top of which was a man's hat fastened by a ribbon under 
 her chin. As she thus stirred about, with a kind word and a joke for 
 everyone, her healthy cheek in full bloom, and her blue-grey eye 
 beaming with an expression of fun and good-nature, it would be diffi- 
 cult to conceive a character more adapted for intercourse with a 
 laughter-loving people. In fact, she soon became a favourite, and this 
 not the less that she was as ready to meet her rivals in business with 
 a blow as with a joke. Peter witnessed her success with unfeigned 
 pleasure ; and although every feasible speculation was proposed by 
 her, yet he never felt that he was a mere nonentity when compared to 
 his wife. 'Tis true he was perfectly capable of executing her agricul- 
 tural plans when she proposed them, but his own capacity for making 
 a lucky hit was verj' limited. Of the two she was certainly the better 
 farmer ; and scarcely an improvement took place in his little holding 
 which might not be traced to Ellish. 
 
 In the course of a couple of years she bought him a horse, and 
 Peter was enabled to join a neighbour who had another. Each had a 
 plough and tackle, so that here was a little team made up, the half ot 
 which belonged to Peter. By this means they ploughed week about, 
 until their crops were got down. Peter, finding his farm doing well, 
 began to feel a kind of rivalship with his wife — that is to say, she first 
 suggested the principle, and afterwards contrived to make him imagine 
 that it was originally his own. 
 
 " The sarra one o' you, Pether," she exclaimed to him one day, 
 "but's batin' me out an' out. Why, you're the very dickens at the 
 farmin', so you are. Faix, I suppose, if you go an this way much 
 longer, that you'll be thinkin' of another farm, in regard that we have 
 some guineas together. Pether, did you ever think of it, abouchal ?" 
 
 " To be sure I did, you beauty ; an' amn't I in fifty notions to take 
 Harry Neal's land, that jist lies alongside of our own .'' " 
 
 " Faix, an' you're right, maybe ; but if it's sthrivin'agin me you are, 
 you may give it over : I tell you I'll have more money made afore this 
 time twelvemonth than you will." 
 
 " Arrah, is it jokin' you are ? More money ? Would you advise me 
 to take Harry's land ? Tell me tliat first, you phanix, an' thin I'm 
 J our man ! " 
 
 " Faix, take your own coorse, avourneen. If you get a lase of it at 
 a fair rint, I'll buy another horse, anyhow. Isn't that doin' the thing 
 dacent .'' " 
 
 " More power to you, Ellish ! I'll hould you a crown I pay you the 
 price o' the horse afore this time twelvemonth." 
 
 " Done! The sarra be off me but done ! — an' here's Barny Dillun 
 an' Katty Hacket to bear witness." 
 
 " Sure enough we will," said Barny, the ser\-ant. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 13 
 
 " rU back the misthress any money," replied the maid. 
 " Two to one on the masther," said the man. " Whoo ! our side o' 
 the house for ever ! Come, Pether, hould up your head, there's money 
 bid for you." 
 
 " EUish, I'll fight for you ankle-deep," said Katty, " depend your life 
 an me." 
 
 " In the name o' goodness, thin, it's a bargain," said Ellish ; " an' at 
 the end o' the year, if we're spared, we'll see what we'll see. We'll 
 have among ourselves a little sup o' tay, plase goodness, an' we'll be 
 comfortable. Now, Barny, go an' draw home thim phaties from the pits 
 while the day's fine ; and, Katty, a colleen, bring in some wather, till 
 we get the pig killed and scalded — it'll hardly have time to be good 
 bacon for the big n\arkets at Christmas. I don't wish," she continued, 
 " to keep it back from them that we have a thrifle o' money. One 
 always does betther when it's known that they're not strugglin'. 
 There's Nelly Cummins, an' her customers is lavin' her, an' dalin' wid 
 me, bekase she's goin' down in business. Ay, an' Pether, a hagur, it'-* 
 the way o' the world ! " 
 
 " Well, but, Ellish, don't you be givin' Nelly Cummins the harsh 
 word, or lanin' too heavily upon her, the crathur, merely in regard that 
 she ij goin' down. Do you hear, a colleen ?" 
 
 " Indeed I don't do it, Pether ; but you know she has a tongue like 
 a razor at times, and whin it gets loose she'd provoke St. Pether him- 
 self. Thin she's takin' to the dhrink, too, the poor misfortunate vaga- 
 bone!" 
 
 " Well, well, that's no affair o' yours, or mine aither — only don't be 
 risin' ructions and norrations wid her. You threwn a jug at her the 
 last day you war out, an' hot the poor ould potticary as he was passin'. 
 You see I hard that, though you kept it close from me ! — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — why you'd split if you had seen the crathur whin he 
 fell into Pether White's brogue-creels, wid his heels up. But what 
 right had she to be sthrivin' to bring away my customers afore my 
 face ? Alley Dogherty was buyin' a crock wid me, an' Nelly shouts over 
 to her from where she sot like a prince on her stool, ' Alley,' says she,. 
 ' here's a betther one for three fardens less, an' another farden 'ill get 
 you a penn'orth o' salt.' An', indeed, Ailey walks over, manely enough,, 
 an' tuck her at her word. Why, flesh un' blood couldn't bear it !" 
 " Indeed, an' you're raal flesh an' blood, Ellish, if that bes thrue." 
 " Well, but consarnin' what I mintioned awhile agone — hut ! the 
 poor mad crathur, let us have no more discoorse about her — I say, 
 that no one ever thrives so well as when the world sees that they are 
 gettin' an, an' prosperin' j but if there's not an appearance, how will 
 anyone know whether we are prosperin' or not, barrin' they see some 
 sign of it about us ; I mane, in a quiet rasonable way, widout show or 
 extravagance. In the name o' goodness, thin, let us get the house 
 brushed up, an' the outhouses dashed. A bushel or two of lime 'ill 
 make this as white as an egg widin, an' a very small expinse will get 
 it plastered an' whitewashed widout. Wouldn't you like it, avourneen ? 
 Eh, Pether ?" 
 
U THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 
 
 " To be sure I'd like it. It'll give a respectful look to the house an' 
 place." 
 
 '• Ay, an' it'll bring customers, that's the main thing. People always 
 like to come to a snug, comfortable place. An', plase God, I'm thinkin' 
 of another plan that I'll soon mintion.'' 
 
 " An' what may that be, you skamer ? Why, EUish, you've ever an 
 always some skame or other in that head o' yours. For my part, I 
 don't know how you get at them." 
 
 " Well, no matter, acushla, do you only back me ; jist show me how 
 I ought to go an wid them, for nobody can outdo you at sich things, 
 an' I'll engage we'll thrive yit, always wid a blessin' an us." 
 
 " Why, to tell God's thruth, I'd bate the devil himself at plannin' 
 out, an' bringin' a thing to a conclusion — ch, you deludher ?" 
 
 " The sarra doubt of it ; but takin' the other farm was the brightest 
 thought I seen wid you yit. Will you do it, a villish .'' " 
 
 " To be sure. Didn't I say it ? An' it'll be up wid the lark wid me, 
 Hut, woman, you didn't see the half o' what's in me, yit." 
 " I'll buy you a hat and a pair o' stockins at Christmas." 
 " Will you, Ellish ? Then, by the book, I'll work like a horse." 
 " I didn't mtind to tell you, but I had it laid out for you." 
 " Faith, you're a beauty, Ellish. What'U we call this young chap 
 that's comin', acushla 1: " 
 
 " Now, Pether, none o' your capers. It's time enough when the 
 thing happens to be thinkin' o' that, glory be to God ! " 
 
 " Well, you may talk as you plase, but I'll call him Pether." 
 " An' how do you know but he'll be a girl, you omadhawn ?" 
 " Murdher alive, ay, sure enough ! Faith, 1 didn't think o' that !" 
 " Well, go up now an' spake to Misther Eccles about the lajid ; 
 maybe somebody else ud slip in afore us, an' that wouldn't be pleasant. 
 Here's your brave big coat, put it an ; faix, it makes a man of you — 
 gives you a bodagh look entirely : but that's little to what you'll be 
 yet, wid a blessin' — a half sir, anyway." 
 
 In fact, EUish's industry had already gained a character for both 
 herself and her husband. He got credit for the assiduity and activity 
 to which she trained him ; and both were respected for their clever- 
 ness in advancing themselves from so poor a beginning to the humble 
 state of independence they had then reached. The farm which Ellish 
 was so anxious to secure was the property of the gentleman from 
 whom they held the other. Being a man of sense and penetration, he 
 fortunately saw — what, indeed, was generally well known — that Peter 
 and Ellish were rising in the world, and that their elevation was the 
 consequence of their own unceasing efforts to become independent, so 
 that industry is in ever>' possible point of view its own reward. So 
 long as the farm was open to competition the offers for it multiplied 
 prodigiously, and rose in equal proportion. Persons not worth twenty 
 shillings in the world offered double the rent which the utmost stretch 
 of ingenuity, even with suitable capital, could pay. Newly-married 
 couples, with nothing but the strong imaginative hopes peculiar to 
 their country, proposed for it in a most liberal spirit. Men who had 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 15 
 
 been ejected out of their late farms for non-payment of rent were 
 ready to cultivate 'this at a rent much above that which, on better land, 
 they vrere unable to pay. Others, who had been ejected from farm 
 after farm — each of which they undertook as a mere speculation, to 
 furnish them with present subsistence, but without any ultimate expec- 
 tation of being able to meet their engagements — came forward with 
 the most laudable efforts. This gentleman, however, was none of 
 those landlords who are so besotted and ignorant of their own interests 
 as to let their lands simply to the highest bidders, without taking into 
 consideration their capital, moral character, and habits of industry. 
 He resided at home, knew his tenants personally, took an interest in 
 their successes and difficulties, and instructed them in the best modes 
 of improving their farms. 
 
 Peter's first interview with him was not quite satisfactory on either 
 side. The honest man was like a ship without her rudder when 
 transacting business in the absence of his wife. The fact was that, 
 on seeing the high proposals which were sent in, he became alarmed 
 lest, as he flattered himself that the credit of the transaction should 
 be all his own, the farm might go into the hands of another, and his 
 character for cleverness suffer with EUish. The landlord was some- 
 what astounded at the rent which a man who bore so high a name 
 for prudence offered him. He knew it was considerably beyond what 
 the land was worth, and he did not wish that any tenant coming upon 
 his estate should have no other prospect than that of gradually 
 receding into insolvency. 
 
 " I cannot give you any answer now," said he to Peter ; " but if you 
 will call in a day or two I shall let you know my final determination." 
 
 Peter, on coming home, rendered an account of his interview with 
 the landlord to his wife, who no sooner heard of the extravagant 
 proposal he made than she raised her hands and eyes, exclaiming : 
 
 " Why thin, Pether, alanna, was it beside yourself you wor to go 
 for to offer a rint that no one could honestly pay ! Why, man alive, 
 it ud lave us widout house or home in no time, all out ! Sure, Pether, 
 acushla, where ud be the use of us or anyone takin' land, barrin' they 
 could make somethin' by it ? Faix, if the gintleman had sinse, he 
 wouldn't give the same farm to anybody at sich a rint ; an' for good 
 rasons too — bekase they could never pay it, an himself ud be the 
 sufferer in the long run." 
 
 " Dang me, but you're the long-headedest woman alive this day, 
 Ellish. Why, I never wanst wint into the rason o' the thing at all. 
 But you don't know the offers he got." 
 
 " Don't I ? Why, do you think he'd let the MulHns, or the Conlans, 
 or the O'Donoghoes, or the Duffys upon his land, widout a shillin' 
 in one o' their pockets to stock it, or to begin workin' it properly wid. 
 Hand me my cloak from the pin there, an' get your hat. Katty, 
 avourneen, have an eye to the house till we come back ; an' if Dick 
 Murphy comes here to get tobaccy on score, tell him I can't afford it, 
 till he pays up what he got. Come, Pether, in the name o' goodness — 
 come, abouchal." 
 
1 6 THE GEOGRAPHY. OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 EUish, during their short journey to the landlord's, commenced, in 
 her own way, a lecture upon agricultural economy, which, though 
 plain and unvarnished, contained excellent and practical sense. She 
 also pointed out to him when to speak and when to be silent ; told 
 him what rent to offer, and in what manner he should offer it ; but 
 she did all this so dexterously and sweetly that honest Peter thought 
 the new and corrected views which she furnished him with were 
 altogether the result of his own penetration. 
 
 The landlord was at home when they arrived, and ordered them 
 into the parlour, where he soon made his appearance. 
 
 " Well, Connell," said he, smiling, " are you come to make me a 
 higher offer.?" 
 
 '" Why thin, no, plase your honour," replied Peter, looking for 
 confidence to Ellish : " instead o' that, sir, Ellish here " 
 
 " Never heed me, alanna ; tell his honour what you've to say, out 
 o' the face. Go an, acushla." 
 
 "Why, your honour, to tell the blessed thruth, the dickens a bit o' my- 
 «;elf but had a sup in my head when I waswid your honour to-day before." 
 
 Ellish was thunderstruck at this most unexpected apology from 
 Peter ; but the fact was that the instructions which she had given 
 him on their way had completely evaporated from his brain, and he 
 felt himself thrown altogether upon his own powers of invention. 
 Here, however, he was at home ; for it was well known among all his 
 acquaintances that, however he might be deficient in the manage- 
 ment of a family when compared to his wife, he was capable, not- 
 withstanding, of exerting a certain imaginative faculty in a very high 
 degree. Ellish felt that to contradict him on the spot must lessen 
 both him and herself in the opinion of the landlord, a circumstance 
 that would have given her much pain. 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear that, Connell," said Mr. Eccles ; " you bear the 
 character of being strictly sober in your habits. You must have been 
 •early at the bottle, too, which makes your apology rather unhappy. 
 Of all tipplers, he who drinks early is the worst and most incurable." 
 
 " Thrue for you, sir, but this only happens me wanst a year, your 
 honour." 
 
 "Once a year! But, by-the-by, you had no appearance of being 
 tipsy, Peter." 
 
 " Tipsy ! Bud-an'-age, your honour, I was never seen tipsy in all 
 my life," said Peter. " That's a horse of another colour, sir, plase 
 your honour." 
 
 The reader must at once perceive that Peter here was only recover- 
 ing himself from the effects of the injurious impression which his first 
 admission was calculated to produce against him in the mind of his 
 landlord. 
 
 " Tipsy ! No, no, sir ; but the rason of it, sir, was this : it bein 
 my birthday, sir, I merely tuck a sup in the mornin', in honour o' the 
 day. It's altogether a lucky day to me, sir ! " 
 
 " Why, to be sure, every man's birthday may, probably, be called 
 «uch — the gift of existence being, I fear, too much undervalued." 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. ^7 
 
 " Bedad, your honour, I don't mane that at all." 
 
 "Then what do you mean, Peter?" 
 
 " Why, sir, you see, it's not that I was entirely born on this day, 
 bntpai'lly, sir ; I was marrid to Ellish here into the bargain — one o' 
 the best wives, sir — however, I'll say no more, as she's to the fore 
 herself. But, death alive, sir, sure when we put both conclusions 
 together — myself bein' sich a worthy man, and Ellish su^h a tiptop 
 wife, who could blame me for smellin' the bottle ? — for divil a much 
 more I did — about two glasses, sir — an' so it got up into my head a 
 little when I was wid your honour to-day before." 
 
 " But what is the amount of all this, Peter ?" 
 
 "Why, sir, you see only I was as I said, sir — not tipsy, your honour, 
 anyway, but seein' things double or so ; an' that was, 1 suppose, what 
 made me offer for the farm double what I intinded. Everybody knows, 
 sir, that the 'crathur' gives the big heart to us, anyhow, your honour." 
 
 " But you know, Peter, we entered into no terms about it. I, there- 
 fore, have neither power nor inclination to- hold you to the offer you 
 made." 
 
 " Faith, sir, you're not the gintleman to do a shabby turn, nor never 
 was, nor one o' your family. There's not in all Europe " 
 
 Ellish, who was a point-blank dealer, could endure Peter's mode of 
 transacting business no longer. She knew that if he once got into the 
 true spirit of applying the oil of flattery to the landlord, he would 
 have rubbid him into a perfect froth ere he quitted him. She, there- 
 fore, took up the thread of the discourse, and finished the compliment 
 with much more delicacy than honest Peter could have displayed. 
 
 " Thrue for you, Pether," she added ; " there is not a kinder family 
 to the poor, nor betther landlords, in the country they Hve in. Pether 
 an' myself, your honour, on layin' both our heads together, found 
 that he offered more rint for the land nor any tenant could honestly 
 pay. So, sir, where's the use of keepin' back God's thruth — Pether, 
 sir " 
 
 Peter here trembled from an apprehension that the wife, in accom- 
 plishing some object of her own in reference to the land, was about to 
 undeceive the landlord touching the lie which he had so barefacedly 
 palmed upon that worthy gentleman for truth. In fact, his anxiety 
 overcame his prudence, and he resolved to anticipate her. 
 
 " I'd advise you, sir," said he, with a smile of significant good- 
 humour, " to be a little suspicious of her, for, to tell the truth, she 
 draws the" — here he illustrated the simile with his staff — "the long 
 bow of an odd time ; faith, she does. I'd kiss the book on the head of 
 what I tould you, sir, plase your honour. For the sacret of it is that I 
 tuck the moisture afore she left her bed." 
 
 " Why, Pether, alanna," said Ellish, soothingly, " what's comin' over 
 you, at all, an' me goin' to explain to his honour the outs and ins of 
 our opinion about the land ? Faix, man, we're not thinkin' about you, 
 good or bad." 
 
 " I believe the drop has scarcely left your head yet, Peter," said the 
 landlord. 
 
i8 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 " Bud-an'-age, your honour, sure we must have our joke, Jjiyhow — 
 doesn't she desarve it, for takin' the words out o' my mouth ? " 
 
 " Whisht, a viUish ; you're too cute for us all, Pether. There's no 
 use, sir, as I was sayin', for anyone to deny that when they take a 
 farm they do it to make by it, or at the laste to live comfortably an it. 
 That's the thruth, your honour, an' it's no use to keep it back from you, 
 sir." 
 
 " I perfectly agree with you," said the landlord. " It is with these 
 motives that a tenant should wish to occupy land ; and it is the duty 
 of every landlord who has his own interest truly at heart to see that 
 his land be not let at such a rent as will preclude the possibility of 
 comfort or independence on the part of his tenantry. He who lets 
 his land above its value, merely because people are foolish enough to 
 offer more than it is worth, is as great an enemy to himself as he is to 
 the tenant." 
 
 '* It's God's thruth, sir, an' it's nothin' else but a comfort to hear sich 
 words comin' from the lips of a gintleman that's a landlord himself." 
 
 "Ay, an' a good one, too," said Peter; "an' kind father for his 
 honour to be what he is. Divil resave the family in all Europe " 
 
 " Thrue for you, avourneen, an' everyone knows that. We wor 
 talkin' it over, sir, betuxt ourselves, Pether an' me, an' he says, very 
 cutely, that, upon second thoughts, he offered more nor we could 
 honestly pay out o' the land ; so " 
 
 " Faith, it's as thrue as Gospel, your honour. Says I, * Ellish, you 
 beauty ' " 
 
 "I thought," observed Mr. Eccles, "that she sometimes drew the 
 long bow, Peter." 
 
 " Oh, murdher alive, sir, it was only in regard of her crassin' in an* 
 whippin' the word out o' my mouth that I wanted to take a rise out 
 of her. Oh, bedad, sir, no ; the crathur's thruth to the backbone, an' 
 farther if I'd say it." 
 
 '' So, your honour, considherin' everything, we're willin' to offer 
 thirty shillins an acre for the farm. That rint, sir, we'll be able to 
 pay, wid the help o' God, for sure we can do nothin' widout his assist- 
 ance, glory be to his name ^ You'll get many that'll offer you more, 
 your honour ; but if it ud be plasin' to you to considher what manes 
 they have to pay it, I think, sir, you'd see out o' your own sinse that 
 it's not likely people who is gone to the bad, an' has nothin', could 
 stand it out long." 
 
 "I wish to heaven," replied Mr. Eccles, "that every tenant in 
 Ireland possessed your prudence and good sense. Will you permit 
 me to ask, Mrs. Connell, what capital you and your husband can com- 
 mand, provided I should let you have it ? " 
 
 " Wid every pleasure in life, sir, for it's but a fair question to put. 
 An' sure, it is to God we owe it, whatever it is, plase your honour. 
 But, sir, if we get the land, we're able to stock it, an' to crop it well 
 an' dacent'y ; an' if your honour would allow us for certain improve- 
 ments, sir, we'd run it mto snug fields, by plantin' good hedges, an' 
 gettin' up shelther for the outlyin' cattle in the hard seasons, plas^ 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 19 
 
 your honour, and you know the farm is very naked and bare of shekel 
 at present." 
 
 " Sovvl, will we, sir, an' far more nor that, if we get it. I'll undertake 
 sir, to level " 
 
 " No, Pether, we'll promise no more nor we'll do ; but anything that 
 his honour will be plased to point out to us, if we get fair support, an' 
 that it remains on the farm afther us, we'll be willin' to do it." 
 
 " Willin' ! " exclaimed Peter — " faith, whether we're willin' or not, 
 if his honour but says the word " 
 
 " Mrs. Connell," said their landlord, " say no more. The farm is 
 yours, and you may consider yourselves as my tenants." 
 
 " Many thanks to you, sir, for the priference. I hope, sir, you'll not 
 rue what you did in givin' it to us before them that offered a higher 
 rint. You'll find, sir, wid the help o' the Almighty, that we'll pay you 
 your rint regular an' punctual." 
 
 " Why, thin, long life, an' glory, an' benediction to your honour ! 
 Faith, it's only kind father for you, sir, to be what you are. The divil 
 resave the family in all Europe. " 
 
 " Peter, that will do," replied the landlord ; " it would be rather 
 hazardous for our family to compete with all Europe. Go home, Peter, 
 and be guided by your wife, who has more sense in her little finger 
 than ever your family had either in Europe or out of it, although I 
 mean you no offence by going beyond Europe." 
 
 " By all the books that never wor opened an' shut," replied Peter, 
 with the intuitive quickness of perception peculiar to Irishmen, " an 
 innocenter boy than Andy Connell never was sent acrass the wather. 
 I proved as clear an alibi for him as the sun in the firmament ; an' 
 yit, bad luck to the big-wig O'Grady, he should be puttin' in his leek 
 an me afore the jury, jist whin I had the poor boy cleared out dacently, 
 an' wid all honour. An' bedad, now that we're spakin' about it, I'll 
 tell your honour the whole conclusions of it. You see, sir, the agint 
 was shot one night ; an' above all nights in the year, your honour, a 
 thief of a toothache that I had kep me " 
 
 " Pether, come away, a bouchal : his honour knows as much about 
 it as you do. Come, aroon ; you know we must help to scald an' 
 scrape the pig afore night, an' it's late now." 
 
 " Bedad. sir, she's a sweet one, this." 
 
 " Be guided by her, Peter, if you're wise : she's a wife you ought to 
 be proud of." 
 
 " Thrue for you, sir ; divil resave the word o' lie in that, anyhow. 
 Come, EUish ; come, you deludher, I'm wid you." 
 
 " God bless your honour sir, an' we're oblaged to you for your kind- 
 ness an' patience wid the likes of us." 
 
 " I say ditto, your honour. Long life an' glory to you every day your 
 honour rises ! " 
 
 Peter, on his way home, entered into a defence of his apology for 
 offering so high a rent to the landlord ; but although it possessed both 
 ingenuity and originality, it was, we must confess, grossly defective in 
 those principles usually inculcated by our best ethic writers. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 "Couldn't you have tould him what we agreed upon goin'up?" ob- 
 served Ellish ; "but instead o' that, to begin an' tell the gintleman so 
 many lies about your bein' dhrunk, an' this bein' your birthday, an' 
 
 the day we wor marrid, an', Musha, sich quare stories to come into 
 
 your head ! " 
 
 " Why," said Peter, " what harm's in all that, whin he didn't ^nd 
 me out ?" 
 
 " But why the sarra did you go to say that / was in the custom o' 
 tellin' lies?" 
 
 " Faix, bekase I thought you wor goin' to let out all, an' I thought it 
 best to have the first word o' you. What else ? — but sure I brought 
 myself off bravely." 
 
 "W^ell, well, a hudh : don't be invintin' sich things another time, or 
 you'll bring yourself into a scrape some way or other." 
 
 " Faix, an' you needn't spake, Ellish ; you can let out a nate bounce 
 yourself, whin it's to sarve you. Come now, don't run away wid the 
 story." 
 
 "Well, if I do, it's in the way o' my business ; whin I'm batin' thim 
 down in the price o' what I'm buyin', or gettin' thim to bid up for any- 
 thing I'm sellin' : besides, it's to advance ourselves in the world that 
 
 do it, a bouchal." 
 
 " Go an, go an ; faix, you're like the new moon, sharp at both 
 corners : but what matther, you beauty, we've secured the farm, at any 
 rate, an', by this an' by that, I'll show you tiptop farmin' an it." 
 
 A struggle now commenced between the husband and wife as to 
 which of them should, in their respective departments, advance them- 
 selves with greater rapidity in life. This friendly contest was kept up 
 principally lay the address of Ellish, who, as she knew those points in 
 her husband's character most easily wrought upon, felt little difficulty 
 in shaping him to her own purposes. Her great object was to acquire 
 wealth ; and it mostly happens that when this is the ruling principle 
 in life, there is usually to be found in association with it all those quali- 
 ties which are best adapted to secure it. Peter, on finding that every 
 succeeding day brought something to their gains, began to imbibe a 
 portion of that spirit which wholly absorbed Ellish. He became 
 worldly ; but it was rather the worldliness of habit than of principle. 
 In the case of Ellish it proceeded from both : her mind was apt, 
 vigorous, and conceptive ; her body active, her manners bland and 
 insinuating, and her penetration almost intuitive. About the time of 
 their entering upon the second farm, four children had been the fruit 
 of their marriage — two sons and two daughters. These were now new 
 sources of anxiety to their mother, and fresh impulses to her industry. 
 Hei ignorance, and that of her husband, of any kind of education, she 
 had often, in the course of their business, bitter cause to regret. She 
 no\» resolved that their children should be well instructed ; and no 
 time was lost in sending them to school, the moment she thought them 
 capable of imbibing the simplest elements of instruction. 
 
 " It's hard to say," she observed to her husband, " how soon they 
 may be useful to us. Who knows, Pether, but we may have a full ihop 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH, 
 
 yit, an' they may be able to make up bits ot accounts for us, poor 
 things ? Throth, I'd be happy if I wanst seen it." 
 
 " Faix, Ellish," replied Peter, " if we get an as we're doin', it ?>hard 
 to say. For my own part, if I had got the larnin' in time, I might be 
 a bright boy to-day, no doubt of it — could spake up to the best o' thim. 
 I never wint to school but wanst, an' I remimber I threwn themasther 
 into a kiln-pot, an' broke the poor crathur's arm ; an' from that day to 
 this I never could be brought a single day to school." 
 
 Peter and Ellish now began to be pointed out as a couple worthy of 
 imitation by those who knew that perseverance and industry never 
 fail of securing their own reward. Others, however, — that is to say, 
 the lazy, the profligate, and the ignorant — had a ready solution for the 
 secret of their success. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, she's a hicky woman, an' anything she puts her hand 
 to prospers. Sure she was born wid a lucky caul an her head ; an' be 
 sure, a hagur, the world will flow in upon thim. There's many a 
 neighbour about thim works their fingers to the stumps, an' yit you 
 see they can't get an : for Ellish, if she'd throw the sweepins of her 
 hearth to the wind, it ud come back to her in money. She -was born 
 to it, an' Jiothzn^ can keep her from her luck " 
 
 Such are many of the senseless theories that militate against exer- 
 tion and industry in Ireland, and occasion many to shrink back, from 
 the laudable race of honest enterprise, into filth, penury, and crime. 
 It is this idle and envious crew who, with a natural aversion to 
 domestic industry, become adepts in politics, and active in those 
 illegal combinations and outrages which place the country below the 
 poorest and most barbarous upon the earth. 
 
 In the meantime Ellish was rapidly advancing in life, while such 
 persons were absurdly speculating upon the cause of her success. 
 Her business was not only increased, but extended. From crockery, 
 herrings, and salt, she advanced gradually to deal in other branches 
 adapted to her station and the wants of the people. She bought 
 stockings, and retailed them every market day. By-and-by a few 
 pieces of soap might be seen in her windows : starch, blue, potash, 
 and candles were equally profitable. Pipes were seen stuck across 
 each other, flanked by tape, cakes, children's books, thimbles, and 
 bread. In fact, she was equally clever and expert in whatever she 
 undertook. The consciousness of this, and her reputation as being 
 " a hard honest woman," encouraged her to get a cask or two of beer 
 and a few rolls of tobacco. Peter, when she proposed the last two, 
 consented only to sell them still as smuggled goods — sicb silentio. 
 W'th her usual prudence, however, she declined this. 
 
 " We have gone on that way purty far," she replied, " an' never got 
 a touchy thanks to the kindness of our neighbours that never informed 
 an us ; but now, Pether, that we're able, we had betther do every- 
 thing above boord. You know the ould say, ' Long runs the fox, but 
 
 1 The doctrine of fatalism is very prevalent among the lower orders 'n Ireland. 
 • Never suffered by the excisemen. 
 
 (3) 
 
22 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 he's catched at last ;' so let us give up in time, an* get out a little bit o 
 licence." 
 
 " I don't like that at all," replied Peter ; " I can't warm my heart to 
 the licence. I'll back you in anything but that. The ganger won t 
 come next or near us, he has thried it often, an' never made anything 
 of it. Dang me, but I'd like to have a hit o' fun wid the ganger, to 
 see if my hand's still ready for practice." 
 
 '' Oh, thin, Pether, how can you talk that way, asthore? Now, if 
 what I'm sayin' was left to yourself wouldn't you be apt to plan it as 
 I'm doin'.? — wouldn't you, acushla .-' Throth, I know you're too cute 
 an' sinsible not to do it." 
 
 " Why, thin, do you know what, Ellish — although I didn't spake 
 out, upon my faix I was thinking of it. Divil a word o' lie in it." 
 
 " Oh, you thief o' the world, an' never to tell it to me. Faix, Pether, 
 you're a cunnin' shaver, an' as deep as a draw well." 
 
 " Let me alone. Why, I tell you, if I study an' lay myself down to 
 it, I can conthrive anything. Whin I was young, many a time my 
 poor father, God be good to him ! said that if there was any possibility 
 of gettin' me to take to larnin', I'd be risin' out o' the ashes every 
 mornin' like a phanix." 
 
 " But won't you hould to your plan about the licence ? " 
 
 " Hould .'' To be sure I will. What was I but takin' a rise out o' 
 you. I intinded it this good while, you phani.x — faix, I did." 
 
 In this manner did Ellish dupe her own husband into increasing 
 wealth. Their business soon became so extensive that a larger house 
 was absolutely necessar>'. To leave that, beneath whose roof she 
 succeeded so well in all her speculations, was a point — be it of 
 prudence or of prejudice — which Ellish could not overcome. Her 
 maxim was, wherever you find yourself doing well, stay there. She 
 contrived, however, to remedy this. To the old house additional 
 apartments were, from time to time, added, into which their business 
 soon extended. When these again became too small, others were also 
 built ; so that, in the course of about twenty years, their premises were 
 so extensive that the original shebeen-house constituted a verj' small 
 portion of Peter's residence. Peter, during Ellish's progress within 
 doors, had not been idle without. For every new room added to the 
 house, he was able to hook in a fresh farm, in addition to those he had 
 already occupied. Unexpected success had fixed his heart as strongly 
 upon the accumulation of money, and the pride of rising in the world, 
 as it was possible for a man, to whom they were only adventitious 
 feelings, to experience. The points of view in which he and his wife 
 were contemplated by the little public about them were peculiar, but 
 clearly distinct. The wife was generally esteemed for her talents and 
 incessant application to business ; but she was not so cordially liked 
 as Peter. He, on the other hand, though less esteemed, was more 
 beloved by all their acquaintances than Ellish. This might probably 
 originate from the more obvious congeniality which existed between 
 Peter's natural disposition and the national character ; for with the 
 latter, Ellish, except good-humour, had little in common. The usual 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 23 
 
 remarks upon both were — " She would buy an' sell him " — " 'Twas she 
 that made a man of him ; but for all that, Pether's worth a shipload ol 
 her, if she'd give him his own way." That is, if she would permit 
 him to drink with the neighbours, to be idle and extravagant. 
 
 Every year, now that their capital was extending, added more 
 perceptibly to their independence. Ellish's experience in the humbler 
 kinds of business trained her for a higher line ; just as boys at school 
 rise from one form to another. She made no plunges, nox permitted 
 Peter, who was often inclined to jump at conclusions, to make any. 
 Her elevation was gradual and cautious ; for her plans were always so 
 seasonable and simple that every new description of business, and 
 every new success, seemed to arise naturally from that which went 
 before it. 
 
 Having once taken out a licence, their house soon became a decent 
 country spirit establishment ; from soap, and candles, and tobacco, 
 she rose into the full sweep of groceries ; and from dealing in Conne- 
 mara stockings and tape, she proceeded in due time to sell wooUer. 
 and linen drapery. Her crockery was now metamorphosed into delf, 
 pottery, and hardware ; her gingerbread into stout loaves, for as Peter 
 himself grew wheat largely, she seized the opportunity, presented by 
 the death of the only good baker in the neighbourhood, of opening an 
 extensive bakery. 
 
 It may be asked how two illiterate persons, like Peter and Ellish, 
 could conduct business, in which so much calculation was necessary, 
 without suffering severely by their liability to make mistakes. To this 
 we reply — first, that we should have liked to see any person attempting 
 to pass a bad note or a light guinea upon Ellish after nine or ten years' 
 experience ; we should like to have seen a smug clerk taking his pen 
 from behind his ear, and after making his calculation, on inquiring 
 from Ellish if she had reckoned up the amount, compelled to ascer- 
 tain the error which she pointed out to him. The most remarkable 
 point in her whole character was the rapid accuracy she displayed 
 in mental calculation, and her uncommon sagacity in detecting bad 
 money. 
 
 There is, however, a still more satisfactory explanation of this cir- 
 cumstance to be given. She had not neglected the education of her 
 children. The eldest was now an intelligent boy, and a smart ac- 
 countant, who, thanks to his master, had been taught to keep their 
 books by double entry. The second was little inferior to him as a 
 clerk, though as a general dealer he was far his superior. The eldest 
 had been principally behind the counter ; whilst the younger, in 
 accompanying his mother in all her transactions and bargain-making, 
 had in a great measure imbibed her address and tact. 
 
 It is certainly a pleasing, and, we think, an interesting thing to 
 contemplate the enterprise of a humble, but active, shrewd woman, 
 enabling her to rise, step by step, from the lowest state of poverty to a 
 small sense of independence ; from this, by calling fresh powers into 
 action, taking wider views, and following them up by increased efforts, 
 until her shebeen becomes a small country public-house ; until he^ 
 
24 THE GEOGRATHY Oh AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 roll of tobacco, and her few pounds of soap and starch, are lost in the 
 well-filled drawers of a grocery shop ; and her grey Connemara 
 stockings transformed, by the golden wand of industry, into a countrv 
 cloth warehouse. To see Peter — from the time he first harrowed 
 part of his farm with a thorn-bush, and ploughed it by joining his 
 horse to that of a neighbour — adding farm to farm, horse to horse, and 
 cart to cart, until we find him a wealthy and extensive agriculturist. 
 
 The progress of Peter and EUish was in another point of view a 
 good study for him who wishes to look into human nature whilst 
 adapting itself to the circumstances through which it passes. When 
 this couple began life, their friends and acquaintances were as poor 
 as themselves ; as they advanced from one gradation to another, and 
 rose up from a lower to a higher state, their former friends, who re- 
 mained in their original poverty, found themselves left behind in 
 cordiaUty and intimacy as well as in circumstances, whilst the 
 subjects of our sketch continued to make new friendships of a more 
 respectable stamp, to fill up, as it were, the places held in their good 
 will by their humble, but neglected, intimates. Let not our readers, 
 however, condemn them for this. It was the act of society, and not 
 of Peter and EUish. On their parts it was involuntary ; their circum- 
 stances raised them, and they were compelled, of course, to rise with 
 their circumstances. They were passing through the journey of life, 
 as it were, and those with whom they set out, not having been able to 
 keep up with them, soon lost their companionship, which was given 
 to those with whom they travelled for the time being. Society is 
 always ready to reward the enterprising and industrious by its just 
 honours, whether they are sought or not ; it is so disposed that every 
 man falls or rises into his proper place in it, and that by the wisdom 
 and harmony of its structure. The rake, who dissipates by profligacy 
 and extravagance that which might have secured him an honourable 
 place in life, is eventually brought to the workhouse ; whilst the active 
 citizen, who realises an honest independence, is viewed with honour 
 and esteem. 
 
 Peter and Ellish were now people of consequence in the parish : the 
 former had ceased to do anything more than superintend the culti- 
 vation of his farms ; the latter still took an active part in her own 
 business, or rather in the various departments of business which she 
 carried on. Peter might be seen the first man abroad in the morning, 
 proceeding to some of his farms mounted upon a good horse, comfort- 
 ably dressed in top boots, stout corduroy breeches, buff cashmere 
 waistcoat, and blue broadcloth coat, to which in winter were added a 
 strong frieze great-coat, with a drab velvet collar, and a glazed hat. 
 Ellish was also respectably dressed, but still considerably under her 
 circumstances. Her mode of travelling to fairs or markets was eithei 
 upon a common car, covered with a feather bed and quilt, or behind 
 Peter upon a pillion. This last method flattered Peter's vanity very 
 much ; no man could ride on these occasions with a statelier air. He 
 kept himself as erect and stiff as a poker, and brandisl .ed the thong 
 of his loaded whip with the pride of a gentleman farmer. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 2<; 
 
 'Tis true, he did not always hear the sarcastic remarks which were 
 passed upon him by those who witnessed his good-natured vanity : 
 
 " There he goes," some labouring man on the wayside would 
 exclaim, " a purse-proud bodagh upon our hands. Why, thin, does he 
 forget that we remimber when he kept the shebeen-house, an' sould 
 his smuggled tobaccy in gits out of his pocket, for fraid o' the gauger ! 
 Sowl, he'd show a blue nose, anyway, only for the wife — 'twas she 
 made a man of him." 
 
 "Faith, an' I, for one, won't hear Pether Connell run down," his 
 companion would reply ; " he's a good-hearted, honest man, an' 
 oblagin' enough ; an' for that matter, so is the wife — a hard, honest 
 woman, that made what they have, an' brought herself and her hus- 
 band from nothin' to somethin'." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Tim ; in throth they do desarve credit. Still, you 
 see, here's you an' me, and we've both been slavin' ourselves as much 
 as they were, an' yet you see how we are ! However, it's their luck, 
 an' there's no use in begrudgin' it to them." 
 
 When their children were full grown, the mother did not, as might 
 have been supposed, prevent them from making a respectable appear- 
 ance. With excellent judgment, she tempered their dress, circum- 
 stances and prospects so well together that the family presented an 
 admirable display of economy and a decent sense of independence. 
 From the moment they were able to furnish solid proofs of their 
 ability to give a cciiifjrtable dinner occasionally, the priest of the 
 parish began to notice them ; and this new intimacy, warmed by the 
 honour conferred on one side, and by the good dinners on the other, 
 ripened into a strong friendship. For many a long year, neither 
 Peter nor EUish, God forgive them, ever troubled themselves about 
 going to their duty. They soon became, however, persons of too 
 much importance to be damned without an effort made for their sal- 
 vation. The worthy gentleman accordingly addressed them on the 
 subject, and as the matter was one of perfect indifference to both, 
 they had not the slightest hesitation to go to confession — in compli- 
 ment to the priest. We do not blame the priest for this ; God forbid 
 that we should quarrel with a man for eating a good dinner. If we 
 ourselves were a priest, it is very probable — nay, from the zest with 
 which we approach a good dinner, it is quite certain — that we would 
 have cultivated honest Peter's acquaintance, and drawn him out to 
 the practice of that most social of virtues, hospitality. The salvation 
 of such a man's soul was worth looking after ; and, indeed, we find a 
 much warmer interest felt, in all churches, for those who are able to 
 give good dinners than for those poor miserable sinners who can 
 scarcely get even a bad one. 
 
 But, besides this, there was another reason for the Rev. Mr. 
 Mulcahy's anxiety to cultivate a friendship with Peter and his wife ; 
 which reason consisted in a veiy laudable determination to bring about a 
 match between his own niece, Miss Granua Mulcahy, and Peter's eldest 
 son, Dan. This speculation he had not yet broached to the family, 
 except by broken hints and jocular allusions to the very flattering pro- 
 
26 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 posals that had been made by many substantial young men for Miss 
 Granua. 
 
 In the meantime the wealth of the Connells had accumulated to 
 thousands ; their business in the linen and woollen drapery line was 
 incredible. There was scarcely a gentleman within many miles oi 
 them who did not find it his interest to give them his custom. In the 
 hardware, flour, and baking concerns they were equally extensive. 
 The report of their wealth had gone far and near, exaggerated, how- 
 ever, as everything of the kind is certain to be ; but stiill there were 
 ample grounds for estimating it at a very high amount. 
 
 Their .'tores were large, and well filled with many a valuable bale \ 
 their cel'ars well stocked with every description of spirits ; and their 
 shop, though not large in proportion to their transactions, was well 
 filled, neat, and tastefully fitted up. There was no show, however — 
 no empty glare to catch the eye ; on the contrary', the whole concern 
 was marked by an air of solid, warm comfort that was much more 
 indicative of wealth and independence than tawdry embellishment 
 would have been. 
 
 " Avourneen," said Ellish, " the way to deck out your shop is to 
 keep the best of goods. Wanst the people knows that they'll get 
 betther moneyworth here than thej-'ll get anywhere else, they'll come 
 here, whether the shop looks well or ill. Not say in' but every shop 
 ought to be clane an' dacent, for there's rason in all things." 
 
 This, indeed, was another secret of their success. Ever)' article in 
 their shop was of the best description, having been selected by Ellish"s 
 own eye and hand m the metropolis, or imported directly from the 
 place of its manufacture. Her periodical visits to Dublin gave her 
 great satisfaction : for it appears that those with whom she dealt, 
 having had sufficient discrimination to appreciate her talents and 
 integrity, treated her with marked respect. 
 
 Peter's farmyard bore much greater evidence of his wealth than did 
 Ellish's shop. It was certainly surprising to reflect that by the 
 capacity of two illiterate persons, who began the world with nothing, 
 all the best and latest improvements in farming were either adopted 
 or anticipated. The farmyard was upon a great scale ; for Peter 
 cultivated no less than four hundred acres of land — to such lengths 
 had his enterprise carried him. Threshing-machines, large barns, 
 corn-kilns, large stacks, extensive stables, and immense cow-houses, 
 together with the incessant din of active employment perpetually 
 going on — all gave a very high opinion of their great property, and 
 certainly reflected honour upon those whose exertions had created 
 such a scene about them. One would naturally suppose, when the 
 family of the Connells had arrived to such unexpected riches, and 
 found it necessary to conduct a system whose machinery was so com- 
 plicated and extensive, that Ellish would have fallen back to the 
 simple details of business, from a deficiency of that comprehensive 
 intelligence which is requisite to conduct the higher order of mercan- 
 tile transactions ; especially as her sons were admirably qualified, by 
 practice, example, and education, to ease her of a task which would 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 27 
 
 appear one of too much difficulty for an unlettered farmer's Afife. 
 Such a supposition would be injurious to this excellent woman. So 
 far from this being the case, she was still the moving spirit, the chief 
 conductor of the establishment. Whenever any difficulty arose that 
 required an effort of ingenuity and sagacity, she was able, in the 
 homeliest words, to disentangle it so happily that those who heard her 
 wondered that it should at all have appeared to them as a difficulty. 
 She was everywhere. In Peter's farmyard her advice was as excellent 
 and as useful as in her own shop. On his farms she was the better 
 agriculturist, and she frequently set him right in his plans and specu- 
 lations for the ensuing year. 
 
 She herself was not ignorant of her skill. Many a time has she 
 surveyed the scene about her with an eye in which something like 
 conscious pride might be seen to kindle. On those occasions she 
 usually shook her head, and exclaimed, either in soliloquy, or by way 
 of dialogue, to some person near her : 
 
 " Well, avourneen, all's very right, an' goin' an bravely ; but I only 
 hope that when Fm go>ie I won't be missed ! " 
 
 "Missed," Peter would reply, if he happened to hear her; "oh, 
 upon my credit" — he was a man of too much consequence to swear 
 "by this an' by that " now — " upon my credit, EUish, if you die soon, 
 you'll see the ginteel wife I'll have in your place." 
 
 " Whisht, avourneen ! Although you're but jokin', I dont like to hear 
 it, a villish ! No, indeed ; we wor too long together, Pether, and lived 
 too happily wid one another, for you to have the heart to think of sich 
 a thing ! " 
 
 " No, in throth, EUish, I would belong sarry to doit. It's displasin' 
 to you, achree, an' I won't say it. God spare you to us ! It was you 
 put the bone in us, an' that's what all the country says, big an' little, 
 young an' ould ; an' God he knows it's thruth, and nothin' else." 
 
 " Indeed, no, thin, Pether, it's not altogether thruth, you desarve 
 your full share of it. You backed me well, acushla, in everything, an' 
 if you had been a dhrinkin', idle, rollikin' vagabone, what ud signify 
 all that me, or the likes o' me, could do." 
 
 " Faith, an' it was you made me what I am, Ellish ; you tuck the 
 soft side o' me, you beauty ; an' it's well you did, for by this — hem, 
 upon my reputation, if you had gone to cross purposes wid me, you'd 
 find yourself in the wrong box. An', you phanix o' beauty, you 
 managed the childhre, the crathurs, the same way — an' a good way it 
 fS, in throth." 
 
 " Pether, wor you ever thinkin' o' Father Mulcahy's sweetness to us 
 of late?" 
 
 " No, thin, the sorra one o' me thought of it. Why, Ellish ?" 
 
 " Didn't you obsarve that for the last three or four months hu's 
 full of attintions to us ? Every Sunday he brings yoii up, an' me i/ 
 Vd ^o, to the althar, an' keeps you there by way of showin' you 
 respect. Pether, it's not you, but your money he respects ; an' 
 I think there ought to be no respect o' persons in the chapel, any- 
 how. You're not a bit nearer God by bein' near the althar ; for how 
 
2S THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 do we know but the poorest crathur there is nearer to heaven than wr 
 are ! " 
 
 " Faith, sure enough, Ellish ; but what deep skame are you pene- 
 thratin' now, you desaver ? " 
 
 " I'd lay my life, you'll have a proposial o' marriage from Fathet 
 Mulcahy, atwcen our Dan an' Miss Granua. For many a day he's 
 hintin' to us, from time to time, about the great offers she had ; now 
 what's the rason, if she had these great offers, that he didn't take 
 them ? " 
 
 " Bedad, Ellish, you're the greatest headpiece in all Europe. 
 Murdher alive, woman, what a fine counsellor you'd make. An 
 suppose he did offer, Ellish, what ud you be sayin' to him ?" 
 
 " Why that ud depind entirely upon what he's able to give her — 
 they say he has money. It ud depind, too, upon whether Dan has any 
 likin' for her or not." 
 
 *' He's often wid her, I know ; an' I needn't tell you, Ellish, that 
 afore we wor spliced together I was often wid somebody that I won't 
 mintion. At all evints, he has made Dan put the big O afore the 
 Connell, so that he has him now full namesake to the counsellor ; an', 
 faith, that itself itd get him a tvi/e." 
 
 " Well, the best way is to say nothin', an' to hear nothin', till his 
 reverence spakes out, an' thin we'll see what can be done." 
 
 Ellish's sagacity had not misled her. In a few months afterwards 
 Father Mulcahy was asked by young Dan Connell to dine ; and as he 
 and honest Ellish were sitting together, in the course of the evening,, 
 the priest broached the topic as follows : 
 
 " Mrs. Connell, I think this v/hisky is better than my four year old, 
 
 that I bought at the Protestant Bishop of 's auction, although Dan 
 
 says mine's better. Between ourselves, that Dan is a clever, talented 
 young fellow ; and if he happens upon a steady, sensible wife, there is 
 no doubt but he will die a respectable man. But, by-the-by, Mrs. 
 Connell, you've never tried jny whisky ; and, upon my credit, you must 
 soon, for I know your opinion would decide the question." 
 
 "Is it worth while to decide it, your reverence.'* I suppose the 
 thruth is, sir, that both is good enough for anyone ; an' I think that's 
 as much as we want." 
 
 Thus far she went, but never alluded to Dan, judiciously throwing the 
 0)tiis of introducing that subject upon the priest. 
 
 " Dan says mine's better," observed Father Mulcahy ; "and I would 
 certainly give a great deal for his opinion upon that or any other 
 subject, except theology." 
 
 " You ought," replied Ellish, " to be in betther judge of whisky nor 
 cither Dan nor me ; an' I'll tell you why — you dhrink it in more places, 
 and can make comparishment one wid another ; but Dan an' me is 
 confined mostly to our own, an' of that same we take very little, an' 
 the less the betther for people in business, or indeed for anybody." 
 
 " Very true, Mrs. Connell ! But, for all that, I won't give up Dan's 
 judgment in anything within his own line of business, still excepting 
 theology, for which he hasn't the learning." 
 
7 //A GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 29 
 
 "He's a good son, witdout tayoXo^Y — ^s good as ever broke the 
 world's bread," said Peter, "glory be to God ! Although, for that 
 matther, he ought to be as well acquainted wid /«;'ology as your 
 reverence, in regard that he sells more of it nor you do." 
 
 " A good son, they say, Mrs. Connell, will make a good husband. 
 I wonder you don't think of settling him in life. It's full time." 
 
 " Father, avourneen, we must lave that wid himself. I needn't be 
 tellin' you that it ud be hard to find a girl able to bring what any 
 girl that ud expect Dan ought to bring." 
 
 This was a staggerer to the priest, who recruited his ingenuity by 
 drinking Peter's health, and EUish's. 
 
 " Have you nobody in your eye for him, Mrs. Connell ?" 
 
 " Faith, I'll engage she has," replied Peter, with a ludicrous grin, 
 ** I'll venture for to say she has that." 
 
 " Very right, Mrs. Connell ; it's all fair. Might one ask who she is."* 
 for, to tell you the truth, Dan is a favourite of mine, and I must make 
 it a point to see him well settled." 
 
 ''Why, your reverence," replied Peter again, "jist the one you 
 mintioned." 
 
 " Who ? I ? Why I mentioned nobody." 
 
 " An' that's the very one she has in her eye for him, plase your 
 reverence — ha, ha, ha ! What's the world widout a joke, docthor, 
 beggin' your pardon for makin so free wid you ?" 
 
 " Peter, you're still a wag," replied the priest ; "but, seriously, Mrs. 
 Connell, have you selected any female of respectable conite^tions, as a 
 likely person to be a wife for Dan .'' " 
 
 " Indeed no, your reverence ; I have not. Where could 1 pitch upon 
 a girl — barrin' a Protestant, an' that ud never do- -who has a fortune 
 to meet what Dan's to get .'"' 
 
 The priest moved his chair a little, and drank their healths a second 
 time. 
 
 " But you know, Mrs. Connell, that Dan needn't care so much about 
 fortune, if he got a girl of respectable connections. He has an inde- 
 pendence himself." 
 
 " Thrue for you, father ; but what right would any girl have to 
 expect to be supported by the hard arnin' of me an' my husband, wid- 
 out bringin' somethin' forrid herself? You know, sir, that the fortune 
 flhvays goes wid the wife ; but am I to fortune off my son to a girl 
 that has nothin' ? If my son, plase your reverence, hadn't a coat to 
 his back, or a guinea in his pocket — as, God be praised, he has boih — 
 but, supposin' he hadn't, what right would he have to expect a giil 
 vid a handsome fortune to marry him ? There's Paddy Neil, your 
 sarvant-boy ; now, if Paddy, who's an honest man's son, axed } our 
 niece, wouldn't you be apt to lose your timper ? " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mrs. Connell, I think your fire's rather hot — 
 allow me to draw back a little. Mrs. Connell, your health again ! — 
 Mr. C, your fireside ! " 
 
 " Thank you, docthor ; but faith I think you ough hardly to <lhriiik 
 the same fireside, bekase it appears to be rather hot for your reverence 
 
3° THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 
 
 at the present time— ha, ha, ha! Jokin' still, docthor, we must be. 
 Well, what harm ! I wish we may never do worse ! " 
 
 " And what fortune would you expect with a girl oi genteel connections 
 — a girl that's accomplished, we'll say in music, plain work, and Irish, 
 vernacularly ? — hem ! What fortune would you be expecting with 
 such a girl ? " 
 
 " Why, docthor, a hagur, the only music I'd wish for my son's wife 
 is a good timpcr ; an' that's what their music-masthers can't t»iche 
 thim. The plain work, although I don't know what you mane by it, 
 sounds well enough ; an' as to Idish, whick-iuhackiilarly, if you mane 
 our own ould tongue, he may get thousands that can spake it whack- 
 itigly, an' nothin' else." 
 
 " You're a wealthy woman, certainly, Mrs. Connell, and what's 
 more, I'm not surprised at it. Your health, once more, and long life 
 to you ! Suppose, however, that Dan got a fitting wife, what would 
 you expect for a proper portion ? I have a reason for asking." 
 
 " Dan, plase your reverence, will get four thousand to begin the 
 world wid ; an', as he's to expect none but a Catholic, I suppose if 
 he gets the fourth part of that, it's as much as he ought to look for." 
 
 " A thousand pounds ! — hut tut ! The woman's beside herself. 
 Why, look about you, and try where you can find a Catholic girl with 
 a thousand pounds fortune, except in a gentleman's family, where Dan 
 could never think of going." 
 
 " That's thrue, anyhow, your reverence," observed Peter. " A 
 thousand pounds ! EUish, you needn't look for it. Where is it to 
 be had out of a gentlemaii's family, as his reverence says, thrue 
 enough." 
 
 " An' now, docthor," said Ellish, " what ud you think a girl ought to 
 bring a young man like Dan, that's to have four thousand pounds.?" 
 
 " I don't think any Catholic girl of his own rank in the county 
 could get more than a couple of hundred." 
 
 " That's one shiilin' to every pound he has," replied Ellish, almost 
 instantaneously. " But, father, you may as well spake out at wanst," 
 she continued, for she was too quick and direct in all her dealings to 
 be annoyed by circumlocution ; " you're desairous of a match between 
 Dan an' Miss Granua.-*" 
 
 " Exactly," said the priest ; " and what is more, I believe they are 
 fond of each other. I know Dan is attached to her, for he told me so. 
 But, now that we have mentioned her, I say there is not a more 
 accomplished girl of her persuasion in the parish we sit in. She can 
 play on the bag-pipes better than any other piper in the province, for 
 I taught her myself ; and I tell you that in a respectable man's wife a 
 knowledge of music is a desirable thing. It's hard to tell, Mrs. 
 Connell, how they may rise in the world, and get into fashionable 
 company, so that accomplishments, you persave, are good. She c.vix 
 make a shirt and wash it, and she can write Irish. As for dancing, I 
 only wish you'd see her at a hornpipe. All these things put together, 
 along with her genteel connections, and the prospect of what I may be 
 able to lave her— I say your son may do worse." 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 31 
 
 ■ " It's not what you'd lave her, sir, but what you'd give her in the 
 first place, that I'd like to hear. Spake up, your reverence, an' let us 
 know how far you will go." 
 
 " I'm afeard, sir," said Peter, " if it goes to a clane bargain atween 
 yees, that EUish will make you bid up for Dan. Be sharp, sir, or 
 you'll have no chance ; faix, you won't." 
 
 " But, Mrs. Connell," replied the priest, "before I spake up, consider 
 her accomplishments. I'll undertake to say that the best bred girl in 
 Dublin cannot perform music in such a style, or on such an instru' 
 ment as the one she uses. Let us contemplate Dan and her after 
 marriage, in an elegant house, and full business, the dinner, and they 
 gone up to the drawing-room. Think how agreeable and graceful it 
 would be for Mrs. Daniel O'Connell to repair to the sofa, among a few 
 respectable frie-nds, and, taking up her bag-pipes, set her elbow a- 
 going, until the drone gives two or three broken groans, and the 
 chanter a squeak or two, like a child in the cholic, or a cat that you 
 had trampled on by accident. Then comes the real old Irish music, 
 that warms the heart. Dan looks upon her graceful position, until the 
 tears of love, taste and admiration are coming down his cheeks. By- 
 and-by, the toe of him moves ; here another foot is going ! and, in no 
 time there is a hearty dance, with a light heart and a good conscience. 
 You or I, perhaps, drop in to see them, and, of course, we partake of 
 the enjoyment." 
 
 " Divil a pleasanter," said Peter : " I tell you, I'd like it well ; an', 
 for my own part, if the deludher here has no objection, Fm not goin' 
 to spoil sport." 
 
 Ellish looked hard at the priest ; her keen blue eye glittered with a 
 sparkling light, that gave decided proofs of her sagacity being in- 
 tensely excited. 
 
 " All that you've said," she replied, " is very fine ; but in regard o' 
 the bag-pipes, an' Miss Granua Mulcahy's squeezin' the music out o' 
 thim — why, if it plased God to bring my son to the staff an' bag — a 
 common beggar— indeed, in that case. Miss Granua's bag-pipes might 
 sarve both o' thim, an' help, maybe, to get them a night's lodgin' or 
 •so ; but until that time comes, if you respect your niece, you'll burn 
 her bag-pipes, dhrone, chanther, an' all. If you are for a match, 
 which I doubt, spake out, as I said, and say what fortune you'll pay 
 <iown on the nail wid her, otherwise we're losin' our time, an' that's a 
 loss one can't make up." 
 
 The priest, who thought he could have bantered Ellish into an 
 alliance, without pledging himself to pay any specific fortune, found 
 that it was necessary for him to treat the matter seriously, if he 
 expected to succeed. He was certainly anxious for the match ; and 
 as he really wished to see his niece — who, in truth, was an excellent 
 girl, and handsome — well settled, he resolved to make a stretch and 
 secure Dan if possible. 
 
 •' Mrs. Connell," said he, " I will be brief with you. The most I 
 can give her is three hundred pounds, and even that by strugglmg 
 and borrowing. I will undertake to pay it as you say — on the nail! 
 
32 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 for I am really anxious that my niece should be connected with s^ 
 worthy and industrious a family. What do you say ? " 
 
 " Vm willin' enough," replied Peter. " It's not asy to get that wid 
 a Catholic girl." 
 
 " There's some thruth in what you say, aroon, sure enough,' ob- 
 served Ellish ; " an' if his reverence puts another hundhre to it, vrhy, 
 in the name of goodness, let them go together. If you don't choose 
 that, docthor, never breathe the subject to me agin. Dan's not a» 
 ould man yit, an' has time enough to get wives galore." 
 
 " Come," replied the priest, " there's my hand, it's a bargain ; 
 although I must say there's no removing you from your point. 1 luill 
 give four hundred, hook or crook ; but I'll have sad scrambling to get 
 it together. Still I'll make it good." 
 
 " Down on the nail .'"' inquired Ellish. 
 
 "Ay ! ay ! Down on the nail," replied the priest. 
 
 "Well, in the name o' goodness, a bargain be it," said Peter; 
 " but, upon my credit, Ellish, I won't have the bag-pipes burnt, any- 
 how. Faith, I must hear an odd tune, now an' thin, when I call to 
 see the childhre." 
 
 " Pether, acushla, have sinse. Would you wish to see your 
 daughter-in-law playin' upon the bag-pipes when she ought to be 
 mindin' her business, or attendin' her childhre ? No, your reverence, 
 the pipes must be laid aside. I'll have no piperly connection for a 
 son of mine." 
 
 The priest consented to this, although Peter conceded it with great 
 reluctance. Further preliminaries were agreed upon, and the evening 
 passed pleasantly, until it became necessary for Mr. Mulcahy to bid 
 them good night. 
 
 When he was gone, Peter and Ellish talked over the matter between 
 themselves in the following dialogue : 
 
 " The fortune's a small one," said Ellish to her husband ; " an' I 
 suppose you wondher that I consinted to take so little." 
 
 " Sure enough, I wondhered at it," replied Peter : " but, for my own 
 part, I'd give my son to her widout a penny o' fortune, in ordher to be 
 connected wid the priest ; an' besides, she's a fine, handsome, good 
 girl — ay, an' his fill of a wife, if she had but the shift to her back." 
 
 " Four hundhre wid a priest's niece, Pether, is before double the 
 money wid any other. Don't you know, that when they set up for 
 themselves, he can bring the custom of the whole parish to them } 
 It's unknown the number o' ways he can sarv'e them in. Sure, at 
 stations an' weddins, wakes, marriages, and funerals, they'll all be 
 proud to let the priest know that they purchased whatever they 
 wanted from his niece an' her husband. Betther !— faix, four hundhre 
 from him is worth three times as much from another." 
 
 " Glory to you, Ellish ! — bright an' cute for ever ! Why, I'd back 
 you for a woman that could buy an' sell Europe, aginst the world. 
 Now, isn't it odd that I never think of these long-headed skames?" 
 
 " Ay do you, often enough, Pether ; but you kee0 them to yourself, 
 abouchal." 
 
THE GECGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 33 
 
 " Failh, I'm close, no doubt of it ; an' — but there's no use in sayin' 
 any more about it — you said whatsomever came into my own head 
 consarnin' it. Faith, you did, you phanix." 
 
 In a short time the marriage took place. Dan, under the advice of 
 his mother, purchased a piece of ground, most advantageously located, 
 as the site of a mill, whereon an excellent one was built ; and as a 
 good mill had been long a desideratum in the country, his success was 
 far beyond his expectations. Every speculation, in fact, which Ellish 
 touched, prospered. Fortune seemed to take delight either in 
 accomplishing or anticipating her wishes. At least, such was the 
 general opinion, although nothing could possibly be more erroneous 
 than to attribute her success to mere chance. The secret of all might 
 be ascribed to her good sense and her exact knowledge of the pre- 
 cise moment when to take the tide of fortune at its flow; Her son, 
 in addition to the mill, opened an extensive mercantile estabhshment 
 in the next town, where he had ample cause to bless the instruc- 
 tions of his mother, and her foresight in calculating upon the ad- 
 vantage of being married to the priest's niece. 
 
 Soon after his marriage the person who had for many years kept 
 the head inn of the next town died, and the establishment was 
 advertised for sale. Ellish was immediately in action. Here was an 
 opportunity of establishing the second son in a situation which had 
 enabled the late proprietor of it to die nearly the richest man in the 
 parish. A few days, therefore, before that spe'"''^.ed for the sale, she 
 took her feather-bed car, and had an interview >vith the executors of 
 the late proprietor. Her character was known, her judgment and 
 integrity duly estimated, and, perhaps, what was the weightiest argu- 
 ment in her favour, her purse was forthcoming to complete the offer 
 she had made. After some priuate conversation between the execu- 
 tors her proposal was accepted, and before she returned home the 
 head inn, together with all its fixtures and furniture, was her property. 
 
 The second son, who was called after his father, received the intelli- 
 gence with delight. One of his sisters was, at his mother's suggestion, 
 appointed to conduct the housekeeping department and keep the bar, 
 a duty for which she was pretty well qualified by her experience at 
 home. 
 
 " I will paint it in great style," said Peter the younger. " It must be 
 a head inn no longer : I'll call it a hotel, for that's the whole fashion." 
 
 " It wants little, avourneen," said his mother ; " it was well kep' : 
 some paintin' an' other improvements it does want, but don't be 
 extravagant. Have it clane an' dacent, but, above all things, comfort- 
 able, an' the attindance good. That's what'U carry you an — not a 
 flourish o' paintin' outside, an' dirt, an' confusion, an' bad attindance 
 widin. Considher, Pether, darlin', that the man who owned it last 
 feathered his nest well in it, but never called it a hotill. Let it appear 
 on the outside jist as your ould cuf omars used to see it ; but improve 
 it widin as much as you can, widout Dem' lavish an it, or takin' up the 
 place wid nonsense." 
 
 " At all evints, I'll have a picture of the Liberator over the door, an' 
 
34 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 ' O'Connell ' written under it. It's both our names, and, besides, it will 
 be 'killin' two birds with one stone.'" 
 
 " No, avoumeen. Let me advise you, if you wish to prosper in life, 
 to keep yourself out of party work. It only stands betune you an' 
 your business ; an' it's surely wiser for you to mind your own affairs 
 than the affairs of the nation. There's rason in everything. No man 
 in trade has a right, widout committin' a sin, to neglect his family for 
 politics or parties. There's Jack Cummins, that was doin' well in his 
 groceries, till he began to make speeches, an' get up public meetins, an' 
 write petitions ; an' now he has nothin' to throuble him dut politics, 
 for his business is gone. Everyone has liberty to think as they plase. 
 We can't expect Protestants to think as we do, nor Protestants can't 
 suppose that we ought to think as they'd wish ; an' for that same rason 
 we should make allowances on both sides, an' not be like many we 
 know, that have their minds up, expectin' they don't know what, 
 instead of workin' for themselves an' their families, as they ought to 
 do. Pether, won't you give that up, a villish ? " 
 
 " I believe you're right, mother. I didn't see it before in the light 
 you've placed it in." 
 
 " Then, Pether, darlin', lose no time in gettin' into your place — you 
 an' Alley ; an' faix, if you don't both manage it cleverly, I'll never spake 
 to yces." 
 
 Here was a second son settled, and nothing remained but to dispose 
 of their two daughters in marriage to the best and most advantageous 
 offers. This, in consequence of their large fortunes, was not a matter 
 of much difficulty. The eldest. Alley, who assisted her brother to 
 conduct the inn, became the wife of an extensive grazier, who lived in 
 another county. The younger, Mary, was joined to Father Mulcah>-'s 
 nephew, not altogether to the satisfaction of the mother, who feared 
 that two establishments of the same kind, in the same parish, sup- 
 ported by the same patronage, must thrive at the expense of each 
 other. As it was something of a love-match, however, she ultimately 
 consented. 
 
 " Avourneen," said she, " the parish is big enough, an' has customers 
 enough to support them both ; an' I'll engage his reverence will do 
 what he can for both o' them." 
 
 In the meantime neither she nor her husband was dependent upon 
 their children. Peter still kept the agricultural department in opera- 
 tion ; and although the shop and warehouse were transferred to Mr. 
 Mulcahy, in right of his wife, yet it was under the condition of paying 
 a yearly sum to Mrs. Connell and her husband, ostensibly as a pro- 
 vision, but really as a spur to their exertions. A provision they could 
 not want, for their wealth still amounted to thousands, independently 
 of the large annual profits arising out of their farms. 
 
 For some time after the marriage of her youngest daughter, Mrs. 
 Connell took a very active part in her son-in-law's affairs. He pos- 
 sessed neither experience nor any knowledge of business whatsoever, 
 though he was not deficient in education, nor in capacity to acquire 
 both. This pleased Mrs. Connell very much, who set herself to the 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 35 
 
 task of instructing him in the principles of commercial life, aid in the 
 best methods of transacting business. 
 
 " The first rules," said she to him, " for you to obsarve is these : tell 
 truth ; be sober ; be punctual ; rise early ; persavere ; avoid extrava- 
 gance ; keep your word ; an' watch your health. Next : don't be 
 proud ; give no offince : talk sweetly ; be ready to oblage, when you 
 can do it widout inconvenience, but don't put yourself or your business 
 out o' your ways to sarve anybody. 
 
 " Thirdly : keep an appearance of substance an' con.fort about your 
 place, but don't go beyant your manes in doin' it ; when you make a 
 bargain, think what correcther them you dale wid bears, an' whether or 
 not you found them honest before, if you ever had business wid them. 
 " When you buy a thing, appear to know your own mind, an' don't 
 be hummin' an' hawin', an' higglin' an' longin' as if your teeth wor 
 watherin' afther it ; but be manly, downright, an' quick ; they'll then 
 see that you know your business, an' they won't be keepin' off an' an, 
 but will close wid you at wanst. 
 
 " Never drink at bargain making'; an' never pay money in a public- 
 house if you can help it ; if you must do it, go into an inn or a 
 house that you know to be dacent. 
 
 " Never stay out late in a fair or market : don't make a poor mouth ; 
 on the other hand, don't boast of your wealth ; keep no low company; 
 don't be rubbin' yourself aginst your betthers, but keep wid youraquils. 
 File your loose papers an' accounts ; an' keep your books up to the 
 day. Never put off anything that can be done, when it ought to be 
 done. Go early to bed ; but be the last up at night, and the first in 
 the mornin', an' there's no fear o' you." 
 
 Having now settled all her children in comfort and independence, 
 with each a prospect of rising still higher in the world, Mrs. Connell 
 felt that the principal duties devolving upon her had been discharged. 
 It was but reasonable, she thought, that, after the toil of a busy life, 
 her husband and herself should relax a little, and enjoy with lighter 
 minds the ease for which they had laboured so long and unremittingly. 
 " Do you know what I'm thinkin' of, Pether ?" said she, one summer 
 evening in their farm-yard. 
 
 " Know, is it ?" replied Peter — "some long-headed plan that none 
 of us ud ever think of, but that will stare us in the face the moment 
 you mintion it. What is it, you ould sprig o' beauty?" 
 
 " Why, to get a snug jauntin'-car for you an' me. I'd like to see 
 you comfortable in your ould days, Pether. You're gettin' stiff, a 
 hagur, an' will be good for nothin', by-an'-by." 
 
 " Stiff ! Arrah, by this an' by — my reputation, I'm younger nor e'er 
 
 a one o' my sons yet, you eh ? " said Peter, pausing — " Faith then, 
 
 I dunna that. Upon my credit, I think, on second thoughts, that a 
 car ud be a mighty comfortable thing for me. Faith I do, an' for you 
 too, Elhsh." 
 
 " The common car," she continued, " is slow an' throublesome, an' 
 joults the life out o' me." 
 " By my reputation, you're not the same woman since you begaji to 
 
36 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 use it that you wor before, at all. Why, it'll shorten your life. The 
 pillion's dacent enough ; but the jauntin' car ! — faix, it's what ud make 
 a fresh woman o' you — divil a lie in it." 
 
 " You're not puttin' in a word iox yourself now, Pether ?" 
 
 " To be sure I am, an' for both of us. I'd surely be proud to see 
 yourself an myself sittin' in our glory upon our own jauntin'-car. Sure 
 we can afford it, an' ought to have it too. Bud-an'-ager ! what's the 
 rason I didn't think of it long ago?" 
 
 " Maybe you did, acushla ; but you forgot it. Wasn't thit the way 
 wid you, Pether ? Tell the thruth." 
 
 " Why, thin, bad luck to the lie in it, since you must know. About 
 this time twelve months — no, faix, I'm wrong, it was afore Dan's 
 marriage — 1 had thoughts o' spakin' to you about it, but somehow it 
 left my head. Upon my word, I'm in arnest, Ellish." 
 
 " Well, avick, make your mind asy ; I'll have one from Dublin in 
 less nor a fortnight. I can thin go about of an odd time, an' see how 
 Dan an' Pether's comin' an. It'll be a pleasure to me to advise an' 
 direct thim, sure, as far an' as well as I can. I only hope God will 
 enable thim to do as much for their childher as he enabled us to do 
 for them, glory be to his name ! " 
 
 Peters eye rested upon her as she spoke : a slight shade passed 
 over his face, but it was the symptom of deep feeling and affection, 
 whose current had run smooth and unbroken during the whole life 
 they had spent together. 
 
 " Ellish," said he, in a tone of voice that strongly expressed what he 
 felt, " you wor one o' the best wives that ever the Almighty gev to 
 mortual man. You wor, avourneen — you wor, you wor ! " 
 
 " I intind, too, to begin an' make my sowl a little," she continued ; 
 " we had so much to do, Pether, aroon, that, indeed, we hadn't time 
 to think of it all along ; but now that everything else is settled, we 
 ou.£;ht to think about that, an' make the most of our time while we can." 
 
 '* Upon my conscience, I've strong notions myself o' the same thing" 
 replied Peter. " An I'll back you in that, as well as in everj'thing else. 
 Never fear, if we pull together, but we'll bring up the lost time. Faith, 
 we will ! Sowl, \i yoJi set about it, let me see them that ud prevint 
 your goin' to heaven ! " 
 
 " Did Paddy Donovan get the bay filly's foot ascd, Pether?" 
 
 " He's gone down wid her to the forge : the poor craihur was ver>- 
 lame to-day." 
 
 " That's right ; an' let Andy Murtagh bring down the sacks from 
 Drumdough early to-morrow. That whate ought to go to the market 
 on Thursday, an' the other stacks ought to be thrashed out offhand." 
 
 " Well, well; so it will be all done. Tar alive ! if myself knows how 
 you're able to keep an eye on everything. Come in, an' let us have 
 our tay" 
 
 For a few months after this Ellish was perfectly in her eiemenl. 
 The jaunting-car was procured ; and her spirits seemed to be quite 
 elevated. She paid regular visits to both her sons, looked closely into 
 their manner of conducting business, examined their premises, and 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRIl^H OATH. 37 ' 
 
 subjected every fixture and improvement, made or introduced without 
 her sanction, to the most rigorous scrutiny. In fact, what between 
 Peter's farm, her daughter's shop, and the estabhshments of her sons, 
 she never found herself more completely encumbered with business. 
 She had intended " to make her soul," but her time was so fully 
 '.bsorbed by the affairs of those in whom she felt so strong an interest 
 ;hat she really forgot the spiritual resolution in the warmth of her 
 secular pursuits. 
 
 One evening, about this time, a horse belonging to Peter happened 
 to fall into a ditch, from which he was extricated with much difficulty 
 by the labourers. Ellish, who thought it necessary to attend, had been 
 standing for some time directing them how to proceed ; her dress was 
 rather thin, and the hour, which was about twilight, chilly, for it was 
 the middle of autumn. Upon returning home she fosnd herself cold, 
 and inclined to shiver. At first she thought but little of these 
 symptoms ; for having never had a single day's sickness, she was 
 scarcely competent to know that they were frequently the forerunners 
 of very dangerous and fatal maladies. She complained, however, of 
 slight illness, and went to bed without taking anything calculated to 
 check what she felt. Her sufferings during the night were dreadful : 
 high fever had set in with a fury that threatened to sweep the powers 
 of life like a wreck before it. The next morning the family, on 
 looking into her state more closely, found it necessary to send instantly 
 for a physician. 
 
 On arriving, he pronounced her to be in a dangerous pleurisy, from 
 which, in consequence of her plethoric habit, he expressed but faint 
 hopes of her recovery. This was melancholy intelligence to her sons 
 and daughters ; but to Peter, whose faithful wife she had been for 
 thirty years, it was a dreadful communication indeed. 
 
 " No hopes, docthor ! " he exclaimed, with a bewildered air : " did 
 you say no hopes, sir ? — Oh ! no, you didn't — you couldn't say that 
 there's no hopes ! " 
 
 " The hopes of her recovery, Mr. Connell, are but slender." 
 
 "Docthor, I'm a rich man, thanks be to God an' to " he 
 
 hesitated, cast back a rapid and troubled look towards the bed where- 
 on she lay, then proceeded — " No matther, I'm a rich man : but if 
 you can spare her to me, I'll divide wha^ I'm worth in this world wid 
 you : I will, sir ; an' if that won't do, I'll give up my last shiUin' to 
 save her, an' thin I'll beg my bit an' sup through the counthry, only 
 let me have ^t^r wid me." 
 
 " As far as my skill goes," said the doctor, " I shall, of course, 
 exert it to save her ; but there are some diseases which we are almost 
 always able to pronounce fatal at first sight. This, I fear, is one of 
 them. Still I do not bid you despair, there is, I trust, a shadow of hope." 
 
 " The blessin' o' the Almighty be upon you, sir, for that word ! The 
 best blessin' o' the heavenly Father rest upon you an yours for it l " 
 
 " I shall return in the course of the day," continued the physician ; 
 " and as you feel the dread of her loss so powerfully, I will bring two 
 other medical gentlemen of skill with me." 
 
38 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TIL 
 
 " Heavens reward you for that, sir ! The heavens above reward 
 you an' them for it ! Payment ! — och, that signifies but little : but 
 you an' them 'ill be well paid. Oh, docihor, achora, thry an' save 
 her ! — Och, thry an' save her !" 
 
 " Keep her easy," replied the doctor, " and let my directions be 
 faithfully followed. In the meantime, Mr. Connell, be a man, and dis- 
 play proper fortitude under a dispensation which is common to all men 
 in your state." 
 
 To talk of resignation to Peter was an abuse of words. The poor 
 man had no more perception of the consolations arising from a know- 
 ledge of religion than a child. His heart sank within him, for the 
 prop on which his affections had rested was suddenly struck down 
 from under them. 
 
 Poor Ellish was in a dreadful state. Her malady seized her in the 
 very midst of her worldly-mindedness ; and the current of her usual 
 thoughts, when stopped by the aberrations of intellect peculiar to her 
 illness, bubbled up, during the temporary returns of reason, with a 
 stronger relish of the world. It was utterly impossible for a woman 
 like her, whose habits of thought and the tendency of v h ise affec- 
 tions had been all directed towards the acquisition ot wealth, to 
 wrench them for ever and at once from the objects on which they were 
 fixed. This, at any time, would have been to iier a difficult victory to 
 achieve ; but now, when stunned by the stroke of disease, and con- 
 fused by the pangs of severe suffering, tortured by a feverish pulse 
 and a burning brain, to expect that she could experience the calm 
 hopes of religion, or feel the soothing power of Christian sorrow, 
 was utter folly. 'Tis true, her life had been a harmless one : her 
 example, as an industrious and enterprising member of society, was 
 worthy of imitation. She was an excellent mother, a good neigh- 
 bour, and an admirable wife ; but the duties arising out of these 
 different relations of life were all made subservient to, and mixed 
 up with, her great principle of advancing herself in the world, 
 whilst that which is to come never engaged one moment's serious 
 consideration. 
 
 When Father Tvlulcahy came to administer the rites of the Church 
 to Ellish, he found her in a state of incoherency. Occasional gleams 
 of reason broke out through the cloud that obscured her intellect, 
 but they carried with them the marks of a mind knit indissolubly to 
 wealth and aggrandizement. The same tenor of thought, and the 
 same broken fragments of ambitious speculation, floated in rapid con- 
 fus'on through the tempests of delirium which swept with awful dark- 
 ness over her spirit. 
 
 " Mrs. Connell," said he, "can you collect yourself? Strive to com- 
 pose your mind, so far as to be able to receive the aids of religion." 
 
 " Oh, oh ! — my blood's builin' ! Is that — is that Father Mulcahy?" 
 
 " It is, dear : strive now to keep your mind calm, till you prepare 
 yourself for judgment." 
 
 " Keep up his head, Paddy, keep up his head, or he'll be smothcrec* 
 undther the wather an' the sludge. Here, Mike, take his rope : pull 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 11 
 
 man, pull — ivanim an diozuol! — pull, or the horse will be lost ! Oh 
 my head ! — I'm boilin' — I'm burnin' ! " 
 
 " Mrs. Connell, let me entreat you to remember that you are on the 
 point of death, and should raise your heart to God, for the oardon and 
 remission of your sins." 
 
 " Oh ! father dear, I neglected that, but I intinded — I intinded — 
 Where's Pether '? — bring, bring — Pether to me ! " 
 
 " Turn your thoughts to God now, my dear. Are you clear enough 
 in your mind for confession "^ " 
 
 " I am, father ; I am, avourneen. Come, come here, Pether ! 
 Pether, I'm goin' to lave you, asthore machree ! I could part vvid 
 them all but — but you." 
 
 " Mrs. Connell, for heaven's sake " 
 
 *' Is this— is this— Father Mulcahy .? Oh, I'm ill— ill " 
 
 " It is, dear — it is. Compose yourself, and confess your sins." 
 
 " Where's Mary .'' She'll neglect — neglect to lay in a stock o' linen, 
 
 although 1 — I Oh, father, avourneen! won't you pity me? I'm 
 
 sick, oh, I'm very sick !" 
 
 "You are, dear — you are, God help you, ver>' sick, but you'll be 
 better soon. Could you confess, dear i' — do you think you could }" 
 
 " Oh, this pain — this pain ! — it's killin' me ! — Pether — Pether, a 
 snillisli machree^ have you des — have you desarted me .'' " 
 
 The priest, conjecturing that if Peter made his appearance she 
 might feel soothed, and perhaps sufficiently composed to confess, 
 called him in from the next room. 
 
 " Here's Peter," said the priest, preserving him to her view — "here's 
 Peter, dear." 
 
 " Oh ! what a load is on me ! — this pain — this pain — is killin' me — 
 won't you bring me Pether? Oh, what will I do? Who's there ?" 
 
 The mental pangs of poor Peter were, perhaps, equal in intensity to 
 those which she suffered physically. 
 
 "EUish," said he, in smothered sobs — " Ellish, acushla machree, 
 sure I'm wid you here ; here I'm sittin' on the bed wid you, achora 
 machree." 
 
 " Catch my hand, thin. Ah, Pether ! won't you pity your Ellish ? — 
 Won't you pity me — won't you pity me ? Oh ! this pain— this pain — 
 is killin' me ! " 
 
 " It is, it is, my heart's delight — it's killin' us both. Oh, Ellish, 
 Ellish ! 1 wish I was dead sooner nor see you in this agony. I ever 
 loved you ! — I ever an' always loved you, avourneen dheelish ; — 
 but now I would give my heart's best blood, if it ud save you. Here's 
 Father Mulcahy come." 
 
 "About the mon — about the money — Pether — what do you intind 
 
 Oh! my blood — my blood's a-fire !— Mother o' heaven! — Oh! 
 
 this pain is — is takin' me from all — ALL ! — Rise me up ! " 
 
 " Here, my darlin' — treasure o' my heart — here — I'm puttin' your 
 heifi upon my breast — upon tny breast, Ellish, a hagur. Marciful 
 
 ' The light of my he»»t. 
 
40 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 Virgin — Father dear," said Peter, bursting into bitter tears — " her 
 head's like fire ! Oh, Ellish, Ellish, EUish ! — but my heart's brakin' 
 to feel this ! Have marcy on her, sweet God — have marcy on her ! 
 Bear witness, Father of heaven — bear witness, an' hear the vow of a 
 brakin' heart. I here solemnly promise, before God, to make, if I'm 
 spared life an' health to do it, a station on my bare feet to Lough 
 Derg, if it plases you, sweet Father o' pity, to spare her to me this 
 day ! Oh, but the hand o' God, Father dear, is terrible ! — feel hei 
 brow ! — oh ! but it's terrible ! " 
 
 " It is terrible," said the priest, " and terribly is it laid upon her, 
 poor woman ! Peter, do not let this scene be lost. Remember it." 
 
 " Oh, father dear, can I ever forget it? — can I ever forget seein' my 
 darlin' in sich agony .'' " 
 
 " Pether," said the sick woman, " will you get the car ready for to- 
 mor — to-morrow— till I look at that piece o' land that Dan bought, 
 befoie he — he closes the bargain ? " 
 
 " Father, jewel ! " said Peter, " can't you get the world banished out 
 of her heart.'' Oh, Pd give all I'm worth to see that heart fixed upon 
 God ! I could bear to part wid her, for she must die some time ; but 
 to go wid this world's thoughts and timptations ragin' strong in her 
 heart — mockin' God, an' hope, an' religion, an' everything ! — oh I that 
 I can't bear ! Sweet Jasus, change her heart ! — Queen o' heaven, 
 have pity on her, an' save her !" 
 
 The husband wept with great sorrow as he uttered these words. 
 
 " Neither reasoning nor admonition can avail her," replied the 
 priest ; " she is so incoherent that no train of thought is continued 
 for a single minute in her mind. I will, however, address her again. 
 Airs. Connell, will you make a struggle to pay attention to me for a 
 few minutes .f" Are you not afraid to meet God."* You are about to 
 die ! — prepare yourself for judgment." 
 
 "Oh, father dear! I can't — I can't — I am af — afraid — Hooh ! — 
 hooh ! — God! You miist do somethin' for — forme! I ne-ver done 
 anything for myself." 
 
 " Glory be to God ! that she has that much sinse, anyway," ex- 
 claimed the husband. " Father, a hagur, I trust my vow was heard." 
 
 " Well, my dear, listen to me," continued the priest — " can you not 
 make the best confession possible ? Could you calm yourself for it .'' " 
 
 " Pether, avick machree — Pether." 
 
 " Ellish, avourneen, I'm here ! — my darlin', I a}n your vick machree, 
 an' ever was. Oh, father ! my heart's brakin' ! I can't bear to part 
 wid her. Father of heaven, pity us this day of throuble ! " 
 
 " Be near me, Pether ; stay wid me — I'm very lonely. Is this you, 
 kcepin' my head up .''" 
 
 " It is, it is ! I'll never lave you till— till " 
 
 " Is the carman come from Dublin wid — wid the broadcloth ? " 
 
 " Father of heaven ! she's gone back again ! " exclaimed the 
 husband. " Father, jewel ! have you no prayers that you'd read for 
 her.'' You wor ordained for these things, an' comin' ir ova you, they'll 
 have more stringth. Can you do nothin' to save my darlin'?" 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF A.V IRISH OATH. 4i 
 
 " My prayers will not be wanting," said the priest : '* but I am 
 walLliing for an interval of sufficient calmness to hear her confession ; 
 and I very much fear that she will pass in darkness. At all events I 
 will anoint her by-and-by. In the meantime, we must persevere a 
 little longer ; she may become easier, for it often happens that reason 
 gets clear immediately before death." 
 
 Peter sobbed aloud, and wiped away the tears that streamed from 
 his cheeks. At this moment her daughter and son-in-law ?'ole in, to 
 ascertain how she was, and whether the rites of the Church had in any 
 degree soothed or composed her. 
 
 "Come in, Denis," said the priest to his nephew, "you ma> both 
 come in. Mrs. Mulcahy^ speak to your mother : let us try every 
 remedy that might possibly bring her to a sense of her awful state." 
 
 " Is she raving still .'' " inquired the daughter, whose eyes were red 
 with weeping. 
 
 The priest shook his head : "Ah, she is — she is ! and I fear she will 
 scarcely recover her reason before the judgment of heaven opens upon 
 her ! " 
 
 "Oh, thin, may the Mother of Glory forbid that ! " exclaimed her 
 daughter ; " anything at all but that ! Can you do nothin' for her, 
 uncle .'* " 
 
 " I'm doing all I can for her, Mary," replied the priest ; " I'm 
 vvatching a calm moment to get her confession, if possible." 
 
 The sick woman had fallen into a momentary silence, during 
 which she caught the bed-clothes like a child, and felt them, and 
 seemed to handle their texture, but with such an air of vacancy 
 as clearly manifested that no corresponding association existed in her 
 mind. 
 
 The action was immediately understood by all present. Her 
 daughter again burst into tears ; and Peter, now almost choked with 
 grief, pressing the sick woman to his heart, kissed her burning lips. 
 
 " Father, jewel," said the daughter, " there it is, and I feared it — the 
 si^7t, uncle — the sign ? — don't you see her gropin' the clothes ? Oh, 
 mother, darlin', darlin' ! — are we goin' to lose you for ever?" 
 
 " Ellish, acushla oge machree ! EUish, EUish — won't you spake 
 one word to me afore you go } Won't you take one farewell of me — of 
 ME, aroon, asthore, before you aepari from us for ever ! " exclaimed 
 her husband. 
 
 " Feeling the bed-clothes," said the priest, " is not always a sign of 
 death ; I have known many to recover after it." 
 
 " Husht," said Peter, '* Husht ! — Mary — Mary ! Come here— hould 
 your tongues ! Oh, it's past — it's past ! — it's all past an' gone — all 
 hope's over ! Heavenly Father ! " 
 
 The daughter, in a paroxysm of wild grief, clasped her mother's 
 recumbent body in her arms, and kissed her lips with a vehemence 
 almost frantic. " You won't go, my darlin' — is it from your own Mary 
 that you'd go ? Mary, that you loved best of all your childhre ! — 
 Mary, that you always said, an' everybody said was your own image \ 
 Oh, you won't go without one word to say you know her ! " 
 
42 THE GEOGRAPH\ OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 " For heaven's sake," said Father Mulcahy, " what do yoa mean ? — 
 are you mad ? " 
 
 "Oh ! uncle dear! don't you hear? — don't you hear? — listen, an' 
 sure you will — all hope's gone now — gone — gone ! The dead rattle ! — 
 listen ! — the dead rattle's in her throat !" 
 
 The priest bent his ear a moment, and distinctly heard the gurgling 
 noise produced by the phlegm, which is termed, with wild poetical 
 accuracy, by the peasantry — the " dead rattle," because it is the im- 
 (nediate and certain forerunner of death. 
 
 " True," said tlie priest, " too tiuc : the last shadow of hope is gone. 
 We must now make as much of the time as possible. Lea%''e the room 
 (or a few minutes, till I anoint her. i will then call you in." 
 
 They accordingly withdrew, but in about fifteen or twenty minutes 
 he once more summoned them to the bed of the dying woman. 
 
 '■ Come in," said he, " I have anointed her — come in, and kneel 
 down till we offer up a Rosary to the Blessed Virgin, under the hope 
 that she may intercede with God for her, and cause her to pass out of 
 life happily. She was calling for you, Peter, in your absence ; you 
 had better stay with her." 
 
 " I will," said Peter, in a broken voice ; " I'll stay nowhere else." 
 
 "An' I'll kneel at the bedside," said the daughter. "She was the 
 kind mother to me, and to us all ; but to me in particular. 'Twas 
 with me she took her choice to live, when they war all striving for her. 
 Oh," said she, taking her mother's hand between hers, and kneeling 
 down to kiss it, '* a Vahr dheelish !' did we ever think to see you 
 departing from us this way ! snapped awa> without a minute's 
 warning ! If it was a long sickness, that you'd Le calm and sinsible 
 in ; but to be hurried away into eternity, and your mind dark. Oh, 
 \'ahr dheelish, my heart is broke to see you this way I " 
 
 " Be calm," said the priest, "be quiet till I open the Rosary." 
 
 He then offered up the usual prayers which precede its repetition, 
 and after having concluded them, commenced what is properly called 
 the Rosary itself, which consists of fifteen Decades, each Decade 
 containing the Hail Mary repeated ten times, and the Lord's prayer 
 once. 
 
 In this manner the Decade goes round from one to another, until, 
 as we have said above, it is repeated fifteen times ; or, in all, the Ave 
 Marias one hundred and si.xty-five times, without variation. From 
 the indistinct utterance, elevated voice, and rapid manner in which it 
 is pronounced, it certainly is wild, and strongly impressed with the 
 character of a mystic rite, or incantation, rather than with that of a 
 calm and humble spirit, bending down in sorrow before its offended 
 Cod. 
 
 When the priest repeated the first part, he paused for the response ; 
 neither the husband nor daughter, however, could find utterance. 
 
 " Denis," said he to his nephew, " do you take up the ne.\i." 
 
 His nephew complied ; and, with much difficulty, Pcicr and his 
 
 ' Sweet mother i 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. A\ 
 
 daughter were able to join in it, repeating here and there a word of 
 two, as well as their grief and sobbings would permit them. 
 
 The heart must indeed have been an unfeeling one to which a scene 
 like this would not have been deeply touching and impressive. The 
 poor dying woman reclined with her head upon her husband's bosom ; 
 her aaughter knelt at the bedside, with her mother's hand pressed 
 against her lips, she herself convulsed with sorrow — the priest was in 
 the attitude of earnest supplication, having the stole about his neck, 
 his face and arms raised towards heaven — the son-in-law was bent 
 over a chair, with his face buried in his hands. Nothing could exceed 
 the deep, the powerful expression of entreaty, which marked every 
 tone and motion of the parties, especially those of the husband and 
 daughter. They poured an energy into the few words which they 
 found voice to utter, and displayed such a concentration of the 
 faculties of the soul in their wild, unregulated attitudes, and streaming, 
 upturned eyes, ar> would seem to imply that their own salvation 
 depended upon that of the beloved object before them. Their words, 
 too, were accompanied by such expressive tokens of their attachment 
 to her that the character of prayer was heightened by the force ol 
 the affection which they bore her. When Peter, for instance, could 
 command himself to utter a word, he pressed his dying wife to his 
 bosom, and raised his eyes to heaven in a manner that would melt 
 any human heart ; and the daughter, on joining occasionally in the 
 response, pressed her mother's hand to her heart, and kissed it with 
 her lips, conscious that the awful state of her parent had rendered 
 more necessary the performance of the two tenderest duties connected 
 with a child's obedience — prayer and affection. 
 
 When the son-in-law had finished his Decade, a pause followed, for 
 there was none now to proceed but her husband or her daughter. 
 
 " Mary, dear," said the priest, " be a woman ; don't let your love 
 for your mother prevent you from performang a higher duty. Go on 
 with the prayer — you see she is passing fast." 
 
 "I'll try, uncle," she replied — I'll try; but— but — it's hard, hard, 
 upon me." 
 
 She commenced, and by an uncommon effort so far subdued hei 
 grief, as to render her words intelligible. Her eyes, streaming with 
 tears, were fixed with a mixture of wildness, sorrow, and devotedness, 
 upon the countenance of her mother, until she had completed her 
 Decade. 
 
 Another pause ensued. It was now necessary, according to the 
 order and form of the prayer, that Peter should commence, and offer 
 up his supplications for the happy passage from life to eternity of her 
 who had been his inward idol during a long period. Peter knew 
 nothing about sentiment, or the philosophy of sorrow ; but he loved his 
 \vife with the undivided power of a heart in which nature had implanted 
 her strongest affections. He knew, too, that his wife had loved him 
 with a strength of heart equal to his own. He loved her, and she de- 
 served his love. 
 
 The pause, when the prayer had gone round to him, was long : those 
 
44 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 
 
 wlio were present at length turned their eyes towards him, and the 
 priest, now deeply affected, cleared his voice, and simply said " Peter," 
 to remind him that it was his duty to proceed with the Rosary. 
 
 Peter, however, instead of uttering the prayer, burst out into a tid-^ 
 of irrepressible sorrow. — " Oh ! " said he, enfolding her in his arms, 
 and pressing his lips to hers : " Ellish, ahagur machree ; sure wher I 
 think of all the goodness, an' kindness, an' tendherness that you showed 
 me — whin 1 think of your smiles upon me, whin you wanted me to do 
 the right, an' the innocent plans you made out to benefit me an' mine ! 
 — Oh ! where was your harsh word, a villish ? — Where was yourcowld 
 brow, or your bad tongue .'' Nothin' but goodness — nothin' but kind- 
 ness, an' love, an' wisdom, ever flowed from these lips ! An' now, 
 darlin', pulse o' my broken heart ! these same lips can't spake to me — 
 these eyes don't know me — these hands don't feel me — nor your ears 
 doesn't hear me ! " 
 
 "Is — is — it _)'<?7^ .?" replied his wife, feebly — "is it — VOU ? — come — 
 come near me — my heart — my heart says it missesjM^ — come nearme!" 
 
 Peter again pressed her in an embrace, and, in doing so, uncon- 
 sciously received the parting breath of a wife whose prudence and 
 affection had saved him from poverty, and probably from such 
 licentious crimes as later years and the progress of modern events 
 have multiplied in this ill-fated country. 
 
 The priest, on turning round to rebuke Peter for not proceeding with 
 the prayer, was the first who discovered that she had died ; for the grief 
 cf her husband was too violent to permit him to notice anything with 
 much accuracy. 
 
 " Peter," said he, " I beg your pardon ; let me take the trouble cf 
 supporting her for a few minutes, after which I must talk to you 
 seriously — very seriously." 
 
 The firm, authoritative tone in which the priest spoke, together with 
 Peter's consciousness that he had acted wrongly by neglecting to join 
 in the Rosary, induced him to retire from the bed with a rebuked air. 
 The priest immediately laid back the head of Mrs. Connell on the 
 pillow, and composed the features of her lifeless face with his own 
 hands. Until this moment none of them, except himself, knew that she 
 was dead. 
 
 " Now," continued he, " all her cares, and hopes, and speculations 
 touching this world, are over — so is her pain ; her blood will soon be 
 cold enough, and her head will ache no more. She is dead. Grief is 
 therefore naturn' ; but let it be the grief of a man, Peter. Indeed, it is 
 less painful to look upon her now than when she suffered such exces- 
 sive agony. Mrs. Mulcaby, hear me ! Oh, it's in vain ! Well, well, it 
 ts but natural ; for it was an unexpected and a painful death ! " 
 
 The cries of her husband and daughter soon gave intimation to her 
 servants that her pangs were over. From the servants it immediately 
 went to the neighbours, and thus did the circle widen until it reached 
 the furthest ends of the parish. In a short time, also, the mournful 
 sounds of the church-bell, in slow and measured strokes, gave addi* 
 tional notice that a Christian soul had passed into eternity. 
 
THE GEOGRAPH Y OF AN IRISH OA TH. 4 5 
 
 It is in such scenes as these that the Roman Catholic clergy knit 
 themselves so strongly into the affections of the people. All men are 
 naturally disposed to feel the offices of kindness and friendship more 
 deeply when tendered at the bed of death or of sickness than under 
 any other circumstances. Both the sick-bed and the house of death 
 are necessarily the sphere of a priest's duty, and to render them that 
 justice which we will ever render them, when and wheresoever it may 
 be due, we freely grant that many shining, nay, noble instances of 
 Christian virtue are displayed by them on such occasions. 
 
 When the violence of grief produced by Ellish's death had sub- 
 sided, the priest, after giving them suitable exhortations to bear the 
 affliction which had just befallen them with patience, told Peter 
 that as God, through the great industry and persevering exertions 
 of her who had then departed to another world, had blessed him 
 abundantly with wealth and substance, it was, considering the little 
 time which had been allowed her to repent in a satisfactory manner 
 for her transgressions, his bounden and solemn duty to set aside a suit- 
 able portion of that wealth for the delivery of her soul from purgatory, 
 where, he trusted, in the mercy of God, it was permitted to remain. 
 
 " Indeed, your reverence," replied Peter, " it wasn't necessary to 
 mintion it, considherin' the way she was cut off from among us, wid- 
 out even time to confess." 
 
 " But blessed be God," said the daughter, " she received the oint- 
 ment at any rate, and that of itself would get her to purgatory." 
 
 " And I can answer for her," said Peter, "that she intejided, as soon as 
 she'd get everything properly settled for the childhre, to make her sowl." 
 
 "Ah! good intentions !" said the priest. "Did you never hear 
 that the floor of hell is paved with good intentions ? I, however, have 
 forewarned you of your duty, and must now leave the guilt or the 
 merit of relieving her departed spirit upon you and the other members 
 of her family, who are all bound to leave nothing undone that may 
 bring her from pain and fire to peace and happiness." 
 
 " Och ! och ! asthore, asthore ! you're lyin' there — an', oh, Ellish, 
 avourneen, could you think that I — / — would spare money — trash — 
 to bring you to glory wid the angels o' heaven ! No, no, father, dear. 
 It's good, an' kind, an' thoughtful of you to put it into my head ; but I 
 didn't intind to neglect or forget it. Oh, how will I live wantin' her, 
 father ? When I rise in the mornin', a villish, where'll be your smile 
 and your voice ? We won't hear your step, nor see you as we used to 
 do, movin' pleasantly about the place. No — you're gone, avourneen 
 — gone — an' we'll see you and hear you no more ! " 
 
 His grief was once more about to burst forth, but the priest led him 
 out of the room, kindly chid him for the weakness of his immoderate 
 sorrow, and after making arrangements about the celebration of mass 
 for the dead, pressed his hand, and bade the family farewell. 
 
 The death of Ellish excited considerable surprise and much con- 
 versation in the neighbourhood. Every point of her character was 
 discussed freely, and the comparisons instituted between her and 
 Peter were anything but flattering to the intellect of her husband. 
 
46 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 ** An' so EUish is whipped off, Larry," said a neighboui to one of 
 Peter's labouring men. " Faix, an" the best feather in theirwing is gc ne." 
 
 "Ay, sure enough, Risthard, you may say that. It was her clever- 
 ness made them what they are. She was the best manager in the 
 three kingdoms." 
 
 " Ah, she was the woman could make a bargain. I only hope she 
 hain't brought the luck o' the family away wid her ! " 
 
 "Why, man alive, she made the sons and daughters as clever as 
 herself — put them up to everything. Indeed, it's quare to think of 
 how that one woman brought them an, an' ris them to what they 
 are ! " 
 
 " They shouldn't forget themselves as they're doin', thin ; forbetune 
 you an' me, they're as proud as Turks, an' God he sees it ill becomes 
 them — sits very badly on them itself, when everybody knows that their 
 father an' mother begun the world wid a bottle of private whisky an' 
 half a pound of smuggled tobaccy." 
 
 " Poor Pether will break his heart, anyway. Oh, man, but she was 
 the good wife. I'm livin' wid them goin' an seven year, an' never 
 hard a cross word from the one to the other. It's she that had the 
 sweet tongue all out, an' did manage him ; but, afther all, he was 
 worth the full o' the Royal George of her. Many a time when some 
 poor crathur ud come to ax whisky on score to put over'^ some o' their 
 friends, or for a weddin', or a christenin', maybe, an' when the wife ud 
 refuse it, Pether ud send what whisky they wanted afther them, widout 
 lettin' her know anything about it. An', indeed, he never lost any- 
 thing by that ; for if they wor to sell their cow he should be ped, in 
 regard of the kindly way he gave it to them." 
 
 " Well, we'll see how they'll manage now that she's gone : but 
 Pether an' the youngest daughter, Mary, is to be pitied." 
 
 " The sarra much ; barrin' that they'll miss her at first from about 
 the place. You see she has left them above the world, an' full of it. 
 Wealth an' substance enough may they thank her for ; an' that's very 
 good comfort for sorrow, Risthard." 
 
 " Faith, sure enough, Larry, There's no lie in that, anyway ! " 
 
 " Awouh ! Lie ! I have you about it." 
 
 Such was the view which had been taken of their respective charac- 
 ters through life. Yet notwithstanding that the hearts of her acquaint- 
 ances never waTined to Jtcr — to use a significant expression current 
 among the peasantry — as they did to Peter, still she was respected 
 almost involuntarily for the indefatigable perseverance with which 
 she pushed forward her own interests through life. Her funeral was 
 accordingly a large one ; and the conversation which took place at it, 
 turning, as it necessarily did, upon her extraordinary talents and 
 industry, was highly to the credit of her memory and virtues. Indeed, 
 the attendance of many respectable persons, of all creeds and opinions, 
 gave ample proof that the qualities she possessed had secured for her 
 general respect and admiration. 
 
 ' To put over — the corpse of a friend. That is, to be drunk at the wake and 
 funeral. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 47 
 
 Poor Peter, who vvas an object of great compassion, felt himsell 
 completely crushed by the death of his faithful partner. The reader 
 knows that he had hitherto been a sober an J, owing to Ellish's 
 prudent control, an industrious man. To thouj^ht or reflection he 
 was not, however, accustomed ; he had, besides, never received any 
 education ; if his morals were correct, it was because a life of active 
 employment kept him engaged in pursuits which repiessed immo- 
 rality, and separated him from those whose society and influence 
 might have been prejudicial to him. He had scarcely known calamity, 
 and when it occurred he was prepared for it neither by experience nor 
 a correct view of moral duty. On the morning of his wife's funeral, 
 such was his utter prostration both of mind and body that even his 
 own sons, in order to resist the singular state of collapse into which 
 he had sunk, urged him to take some spirits. He was completely 
 passive in their hands, and complied. This had the desired effect, 
 and he found himself able to attend the funeral. When the friends 
 of EUish, after the interment, assembled, as is usual, to drink and 
 talk together, Peter, who could scarcely join in the conversation, 
 swallowed glass after glass of punch with great rapidity. In the 
 meantime the talk became louder and more animated ; the punch, of 
 course, began to work, and, as they sat long, it was curious to observe 
 the singular blending of mirth and sorrow, singing and weeping, 
 laughter, and tears which characterised this remarkable scene. Peter, 
 after about two hours hard drinking, was not an exception to the 
 influence of this trait of national manners. His heart having been 
 deeply agitated was the more easily brought under the effects of con- 
 tending emotions. He was naturally mirthful, and when intoxication 
 had stimulated the current of his wonted humour, the influence of this 
 and his recent sorrow produced such an anomalous commixture of fun 
 and disconsolation as could seldom, out of Ireland, be seen checker- 
 ing the mind of one individual. 
 
 It was in the midst of this extraordinary din that his voice was 
 heard commanding silence in its loudest and best humoured key : 
 
 "Houldyer tongues," said he; "bad win to yees, don't you hear 
 me wantin' to sing. Whist wid yees. Hem — och — 'Rise up' — Why, 
 thin, Phil Callaghan, you might thrate me wid more dacency, if you 
 had gumption in you ; I'm sure no one has a better right to sing first 
 in this company nor myself ; an' what's more, I will sing first. Hould 
 your tongues ! Hem ! " 
 
 He accordingly commenced a popular song, the air of which, thov gb 
 simple, was touchingly mournful. 
 
 " Och, rise up, Willy Reilly, an' come alongst wid me, 
 I'm goin' for to go wid you, and lave this coun-ter-ee ; 
 I'm goin' to lave my father, his castles and free lands — 
 An" away wint Willy Reilly, an' his own Colleen Bawn. 
 
 " Och, they wint o'er hills an' mountains, and valleys that was fair. 
 An' fled be'"ore her father, as you may shortly hear ; 
 Her father followed afthcr wid a well-chosen armed band, 
 Och, an' taken was peer Reilly, an' his own CcUeen Bawn." 
 
4S THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 The simple pathos of the tune, the affection implied by the words, 
 and probably the misfortune of Willy Rcilly, all overcame him. He 
 finished the second verse with difficulty, and on attempting to com- 
 mence a third he burst into tears. 
 
 " Colleen bawn !" (fair, or fair-haired, girl)—" Colleen bawn !" he 
 exclaimed ; " she's lyin' low that was viy colleen bawn ! Oh, will yees 
 hould your tongues, an' let me think of what has happened me ? She's 
 gone : Mary, avourneen, isn't she gone from us .-' I'm alone, an' I'll be 
 always lonely. Who have 1 now to comfort me ? I know I have good 
 childhre, neighbours ; but none o' them, all of them, if they wor ten 
 times as many, isn't aquil to her that's in the grave. Her hands won't 
 be about me — there was tindherness in their very touch. An', of a 
 Sunday mornin', how she'd tie an my handkerchy, for I never could 
 rightly tie it an myself, the knot was ever an' always too many for me; 
 but, och, och, she'd tie it an so snug an' purty wid her own hands, that 
 I didn't look the same man ! The same song was her favourite. 
 Here's your healths ; an' sure it's the first time ever we wor together 
 that she wasn't wid us : but now, avillish, your voice is gone — you're 
 silent an' lonely in the grave ; an' why shouldn't I be sarry for the 
 wife o' my heart that never angered me? Why shouldn't I ? Ay, 
 Mary, asthore machree, good right you have to cry afther her ; she 
 .vas the kind mother to you ; her heart was fixed in you ; there's her 
 fatures on your face ; her very eyes, an' fair hair, too, an' I'll love you, 
 achora, ten times more nor ever, for her sake. Another favourite song 
 of hers, God rest her, was ' Bryan O'Lynn,' Throth an' I'll sing it, so 
 I will, for if she was livin' she'd like it. 
 
 " ' Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male, 
 A two-lugged porringer wantin' a tail.' 
 
 Och, my head's through other ! The sarry one o' me, I bleeve, but's 
 out o' the words, or, as they say, there's a hole in the ballad. Send 
 round the punch, will yees 1 By the hole o' my coat, Parra Gastha. 
 I'll whale you widin an inch of your life, if you don't dhrink. Send 
 round the punch, Dan ; an' give us a song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, 
 Paddy, do you remimber — ha, ha, ha ! — upon my credit, I'll never 
 forget It, the fun we had catchin' Father Soolaghan's horse, the day he 
 gave his shirt to the sick man in the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in 
 glory — ha, ha, ha ! — I'll never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief ! " 
 
 " No, but tell them about that, Misther Conncll." 
 
 " Throth, an' I will : but don't be Misiherin' me. Faith, this is the 
 height o' good punch. You see — ha, ha, ha ! You see, it was one hard 
 summer afore I was marrid to EUish, — mavourneen, that you war, 
 asthore ! Och, och, we are parted at last .'' Upon my sowl, my heart's 
 breakin', breakin', (w^^/j) ; an' no wondhcr ! But as I was savin'— all 
 your healths ! faith, it is tip-top punch that— the poor man fell sick of 
 a faver, an' sure enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neigh- 
 bours built a little shed on the roadside for him, in regard, that everyone 
 was afeard to let him into their place. Howsomever — ha, ha, ha ! — 
 Father Soolaghan was one day ridm' past upon his horse, an' seeiii' the 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 49 
 
 crathur lyin' undher the shed, an' a wishp 0' sthraw, he pulls bridle, 
 an' puts the spake an the poor sthranger. So, begad, it came ou^ that 
 the neighbours were very kind to him, an' used to hand over tvhat- 
 somever thev thought best for him from the back o' the ditch as well 
 as they could. 
 
 " ' My poor fellow,' said the priest, ' you're badly off for linen.' 
 
 " ' Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man. ' I never longed for any- 
 thing so much in my life as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' 
 whisky.' 
 
 " ' 1 he divil a glass o' whisky I have about me, but you shall have 
 the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest, 
 stretchin' his neck up an' down, to make sure there was no one comin' 
 on the road — ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 "Well an' good — 'I have th^-ee shirts,' says his reverence, 'but I 
 have only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.' 
 
 " So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat 
 and waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he 
 threwn in acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white 
 shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a one 
 o' myself can say, but anyway, the baste tuck fright, an' made off wid 
 Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yees, upon his back — ha, 
 ha, ha ! 
 
 " Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the time to do a little in 
 the distillin' way for Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what 
 was goin' an. So off we set, an' we splittin' our sides laughin' — ha, 
 ha, ha — at the figure the priest cut. However, we could do no good, 
 an' he never could pull up the horse till he came full flight to his own 
 house, opposite the pound there below, and the whole town in con- 
 vulsions when they seen him. We gother up his clothes, an' brought 
 them home to him, an' a good piece o' fun we had wid him, for he 
 loved the joke as well as any man. Well, he was the good an' charit- 
 able man, the same Father Soolaghan ; but so simple that he got him- 
 self into fifty scrapes, God rest him ! Och, och, she's lyin' low that 
 often laughed at that, an' I'm here-r-ay, I have no one — no one that 
 ud show me sich a warm heart as she would. (IVeeps.) However, 
 God's will be done. I'll sing yees a song she liked. 
 
 " 'Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male, 
 A two-lugged porringer wantin' a tail." 
 
 Musha, I'm out agin — ha, ha, ha ! Why, I b'lieve there's pishthrogues 
 an me, or I'd remimber it. Bud-an-age, dhrink all of yees. Lie into 
 the liquor, I say ; don't spare it. Here, Mike, send us up another 
 gallon. Faith, we'll make a night of it. 
 
 " ' Och, three maidens a milkin' did go, 
 An' three maidens a miUcin' did go ; 
 An' the winds they blew high, 
 An' the winds they blew low. 
 An' they dashed their milkin' pails to an' fro.' 
 
 All your healths, childhre ! Neighbours, all your healths ! don't spare 
 
';'' THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH CiATH. 
 
 whats before yees. It's long since I tuck a jorum myself, an — come, 
 I say, plase God. we'll often meet this way, so we will. Faitb, I'll take 
 a sup from this forrid, wid a blessin'. Dhrink, I say, dhrink ! " 
 
 By the time he had arrived at this pitch he was able to engtt«s no 
 great portion either of the conversation or attention. Almost every 
 one present had his songs, his sorrows, his laughter, or \.is anecdotes, 
 as well as himself. Every voice was loud, and every tongue busy. 
 Intricate and entangled was the talk, which, on the present occasion, 
 presented a union of all the extremes which the lights and shadows of 
 the Irish character alone could exhibit under such a calamity as that 
 which brought the friends of the deceased together. 
 
 Peter literally fulfilled his promise of taking a jorum in future. He 
 was now his own master ; and as he felt the loss of his wife deeply, he 
 unhappily had recourse to the bottle to bury the recollection of a 
 woman whose death left a chasm in his heart which he thought 
 nothing but the whisky could fill up. 
 
 His transition from a life of perfect sobriety to one of habitual, nay 
 of daily, intoxication was immediate. He could not bear to be sober ; 
 and his extraordinary bursts of aftliction, even in his cups, were often 
 calculated to draw tears from the eyes of those who witnessed them. 
 He usually went out in the morning with a flask of whisky in his 
 pocket, and sat down to weep behind a ditch — where, however, after 
 having emptied his flask, he might be heard at a great distance 
 singing the songs which Ellish in her lifetime was accustomed to love. 
 In fact, he was generally pitied ; his simplicity of character, and his 
 benevolence of heart, which was now exercised without fear of re- 
 sponsibility, made him more a favourite than he ever had been. His 
 former habits of industry were thrown aside ; as he said himself, he 
 hadn't heart to work ; his farms were neglected, and but for his son- 
 in-law, would have gone to ruin. Peter himself was sensible of this. 
 
 " Take them," said he, " into your own hands, Denis ; for me, I'm 
 not able to do anything more at them ; she that kep' me up is gone, 
 an' I'm broken down. Take them — take them into your own hands. 
 Give me my bed, bit, an' sup, an' that's all I want." 
 
 Six months produced an inci-edible change in his appearance. 
 Intemperance, whilst it shattered his strong frame, kept him in frequent 
 exuberance of spirits ; but the secret grief preyed on him within. 
 Artificial excitement kills, but it never cures ; and Peter, in the midst 
 of his mirth and jollity, was wasting away into a shadow. His chil- 
 dren, seeing him go down the hill of life so rapidly, consulted among 
 each other on the best means of winning him back to sobriety. This 
 was a difficult task, for his powers of bearing liquor were almost 
 prodigious. He has often been known to drink so many as twenty- 
 five, and sometimes thirty, tumblers of punch, without being taken off 
 his legs, or rendered incapable of walking about. His friends, on 
 considering who was most likely to recall him to a more becoming life, 
 resolved to apply to his landlord — the gentleman whom we have 
 already introduced to our readers. He entered warmly into their 
 plan, and it was settled that Peter should be sent for, and induced, if 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. ^ 
 
 possible, to take an oath against liquor. Early the following day a 
 liveried servant came down to inform him that Jais master wished to 
 speak with him. 
 
 " To be sure," said Peter ; " divil resave the man in all Europe I'd 
 do more for than the same gintleman, if it was only on account of the 
 regard he had for her that's gone. Come, I'll go wid you in a minute.'" 
 
 He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, saying, " I never 
 thravelwidout a pocket-pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly 
 safe, an' the best way is to be prepared ! — ha, ha, ha ! Och, och I It 
 houlds three half-pints." 
 
 " I think," observed the servant, " you had better not taste that till 
 after your return." 
 
 " Come away, man," said Peter ; " we'll talk upon it as we go along. 
 I couldn't do really widout it. You hard that I lost EUish 'i " 
 
 " Yes," replied the servant, " and I was very sorry to hear it." 
 
 " Did you attind the berrin ? " 
 
 " No, but my master did," replied the man ; " for, indeed, his respect 
 for your wife was very great, ^Ir. Connell." 
 
 This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and about one in the 
 afternoon a stout countryman was seen approaching the gentleman's 
 house, with another man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely 
 as a calf hangs round the shoulders of a butcher when he is carrying 
 it to his stall. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said the owner of the mansion to his lady, " what 
 has happened John Smith, my dear ? Is he dead ? " 
 
 " Dead ! " said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room 
 window : " I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead ! For 
 God's sake go down and see what has befallen him." 
 
 Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with 
 his burden. 
 
 " In the name of heaven, what has happened, Connell ? — what is 
 the matter with John .'' Is he living or dead ? " 
 
 " First, plase your honour, as I have him on my shouldhers, will you 
 tell me where his bed is ? " replied Peter. " I may as well lave him 
 snug, as my hand's in, poor fellow. The devil's bad head he has, 
 your honour. Faith, it's a burnin' shame, so it is, an' nothin' else — 
 to be able to bear so little ! " 
 
 The lady, children, and servants were now all assembled about the 
 dead footman, who hung, in the meantime, very quietly round Peter's 
 neck. 
 
 " Gracious heaven ! Connell, is the man dead? " she inquired. 
 
 " Faith, thin, he is, ma'am, for awhile ; but, upon my credit, it's a 
 burnin' shame, so it is " 
 
 "The man is drunk, my dear," said her husband — "he's only 
 drunk." 
 
 " a burnin' shame, so it is — to be able to bear no more nor 
 
 about six glasses, an' the whisky good, too. Will you ordher one o' 
 thim to show me his bed, ma'am, if you plase," continued Peter, 
 " while he's an me ? It 'ill save throuble." 
 
52 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 " Connell is right," observed ais landlord. " Gallagher, show him 
 John's bedroom." 
 
 Peter accordingly followed another servant, who pointed oui: his bed, 
 and assisted to place the vanquished footman in a somewhat easier 
 position than that in which Peter had carried him. 
 
 " Connell," said his landlord, when he returned, " how did this 
 happen ? " 
 
 " Faith, thin, it's a burnin' shame," said Connell, " to be able only to 
 bear " 
 
 " But how did it happen ? for he has been hitherto a perfectly sober 
 man." 
 
 " Faix, plase your honour, asy enough," replied Peter ; " he begun 
 to lecthur me about dhrinkin', so says I, 'Come an' sit down behind 
 the hedge here, an' we'll talk it over between us ; ' so we went in, the 
 two of us, a-back o' the ditch— an' he began to advise me agin dhrink, 
 an' I began to tell him about her that's gone, sir. Well, well ! och, 
 och ! no matther ! — So, sir, one story, an' one pull from the bottle, 
 brought on another, for divil a glass we had at all, sir. Faix, he's a 
 tindher-hearted boy, anyhow ; for as myself began to let the tears 
 down, whin the bottle was near out, divil resave the morsel of him 
 but cried afther poor EUish as if she had been his mother. Faix, he 
 did ! An' it won't be the last sup we'll have together, plase goodness! 
 But the best of it was, sir, that the dhrunker he got, he abused me the 
 more for dhrinkin'. Oh, thin, but he's the pious boy when he gets a 
 sup in his head ! Faix, it's a pity ever he'd be sober, he talks so much 
 scripthur an' devotion in his liquor ! " 
 
 " Connell," said the landlord, " I am exceedingly sorry to hear that 
 you have taken so openly and inveterately to drink as you have done 
 ever since the death of your admirable wife. This, in fact, was what 
 occasioned me to send for you. Come into the parlour. Don't go, 
 my dear, perhaps your influence may also be necessary. Gallagher, 
 look to Smith, and see that every attention is paid him, until he 
 recovers the effects of his intoxication." 
 
 He then entered the parlour, where the following dialogue took place 
 between him and Peter : — 
 
 "Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you have become latterly 
 so incorrigible a drinker ; I sent for you to-day with the hope of being 
 able to induce you to give it up." 
 
 " Faix, your honour, it's jist what Pd expect from your father's son 
 — kindness, an' dacency, an' devotion wor always among yees. Divil 
 resave the family in all Europe Pd do so much for as the same family." 
 
 The gentleman a^d lady looked at each other, and smiled. They 
 knew that Peter's blarney was no omen of their success in the laudable 
 design they contemplated. 
 
 " I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion ; but, in the meantime, 
 allow me to ask what can you propose to yourself by drinking so in- 
 cessantly as you do .? " 
 
 " What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin', is it ? Why, thin, to 
 banish grief, your honour. Surely you'll allow that no man has rason 
 
THE GEOGRAPH V OF AN IRISH OA TH. 53 
 
 (o complain who's able to banish the thief for two shillins a day. I 
 reckon the whisky at first cost, so that it doesn't come to more nor that 
 at the very outside." 
 
 " That is taking a commercial view of affliction, Connell ; but you 
 must promise me to give up drinking." 
 
 " Why, thin, upon my credit, your honour astonishes me. Is it to 
 give up banishin' grief .'' I have a regard for you, sir, for many a 
 dalins we had together ; but for all that, faix, I'd be miserable for no 
 man, barrin' for her that's gone. If I'd be so to oblage anyone, I'd 
 do it for your family ; for divil resave the family in all Europe " 
 
 " Easy, Connell — I am not to be palmed off in that manner ; I 
 really have a respect for the character which you bore, and wish you 
 to recover it once more. Consider that you are disgracing yourself 
 and your children by drinking so excessively from day to day — indeed, 
 1 am told almost from hour to hour." 
 
 " Augh ! don't believe the half o' what you hear, sir. Faith, some- 
 body has been dhrawin' your honour out. Why, I'm never dhrunk, sir ; 
 faith, I'm not." 
 
 " You will destroy your health, Connell, as well as your character ; 
 besides, you are not to be told that it is a sin, a crime against God, 
 and an evil example to society." 
 
 " Show me the man, plase your honour, that ever seen me incapable. 
 That's the proof o' the thing." 
 
 " But why do you drink at all ? It is not necessary." 
 
 " An' do you never taste a dhrop yourself, sir, plase your honour ? 
 I'll be bound you do, sir, raise your little finger of an odd time, as well 
 as another. Eh, ma'am ? That's comin' close to his honour ! An' 
 faix, small blame to him, an' a weeshy sup o' the wine to the misthress 
 herself, to correct the tindherness of her delicate appetite." 
 
 " Peter, this bantering must not pass : I think I have a claim upon 
 your respect and deference. I have uniformly been yotir friend, and 
 the friend of your children and family, but more especially of your 
 late excellent and exemplary wife." 
 
 " Before God an' man, I acknowledge that, sii-— I do — I do. But, 
 sir, to spake sarious — it's thruth, ma'am, downright — to spake sarious, 
 my heart's broke, an' every day it's brakin' more an' more. She's 
 gone, sir, that used to manage me ; an' now I can't turn myself to 
 anything, barrin' the dhrink — God help me !" 
 
 " I honour you, Connell, for the attachment which you bear towards 
 the memory of your wife, but I utterly condemn the manner in which 
 you display it. To become a drunkard is to disgrace her memory. 
 You know it was a character she detested." 
 
 " I know It all, sir, an' that you have thruth an' rason on your side ; 
 but, sir, you never lost a wife that you loved ; an' long may you be so, 
 I pray the heavenly Father this day ! Maybe if you did, sir, plase 
 your honour, that, wid your heart sinkin' like a stone widin you, you'd 
 thry whether or not something couldn't rise it. Sir, only for the dhrink 
 I'd be dead." 
 
 " There I totally differ from you, Connell. The drink only prolongs 
 
 (3) C 
 
54 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 your grief, by adding to it the depression of spirits which it alwnvs 
 produces. Had you not become a drinker, you would long before this 
 have been once more a cheerful, active, and industrious man. Your 
 sorrow would have worn away gradually, and nothing but an agreeable 
 melancholy — an affectionate remembrance of your exceilem wife — 
 would have remained. Look at other men." 
 
 " But Where's the man, sir, had sich a wife to grieve for as she was ? 
 Don't be hard on me, sir, I'm not a dhninkard. It'sthrue I dhrink a 
 great dale ; but thin I can bear a great dale, so that I'm never 
 incapable." 
 
 " Connell," said the lady, " you will break down your constitution, 
 and bring yourself to an earlier death than you would otherwise 
 meet." 
 
 " I care very little, indeed, how soon I was dead, not makin' you, 
 ma'am, an ill answer." 
 
 " Oh, fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and a Christian, to talk in 
 such a manner ! " 
 
 " Throth, thin, I don't, ma'am. She's gone, an' I'd be glad to folly 
 her as soon as I could. Yes, asthore, you're departed from me ! an' 
 now I'm gone asthray — out o' the right, an' out o' the good ! Oh, 
 ma'am," he proceeded, whilst the tears rolled fast down his cheeks, 
 " if you knew her — her last words too — Oh, she was — she was— but 
 Where's the use o' sayin' what she was ? — I beg your pardon, ma'am — 
 your honour, sir, '11 forgive my want o' manners ; sure I know it's bad 
 breedm', but I cant help it." 
 
 " Well, promise," said his landlord, " to give up drink. Indeed, I 
 wish you would take an oath against it : you are a conscientious man, 
 and I know would keep it, otherwise I should not propose it, for I 
 discountenance such oaths generally. Will you promise me this, 
 Connell ? " 
 
 " I'll promise to think of it, your honour — aginst takin' a sartin 
 quantity, at any rate." 
 
 " If you refuse it, I'll think you are unmindful of the good feehng 
 which we have ever shown your family." 
 
 " What .'' — do you think, sir, I'm ungrateful to you ? That's a sore 
 cut, sir, to make a villain o' me. Where's the book 'i — I'll swear this 
 minute. Have you a Bible, ma'am ? — I'll show you that I'm not mane, 
 anyway." 
 
 " No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you must be cool and 
 composed : but go home, and turn it in your mind," she replied ; " and 
 remember, that it is the request of me and my husband for your own 
 gwd." 
 
 " Neither must you swear before me," said his landlord, " but before 
 Mr. Mulcahy, who, as it is an oath connected with your moral conduct, 
 is the best person to be present. It must be voluntary, however. 
 Now, good-bye, Connell, and think of what we said ; but take care 
 never to carry home any of my servants in the same plight in which 
 you put John Smith, to-day." 
 
 '• Faix, thin, sir, he had no business, wid your honour's livery upon 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 55 
 
 his back, to begin lecthurin' me agin dhrinkin' as he did. We may 
 all do very well, sir, till the timptation Grasses us — but that's what 
 thries us. It thried him, but he didn't stand it — faix, he didn't !— ha, 
 ha, ha ! Good mornin', sir — God bless you, ma'am ! Divil resave the 
 family in all Europe " 
 
 " Good morning, ConneU — good morning ! Pray remember what 
 we said." 
 
 Peter, however, could not relinquish the whisky. His sons, daugh- 
 ters, friends and neighbours all assailed him, but with no success. He 
 either bantered them in his usaal way, or reverted to his loss, and sank 
 in sorrow. This last was the condition in which they found him most 
 intractable ; for a man is never considered to be in a state that admits 
 of reasoning or argument when he is known to be pressed by strong 
 gushes of personal feeling. A plan at length struck Father Mulcahy, 
 which he resolved to put into immediate execution. 
 
 " Peter," said he, " if you do not abandon drink, I shall stop the 
 masses which I'm offering up for the repose of your wife's soul, and I 
 will also return you the money I received for saying them." 
 
 This was perhaps the only point on which Peter was accessible. 
 He felt staggered at such an unexpected intimation, and was for some 
 time silent. 
 
 "You will then feel," added the priest, "that your drunkenness is 
 prolonging the sufferings of your wife, and that she is as much con- 
 cerned in your being sober as you are yourself." 
 
 " I will give in," replied Peter ; " I didn't see the thing in that light. 
 No — I will not be drunk ; but if I swear aginst it, you must allow me 
 a rasonable share every day, an' I'll not go beyant it, of coorse. The 
 thruth is I'd die soon if I gev it up altogether." 
 
 " We have certainly no objection against that," said the priest, 
 "provided you keep within what would not injure your health, or 
 make you tipsy. Your drunkenness is not only sinful but disre- 
 putable ; besides, you must not throw a slur upon the character of 
 your children, who hold respectable and rising situations in the 
 world." 
 
 " No," said Peter, in a kind of soliloquy, " I'd lay down my life, 
 avoumeen, sooner nor I'd cause you a minute's sufferin*. Father 
 Mulcahy, go an wid the masses. I'll get an oath drawn up, an' whin 
 it's done, I'll swear to it. I know a man that'll do it for me." 
 
 The priest then departed, quite satisfied with having accomplished 
 his object ; and Peter, in the course of that evening, directed his steps 
 to the house of the village schoolmaster, for the purpose of getting 
 him to " draw up " the intended oath. 
 
 " Misther O'Flaherty," said he, " I'm comin' to ax a requist of you, 
 an' I hope you'll grant it to me. I brought down a sup in this flask, 
 an' while we're takin' it we can talk over what I want." 
 
 " If it be anything widin the circumference of my power, set it down, 
 Misther Connell, as already operated upon. I'd drop a pen to no man 
 at keepin' books by double enthry, which is the Italian method 
 invinted by Pope Gregory the Great. The three sets bear a thcologi- 
 
56 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN rPISH OATh. 
 
 cal ratio to the three states of a thrue Christiar ' The waste-book,' 
 says Pope Gregory, ' is this world, the journal is purgatory, an' the 
 ledger is heaven. Or it may be compared,' he says, in the priface of 
 the work, ' to the three states of the Catholic Church — the Church 
 Militant, the Church Suffering, and the Church Triumphant.' The 
 larnin' of that man was beyant the reach of credibility." 
 
 " Arra, have you a small glass, masther .'' You see, Misther O'Fla- 
 herty, it's consarnin' purgatorj', this that I want to talk about." 
 
 " Nancy, get us a glass — oh, here it is ! Thin if it be, it's a wrong 
 enthry in the journal." 
 
 " Here's your health, masther ! — Not forgetting you, Mrs. O'Fla- 
 herty. No, indeed, thin it's not in the journal, but an oath I'm goin' 
 to take aginst liquor." 
 
 " Nothin' is asier to post than it is. We must enter it under the 
 head of — let me see ! — it must go in the spirit account, undher the 
 head of Profit an' Loss. Your good health, Mr. Connell ! — Nancy, I 
 drink to your improvement in miperturbability 1 Yes, it must be 
 enthered undher the " 
 
 " Faix, undher the rose, I think," observed Peter ; " don't you know 
 the smack of it ? You see since I tuck to it, I like the smell o' what I 
 used to squeeze out o' the barley myself long ago. Misther O'Fla- 
 herty, I only want you to dhraw up an oath aginst liquor for me ; but 
 it's not for the books, good or bad. I promised to Father Mulcahy 
 that I'd do it. It's regardin' my poor EUish's sowl in purgatory." 
 
 '• Nancy, hand me a slate an' cutter. Faith, the same's a provident 
 resolution ; but how is it an' purgatory concatenated .'' " 
 
 " The priest, you see, won't go an wid the masses for her till I take 
 the oath." 
 
 "That's but wake logic, if you ped him for thim." 
 
 " Faix, an' I did — an' well, too ; — but about the oath ? Have you 
 the pencil ? " 
 
 " I have ; jist lave the thing to me." 
 
 " Asy, masther — you don't undherstand it yit. Put down two tum- 
 blers for me at home." 
 
 "How is that, Misther Connell? — It's mysterious, if you're about to 
 swear aginst liquor ! " 
 
 " I am. Put down, as I said, two tumblers for me at home. Are 
 they down ? " 
 
 " They are down ; but " 
 
 " Asy ! — very good ! Put down two more for me at Dan's. Let me 
 see ! — two more behind the garden. Well ! — put down one at Father 
 Mulcahy's ; — two more at Frank Carroll's, of Kilrlay. How many's 
 that } " 
 
 "Nine! ! !" 
 
 " Very good. Now put down one wid ould Bartle Gorman, of Nur- 
 chasy ; an' two over wid Michael Morris, of Cargah. How many 
 have you now .? " 
 
 " Twelve in all ! ! ! ! But, Misther Connell, there's a demonstra- 
 tion badly wanted here : I must confiss I was always bright, but at 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH Oa TH. 57 
 
 present I'm as dark as Nox. I'd thank you for a taste of explan- 
 ation." 
 
 " Asy, man alive ! Is there twelve in all ? " 
 
 " Twelve in all : I've calculated them." 
 
 " Well, we'll hould to that. Och, och ! — I'm sure, avourneen, afore 
 I'd let you suffer one minute's pain, I'd not scruple to take an oath 
 aginst liquor, anyway. He may go an wid the masses now for you, as 
 soon as he likes ! Mr. O'Flaherty, will you put that down on paper, 
 an' I'll swear to it, wid a blessin', to-morrow." 
 
 " But what object do you wish to effectuate by this ? " 
 
 " You see, masther, I dhrink one day wid another from a score to 
 two dozen tumblers, an' I want to swear to no more nor twelve in the 
 twenty-four hours." 
 
 " Why, there's intelHgibility in that! — Wid great pleasure, Mr. 
 Connell, I'll indite it. Katty, tare me a lafe out o' Brian Murphy's 
 copy there." 
 
 " You see, masther, it's for Ellish's sake I'm doin' this. State that 
 in the oath." 
 
 " I know it ; an' well she desarved that specimen of abstinence 
 from you, Misther Connell. Thank you ! — your health agin ! an' 
 God grant you grace and fortitude to go through wid the same oath ! 
 — An' so he will, or I'm grievously mistaken in you." 
 
 ''OATH A GAINST LIQUOR 
 
 made by me, Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath, on behalf of Misther Pether O'Coa- 
 nell, of the Cross-roads, Merchant, on one part — and of the soul of Mrs. EUish 
 O'Connell, now in purgatory, Merchantess, on the other. 
 
 " I solemnly, and meritoriously, and soberly swear that a single tumbler of 
 whisky punch shall not cross my lips during the twenty-lour hours of the day, 
 barring twelve, the locahty of which is as followeth : — 
 
 Imprimis — Two tumblers at home 2 
 
 Secundo — Two more ditto at my son Dan's 2 
 
 Tertio — Two more ditto behind my own garden 2 
 
 Quarto — One ditto at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's i 
 
 Quinto — Two more ditto at Frank Carroll's, of Kilclay a 
 
 Sexto— One ditto wid ould Bartle Gorman, of Nurchasy 1 
 
 Septirao — Two more ditto wid Michael Morris, of Cargah 2 
 
 " N.B. I except in case any Docthor of Physic might think it right and medical to 
 ordher me more for my health ; or in case I could get Father Mulcahy to take the 
 oath off me for a start at a wedding or a christening, or at any other meeting of 
 friends where there's drink, 
 
 his 
 " Witness present, " Pether x O'Connell. 
 
 ••Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath. mark. 
 
 " June the i\th., 18 — . 
 
 "fS- I certify that I have ma(ie and calculated this oath for Misther Pether 
 O'Conr ell, Merchant, and that it is strictly and arithmetically proper and correct. 
 
 " Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath. 
 " Dated this \th day of June, 18 — ." 
 
53 THE GEOGRAPHY OP AN IRISH OA TH. 
 
 " I think, Misther O'Flaherty, it's a dacent oath as it stands. 
 Plase God I'll swear to it some time to-morrow evcnin'." 
 
 " Dacent ! Why I don't wish to become eulogistically addicted ;. 
 but I'd back the same oath, for both grammar and arithmetic, aginst 
 any that ever was drawn up by a lawyer — ay, by Counsellor O'Connell 
 himself! — but faith, I'd not face him at a vow, for all that ; he's the 
 greatest man at a vow in the three kingdoms." 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm thinkin', masther — as my hand's in, mightn't 
 I as well take another wid an ould frind o' mine, Andy Cavanagh, of 
 Lisbuy ? He's a dacent ould residenther, an' likes it. It'll make the 
 baker's, or the long dozen." 
 
 " Why, it's not a bad thought ; but won't thirteen get into your 
 head?" 
 
 " No, nor three more to the back o' that. I only begin to get 
 hearty about seventeen ; so that the long dozen, afther all, is best ; 
 for God he knows I've a regard for Andy Cavanagh this many a year, 
 an' I wouldn't wish to lave him out." 
 
 " Very well — I'll add it up to the other part of the oath. 
 
 Octavo — One ditto out of respect for dacent Andy Cavanagh of Lisbuy i 
 
 Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an' all will be right." 
 
 " Masther, have you a prayer-book widin 1 — bekase if you have I 
 may as well swear it here, an' you can witness it." 
 
 " Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises — a book aquil to the 
 Bible itself for piety an' devotion." 
 
 " Sure they say, masther, any book that the name o' God's in is 
 good for an oath. Now, wid the help o' goodness, repate the words 
 afore me, an' I'll sware thim." 
 
 O'Flaherty hemmed two or three times, and complied with Peter's 
 wishes, who followed him in the words until the oath was concluded. 
 He then kissed the book, and expressed himself much at ease, as 
 well, he said, upon the account of EUish's soul, as for the sake of his 
 children. 
 
 For some time after this his oath was the standing jest of the 
 neighbourhood : even to this day Peter Connell's oath against liquor 
 is a proverb in that part of the country. Immediately after he had 
 sworn, no one could ever perceive that he violated it in the slightest 
 degree; but there could be no doubt as to his literally fulfilling it. 
 A day never passed in which he did not punctually pay a friendly 
 visit to those whose names were dotted down, with whom he sat,. 
 pulled out his flask, and drank his quantum. In the meantime the 
 poor man was breaking down rapidly ; so much so that his appear- 
 ance generally excited pity, if not sorrow, among his neighbours. His 
 character became simpler every day, and his intellect evidently more 
 exhausted. The inoffensive humour, for which he had been noted, 
 was also completely on the wane ; his eye was dim, his step feeble, 
 but the benevolence of his heart never failed him. Many acts ot 
 his private generosity are well known, and still remembered with 
 gratitude. 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 59 
 
 In proportion as the strength of his mind and constitution diminished 
 so did his capacity for bearing liquor. When he first bound himself 
 by the oath not to exceed the long dozen, such was his vigour that 
 the effects of thirteen tumblers could scarcely be perceived on him. 
 This state of health, however, did not last. As he wore away, the 
 influence of so much liquor was becoming stronger, until at length he 
 found that it was more than he could bear, that he frequently con- 
 founded the names of the men, and the number of tumblers men- 
 tioned in the oath, and sometimes took, in his route, persons and 
 places not to be found in it at all. This grieved him, and he resolved 
 to wait upon O' Flaherty, for the purpose of having some means 
 devised of guiding him during his potations. 
 
 " Masther," said he, " we must thry an' make this oath somethin' 
 plainer. You see, whin I get confused, I'm not able to remimber 
 things as I ought. Sometimes, instid o' one tumbler, I take two at 
 the wrong place j an' sarra bit o' me but called in an' had three wid 
 ould Jack Rogers, that isn't in it at all. On another day I had a 
 couple wid honest Barny Casey, an my way acrass to Bartle Gorman's. 
 I'm not what I was, masther, ahagur ; so I'd thank you to dhraw it 
 out more clearer, if you can, nor it was." 
 
 " I see, Mr. Connell ; I comprehend, wid the greatest ase in life, the 
 very plan for it. We must reduce the oath to Geography, for I'm at 
 home there, bein' a surveyor myself. I'll lay down a map o' the 
 parish, an' draw the houses of your friends at their proper places, so 
 that you'll never be out o' your latitude at all." 
 
 "Faix, I doubt that, masther ! — ha, ha, ha !" replied Peter. " I'm 
 afeard I will, of an odd time, for I'm not able to carry what I used to 
 do ; but no matther : thry what you can do for me this time, anyhow. 
 I think I could bear the long dozen still, if I didn't make mistakes." 
 
 O'Flaherty accordingly set himself to work ; and as his knowledge, 
 not only of the parish, but of every person and house in it, was 
 accurate, he soon had a tolerably correct skeleton map of it drawn for 
 Peter's use. 
 
 " Now," said he, " lend me your ears." 
 
 " Faix, I'll do no sich thing," replied Peter — " I know a thrick worth 
 two of it. Lend you my ears, inagh ! — catch me at it ! You have a 
 bigger pair of your own nor I have — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Well, in other words, pay attintion. Now, see this dot — that's 
 your own house." 
 
 "Put a crass there," said Peter, "an thin I'll know it's the crass- 
 roads ." 
 
 " Upon my reputation, you're right ; an' that's what I call a good 
 specimen of ingenuity. I'll take the hint from that, an' we'll make it 
 a hieroglyphical as well as a geographical oath. Well, there's a crass, 
 wid two tumblers. Is that clear ? " 
 
 " It is, it is ! Go an." 
 
 " Now here we draw a line to your son Dan's. Let me see ; he 
 keeps a mill, an' sells cloth. Very good. I'll draw a mill-wheel an' 
 a yard-wand. There's two tumblers. Will you know that ? " 
 
6o THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 " I see it : go an', nothin' can be clearer. So far I can't go 
 asthray." 
 
 " Well, what next ? Two behind your own garden. What metaphoi 
 for the garden ? Let me see ! — let me cogitate ! A dragon — the Hes 
 perides ! That's beyantjc//. A bit of a hedge will do, an' a gate." 
 
 " Don't put a gate in, it's not lucky. You know when a man takes 
 to dhrink, they say he's goin' a grey gate, or black gate, or a bad gate. 
 Put that out, an' make the hedge longer, an' it'll do — wid the two 
 tumblers, though." 
 
 " They're down. One at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's. How will 
 we thranslate the priest ? " 
 
 " Faix, I doubt that will be a difficquilt business." 
 
 " Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, especially whin he 
 repates Latin. However, we'll see. He writes P. P. afther his name ; 
 — pee-pee is what we call the turkeys wid. What ud you think o' two 
 turkeys 1 " 
 
 " The priest would like them roasted, but I couldn't undherstand 
 that. No ; put down the sign o' the horsewhip or the cudgel ; for he's 
 handy an' argues well wid both ? " 
 
 "Good ! I'll put down the horsewhip first, an' the cudgel alongside 
 of it ; then the tumbler, an' there 'ill be the sign o' the priest." 
 
 " Ay, do, masther, an' faix the priest 'ill be complate — there can be 
 no mistakin' him thin. Devil a one but that's a good thought ! " 
 
 " There it is in black an' white. Who comes next .'' Frank Carroll. 
 He's a farmer. I'll put down a spade an' a harrow. Well, that's done 
 — two tumblers." 
 
 " I won't mistake that aither. It's clear enough." 
 
 " Bartle Gorman's of Nurchasy. Bartle's a little lame, an' uses 
 a staff wid a cross on the end that he houlds in his hand. I'll put 
 down a staff wid a cross on it." 
 
 " Would there be no danger of me mistakin' that for the priest's 
 cudgel?" 
 
 " Not the slightest. I'll pledge my knowledge of geography they're 
 two very different weapons." 
 
 " Well, put it down— I'll know it." 
 
 " Michael Morris of Cargah. What for him ? Michael's a pig- 
 driver. I'll put down a pig. You'll comprehend that ?" 
 
 " I ought ; for many a pig I sould him in my day. Put down the 
 pig ; an' if you could put two black spots upon his back, I'd know it to 
 be one I sould him about four years agone — the fattest ever was in the 
 country — it had to be brought home on a car, for it wasn't able to walk 
 wid fat." 
 
 " Very good ; the spots are on it. The last is Andy Cavanagh of 
 Lisbuy. Now, do you see that I've drawn a line from place to place, 
 so that you have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. What for 
 Andy ? " 
 
 *■ Andy ! Let me see — Andy ! Pooh ! What's come over me that 
 I've nothing for Andy.-* Ay ! I have it. He's a horse-jockey: put 
 down a grey mare I sould him about five years agone." 
 
IHE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 6i 
 
 " I'll put down a horse ; but I can't make a grey mare wid black ink." 
 
 "Well, make a mare of her, anyway." 
 
 " Faith, an' that same puzzles me. Stop, I have it ; I'll put a foal 
 along wid her," 
 
 " As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther O'Flaherty. I think 
 this'U keep me from mistakes. An' now, if you'll slip up to me afther 
 dusk, I'll send you down a couple of bottles and a flitch. Sure you 
 desarve more for the throuble you tuck." 
 
 Many of our readers, particularly of our English readers, will be 
 somewhat startled to hear that, except the change of names and places, 
 there is actually little exaggeration in the form of this oath ; so just is 
 the observation that the romance of truth frequently far exceeds that 
 of fiction. 
 
 Peter had, however, overrated his own strength in supposing that 
 he could bear the long dozen in future ; ere many months passed he 
 was scarcely able to reach the half of that number without sinking 
 into intoxication. Whilst in this state, he was in the habit of going 
 to the graveyard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, and wept 
 like a child, sang her favourite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers 
 for the repose of her soul. None ever mocked him for this ; on the 
 contrary, there was always some kind person to assist him home. And 
 as he staggered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear such 
 expressions as these : — 
 
 " Poor Pether ! he's nearly off ; an' a dacent, kind neighbour he ever 
 was. The death of the wife broke his heart — he never ris his head 
 since." 
 
 "Ay, poor man ! God pity him ! He'll soon be sleepin' beside her, 
 beyant there, where she's lyin'. It was never known of Pether Connell 
 that he offinded man, woman, or child since he was born, barrin' the 
 gangers, bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid — but that was no 
 offince. Sowl, he was their match, anyhow. When he an' the wife's 
 gone, they won't lave their likes behind them. The sons are bodaghs — 
 gintlemen, now ; an' it's nothin' but dinners an' company. Ahagur, 
 that wasn't the way their hardworkin' father an' mother made the 
 money that they're houldin' their heads up wid such consequence 
 upon." 
 
 The children, however, did not give Peter up as hopeless. Father 
 Mulcahy, too, once more assailed him on his weak side. One morning, 
 when he was so-ber, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and 
 finding him at home, addressed him as follows : — 
 
 " Peter, I'm sorry, and vexed, and angry this morning ; and you are 
 the cause o'' it." 
 
 " How is that, your reverence?" said Peter. "God help me," he 
 added, " don't be hard an me, sir, for I'm to be pitied. Don't be hard 
 an me for the short time I'll be here. I know it won't be long — I'll 
 be wid her soon. Asthore machree, we'll be together, I hope, afore 
 long — an', oh ! if it was the will o' God, I would be glad it was afore 
 night ! " 
 
 The poor shattered, heartbroken creature wept bitterly ; for he felt 
 
62 THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OATH. 
 
 somewhat sensible of the justice of the reproof which he expected 
 from the priest, as well as undiminished sorrow for his wife. 
 
 " I'm not going to be hard on you," said the good-natured priest ; 
 " I only called to tell you a dream that your son Dan had last night 
 about you and his mother." 
 
 "About EUish ! Oh, for heaven's sake, what at out her, father^ 
 avourneen .''" 
 
 " She appeared to him last night," replied Father Mulcahy, " and 
 told him that your drinking kept her out of happiness." 
 
 " Queen of heaven ! " exclaimed Peter, deeply affected, " is that true ? 
 Oh," said he, dropping on his knees, " father, ahagur machree, pardon 
 m_e — oh, forgive me ! I now promise, solemnly and seriously, to drink 
 neither in the house nor 07(t of it, for the time to come, not one drop 
 at all, good, bad, or indifferent, of either whisky, wine, or punch — 
 barrin' one glass. Are you now satisfied ? an' do you think she'll get 
 to happiness ?" 
 
 " All will be well, I trust," said the priest. " I shall mention this 
 to Dan and the rest, and depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to 
 hear it." 
 
 " Here's what Mr. O'Flaherty an' myself made up," said Peter; 
 " burn it, father ; take it out of my sight, for it's now no use to me." 
 
 " What is this at all ? " said Mr. Mulcahy, looking into it. " Is it an 
 oath } " 
 
 " It's the joggraphy of one I swore some time ago ; but it's now out 
 of date — I'm done wid it." 
 
 The priest could not avoid smiling when he perused it, and on 
 getting from Peter's lips an explanation of the hieroglyphics, he 
 laughed heartily at the ingenious shifts they had made to guide his 
 memory. 
 
 Peter, for some time after this, confined himself to one glass, as he 
 had promised ; but he felt such depression and feebleness that he 
 ventured slowly, and by degrees, to enlarge the " glass " from which he 
 drank. His impression touching the happiness of his wife was that^ 
 as he had for several months strictly observed his promise, she had 
 probably during that period gone to heaven. He then began ta 
 exercise his ingenuity gradually, as we have said, by using, from time 
 to time, a glass larger than the preceding one ; thus receding from the 
 spirit of his vow to the letter, and increasing the quantity of his drink 
 from a small glass to the most capacious tumbler he could find. The 
 manner in which he drank this was highly illustrative of the customs 
 which prevail on this subject in Ireland. He remembered that in 
 making the vow he used the words, "neither in the house nor out of 
 it ;" but in order to get over this dilemma, he usually stood with one 
 foot outside the threshold, and the other in the house, keeping himself 
 in that position which would render it difficult to determine whether 
 he was either out or in. At other times, when he happened to be up- 
 stairs, he usually thrust one half of his person out of the window, with 
 the same ludicrous intention of keeping the letter of his vow. 
 
 Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned to the lookers-on \ 
 
THE GEOGRAPHY OF AN IRISH OA TH. 63 
 
 but further ridicule was checked by his woe-begone and afflicted look. 
 He was now a mere skeleton, feeble and tottering. 
 
 One night in the depth of winter he went into the town where his 
 two sons resided ; he had been ill in mind and body during the day, 
 and he fancied that change of scene and soci'ity might benefit him. 
 His daughter and son-in-law, in consequence of his illness, watched 
 him so closely that he could not succeed in getting his usual " glass." 
 This offended him, and he escaped without their knowledge to the son 
 who kept the inn. On arriving there, he went up stairs, and by a 
 douceur to the waiter got a large tumbler filled with spirits. The 
 lingering influences of a conscience that generally felt strongly on the 
 side of moral duty, though poorly instructed, prompted him to drink 
 it in the usual manner, by keeping one half of his body, as nearly as he 
 could guess, out of the window, that it might be said he drank it 
 neither in nor out of the house. He had scarcely finished his draught, 
 however, when he lost his balance, and was precipitated upon the pave- 
 ment. The crash of his fall was heard in the bar, and his son, who 
 had just come in, ran, along with several others, to ascertain what had 
 happened. They found him, however, only severely stunned. He 
 was immediately brought in, and medical aid sent for ; but, though he 
 recovered from the immediate effects of the fall, the shock it gave to 
 his broken constitution, and his excessive grief, carried him off a few 
 months afterwards. He expired in the arms of his son and daughter, 
 and amidst the tears of those who knew his simplicity of character, his 
 goodness of heart, and his attachment to the wife by whose death that 
 heart had been broken. 
 
 Such was the melancholy end of the honest and warm-hearted 
 Peter Connell, who, unhappily, was not a solitary instance of a man 
 driven to habits of intoxication and neglect of business by the force of 
 sorrow, which time and a well-regulated mind might otherwise have 
 overcome. We have held him up, on the one hand, as an example 
 worthy of imitation in that industry and steadiness which, under the 
 •direction of his wife, raised him from poverty to independence and 
 wealth ; and, on the other, as a man resorting to the use of spirituous 
 iiquors that lie might be enabled to support af^iction — a course which, 
 so far from having sustained him under it, shattered his constitution, 
 shortened his life, and destroyed his happiness. In conclusion, we 
 wish our countrymen of Peter's class would imitate him in his better 
 qualities, and try to avoid his failings. 
 
64 AN ESS A V ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 O pen can do justice to the extravagance and frolic inseparable 
 from the character of the Irish people ; nor has any system 
 of philosophy been discovered that can with moral fitness be 
 applied to them. Phrenology' fails to explain it, for according to the 
 most capital surveys hitherto made and reported on, it appears that, in- 
 asmuch as the moral and intellectual organs of Irishmen predominate 
 over the physical and sensual, the people ought therefore to be ranked 
 at the very tip-top of morality. We would warn the phrenologists, 
 however, not to be too sanguine in drawing inferences from an ex- 
 amination of Paddy's head. Heaven only knows the scenes in which 
 it is engaged, and the protuberances created by a long life of hard 
 fighting. Many an organ and development is brought out on it by 
 the cudgel, thatnever would have appeared had Nature been left to 
 herself. 
 
 Drinking, fighting, and swearing are the three great characteristics 
 of every people. Paddy's love of fighting and of whisky has been 
 long proverbial ; and of his tact in swearing much has also been said. 
 But there is one department of oath-making in which he stands un- 
 rivalled and unapproachable : I mean the alibi. There is where he 
 shines, where his oath, instead of being a mere matter of fact or 
 opinion, rises up into the dignity of epic narrative, containing within 
 itself all the complexity of machinery, harmony of parts, and fertility 
 of invention by which your true epic should be characterised. 
 
 The Englishman, whom we will call the historian in swearing, will 
 depose to the truth of this or that fact, but there the line is drawn : he 
 swears his oath so far as he knows, and stands still. "I'm sure, for 
 my part, I don't know ; I've said all I knows about it," and beyond 
 this his besotted intellect goeth not. 
 
 The Scotchman, on the other hand, who is the metaphysician in 
 swearing, sometimes borders on equivocation. He decidedly goes 
 further than the Englishman, not because he has less honesty, but 
 more prudence. He will assent to, or deny, a proposition ; for the 
 Englishman's " I don't know," and the Scotchman's " I dinna ken," 
 are two very distinct assertions when properly understood. The 
 former stands out a monument of dulness, an insuperable barrier 
 against inquiry, ingenuity, and fancy ; but the latter frequently 
 stretches itself so as to embrace hypothetically a particular opmion. 
 
 But Paddy ! — Put iiim forward to prove an alibi for his fourteenth 
 or fifteenth cousin, and you will be gratified by the pomp, pride, and 
 circumstance of ti le swearing. Every oath with him is an epic- -pure 
 poetry, abounding with humour, pathos, and the highest order of in- 
 vention and talent. He is not at ease, it is true, \xx\d.cr facts ; there is 
 something too commonplace in dealing with them, which his genius 
 
AN ESS A y ON IRISH SWEARING. 65 
 
 scorns. But his flights — his flights are beautiful ; and his episodes 
 admirable and happy. In fact, he is an improvisatore at oath-taking ; 
 with this difference, that his extempore oaths possess all the ease and 
 correctness of labour and design. 
 
 He is not, however, altogether averse to facts ; but like your true 
 poet, he veils, changes, and modifies them with such skill that they 
 possess all the merit and graces of fiction. If he happen to make an 
 assertion incompatible with the plan of the piece, his genius acquires 
 fresh energ}', enables him to widen the design, and to create new 
 machinery, with such happiness of adaptation, that what appeared out 
 of proportion or character is made in his hands to contribute to the 
 general strength and beauty of the oath. 
 
 'Tis true, there is nothing perfect under the sun ; but if there were, 
 it would certainly be Paddy at an alibi. Some flaws, no doubt, occur ; 
 some slight inaccuracies may be noticed by a critical eye ; an occa- 
 sional anachronism stands out, and a mistake or so in geography ; but 
 let it be recollected that Paddy's alibi is but a human production ; let 
 us not judge him by harsher rules than those which we apply to 
 Homer, Virgil, or Shakespeare. 
 
 "Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus," is allowed on all hands. 
 Virgil made Dido and ^neas contemporary, though they were not 
 so ; and Shakespeare, by the creative power of his genius, changed an 
 inland town into a sea-port. Come, come, have bowels. Let epic 
 swearing be treated with the same courtesy shown to epic poetry, that 
 is, if both are the production of a rare genius. I maintain that when 
 Paddy commits a blemish he is too harshly admonished for it. When 
 he soars out of sight here, as occasionally happens, does he not fre- 
 quently alight somewhere about Sidney Bay, much against his own 
 inclination? And if he puts forth a hasty production, is he not com- 
 pelled for the space of seven or fourteen years to revise his oath ? But, 
 indeed, few works of fiction are properly encouraged in Ireland. 
 
 It would be unpardonable in us, however, to overlook the beneficial 
 effects of Paddy's peculiar genius in swearing alibis. Some persons, 
 who display their own egregious ignorance of morality, may be disposed 
 to think that it tends to lessen the obligation of an oath, by inducing 
 a habit among the people of swearing to what is not true. We look 
 upon such persons as very dangerous to Ireland and to the repeal of 
 the Union ; and we request them not to push their principles too far 
 in the disturbed parts of the country. Could society hold together a 
 smgle day, if nothing but truth were spoken ? Would not law and 
 lawyers soon become obsolete, if nothing but truth wtre s7uor7i ? What 
 would become of parliament if truth alone were uttered there ? Its 
 annual proceedings might be despatched in a month. Fiction is the 
 basis of society, the bond of commercial prosperity, the channel of 
 communication between nation and nation, and not unfrequently the 
 interpreter between a man and his own conscience. 
 
 For these, and many other reasons which we could adduce, we say 
 with Paddy, " Long life to fiction ! " When associated with swearing, 
 it ihines in its brightest colours. What, for instance, is calculated l« 
 
65 AN ESS A V OX IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 produce the best and purest of the moral virtues so beautifully as the 
 swearing an alibi? Here are fortitude and a love of freedom resisting 
 oppression ; for it is well known that all law is oppression in Ireland. 
 
 There is compassion for the peculiar state of the poor boy who, 
 perhaps, only burnt a family in their beds ; benevolence to prompt 
 the generous effort in his behalf ; disinterestedness to run the risk 
 of becoming an involuntary absentee; fortitude in encountering a 
 host of brazen-faced lawyers ; patience under the unsparing giipe of 
 a cross-examiner ; perseverance in conducting the oath to its close 
 against a host of difficulties ; and friendship, which bottoms and 
 crowns them all, 
 
 Paddy's merits, however, touching the alibi, rest not here. Fiction 
 on these occasions only teaches him how to perform a dniy. It may 
 be that he is under the obligation of a previous oath 7ioi to gi\'e 
 evidence against certain of his friends and associates. Now, could 
 anything in the whole circle of religion or ethics be conceived that 
 renders the epic style of swearing so incumbent upon Paddy ? There 
 is a kind of moral fitness in all things ; for where the necessity of 
 invention exists, it is consolatory to reflect that the ability to invent is 
 bestowed along with it. 
 
 Next to the alibi come Paddy's powers in sustaining a cross-e.x- 
 amination. Many persons think that this is his/orie ; but we cannot 
 yield to such an opinion, nor compromise his originality of conception 
 in the scope and plan of an alibi. It is marked by a minuteness of 
 touch and a peculiarity of expression which give it every appearance 
 of real life. The circumstances are so well imagined, the groups so 
 naturally disposed, the colouring so finished, and the background in 
 such fine perspective, that the whole picture presents you with such 
 keeping and vraisemblance as could be accomplished only by the 
 jenius of a master. 
 
 In point of interest, however, we must admit that his ability in a 
 cross-examination ranks next to his skill \x\. plannini^ an alibi. There 
 is, in the former, a versatility of talent that keeps him always ready ; 
 a happiness of retort, generally disastrous to the wit of the most 
 established cross-examiner ; an apparent simplicity, which is quite as 
 inpenetrable as the lawyer's assurance ; a vis coniica, which puts the 
 court in tears ; and an originality of sorrow that often convulses it 
 with laughter. His resources, when he is pressed, are inexhaustible ; 
 and the address with which he contrives to gain time, that he may 
 suit his reply to the object of his evidence, is beyond all praise. And 
 yet his appearance when he mounts the table is anything but pre- 
 possessing ; a sheepish look, and a loose-jointed frame of body, 
 wrapped in a frieze great-coat, do not promise much. Nay, there is 
 often a rueful, blank expression in his visage, which might lead a 
 stranger to anticipate nothing but blunders and dulness. This, how- 
 ever, is hypocrisy of the first water. Just observe the tact with which 
 he places his caubeen upon the table, his kippeen across it, and the 
 experienced air with which he pulls up the waistband of his breeches, 
 absolutely girding his loins for battle. 'Tis true his blue eye has at 
 
AN ESS A y ON IRISH SWEARING. 67 
 
 present nothing remarkable in it, except a drop or two of the native: 
 but that is not remarkable. 
 
 When the direct examination has been concluded, nothing can be 
 finer than the simplicity with which he turns round to the lawyer who 
 is to cross-examine him. Yet, as if conscious that firmness and 
 caution are his main guards, he again pulls up his waistband with a 
 more vigorous hitch, looks shyly into the very eyes of his opponent, 
 and awaits the first blow. 
 
 The question at length comes ; and Paddy, after having raised the 
 collar of his big coat on his shoulder, and twisted up the shoulder 
 along with it, mrectly puts the query back to the lawyer, without 
 altering a syllable of it, for the purpose of ascertaining more accurately 
 whether that is the precise question that has been put to him ; for 
 Paddy is conscientious. Then is the science displayed on both sides. 
 The one a veteran, trained in all the technicalities of legal puzzles, 
 irony, blarney, sarcasm, impudence, stock jokes, quirks, rigmarolery, 
 brow-beating, ridicule, and subtilty ; the other a poor peasant, relying 
 only upon the justice of a good cause and the gifts of nature, without 
 either experience or learning, and with nothing but his native modesty 
 to meet the forensic effrontery of his antagonist. 
 
 Our readers will perceive that the odds are a thousand to one 
 against Paddy ; yet, when he replies to a hackneyed genius at cross- 
 examination, how does it happen that he uniformly elicits those roars 
 of laughter which rise in the court, and convulse it from the judge to 
 the crier ? In this laugh, which is usually at the expense of the cross- 
 examiner, Paddy himself always joins, so that the counsel has the 
 double satisfaction of being made not only the jest of the judge and 
 his brother lawyers, but of the ragged witness whom he attempted to 
 make ridiculous. 
 
 It is not impossible that this merry mode of dispensing justice may 
 somewhat encourage Paddy in that independence of mind which 
 relishes not the idea of being altogether bound by oaths that are too 
 often administered with a jocular spirit. To many of the uninitiated 
 Irish an oath is a solemn, to some an awful thing. Of this whole- 
 some reverence for its sanction, two or three testimonies given in a 
 court of justice usually cure them. The indifferent, business-like 
 manner in which the oaths are put, the sing-song tone of voice, the 
 rapid utterance of the words, give to this solemn act an appearance of 
 excellent burlesque, which ultimately renders the whole proceedings 
 remarkable for the absence of truth and reality ; but, at the same 
 time, gives them unquestionable merit as a dramatic representation, 
 abounding with fiction, well related, and ably acted. 
 
 Thumb-kissing is another feature in Paddy's adroitness too im- 
 portant to be passed over in silence. Here his tact shines out again. 
 It would be impossible for him in many cases to meet the perplexities 
 of a cross-examination so cleverly as he does, if he did not believe 
 that he had, by kissing his thumb instead of the book, actually taken 
 no oath, and consequently given to himself a wider range of action. 
 We must admit, however, that this very circumstance involves him in 
 
6S A.V ESSA Y ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 difficulties which are sometimes peculiarly embarrassing. Taking 
 everything into consideration, the prospect of freedom for his sixth 
 cousin, the consciousness of having kissed his thumb, or the consoling 
 reflection that he swore only on a Law Bible, it must be granted that 
 the opportunities presented by a cross-examination are well calculated 
 to diplay his wit, humour, and fertility of invention. He is accord- 
 ingly great in it ; but still we maintain that his execution of an alibi 
 is his ablest performance, comprising, as it does, both the conception 
 and construction of the work. 
 
 Both the oaths and imprecations of the Irish display, like those who 
 use them, indications of great cruelty and great hum-jur. Many of the 
 former exhibit that ingenuity which comes out when Paddy is on his 
 cross-examination in a court of justice. Every people, it is true, have 
 resorted to the habit of mutilating or changing in their oaths the 
 letters which form the Creator's name ; but we question if any have 
 surpassed the Irish in the cleverness with which they accomplish it. 
 Mock oaths are habitual to Irishmen in ordinary conversation ; but 
 the use of any or all of them is not considered to constitute an oath ; 
 on the contrary, they are in the mouths of many who would not, 
 except upon a very solemn occasion indeed, swear by the name of the 
 Deity in its proper form. 
 
 The ingenuity of their mock oaths is sufficient to occasion much 
 perplexity to anyone disposed to consider it in connection with the 
 character and moral feelings of the people. Whether to note it as a 
 reluctance on their part to incur the guilt of an oath, or as a proof of 
 habitual tact in evading it by artifice, is manifestly a difficulty hard 
 to be overcome. We are decidedly inclined to the former ; for although 
 there is much laxity of principle among Irishmen, naturally to be ex- 
 pected from men whose moral state has been neglected by the legis- 
 lature, and deteriorated by political and religious asperity, acting upon 
 quick passions and badly regulated minds — yet we know that they 
 possess, after all, a strong but vague undirected sense of devotional 
 feeling and reverence, which are associated with great crimes and 
 awfully dark shades of character. This explains one chief cause of 
 the sympathy which is felt in Ireland for criminals from whom the 
 law exacts the fatal penalty of death ; and it also accounts, indepen- 
 dently of the existence of any illegal association, for the terrible retri- 
 bution inflicted upon those who come forward to prosecute them. It 
 IS not in Ireland with criminals as in other countries, where the 
 character of a murderer or incendiary is notoriously bad, as resulting 
 from a life of gradual profligacy and villainy. Far from it. In Ireland 
 you will find those crimes perpetrated by men who are good fathers, 
 good husbands, good sons, and good neighbours — by men who would 
 share their last morsel or their last shilling with a fellow-creature in 
 distress— who would generously lose their lives for a man who had 
 obliged them, provided he had not incurred their enmity — and who 
 would protect a defenceless stranger as far as lay in their power. 
 
 There are some mock oaths among Irishmen which must have had 
 their origin amongst those whose habits of thought were much mv* 
 
AN ESS A y ON IRISH SWEARING. 69 
 
 elevated than could be supposed to characterise the lower orders. 
 *•' By the powers of death " is never now used as we have writter. it ; 
 but the ludicrous travesty of it, " By the powdhers o' delf," is quite 
 common. Of this and other mock oaths it may be right to observe 
 that those who swear by them are in general ignorant of their proper 
 origin. There are some, however, of this description whose original 
 form is well known. One of these Paddy displays considerable in- 
 genuity in using. " By the cross " can scarcely be classed under the 
 mock oaths j but the manner in which it is pressed into asseverations 
 is amusing. When Paddy is affirming a truth he swears " by the 
 crass" simply, and this with him is an oath of considerable obliga- 
 tion. He generally, in order to render it more impressive, accom- 
 panies it with suitable action, that is, he places the forefinger of each 
 hand across, that he may assail you through two senses instead of one. 
 On the contrary, when he intends to hoax you by asserting what is 
 not true, he ingeniously multiplies the oath, and swears " by the five 
 Grasses," that is by his own five fingers, placing at the same time his 
 four fingers and his thumbs across each other in a most impressive 
 and vehement manner. Don't believe him then — the knave is lying 
 as fast as possible, and with no remorse. " By the crass o' Christ " is 
 an oath of much solemnity, and seldom used in a falsehood. Paddy 
 also often places two bits of straw across, and sometimes two sticks, 
 upon which he swears with an appearance of great heat and sin- 
 cerity — sed cave to . 
 
 Irishmen generally consider iron as a sacred metal. In the interior 
 of the country the thieves (but few in number) are frequently averse 
 to stealing it. Why it possesses this hold upon their affections it is 
 difficult to say, but it is certain that they rank it among their sacred 
 things ; consider that to find it is lucky, and nail it over their doors 
 when found in the convenient shape of a horse-shoe. It is also used 
 as a medium of asserting truth. We believe, however, that the sanc- 
 tion it imposes is not very strong. " By this blessed iron ! " — " By this 
 blessed an' holy iron ! " are oaths of an inferior grade ; but if the 
 circumstance on which they are founded be a matter of indifference, 
 they seldom depart from truth in using them. 
 
 We have said, in a former part of these " Traits and Stories," that 
 Paddy, when engaged in a fight, is never at a loss for a weapon, and 
 we may also affirm that he is never at a loss for an oath. When relating 
 a narrative, or some other circumstance of his own invention, if con- 
 tradicted, he will corroborate it, in order to sustain his credit or 
 produce the proper impression, by an abrupt oath upon the first object 
 he can seize. " Arrah, nonsense ! by this pipe in my hand, it's as 
 thrue as " — and then, before he completes the illustration, he goes on 
 with a fine specimen of equivocation — " By the stool I'm sittin' an, it 
 is J an' what more would you have from me, barrin' I take my book 
 oath of it.'' " Thus does he, under the mask of an insinuation, induce 
 you to believe that he has actually sworn it, whereas the oath is 
 always left undefined and incomplete. 
 
 Sometimes he is exceedingly comprehensive in his adjurations, and 
 
70 AN ESSA Y ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 swears upon a magnificent scale ; as, for instance — " By the contints 
 of all the books that ever wor opened an' shut, it's as thrue as the sun 
 to the dial." This certainly leaves " the five Grasses " immeasurably 
 behind. However, be cautious, and not too confident in taking so 
 sweeping and learned an oath upon trust, notwithstanding its imposing 
 effect. We grant, indeed, that an oath which comprehends within its 
 scope all the learned libraries of Europe, including even the Alexan- 
 drian of old, is not only an erudite one, but establishes in a high 
 degree the taste of the swearer, and displays on his part an uncomn on 
 grasp of intellect. Still we recommend you, whenever you hear an 
 alleged fact substantiated by it, to set your ear as sharply as possible ; 
 for, after all, it is more than probable that every book by which he has 
 sworn might be contained in a nutshell. The secret may be briefly 
 explained. Paddy is in the habit of substituting the word wever for 
 ever. " By all the books that «ever were opened or shut," the reader 
 perceives, is only a flourish of trumpets — a mere delusion of the 
 enemy. 
 
 In fact, Paddy has oaths rising gradually from the lying ludicrous 
 to the superstitious solemn, each of which finely illustrates the nature 
 of the subject to which it is applied. When he swears " by the con- 
 tints o' Moll Kelly's Primer," or, " by the piper that played afore 
 Moses," you are perhaps as strongly inclined to believe him as when 
 he draws upon a more serious oath ; that is, you almost regret the 
 thing is not the gospel that Paddy asserts it to be. In the former 
 sense, the humorous narrative which calls forth the laughable burlesque 
 of " By the piper o' Moses," is usually the richest lie in the whole 
 range of fiction. 
 
 Paddy is, in his ejaculatory, as well as in all his other mock oaths, 
 a kind of smuggler in morality, imposing as often as he can upon his 
 own conscience, and upon those who exercise spiritual authority over 
 him. Perhaps more of his oaths are blood-stained than would be 
 found among the inhabitants of all Christendom put together. 
 
 Paddy's oaths in his amours are generally rich specimens of humor- 
 ous knavery and cunning. It occasionally happens — but for the 
 honour of our virtuous countr^'women, we say but rarely — that by the 
 honey of his flattering and delusive tongue he succeeds in placing 
 some unsuspecting girl's reputation in rather a hazardous predicament. 
 When the priest comes to investigate the affair, and to cause him to 
 make compensation to the innocent creature who suffered by his 
 blandishments, it is almost uniformly ascertained that, in order to 
 satisfy her scruples as to the honesty of his promises, he had sworn 
 marriage to her <7« a (^^ci/i' of ballads 1 1 ! In other cases bla7ik books 
 have been used for the same purpose. 
 
 If, however, you wish to pin Paddy up in a corner, get him a relic, 
 a Catholic prayer-book, or a Douay Bible to swear upon. Here is 
 where the fox— notwithstanding all his turnings and windings upon 
 heretic Bibles, books of ballads, or mock oaths — is caught at last. 
 The strongest principle in him is superstition. It maybe found as the 
 prime mover in his best and worst actions. An atrocious man, wbo is 
 
AN ESS A Y ON IRISH SWEARING. 7 1 
 
 superstitious, will perform many good and charitable actions, with a 
 hope that their merit in the sight of God may cancel the guilt of his 
 crimes. On the other hand, a good man, who is superstitiously the 
 slave of his religious opinions, will lend himself to those illegal com- 
 binations whose object is, by keeping ready a system of organized 
 opposition to an heretical government, to fulfil, if a political crisis 
 should render it practicable, the absurd prophecies of Pastorini and 
 Columbkill. Although the prophecies of the former would appear to 
 be out of date to a rational reader, yet Paddy, who can see farther 
 into prophecy than any rational reader, honestly believes that Pastorini 
 has left, for those who are superstiti«usly given, sufficient range of 
 expectation in several parts of his work. 
 
 We might enumerate many other oaths in frequent use among the 
 peasantry ; but as our object is not to detail them at full length, we 
 trust that those already specified may be considered sufficient to 
 enable our readers to get a fuller insight into their character, and 
 their moral influence upon the people. 
 
 The next thing which occurs to us in connection with the present 
 subject is cursing; and here again Paddy holds the first place. His 
 imprecations are often full, bitter, and intense. Indeed, there is more 
 poetry and epigrammatic point in them than in those of any other 
 country in the world. 
 
 We find it a difficult thing to enumerate the Irish curses so as to 
 do justice to a subject so varied and so liable to be shifted and 
 improved by the fertile genius of those who send them abroad. 
 Indeed, to reduce them into order and method would be a task of 
 considerable difficulty. Every occasion, and every fit of passion, 
 frequently produce a new curse, perhaps equal in bitterness to any 
 that has gone before it. 
 
 Many of the Irish imprecations are difficult to be understood, 
 having their origin in some historical event, or in poetical metaphors 
 that require a considerable process of reasoning to explain them. Of 
 this two-fold class is that general one — " The curse of Cromwell on 
 you ! " which means, may you suff'er all that a tyrant like Cromwell 
 would inflict ! and " The curse o' the crows upon you ! " which is 
 probably an allusion to the Danish invasion — a raven being the 
 symbol of Denmark ; or it may be tantamount to " May you rot on 
 the hills, that the crows may feed upon your carcase ! " Perhaps it 
 may thus be understood to imprecate death upon you or some member 
 of your house — alluding to the superstition of rooks hovering over the 
 habitations of the sick, when the malady with which they are afflicted 
 is known to be fatal. Indeed, the latter must certainly be the meaning 
 of it, as is evident from the proverb of " Die, an' give the crow a 
 puddin'." 
 
 " Hell's cure to you ! — the devil's luck to you ! — high hanging to 
 you ! — hard feeding to you ! — a short coorse to you ! " are all pretty 
 intense, and generally used under provocation and passion. In these 
 cases the curses just mentioned are directed immediately to the 
 offensive object, and there certainly is no want of the mains animuj 
 
 VjNIVERSiTY 
 
 OF 
 
AN ESS A V ON IRISH SWEARING. 
 
 to give them energy. li would be easy to multiply the imprrxations 
 belonging to this class among the peasantry, but the task is rather 
 unpleasant. There are a few, however, which in consequence of their 
 ingenuity we cannot pass over : they are, in sooth, studies for the 
 swearer, " May you never die till you see your own funeral ! " is a 
 very beautiful specimen of the periphrasis : it simply means, may you 
 be hanged ; for he who is hanged is humorously said to be favoured 
 with a view of that sombre spectacle, by which they mean the crowd 
 that attends an execution. To the same purpose is " May you die 
 wid a caper in your heel ! " — " May you die in your pumps ! " — " May 
 your last dance be a hornpipe on the air ! "' These are all emblematic 
 of hanging, and are uttered sometimes in jest, and occasionally in 
 earnest. " May the grass grow before your door ! "' is highly imagina- 
 tive and poetical. Nothing, indeed, can present the mind with a 
 stronger or more picturesque emblem of desolation and ruin. Its 
 malignity is terrible. 
 
 There are also mock imprecations, as well as mock oaths. Of this 
 character are "The devil go with you and sixpence, an' thin you'll 
 want neither money nor company ! " This humorous and considerate 
 curse is generally confined to the female sex. When Paddy happens 
 to be in a romping mood, and teases his sweetheart too much, she 
 usually utters it with a countenance combating with smiles and frowns, 
 whilst she stands in the act of pinning up her dishevelled hair ; her 
 cheeks, particularly the one next Paddy, deepened into a becoming 
 blush. 
 
 " Bad scran to you ! " is another form seldom used in anger : it is 
 the same as "Hard feeding to you!" "Bad win' to you!" is "111 
 healt hto you I" it is nearly the same as " Consumin' (consumption) to 
 you ! " Two other imprecations come under this head, which we will 
 class together because they are counterparts of each other, with this 
 difference, that one of them is the most subtilely and intensely wither- 
 ing in its purport that can well be conceived. The one is that common 
 curse, " Bad 'cess to you ! " that is, bad success to you : we may 
 identify it with " Hard fortune to you ! " The other is a keen one indeed 
 — " Sweet bad look to you I " Now, whether we consider the epithet 
 sweet as bitterly ironical, or deem it as a wish that prosperity may 
 harden the heart to the accomplishment of future damnation, as in 
 the case of Dives, we must in either sense grant that it is an oath of 
 powerful hatred and venom. Occasionally the curse of "' Bad luck to 
 you ! " produces an admirable retort, which is pretty common. When 
 one man applies it to another, he is answered with " Good look to you 
 thin ; but may neiiher of thiin ever happen!" 
 
 " Six eggs to you, an' half-a-dozen o' thim rotten ! " like " The divil 
 go with you an' sixpence ! " is another of those pleasantries which 
 mostly occur in the good-humoured badinage between the sexes. It 
 implies disappointment. 
 
 There is a species of imprecation prevalent among Irishmen which 
 we may term neutral. It is ended by the word bit, and merely results 
 from a habit of swearing where there is no malignity of purpose. Ap 
 
AN ESSAY ON IRISH SlVEAHhYG. 73 
 
 Irishman, when corroborating an assertion, however true or false, will 
 often say, " Bad luck to the bit but it is ! " — " Divil fire the bit but it's 
 thruth!" — " Damn the bit but it is!" and so on. In this form the mind 
 is not moved, nor the passions excited ; it is therefore probabl*' the 
 most insipid of all their imprecations. 
 
 Some of the most dreadful maledictions are to be heard among the 
 confirmed mendicants of Ireland. The wit, the gall, and the poetry 
 of these are uncommon. " May you melt off the earth like snow off 
 the ditch ! " is one of a high order and intense malignity ; but it is 
 not exclusively confined to mendicants, although they form that class 
 among which it is most prevalent. Nearly related to this is " May 
 you melt like butther before a summer sun ! " These are, indeed, 
 essentially poetical : they present the mind with appropriate imagery, 
 and exhibit a comparison perfectly just and striking. The former we 
 think unrivalled. 
 
 Some of the Irish imprecations would appear to have come down to 
 us from the Ordeals. Of this class, probably, are the following : 
 " May this be poison to me ! " — " May I be roasted on red-hot iron ! " 
 Others of them, from their boldness of metaphor, seem to be of 
 Oriental descent. One expression, indeed, is strikingly so. When a 
 deep offence is offered to an Irishman, under such peculiar circum- 
 stances that he cannot immediately retaliate, he usually replies to his 
 enemy — "You'll sup sorrow for this!" — "You'll curse the day it 
 happened ! " — " I'll make you rub your heels together ! " All these 
 figurative denunciations are used for the purpose of intimating the 
 pain and agony he will compel his enemy to suffer. 
 
 We cannot omit a form of imprecation for good, which is also 
 habitual among the peasantry of Ireland. It is certainly harmless, 
 and argues benevolence of heart. We mean such expressions as the 
 following : " Salvation to me ! " — " May I never do harm !" — *' May I 
 never do an ill turn ! " — " May I never sin ! " These are generally used 
 by men who are blameless and peaceable in their lives — simple and 
 well-disposed in their intercourse with the world. 
 
 At the head of those Irish imprecations which are dreaded by the 
 people, the Excommunication, of course, holds the first and most for- 
 midable place. In the eyes of every man of sense it is as absurd as 
 it is wicked and contemptible; but to the ignorant and superstitious, 
 who look upon it as anything but a brtt'.uni fulmen, it is terrible 
 indeed. 
 
 Next in order are the curses of pilgrims, mendicants, and idiots. 
 Of those also Paddy entertains a wholesome dread : a circumstance 
 which the pilgrim and mendicant turn with great judgment to their 
 own account. Many a legend and anecdote do such chroniclers 
 relate, when the family with whom they rest for the night are all 
 seated around the winter hearth. These are often illustrative of the 
 baneful effects of the poor man's curse. Of course they produce a 
 proper impression ; and, accordingly, Paddy avoids offending such 
 persons in' any way that might bring him under their displeasure. 
 
 A certain class of curses much dreaded in Ireland are those of the 
 
74 AN ESSA V ON IKISH SWEARING. 
 
 widow and the orphan. There is, however, something touching and 
 beautiful in this fear of injuring the sorrowful and unprotected. It is, 
 we are happy to say, a becoming and prominent feature in Paddy's 
 character ; for, to do him justice in his virtues as well as in his vices, 
 we repeat that he cannot be surpassed in his humanity to the lonely 
 widow and her helpless orphans. He will collect a number of his 
 friends, and proceed with them in a body to plant her bit of potato 
 ground, to reap her oats, to draw home her turf, or secure her hay. 
 Nay, he will beguile her of her sorrows with a natural sjinpathy and 
 delicacy that do him honour ; his heart is open to her complaints, 
 and his hand ever extended to assist her. 
 
 There is a strange opinion to be found in Ireland upon the subject 
 of curses. The peasantry think that a curse, no matter how uttered, 
 will fall on so7nething, but that it depends upon the person against 
 whom it is directed whether or not it will descend on him. A curse, 
 we have heard them say, will rest for seven years in the air, ready to 
 alight upon the head of the person who provoked the malediction. It 
 hovers over him, like a kite over its prey, watching the moment when 
 he may be abandoned by his guardian angel ; if this occurs, it shoots 
 with the rapidity of a meteor on his head, and clings to him in the 
 shape of illness, temptation, or some other calamity. 
 
 They think, however, that the blessing of one person may cancel 
 the curse of another ; but this opinion does not affect the theory we 
 have just mentioned. When a man experiences an unpleasant accident 
 they will say, "He has had some poor body's curse ; " and, on the con- 
 trarv. when he narrowly escapes it, they say, " He has had some poor 
 body's blessing." 
 
 There is no country in which the phrases of good-will and affection 
 are so strong as in Ireland. The Irish language actually flows with 
 the milk and honey of love and friendship. Sweet and palatable is it 
 to the other sex, and sweetly can Paddy, with his deluding ways, 
 administer it to them from the top of his mellifluous tongue, as a dove 
 feeds her young, or as a kind mother her babe, shaping with her own 
 pretty mouth every morsel of the delicate viands before it goes into 
 that of the infant. In this manner does Paddy, seated behind a ditch, 
 of a bright Sunday, when he ought to be at mass, feed up some 
 innocent girl, not with " f<ilse music," but with sweet words, for nothing 
 more musical or melting than his brogue ever dissolved a female 
 heart. Indeed, it is of the danger to be apprehended from the melody 
 of his voice that the admirable and appropriate proverb speaks ; for 
 when he addresses his sweetheart under circumstances that justify 
 suspicion, it is generally said, " Paddy's feedin' her up wid false 
 music." 
 
 What language has a phrase equal in beauty and tenderness to 
 cushla ma chree — the pulse of 7ny heart? Can it be paralleled in the 
 whole range of all that are, ever were, or ever will be spoken, lor 
 music, sweetness, and a knowledge of anatomy ? If Paddy is unrivalled 
 at swearing, he fairly throws the world behind him at the blarney. In 
 professing friendship, and making love, give him but a taste of the 
 
AN ESS A V ON IRISH SWEARING. 75 
 
 r~ative, and he is a walking honeycomb, that every woman who sees 
 him wishes to have a lick at ; and heaven knows that frequently, at 
 all times, and in all places, does he get himself licked on their 
 account. 
 
 Another expression of peculiar force is vick viachree — or, son of my 
 heart. This is not only elegant, but affectionate beyoi d almost any 
 other phrase except the foregoing. It is, in a sense somewhat different 
 from that in which the philosophical poet has used it, a beautiful 
 comment upon the sentiment of "the child's the father of the man," 
 uttered by the great, we might almost say the glorious, Wordsworth. 
 
 We have seen many a youth, on more occasions than one, standing 
 in profound affliction over the dead body of his aged father, exclaim- 
 ing, ''^ Ahir, vick machree — vick machr-ee — wtiil tint viarra "wo'um? 
 VVuil thu marra wd'um'i Father, son of my heart, son of my heart, 
 art thou dead from me — art thou dead from me ? " An expression, we 
 think, under any circumstances, not to be surpassed in the intensity of 
 domestic affliction which it expresses : but under those alluded to, we 
 consider it altogether elevated in exquisite and poetic beauty above the 
 most powerful symbols of Oriental imagery. 
 
 A third phrase peculiar to love and affection is "Manim astJiee Im^ 
 — or, " My soul's within you." Every person acquainted with lan- 
 guages knows how much an idiom suffers by a literal translation. 
 How beautiful, then, how tender and powerful, must those short ex- 
 pressions be, uttered, too, with a fervour of manner peculiar to a 
 deeply-feeling people, when, even after a literal translation, they carry 
 so much of their tenderness and energy into a language whose genius 
 is cold when compared to the glowing beauty of the Irish. 
 
 Mavojirneen dheclish, too, is only a short phrase, but coming warm 
 and mellowed from Paddy's lips into the ear of his colleen dhas, it is 
 a perfect spell — a sweet murmur to which the leiiis sitsurriis of the 
 Hybla bees is, with all their honey, jarring discord. How tame is 
 " My sweet darling," its literal translation, compared to its soft and 
 lulling intonations. There is a dissolving, entrancing, beguiling, 
 deluding, flattering, insinuating, coaxing, winning, inveigling, roguish, 
 palavering, come-over-ing, comedhering, consenting, blarneying, kill- 
 ing, willing, charm in it, worth all the philtres that ever the gross 
 knavery of a withered alchymist imposed upon the credulity of those 
 who inhabit the other nations of the earth — for we don't read that 
 these shrivelled philtre-mongers ever prospered in Ireland. 
 
 No, no — let Paddy alone. If he hates intensely, effectually, and 
 tnqiiestingly, he loves intensely, comprehensively, and gallantly. To 
 love with power is a proof of a large soul, and to hate well is, accord- 
 ing to the great moralist, a thing in itself to be loved. Ireland is, 
 therefore, through all its sects, parties, and religions, an amicable 
 nation. Their affections are, indeed, so vivid that they scruple not to 
 kill each other with kindness : and we very much fear that the march 
 of love and murder will not ©nly keep pace with, but outstrip the 
 inarch of intellect. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 NE day about the middle of November in the year i8 — , 
 Dominick M'Evoy and his son Jemmy were digging potatoes 
 on the side of a hard, barren hill, called Esker Dhu. The 
 day was bitter and wintry, the men were thinly clad, and as the keen 
 blast swept across the hill with considerable violence, the sleet-like 
 rain which it bore along pelted into their garments with pitiless 
 severity. The father had advanced into more than middle age ; and 
 having held, at a rack-rent, the miserable waste of farm wViich he 
 occupied, he was compelled to exert himself in its cultivation despite 
 either obduracy of soil or inclemency of weather. This day, however, 
 was so unusually severe that the old man began to feel incapable of 
 continuing his toil. The son bore it better ; but whenever a cold 
 rush of stormy rain came over them, both were compelled to stand 
 with their sides against it, and their heads turned, so as that the ear 
 almost rested back upon the shoulder, in order to throw the rain off 
 their faces. Of each, however, that cheek which was exposed to the 
 rain and storm was beaten into a red hue, whilst the other part of their 
 faces was both pale and hunger-pinched. 
 
 The father paused to take breath, and, supported by his spade, 
 looked down upon the sheltered inland, which, inhabited chiefly by 
 Protestants and Presbyterians, lay rich and warm-looking under him. 
 
 " Why, thin," he exclaimed to the son, a lad about fifteen, " sure I 
 know well I oughtn't to curse yees, anyway, you black set ; and yit, 
 the Lord forgive me my sins, I'm almost timpted to give yees a volley, 
 an' that from my heart out ! -Look at thim, Jimmy agra — only look at 
 the black thieves ! how warm an' wealthy they sit there in our own 
 ould possessions, an' here we must toil, till our fingers are worn to 
 _the stumps, upon this thievin' bent. The curse of Cromwell on it ! 
 You might as well ax the divil for a blessin' as expect anything like a 
 dacent crop out of it. Look at thim two ridges ! — such a poor sthring 
 o' praties is in it ! — one here and one there — and yit we must turn up 
 the whole ridge for that same ! Well, God sind the time soon whin 
 the right will take place, Jimmy agra ! " 
 
 " An' doesn't Pasthorini say it ! Sure, whin Twenty-five comes, 
 iveUl have our own agin: the right will overcome the might — the 
 bottomless pit will be locked — ay, double boulted, if St. Pether gets 
 the kays, for he's the very boy that will accommodate the heretics wid 
 a warm corner ; an' yit, faith, there's many o' thim that myself ud put 
 in a good word for, afther all." 
 
 " Throth, an' here's the same, Jimmy. There's Jack Stuart, an' if 
 there's a cool corner in hell, the same Jack will get it — an' that he may 
 1 pray Gor this day, an' amin ! The Lord sind it to him ! for he 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 77 
 
 richly desarves it. Kind, neighbourly, and frindly is he an' all 
 belongin' to him ; an' I wouldn't be where a hard word ud be spoken 
 of him, nor a dog in connection wid the family ill thrated ; for which 
 rason may he get a cool corner in hell, I humbly sufflicate." 
 
 " What do you think of Jack Taylor ? Will he be cosy ? " 
 
 ** Throth I doubt so — a blessed youth is Jack ; yit I myself ud 
 hardly wish it. He's a heerum-skeerum, divil-may-care fellow, no - 
 doubt of it, an' laughs at the priests, which same, I'm thinkin', will get 
 him below stairs more nor a. new-milk heat, anyway ; but thin, agin, 
 he thrates thim dacent, an' gives thim good dinners, and they take 
 all his rolliken in good part, so that it's likely he's not in arnest in it, 
 an' surely they ought to know best, Jimmy." 
 
 " What do you think of Yallow Sam ? — honest Sam, that they say 
 was born widout a heart, an' carries the b/ack wool in his ears, to keep 
 out the cries of the widows an' the orphans that are long rotten in 
 their graves through his villainy.? — He'll get a snug berth ! " ^ 
 
 " Yallow Satn" replied the old man, slowly, and a dark shade of 
 intense hatred blackened his weather-beaten countenance as he looked 
 in the direction from which the storm blew : " 'twas he left us where 
 we're standin', Jimmy — undher this blast, that's cowldher an' bittherer 
 nor a stepmother's breath this cuttin' day ? 'Twas he turned us on 
 the wide world whin your poor mother was risin' out of her faver. 
 'Twas he squenched the hearth whin she wasn't able to lave the 
 house, till I carried her in my arms into Paddy Cassidy's — the tears 
 fallin' from my eyes upon her face that I loved next to God. Didn't 
 he give our farm to a purple Orangeman ? Out we went to the winds 
 an' skies of heaven, bekase the rich bodagh made interest aginst us. 
 I tould him whin he chated me out o' my fifteen goolden guineas that 
 his masther, the landlord, should hear of it ; but I could never get 
 next or near him to make my complaint ? Eh .-' — a snug berth ! I'm 
 only afeard that hell has no corner hot enough for him — but lave that 
 to the divil himself: if he doesn't give him the best thratement that 
 hell can afford, why I'm not here." 
 
 " Divil a one o' the ould boy's so bad as they say, father ; he gives 
 it to thim hot an' heavy, at all evints." 
 
 " Why, even if he was at a loss about Sam, depind upon it he'd gel 
 a hint from his betthers above that ud be sarviceable." 
 
 " They say he visits him as it is, and that Sam can't sleep widout 
 someone in the room wid him. Dan Phihps says the priest was 
 there, an' had a mass in every room in the house ; but Charley Mack 
 tells me there's no thruth in it. He was advised to it, he says ; but it 
 seems the ould ooy has too strong a hoult of him, for Sam said he'd 
 have the divil any time sooner nor the priest, and it's likest what he 
 would say." 
 
 " Och, och, Jimmy, avick, I'm tir'd our ! We had betther give in ; 
 
 > This was actually said of the person alluded to — a celebrated usurer and ag'jnt 
 to two or three estates, who was a little deaf, and had his ears >ccsisionaIly stuffed 
 with black wool. 
 
78 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 the day's too hard, an' there's no use in standin' agin the weather ihaf s 
 in it. Lave the ould villain to God, who he can't chate, anyway." 
 
 " Well, may our curse go along wid the rest upon him, for dhrivin' 
 as to sich an unnatural spot as this ! Hot an' heavy, into the sowl an' 
 marrow of him may it penethrate ! An' sure that's no more than all 
 the counthry's wishin' him, whether or not — not to mintion the curses 
 that's risin' out o' the grave agin him, loud an' piercin' ! " 
 
 " God knows it's not slavin' yourself on such a day as this _)'<?«'</ be, 
 only for him. Had we kep our farm, you'd be now well an in your 
 larnin' for a priest — an' there ud be one o' the family sure to be a gin- 
 tleman, anyhow ; but that's gone too, agra. Look at the smoke, how 
 comfortably it rises from Jack Sullivan's, where the priest has a station 
 to-day, 'Tisn't fishin' for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this. 
 But it can't be helped ; an' God's will be done ! Not himself! — faix, 
 it's he that'll get the height of good thratement, an' can ride home, 
 well lined, both inside an' outside. Much good may it do him ! — 'tis 
 but his right." 
 
 The lad now paused in his turn, looked down on Jack Sullivan's 
 comfortable house, sheltered by a clump of trees, and certainly saw 
 such a smoke tossed up from the chimney as gave unequivocal 
 evidence of preparation for a good dinner. He next looked " behind 
 the wind," with a visage made more blank and measure by the contrast ; 
 after which he reflected for a few minutes, as if working up his mind to 
 some sudden determination. The deliberation, however, was short : 
 he struck his open hand upon the head of the spade with much ani- 
 mation, and instantly took it in both hands, exclaiming : 
 
 " Here, father, here goes ; to the divil once an' for ever I pitch 
 slavery,"^ and as he spoke, the spade was sent as far from him as he 
 bad strength to throw it. " To the divil I pitch slavery ! An' now, 
 father, wid the help o' God, this is the last day's work I'll ever put my 
 hand to. There's no way of larnin' Latin here ; but off to Munster I'll 
 start, an' my face you'll never see in this parish till I come home a 
 priest an' a gintleman ! But that's not all, father dear ; I'll rise you 
 out of your distress, or die in the struggle. I can't bear to see your 
 grey hairs in sorrow and poverty." 
 
 " Well, Jimmy — well, agra — God enable you,avourneen ; 'tis a good 
 intintion. The divil a one o' me will turn another spadeful aither, for 
 this day : I'm dhrookbC- wid the rain. We'll go home an' take an air 
 o' the fire — we want it ; and aftherwards we can talk about what you're 
 07i'^ for." 
 
 It is usual to attribute to the English and Scotch character, exclu- 
 sively, a cool and persevering energy in the pursuit of such objects as 
 inclination or interest may propose for attainment ; whilst Irishmen 
 are considered too much the creatures of impulse to reach a point that 
 requires coolness, condensation of thought, and efforts successively 
 repeated. This is a mistake. It is the opinion of Englishmen and 
 Scotchmen who know not the Irish character thoroughly. The fact 
 
 « Toil, labour. * Dripping, very wet. ' Determ-aed cu. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 79 
 
 is, that in the attainment of an object, where a sad-faced Englishman 
 would despair, an Irishman will, probably, laugh, drink, weep and - 
 fight during his progress to accomplish it. A Scotchman will miss it, 
 perhaps, but, having done all that could be done, he will try another 
 speculation. The Irishman may miss it, too ; but to console himself 
 he would break the head of any man who may have impeded him in 
 his efforts, as a proof that he ought to have succeeded ; or if he 
 cannot manage that point, he will crack the pate of the first man he 
 meets, or he will get drunk, or he will marry a wife, or burn a house, 
 or hamstring a neighbour's cow, or cut the throat of a proctor, or swear 
 a gauger never to show his face in that quarter again, or he will 
 exclaim, if it be concerning a farm, with a countenance full of simpli- 
 city — " God bless your honour, long life and honour to you, sir ! Sure 
 an' 'twas but a thrifle, anyhow, that your reverence will make up for 
 me another time. An' 'tis well I know your lordship ud be the last 
 man on airth to give me the cowld shoulder, so you would, an' I an 
 ould residenthur on your own father's estate, the Lord be praised for 
 that same ! An' 'tis a happiness, an' nothin' else, so it is, even if I 
 paid double rint — wherein, maybe, I'm not a day's journey from that 
 same, manin' the double rint, yer honour ; only that one would do a 
 great deal for the honour an' glory of livin' undher a raal gintleman — 
 an' that's but rason." 
 
 There is, in short, a far-sightedness in an Irishman which is not/ 
 properly understood, because it is difficult to understand it. I do not -v ^^ 
 think there is a nation on earth, whose inhabitants mix up their ^^^^^ . 
 interest and their feelings together more happily, shrewdly, and yet V 
 less ostensibly, than Irishmen contrive to do. An Irishman will make 
 you laugh at his joke, while the object of that joke is wrapped up from 
 you in the profoundest mystery, and you will consequently make the 
 concession to a certain point of his character, which has been really 
 obtained by a faculty you had not penetration to discover, or, rather, 
 which he had too much sagacity to exhibit. Of course, as soon as 
 your back is turned, the broad grin is on him, and one of his cheeks 
 is stuck out two inches beyond the other, because his tongue is in it — 
 at your stupidity, simplicity, or folly. Of all the characters of all the 
 people of all nations on this habitable globe, I verily believe that that 
 of the Irish is the most profound and unfathomable, and the most 
 difficult on which to form a system, either social, moral, or religious. 
 The only power equal to grapple with it is that of the Church of 
 Rome, and certainly that lays Paddy in the dust ; there he is over- 
 reached, and bamjned, and blarnied, and made to knock under. 
 
 It would be difficult, for example, to produce a more signal instance 
 of energy, system, and perseverance than that exhibited in Ireland 
 during the struggle for Emancipation. Was there not flattery to the 
 dust ? blarney to the eyes } heads broken ? throats cut .'' houses 
 burned ? and cattle houghed ? And why ? Was it for the tnere 
 pleasure of blarney — of breaking heads (I won't dispute the last point, 
 though, because I scorn to give up the glory of the national character,) 
 —of cutting throats — burning houses — or houghing cattle ? No; but 
 
8o THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 to secure Emancipation. In attaining that object was exemplified the 
 Irish method of gaining a point. 
 
 " Yes," said Jemmy, " to the divil I pitch slavery ! I will come 
 home able to rise yees from your poverty, or never show my face in the 
 parish of Ballysogarth agin." 
 
 When the lad's determination was mentioned to his mother and the 
 family, there was a loud and serious outcry against it ; for no circum- 
 stance is relished that ever takes away a member from an Irish hearth, 
 no matter what the nature of that circumstance may be. 
 
 " Och, thin, is it for that bocauii^ of a boy to set off wid himself, 
 runnin' through the wide world afther larnin', widout money or friends? 
 Avourneen, put it out of yer head. No ; struggle on as the rest of us 
 is doin', and maybe ye'U come as well off at the long run." 
 
 " Mother, dear," said the son, " I wouldn't wish to go agin what 
 you'd say ; but I made a promise to myself to rise yees out of your 
 poverty if I can, an' my mind's made up on it ; so don't cross me, or 
 be the manes of my havin' bad luck on my journey, in regard of me 
 ^oin' aginst yer will, when you know 'twould be the last thing I'd wish 
 to do." 
 
 " Let the gossoon take his way. Vara. Who knows but it was the 
 Almighty put the thoughts of it into his head. Pasthorini says that 
 there will soon be a change, an' 'tis a good skame it'll be to have him 
 a sogarth when the fat livins will be walkin' back to their ould 
 owners." 
 
 " Oh, an' may the Man above grant that, I pray Jamini this day! 
 for aren't we harrislied out of our lives, scrapin' an' scramblin' for the 
 black thieves what we ought to put on our backs, an' into our own 
 mouths. Well, they say it's not lucky to take money from a priest, 
 because it's the price o' sin, an' no more it can, seein' that they want 
 it themselves ; but I'm sure it's their - money that ought to carry the 
 bad luck to them, in regard of their gettin' so many bitther curses 
 along wid it." 
 
 When a lad from the humblest classes resolves to go to Munster as 
 a poor scholar, there is but one course to be pursued in preparing his 
 outfit. This is by a collection at the chapel among the parishioners, 
 to whom the matter is made known by the priest, from the altar, some 
 Sunday previous to his departure. Accordingly, w^hen the family had 
 all givei their consent to Jemmy's project, his father went, on the 
 followiHg day, to communicate the matter to the priest, and to solicit 
 his co-operation in '• ciuesting," or making a collection in behalf of the 
 lad, on the next Sunday but one ; for there is always a week's notice 
 given, and sometimes more, that the people may come prepared. 
 
 The conversation already detailed between father and son took 
 place on Friday, and on Saturday, a day on which the priest never 
 holds a station, and, of course, is generally at home, Dominick M'Evoy 
 went to his house with the object already specified in view. The 
 priest was at home ; a truly benevolent man, but like the wor^hie^ of 
 
 > Soft, innocent person. * The Protestant clergy 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 his aay, not overwhelmed with learning, though brimful of kindness 
 and hospitality mixed up with drollery and simple cunning. 
 
 " Good morrow, Dominick," said the priest, as Dominick entered. 
 
 " Good morrow kindly, sir," replied Dominick. " I hope your rever- 
 ence is well, and in good health." 
 
 "Throth I am, Dominick. I hope there's nothing wrong at home ; 
 how is the wife and childhre "^ " 
 
 " I humbly thank your reverence for aixin'. Throth there's no 
 rason for complainin' in regard o' the health ; sarra one o' them but's 
 bravely, consitherin' all things : I blieve I'm the worst o' them myself. 
 yer reverence. I'm gettin' ould, you see, an' stiff, an' wake ; but 
 that's only in the coorse o' nathur ; a man can't last always. Wait 
 till them that's young an' hearty now harrows as much as I ploughed 
 in my day, an' they won't have much to brag of. Why, thin, but 
 yer reverence stands it bravely — faix, wondherfully itself — the Lord 
 be praised ! an' it warms my own heart to see you look so well." 
 
 "Thank you, Dominick. Indeed, my health, God be thanked, is 
 very good. EUish," he added, calling to an old female servant — 
 " you'll take a glass, Dominick, the day is cowldish — EUish, here, take 
 the kay, and get some spirits — the poteen, Ellish — to the right hand 
 in the cupboard. Indeed, my health is very good, Dominick. Father 
 Murray says he invies me my appetite, an' 1 tell him he's guilty of 
 one of the seven deadly sins." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — Faix, an' invy is one o' them sure enough ; but a 
 joke is a joke in the manetime. A pleasant gintleman is the same 
 Father Murray, but yer reverence is too deep for him in the jokin' 
 line, for all that. Ethen, sir, but it's you that gave ould Cokely the 
 keen cut about his religion — ha, ha, ha ! Myself laughed till I was 
 sick for two days afther it — the ould thief ! " 
 
 " Eh ? — Did you hear that, Dominick ? Are you sure that's the 
 poteen, Ellish ? Ay, an' the best of it all was that his pathrun, Lord 
 Foxhunter, was present. Come, Dominick, try that — it never seen 
 wather. But the best of it all was — 
 
 " ' Well, Father Kavanagh,' said he, * who put you into the 
 Church ? Now,' said he, ' you'll come over me wid your regular suc- 
 cession from St. Peter, but I won't allow that.' 
 
 "'Why, Mr. Cokely,' says I back to him, ' I'll give up the succes- 
 sion,' says I, 'and what is more, I'll grant xS\^\.you have been called 
 by the Lord, and that / have tiot j but the Lord that called you,' says 
 I, ' was Lord Foxhunter .' Man, you'd tie his Lordship w/^a cobweb, 
 he laughed so heartily. 
 
 " ' Bravo, Father Kavanagh,' said he. * Cokely, you're bate^ said 
 he ; * and upon my honour, you must both dine with me to-day,' says 
 he — and capital claret he keeps." 
 
 " Your health. Father Kavanagh, an' God spare you to us ! Hah ! 
 wather! Oh, the divil a taste itself did the same stuff j-^^. Why, 
 (hin, I think your reverence an' me's about an age. I bleeve I'm a 
 thrifle ouldher ; but I don't bear it so well as you do. The family, 
 you see, ao i the childhre, an' the cares o' the world, pull me down ; 
 
S2 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 throth, the same family's a throuble to me. I wish I had them all 
 settled safe, anyway." 
 
 "What do you intend to do wid them, Dominick?" 
 
 " In throth, that's what brought me to yer reverence. I've one boy 
 — Jimmy — a smart chap entirely, an' he has taken it into his head 
 to go as a poor scholar to Munster. He's fond o' the larnin', there's 
 not a doubt o' that, and small blame to him, to be sure ; b it then, 
 again, what can I do? He's bint on goin', an' I'm not alale to help 
 him, poor fellow, in any shape ; so I made bould to see yer reverence 
 about it, in hopes that you might be able to plan out something for him 
 more betther nor I could do. I have the good wishes of the neighbours, 
 and indeed of the whole parish, let the thing go as it may." 
 
 " I know that, Dommick, and for the same rason we'll have a 
 ' Quest' ^ at the three althars. I'll mintion it to thera after mass to- 
 morrow, and let them be prepared for Sunday week, when you can 
 make the collection. Hut, man, never fear ; we'll get as much as will 
 send him half-way to the priesthood ; and I'll tell you what, Dominick, 
 I'll never be the man to refuse giving him a couple of guineas 
 myself." 
 
 " May the heavenly Father bless an' keep your reverence. I'm sure 
 'tis a good right the boy has, as well as all of us, to never forget your 
 kindness. But as to the money — he'll be proud of your assistance the 
 other way, sir — so not a penny — 'tis only your good-will we want — hem 
 — except, indeed, that you'd wish yourself to make a piece of kindness 
 of it to the poor boy. Oh, not a drop more, sir — I declare it'll be apt 
 to get into my head. Well, well — sure an' we're not to disobey our 
 clargy, whether or not : so here's your health over agin, your rever- 
 ence ! an' success to the poor child that's bint on good ! " 
 
 " Two guineas his reverence is to give you from himself, Jimmy,"* 
 said the father, on relating the success of this interview with the 
 priest ; " an' faix, I was widin one of refusin' it, for feard it might 
 bring something unlucky^ wid it : but, thought I, on the spur, it's best 
 to take it, anyway. We can asily put it off on some o' these black- 
 mouthed Presbytarians or Orangemen, by way of changin' it, an' if 
 there's any hard fortune in it, let them have the full benefit of it, ersht 
 7nisha." ^ 
 
 It is by trifles of this nature that the invincible and enduring 
 hatred with which the religious sects of Ireland detest those of a 
 different creed is best known. This feeling, however, is sufficiently 
 mutual. Yet on both sides there is something more speculative than 
 practical in its nature. When they speak of each other as a distinct 
 class, the animosity, though abstracted, appears to be most deep ; but 
 when they mingle in the necessary intercourse of life, it is curious to 
 see them frequa itly descend, on both sides, from the general rule to 
 
 ' A charitable collection. 
 
 • There is a superstitious belief in some parts of Ireland that priest's money i» 
 unlucky ; " because," say the people, "it Is the price of sin " — alluding to absolu' 
 tion. 
 
 » Say I. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ^■>, 
 
 those exceptions of good-will and kindnc ts which natural benevolence 
 and mutual obligation, together with a correct knowledge of each 
 other's real characters, frequently produce. This abstracted hatred 
 has been generally the curse of our unhappy country ; it has kept us 
 too much asunder, or, when we met, exhibited us to each other in our 
 darkest and most irritating aspects. 
 
 Dominick's conduct in the matter of the priest's money was also a 
 happy illustration of that mixture of simplicity and shrewdness with 
 which an Irishman can frequently make points meet, which super- 
 stition alone, without ingenuity, would keep separate for ever. Many 
 another man might have refused the money from an ignorant dread of 
 its proving unlucky j but his mode of reasoning on the subject was 
 satisfactory to himself, and certainly the most ingenious which, 
 according to his belief, he could have adopted. 
 
 The eloquence of a country priest, though ruae, and by no means 
 elevated, is sometimes well adapted to the end in view, to the feelings 
 of his auditory, and to the nature of the subject on which he speaks. 
 Pathos and humour are the two levers by which the Irish character is 
 raised or depressed ; and these are blended in a manner toj anomalous 
 to be ever properly described. Whoever could be present at a sermon 
 on the Sunday when a Purgatorian Society is to be established would 
 hear pathos and see grief of the first water. It is then he would get 
 a " nate " and glowing description of Purgatory, and see the broad, 
 humorous Milesian faces of three or four thousand persons of both 
 sexes shaped into an expression of the most grotesque and clamorous 
 grief. The priest, however, on particular occasions of this nature, very 
 shrewdly gives notice of the sermon, and of the purpose for which it is 
 to be preached : if it be grave, the people are prepared to cry ; but if 
 it be for a political or any other purpose not decidedly religious, there 
 will be abundance of that rough, blunt satire and mirth so keenly 
 relished by the peasantry, illustrated, too, by the most comical and 
 ridiculous allusions. That priest, indeed, who is the best master of 
 this latter faculty is uniformly the greatest favourite. It is no unfre- 
 quent thing to see the majority of an Irish congregation drowned in 
 sorrow and tears, even when they are utterly ignorant of the language 
 spoken ; particularly in those districts where the Irish is still the 
 vernacular tongue. This is what renders notice of the sermon and its 
 purport necessary ; otherwise the honest people might be seriously 
 at a loss whether to laugh or cry. 
 
 " Eilish, avourneen, gho dhe dirsha ? — EUish, my dear, what is he 
 saying ? " 
 
 " Och, niusha niel eshightan, ahagur — ta sJia er Purgathor, ta 
 barlhum.— Och., I dunna that, jewel ; I blieve he's on Purgatory." 
 
 " Och, och, oh — och, och, oh — oh, i, oh, i, oh J" 
 
 And on understanding that Purgatory is the subject, they commence 
 their grief with a rocking motion, wringing their hands, and uncon- 
 sciously passing their beads through their fingers, whilst their bodies 
 are bent forward towards the earth. 
 
 On the contrary', when the priest gets jocular — wLich I should have 
 
S4 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 premised he never does in what is announced as a solemn sermon — 
 you might observe several faces, charged with mirth and laughter, 
 turned, even while beaming with this expression, to those who kneel 
 beside them, inquiring : 
 
 " Arrah, Barny, what is it — ha, ha, ha ! — what is it he's sayin' ? 
 The Lord spare him among us, anyhow, the darlin' of a man ! Eh, 
 Barny, you that's in the inside o' the English ? " 
 
 Barny, however, is generally too much absorbed in the fun to be- 
 come interpreter just then : but as soon as the joke is nearly heard out, 
 in compliance with the importunity of his neighbours, he gives them a 
 brief hint or two, and instantly the full chorus is rung out, long, loud, 
 and jocular. 
 
 On the Sunday in question, as the subject could not be called strictly 
 religious, the priest, who knew that a joke or two would bring in many 
 an additional crown to Jimmy's caiibeen, was determined that they 
 should at least have a laugh for their money. The man, besides, was 
 benevolent, and knew the way to the Irish heart : a knowledge which 
 he felt happy in turning to the benefit of the lad in question. 
 
 With this object in view, he addressed the people somewhat in the 
 following language : — 
 
 " Blessed is he that giveth his money to him that standeth in need 
 of it. 
 
 " These words, my brethren, are taken from St. Paul, who, among 
 ourselves, knew the value of a friend in distress as well as any other 
 apostle in the three kingdoms — hem. It's a nate text, my friends, any- 
 how. He manes, however, when we have it to give, my own true, well- 
 tried ould friends ! — when we have it to give. Its absence althers the 
 case in toto ; because you have all heard the proverb — ' There is no 
 takin' money out of an empty purse ; ' or, as an ould ancient author 
 said long ago upon the same subject : 
 
 " ' Cantabit whackuus coram lathrone whiathur 1 ' 
 
 — (Dshk, dshk, dshk^ — that's the larnin' !) — He that carries an empty 
 purse may whistle at the thief. It's sino in the Latin ; but sing or 
 whistle, in my opinion, he that goes wid an empty purse seldom sings 
 or whistles to a pleasant tune. Melancholy music I'd call it, an' 
 wouldn't, maybe, much astray afther. — Hem. At all evints, may none 
 of this present congregation, whin at their devotions, ever sing or 
 whistle to the same tune ! No ; let it be to ' money in both pockets,' 
 if you sing at all ; and as long as you have that, never fear but you'll 
 also have the 'priest in his boots ' into the bargain — [Ha, ha, ha ! — 
 God bless him, isn't he the pleasant gintleman, all out — ha, ha, ha ! 
 — moreover, an' by the same a token, it's thrue as Gospel, so it is.] — 
 for well I know that you're the high-spirited people, who wouldn't see 
 --your priest without them, while a fat parson, with half a dozen chins 
 upon him, red and rosy, goes about every day in the week bogged in 
 boots, like a horse trooper ! — [Ha, ha, ha ! — good, Father Dan ! More 
 
 • This sound, which expresses wonder, is produced by sTiking the tip of thi 
 tongue against the palate. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 85 
 
 power to you — ha, ha, ha ! We're the boys that wouldn't seen you in 
 want o' them, sure enough. Isn't he the droll crathur ?] 
 
 " But suppose a man hasn't money, what is he to do ? Now this 
 divides itself into what is called Hydrostatics an' Metaphysics and 
 must be proved logically in the following manner : — 
 
 " First, we suppose him not to have the money — there I ma) be 
 wrong or I may be right ; now for the illustration and the logic. 
 
 " Pether Donovan." 
 
 " Here, your reverence " 
 
 " Now, Pether, if I suppose you to have no money, am I right, or am 
 I wrong .'"' 
 
 " Why, thin, I'd be sarry to prove your reverence to be wrong, so I 
 would ; but for all that, I believe I must give it aginst you." 
 
 " How much have you got, Pether?" 
 
 " Ethen, but 'tis yer reverence that's comin' close upon me : two 
 or three small notes an' some silver." 
 
 " How much silver, Pether?" 
 
 " I'll tell your reverence in a jiffy. I ought to have a ten shillin', 
 barrin' the price of a quarther o' tobaccy that I bought at the crass- 
 roads beyant. Nine shillins an' some hapuns, yer reverence." 
 
 " Very good, Pether, you must hand me the silver, till I give the rest 
 of the illustration wid it." 
 
 " But does yer reverence mind another ould proverb ? — * A fool an' 
 his money's asy parted.' Sure an' I know you're goin' to do a joke 
 upon me." 
 
 (" Give him the money, Pether," from a hundred voices — " give his 
 reverence the money, you nager, you — give him the silver, you dirty 
 spalpeen, you — hand it out, you misert.") 
 
 "■ Pether, if you don't give it dacently, I'll not take it ; and in that 
 case " 
 
 " Here, here, your reverence — here it is : sure I wouldn't have your 
 ill-will for all I'm worth." 
 
 " Why, you nager, if I wasn't the first orathor livin', barrin' Cicero or 
 Demosthenes himself, I couldn't schrew a penny out 0' you ! Now, 
 Pether, there's a specimen of logic for you ; an' if it wasn't good, depind 
 upon it the money would be in your pocket still. I've never known 
 you to give a penny for any charitable purpose since ever I saw your 
 face : but I'm doin' a good action in your behalf for once ; so if you 
 have any movin' words to say to the money in question, say them, for 
 you'll never finger it more." 
 
 A burst of the most uproarious mirth followed this manoeuvre, in 
 which the simple priest joined heartily ; whilst the melancholy of 
 Peter's face was ludicrously contrasted with the glee which character- 
 ised those that surrounded him. 
 
 " Hem ! — Secondly. — A man, you see, may have money, or he may 
 not, when his fellow-creature who stands in need of it makes an appale 
 to his dacency and his feelings ; and sorry I'd be to think that there's 
 a man before me, or woman either, who'd refuse to assist the distresses 
 of anyone, of any creed, church, or persuas'on,whetherwhite, black, 01 
 
 (3) D 
 
86 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 yallow. It's what I never taught you, nor never will tache you to the 
 day of my death ! To be sure, a fellow-creature may say, ' Help me, 
 my brother, I am distressed,' or, * I am bent on a good purpose, that 
 your kindness can enable me to accomplish.' But suppose that you 
 have not the money about you at the tune, wouldn't you feel sorry to the 
 backbone ? Ay, would yees — to the very core of the heart itself. Or 
 if any man — an' he'd be nothing else than a bodas;h that would say it 
 — if any man would tell me that you would not, I'd — yes — I'd give him 
 his answer, as good as I gave to ould Cokely long ago. 
 
 " The next point is, what would you do if you hadn't it about you ? 
 It's I that can tell you what you'd do : you'd say, ' I haven't got it. 
 brother ' — for ev'ry created bein' of the human kind is your brother, 
 barrin' the women, an' they are your sisters— [this produced a grin 
 upon many faces] — ' but,' says you, * if you wait for a day or two, 
 or a week, or maybe for a fortnight, I'll try what I can do to help 
 you,* 
 
 " Picture to yourselves a fellow-creature in distress — suppose him to 
 have neither hat, shoe, nor stocking — [this was a touch of the pathetic] 
 — and altogether in a state of utter destitution ! Can there be a more 
 melancholy picture than this .? No, there can't. But 'tisn't the tithe 
 of it ! — a barefaced robbery is the same tithe — think of him without 
 father, mother, or friend upon the earth — maybe he has poor health — 
 maybe he's sick, an' in a sthrange country — [here Jimmy's mother and 
 friends sobbed aloud, and the contagion began to spread — the priest, 
 in fact, knew where to touch] — his face is pale — his eyes sunk with 
 sickness and sorrow in his head — his bones are cuttin' the skin — he 
 knows not where to turn himself — hunger and sickness are strivin' for 
 him. — [Here the grief became loud and general, and even the good- 
 natured preacher's own voice got somewhat unsteady.] — He's in a bad 
 state entirely — miserable ! more miserable ! ! most miserable ! ! ! [Och, 
 och, oh !] sick, sore, and jorry ! — he's to be pitied, felt for and com- 
 passionated ! — [a general outcry] — 'tis a faver he has, or an ague, may- 
 be, or a rheumatism, or an embargo * on the limbs, or the king's evil, or 
 a consumption, or a decline, or God knows but it's the falling-sickness 
 — [Och, och, oh ! — och, och, oh ! from the whole congregation, whilst 
 the simple old man's eyes were blinded with tears at the force of the 
 
 Eicture he drew.] — Ay, maybe it's they}?///«^'-sickness, and in that case 
 ow on earth can he stand it. — [He can't, he can't, wurra strew, wurra 
 strew ! — och, och, oh ! — ogh, ogh, ogh !] — The Lord in heaven look 
 down upon him — [Amin, amin, this blessed an' holy Sunday that's in 
 it ! — och, oh !] — pity him — [Amin, amin ! — och, och, an' amin ! ] — with 
 miscracordial feeling and benediction ! He hasn't a rap in his com- 
 pany ! — moneyla is, friendless, houseless, an' homeless ! Ay, my friends, 
 you all have homes — but he has none ! Thrust back by every hard- 
 hearted spalpeen, and he, maybe, a better father's son than the Turk 
 that refuses him ! Look at your own childhre, my friends ! Bring ihe 
 case home to yourselves ! Suppose he was one of them — alone on the 
 
 ' Lumbago, we presume. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 87 
 
 earth, and none to pity him in his sorrows ! — Your own childhre, I say, 
 in a strange land ! — [Here the outcry became astounding — men, women, 
 and children in one general uproar of grief.] — An' this may all be 
 Jimmy M'Evoy's case, that's going in a week or two to Munster as a 
 ^or scholar — may be his case, I say, except you befriend him, ani 
 s\iC}V^ yoxxx daceiicy and y owe feelings, like Christians and Catholics ; and 
 for either dacency or kindness I'd turn yees against any other congre- 
 gation in thfc diocess, or in the kingdom — ay, or against Dublin itself, 
 if it was convanient " 
 
 Now here was a cotip de main — not a syllable mentioned about 
 Jemmy M'Evoy until he had melted them down ready for the im- 
 pression, which he accordingly made to his heart's content. 
 
 " Ay," he went on, " an 'tis the parish of Ballysogarth that has the 
 name, far and near, for both, and well they desarve it. You won't see 
 the poor gorsoon go to a sthrange country with empty pockets. He's 
 the son of an honest man — one of yourselves ; and although he's a poo) 
 man, you know 'twas Yallow Sam that made him so — that put him out 
 of his comfortable farm and slipped a black mouth into it. You won't 
 turn your backs on the son in regard of that, anyway. As for Sam, 
 let him pass ; he'll not grind the poor nor truckle to the rich when he 
 gives up his stewardship in the kingdom come. Lave him to the friend 
 of the poor — to his God ; but the son of them that he oppressed, you 
 will stand up for. He's going to Munster, to learn *to go upon the 
 Mission ; ' and on Sunday next there will be a collection made here 
 and at the other two althars for him ; and, as your own characters are at 
 stake, I trust it will be neither mane nor shabby. There will be Pro- 
 testants here, I'll engage, and you must act dacently before them, if it 
 was only to set them a good example. And now I'll tell yees a story 
 that the mintion of the i'rotestants brings to my mind : — 
 
 " There was, you see, a Protestant man and a Catholic woman once 
 married together. The man was a swearing, drinking, wicked rascal, 
 and his wife the same : between them they were a blessed pair, to be 
 sure. She never bent her knee under a priest until she was on her 
 death-bed ; nor was he known ever to enter a church door, nor to give 
 a shilling in charity but once, that being as follows : — He was passing 
 a Catholic place of worship one Sunday, on his way to fowl — for he had 
 his dog and gun with him ; 'twas beside a road, and many of the con- 
 gregation were kneeling out across the way. Just as he passed they 
 were making a collection for a poor scholar — and surely they that love 
 the lam/ng desarve to be encouraged ! Well, behold you — says one 
 ot them/ Will you remember the poor scholar,' says he, ' and put some- 
 thing in the hat ? You don't know,' says he, * but his prayers will be 
 before you.' ^ ' True enough, maybe,' says the man, ' and there's a 
 crown to him, for God's sake.' Well and good — the man died, and so 
 did the wife : but the very day before her departure she got a scapu- 
 lar and died in it. She had one sister, however, a good crature, that 
 did nothing but fast and pray, and make her sowl. This woman had 
 
 ' In the other world. 
 
88 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 strong doubts upon her mind, and was very much troubled as to 
 whether or not her sister went to heaven ; and she begged it as a favour 
 from the blessed Virgin that the state of her sister's sowl might be 
 revaled to her. Her prayer was granted. One night, about a week 
 after her death, her sister came back to her, dressed all in white, and 
 circled round by a veil of glory. 
 
 "'Is that Mary ?' said the living sister. 
 
 "' It is,' said the other ; ' I have got liberty to appear to you,' says 
 she, * and to tell you that I'm happy.' 
 
 " * lUay the holy Virgin be praised ! ' said the other. * Mary dear, 
 you have taken a great weight off of me,' says she : * I thought you'd 
 have a bad chance, in regard of the life you led.' 
 
 " ' When I died,' said the spirit, ' and was on my way to the other 
 world, I came to a place where the road divided itself into three 
 parts : one to heaven, another to hell, and a third to purgatory. 
 There was a dark gulf between me and heaven, and a breach between 
 me and purgatory that I couldn't step across, and if I had missed my 
 foot there, I would have dropped into hell. So I would, too, only that 
 the blessed Virgin put my own scapular over the breach, and it became 
 firm, and I stepped on it and got over. The Virgin then desired me 
 to look into hell, and the first person I saw was my own husband, 
 standing with a green sod under his feet. " He got that favour," said 
 the blessed Virgin, " in consequence of the prayers of a holy priest, 
 that had once been a poor scholar, that he gave assistance to at a 
 collection made for him in such a chapel," says she. Then,' con- 
 tinued the sowl, ' Mary,' says she, ' but there's some great change in 
 the world since I died, or why would the people live so long.'' It 
 can't be less than six thousand years since I departed, and yet I find 
 every one of my friends just as I left them.' 
 
 " ' Why,' replied the living sister, ' you're only six days dead.* 
 
 " * Ah, avourneen ! ' said the other, ' it can't be — it can't be ! for I 
 have been thousands on thousands of years in pain ! ' — and as she 
 spoke this she disappeared. 
 
 " Now, there's ^r<7(9/ of the pains of purgatory, where one day seems 
 as long as a thousand years ; and you know we oughtn't to grudge 
 a thrifle to a fellow-crature, that we may avoid it. So you see, my 
 friends, there's nothing like good works. You know not when or 
 where this lad's prayers may benefit you. If he gets ordained, the 
 first mass he says will be for his benefactors ; and in every one he 
 celebrates after that, they must also be remembered : the words are — 
 pro omnibus benefactoribus vicis, per omnia secula seculorum ! 
 
 " Thirdly — hem — I now lave the thing to yourselves. 
 
 " But wasn't I a match for Pether Donovan, that would brake a 
 stone foi. the marrow ^ — Eh ? — [a broad laugh at Pether's rueful 
 
 I know not whether this may be considered worthy of a note or not. I have 
 myself frequently seen and tasted what is appropriately termed by the peasantry, 
 "Stone Marrow." It is found in the heart of a kind of soft granite, or, perhaps I 
 should rather say, freestone. The country people use it medicinally, but I cannot 
 remember what particular disease it is said to cure. It is a soft saponaceous sub- 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 89 
 
 visage.] — Pether, you Turk, will your heart never soften — will you 
 never have dacency, an' you the only man of your family that's so ? 
 Sure they say you're going to be marrid some of these days. Well, if 
 you get your wife in my parish, I tell you, Pether, I'll give you a 
 rieecin', for don't think I'll marry you as chape as I would a poor 
 honest man. I'll make you shell out the yallow boys, and 'tis that 
 will go to your heart, you nager, you ; and then I'll eat you out of 
 house and home at the stations. May the Lord grant us, in the mane- 
 time, a dacent appetite, a blessing which I wish you all in the name 
 of the," &c. 
 
 At this moment the congregation was once more in convulsions of 
 laughter at the dressing which Peter, whose character was drawn with 
 much truth and humour, received at the hands of the worthy pastor. 
 
 Our readers will perceive that there was not a single prejudice, or 
 weakness, or virtue in the disposition of his auditory left untouched in 
 this address. He moved their superstition, their pride of character, 
 their dread of hell and purgatory, their detestation of Yellow Sam, and 
 the remembrance of the injury so wantonly inflicted on M'Evoy's 
 family ; he glanced at the advantage to be derived from the lad's 
 prayers, the example they should set to Protestants, made a passing ^ 
 hit at tithes, and indulged in the humorous, the pathetic, and the 
 miraculous. In short, he left no avenue to their hearts untouched ; 
 and in the process by which he attempted to accompHsh his object he 
 was successful. 
 
 There is. in fact, much rude, unpolished eloquence among the 
 Roman Catholic priesthood, and not a little which, if duly cultivated 
 by study and a more liberal education, would deserve to be ranked 
 very high. 
 
 We do not give this as a specimen of their modern pulpit eloquence, 
 but as a sample of that in which some of those Irish clergy shone, 
 who, before the establishment of Maynooth, were admitted to orders 
 immediately from the hedge-schools, in consequence of the dearth of 
 priests which then existed in Ireland. It was customary in those days 
 to ordain them even before they departed for the Continental colleges, 
 in order that they might, by saying masses and performing other 
 clerical duties, be enabled to add something to the scanty pittance 
 which was appropriated to their support. Of the class to which 
 Father Kavanagh belonged, there are few, if any, remaining. They 
 sometimes were called " hedge-priests,"' by way of reproach ; though, 
 for our own parts, we wish their non-interference in politics, unaffected 
 piety, and simplicity of character had remained behind them. 
 
 stance, not unpleasant to the taste, of a bluish colour, and melts in the mouth like 
 the fat of cold meat, leaving the palate greasy. How far an investigation into its 
 nature and properties might be useful to the geologist or physician it is not for me 
 to conjecture. As the fact appeared to be a curious one, and necessary, moreover, 
 to illustrate the expression used in the text, I thought it not amiss to mention it. 
 It may be a bonne bouche for the geologists. 
 
 'This nickname was first bestowed upon them by the Continental priests, who 
 generally ridiculed thtm for their vulgarity. They were, for the most, part, simple 
 but worthy men. 
 
90 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 On the Sunday following, Dominick M'Evoy and his son Jemn^.v 
 attended mass, whilst the other members of the family, with that 
 sense of honest pride which is more strongly inherent in Irish cha- 
 racter than is generally supposed, remained at home, from a reluct- 
 ance to witness what they could not but consider a degradation. This 
 decency of feeling was anticipated by ihe priest, and not overlooked 
 by the people ; for the former, the reader may have observed, in the 
 whole course of his address never once mentioned the word " charity ; " 
 nor did the latter permit the circumstance to go without its reward, 
 according to the best of their ability. So keen and delicate are the 
 perceptions of the Irish, and so acutely ahve are they to those nice 
 distinctions of kindness and courtesy, which have in their hearts a 
 spontaneous and sturdy growth that mocks at the stunted virtues of 
 artificial life. 
 
 In the parish of Ballysogarth there were three altars, or places of 
 Roman Catholic worship ; and the reader may suppose that the col- 
 lection made at each place was considerable. In truth, both father 
 and son's anticipations were far under the sum collected. Protestants 
 and Presbyterians attended with their contributions, and those of the 
 latter who scrupled to be present at what they considered to be an 
 idolatrous worship did not hesitate to send their quota by some Roman 
 Catholic neighbour. Their names were accordingly announced with 
 an encomium from the priest, which never failed to excite a warm- 
 hearted murmur of approbation. Nor was this feeling transient ; for 
 we will venture to say that had political excitement flamed up even to 
 rebellion and mutual slaughter, the persons and property of those in- 
 dividuals would have been held sacred. 
 
 At length Jemmy was equipped; and sad and heavy became the 
 hearts of his parents and immediate relations as the morning ap- 
 pointed for his departure drew nigh. On the evening before, several 
 of his more distant relatives came to take their farewell of him, and,, 
 in compliance with the usages of Irish hosptiality, they were detained 
 for the night. They did not, however, come empty-handed : some 
 brought money ; some brought linen, stockings, or small presents — 
 " Jist, Jimmy asthore, to keep me in yer memory, sure — an' nothin' else 
 it is for, mavourneen." 
 
 Except Jemmy himself, and one of his brothers, who was to accompany 
 him part of the way, none of the family slept. The mother exhibited 
 deep sorrow, and Dominick, although he made a show of firmness, 
 felt, now that the crisis was at hand, nearly incapable of parting with 
 the boy. The conversation of their friends, and the cheering effects 
 of the poteen, enabled them to sustain his loss better than they other- 
 wise would have done, and the hope of seeing him one day " an 
 ordained priest " contributed more than either to support them. 
 
 When the night was nearly half spent, the mother took a candle and 
 privately withdrew to the room in which the boy slept. The youth was 
 fair, and interesting to look upon— the clustering locks of his white 
 forehead were divided ; yet there was on his otherwise open brow a 
 shade of sorrow, produced by the commg separation, which even sleep 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 9» 
 
 could not efface. The mother held the candle gently towards his face, 
 shading it with one hand, lest the light might suddenly awake him ; 
 she then surveyed his features long and affectionately, whilst the tears 
 fell in showers from her cheeks. 
 
 " There you lie," she softly sobbed out in Irish, " the sweet pulse 
 of your mother's heart, the flower of our flock, the pride of our 
 eyes, and the music of our hearth ! Jimmy, avourneen machree, 
 an' how can I part wid you, my darlin' son ! Sure when I lo"ok at 
 your mild face, and think that you're takin' the world on your 
 head to rise us out of our poverty, isn't my heart brakin' ? A lonely "^ 
 house we'll have afther you, acushla ! Goin' out an' comin' in, at home 
 or abroad, your voice won'i be in my ears, nor your eye smilin' upon 
 me ! An' thin to thmk of what you may suffer in a sthrange land ! If 
 your head aches, on what tendher breast will it lie ? or who will bind 
 the ribbon of comfort^ round it? or wipe your fair mild brow in sick- 
 ness? Oh Blessed Mother, hunger, sickness, and sorrow, may come 
 iipon you, when you" ll be far frotn your own, an' from them thai loves 
 vou ? " 
 
 This melancholy picture was too much for the tenderness of the 
 mother ; she sat down beside the bed, rested her face on her open 
 hand, and wept in subdued but bitter grief. At this moment his 
 father, who probably suspected the cause of her absence, came in, and 
 perceived her distress. 
 
 " Vara," said he, in Irish also, " is my darlin' son asleep ? " 
 
 She looked up with streaming eyes as he spoke, and replied to him 
 with difficulty, whilst she involuntarily held over the candle to gratify 
 the father's heart by a sight of him. 
 
 " I was keepin' him before my eye," she said. " God knows but it 
 may be the last night we'll ever see him undher our own roof! 
 Dominick, achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my heart." 
 
 "Then how can I, Vara ? " he replied. " Wasn't he my right hand 
 in everything ? When was he from me, ever since he took a man's 
 work upon him ? And when he'd finish his own task for the day, how 
 kindly he'd begin an' help me wid m.ine ! No, Vara, it goes to my 
 heart to let him go away upon sich a plan, an' I wish he hadn't taken 
 the notion into his head at all.'' 
 
 " It's not too late, maybe," replied his mother. " I think it wouldn't 
 be hard to put him off of it ; the crathur's own heart's failin' him to 
 lave us — he has sorrow upon his face where he lies." 
 
 The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy 
 which shaded his features as he slept ; and the perception of the boy's 
 internal struggle against his own domestic attachments in accomplish- v^ 
 ing his first determination, powerfully touched his heart. 
 
 " Vara," said he, " I know the boy — he won't give it up ; and 'twould 
 be a pity — maybe a sin — to put him from it. Let the child get fair 
 play, an' thry his coorse. If he fails he can come back to us, an' our 
 arms and hearts will be open to welcome him ! But if God prospers 
 
 ' This alludes to a charm performed by certain persons, which, by means of a 
 ribbon, is said to cure headaches in Ireland. It is called " measuring the head." 
 
92 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 him, wouldn't it be a blessin' that we never expected, to see him in the 
 white robes, celebratin' one mass for his paarents. \i these ould eyes 
 could see that, I would be continted to close them in pace an' hap- 
 piness for ever." 
 
 "An' well you'd become them, avourneen machree ! W*ll would 
 your mild and handsome countenance look wid the long heavenly 
 stole of innocence upon you ! and although it's atin' into my heart, 
 I'll bear it for the sake of seein' the same blessed sight. Look at that 
 face, Dominick ; mightn't many a lord of the land be proud to have 
 such a son ? May the heavens shower down its blessin' upon him ! " 
 
 The father burst into tears. " It is — it is ! " said he. " It is the face 
 that ud make many a noble heart proud to look at it ! Is it any 
 wondher it ud cut our hearts, thin, to have it taken from afore our 
 eyes ? Come away. Vara — come away, or I'll not be able to part wid 
 it. It is the lovely face — an' kind is the heart of my darlin' child." 
 As he spoke he stooped down and kissed the youth's cheek, on which 
 the warm tears of affection fell soft as the dew from heaven. The 
 mother followed his example, and they both left the room. 
 
 " We must bear it," said Dominick, as they passed into another 
 apartment ; " the money's gathered, an' it wouldn't look well to be 
 goin' back wid it to them that befrinded us. W^d have the blush 
 upon our face for it, an' the child no advantage." 
 
 " Thrue for you, Dominick ; and we must make up our minds to 
 live widout him for a while." 
 
 The following morning was dark and cloudy, but calm and without 
 rain. When the family were all assembled, every member of it evinced 
 traces of deep feeling, and every eye was fixed upon the serene but 
 melancholy countenance of the boy with tenderness and sorrow. He 
 himself maintained a quiet equanimity, which, though apparently 
 liable to be broken by the struggles of domestic affection, and in 
 character with his meek and unassuming disposition, yet was sup- 
 ported by more firmness than might be expected from a mind in which 
 kindness and sensibility were so strongly predominant. At this time, 
 however, his character was not developed, or, at least, not understood 
 by those that surrounded him. To strong feelings and enduring 
 affections he added a keenness of perception and a bitterness of 
 invective, of which, in his conversation with his father concerning 
 Yellow Sam, the reader has already had sufficient proofs. At break- 
 fast little or nothing was eaten ; the boy himself could not taste a 
 morsel, nor any other person in the family. When the form of the 
 meal was over, the father knelt down. " It's right," said he, " that we 
 should all go to our knees, and join in a Rosary in behalf of the child 
 that's goin' on a good intintion. He won't thrive the worse bekase the 
 last words that he'll hear from his father and mother's lips is a prayer 
 for bringin' the blessin' of God down upon his endayvours." 
 
 This was accordingly performed, though not without tears and sobs, 
 and frequent demonstrations of grief ; for religion among the peasantry 
 IS often associated with bursts of deep and powerful feeling. 
 
 When the prayer was over, the boy rose and calmly strapped to his 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 93 
 
 back a satchel covered with deer-skin, containing a few books, linen, 
 and a change of very plain apparel. While engaged in this, the uproar 
 of grief in the house was perfectly heartrending. When just ready to 
 set out, he reverently took off his hat, knelt down, and, with tears 
 streaming from his eyes, craved humbly and meekly the blessing and 
 forgiveness of his father and mother. The mother caught him in her 
 arms, kissed his lips, and kneeling also, sobbed out a fervent bene- 
 diction upon his head ; the father now, in the grief of a strong man 
 pressed him to his heart, until the big, burning tears fell upon the 
 boy's face ; his brothers and sisters embraced him wildly ; next his 
 more distant relations ; and lastly the neighbours who were crowded 
 about the door. After this he took a light staff in his hand, and, first 
 blessing himself after the form of his Church, proceeded to a strange 
 land in quest of education. 
 
 He had not gone more than a few perches from the door, when his 
 mother followed him with a small bottle of holy water. " Jimmy, a 
 lanna vooJit"'^ said she, "here's this, an' carry it about you — it will 
 keep evil from you ; an' be sure to take good care of the written cor- 
 reckther you got from the priest and Square Benson ; an', darlin', 
 don't be lookin' too often at the cuff o' your coat, for feard the people 
 might get a notion that you have the bank-notes sewed in it. An', 
 Jimmy agra, don't be too lavish upon their Munster crame ; they say 
 it's apt to give people the ague. Kiss me agin, agra ; an' the heavens 
 above keep you safe and well till we see you once more ! " 
 
 She then tenderly, and still with melancholy pride, settled his shirt 
 collar, which she thought did not sit well about his neck : and kissing 
 him again, with renewed sorrow, left him to pursue his journey. 
 
 M'Evoy's house was situated on the side of a dark hill — one of that 
 barren description which can be called neither inland nor mountain. 
 It commanded a wide and extended prospect, and the road along 
 which the lad travelled was visible for a considerable distance from it. 
 On a small hillock before the door sat Dominick and his wife, who, 
 as long as their son was visible, kept their eyes, which were nearly 
 blinded with tears, riveted upon his person. It was now they gave 
 full vent to their grief, and discussed, with painful and melancholy 
 satisfaction, all the excellent qualities which he possessed. As James 
 himself advanced, one neighbour after another fell away from the 
 train which accompanied him, not, however, until they had affection- 
 ately embraced and bid him adieu, and, perhaps, slipped with peculiar 
 delicacy an additional mite into his waistcoat pocket. After the 
 neighbours, then followed the gradual separation from his friends — 
 one by one left him, as in the great journey of life, and in a few hours 
 he found himself accompanied only by his favourite brother. 
 
 This to him was the greatest trial he had yet felt ; long and heart- 
 rending was their embrace. Jemmy soothed and comforted his 
 beloved brother, but in vain. The lad threw himself on the spot at 
 which tl ey paited, and remained there until Jemmy turned an angle 
 
 ' My poor child. 
 
04 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 of the road which brought him out of his sight, when the poor boy 
 kissed the marks of his brother's feet repeatedly, and then returned 
 home, hoarse and broken down with the violence of his grief. 
 
 He was now alone, and for the first time felt keenly the strange 
 object on which he was bent, together with all the difficulties con- 
 nected with its attamment. He was young and uneducated, and many 
 years, he knew, must elapse ere he could find himself in possession of 
 his wishes. But time would pass at home, as well as abroad, he 
 thought ; and as there lay no impediment of peculiar difficulty in his 
 way, he collected all his firmness and proceeded. 
 
 There is no country on the earth in which either education, or the 
 \/ desire to prucure it, is so much reverenced as in Ireland. Next to the 
 claims of the priest and schoolmaster come those of the poor scholar 
 for the respect of the people. It matters not how poor or how miser- 
 able he may be ; so long as they see him struggling with poverty in 
 the prosecution of a purpose so laudable, they will treat him with 
 attention and kindness. JHere there is no danger of his being sent to 
 the workhouse, committed as a vagrant, or passed from parish to 
 parish, until he reaches his own settlement. Here the humble lad is 
 not met by the sneer of purse-proud insolence, or his simple tale 
 answered only by the frowu of heartless contempt. No — no — no. 
 The best bit and sup are placed before him ; and whilst his poor but 
 warm-hearted entertainer can afford only potatoes and salt to his own 
 half-starved family, he will make a struggle to procure something 
 better for the poor scholar, " bekase he^s/arfro?n his own, ihecrai/ucr! 
 An' sure the intintion in him is good, anyhow ; the Lord prosper him, 
 an' everyone that has the heart set upon the larnin' ! " 
 
 As Jemmy proceeded, he found that his satchel of books and 
 apparel gave as clear an intimation of his purpose as if he had carried 
 a label to that effect upon his back. 
 
 " God save you, a bouchal ! " said a warm, honest-looking country- 
 man, whom he met driving home his cows in the evening, within a 
 few miles of the town in which he purposed to sleep. 
 
 " God save you kindly ! " 
 
 " Why, thin, 'tis a long journey you have before you, alanna, for I 
 know well it's for Munster you're bound." 
 
 " Thrue for you, 'tis there, wid the help of God, I'm goin'. A great 
 scarcity of larnin' was in my own place, or I wouldn't have to go at 
 all," said the boy, whilst his eyes filled with tears. 
 
 *' 'Tis no discredit in life," replied the countryman, with untaught 
 natural delicacy, for he perceived that a sense of pride lingered about 
 the boy, which made the character of poor scholar sit painfully upon 
 him ; " 'tis no discredit, dear, nor don't be cast down. I'll warrant 
 you that God will prosper you ; an' that he may, avick, I pray this 
 day ! " and as he spoke, he raised his hat in reverence to the I3eing 
 whom he invol ed. "An' tell me, dear — where do you intend to sleep 
 to-night } " 
 
 "In the town forrid here," replied Jemmy. " I'm in hopes I'll be 
 able lo reach it before dark." 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 95 
 
 " Pooh ! asy you will. Have you any friends or acquaintances 
 there that ud welcome you, a bi'7ichal dhas (my handsome boy) ?" 
 
 " No, indeed," said Jemmy, " they're all strangers to me ; but I can 
 stop in ' dhry lodgin',' for it's chaper." 
 
 " Well, alanna, I believe you ; but /'w no stranger to yoti — so come 
 home wid me to-night ; where you'll get a good bed, an' betther 
 thratement nor in any of their dhry lodgins. Give me your books, an' 
 I'll carry them for you. Ethen, but you have a great batch o' them 
 entirely. Can you make any hand o' the Latin at all yet ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Jemmy, somewhat sorrowfully ; " I didn't 
 ever open a Latin book, at all at all." 
 
 " Well, acushla, everything has a beginnin' ; you won't be so. An' 
 I know by your face that you'll be bright at it, an' a credit to them 
 that owes' you. There's my house in the fields beyant, where you'll 
 be well kept for one night, anyway, or for twinty, or for ten times 
 twinty, if you wanted them." 
 
 The honest farmer then commenced the song of Colleen dhas 
 Crotha na Mho^ which he sang in a clear, mellow voice, until they 
 reached the house. 
 
 " Alley," said the man to his wife, on entering, " here's a stranger 
 I've brought you." 
 
 " Well," replied Alley, " he's welcome sure, anyway. Kead millia 
 failta ghicd, alanna ! sit over to the fire. Brian, get up, dear," said 
 she to one of the children, " an' let the stranger to the hob." 
 
 " He's goin' on a good errand, the Lord bless him ! " said the 
 husband ; " up the country for the lamin'. Put thim books over on the 
 settle ; an' whin the girshas are done milkin', give him a brave dhrink 
 of the sweet milk ; it's the stuff to thravel on." 
 
 " Throth, an' I will, wid a heart an' a half, wishin' it was betther I 
 had to give him. Here, Nelly, put down a pot o' wather, an' lave 
 soap an' a praskeen, afore you go to milk, till I bathe the dacent boy's 
 feet. Sore an' tired they are after his journey, poor young crathur." 
 
 When Jemmy placed himself upon the hob, he saw that some 
 peculiarly good fortune had conducted him to so comfortable a rest- 
 ing-place. He considered this as a good omen, and felt, in fact, much 
 relieved, for the sense of loneliness among strangers was removed. 
 
 The house evidently belonged to a wealthy farmer, well to do in the 
 world ; the chimney was studded with sides upon sides of yellow 
 smoke-dried bacon, hams, and hung beef in abundance. The kitchen 
 tables were large, and white as milk ; and the dresser rich in its 
 shining array of delf and pewter. Everything, in fact, was upon a 
 large scale. Huge meal chests were ranged on one side, and two or 
 three settle beds on the other, conspicuous, as I have said, for their 
 uncommon cleanliness ; whilst hung from the ceiling were the glaiks, 
 a machine for churning ; and beside the dresser stood an immense 
 <;hurn, certainly too unwieldy to be managed except by machinery. 
 The farmer was a ruddy-faced Milesian, who wore a drab frieze coat, 
 
 ' Owns. * The pretty girl milking her cow. 
 
96 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 with avelvetcollar, buff waistcoat, corduroysmall-clothes, and top-boots 
 well greased from the tops down.^ He was not only an agriculti rist, 
 but a grazier, remarkable for shrewdness and good sense, gent ally 
 attended fairs and markets, and brought three or four V rge droves of 
 fat cattle to England every year. From his fob hung the brass chain 
 and almost rusty key of a watch, which he kept certainly more for use 
 than ornament. 
 
 "A little sup o' this," said he, "won't take your life," approaching 
 Jemmy with a bottle of as good poteen as ever escaped the eye of an 
 exciseman ; " it'll refresh you — for you're tired, or 1 wouldn't offer it, 
 rason that one bint on what you're bint on oughtn't to be makin' 
 freedoms wid the same dhrink. But there's a time for everything, an' 
 there's a time for this. Thank you, agra," he added, in reply to 
 Jemmy, who had drunk his health. " Now, don't be frettin — but make 
 yourself as aisy as if you were at your own father's hearth. You'll 
 have everything to your heart's contint for this night ; the carts are 
 goin' into the market to-morrow arly — you can sit upon them, an' 
 maybe you'll get somethin' more nor you expect : sure the Lord has 
 given it to me, an' why wouldn't I share it wid them that wants it 
 more nor I do ? " 
 
 The lad's heart yearned to {he generous farmer, for he felt that his 
 kindness had the stamp of truth and sincerity upon it. He could 
 only raise his eyes in a silent prayer that none belonging to him 
 might ever be compelled, as strangers and wayfarers, to commit 
 themselves, as he did, to the causualties of life, in pursuit of those 
 attainments which poverty cannot otherwise command. Fervent, 
 indeed, was his prayer ; and certain we are that, because it was 
 sincere, it must have been heard. 
 
 In the meantime, the good woman, or vanithee, had got the pot of 
 water warmed, in which Jemmy was made to put his feet. She then 
 stripped up her arms to the elbows, and, with soap and seedy meal, 
 affectionately bathed his legs and feet : then taking the praskeen, or 
 coarse towel, she wiped them with a kindness which thrilled to his 
 heart. 
 
 " And now," said she, " I must give you a cure for blisthers, an' it's 
 this : — In the mornin', if we're all spared, as we will, plase the Al- 
 mighty, I'll give you a needle an' some white woollen thread, well 
 soaped. When your blisthers gets up, dhraw the soapy thread through 
 them, clip it on each side, an', my life for yours, they won't throuble 
 you. Sure I thried it the year I went on my station to Lough Derg, 
 an' I know it to be the rale cure." 
 
 " Here, Nelly," said the farmer — who sat with a placid, benevolent 
 face, smoking his pipe on the opposite hob — to one of the maids who 
 came in from milking— " bring up a noggin of that milk, we want it 
 here : let it be none of your washy foremilk, but the stfippins, Nelly, 
 that has the strinth in it. Up wid it here, a colleen." 
 
 " The never a one o' the man hut's doatin' downright, so he is," 
 
 ' This, almost in every instance, is the dress of a wealthy Irish .'armer. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 97 
 
 observed the wife, " to go to fill the tired child's stomach wid plash. 
 Can't you wait till he ates a thrifle o' somethin' stout, to keep life in 
 him, after his hard journey ? Does your feet feel themselves cool an' 
 asy now, a hagur ?" 
 
 " Indeed," said Jemmy, " I'm almost as fresh as when I set out. 
 'Twas little thought I had, when I came away this mornin', that I'd 
 meet wid so much friendship on my journey. I hope it's a sign that 
 God's on my side in my undertakin' ! " 
 
 " I hope so, avourneen — I hope so, an' it is, too,' replied the farmer, 
 taking the pipe out of his mouth, and mildly whiffiti^ away the smoke, 
 " an' God 'ill be always on your side, as long as your intentions are 
 good. Now ate somethin' — you must want it by this ; an' thin, when 
 you rest yourself bravely, take a tass into a good feather-bed, where 
 you can sleep rings round you.^ Who knows but you'll be able to 
 say mass for me or some o' my family yit. God grant that, anyway, 
 avick ! " 
 
 Poor James's heart was too full to eat much ; he took, therefore, 
 only a very slender portion of the refreshments set before him ; but 
 his hospitable entertainers had no notion of permitting him to use the 
 free exercise of his discretion on this important point. When James 
 put away the knife and fork, as an indication of his having concluded 
 the meal, the farmer and his wife turned about, both at the same 
 moment, with a kind of astonishment. 
 
 " Eh ? is it givin' over that way you are ? Why, alanna, it's nothin' 
 at all you've tuck ; sure little Brian there would make a fool of you, so 
 he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal — don't be ashamed, or 
 make any way sthrange at all, but ate hearty." 
 
 " I declare I have ate heartily, thank you," replied James : " oceans 
 itself, so I did. I couldn't swally a bit more if the house was full." 
 
 " Arrah, Brian," said the wife, " cut him up more o' that hung beef ; 
 it's ashamed the crathur is ! Take it, avick ; don't we know the 
 journey you had ? Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a day's 
 thravellin', you'd see how he'd handle himself." 
 
 " Indeed," said James, "I can't— if I could I would. Sure I would 
 be no way backward at all, so I wouldn't." 
 
 •' Throth, an' you can an' must," said the farmer : " the never a rise 
 you'll rise till you finish that " — putting over a complement out of all 
 reasonable proportion with his age and size. 
 
 " There now's a small taste, an' you must finish it. To go to ate 
 nothin' at all. Hut tut ! by the tops o' my boots, you must put that 
 clear an' clane out o' sight, or I'll go mad and burn them." 
 
 The lad recommenced, and continued to eat as long as he could 
 possibly hold out ; at length he ceased. 
 
 " I can't go on," said he ; " don't ax me — I can't, indeed." 
 
 " Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you finish it : you know it's 
 but a thrifle to spake of. Thry agin, avick, but take your time ; you'll 
 be able for it." 
 
 * As much as vou pleflse. 
 
98 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 The poor lad's heart was engaged on other thoughts and other 
 scenes — his home, and its beloved inmates ; sorrow, and the gush of 
 young affections, were ready to burst forth. 
 
 " I cannot ate," said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer 
 and his wife, whilst the tears started to his eyes — " don't ax me, for 
 my heart's wid them I left behind me, that I may never see agin ;" 
 and he wept in a burst of grief which he could not restrain. 
 
 Neither the strength nor tenderness of the lad's affection was unap 
 predated by this excellent couple. In a moment the farmer's wife 
 was also in tears ; nor did her husband break the silence for some 
 minutes. 
 
 " The Almighty pity an' strengthen him ! " said the wife, " but he 
 has the good an' the kind heart, an' would be a credit to any family. 
 Whisht, acushla machree — whisht, we won't ax you to ate — no, indeed. 
 It was out o' kindness we did it : don't be cast down aither ; sure it 
 isn't the ocean you're crossin', but goin' from one county like to another. 
 God'U guard an' take care o' you, so he wilL Your intintion's good, 
 an' he'll prosper it." 
 
 " He will, avick," said the farmer himself — "he will. Cheer up, my 
 good boy 1 I know thim that's larned an' creditable clargy this day, 
 that went as you're goin' — ay, an' that ris an' helped their paarents, 
 an' put them above poverty an' distress ; an' never fear, wid a bless- 
 ing, but you'll do the same." 
 
 " That's what brings me at all," replied the boy, drying his tears ; 
 * if I was once able to take them out o' their distresses I'd be happy 
 — only I'm afea.rd the cares o' the world will break my father's heart 
 before I have it in my power to assist him." 
 
 " No such thing, darlin'," said the good woman. " Sure his hopes 
 out o' you, an' his love for you will keep him up ; an' you dunna but 
 God may give him a blessin' too, avick." 
 
 "Mix another sup o' that for him," said the farmer — "he's low 
 spirited, an' it's too strong to give him any more of it as it is. 
 Childhre, where's the masther from us— eh? Why, thin, God help 
 them, the crathurs — wasn't it thoiightfid ' o' them to lave the place 
 while he was at his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed — manin' them 
 young crathurs, Alley. But can you tc.U us where the masther is ? 
 Isn't this his night wid us ? I know he tuck his dinner here." 
 
 "Ay did he ; but it's up to Larry Murphy's he's gone, to thry his 
 son in his book-keepin'. Mavrone, but he had time enough to put 
 him well through it afore this, anyway." 
 
 As she spoke, a short, thick-set man, with black twinkling eyes and 
 ruddy cheeks, entered. This personage was no other than the school- 
 master of that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one 
 farmer's house to another, in order to expound for his kind enter- 
 tainers the news of the day, his own learning, and the very evident 
 extent of their ignorance. 
 
 The moment he came in the farmer and his wife rose with an air o( 
 
 • Considerate. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 99 
 
 much deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fi re, 
 leaving a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate 
 mortal durst presume to sit. 
 
 " Misther Corcoran," said the farmer, presenting Jemmy's satchel, 
 through which the shapes of the books were quite plain, " thig ift thu 
 fhin7i ? " ' and as he spoke he looked significantly at its owner. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied the man of letters, " thigum, thigum. God be wid 
 the day when I carried the likes of it. 'Tis a badge of polite genius, 
 that no boy need be ashamed of. So, my young suckling of lithera- 
 ture, you're bound for Munster ? — for that counthry where the swal- 
 lows fly in conic sections — where the magpies and the turkeys confab 
 in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric Greek — 
 bo-a-o — clamo. What's your pathronymic t—quo notniiie gowdes, 
 Dojntne doctissime ? " 
 
 The lad was silent ; but the farmer's wife turned up the whites of 
 her eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of 
 the " masther." 
 
 " I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia 
 of the languages ; well — the honour is still before you. What's your 
 name ? " 
 
 "James M'Evoy, sir." 
 
 Just now the farmer^s family began to assemble round the spacious 
 hearth ; the young lads, whose instruction the worthy teacher claimed 
 as his own peculiar task, came timidly forivard, together with two or 
 three pretty bashful girls, with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances 
 full of feeling and intelligence. Behind, on the settles, half a dozen 
 servants of both sexes sat in pairs — each boy placing himself beside 
 his favourite girl. These appeared to be as strongly interested in the 
 learned conversation which the master held as if they were masters 
 and mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek themselves ; but an 
 occasional thump cautiously bestowed by no slender female hand upon 
 the sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough from one of the 
 young men, fabricated to drown the coming blow, gave slight indica- 
 tions that they contrived to have a little amusement among themselves, 
 altogether independent of Mr. Corcoran's erudition. 
 
 When the latter came in. Jemmy was taking the tumbler of punch 
 which the farmer's wife had mixed for him ; on this he fixed an ex- 
 pressive glance, which instantly reverted to the vanithee, and from her 
 to the large bottle which stood in a window to the right of the fire. 
 It is a quick eye, however, that can anticipate Irish hospitality. 
 
 " Alley," said the farmer, ere the wife had time to comply with the 
 hint conveyed by the black, twinkling eye of the schoolmaster — " why, 
 Alley " 
 
 " Sure, I am," she replied, " an' will have it for you in less than no 
 time." 
 
 She accordingly addressed herself to the bottle, and in a few minutes 
 handed a reeking jug of punch to the Farithee, or good man. 
 
 You unierstand this? 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Come, masther, by the hand o' my body, I don't like dhry talk so 
 long as I can get anything to moisten the discoorse. Here's your 
 health, masther," continued the farmer, winking at the rest, " and a 
 speedy conclusion to what you know ! In throth, she's the pick of a 
 good girl — not to mintion what she has for her portion. I'm a frind 
 to the same family, and will put a spoke in yC'ir wheel, masther, that'll 
 sarve you." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Lanigan, very well, sir — very well — you're becoming quite 
 facetious upon me," said the little man, rather confused ; "but upon 
 my credit and reputation, except the amorous inclination in regard to 
 me is on /u'r side " ■ — and he looked sheepishly at his hands — " I can't 
 say that the arrows of Cupid have as yet pinethrated the sii.timintal 
 side of my heart. It is not wid me as it was wid Dido — hem — 
 
 ' Non haeret lateri lethalis arundo,' 
 
 as Virgil says. Yet I can't say, but if a friend were to become spokes- 
 man for me, and insinuate in my behalf a small taste of amorous 
 sintimintality, why — hem, hem, hem ! The company's health ! Lad 
 James M'Evoy, jour health, and success to you, my good boy ! — 
 hem, hem ! " 
 
 " Here's wishin' him the same ! " said the farmer. 
 
 " James," said the schoolmaster, " you are goin' to Munsther, an' I 
 can say that I have travelled it from end to end, not to a bad purpose, 
 I hope — hem ! Well, a bouchal, there are hard days and nights before 
 you, so keep a firm heart. If j'ou have money, as 'tis likely you have, 
 don't let a single rap of it into the hands of the schoolmaster, although 
 the first thing he'll do will be to bring you home to his own house, and 
 palaver you night an' day, tiU he succeeds in persuading you to leave 
 it in his hands for security. You might, if not duly preadmonished, 
 surrender it to his solicitations, for 
 
 ' Nemo niortalium omnibus horis sapit.' 
 
 Michael, what case is mortaliiim ? " added he, suddenly addressing one 
 of the farmer's sons. " Come now, Michael, where's your brightness ? 
 What case is niortalium ? " 
 
 The boy was taken by surprise, and for a few minutes could not 
 reply. 
 
 " Come, man," said the father, " be sharp, spake out bravely, an' 
 don't be afeard : nor don't be in a hurry aither ; we'll wait for you." 
 
 " Let him alone — let him alone," said Corcoran ; " I 'II face the same 
 boy agin the country for cutr^u^x. If he dosen't expound that, I'll 
 neverconsthre a line of Latin, c Greek, or Masoretic, while I'm livm'." 
 
 His cunning master knew right well that the boy, who was only con- 
 fused at the suddenness of the question, would feel no difficulty in 
 answering it to his satisfaction. Indeed, it was impossible for him to 
 miss it, as he was then reading the seventh book of Virgil, and the 
 fourth of Homer. It is, however, a trick with such masters to put 
 simple questions of that nature to their pupils, when at the houses of 
 their parents, as knotty and difficult, and, when they are answered, to 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 assume an air of astonishment at the profound reach of thought dis- 
 played by the pupil. 
 
 When Michael recovered himself he instantly replied, '' Mortalium 
 is the ginitive case of nemo, by ' Nomina Pay-titiva^ " 
 
 Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was in the act of raising 
 to his lips, and looked at the lad with an air of surprise and delight, 
 then at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and shook his head with 
 much mystery. " Michael," said he to the lad, " will you go out, and 
 tell us what the night's doin'." 
 
 The boy accordingly went out. " Why," said Corcoran, in his 
 absence, " if ever there was a phanix, and that boy will be the bird — 
 an Irish phanix he will be ; a 
 
 ' Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno ! ' 
 
 There's no batin' him at anything he undhertakes. Why, there's 
 thim that are makin' good bread by their larnin', that couldn't resolve 
 that ; and you all saw how he did it widout the book ! Why, if he 
 goes on at this rate, I'm afraid he'll soon be too many for myself!— 
 hem ! " 
 
 " Too many for yourself ! Fill the masther's tumbler. Alley. Too 
 many for yourself ! No, no ! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright 
 as he is, an' cute. That's it — put a hape upon it. Give me your hand, 
 masther. I thank you for your attintion to him ; an' the boy z's a 
 credit to us. Come over, Michael, avourneen. Here, take what's in 
 this tumbler, an' finish it. Be a good boy, an' mind your lessons, an' 
 do everj'thing the masther here — the Lord bless him ! — bids you, an' 
 you'll never want a frind, masther, nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a 
 guinea, while the Lord spares me aither the one or the other." 
 
 " I know it, Mr. Lanigan, I know it ; and I will make that boy the 
 pride o' Ireland, if I'm spared. I'll show him cramboes that would 
 puzzle the great Scaliger himself ; and many other difficulties I'll let 
 him into that I have never let out yet, except to Tim Kearney, that 
 bate them all at Thrinity College up in Dublin, last June." 
 
 " Arrah, how was that, masther ? " 
 
 " Tim, you see, went in to his entrance examinayshuns, and one of 
 the Fellows came to examine him, but a divil a long time it was till 
 Tim sacked him. 
 
 " ' Go back agin,' says Tim, * and sind someone that's able to tache 
 me, for you're «£»/.' 
 
 " So another greater scholar agin came to thry Tim, and did thry 
 him, and Tim made a hare of him, before all that was in the place — 
 five or six thousand ladies and gintlemen, at laste ! 
 
 " The great lamed Fellows thin began to look odd enough ; so they 
 picked out the best scholar among them but one, and slipped him at 
 Tim : but well becomes Tim, the never a long it was till he had hiin, 
 too, as dumb as a post. The Fellow went back. 
 
 ** * Gintlemen,' says he to the rest, ' we'll be disgraced all out,' says 
 he, 'for except the Prowost sacks that Munsther spalpeen, he'll bate ui 
 all, an' we'll never be able to hould up our heads afther.' 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Accordingly, the Prowost attacks Tiiu ; and such a meetin' as they 
 had never was seen in Thrinity College since its establishment. At 
 last, when they had been nine hours and a half at it, the Prowost put 
 one word to him that Tim couldn't expound, so he lost it by one word 
 only. For the last two hours the Prowost carried ?n the examinayshun 
 in Hebrew, thinking, you sec, that he had Tim thtre ; but he was mis- 
 taken, for Tim answered him in good Munsther Irish, and it so hap- 
 pened that they understood each other, for the two languages are first 
 cousins, or, at all evints, close blood relations. Tim was then pro- 
 nounced to be the best scholar in Ireland except the Prowost ; though, 
 among ourselves, they might have thought of the man that imit^ht 
 him. That, however, wasn't all. A young lady fell in love wid Tim, 
 and is to make him a present of herself and her great fortune (three 
 estates) the moment he becomes a counsellor : and in the meantime 
 she allows him thirty pounds a year to bear his expenses and live 
 like a gintleman. 
 
 " Now to return to the youth in the corner : Nefno mortalium 
 ojnnibus horis sapit. Jemmy, keep your money, or give it to 
 the priest to keep, and it will be safest ; but by no means let the 
 Hyblean honey of the schoolmaster's blarney deprive you of it, 
 otherwise it will be a vale, vale, longuin vale between you. Crede 
 experto ! " 
 
 "■ Masther," said the farmer, "many a strange accident you met wid 
 on yer thravels through Munsther ?" 
 
 " No doubt of that, Mr. Lanigan. I and another boy thravelled it 
 in society together. One day we were walking towards a gintleman's 
 house on the roadside, and it happened that we met the owner of it in 
 the vicinity, although we didn't know him to be such. 
 
 "' Salveie Domini I ' said he, in good fresh Latin. 
 
 "* Tu SIS salvus, quoqite ?' said I to him, for my comrade wasn't 
 cute, an' I was always orathor. 
 
 "' Unde venitis ?' said he, comin' over us wid another deep piece of 
 larnin', the construction of which was ' Where do yees come from ? ' 
 
 " I replied, ^ Per varios casus et tot discrimiiia reriiniy venimus a 
 Mayo! 
 
 " ' Good ! ' said he, ' you're bright ; follow me.' 
 
 " So he brought us over to his own house, and ordered us bread and 
 cheese and a posset ; for it was Friday, an' we couldn't touch mate. 
 He, in the manetime, sat an' chatted along wid us. The thievin' cook, 
 however, in making the posset, kept the curds to herself, except a 
 slight taste, here and there, that floated on the top ; but she was liberal 
 enough of the whey, anyhow. 
 
 " Now I had been well trained to fishing in my more youthful days ; 
 and no gorsoon could grope a trout wid me. I accordingly sent the 
 spoon through the pond before me wid the skill of a connoisseur ; but 
 to no purpose — it came up wid nothin'but the whey. 
 
 " So said I off-hand to the gintleman, houlding up the bowl, and 
 looking at it with a disappointed face : 
 
 A^jpcuein ran iiaiites in gnrpile vasto. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 103 
 
 This,' says I, ' plase your hospitality, may be Pactolus, but the devil a 
 taste o' the proper sand is in the bottom of it.' 
 
 ** The wit of this, you see, pleased him, and we got an excellent treat 
 in his studuim, or study ; for he was determined to tfive myself 
 another trial, 
 
 " ' What's the wickedest line in Virgil ? ' said he. 
 
 " Now I had Virgil at my finger ends, so I answered him : 
 
 ' Fleeter e si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. 
 
 " ' Very good,' said he, ' you have the genius, and will come to some- 
 thin' yet : now tell me the most moral line in Virgil.' 
 " I answered : 
 
 ' Discere justitiam tnoniti, et non temnere divos.' ' 
 
 " ' Depend upon it,' said he, ' you will be a luminary. The morning 
 star will be but a farthing candle to you ; and if you take in the learn- 
 ing as you do the cheese, in a short time there won't be a man in 
 Munsther fit to teach you,' and he laughed, for you see he had a ten- 
 dency to jocosity. 
 
 "He did not give vok up here, however, being determined to go 
 deeper wid me. 
 
 " ' Can you translate a newspaper into Latin prose ?' said he. 
 
 " Now the divil a one o' me was just then sure about the prose, so 
 I was goin' to tell him ; but before I had time to speak, he thrust the 
 paper into my hand, and desired me to thranslate half a dozen bar- 
 barous advertisements. 
 
 " The first that met me was about a reward offered for a Newfound- 
 land dog and a terrier, that had been stolen from a fishing-tackle 
 manufacturer, and then came a list of his shabby merchandise, ending 
 with a long-winded encomium upon his gunpowder, shot, and double- 
 barrelled guns. Now may I be shot wid a blank cartridge if I ever 
 felt so much at an amplush in my life, and I said so. 
 
 " ' Your honour has hooked me wid the fishing-hook ►^' said I ; ' but 
 I grant the cheese was good bait, anyhow.' 
 
 " So he laughed heartily, and bid me go on. 
 
 " Well, I thought the first was difficult ; but the second was Ma- 
 soretic to it — something about drawbacks, excisemen, and a long 
 custom-house list, that would puzzle Publius Virgilius Maro, if he was 
 set to translate it. However, I went through wid it as well as I could ; 
 where I couldn't find Latin, I laid in the Greek, and where the Greek 
 failed me, I gave the Irish, which, to tell the truth, in consequence of 
 its vernacularity, I found to be the most convanient. Och, och, many 
 a larned scrimmage I have signalised myself in during my time. 
 Sure my name's as common as a mail-coach in Thrinity College ; and 
 'tis well known there isn't a Fellow in it but I could sack, except, maybe, 
 the Prowost. That's their own opinion. * Corcoran," says the Prowost, 
 ' is the most larned man in Ireland ; an' I'm not ashamed,' says he, 
 
 ' He is evidently drawing the long bow here ; this anecdote has been told before. 
 
I04 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 ' to acknowledge that I'd rather decline meeting him upon deep points.' 
 Ginteels, all your healths — hem ! But among ourselves I could bog 
 him in a very short time ; though I'd scorn to deprive the gintleman 
 of his reputation or his place, even if he sent me a challenge of larnin' 
 to-morrow, although he's too cute to venture on doing that — hem, 
 hem ! '» 
 
 To hear an obscure creature, whose name was but faintly known in 
 ihe remote parts even of the parish in which he lived, draw the long 
 bow at such a rate wss highly amusing. The credulous character of 
 his auditory, however, was no slight temptation to him ; for he knew 
 that next to the legends of their saints, or the Gospel itself, his fictions 
 ranked in authenticity ; and he was determined that it should not be 
 his feult if their opinion of his learning and talents was not raised to 
 the highest point. 
 
 The feeling experienced by the poor scholar when he awoke the 
 next morning was one both of satisfaction and sorrow. He thought 
 once more of his home and kindred, and reflected that it might be 
 possible he had seen the last of his beloved relations. His grief, how- 
 ever, was checked when he remembered the warm and paternal 
 affection with which he was received on the preceding night by his 
 hospitable countryman. He offered up his prayers to God ; humbly 
 besought his grace and protection ; nor did he forget to implore a 
 blessing upon those who had thus soothed his early sorrows, and 
 afforded him, though a stranger and friendless, shelter, comfort, and 
 sympathy. 
 
 " I hope," thought he, " that I will meet many such, till I over- 
 come my difficulties, an' find myself able to assist my poor father 
 an' mother ! " 
 
 And he did meet many euch among the humble, and despised, 
 and neglected of his countrymen ; for— and we say it with pride — the 
 character of this excellent farmer is thoroughly that of our peasantry 
 within the range of domestic life. 
 
 When he had eaten a comfortable breakfast, and seen his satchel 
 stuffed with provision for his journey, the farmer brought him up to 
 his own room, in which were also his wife and children. 
 
 " God," said he, " has been good to me, blessed be his holy name ! — 
 betther, it appears, in one sinse, than he has been to you, dear — 
 though, maybe, I don't desarve it as well. But no matther, acushla ; 
 / have it, an' yoji want it ; so here's a thrifle to help you forrid in 
 your larnin' ; an' all I ax from you is to offer up a bit of prayer for me 
 of an odd time, an' if ever you live to be a priest, to say, if it wouldn't 
 be throublesome, one mass for me an' those that you see about me. 
 It's not much, James agra — only two guineas. They may stand your 
 friend, whin friends will be scarce wid you ; though I hope that won't 
 be the case aither." 
 
 The tears were already streaming down Jemmy's cheeks. " Oh," 
 said the artless boy, " God for ever reward you ! but sure I have a 
 great dale of money in the — in the — cuff o' my roat. Indeed. I have, 
 an' I won't want it ' " 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 105 
 
 The farmer, affected by the utter simplicity of the lad, looked at 
 his wife and smiled, although a tear stood in his eye at the time. 
 She wiped her eyes with her apron, and backed the kind offer of her 
 husband. 
 
 "Take it, asthore," she added. " In your cuff! Musha, God help 
 you ! sure it's not much you or the likes of you can have in your cuff, 
 avourneen ! Don't be ashamed, but take it ; we can well afford it, 
 glory be to God for it ! It's not, agra, bekase you're goin' the way 
 you are — though that same's an honour to you — but bekase our hearts 
 warmed to you, that we offered it, an' bekase we would wish you to 
 be thinkin' of us now an' thin, when you're in a strange part of the 
 country. Let me open your pocket an' put them into it. That's a 
 good boy, thank you, an' God bless an' prosper you ! I'm sure you 
 wor always biddable." 
 
 " Now, childher," said the farmer, addressing his sons and daughters, 
 "never see the sthranger widout a frind, nor wantin'a bed or a dinner, 
 when you grow up to be men an' women. There's many a turn in this 
 world ; we may be sthrangers ourselves ; an' think of what I would 
 feel if any of you was far from me, widout money or friends, when I'd 
 hear that you met a father in a strange counthry, that lightened your 
 hearts by his kindness. Now, dear, the carts 'ill be ready in no time 
 — eh ? Why there they are at the gate waitin' for you. Get into one 
 of them, an' they'll lave you in the next town. Come, man, bud-an', 
 age, be stout-hearted, an' don't cry — sure we did nothin' for you to 
 spake of." 
 
 He shook the poor scholar by the hand, and drawing his hat over 
 his eyes, passed hurriedly out of the room. Alley stooped down, 
 kissed his lips, and wept ; and the children each embraced him with 
 that mingled feeling of compassion and respect which is uniformly 
 entertained for the poor scholar in Ireland. 
 
 The boy felt as if he had been again separated from his parents ; 
 with a sobbing bosom and wet cheeks he bid them farewell, and, 
 mounting one of the carts, was soon beyond sight and hearing of the 
 kind-hearted farmer and his family. 
 
 When the cart had proceeded about a mile, it stopped, and one of 
 the men who accompanied it, addressing a boy who passed with two 
 sods of turf under his arm, desired him to hurry on and inform his 
 master that they waited for him. 
 
 " Tell Misther Corcoran to come into coort," said the man, laughing, 
 "my lordship's waitin' to hear his defince for intindin' wi?/ to run 
 away wid Miss Judy Malowny. Tell him Lord Cart/s ready to pass 
 sintince on him for not stalin' the heart of her wid his Rule o' Three. 
 Ha ! by the holy farmer, you'll get it for stayin' from school to this 
 hour. Be quick, a bouchal ! " 
 
 In a few minutes the trembling urchin, glad of any message that 
 might serve to divert the dreaded birch from himself, entered the 
 uproarious "Siminary," caught his forelock, bobbed down his head to 
 the master, and pitched his two sods into a little heap of turf which 
 'a'? in the corner of the schooL 
 
io6 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 ** Arrah, Pat Roach, is this an hour to inter into my esuiblishment 
 wid impunity ? Eh, you Rosicrucian ?" 
 
 " Masther, sir," replied the adroit monkey, " I've » message for you, 
 sir, i' you plase." 
 
 " An' what might the message be, Masther Pal Roach ? To dine 
 to-day wid your worthy father, a bouchal ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; it's from one o' Mr. Lanigan's boys — him that belongs to 
 the carts, sir; he wants to spake to you, sir, i' you plase." 
 
 " An' do you give that by way of an apologetical oration for your 
 absence from the advantages of my tuition until this hour ? However, 
 non constat, Patricij I'll pluck the crow wid you on my return. If 
 you don't find yourself a well-flogged youth for your ' mitchin,' never 
 say that this right hand can administer condign punishment to that 
 part of your physical theory which constitutes the antithesis to your 
 vacuum caput. En et eccuf., you villain," he added, pointing to the 
 birch, " it's newly cut and tnmmed, and pregnant wid alacrity for the 
 operation. I correct, Patricius,on fundamental principles, which you'll 
 soon/eel to your cost." 
 
 " Masther, sir," replied the lad, in a friendly, conciliating tone, " my 
 fadher ud be oblaged to you if you'd take share of a fat goose wid 
 him to-morrow." 
 
 " Go to your sate, Paddy, avourneen ; devil a dacent boy in the 
 siminary I joke so much wid as I do wid yourself; an' all out of 
 respect for your worthy parents. Faith, I've a great regard for them, 
 all out, an' tell them so." 
 
 He then proceeded to the carts, and approaching Jemmy, gave him 
 such advice touching his conduct in Munster as he considered to be 
 most serviceable to an inexperienced lad of his years. 
 
 " Here," said the kind-hearted soul — " here, James, is my mite ; it's 
 but bare ten shillings ; but if I could make it a pound for you, it would 
 give me a degree of delectability which I hav-e not enjoyed for a long 
 time. The truth is there's something like the nodus matrimonii, or 
 what they facetiously term the priest's gallows, dangling over my head, 
 s ) that any little thrifle I may get must be kept together for that crisis, 
 James, a bouchal ; so that must be my apolog}' for not giving you more, 
 joined to the naked fact that I never was remarkable for a superfluity 
 of cash under any circumstances. Remember what I told you last 
 night.' Don't let a shilling of your money into the hands of the 
 masther you settle wid. Give it to the parish priest, and dhraw it 
 from him when you want it. Don't join the parties or the factions of 
 the school. Above all, spake ill of nobody ; and if the masther is 
 harsh upon you, either bear it patiently, or mintion it to the priest, or 
 to some other person of respectability in the parish, and you'll be pro- 
 tected. You'll be apt to meet cruelty enough, my good boy ; for there 
 are larned Neros in Munster, who'd flog if the province was in flames. 
 
 " Now, James, I'll tell you what you'll do, when you reach the larned 
 south. Plant yourself on the highest hill in the neighbourhood 
 wherein the academician with whom you intend to stop lives. Let 
 the hour of reconnoitring be that in which dinner is preparing. When 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 107 
 
 seated there, James, take a survey of the smoke that ascends from the ' 
 chimneys of the farmers' houses, and be sure to direct your steps to 
 that from which the highest and merriest column issues. This is the 
 old plan, and it is a sure one. The highest smoke rises from the 
 largest fire, the largest fire boils the biggest pot, the biggest pot 
 generally holds th« fattest bacon, and the fattest bacon is kept by the 
 richest farmer. Its a wholesome and comfortable climax, my boy, 
 and one by which I myself was enabled to keep a dacent portion of 
 educated flesh between the master's birch and my ribs. The science 
 itself is called Gastric Geography, and is peculiar only to itinerant 
 young gintlemen who seek for knowledge in the classical province of 
 Munster. 
 
 " Here's a book that thra veiled along wid m/self through all pere- 
 grinations — Creech's Translation of Horace. Keep it for my sake ; 
 and when you accomplish your education, if you return home this way, 
 I'd thank you to give me a call. Farewell ! God bless you and 
 prosper you as I wish, and as I am sure you desarve." 
 
 He shook the lad by the hand ; and as it was probable that his own 
 former struggles with poverty, when in the pursuit of education, came 
 with all the power of awakened recollection to his mind, he hastily 
 drew his hand across his eyes, and returned to resume the brief but 
 harmless authority of the ferula. 
 
 After arriving at the next town. Jemmy found himself once more 
 prosecuting his journey alone. In proportion as he advanced into a 
 strange land, his spirits became depressed, and his heart cleaved more 
 and more to those whom he had left behind him. There is, however, 
 an enthusiasm in the visions of youth, in the speculations of a young 
 heart, which frequently overcomes difficulties that a mind taught by 
 the experience of life would often shrink from encountering. We may 
 all remember the utter recklessness of danger with which, in our 
 youthful days, we crossed floods, or stood upon the brow of yawning 
 precipices — feats which, in after years, the wealth of kingdoms could 
 not induce us to perform. Experience, as well as conscience, makes 
 cowards of us all. 
 
 The poor scholar in the course of his journey had the satisfaction ^ 
 of finding himself an object of kind and hospitable attention to his 
 countrymen. His satchel of books was literally a passport to their 
 hearts. For instance, as he wended his solitary way, depressed and 
 travel-worn, he was frequently accosted by labourers from behind a 
 ditch on the road-side, and, after giving a brief history of the object 
 he had in view, brought, if it was dinner-hour, to some farmhouse or 
 cabin, where he was made to partake of their meal. Even those poor 
 creatures who gain a scanty subsistence by keeping what are called 
 " dhry lodgins," like luais a non luceiido, because they never keep 
 out the rain, and have mostly a bottle of whisky for those who know 
 how to call for it — even they, in most instances, not only refused to 
 charge the poor scholar for his bed, but declined receiving any remu- 
 neration or his subsistence. 
 
 '' Och, och, no, you poor young crathur, not from you. No, no ; if 
 
loS THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 we wouldn't help the likes o' you, who ought we to help ? No, dear ; 
 but instead o' the airighad^ jist lave us your blessin', an' maybe we'll 
 thrive as well wid that as we would wid your little pences, that you'll 
 be wantin' for yourself, whin your frinds won't be near to help you." 
 
 Many, in fact, were the little marks of kindness and attention which 
 the poor lad received on his way. Sometimes a ragged peasant, if he 
 happened to be his fellow-traveller, would carry his satchel so long as 
 they travelled together ; or a carman would give him a lift on his 
 empty car ; or some humorous postilion, or tipsy " shay-boy," with a 
 comical leer in his eye, would shove him into his vehicle, remarking : 
 
 " Bedad, let nobody say you're a poor scholar noiu, an' you goin' to 
 school in a coach ! Be the piper that played afore Aloses, if ever any 
 rascal upbraids you wid it, tell him, says you — * You damned rap,' says 
 you, * I wint to school in a coach ! an' that,' says you, ' was what none 
 o' yer beggerly gineration was ever able to do,' says you ; ' an' more- 
 over, be the same token,' says you, ' be the holy farmer, if you bring it 
 up to me, I'll make a third eye in your forehead wid the butt o' this 
 whip,' says you. Whish ! darlins ! That's the go ! There's drivin', 
 Barny ! eh ? " 
 
 At length, after much toil and travel, he reached the South, having 
 experienced as he proceeded a series of affectionate attentions, which 
 had, at least, the effect of reconciling him to the measure he had 
 taken, and impressing upon his heart a deeper confidence in the kind- 
 ness and hospitality of his countrymen. 
 
 Upon the evening of the day on which he terminated his journey, 
 twilight was nearly falling ; the town in which he intended to stop 
 for the night was not a quarter of a mile before him, yet he was 
 scarcely able to reach it ; his short, yielding steps were evidently 
 those of a young and fatigued traveller ; his brow was moist with 
 perspiration ; he had just begun, too, to consider in what manner he 
 should introduce himself to the master who taught the school at 
 which he had been advised to stop, when he heard a step behind him, 
 and on looking back he discovered a tall, well-made, ruddy-faced 
 young man, dressed in black, with a book in his hand, walking after 
 him. 
 
 ** Utide et quo, viator?" said the stranger, on coming up with him. 
 
 " Oh, sir," replied Jemmy, " I have no* Latin ^^/." 
 
 " You are on your way to seek it, however," replied the other. 
 " Have you travelled far ? " 
 
 " A long way, indeed, sir ; I came from the county , sir — the 
 
 upper part of it." 
 
 " Have you letters from your parish priest ?" 
 
 " I have, sir, and one from my father's landlord. Square Benson, if 
 you ever heard of him." 
 
 " What's your object in learning Latin ? " 
 
 " To be a priest, sir, wid the help o' God ; an' to rise my poor 
 father an' mother out of their poverty." 
 
 ' Monev. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. icg 
 
 His companion, after hearing this reply, bent a glance ipon him 
 that indicated the awakening of an interest in the lad much greater 
 than he probably otherwise would have felt. 
 
 " It's only of late," continued the boy, " that my father and mother 
 got poor ; they were once very well to do in the world, But they 
 were put out o' their farm in ordher that the agint might put a man 
 that had married a get^ of his own into it. My father intended to 
 
 lay his case before Colonel B , the landlord ; but he couldn't see 
 
 him at all, bekase he never comes near the estate. The agint's called 
 Yallow Sam, sir ; he's rich through cheatery and dishonesty ; puts 
 money out at intherest, then goes to law, and brakes the people 
 entirely ; for, somehow, he never was known to lose a lawsuit at all, 
 sir. They say it's the divil, sir, that keeps the lawyers on his side ; 
 and that when he an' the lawyers do be dhrawin' up their writins, the 
 divil — God betune me an' harm ! — does be helpin' them." 
 
 '' And is Colonel B actually — or, rather, was he — your father's 
 
 landlord ? " 
 
 " He was, indeed, sir ; it's thruth I'm tellin' you." 
 
 " Singular enough ! Stand beside me here — do you see that large 
 house to the right among the trees ? " 
 
 " I do, sir ; a great big house, entirely ; like a castle, sir." 
 
 " The same. Well, that house belongs to Colonel B , and I am 
 
 very intimate with him. I am Catholic curate of this parish ; and I 
 was, before my ordination, private tutor in his family for four years." 
 
 " Maybe, sir, you might have intherest to get my father back into 
 kis farm ? " 
 
 *' I do not know that, my good lad, for I am told Colonel B is 
 
 rather embarrassed, and, if I mistake not, in the power of the man 
 you call Yellow Sam, who has, I believe, heavy mortgages upon his 
 property. But no matter ; if I cannot help your father, I shall be 
 able to serve yourself. Where do you intend to stop for the night ? " 
 
 " In dhry lodgin', sir ; that's where my taiher and mother bid me 
 stop always. They war very kind to me, sir, in the dhry lodgins." 
 
 " Who is there in Ireland who would not be kind to yon, my good 
 boy ? I trust you do not neglect your religious duties ?" 
 
 " Wid the help o' God, sir, I strive to attind to them as well as I 
 can ; particularly since I left my father and mother. Every night 
 an' mornin', sir, I say five pathers, five aves, an' a creed ; an' some- 
 times, when I'm walkin' the road, I slip up an odd pather, sir, an' ave, 
 that God may grant me good luck." 
 
 The priest smiled at his candour and artlessness, and could not 
 help feeling the interest which the boy had already excited in him 
 increase. 
 
 " You do right," said he, " and take care that you neglect not the 
 worship of God. Avoid bad company ; be not quarrelsome at school ; 
 study to improve yourself diligently j attend mass regularly, and be- 
 punctual in going to confession. 
 
 ' A term implying illegitimacy. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 After some further conversation, the priest and he entered the town 
 together. 
 
 " This is my house," said the former ; " or, if not altogether mine, 
 at least, that in which I lodge ; let me see you here at two o'clock 
 to-morrow. In the meantime follow me, and I shall place you with a 
 family where you will experience every kindrvess and attention that 
 can make you comfortable." 
 
 He then led him a few doors up the street, till he stopped at a 
 decent-looking " house of entertainment," to the proprietors of which 
 he introduced him. 
 
 " Be kind to this strange boy," said the worthy clergyman, " and 
 whatever the charges of his board and lodging may be until we get 
 him settled, I shall be accountable for them." 
 
 " God forbid, your reverence, that ever a penny belongin' to a poor 
 boy looking for his larnin' should go into our pockets, if he was 
 wid us twelve months in the year. No — no ! he can stay with the 
 bouchaleens ; ' let them be thryin' one another in their books. If he 
 is fardher on in the Latin than Andy, he can help Andy ; an' if Andy 
 has the foreway of him, why Andy can help him. Come here, boys, 
 all of yees. Here's a comarade for yees — a dacent boy that's lookin' 
 for his larnin' ; the Lord enable him ! Now be kind to him, an' 
 whisper," he added, in an undertone, " don't be bringin' a blush to 
 the gorsoon's face. Do yees hear ? Ma chorp ! if yees do ! Now 
 mind it. Yees know what I can do whin I'm well vexed ! Go, now, 
 an' git him somethin' to ate an' dhrink, an' let him sleep wid Barney 
 in the feather-bed." 
 
 During the course of the next day the benevolent curate introduced 
 him to the parish priest, who, from the frequent claims urged by 
 poor scholars upon his patronage, felt no particular interest in his 
 case. He wrote a short letter, however, to the master with whom 
 Jemmy intended to become a pupil, stating that " he was an honest 
 boy, the son of legitimate parents, and worthy of consideration." 
 
 The curate, who saw further into the boy's character than the parish 
 priest, accompanied him on the following day to the school ; intro- 
 duced him to the master in the most favourable manner, and recom- 
 mended him in general to the hospitable care of all the pupils. This 
 introduction did not serve the boy so much as might have been ex- 
 pected ; there was nothing particular in the letter of the parish priest, 
 and the curate was but a curate — no formidable personage in any 
 church, where the good-will of the rector has not been already 
 secured. 
 
 Jernmy returned that day to his lodgings, and the Hext morning, with 
 his Latin grammar under his arm, he went to the school to taste the 
 first bitter fruits of the tree of knowledge. 
 
 On entering it, which he did with a beating heart, he found the 
 despot of a hundred subjects sitting behind a desk, with his hat on, 
 a brow superciliously severe, and his nose crimped into a most cutting 
 
 Little boys. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 and vinegar curl. The truth was, the master knew the character of 
 the curate, and felt that, because he had taken Jemmy under his pro 
 tection, no opportunity remained for him of fleecing the boy, under th 
 pretence of securing his money, and that consequently the arnval oir' 
 the poor scholar would be no windfall, as he had expected. 
 
 When Jemmy entered, he looked first at the master for his welcome ; 
 but the master, who verified the proverb that there are none so 
 blind as those who will not see, took no notice whatsoever of him. 
 The boy then looked timidly about the school in quest of a friendly 
 face, and, indeed, few faces except friendly ones were turned upon 
 him. 
 
 Several of the scholars rose up simultaneously to speak to him ; 
 but the pedagogue angrily inquired why they had left their seats and 
 their business. 
 
 " Why, sir," said a young Munsterman, with a fine Milesian face — 
 " be Gorra, sir, I believe if we don't welcome the poor scholar, I think 
 you won't. This is the boy, sir, that Mr. O'Brien came along wid yis- 
 therday, an spoke so well of." 
 
 " I know that, Thady ; and Misther O'Brien thinks, because he him- 
 self first passed through that overgrown hedge-school, wid slates upon 
 the roof of it, called Thrinity College, and matriculated in Maynooth 
 afther, that he has legal authority to recommend every young vagrant 
 to the gratuitous benefits of legitimate classicality. An', I suppose, 
 that you are acting the pathrun, too, Thady, and intend to take this 
 young wild-goose under your protection ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, isn't he a poor scholar ? Sure he mustn't want his bit 
 an' sup, nor his night's lodgin', anyhow. You're to give him his larnin' 
 only, sir." 
 
 " I suppose so, Mr. Thaddeus ; but this is the penalty of celebrity. 
 If I weren't so celebrated a man for classics as I am, I would have 
 none of this work. I tell you, Thady, if I had fifty sons I wouldn't 
 make one o' them celebrated^' 
 
 " Wait till you have one first, sir, and you may make him as great a 
 numskull as you plase, masther." 
 
 " But in the meantime, Thady, I'll have no dictation from you as 
 to whether I'll have one or fifty ; or as to whether he'll be an ass or a 
 Newton. I say that a dearth of larnin' is like a year of famine in Ireland. 
 When the people are hard pushed, they bleed the fattest bullocks, 
 an' live on their blood ; an' so it is wid us academicians. It's always 
 he that has the most larned blood in his veins, and the greatest quan- 
 tity of it, that such hungry leeches fasten on." 
 
 "Thrue for you, sir," said the youth, with a smile ; "but they say 
 the bullocks always fatten the betther for it. I hope you'll bleed well 
 now, sir." 
 
 " Thady, T don't like the curl of your nose ; an', moreover, I have 
 always found you prone to sedition. You remember your conduct at 
 the ' barring out.' I tell you it's well that your worthy father is a 
 dacent, wealthy man, or I'd be apt to give you a me7noria technica on 
 the subtratiim, Thady." 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " God be praised for my father's wealth, sir I But I'd never wish to 
 have a good memory in the way you mention." 
 
 "Faith, an' I'll be apt to add that to your other qualities, if you 
 don't take care of yourself" 
 
 " I want no such addition, masther ! if you do, you'll be apt to 
 subtract yourself from this neighbourhood, an', maybe, there won't 
 be more than a cypher gone out of it, afther all." 
 
 " Thady, you're a wag," exclaimed the crestfallen pedagogue ; 
 " take the lad to your own sate, and show him his task. How is you: 
 sister's sore throat, Thady ?" 
 
 " Why, sir," replied the benevolent young wit, " she's betther than I 
 am. She can swallow more, sir," 
 
 " Not of larnin', Thady ; there you've the widest gullet in the 
 parish." 
 
 " My father's the richest man in it, masther," replied Thady. " I 
 think, sir, my gullet and his purse are much about the same size — 
 wid you.'" 
 
 " Thady, you're first-rate at a reply, but exceedingly deficient in the 
 retort courteous. Take the lad to your sate, I say, and see how far 
 he is advanced, and what he is fit for. I suppose, as you are so 
 ginerous, you will volunteer to tache him yourself." 
 
 " I'll do that wid pleasure, sir ; but I'd like to know whether ^^'z* 
 intind to tache him or not." 
 
 " An' I'd like to know, Thady, who's to pay me for it if I do. A 
 purty return Michael Rooney made me for making him such a linguist 
 as he is. ' You're a tyrant,' said he, when he grew up, ' and instead of 
 expecting m« to thank you for your instructions, you ought to thank 
 me for not preparing you for the county hospital, as a memento of the 
 cruelty and brutality you made me feel when I had the misfortune to 
 be a poor scholar under you.' And so, because he became curate of 
 the parish, he showed me the outside of it." 
 
 " But will you tache this poor young boy, sir ?" 
 
 " Let me know who's to guarantee his payments r " 
 
 " 1 have money myself, sir, to pay you for two years," replied Jemmy. 
 " They told me, sir, that you were a great scholar, and I refused to 
 stop in other schools by rason of the name you have for Latin an' 
 Greek." 
 
 " Verbtnn sat." exclaimed the barefaced knave. " Come here. 
 Now, you see, I pcrsave you have dacency. Here is your task ; get 
 that half-page by heart. You have a cute look, an' I've no doubt but 
 the stuff's in you. Come to me afther dismiss, 'till we have a little 
 talk together." 
 
 He accordingly pointed out his task, after which he placed him at 
 his side, lest the i.!?texperienced boy might be put on his guard by 
 any of the se'nolars. In this intention, however, he was frustrated 
 by Thariy, who, as he thoroughly detested the knavish tyrant, resolved 
 to caution the poor scholar against his dishonesty. Thady, indeed, 
 most heartily despised the mercenary pedagogue, not only for his 
 obsequiousness to the rich, but on account of his severity to the 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 113 
 
 children of the poor. About two o'clock the young wag went out for 
 a few minutes, and immediately returned in great haste to inform the 
 master that Mr. Delany, the parish priest, and two other gentlemen, 
 wished to see him over at the Cross Keys, an inn which was kept at a 
 place called the Nine- Mile House, within a few perches of the school. 
 The parish priest, though an ignorant, insipid old dunce, was the 
 master's patron, and his slightest wish a divine law to him. The little 
 despot, forgetting his prey, instantly repaired to the Cross Keys, and 
 in his absence, Thady, together with the larger boys of the school, 
 made M'Evoy acquainted with the fraud about to be practised on 
 him. 
 
 " His intintion," said they, " is to keep you at home to-night, in 
 ordher to get whatever money you have into his own hands, that he 
 may keep it safe for you ; but if you give him a penny you may 
 bid farewell to it. Put it in the curate's hands," added Thady, " or in 
 my father's, an' thin it'll be safe. At all evints, don't stay wid him 
 this night. He'll take your money, and then turn you off in three 01 
 four weeks." 
 
 " I didn't intind to give him my money," replied Jemmy ; " a 
 schoolmaster I met on my way here bid me not to do it. I'll give 
 it to the priest." 
 
 " Give it to the curate," said Thady — " wid him it'll be safe ; for 
 the parish priest doesn't like to throuble himself wid anything of the 
 kind." 
 
 This was agreed upon ; the boy was prepared against the designs 
 of the master, and a plan laid down for his future conduct. In the 
 meantime, the latter re-entered the school in a glow of indignation 
 and disappointment. 
 
 Thady, however, disregarded him ; and as the master knew that 
 the influence of the boy's father could at any time remove him from 
 the parish, his anger subsided without any very violent consequences. 
 The parish priest was his avowed patron, it is true ; but if the parish 
 priest knew that Mr. O'Rorke was dissatisfied with him, that moment 
 he would join Mr. O'Rorke in expelling him from the neighbourhood. 
 Mr. O'Rorke was a wealthy and hospitable man, but the schoolmaster 
 was neither the one nor the other. 
 
 During school-hours that day many a warm-hearted urchin entered 
 into conversation with the poor scholar : some moved by curiosity to 
 hear his brief and simple history ; others anxious to offer him a tem- 
 porary asylum in their father's houses ; and several to know if he had v/ 
 the requisite books, assuring him that, if he had not, they would lend 
 them to him. These proofs of artless generosity touched the homeless 
 youth's heart the more acutely inasmuch as he could perceive but too v 
 clearly that the eye of the master rested upon him, from time to time, 
 with no auspicious glance. 
 
 When the scholars were dismissed, a scene occurred which was 
 calculated to produce a smile alAough it certainly placed the poor 
 scholar in a predicament by no means agreeable. It resulted from a 
 contest among the boys as to who should first bring him home. Tha 
 
114 
 
 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 master, who, by that cunning for which the knavish are remarkable, 
 had discovered in the course of the day that his design upon the boy's 
 money was understood, did not ask him to his house. The contest 
 was, therefore, among the scholars, who, when the master had dis- 
 appeared from the school-room, formed themselves into a circle, of 
 which Jemmy was the centre, each pressing his claim to secure him. 
 
 "The right's wid me," exclaimed Thady. " I stood to him all day, 
 an' I say I'll have him for this night. Come wid me, Jimmy. Didn't 
 I do rrtost for you to-day ? " 
 
 " I'll never forget your kindness," replied poor Jemmy, quite alarmed 
 at the boisterous symptoms of pugilism which already began to appear. 
 In fact, many a tiny fist was shut, as a suitable accompaniment to the 
 arguments with which they enforced their assumed rights. 
 
 " There now," continued Thady, " that puts an ind to it ; he says 
 he'll never forget my kindness. That's enough, come wid me, Jimmy." 
 " Is it enough ? " said a lad, who, if his father was less wealthy than 
 Thady's, was resolved to put strength of arm against strength of purse. 
 " Maybe it isn't enough ' / say I bar it, if your fadher was fifty times 
 as rich ! Rich ! Arrah, don't be comin' over us in regard of your 
 riches, man alive ! I'll bring the sthrange boy home this very night, 
 an' it isn't your father's dirty money that'll prevint me ! " 
 
 "I'd advise you to get a double ditch about your nose," replied 
 
 Thady, "before you begin to say anything disrespectful aginst my 
 
 father. Don't think to ballyrag over me. /'// bring the boy, for I 
 
 have the best right to him. Didn't \ do^ the masther on his account ? " 
 
 " A double ditch about my nose .'' " 
 
 « Aye ! " 
 
 •' Are you able to fight me ? " 
 " I'm able to thry it, anyhow, an' willin' too." 
 " Do you say you're able to fight me ? " 
 " I'll bring the boy home, whether or not." 
 
 " Thady's not your match, Jack Ratigan," said another boy. " Why 
 don't you challenge your match ? " 
 
 " \{yoti say a word, I'll half-sole your eye. Let him say whether 
 he's able to fight me like a man or not. That's the chat." 
 
 " Half-sole my eye ! Thin here I ain, an' why don't you do it. You're 
 crowin' over a boy that you're bigger than. /'// fight you for Thady. 
 Now half-sole my eye if you dar ! Eh ? Here's my eye now ! Arrah, 
 
 be the holy man, I'd Don't we know the white hen's in you. Didn't 
 
 Barny Murtagh cow you at the black pool, on Thursday last, whin we 
 wor bathin'." 
 
 " Come, Ratigan," said Thady, " peel an' turn out. I say I rtw able 
 to fight you : an' I'll make you ate your words aginst my father, by 
 way of givia' you your dinner. An' I'll make the dacent strange boy 
 walk home wid me over your body — that is, if he'd not be afraid to 
 dirty his feet." 
 
 Ratigsm and Thady immediately set to, and in a few minutes there 
 
 ' Outttii. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. "5 
 
 were scarcely a little pair of fists present that were not a. work, eitlier 
 on behalf of ihe two combatants, or with a view to determine their 
 own private rights in being the first to exercise hospitality towards 
 the amazed poor scholar. The fact was that while the two largest 
 boys were argumg the point, about thirty or forty minor disputes all 
 ran parallel to theirs, and their mode of decision was immediately 
 adopted by the pugnacious urchins of the school. In this manner 
 they were engaged, poor Jemmy attempting to tranquillise and separate 
 them, when the master, armed in all his terrors, presented himself. 
 
 With the tact of a sly old disciphnarian, he first secured the door, 
 and instantly commenced the agreeable task of promiscuous castiga- 
 tion. Heavy and vindictive did his arm descend upon those whom he 
 suspected to have cautioned the boy against his rapacity ; nor amongst 
 the warm-hearted lads whom he thwacked so cunningly was Thady 
 passed over with a tender hand. Springs, bouncings, doublings, blow- 
 ing of fingers, scratching of heads, and rubbing of elbows — shouts of 
 pain, and doleful exclamations, accompanied by action that displayed 
 surpassing agility — marked the effect with which he plied the instru- 
 ment of punishment. In the meantime, the spirit of reaction, to use 
 a modern phrase, began to set in. The master, while thus engaged in 
 dispensing justice, first received a rather vigorous thwack on the ear 
 from behind by an anonymous contributor, who gifted him with what 
 is called a musical ear, for it sang during five minutes afterwards. 
 The monarch, when turning round to ascertain the traitor, received 
 another insult on the most indefensible side, and that with a cordiality 
 of manner that induced him to send his right hand reconnoitring the 
 invaded part. He wheeled round a second time with more alacrity 
 than before ; but nothing less than the head of Janus could have 
 secured him on the occasion. The anonymous contributor sent him a 
 fresh article. This was supported by another kick behind ; the turf 
 began to fly ; one after another came in contact with his head and 
 shoulders so rapidly that he found himself, instead of being the 
 assailant, actually placed upon his defence. The insurrection spread, 
 the turf flew more thickly ; his subjects closed in upon him in a more 
 compact body ; every little fist itched to be at him ; the larger boys 
 boldly laid in the facers, punched him in the stomach, treated him 
 most opprobriously behind, every kick and cuff accompanied by a 
 memento of his cruelty ; in short, they compelled him, like Charles the 
 Tenth, ignominiously to fly from his dominions. 
 
 On finding the throne vacant, some of them suggested that it ought 
 to be overturned altogether. Thady, however, who was the ring 
 leader of the rebellion, persuaded them to be satisfied with what they 
 had accomplished, and consequently succeeded in preventing them 
 from destroying the fixtures. 
 
 Again they surrounded the poor scholai, who, feeling himself the 
 cause of the insurrection, appeared an object of much pity. Such was 
 his grief that he could scarcely reply to them. Their consolation ou 
 witnessing his distress was overwhelming ; they desired him to think 
 nothing of it ; if the master, they told him, should wreak his resent- 
 
"6 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 merit on lu'in, " be the holy farmer, they would pay ^ the jnasther* 
 Thady's claim was now undisputed ; with only the injury of a bl^k 
 eye, and a lip swelled to the size of a sausage, he walked home in 
 triumph, the poor scholar accompanying him. 
 
 The master, who feared that this open contempt of his authority, 
 running up, as it did, into a very unpleasant species of retaliation, was 
 something like a signal for him to leave the parish, felt rather more of 
 the penitent the next morning than did any of his pupils. He was by 
 no means displeased, therefore, to see them drop in about the usual 
 hour. They came, however, not one by one, but in compact groups, 
 each officered by two or three of the larger boys ; for they feared that 
 had they entered singly he might have punished them singly, until his 
 vengeance should be satisfied. It was by bitter and obstinate struggles 
 that they succeeded in repressing their mirth, when he appeared at his 
 desk with one of his eyes literally closed, and his nose considerably 
 improved in size and richness of colour. When they were all assembled, 
 he hemmed several times, and in a woe-begone tone of voice, split — 
 by a feeble attempt at maintaining authority, and suppressing his terrors 
 — into two parts that jarred most ludicrously, he briefly addressed 
 them as follows : — 
 
 " Gintlemen classics — I have been now twenty-six years engaged in 
 the propagation of Latin and Greek litherature, in conjunction wid 
 Mathematics, but never until yesterday has my influence been 
 spurned ; never until yesterday have sacrilegious hands been laid 
 upon my person ; never until yesterday have I been kicked — in- 
 sidiously, ungallantly, and treacherously kicked — by my own subjects. 
 No, gintlemen — and whether I ought to bestow that respectable 
 epithet upon you after yesterday's proceedings is a matter which 
 admits of dispute — never before has the lid of my eye been laid 
 drooping, and that in such a manner that I must be blind to the 
 conduct of half my pupils, whether I will or not. You have com- 
 plained, it appears, of my want of impartiality ; but God knows you 
 have compelled me to be partial for a week to come. Neither blame 
 me if I may appear to look upon you with scorn for the next fortnight ; 
 for I am compelled to turn up my nose at you much against my own 
 inclination. You need never want an illustration of the iiaso adutico 
 of Horace again — I'm a living example of it. That, and the doctrine 
 of projectile forces, have been exemplified in a manner that will 
 prevent me from ever relishing these subjects in future. No king can 
 consider himself properly such until after he has received the oil of 
 consecration : but you, it appears, think differently. You have un- 
 kinged me first, and anointed me afterwards ; but, I say, no potentate 
 would relish such unction. It smells confoundedly of republicanism. 
 Maybe this is what yoic understand by the Republic of Letters ; but 
 if it be, I would advise you to change your principles. You treated 
 my ribs as if they were the ribs of a common man ; my shins you 
 took liberties wid even to excoriation ; my head you made a target of 
 
 • Punish. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLjiR ri? 
 
 X)r your hardest turf ; and my nose you dishonoured to my face. Was 
 this glnerous ? was it discreet ? was it subordinate ? and, above all, 
 was it classical? However, I will show you what greatness of mind 
 is ; I will convince you that it is more noble and god-like to fc-give 
 an injury, or rather five dozen injuries, than to avenge one ; when — 
 hem — yes, I say, when I — I — might so easily avenge it. I now pre- 
 sent you wid an amnesty ; return to your allegiance ; but never, while 
 in this siminary, under my tuition, attimpt to take the execution of the 
 laws into your own hands. Homerians, come up?" 
 
 This address, into which he purposely threw a dash of banter and 
 mock gravity, delivered with the accompaniments of his swelled nose 
 and drooping eye, pacified his audience more readily than a serious 
 one would have done. It was received without any reply or symptom 
 of disrespect, unless the occasional squeak of a suppressed laugh, or 
 the visible shaking of many sides with inward convulsions, might be 
 termed such. 
 
 In the course of the day, it is true, their powers of maintaining 
 gravity were put to a severe test, particularly when, while hearing a 
 class, he began to adjust his drooping eyelid, or coax back his nose 
 into its natural position. On these occasions a sudden pause might be 
 noticed in the business of the class ; the boy's voice who happened to 
 read at the time would fail him ; and on resuming his sentence by 
 command of the master, its tone was tremulous, and scarcely adequate 
 to the task of repeating the words without his bursting into laughter. 
 The master observed all this clearly enough, but his mind was already 
 made up to take no further notice of what had happened. 
 
 All this, however, conduced to render the situation of the poor 
 scholar much more easy, or rather less penal, than it would otherwise 
 have been. Still the innocent lad was on all possible occasions a butt 
 for this miscreant. To miss a word was a pretext for giving him a 
 cruel blow. To arrive two or three minutes later than the appointed 
 hour was certain on his part to be attended with immediate punish- 
 ment. Jemmy bore it all with silent heroism. He shed no tear — he 
 uttered no remonstrance ; but under the anguish of pain so barbarously 
 inflicted, he occasionally looked round upon his schoolfellows with an 
 expression of silent entreaty that was seldom lost upon them. Cruel 
 to him the master often was, but to inhuman barbarity the large 
 scholars never permitted him to descend. Whenever any of the 
 wealthier farmers' sons had neglected their lessons, or deserved 
 chastisement, the mercenary creature substituted a joke for the birch ; 
 but as soon as the son of a poor man, or, which was better still, the 
 poor scholar, came before him, he transferred that punishment which 
 the wickedness or idleness of respectable boys deserved, to his or their 
 shoulders. For this outrageous injustice the hard-hearted old villain 
 had some plausible excuse ready, so that it was in many cases difficult 
 for Jemmy's generous companions to intefere in his behalf, or parry 
 the sophistry of such a petty tyrant. 
 
 In this miserable way did he pass over the tedious period of a year, 
 going about every night in rotation with the scholars, and severely 
 
 (3) 
 
"8 THE POOR SCHOLAJT. 
 
 beaten on all possible occasions by the master. His conduct and 
 manners won him the love and esteem of all except his tyrant in- 
 structor. His assiduity was remarkable, and his progress in the 
 elements of English and classical literature surprisingly rapid. This 
 added considerably to his character, and procured him additional 
 respect. It was not long until he made himself useful and obliging 
 to all the boys beneath his standing in the school. These services he 
 rendered with an air of such kindness, and a grace so naturally 
 winning, that the attachment of his schoolfellows increased towards 
 him from day to day. Thady was his patron on all occasions ; neither 
 did the curate neglect him. The latter was his banker, for the boy 
 had very properly committed his purse to his keeping. At the ex- 
 j)iration of every quarter the schoolmaster received the amount of 
 his bill, which he never failed to send in when due. 
 
 Jemmy had not, during his first year's residence in the south, 
 forgotten to request the kind curate's interference with the landlord 
 on behalf of his father. To be the instrument of restoring his family 
 
 to their former comfortable holding under Colonel B would have 
 
 afforded him, without excepting the certainty of his own eventual 
 success, the highest gratification. Of this, however, there was no 
 hope, and nothing remained for him but assiduity in his studies, and 
 patience under the merciless scourge of his teacher. In addition to an 
 engaging person and agreeable manners, nature had gifted him with 
 a high order of intellect, and great powers of acquiring knowledge. 
 The latter he applied to the business before him with indefatigable 
 industry. The school at which he settled was considered the first in 
 Munster ; and the master, notwithstanding his known severity, stood 
 high, affd justly so, in the opinion of the people, as an excellent 
 classical and mathematical scholar. Jemmy applied himself to the 
 study of both, and at the expiration of his second year had made such 
 progress that he stood without a rival in the school. 
 
 It is usual, as we have said, for the poor scholar to go night after 
 night, in rotation, with his schoolfellows ; he is particularly welcome 
 in the houses of those farmers whose children are not so far advanced 
 as himself. It is expected that he should instruct them in the evenings 
 and enable them to prepare their lessons for the following day, a task 
 which he always performs with pleasure, because in teaching them he 
 is confirming his own mind in the knowledge which he has previously 
 acquired. Towards the end of the second year, however, he ceased 
 to circulate in this manner. Two or three of the most independent 
 parishioners, whose sons were only commencing their studies, agreed 
 to keep him week about ; an arrangement highly convenient to him, 
 as by that means he was not so frequently dragged, as he had been, 
 to the remotest parts of the parish. Being an expert penman, he 
 acted also as secretary of grievances to the poor, who frequently 
 employed him to draw up petitions to obdurate landlords, or to their 
 more obdurate agents, and letters to soldiers in all parts of the world 
 from their anxious and affectionate relations. All these little services 
 he performed kindly and promptly ; many a blessing was fervently 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 119 
 
 invoked upon his head ; the "good word" and " the prayer " were all 
 they could afford, as they said, " to the beuchal dhas oge^ that tuck the 
 world an him for sake o' the larnin', and that hasn't the kindliness o' 
 the mother's breath an' the mother's hand near him, the crathur." 
 
 About the middle of the third year he was once more thrown upon 
 the general hospitality of the people. The three farmers with whom 
 he had lived for the preceding six months emigrated to America, as 
 did many others of that class which, in this country, most nearly 
 approximates to the substantial yeomanry of England. The little 
 purse, too, which he had placed in the hands of the kind priest, was 
 exhausted ; a season of famine, sickness, and general distress had set 
 in ; and the master, on understanding that he was without money, 
 became diabolically savage. In short, the boy's difficulties increased 
 to a perplexing degree. Even Thady and his grown companions, who 
 usually interposed in his behalf when the master became excessive in 
 correcting him, had left the school, and now the prospect before him 
 was dark and cheerless indeed. For a few months longer, however, 
 he struggled on, meeting every difficulty with meek endurance. Since 
 his very boyhood he had reverenced the sanctions of icligion, and was 
 actuated by a strong devotional spirit. He trusted in God, and wor- 
 shipped him night and morning with a sincere heart. 
 
 At this crisis he was certainly an object of pity ; his clothes, which 
 for some time before were reduced to tatters, he had replaced by a 
 cast-off coat and small-clothes, a present from his friend the curate, 
 who never abandoned him. This worthy young man could not afford 
 him money, for as he had but fifty pounds a-year with which to clothe, 
 subsist himself, keep a horse, and pay rent, it was hardly to be ex- 
 pected that his benevolence could be extensive. In addition to this, 
 famine and contagious disease raged with formidable violence in the 
 parish ; so that the claims upon his bounty of hundreds who lay 
 huddled together in cold cabins, in out-houses, and even behind 
 ditches, were incessant as well as heartrending. The number of 
 interments that took place daily in the parish was awful ; nothing 
 could be seen but funerals attended by groups of ragged and emaciated 
 creatures, from whose hollow eyes gleamed forth the wolfish fire of 
 famine. The wretched mendicants were countless, and the number of 
 coffins that lay on the public roads — where, attended by the nearest 
 relatives of the deceased, they had been placed for the purpose of 
 procuring charity — were greater than ever had been remembered by 
 the oldest inhabitant. 
 
 Such was the state of the parish when our poor scholar complained 
 one day in school of severe illness. The early symptoms of the pre- 
 vailing epidemic were well known, and, on examining more closely 
 into his situation, it was clear that, according to the phraseology of 
 the people, he had " got the faver on his back " — had caught " a heavy 
 load of the faver." The Irish are particularly apprehensive of con- 
 tagious maladies. The moment it had been discovered that Jemmy 
 
 ' The pretty j'(M<»^ boy. Boy, in Ireland, does not always imply yemh. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 was infected, his schoolfellows avoided him with a feeling of terror 
 scarcely credible, and the inhuman master was delighted at any cir- 
 cumstance, however calamitous, that might afford him a pretext for 
 driving the friendless youth out of the school. 
 
 " Take," said he " everything belongin' to you out of my establish- 
 ment : you were always a plague to me, but now more than ever. Be 
 quick, sarra, and nidificate for yourself somewhere else. Do you want 
 to thranslate my siminary into an hospital, and myself into Lazarus 
 as president ? Go off, you wild-goose, and conjugate CEgroto wherever 
 you find a convenient spot to do it in." 
 
 The poor boy silently and with difficulty arose, collected his books, 
 and slinging on his satchel, looked to his schoolfellows, as if he had 
 said, " VVhich of you will afford me a place where to lay my aching 
 head?" All, however, kept aloof from him ; he had caught the con- 
 tagion, and the contagion, they knew, had swept the people away in 
 vast numbers. 
 
 At length he spoke. " Is there any boy among you," he inquired, 
 "who will bring me home.'' You know I am a stranger, an' far from 
 my own, God help me ! " 
 
 This was followed by a profound silence. Not one of those who 
 had so often befriended him, or who would, on any other occasion, 
 share their bed and their last morsel with him, would even touch his 
 person, much less allow him, when thus plague-stricken, to take shelter 
 under their roof. Such are the effects of selfishness when it is opposed 
 only by the force of those natural qualities that are not elevated into 
 a sense of duty by clear and profound views of Christian truth. It is 
 one thing to perform a kind action from constitutional impulse, and an- 
 other to perform it as a fi.xed duty, perhaps contrary to that impulse. 
 
 Jemmy, on finding himself avoided like a Hebrew leper of old, 
 silently left the school, and walked on without knowing whither he 
 should ultimately direct his steps. Rethought of his friend the priest, 
 but the distance between him and his place of abode was greater, he 
 felt, than his illness would permit him to travel. He walked on, 
 therefore, in such a state of misery and dereliction as can scarcely be 
 conceived, much less described. His head ached excessively, an 
 intense pain shot like death-pangs through his lower back and loins, 
 his face was flushed and his head giddy. In this state he proceeded, 
 without money or friends, without a house to shelter him, a bed on 
 which to lie, far from his own relations, and with the prospect of 
 death, under circumstances peculiarly dreadful, before him ! He 
 tottered on, however, the earth, as he imagined, reeling under him : 
 the heavens, he thought, streaming with fire, and the earth indistinct 
 and discoloured. Home, the paradise of the absent — home, the 
 heaven of the affections — with all its tenderness and blessed sym- 
 pathies, rushed upon his heart. His father's deep but quiet .kindness, 
 his mother's sedulous love ; his brothers — all that they had been to 
 him — these, with their thousand heart-stirring associations, started 
 into life before him again and again. But he was now ill, and the 
 mother — ah ! the enduring sense of that mother's love placed her 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 brightest and strongest and tenderest in the far and distant group 
 which his imagination bodied forth. 
 
 " Mother ! " he exclaimed — " oh, mother, why — why did I ever lave 
 you? Mother! the son you loved is dyin' without a kind word- 
 lonely and neglected in a strange land ! Oh, my own mother ! why 
 did I ever lave you ? " 
 
 The conflict between his illness and his affections overcame him : 
 he staggered — he grasped as if for assistance at the vacant air — he 
 fell, and lay for some time in a state of insensibility. 
 
 The season was then that of midsummer, and early meadows were 
 falling before the scythe. As the boy sank to the earth, a few 
 labourers were eating their scanty dinner of bread and milk so near 
 him that only a dry low ditch ran between him and them. They had 
 heard his words indistinctly, and one of them was putting the milk 
 bottle to his lips, when, attracted by the voice, he looked in the 
 ■direction of the speaker, and saw him fall. They immediately 
 recognised " the poor scholar," and in a moment were attempting to 
 recover him. 
 
 " Why thin, my poor fellow, what's a shmighran wid you ? " 
 
 Jemmy started for a moment, looked about him, and asked, 
 *' Where am I ? " 
 
 " Faitha, thin, you're in Rory Connor's field, widin a few perches 
 of the high road. But what ails you, poor boy ? — is it sick you are ?" 
 
 " It is," he replied ; " I have got the faver. I had to lave school ; 
 none o' them would take me home, an' I doubt I must die in a 
 Christian counthry undher the open canopy of heaven. Oh, for God's 
 sake, don't lave me ! Bring me to some hospital, or into the next 
 town, where people may know that I'm sick, an' maybe some kind 
 Christian will relieve me ! " 
 
 The moment he mentioned " Fever " the men involuntarily drew 
 back, after having laid him reclining against the green ditch. 
 
 " Thin, thundher an' turf, what's to be done .'' " exclaimed one of 
 them, thrusting his spread fingers into his hair. " Is the poor boy to 
 die widout help among Christyeens like uz?" 
 
 "But hasn't he the sickness?" exclaimed another: "an' in that 
 case, Pether, what's to be done?" 
 
 " Why, you gommoch, isn't that what I'm wantin' to know ? You 
 wor ever an' always a dam' ass, Paddy, except before you wor born, 
 an' thin you wor like Major M'Curragh, worse nor nothin'. Why the 
 sarra do you be spakin' about the sickness, the Lord protect us, whin 
 you know I'm so timersome of it?" 
 
 " But considher," said another, edging off from Jemmy, however, 
 " that he's a poor scholar, an' that there's a great blessin' to thim that 
 assists the likes of him." 
 
 " Ay, is there that, sure enough, Dan ; but you see — ^blur-an-age, 
 what's to be done? He can't di^ this-a-way, wid nobody wid him 
 but himself." 
 
 "Let us help him!" exclaimed another "for God's sake, an' we 
 won't be apt to take it thin." 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Ay, but how can we help him, Frank ? Oh, bedad, it ud be a 
 murdherin' shame, all out, to let the crathur die by himself, widout 
 company, so it would." 
 
 *' No one will take him in for fraid o' the sickness. Why, I'll tel) 
 you what we'll do. Let us skhame the remainder o' this day off o* 
 the Major, an' build a shed for him on the road-side here, jist against 
 the ditch. It's as dhry as powdher. Thin" we can go through the 
 neighbours, an' get thim to sit near him time about, an' to bring him 
 little dhreeniens o' nourishment." 
 
 " Divil a purtier ! Come, thin, let us get a lot o' the neighbours, 
 and set about it, poor bouchal. Who knows but it may bring down 
 a blessin' upon us, aithcr in this world or the next." 
 
 " Amin ! I pray Gorra ! an' so it will, sure ! doesn't the Catechiz 
 say it ? 'There is but one Church,' says the Catechiz, ' one Faith, 
 an' one Baptism.' Bedad, there's a power o' fine larnin' in the same 
 Catechiz, so there is, an' mighty improvin'." 
 
 An Irishman never works for wages with half the zeal which he 
 displays when working co7i aino7-e. Ere many hours had passed, a 
 number of the neighbours had assembled, and Jemmy found himself 
 on a bunch of clean straw in a little shed erected for him at the edge 
 of the road. 
 
 Perhaps it would be impossible to conceive a more gloomy state of 
 misery than that in which young M'Evoy found himself. Stretched 
 on the side of the public road, in a shed formed of a few loose sticks 
 covered over with " scraws " — that is, the sward of the earth pared 
 into thin stripes — removed about fifty perches from any human habita- 
 tion — his body racked with a furious and oppressive fever — his mind 
 conscious of all the horrors by which he was surrounded — without the 
 comforts even of a bed or bedclothes — and, what was worst of all, those 
 from whom he might expect kindness afraid to approach him ! Lying 
 helpless, under these circumstances, it ought not to be wondered at it 
 he wished that death might at once close his extraordinary sufferings, 
 and terminate those straggles which filial piety had prompted him to 
 encounter. 
 
 This certainly is a dark picture, but our humble hero knew that 
 even there the power and goodness of God could support him. The 
 boy trusted in God ; and when removed into his little shed, and 
 stretched upon his clean straw, he felt that his situation was, in good 
 sooth, comfortable, when contrasted with what it might have been if 
 left to perish behind a ditch, exposed to the scorching heat of the sun 
 by day, and the dews of heaven by night. He felt the hand of God 
 even in this, and placed himself, with a short but fervent prayer, 
 under his fatherly protection. 
 
 Irishmen, however, are not just that description of persons who can 
 pursue their usual avocations and see a fellow-creature die without 
 such attentions as they can afford him ; not precisely so bad as that, 
 gentle reader ! Jemmy had not been two hours on his straw when a 
 second shed, much larger than his own, was raised within a dozen 
 yards of it. In this a fire was lit ; a small pot was then procurea 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 tnilk was sent in, and such other little comforts brought together as 
 they supposed necessary for the sick boy. Having accomphshed these 
 matters, a kind of guard was set to watch and nurse-tend him ; a 
 pitchfork was got, on the prongs of which they intended to reach him 
 bread across the ditch ; and a long-shafted shovel was borrowed, on 
 which to furnish him drink with safety to themselves. That inex- 
 tmguishable vein of humour, which in Ireland mingles even with death 
 and calamity, was also visible here. The ragged, half-starved creatures 
 laughed heartily at the oddity of their own inventions, and enjoyed 
 the ingenuity with which they made shift to meet the exigencies of 
 the occasion, without in the slightest degree having their sympathy 
 and concern for the afflicted youth lessened. 
 
 When their arrangements were completed, one of them (he of the 
 scythe) made a little whey, which, in lieu of a spoon, he stirred with 
 the end of his tobacco knife ; he then extended it across the ditch upon 
 *he shov^el, after having put it in a tin porringer. 
 
 "Do you want a taste o' whey, avourneen ? " 
 
 "Oh, 1 do," replied Jemmy ; " give me a drink, for God's sake." 
 
 " There it is, a bouchal, on the shovel. Musha if myself rightly 
 knows what side you're lyin' an, or I'd put it as near your lips as I 
 could. Come, man, be stout, don't be cast down, at all at all ; sure, 
 bud-an-age, we're shovellin' the whey to you, anyhow." 
 
 " I have it," replied the boy — "oh, I have it. .May God never forget 
 this to you, whoever you are." 
 
 " Faith, if you want to know who 1 am, I'm Pether Connor the 
 mower, that never seen to-morrow. Be gorra, poor boy, you mustn't 
 Jet your spirits down, at all at all. Sure the neighbours is all bmt to 
 watch an' take care of you. May I take away the shovel .'' — an' they've 
 built a brave snug shed here beside yours, where they'll stay wid you 
 time about until you get well. We'll feed you wid whey enough, 
 bekase we've made up our minds to stale lots o' sweet milk for you. 
 Ned Branagan an' I will milk Rody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the 
 help o' God. Divil a bit sin in it, so there isn't, an' if there is, too, be 
 my sowl there's no harm in it, anyway — for he's but a nager himself, 
 the same Rody. So, acushla, keep a light heart, for, be gorra, you're 
 sure o' the thin pair o' trowsers, anyhow. Don't think you're desarted 
 — for you're not. It's all in regard o' bein' afeard o' this faver, or it's 
 not this way you'd be ; but, as I said a while agone, when you want 
 anything, spake, for you'll still find two or three of us beside you here, 
 night an' day. Now won't you promise to keep your mind asy, when 
 you know that we're beside you .''" 
 
 "God bless you," replied Jemmy, "you've taken a weight off my 
 heart. I thought I'd die wid nobody near me at all." 
 
 " Oh, the sorra fear of it. Keep your heart up. We'll stale lots 
 o' milk for you. Bad scran to the baste in the parish but we'll milk, 
 sooner nor you'd want the whey, you crathur, you." 
 
 The boy felt relieved, but his malady increased ; and were it not 
 that the confidence of being thus watched and attended to supported 
 him, it is more than probable he would have sunk under it 
 
»24 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 When the hour of closing the day's labour arrived, Major came 
 
 down to inspect the progress which his mowers had made, and the 
 goodness of the crop upon his meadows. No sooner was he perceived 
 at a distance than the scythes were instantly resumed, and the m.owers 
 pursued their employment with an appearance of zeal and honesty that 
 could not be suspected. 
 
 On arriving at the meadows, however, he was evidently startled at 
 the miserable day's work they had performed. 
 
 " Why, Connor," said he, addressing the nurse-tender, "how is this? 
 I protest you have not performed half a day's labour ! This is miser- 
 able and shameful." 
 
 " Bedad, major, it's thrue for your honour, sure enough. It's a poor 
 day's work, the never a doubt of it. But be all the books that 7iever 
 was opened or shut, busier men nor we were since mornin' couldn't be 
 had for love or money. You see, major, these meadows — bad luck to 
 them ! — God pardon me for cursin' the harmless crathurs, for sure, 
 'tisn't their fau't, sir ; but you see, major, I'll insinse you into it. Now 
 look here, your honour. Did you ever see deeper meadow nor that 
 same since you war foal — hem — since you war born, your honour ? 
 Maybe, your honour, major, ud just take the scythe an' sthrive ta 
 cut a swaythe ?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Connor ; don't you know I cannot." 
 
 "Thin, be gorra, sir, I wisht you could thry '.c. I'd kiss the book, 
 we did more labour, an' worked harder this day, nor any day for the 
 last fortnight. If it was light grass, sir — see here, major, here's a 
 light bit — now, look at how the scythe runs through it ! Thin look at 
 here agin — ^jist observe this, major — why, murdher alive, don't you see 
 how slow she goes through that where the grass is heavy'. Bedad, 
 major, you'll be made up this season wid your hay, anyhow. Divil 
 carry the finer meadow ever I put scythe in nor the same meadow, 
 God bless it ! " 
 
 " Yes, I see it, Connor. I agree with you as to its goodness. But the 
 reason of that is, Connor, that I always direct my steward myself in lay- 
 ing it down for grass. Yes, you're right, Connor ; if the meadow were 
 light, you could certainly mow comparatively a greater space in a day." 
 
 " Be the livin' farmer, God pardon me for swearin', it's a pleasure 
 to have dalins wid a gintleman like you, that knows things as cute as 
 if you war a mower yourself, your honour. Bedad, I'll go bail, sir, it 
 wouldn't be hard to tache you that same." 
 
 "Why, to tell you the truth, Connor, you have hit me off pretty well. 
 I'm beginning to get a taste for agriculture." 
 
 " But," said Connor, scratching his head, " won't your honour allow 
 us the price of a glass, or a pint o' porther, for our hard day's work. 
 Bad cess to me, sir, but this meadow 'ill play the puck wid us afore we 
 get it finished. Atween ourselves, sir — if it wouldn't be takin' freedoms 
 — if you'd look to your own idixvciwi yourself. The steward, sir, is a 
 dacent kind of n)an, but, sowl, he couldn't hould a candle to your 
 honour in seein' to the best way of doing a thing, sir. Won't you allow 
 us glasses apiece, your honour? Faix, we're kilt entirely, so we are." 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Here is half a crown among you, Connor ; but don't get drunk." 
 
 " Dhrunk ! Musha, long may you reign, sir ! Be the scythe in my 
 hand, I'd rather — och, faix, you're one o' the ould sort, sir — the raal 
 Irish gintleman, your honour. An' sure your name's far an' near foi 
 that, anyhow." 
 
 Connor's face would have done the heart of Brooke or Cruikshank 
 good, had either of them seen it charged with humour so rich as that 
 which beamed from it when the Major left them to enjoy their own 
 comments upon what had happened. 
 
 " Oh, be the livin' farmer," said Connor, " are we alive at all afther 
 doifi' the major ! Oh, thin, the curse o' the crows upon you, major 
 darlin', but you are a Mamis ! The damn' rip o' the world, that 
 wouldn't give the breath he breathes to the poor for God's sake, an' 
 he'll threwn a man half a crown that'll blarney him for farmin', an' 
 him doesn't know the differ atween a Cork-red an' a Yallow-leg ! " 
 
 " Faith, he's the boy that knows how to make a Judy ol himself, 
 anyway, Pether," exclaimed another. " The devil a hapurth asier nor 
 to give these quality the bag to hould, so there isn't — an' they think 
 themselves so cute, too ! " 
 
 " Augh ! " said a third, " couldn't a man find the soft side o' them, 
 as asy as make out the way to his own nose widout bein' led to it. 
 Devil a sin it is to do theni^ anyway. Sure he thinks we wor tooth an' 
 nail at the meadow all day ; an' me thought I'd never recover it, to 
 see Pether here — the rise he tuck out of him ! Ha, ha, ha — och, och, 
 — mufdher, oh ! " 
 
 " P aith," exclaimed Connor, " 'twas good, you see, to help the poor 
 scholar ; only for it we couldn't get shkamin' the half-crown out of 
 him. I think we ought to give the crathur half of it, an' him so sick 
 ^he'll be wantin' it worse nor ourselves." 
 
 " Oh, be gorra, he's fairly entitled to that. I vote him fifteen- 
 pince." 
 
 ■'Surely !" they exclaimed unanimously— "tundher-an'-turf, wasn't 
 he the manes of gettin' it for us ?" 
 
 "Jemmy, a bouchal," said Connor, across the ditch to M'Evoy, 
 " are you sleepin' ? " 
 
 •' Sleepin' ! Oh, no," replied Jemmy, " I'd give the wide world for 
 one wink of asy sleep." 
 
 " Well, aroon, here's fifteen pince for you, that we shkam — will I tell 
 him how we got it 1 " 
 
 "No, don t," replied his neighbours, " the boy's given to devotion, 
 an', maybe, might scruple to take it." 
 
 " Here's fifteen pince, avourneen, on the shovel, that we're giving 
 you/or God's sake. If you over^ this, won't you offer up a prayer for 
 us ? Won't you, avick ? " 
 
 " I can never forget your kindness," replied Jemmy. " I will always 
 pray for you, an' may God for ever bless you an' yours." 
 
 " Poor ciathur ! May the heavens above have prosthration on him. 
 
 • That is, to get over — to survive. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 Upon my sowl, it's good to have his blessin' an' his prayer. Now don'i 
 fret, Jemmy ; we're lavin' you wid a lot o' neighbours here. The>'U 
 watch you time about, so that whin you want anything, call, avourneeti, 
 an' there'll still be someone here to answer. God bless you, an' re- 
 store you, till we come wid the milk we'll stale for you wid the help o' 
 God. Bad cess to me, but it ud be a mortual sin, so it would, to let 
 the poor boy die at all, an' him so far from home. For, as the 
 Catechiz says, ' There is but one Faith, one Church, and one Daptism ! ' 
 Well, the readin' that's in that Catechiz is mighty improvin', glory be 
 to God ! " 
 
 It would be utterly impossible to detail the affliction which our 
 poor scholar suffered in this wretched shed for the space of a fort- 
 night, notwithstanding the efforts of those kind-hearted people to 
 render his situation comfortable. 
 
 The little wigwam they had constructed near him was never, even 
 for a moment, during his whole illness without two or three persons 
 ready to attend him. In the evening their numbers increased ; a fire 
 was always kept burning, over which a little pot for making whey or 
 gruel was suspended. At night they amused each other with anecdotes 
 and laughter, and occasionally with songs, when certain that their 
 patient was not asleep. Their excursions to steal milk for him were 
 performed with uncommon glee, and related among themselves with 
 great humour. These thefts would have been unnecessary, had not 
 the famine which then prevailed through the province been so ex- 
 cessive. The crowds that swarmed about the houses of wealthy 
 farmers, supplicating a morsel to keep body and soul together, re- 
 sembled nothing which our English readers ever had an opportunity 
 of seeing. Ragged, emaciated creatures tottered about wiih an ex- 
 pression of wildness and voracity in their gaunt features ; fathers and 
 mothers reeled under the burthen of their beloved children, the latter 
 either sick, or literally expiring for want of food ; and the widow, in 
 many instances, was compelled to lay down her head to die with the 
 v;ail, the feeble wail, of her withered orphans mingling with her last 
 moans ! In such a state of things it was difficult to procure a 
 sufficient quantity of milk to allay the unnatural thirst even of one 
 individual, when parched by the scorching heat of a fever. Notwith- 
 standing this, his wants were for the most part anticipated, so far as 
 their means would allow them ; his shed was kept waterproof; and 
 either shovel or pitchfork always ready to be extended to him, by way 
 of substitution for the right hand of fellowship. 
 
 When he called for anything, the usual observation was, " Husht ! 
 the crathur's callin' ; I must take the shovel an' see what he wants." 
 
 There were times, it is true, when the mirth of the poor fellows 
 was very low, for hunger was generally among themselves ; there 
 were times when their own little shed presented a touching and 
 melancholy spectacle— perhaps wc ought also to add, a noble one; 
 for to contemplate a number of fnen, considered rude and semi- 
 barbarous, devoting themselves, in the midst of privations the most 
 cutting and oppressive, to the care and preservation of a strange lad, 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. '27 
 
 merely because they knew him to be without friends and protection, 
 is to witness a display of virtue truly magnanimous. The food on 
 which some of the persons were occasionally compelled to live was 
 blood boiled up with a little oatmeal ; for when a season of famine 
 occurs in Ireland, the people usually bleed the cows and btllocks to 
 preserve themselves from actual starvation. It is truly a sight of 
 appalling misery to behold feeble women gliding across the country, 
 carrying their cans and pitchers, actually trampling upon fertnity and 
 fatness, and collected in the comer of some grazier's farm, waiting, 
 gaunt and ravenous as Ghouls, for their portion of blood. During 
 these melancholy periods of want, everything in the shape of an 
 esculent disappears. The miserable creatures will pick up chicken- 
 weed, nettles, sorrel, bugloss, preshagh, and sea-weed, which they 
 will boil and eat with the voracity of persons writhing under the 
 united agonies of hunger and death ! Yet, singular to say, the very 
 country thus groaning under such a terrible sweep of famine is actually 
 pouring from all her ports a profusion of food, day after day ; flinging 
 it from her fertile bosom with the wanton excess of a prodigal oppressed 
 by abundance. 
 
 Despite, however, of all that the poor scholar's nurse-guard suffered,, 
 he was attended with a fidelity of care and sympathy which no calam- 
 ity could shake. Nor was this care fruitless ; after the fever had passed 
 through its usual stages, he began to recover. In fact, it has been ob- 
 served, very truly, that scarcely any person has been known to die 
 under circumstances similar to those of the poor scholar. These sheds, 
 the erection of which is not unfrequent in case of fever, have the ad- 
 vantage of pure free air, by which the patient is cooled and refreshed. 
 Be the cause of it what it may, the fact has been established, and we 
 feel satisfaction in being able to adduce our humble hero as an addi- 
 tional proof of the many recoveries which take place in situations 
 apparently so unfavourable to human life. But how is it possible to 
 detail what M'Evoy suffered during this fortnight of intense agony? 
 Not those who can command the luxuries of life — not those who can 
 reach its comforts — nor those who can supply themselves with its bare 
 necessaries — neither the cotter who struggles to support his wife and 
 helpless children — the mendicant who begs from door to door — nor 
 even the felon in his cell — can imagine what he felt in the solitary 
 misery of his feverish bed. Hard is the heart that cannotyi?^/ his sor- 
 rows, when, stretched beside the common way, without a human face 
 to look on, he called upon the mother whose brain, had she known his 
 situation, would have been riven — whose affectionate heart would have 
 been broken by the knowledge of his affliction. It was a situation 
 which afterwards appeared to him dark and terrible. The pencil of 
 the painter could not depict it, nor the pen of the poet describe it, ex- 
 cept like a dim vision, which neither the heart nor the imagination are 
 able to give to the world as a tale steeped in the sympathies excited by 
 reality. 
 
 His whole heart and soul, as he afterwards acknowledged, were, during 
 his trying illness, at hoitie. The voices of his parents, of his sisters, ijid 
 
1 28 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 of his brothers were always in his ears ; their countenances surrounded 
 his cold and lonely shed ; their hands touched him ; their eyes lookea 
 upon him in sorrow — and their tears bedewed him. Even there, the 
 light of his mother's love, though she herself was distant, shone upon 
 his sorrowful couch ; and he has declared that in no past moment of 
 affection did his soul ever burn with a sense of its presence so strongly 
 as it did in the heart-dreams of his severest illness. But G-^d is love, 
 "and tempcrcth the wind to the shorn lamb." 
 
 Much of all his sufferings would have been alleviated, were it not 
 that his two best friends in the parish, Thady and the curate, had been 
 both prostrated by the fever at the same time with himself. There was 
 consequently no person of respectability in the neighLourhood cogni- 
 sant of his situation. He was left to the humbler class of the peasantry, 
 >/ and honourably did they, with all their errors and ignorances, dis- 
 charge those duties which greater wealth and greater knowledge would, 
 probably, have left unperformed. 
 
 On the morning of the last day he ever intended to spend in the 
 shed, at eleven o'clock, he heard the sounds of horses' feet passing 
 along the road. The circumstance was one quite familiar to him ; but 
 these horsemen, whoever they might be, stopped, and immediately 
 after, two respectable looking men, dressed in black, approached him. 
 His forlorn state and frighifully-wasted appearance startled them, and 
 the younger of the two asked, in a tone of voice which went directly to 
 his heart, how it was they found him in a situation so desolate. 
 
 The kind interest implied by the words, and probably a sense of his 
 utterly destitute state, affected him strongly, and he burst into tears. 
 The strangers looked at each other, then at him ; and if looks could 
 express sympathy, theirs expressed it. 
 
 " My good boy," said the first, " how is it that we find you in a situ- 
 ation so deplorable and wretched as this ' Who are you.or why is it 
 that you have not a friendly roof to shelter you ? " 
 
 '■ I'm a poor scholar," replied Jemmy, " the son of honest but reduced 
 parents : I came to this part of the country with the intention of pre- 
 paring myself for Maynooth, and, if it might plase God, with the hope 
 of being able to raise them out of their distress." 
 
 The strangers looked more earnestly at the boy ; sickness had 
 touched his fine intellectual features into a purity of expression almost 
 ethereal. His fair skin appeared nearly transparent, and the light of 
 truth and candour lit up his countenance with a lustre which afiliction 
 could not dim. 
 
 The other stranger approached him more nearly, stooped for a 
 moment, and felt his pulse. 
 
 " How long have you been in this country .-' " he inquired. 
 
 " Nearly three years." 
 
 " You have been ill of the fever which is so prevalent ; but how 
 did you come to be left to the chance of perishing upon the high- 
 way .? " 
 
 " Why, sir, the people were afeard to let me into their houses in con- 
 sequence of the faver. I got ill in school, sir, but no boy would venture 
 
7 HE POOR SCHOLAR. 129 
 
 to bring me home, an' the master turned me out, to die, I believe. May 
 God forgive him ! " 
 
 " Who was your master, my child ? " 
 
 " The great Mr. , sir. If Mr. O'Brien, the curate of the parish, 
 
 hadn't been ill himself at the same time, or if Mr. O'Rorke's son, 
 Thady, hadn't been laid on his back, too, sir, I wouldn't suffer what 
 I did." 
 
 " Has the curate been kind to you ? " 
 
 " Sir, only for him and the big boys I couldn't stay in the school, on 
 account of the master's cruelty, particularly since my money was out." 
 
 " You are better now — are you not '^. " said the other gentleman. 
 
 " Thank God, sir ! — oh, thanks be to the Almighty, 1 am ! I expect 
 to be able to lave this place to-day or to-morrow." 
 
 " And where do you intend to go when you recover ? " 
 
 The boy himself had not thought of this, and the question came on 
 him so unexpectedly that he could only reply : 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I don't know." 
 
 " Had you," inquired the second stranger, " testimonials from your 
 parish priest ? " 
 
 '' I had, sir : they are in the hands of Mr. O'Brien. I also had a 
 character from my father's landlord." 
 
 " But how," asked the other, " have you existed here during yoi'r 
 illness ? Have you been long sick?" 
 
 " Indeed, 1 can't tell you, sir, for I don't know how the time passed 
 at all ; but 1 know, sir, that there were always two or three people 
 attendin' me. They sent me whatever they thought I wanted, upon a 
 shovel or a pitchfork, across the ditch, because they were afraid to 
 come near me." 
 
 During the early part of the dialogue, two or three old hats, or 
 caubeens, might have been seen moving steadily over from the wigwam 
 to the ditch which ran beside the shed occupied by M'Evoy. Here 
 they remained stationary, for those who wore them were now within 
 hearing of the conversation, and ready to give their convalescent 
 patient a good word, should it be necessary. 
 
 "How were you supplied with drink and medicine .'"' asked the 
 younger stranger. 
 
 " As I've just told you, sir," replied Jemmy, " the neighbours here 
 let me want for nothing that they had. They kept me in more whey 
 than I could use ; and they got me medicine, too, some way or other. 
 But indeed, sir, during a great part of the time I was ill, I can't say 
 how they attended me : 1 wasn't sensible, sir, of what was goin' on 
 about me." 
 
 One of those who lay behind the ditch now arose, and after a few 
 hems and scratchings of the head, ventured to join in the conversation. 
 
 " Pray have you, my man," said the elder of the two, " been 
 acquauited with the circumstances of this boy's illness ? " 
 
 " Is it the poor scholar, my lord "i ' Oh, thin, bedad, it's myself that 
 
 ' T)ie peasirntry silways address a Roman Catholic bishop as " my lerd." 
 
130 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 has that. The poor crathur was in a terrible way all out, so he was 
 He caught the faver in the school beyant one day, an' was turned oui 
 by the nager o' the world that he was larnin' from." 
 " Are you one of the persons who attended him .? " 
 " Och, och, the crathur ! what could unsignified people like us do 
 for him, barrin' a thrifle .-' Anyhow, my lord, it's the meracle o' the 
 world that he was ever able to over it at all. Why, sir, good luck to 
 the one of him but suffered as much, wid the help o' God, as ud over- 
 come fifty men ! " 
 
 " How did you provide him with drink at such a distance from any 
 human habitation ? " 
 
 " Throth, hard enough we found it, sir, to do that same ; but sure, 
 whether or not, my lord, we couldn't be sich nagers as to let him die 
 all out, for want o' somcthin' to moisten his throath wid." 
 
 " I hope," inquired the other, " you had nothing to do in the milk- 
 stealing which has produced such an outcry in this immediate neigh- 
 bourhood .'' " 
 
 " Milk-stalin' ! Oh, bedad, sir, there never was the likes known 
 afore in the counthry. The Lord forgive them that did it ! Be gorra, 
 sir, the wickedness o' the people's mighty improvin', if one ud take 
 warnin' by it, glory be to God ! " 
 
 " Many of the farmers' cows have been milked at night, Connor — 
 perfectly drained — even my own cows have not escaped ; and we who 
 have suffered are certainly determined, if possible, to ascertain those 
 who have committed the theft. I, for my part, have gone even beyond 
 my ability in relieving the wants of the poor during this period of 
 sickness and famine ; I therefore deserved this the less." 
 
 " By the powdhers, your honour, if any gintleman desarved to have 
 his cows unmilked, it's yourself. But, as I said this minute, there's 
 no end to the wickedness o' the people, so there's not, although the 
 Catechiz is against them — for, says it, 'there is but one Faith, one 
 Church, an' one Baptism.' Now, sir, isn't it quare that people, wid 
 sich words in the book afore them, won't be guided by it "i I suppose 
 they thought it only a white sin, sir, to take the milk, the thieves o' 
 the world." 
 
 " Maybe, your honour," said another, " that it was only to keep the 
 life in some poor sick crathur, that wanted it more nor you nor the 
 farmers, that they did it. There's some o' the same farmers desarve 
 worse, for they're keepin' up the prices o' their male an' praties upon 
 the poor, an' did so all along, that they might make money by our 
 outher distitution." 
 
 * That is no justification for theft," observed the graver of the two. 
 " Does any one among you suspect those who committed it in this in- 
 stance ? If you do, I command you, as your bishop, to mention them." 
 
 " How, for instance," added the other, " were you able to supply this 
 sick boy with whey during his illness ? " 
 
 " Oh, thin, gintlemen," replied Connor, dexterously parrying the 
 question, " but it's a mighty improvin' thing to see our own bishop — 
 God spare his lordship to us ! — an' the Protestant minister o' the 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 131 
 
 parish joinin' together to relieve an* give good advice to the poor ! """^ 
 Bedad, it's settin' a fine example, so it is, to the quahty, if they'd take 
 patthern by it." 
 
 " Reply," said the bishop, rather sternly, " to the questions we have 
 asked you." 
 
 " The quistions, your lordship ? It's proud an' happy we'd be to do 
 what you want ; but the sarra man among us can do it, barrin' we'd 
 say what we ought not to say. That's the truth, my lord ; an' surely 
 'tisn't your gracious reverence that ud want us to go beyant it ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," replied the bishop. " I warn you against both 
 falsehood and fraud — two charges which might frequently be brought 
 against you in your intercourse with the gentry of the country, whom 
 you seldom scruple to deceive and mislead, by gliding into a character, 
 when speaking to them, that is often the reverse of your real one ; 
 whilst, at the same time, you are both honest and sincere to persons 
 of your class. Put away this practice, for it is both sinful and dis- 
 creditable." . 
 " God bless your lordship ! an' many thanks to your gracious re- v^ 
 verence for advisin' us ! Well we know that it's the blessed thing to 
 folly your words." 
 
 " Bring over that naked, starved-looking man, who is stirring the 
 fire under that pot," said the rector — " he looks like famine itself." 
 
 " Paddy Dunn, will you come over here to his honour, Paddy ! He's 
 goin' to give you somethin'," said Connor, adding of his own accord 
 the last clause of the message. 
 
 The tattered creature approached him with a gleam of expectation 
 in his eyes that appeared like insanity. 
 
 " God bless your honour for your goodness ! " exclaimed Paddy. 
 " It's me that's in it, sir ! — Paddy Dunn, sir, sure enough ; but indeed 
 I'm the next thing to my own ghost, sir, now — God help me ! " 
 " What, and for whom, are you cooking ? " 
 
 " Jist the smallest dhrop in life, sir, o' gruel, to keep the sowl in that 
 lonely crathur, sir, the poor scholar." 
 
 " Pray how long is it since you have eaten anything yourself?" 
 The tears burst from the eyes of the miserable creature as he 
 replied : 
 
 " Before God in glory, your honour, an' in presence of his lordship 
 here, I only got about what ud make betther nor half a male widin 
 the last day, sir. 'Twas a weeshy grain o' male that I got from a 
 friend ; an' as Ned Connor here tould me that this crathur had 
 nothin' to make the gruel for him, why I shared it wid him, bekase he 
 couldn't even beg it, sir, if he wanted it, an' him not able to walk yit." 
 The worthy pastor's eyes glistened with a moisture that did him 
 honour. Without a word of observation he slipped a crown into the 
 hand of Dunn, who looked at it as if he had been paralysed. 
 
 " Oh thin," said he, fervently, " may every hair on your honour's 
 head become a mould-candle to light you into glory ! The world's 
 goodness is in your heart, sir ; an' may all the blessins of heaven rain 
 down UT>on you an' yours !" 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 The two <,'entlemen then gave assistance to the poor scholar, whom 
 the bishop addressed in kind and encouraging language. 
 
 " Come to me, my good boy," he added, " and if, on further inquiry, 
 I find that your conduct has been such as I believe it to have been, 
 you may rest assured, provided also you contmue worthy of my good 
 opinion, that I shall be a friend and a protector to you. Call on me 
 when you got well, and I will speak to you at greater length." 
 
 "Well," observed Connor, when they were gone, "the divil's own 
 hard puzzle the bishop had me in, about stalin' the milk. It wint 
 agin the grain wid me to tell hurt the lie, so I had to invint a bit o' 
 truth to keep my conscience clear ; for sure there was not a man among 
 us that could tell him, barrin' we said what we oitghtti't to say. 
 Doesn't all the world know that a man oughtn't to condimn himself. 
 That was thruth, anyway ; but divil a scruple I'd have in bamnmi the 
 other — not but that he's one o' the best of his sort. Paddy Dunn, quit 
 lookin' at that crown, but get the shovel an' give the boy his dhrink — 
 he's wantin' it." 
 
 The agitation of spirits produced by Jemmy's cheering interview 
 with the bishop was, for two or three days afterwards, somewhat pre- 
 judicial to his convalescence. In less than a week, however, he was 
 comfortably settled with Mr. O'Rorke's family, whose kindness proved 
 to him quite as warm as he had expected. 
 
 When he had remained with them a few days, he resolved to re- 
 commence his studies under his tyrant master. He certainly knew 
 that his future attendance at the school would be penal to him, but he 
 had always looked forward to the accomplishment of his hopes as a 
 task of difficulty and distress. The severity to be expected from the 
 master could not, he thought, be greater than that which he had 
 already suffered ; he therefore decided, if possible, to complete his 
 education under him. 
 
 The school, when Jemmy appeared in it, had been for more than an 
 hour assembled, but the thinness of the attendance not only proved 
 the woeful prevalence of sickness and distress in the parish, but 
 sharpened the pedagogue's vinegar aspect into an expression of coun- 
 tenance singularly peevish and gloomy. When the lad entered, a 
 murmur of pleasure and welcome ran through the scholars, and joy 
 beamed forth from every countenance but that of his teacher. When 
 the latter noticed this, his irritability rose above restraint, and he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Silence ! and apply to business, or I shall cause some of you to 
 denude immediately. No school ever can prosper in which that 
 ht7-udo, called a poor scholar, is permitted toleration, I thought, 
 sarra, I told you to nidificate, and hatch your wild project undher 
 some other wing than mine." 
 
 " I only entrate you," replied our poor hero, " to suffer me to join 
 the class I left while I was sick, for about another year. I'll be very 
 quiet and humble, and, as far as I can, will do everything you wish 
 me." 
 
 •* Ah I you are a crawling reptile,"' replied the savage, " and. in my 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. I33 
 
 opinion, nothing but a chate and impostor. I think you have inr.posed 
 yourself on Mr. O'Brien for what you are not — that is, the son of an 
 honest man. I have no doubt but many of your nearest relations 
 died^after having seen their own funerals. Your mother, you runagate, 
 wasn't your father's wife, I'll be bail." 
 
 The spirit of the boy could bear this no longer ; bis eyes flashed, 
 and his sinews stood out in the energy of deep indignation. 
 
 "It is false," he exclaimed, " it is as false as your own cruel and 
 cowardly heart, you wicked and unprincipled tyrant ! In everything 
 you have said of my father, mother, and friends, and of myself, too, you 
 are a liar, from the hat on your head to the dirt undher your feet — a 
 liar, a coward, and a villain ! " 
 
 The fury of the miscreant was ungovernable : he ran at the still 
 feeble lad, and, by a stroke of his tist, dashed him senseless to the 
 earth. There were now no large boys in the school to curb his resent- 
 ment, he therefore kicked him in the back when he fell. Many voices 
 exclaimed in alarm, " Oh ! masther, sir, don't kill him ! Oh ! sir, dear, 
 don't kill him ! Don't kill poor Jemmy, sir, an' him still sick ! " 
 
 " Kill him. ! " replied the master — " kill him, indeed ! Faith, he'd be 
 no common man who could kill him ; he has as many lives in him as 
 a cat ! Sure he can live behind a ditch, wid the faver on his back, 
 widout dying ; and he would live if he was stuck on the spire of a 
 steeple." 
 
 In the meantime the boy gave no symptoms of returning life, and 
 the master, after desiring a few of the scholars to bring him out to the 
 air, became pale as death with apprehension. He immediately with- 
 drew to his private apartment, which joined the schoolroom, and sent 
 out his wife to assist in restoring him to animation. With some diffi- 
 culty this was accomplished. The unhappy boy at once remembered 
 what had just occurred, and the bitter tears gushed from his eyes, as 
 he knelt down and exclaimed, " Merciful Father of heaven and earth, 
 have pity on me ! You see my heart, great God ! and what I did, I 
 did for the best ! " 
 
 " Avourneen," said the woman, " he's passionate, an' never mind 
 him. Come in an' beg his pardon for callin' him a liar, an' I'll become 
 spokesman for you myself. Come, acushla, an' I'll get lave for you to 
 stay in the school still." 
 
 " Oh, I'm hurted ! " said the poor youth — " I'm hurted inwardly — 
 somewhere about the back and about my ribs!" The pain he felt 
 brought the tears down his pale cheeks. " I wish I was at home ! " 
 said he. " I'll give up all and go home ! " The lonely boy then laid his 
 head upon his hands, as he sat on the ground, and indulged in a long 
 burst of sorrow. 
 
 " Well," said a manly-looking little fellow, whilst the tears stood in 
 his eyes, " I'll tell my father this, anyhow. I know he won't let me 
 come to this school any more. Here, Jemmy, is a piece of my bread 
 maybe it will do you good." 
 
 "I couldn't taste it, Frank, dear," said Jemmy ; "God bless you I 
 but I couldn't taste it." 
 
134 ^HE I'OOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Do," said Frank ; " maybe it will bate back the pain." 
 •' Don't ask me, Frank, dear," s?id Jemmy ; " I couldnt ate it ; I'm 
 hurted inwardly." 
 
 " Bad luck to me ! ' exclaimed the indignant boy, " if ever my ten 
 toes will darkf.n this school door agin. By the livin' farmer, if they ax me 
 at home to do it, I'll run away to my uncle's, so I will. Wait, Jemmy, 
 I'll be big yet ; an' be the blessed gospel that's about m^ neck, I'll give 
 the same masther a shirtful of sore bones, the holy an' blessed minute 
 I'm able to do it." 
 
 Many of the other boys declared that they would acquaint their 
 friends with the master's cruelty to the poor scholar ; but Jemmy re- 
 quested them not to do so, and said that he was determined to return 
 home the moment he should be able to travel. 
 
 The affrighted woman could not prevail upon him to seek a recon- 
 ciliation with her husband, although the expressions of the other 
 scholars induced her to press him to it, even to entreaty. Jemmy 
 arose, and with considerable difficulty reached the curate's house, 
 found him at home, and, with tears in his eyes, related to him the 
 atrocious conduct of the master. 
 
 " Very well," said this excellent man, ' I am glad that I can venture 
 
 to ride as far as Colonel B 's to-morrow. You must accompany 
 
 me ; for decidedly such brutality cannot be permitted to go un- 
 punished." 
 
 Jemmy knew that the curate was his friend ; and, although he would 
 not himself have thought of summoning the master to answer for his 
 barbarity, yet he acquiesced in the curate's opinion. He stopped that 
 night in the house of the worthy man to whom Mr. O'Brien had recom- 
 mended him on his first entering the town. It appeared in the morn- 
 ing, however, that he was unable to walk ; the blows which he had 
 received were then felt by him to be more dangerous than had been 
 supposed. Mr. O'Brien, on being informed of this, procured a jaunting 
 car, on which they both sat, and, at an easy pace, reached the colonel's 
 residence. 
 
 The curate was shown into an ante-room, and Jemmy sat in the hall ; 
 the colonel joined the former in a few minutes. He had been in Eng- 
 land and on the Continent, accompanied by his family, for nearly the 
 last three years, but had just returned, in order to take possession of a 
 large property in land and money, to which he succeeded at a very 
 critical moment, for his own estates were heavily encumbered. He was 
 now proprietor of an additional estate, the rent roll of which was six 
 thousand per annum, and also master of eighty-five thousand pounds 
 in the funds. 
 
 Mr. O'Brien, after congratulating him upon his good fortune, intro- 
 duced the case of our hero as one which, in his opmion, called for the 
 colonel's interposition as a magistrate. 
 
 " I have applied to you, sir," he proceeded, " rather than to any other 
 of the neighbouring gentlemen, because I think this friendless lad has 
 a peculiar claim upon any good offices you could render him." 
 " A claim upon me ! how is that, Mr. O'Brien.?" 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 135 
 
 **The boy, sir, is not a native of this province. His father was 
 formerly a tenant of yours, a man, as I have reason to believe, remark- 
 able for good conduct and industry. It appears that his circumstances, 
 so long as he was your tenant, were those of a comfortable independent 
 farmer. If the story which his son relates be true — and I, for one, be- 
 lieve it — his family have been dealt with in a manner unusually cruei, 
 and iniquitous. Your present agent, colonel, who is known in his own 
 neighbourhood by the nickname of Yellow Sam, thrust him out of his 
 farm, when his wife was sick, for the purpose of putting into it a man 
 who had married his illegitimate daughter. If this be found a correct 
 account of the transaction, I have no hesitation in saying that you, 
 Colonel B , as a gentleman of honour and humanity, will investi- 
 gate the conduct of your agent, and see justice done to an honest man 
 who must have been oppressed in your name, and under colour of 
 your authority." 
 
 " If my agent has dared to be unjust to a worthy tenant," said the 
 colonel, " in order to provide for his bastard, by my sacred honour, 
 he shall cease to be an agent of mine ! I admit, certainly, that from 
 some circumstances which transpired a few years ago I had reason to 
 suspect his integrity. That, to be sure, was only so far as he and I 
 were concerned ; but, on the other hand, during one two visits 
 I made to the estate which he manages, I heard the tenants thank 
 and praise him with much gratitude, and all that sort of thing. There 
 was ' Thank your honour ;' ' Long may you reign over us, sir ;' and 
 ' Oh, colonel, you've a mighty good man to your agent ;' and so forth. 
 I do not think, Mr. O'Brien, that he has acted so harshly, or that he 
 would dare to do it. Upon my honour, I heard those warm expres- 
 sions of gratitude from the lips of the tenants themselves." 
 
 " If you knew the people in general, colonel, so well as I do," replied 
 the curate, " you would admit that such expressions are often either 
 cuttingly ironical or the result of fear. You will always find, sir, that 
 the independent portion of the people have least of this forced dis- 
 simulation among them. A dishonest and inhuman agent has in his 
 own hands the irresponsible power of harassing and oppressing the 
 tenantry under him. The class most hateful to the people are those 
 low wretches who spring up from nothing into wealth, accumulated by 
 dishonesty and rapacity. They are proud, overbearing, and jealous, 
 even to vindictiveness, of the least want of respect. It is to such 
 upstarts that the poorer classes are externally most civil ; but it is also 
 such persons whom they most hate and abhor. They flatter them to 
 their faces, 'tis true, even to nausea j but they seldom spare them in 
 their absence. Of this very class, I believe, is your agent. Yellow 
 Sam ; so that any favourable expressions you may have heard from 
 your tenantry towards him were, most probably, the result of dissimu- 
 lation and fear. Besides, sir, here is a testimonial from M'Evoy's 
 parish priest, in which his father is spoken of as an honest, moral, and 
 industrious man." 
 
 *' If what you say, Mr. O'Brien, be correct," observed the colonel, 
 " vou know the Irish peasantry much better than I do. Decidedly I have 
 
»36 fHE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 always thought them, in conversation, exceedingly candid and sincere. 
 With respect to testimonials from priests to landlords in behalf of 
 their tenants, upon my honour I am sick of them. I actually received, 
 about four years ago, such an excellent character of two tenants as 
 induced me to suppose them worthy of encouragement. But what 
 was the fact ? Why, sir, they were two of the greatest firebrands on 
 my estate, and put both me and my agent to great trouble and expense. 
 No, sir, I wouldn't give a curse for a priest's testimonials upon such 
 an occasion. These fellows were subsequently convicted of arson on 
 the clearest evidence, and transported." 
 
 " Well, sir, I grant that you may have been misled in that instance. 
 However, from what I have observed, the two great faults of Irish 
 landlords are these : — In the first place, they suffer themselves to 
 remain ignorant of their tenantry ; so much so, indeed, that they 
 frequently deny them access and redress when the poor people are 
 anxious to acquaint them with their grievances ; for it is usual with 
 landlords to refer them to those very agents against whose cruelty 
 and rapacity they are appealmg. This is a carte bhviclie to the agent 
 to trample upon them if he p-]eases. In the next place, Irish landlords 
 too frequently employ ignorant and needy men to manage their 
 estates ; men who have no character, no property or standing in 
 society, beyond the reputation of being keen, shrewd, and active. 
 These persons, sir, make fortunes ; and what means can they have of 
 accumulating wealth except by cheating either the landlord or his 
 tenants ? A history of their conduct would be a black catalogue of dis- 
 honesty, oppression, and treachery. Respectable men, resident on or 
 near the estate, possessing both character and property, should always 
 be selected for this important trust. But, above all things, the curse of 
 a tenantry is a. pcrccniai;;e agent : he racks, and drives, and oppresses, 
 without consideration either of market or produce, in order that his 
 receipts may be ample, and his own income large." 
 
 "Why, O'Brien, you appear to be better acquainted with all this 
 sort of thing than I, who am a landed proprietor." 
 
 *' By-the-by, sir, without meaning you any disrespect, it is the land- 
 lords of Ireland who know least about the great mass of its inhabitants, 
 and, I might also add, about its history, its literature, the manners of 
 the people, their customs and their prejudices. The peasantry know 
 this, and too often practise upon their ignorance. There is a land- 
 lord's Vade iiicciim sadly wanted in Ireland, colonel." 
 
 "Ah! very good, O'Brien— very good! Well, I shall certainly 
 inquire into this case, and if I find that Yellow Sam has been playing 
 the oppressor, out he goes. I am now able to manage him, which I 
 could not readily do before, for, by-the-by, he had mortgages on my 
 property." 
 
 '• 1 would take it, colonel, as a personal favour if you would investi- 
 gate the transaction I have mentioned." 
 
 " Undoubtedly I shall, and that very soon. But about this outrage 
 committed against the boy himself? We had better take his informa- 
 tions, and punish 'he fellow " 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR I37 
 
 " Certainly ; I think that is the best way. His conduct to the poor 
 youth has been merciless and detestable. We must put him out of 
 this part of the country." 
 
 " Call the lad in. In this case I shall draw up the informations 
 myself, although Gregg usually does that." 
 
 Jemmy, assisted by the curate, entered the room, and the humane 
 colonel desired him, as he appeared ill, to sit down. 
 
 " What is your name ?" asked the colonel 
 
 "James M'Evoy," he replied. " I'm the son, sir, of a man who was 
 once a tenant of yours." 
 
 " Ay ! and pray how did he cease to be a tenant of mine ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, your agent, Yallow Sam, put him out of our farm, when 
 my poor mother was on her sick-bed. He chated my father, sir, out 
 of some money — part of our rent it was, that he didn't give him a 
 receipt for. When my father went to him afterwards for the receipt, 
 Yallow Sam abused him, and called him a rogue, and that, sir, was 
 what no man ever called my father either before or since. My father, 
 sir, threatened to tell you about it, and you came to the country soon 
 after ; but Yallow Sam got very great wid my father at that time, and 
 sent him to sell bullocks for him about fifty miles off, but when he 
 came back again you had left the country. Thin, sir, Yallow Sam 
 said nothing till the next half-year's rent became due, whin he came 
 down on my father for all — that is, what he hadn't got the receipt for, 
 and the other gale, and without any warning in the world, put him 
 out. My father offered to pay all, but he said he was a rogue, and 
 that you had ordered him off the estate. In less than a week after 
 this he put a man that married a bastard daughter of his own into our 
 house and place. That's God's truth, sir, and you'll find it so, if you 
 inquire into it. It's a common trick of his to keep back receipts, and 
 make the tenants pay double."^ 
 
 " Sacred heaven, O'Brien, can this be possible ?" 
 
 '* Your best way, colonel, is to inquire into it." 
 
 " Was not your father able to educate you at home, my boy .'' " 
 
 " No, sir ; we soon got into poverty after we left your farm ; and 
 another thing, sir, there was no Latin school in our neighbourhood." 
 
 " For what purpose did you become a poor scholar ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, I hoped one day or other to be able to raise my father 
 and mother out of the distress that Yallow Sam brought on us." 
 
 " By heaven, a noble aim, and a noble sentiment. And what has 
 this d d fellow of a schoolmaster done to you ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, yesterday, when I went back to the school, he abused me, 
 and said that he supposed most of my relations were hanged — spoke 
 ill of my father, and said that my mother " — here the tears started to 
 his eyes — he sobbed alcud. 
 
 '' Go on, and be cool," said the colonel ; " what did he say of your 
 mother ? " 
 
 1 This is fact. The individual here alluded to frequently kept back receipts when 
 receiving rents, under pretence of hurry and afterwards compelled the tenants to 
 pay the same gale twice ! 
 
■nS THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " He said, sir, that she was never married to my father. I know I 
 was wrong, sir — but if it was the king on his throne that said it of my 
 mother, Td call hi^n a liar. I called him a liar, and a coward, and r 
 villain. Ay, sir, and if I had been able, I would have trampled him 
 under my feet." 
 
 The colonel looked steadily at him, but the open clear eye which 
 the boy turned upon him was full of truth and independence. 
 
 " And you will find," said the soldier, " that this spirited defence of 
 your mother will be the most fortunate action of your life. Well ; he 
 struck you then, did he?" 
 
 "He knocked me down, sir, with his fist — then kicked me in the 
 back and sides. I think some of my ribs are broke." 
 
 " Ay ! — no doubt, no doubt," said the colonel. " And you were only 
 after recovering from this fever which is so prevalent?" 
 
 " I wasn't a week out of it, sir." 
 
 "Well, my boy, we shall punish him for you." 
 
 " Sir, would you hear me for a word or two, if it would be pleasing 
 to you ? " 
 
 " Speak on," said the colonel. 
 
 " I would rather change his punishment to — I would — that is — if it 
 would be agreeable to you — it's this, sir — I wouldn't throuble you now 
 against the master, if you'd be pleased to rightify my father, and 
 punish Yallow Sam. Oh, sir, for God's sake, put my heartbroken 
 father into his farm again ! If you would, sir, I could shed my blood, 
 or lay down my life for you, or for any belonging to you. I'm but a 
 poor boy, sir, low and humble ; but they say there's a greater Being 
 than the greatest in this world, that listens to the just prayers of the 
 poor and friendless. I was never happy, sir, since we left it— neither 
 was any of us ; and when we'd sit, cowld and hungry, about our 
 hearth, we used to be talking of the pleasant days we spent in it, till 
 the tears would be smothered in curses against him that put us out of 
 it. Oh, sir, if you could know all that a poor and honest family suffers 
 \ when they are thrown into distress by want of feeling in their landlords 
 or by the dishonesty of agents, you would consider my father's case. I'm 
 his favourite son, sir, and good right have I to speak for him. Ifyou 
 -^ could know the sorrow, the misery, the drooping down of the spirits, 
 that lies upon the countenances and the hearts ot such people, you 
 wouldn't, as a man and a Christian, think it below you to spread hap- 
 piness and contentment among them again. In the morning they rise 
 to a day of hardship, no matter hov/ bright and cheerful it may be to 
 others — nor is there any hope of a brighter day for the7}i ; and at night 
 they go to their hard beds to strive to sleep away their hunger in spite 
 of cowld and want. If you could see how the father of a family, after 
 striving to bear up, sinks down at last ; if you could see the look he 
 gives at the childre that he would lay down his heart's blood for, when 
 tiicy sit naked and hungry about him ; and the mother, too, with her 
 kind word and sorrowful smile, proud of them in all their destitution, 
 but her heart breaking silently all the time, her face wasting away, 
 her eye dim, and her strength gone ! — Sir, make one such family 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. '39 
 
 happy — for all this has been in my father's house ! Give us back our 
 light spirits, our pleasant days, and our cheerful hearts again ! We 
 lost them through the villainv of your agent. Give them back to us, 
 for you can do it ; but you can never pay us for what we suffered. 
 Give us, sir, our farm, our green fields, our house, and every spot 
 and nook that we had before. We love the place, sir, for its own 
 sake ; it is the place of our fathers, and our hearts are in it. I often 
 think I see the smooth river that runs through it, and the meadows 
 that I played in when I was z child — the glen behind our house, the 
 mountains that rose before us when we left the door, the thorn-bush 
 at the garden, the hazels in the glen, the little bleach-green beside the 
 river — oh, sir, don't blame me for crying, for they are all before my 
 eyes, in my ears, and in my heart ! Many a summer evening have 1 
 gone to the march-ditch of the farm that my father's now in, and 
 looked at the place I loved till the tears blinded me, and I asked it as 
 a favour of God to restore us to it ! Sir, we are in great poverty at 
 home ; before God we are ; and my father's heart is breaking ! " 
 
 The colonel drew his breath deeply, rubbed his hands, and as he 
 looked at the fine countenance of the boy — expressing, as it did, 
 enthusiasm and sorrow — his eyes lightened with a gleam of indigna- 
 tion. It could not be against the poor scholar ; no, gentle reader, but 
 against his own agent. 
 
 " O'Brien," said he, " what do you think? And this noble boy is v'' 
 the son of a man who belongs to a class of which I am ignorant ! By 
 heaven, we landlords are, I fear, a guilty race." 
 
 " Not all, sir," replied the curate. " There are noble exceptions 
 among them ; their faults are more the faults of omission than com- 
 mission." 
 
 " Well, well, no matter. Come, I will draw up the informations 
 against this man ; afterwards I have something to say to you, my boy," 
 he added, addressing Jemmy, " that will not, I trust, be unpleasant." 
 
 He then drew up the informations as strongly as he could word 
 them, after which Jemmy deposed to their truth and accuracy, and 
 the colonel, rubbing his hands again, said : 
 
 " I will have the fellow secured. When you go into town, Mr. 
 O'Brien, I'll thank you to call on Meares, and hand him these. He 
 will lodge the miscreant in limbo this very night." 
 
 Jemmy then thanked him, and was about to withdraw, when the 
 colonel desired him to remain a little longer. 
 
 " Now," said he, " your father has been treated inhumanly, I 
 believe ; but no matter. That is not the question. Your sentiments, 
 and conduct, and your affection for your parents are noble, my boy. 
 At present, I say, the question is not whether the history of your 
 father's wrongs be true or false ; you at least believe it to be true. 
 From this forward — but by-the-by, I forgot ; how could your be- 
 coming a poor scholar relieve your parents .'^" 
 
 " I intended to become a priest, sir, and then to help them." 
 
 '' Ay ! so I thought ; and provided your father were restored to his 
 farm, would you be still disposed to become a priest .?" 
 
140 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " 1 would, sir ; next to helping my father, that is what I wish 
 to be." 
 
 " O'Brien, what would it cost to prepare him respectably for the 
 priesthood? I mean, to defray his expenses until he completes his 
 preparatory education, in the first place, and afterwards during his 
 residence in I^Iaynooth?" 
 
 " I think two hundred pounds, sir, would do it easily and respect- 
 ably." 
 
 " I do not think it would. However, do you send him — but first 
 let me ask what progress he has already made .'' " 
 
 " He has read — in fact he is nearly prepared to enter Maynooth. 
 His progress has been very rapid." 
 
 " Put him to some respectable boarding-school for a year ; then let 
 him enter Maynooth, and I will bear the expense. But remember I 
 do not adopt this course in consequence of his father's history. Not 
 I, by Jupiter ; I do it on his own account. He is a noble boy, and 
 full of fine qualities, if they be not nipped by neglect and poverty. I 
 loved my father myself, and fought a duel on his account ; and I 
 honour the son who has spirit to defend his absent parent." 
 
 " This is a most surprising turn in the boy's fortunes, colonel." 
 
 " He deserves it. A soldier, Mr. O'Brien, is not without his enthu- 
 siasm, nor can he help admiring it in others, when nobly and virtuously 
 directed. To see a boy in the midst of poverty, encountering the 
 hardships and difficulties of life, with the hope of raising up his 
 parents from distress to independence, has a touch of sublimity 
 in it," 
 
 " Ireland, colonel, abounds with instances of similar virtue, brought 
 out, probably, into fuller life and vigour by the sad changes and de- 
 pressions which are weighing down the people. In her glens, on her 
 bleak mountain sides, and in her remotest plains, such examples of 
 pure affection, uncommon energy, and humble heroism are to be 
 seen ; but, unfortunately, few persons of rank or observation mingle 
 with the Irish people, and their many admirable qualities pass away 
 without being recorded in the literature of their country. They are 
 certainly a strange people, colonel, almost an anomaly in the history 
 of the human race. Tney are the only people who can rush out from 
 the very virtues of private life to the perpetration of crimes at which 
 we shudder. There is, to be sure, an outcry about their oppression ; 
 but that is wrong. Their indigence and ignorance are rather the 
 result of neglect — of neglect, sir, from the government of the country 
 — from the earl to the squireen. They have been taught little 
 that is suitable to their stations and duties in life, either as 
 tenants who cultivate our lands, or as members of moral or Christian 
 socety." 
 
 " Well, well : I believe what you say is too true. But touching the 
 records of virtue in humble life, pray who would record it when 
 nothing goes down nowadays but what is either monstrous or 
 fashionable." 
 
 " Very true, colonel ; yet, in my humble opinion a virtuous Irish 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 141 
 
 peasant is far from being so low a character as a profligate man of 
 rank." 
 
 " Well, well, well ! Come, O'Brien, we will drop the subject. In 
 the meantime, touching this boy, as I said, he must be looked to, for 
 he has that in him which ought not to be neglected. We shall now 
 see that this d d pedagogue be punished for his cruelty." 
 
 The worthy colonel in a short time dismissed poor Jemmy with an 
 exulting heart ; but not until he had placed a sufficient sum in the 
 curate's hands for enabling him to make a respectable appeal ance. 
 Medical advice was also procured for him, by which he soon over- 
 came the effects of his mastei's brutality. 
 
 On their way home Jemmy related to his friend the conversation 
 which he had had with his bishop in the shed, and the kind interest 
 v/hich that gentleman had taken in his situation and prospects. Mr. 
 O'Brien told him that the bishop was an excellent man possessing 
 much discrimination and benevolence ; " and so," said he, " is the 
 Protestant clergyman who accompanied him. They have both gone 
 among the people during this heavy visitation of disease and famine, 
 administering advice and assistance ; restraining them from those 
 excesses which they sometimes commit, when, driven by hunger, they 
 attack provision-carts, bakers' shops, or the houses of farmers who are 
 known to possess a stock of meal or potatoes. God knows, it is an 
 excusable kind of robbery ; yet it is right to restrain them." 
 
 " It is a pleasant thing, sir, to see clergymen of every religion 
 working together to make the people happy." 
 
 " It IS certainly so," replied the curate ; " and I am bound to say, 
 in justice to the Protestant clergy, that there is no class of men in 
 Ireland, James, who do so imich good without distinction of creed or 
 party. They are generally kind and charitable to the poor ; so are 
 their wives and daughters. 1 have often known them to cheer the 
 sick-bed — to assist the widow and the orphan — to advise and ad- 
 monish the profligate, and, in some instances, even to reclaim them. 
 But now about your own prospects ; I think you should go and see 
 your family as soon as your health permits you." 
 
 " I would give my right hand," replied Jemmy, "just to see them, if 
 it was only for five minutes : but I cannot go. I vowed that I would 
 never enter my native parish until I should become a Catholic clergy- 
 man. I vowed that, sir, to God — and with his assistance I will keep 
 my vow." 
 
 "Well," said the curate, "you are right. And now let me give you 
 a little advice. In the first place, learn to speak as correctly as you 
 can ; lay aside the vulgarisms of conversation peculiar to the common 
 people ; and speak precisely as you would write. By-the-by, you 
 acquitted yourself to admiration with the colonel. A little stumbling 
 there was in the beginning ; but you got over it. You see, James, 
 the force of truth and simplicity. I could scarcely restrain my tears 
 while you spoke." 
 
 " If I had not been in earnest, sir, I could never have spoken as I 
 did." 
 
14^ THE PCOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " You never could. Truth, James, is the foundation of all eloquence ; 
 he who knowingly speaks what is not true may dazzle and perplex ; but 
 he will never touch with that power and pathos which spring from truth. 
 Fiction is successful only by borrowing her habiliments. Now, James, 
 for a little more advice. Don't let the idea of having been a poor 
 scholar deprive you of self-respect ; neither let your unexpected turn 
 of fortune cause you to forget what you have suffered. Hold a middle 
 course ; be firm and independent ; without servility on the one hand, 
 or vanity on the other. You have also too much good sense, and, I 
 hope, too much religion, to ascribe what this day has brought forth in 
 your behalf to any other cause than God. It has pleased him to 
 raise you from misery to ease and comfort ; to him, therefore, be it 
 referred, and to him be your thanks and prayers directed. You owe 
 him much, for you now can perceive the value of what he has done for 
 you ! May his name be blessed ! " 
 
 Jemmy was deeply affected by the kindness of his friend, for such, 
 in friendship's truest sense, was he to him. He expressed the obliga- 
 tions which he owed him, and promised to follow the excellent advice 
 he had just received. 
 
 The schoolmaster's conduct to the poor scholar had, before the close 
 of the day on which it occurred, been known through the parish. 
 Thady O'Rorke, who had just recovered from the epidemic, felt so 
 bitterly exasperated at the outrage that he brought his father to the 
 parish priest, to whom he gave a detailed account of all that our heio 
 and the poorer children of the school had suffered. In addition to 
 this, he went among the more substantial farmers of the neighbour- 
 hood, whose co-operation he succeeded in obtaining, for the laudable 
 purpose of driving the tyrant out of the parish. 
 
 Jemmy, who still lived at the " House of Entertainment," on hearing 
 what they intended to do, begged Mr. O'Brien to allow him, provided 
 the master should be removed from the school, to decline prosecuting 
 him. 
 
 " He has been cruel to me, no doubt," he added ; " still I cannot 
 forget that his cruelty has been the means of changing my condition 
 in life so much for the better. If he is put out of the parish it will be 
 punishment enough ; and, to say the truth, sir, I can iiotju forgive 
 everybody. Maybe, had I been still neglected I might punish him ; 
 but, in the meantime, to show him and the world that I didn't deserve 
 his severity, 1 forgive him." 
 
 Mr. O'Brien was not disposed to check a sentiment that did the 
 boy's heart so much honour ; he waited on the colonel the next 
 morning, acquainted him with Jemmy's wishes, and the indictment 
 was quashed immediately after the schoolmaster's removal from his 
 situation. 
 
 Our hero's personal appearance was by this time incredibly changed 
 for the better. His countenance, naturally expressive of feeling, firm- 
 ness, and intellect, now appeared to additional advantage ; so did his 
 whole person, when dressed in a decent suit of black. No man ac- 
 quainted with life can be ignorant of the improvement which genteel 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 143 
 
 apparel produces in the carriage, tone of thought, and principles of an 
 individual. It gives a man confidence, self-respect, and a sense of 
 equality with his companions ; it inspires him with energy, independ- 
 ence, delicacy of sentiment, courtesy of manner, and elevation of 
 language. The face becomes manly, bold, and free ; the brow open, 
 and the eye clear ; there is no slinking through narrow lant,s and back 
 streets : but, on the contrary, the smoothly-dressed man steps out with 
 a determination not to spare the earth, or to walk as if he trod on eggs 
 or razors. No ; he brushes onward ; is the first to accost his friends , 
 gives a careless bow to this, a bluff nod to that, and a patronising 
 " how d'ye do " to a third, who is worse dressed than himself Trust 
 me, kind reader, that good clothes are calculated to advance a man in 
 hfe nearly as well as good principles, especially in a world like this, 
 where external appearance is taken as the exponent of what is 
 beneath it. 
 
 Jemmy, by the advice of his friend, now waited upon the bishop, 
 who was much surprised at the uncommon turn of fortune which had 
 taken place in his favour. He also expressed his willingness to help 
 him forward, as far as lay in his power, towards the attainment of his 
 wishes. In order to place the boy directly under suitable patronage, 
 Mr. O'Brien suggested that the choice of the school should be left to 
 the bishop. This, perhaps, flattered him a little, for who 'is without 
 his weaknesses ? A school near the metropolis was accordingly fixed 
 upon, to which Jemmy, now furnished with a handsome outfit, was 
 accordingly sent. There we will leave him, reading with eagerness 
 and assiduity, whilst we return to look after Colonel B. and his 
 agent. 
 
 One morning after James's departure, the colonel's servant waited 
 upon Mr. O'Brien with a note from his master, intimating a wish to 
 see him. He lost no time in waiting upon that gentleman, who was 
 then preparing to visit the estate which he had so long neglected. 
 
 " I am going," said he, " to see how my agent, Yellow Sam, as 
 they call him, and my tenants agree. It is my determination, Mr. 
 O'Brien, to investigate the circumstances attending the removal of our 
 prot^g'e's father. I shall, moreover, look closely into the state and 
 feelings of my tenants in general. It is probable I shall visit many of 
 them, and certain that I will inquire into the character of this man." 
 
 "It is better late than never, colonel ; but still, though I am a friend 
 to the people, yet I would recommend you to be guided by great 
 caution, and the evidence of respectable and disinterested men only. 
 You must not certainly entertain all the complaints you may hear 
 without clear proof, for I regret to say that too many of the idle and 
 political portion of the peasantry are apt to throw the blame of their 
 Cfwn folly and ignorance — yes, and of their crimes, also — upon those 
 who in no way have occasioned either their poverty or their wicked- 
 ness. They are frequently apt to consider themselves oppressed, if 
 concessions are not made to which they, as idle and indolent men, 
 who neglect their own business, have no fair claim. Bear this in 
 mind, colonel — be cool, use discrimination, take your proofs from 
 
M4 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 others besides the parties concerned, or their friends, and, dTiend 
 upon it, you will arrive at the truth." 
 
 " O'Brien, you would make an excellent agent." 
 
 " I have studied the people, sir, and know them. I have breathed 
 the atmosphere of their prejudices, habits, manners, customs, an( 
 superstitions. I have felt them all myself, as they feel them ; but I 
 trust I have got above their influence where it is evil, for there are 
 many fine touches of character among them which I should not 
 willingly part with. No, sir, I should make a bad agent, having no 
 capacity for transacting business. I could direct and overlook, but 
 nothing more." 
 
 " Well, then, I shall set out to-morrow ; and in the meantime, 
 permit me to say that I am deeply sensible of your kindness in 
 pointing out my duty as an Irish landlord, conscious that I have too 
 long neglected it." 
 
 " Kindness, colonel, is the way to the Irish heart. There is but one 
 man in Ireland who can make an Irishman ungrateful, and that is his 
 priest. I regret that in times of political excitement, and especially 
 during electioneering struggles, the interference of the clergy produces 
 disastrous effects upon the moral feelings of the people. When a 
 tenant meets the landlord whom he has deserted in the critical 
 moment of the contest — the landlord to whom he has solemnly pro- 
 mised his support, and who, perhaps, as a member of the legislature, 
 has advocated his claims and his rights, and who, probably, has been 
 kind and indulgent to him — I say, when he meets him afterwards, his 
 shufflings, excuses, and evasions are grievous. He is driven to false- 
 hood and dissimulation in explaining his conduct ; he expresses his 
 repentance, curses himself for his ingratitude, promises well for the 
 future, but seldom or never can be prevailed upon to state candidly 
 that he acted in obedience to the priest. In some instances, however, 
 he admits this, and inveighs bitterly against his interference — but this 
 is only whilst in the presence of his landlord. I think, colonel, 
 that no clergyman, set apart as he is for the concerns of a better 
 world, should become a firebrand in the secular pursuits and turmoils 
 of this." 
 
 " I wish, Mr. O'Brien, that every clergyman of your Church resem- 
 bled you, and acted up to your sentiments : our common country 
 would be the better for it." 
 
 " I endeavour to act, sir, as a man who has purely spiritual duties 
 to perform. It is not for us to be agitated and inflamed by the 
 political passions and animosities of the world. Our lot is differently 
 cast, and we ought to abide by it. The priest and politician can 
 no more agree than good and evil. I speak with respect to all 
 Churches." 
 
 "And so do I.' 
 
 " What stay do you intend to make, colonel ? " 
 
 " I think about a month. I shall visit some of my old friends 
 there, from whom I expect a history of the state and feelings of the 
 country.'" 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ^45 
 
 " You will hear both sides of the question before you act ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I have written to my agent to say that I shall look 
 very closely into my own affairs on this occasion. I thought it fair to 
 give him notice." 
 
 " Well, sir, I wish you all success." 
 
 " Farewell, Mr. O'Brien ; I shall see you immediately after my 
 return." 
 
 The colonel performed his journey by slow stages until he reached 
 "the hall of 'his fathers" — for it was such, although he had not for 
 years resided in it. It presented the wreck of a fine old mansion, 
 situated within a crescent of stately beeches, whose moss-covored and 
 ragged trunks gave symptoms of decay and neglect. The lawn had 
 been once beautiful, and the demesne a noble one ; but that which 
 blights the industry of the tenant — the curse of absenteeism — had also 
 left the marks of ruin stamped upon every object around him. The 
 lawn was little better than a common ; the pond was thick with weeds 
 and sluggish water-plants, that almost covered its surface ; and a 
 light, elegant bridge, that spanned a river which ran before the house, 
 was also moss-grown and dilapidated. The hedges were mixed up 
 with briers, the gates broken or altogether removed, the fields were 
 rank with the ruinous luxuriance of weeds, and the grass-grown 
 avenues spoke of solitude and desertion. The still appearance, too, of 
 the house itself, and the absence of smoke from its time-tinged chim- 
 neys — all told a tale which constitutes one, perhaps the greatest, 
 portion of Ireland's misery ! Even then he did not approach it with 
 the intention of residing there during his sojourn in the country. It 
 was not habitable, nor had it been so for years. The road by which 
 he travelled lay near it, and he could not pass without looking upon 
 the place where a long line of gallant ancestors had succeeded each 
 other, lived their span, and disappeared in their turn.' 
 
 He contemplated it for some time in a kind of reverie. There it 
 stood, sombre and silent ; its grey walls mouldering away — its windows 
 dark and broken ; like a man forsaken by the world, compelled to 
 bear the storms of life without the hand of a friend to support him, 
 though age and decay render him less capable of enduring them. For 
 a moment fancy repeopled it : again the stir of life, pastime, mirth, 
 and hospitality echoed withm its walls ; the train of his long-departed 
 relatives returned ; the din of rude and boisterous enjoyment peculiar 
 to the times ; the cheerful tumult of the hall at dinner ; the family 
 feuds and festivities ; the vanities and the passions of those who now 
 slept in dust ; all— all came before him once more, and played their 
 part in the vision of the moment ! 
 
 As he walked on, the flitting wing of a bat struck him lightly in its 
 flight ; he awoke from the remembrances which crowded on him, and, 
 resuming his journey, soon arrived at the inn of the nearest town, 
 where he stopped that night. The next morning he saw his agent for 
 a short time, but declined entering on business. For a few days more 
 he visited most of the neighbouring gentry, from whom he received 
 sufficient information to satisfy him that neither himself nor his agent 
 
t46 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 was popular among his tenantry. Many flying reports of the agent's 
 dishonesty and tyranny were mentionedto him, and in every instance 
 he took down the names of the parties, in order to ascertain the truth, 
 M'Evoy's case had occurred more than ten years before, but he found 
 that the remembrance of the poor man's injury was strongly and 
 bitterly retained in the recollections of the people— a circumstance 
 which extorted from the blunt, but somewhat sentimental soldier, a 
 just observation. " I think," said he," that there are no people in the 
 world who remember an injury or a kindness so long as the Irish." 
 
 When the tenants were apprised of his presence among them, they 
 experienced no particular feeling upon the subject. During all his 
 former visits to his estate he appeared merely the creature and puppet 
 of his agent, who never acted the bully, nor tricked himself out in his 
 brief authority more imperiously than he did before him. Th° know- 
 ledge of this damped them, and rendered any expectations ot redress 
 or justice from the landlord a matter not to be thought of. 
 
 " If he wasn't so great a man," they observed, " who thinks it below 
 him to speak to his tenants, or hear their complaints, there ud be some 
 hope. But that rip of hell, Yallow Sam, can wind him round his 
 finger like a thread, an' does too. There's no use in thinkin' to petition 
 him, or to lodge a complaint against Stony Heart, for the first thing 
 he'd do ud be to put it into yallow boy's hands, an' thin, God be 
 merciful to thim that ud complain. No, no ; the best way is to wait 
 till Sam's masther ^ takes him ; an' who knows but that ud be sooner 
 nor we think." 
 
 " They say," another would reply, " that the colonel is a good gintlc- 
 man for all that, an' that if he could once know the truth, he'd pitch 
 the ' yallow boy ' to the ' ould boy.' " 
 
 No sooner was it known by his tenantry that the head landlord was 
 disposed to redress their grievances and hear their complaints, than 
 the smothered attachment, which long neglect had nearly extinguished, 
 now burst forth with uncommon power. 
 
 " Augh ? by this an' by that, the thrue blood's in him still. The rale 
 gintleman to dale wid for ever ! We knew he only wanted to come 
 at the thruth, an' thin he'd back us agin the villain that harrished us ! 
 To the divil wid skamin' upstarts, that hasn't the ould blood in thim ! 
 What are they but sconces an' chates, everj' one o' thim, barrin' an 
 odd one, for a wondher ? " 
 
 The colonel's estate now presented a scene of gladness and bustle. 
 Every person who felt in the slightest degree aggrieved got his peti- 
 tion drawn up ; and, but that we fear our sketch is already too long, 
 we would gratify the reader's curiosity by submitting a few of them. 
 It is sufficient to say that they came to him in every shape — in all the 
 variety of diction that the poor English language admits of — in the 
 schoolmaster's best copy-hand, and choicest sesquipedalianism of 
 pedantry — in the severer but more scriptural terms of the parish clerk 
 —in the engrossir.g hand and legal phrase of the attorney's — in tiie 
 
 1 The devil — a familiar name for him when raentionod in connection with a 
 rillain. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. '47 
 
 military form, evidently redolent of the shrewd old pensioner — and in 
 the classical style of the young priest ; for each and all of the foregoing 
 were enlisted in the cause of those who had petitions to send in " to 
 the colonel himself, God bless him ! " 
 
 Early in the morning of the day on which the colonel had resolved 
 to compare the complaints of his tenantry with the character which 
 his agent gave him of the complainants, he sent for the former, and riie 
 following dialogue took place between them. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Carson. Excuse me for requesting your pre- 
 sence to-day earlier than usual. I have taken it into my head, to know 
 something of my own tenantry, and as they have pestered me with 
 petitions and letters and complaints, I am any'cus to have your 
 opinion, as you know them better than I do." 
 
 " Before we enter on business, colonel, allow me to inquire if you 
 feel relieved of that bilious attack you complained of the day before 
 yesterday 1 I'm of a bilious habit myself, and know something about 
 the management of digestion." 
 
 " A good digestion is an excellent thing, Carson. As for me, I drank 
 
 too much claret with my friend B y ; and there's the secret. I 
 
 don't like cold wines ; they never agree with me." 
 
 " Nor do I ; they are not constitutional. Your father was celebrated 
 for his wines, colonel : I remember an anecdote told me by Captain 
 Ferguson — by-the-by, do you know where Ferguson could be found 
 now, sir ? " 
 
 " Not I. What wines d^o you drink, Carson?" 
 
 " A couple of glasses of sherry, sir, at dinner ; and about ten o'clock, 
 a glass of brandy and water." 
 
 "Carson, you are sober and prudent. Well, about these cursed 
 petitions ; you must help me to dispose of them. Why, a man would 
 think, by the tenor of them, that these tenants of mine are ground to 
 dust by a tyrant." 
 
 " Ah, colonel, you know little about these fellows. They would 
 make black white. Go and take a ride, sir, return about four o'clock, 
 and I will have everything as it ought to be." 
 
 *' I wish to heaven, Carson, I had your talents for business. Do you 
 think my tenants attached to me ? " 
 
 " Attached, sir ! they are ready to cut your throat or mine on the 
 first convenient opportunity. You could not conceive their knavishness 
 and dishonesty, except you happened to be an agent for a few years." 
 
 " So I have been told, and I am resolved to remove every dishonest 
 tenant from my estate. Is there not a man, for instance, called Brady ? 
 He has sent me a long-winded petition here. What do you think of 
 him ? " 
 
 " Show me the petition, colonel." 
 
 " I cannot lay my hand on it just now ; but you shall see it. In 
 the meantime, what's your opinion of the fellow ? " 
 
 " Brady ! Why, I know the man particularly well. He is one of my 
 favourites. What the deuce could the fellow petition about, though ? 
 \ promised the other day to renew his lease for him." 
 
mS the poor scholar. 
 
 "Oh, then, if he be a favourite of yours, his petition may go to the 
 devil, I suppose? Is the man honest ?" 
 
 " Remarkably so ; and has paid his rents very punctually. He is 
 one of our safest tenants." 
 
 " Do you know a man called Cullen .'' " 
 
 " The most litigious scoundrel on the estate." 
 
 " Indeed ! Oh, then, we must look into the merits of his petition, 
 as he is 7iot honest. Had he been honest like Brady, Carson, I should 
 have dismissed it." 
 
 " Cullen, sir, is a dangerous fellow. Do you know, that rascal has 
 charged me with keeping back his receipts, and with making him pay 
 double rent ! — ha, ha, ha ! Upon my honour, it's fact." 
 
 " The scoundrel ! We shall sift him to some purpose, however." 
 
 " If you take my advice, sir, you will send him about his business : 
 for if it be once known that you listen to malicious petitions, my 
 authority over such villains as Cullen is lost." 
 
 " Well, I set him aside for the present. Here's a long list of others, 
 all of whom have been oppressed, forsooth. Is there a man called 
 M'Evoy on my estate ? — Dominick M'Evoy, I think." 
 
 " M'Evoy ! Why, that rascal, sir, has not been your tenant for ten 
 years ! His petition, colonel, is a key to the nature of their grievances 
 in general." 
 
 " I believe you, Carson — most implicitly do I believe that. Well, 
 about this rascal ? " 
 
 " Why, it is so long since, that, upon my honour, I cannot exactly 
 remember the circumstances of his misconduct. He ran away." 
 
 " Who is in his farm now, Carson?" 
 
 " A very decent man, sir. One Jackson, an exceedingly worthy, 
 honest, industrious fellow. I take some credit to myself for bringing 
 Jackson on your estate." 
 
 "Is Jackson married ? Has he a family ? " 
 
 ** Married ! Let me see ! Why — yes — I believe he is. .Oh, by-the- 
 by, now I think of it, he is married, and to a very respectable woman, 
 too. Certainly, I remember— she usually accompanies him when he 
 pays his rents." 
 
 " Then your system must be a good one, Carson ; you weed out the 
 idle and profligate, to replace them by the honest and industrious ? " 
 
 " Precisely so, sir ; that is my system." 
 
 ''Yet there are agents v/ho invert your system in some cases ; who 
 drive out the honest and industrious, and encourage the idle and pro- 
 fligate ; who connive at them, Carson, and fill the estates they manage 
 with their own dependents or relatives, as the case may be. You 
 have been always opposed to this, and I'm glad to hear it." 
 
 " No man. Colonel B , filling the situation which I have the 
 
 honour to hold under you, could study your interests with greater zeal 
 and assiduity. God knows, I have had so many quarrels, and feuds, 
 and wranglings, with these fellows, in order to squeeze money out of 
 them to meet your difficulties, that, upon my honour, I thmk if it 
 required five dozen oaths to hang nie, t'^ey could be procured upon 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. I49 
 
 your estate. An agent, colonel, who is faithful to the landlc-d, is 
 seldom popular with the tenants." 
 
 " I can't exactly see that, Carson ; and I have known an unpopular 
 landlord rendered highly popular by the judicious management of a) 
 enlightened and honest agent, who took no bribes, Carson, and who 
 neither extorted from nor ground the tenantry under him — something 
 like a counterpart of yourself. But you may be right in general." 
 
 " Is there anything particular, colonel, in which I can assist you 
 now ? " 
 
 " Not now. I was anxious to hear the character of those fellows 
 from you, who know them. Come down about eleven or twelve o'clock ; 
 these petitioners will be assembled, and you may be able to assist me." 
 
 " Colonel, remember I forewarn you that you are plunging into a 
 mesh of difficulties which you will never be able to disentangle. Leave 
 the fellows to me, sir ; I know how to deal with them. Besides, upon 
 my honour, you are not equal to it in point of health. You look ill. 
 Pray allow me to take home their papers, and I shall have all clear 
 and satisfactory before two o'clock. They know my method, sir." 
 
 " They do, Carson, they do; but I am anxious they should also 
 know jnine. Besides, it will amuse me, for I want excitement. Good 
 day, for the present ; you will be down about twelve, or one at the 
 farthest." 
 
 " Certainly, sir. Good morning, colonel." 
 
 The agent was too shrewd a man not to perceive that there were 
 touches of cutting irony in some of the colonel's expressions, which he 
 did not like. There was a dryness, too, in the tone of his voice and 
 words, blended with a copiousness of good humour, which, taken alto- 
 gether, caused him to feel uncomfortable. He could have wished the 
 colonel at the devil ; yet had the said colonel never been more familiar 
 in his life, nor, with one or two exceptions, readier to agree with almost 
 every observation made to him. 
 
 " Well," thought he, " he may act as he pleases j / have feathered 
 my nest, at all events, and disregard him." 
 
 Colonel B , in fact, ascertained, with extreme regret, that some- 
 thing was necessary to be done to secure the good-will of his tenants ; 
 that the conduct of his agent had been marked by rapacity and bribery 
 almost incredible. He had exacted from the tenantry in general the 
 performance of duty-labour to such an extent that his immense agri- 
 cultural farms were managed with little expense to himself. If a poor 
 man's corn were drop ripe, or his hay in a precarious state, or his turf 
 undrawn, he must suffer his oats, hay, and turf to be lost, in order to 
 secure the crops of the agent. If he had spirit to refuse, he must 
 expect to become a martyr to his resentment. In renewing leases his 
 extortions were exorbitant ; ten, thirty, forty, and fifty guineas he 
 claimed as a fee for his favour, according to the ability of the party ; 
 yet this was quite distinct from the renewal fine, and went into his 
 own pocket. When such " glove money " was not to be had, he would 
 accepV a cow or horse, to which he usually made a point to take a 
 fancy j or he wanted to purchase a firkin of butter at that particulax 
 
 (3) F 
 
150 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 time, and the poor people usually made every sacrifice to avoid his 
 
 vengeance. It is due to Colonel 13 to say that he acted in the 
 
 investigation of his agent's conduct with the strictest honou»- and im- 
 partiality. He scrutinized every statement thoroughly, pl< nded for 
 him as temperately as he could ; found, or pretended to find, extcnu • 
 ating motives for his rruost indefensible proceedings • but all would not 
 do. The cases were so clear and evident againi.t him, even in the 
 opinion of the neighbouring gentry, who had been for years looking 
 upon the system of selfish misrule which he practised, that at length 
 the generous colonel's blood boiled with indignation in his veins at 
 the contemplation of his villainy. He accused himself bitterly for 
 neglecting his duties as a landlord, and felt both remorse and shame for 
 having wasted his time, health, and money in the fashionable dissi- 
 pation of London and Paris whilst a cunning, unprincipled upstart 
 played the vampire with his tenants, and turned his estate into a scene 
 of oppression and poverty. Nor was this all : he had been endea- 
 vouring to bring the property more and more into his own clutches, a 
 point which he would ultimately have gained had not the colonel's 
 iate succession to so large a fortune enabled him to meet his claims. 
 
 At one o'clock tht tenants were all assembled about the inn door, 
 where the colonel had resolved to hold his little court. The agent 
 himself soon arrived, as did several other gentlemen, the colonel's 
 friends, who knew the people, and could speak to their character. 
 
 The first man called was Dominick RI'Evoy. No sooner was his 
 name uttered than a mild, poor-looking man, rather advanced in years, 
 came forward. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, colonel," said Carson, "here is some mistake ; 
 this man is not one of your tenants. You may remember I told you 
 so this morning." 
 
 " I remember it," replied the colonel ; " this is * the rascal ' you 
 spoke of — is he not ? M'Eyoy," the colonel proceeded, " you will 
 reply to my questions with strict truth. You will state nothing but 
 what has occurred between you and my agent ; you must not even 
 turn a circumstance in your own' favour, nor against Mr. Carson, by 
 either adding to, or takiNg away from it, more or less than the truth. 
 I say this to you and to all present ; for, upon my honour, I shall 
 dismiss the first case i^ which I discover a falsehood." • 
 
 " Wid the help o' the Almighty, sir, I'll state nothing but the bare 
 thruth?" 
 
 " How long are you off my estate .-"' 
 
 " Ten years, your honour, or a little more." 
 
 " How came you to run away out of your farm "i" 
 
 " Run away, your honour ? God he knows I didn't run away, sir. 
 The whole counthry knows that." 
 
 " Yes, run away ! Mr. Carson, here, stated to me this morning that 
 you ran away. He is a gentleman of integrity, and would not state a 
 f.ilsehood." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, colonel, not positively. I told you I did not 
 exactly reuiember the circumstances ; I said J thought so ; but I maj 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 151 
 
 be wrong, for, indeed, my memory of facts is not good. M'Evoy, 
 however, is a very holiest man, and I have no doubt will state every- 
 thing as it happened, fairly and without malice." 
 
 " An honest ' rascal^ I suppose you mean, Mr. Carson," said the 
 colonel, bitterly. " Proceed, M'Evoy." 
 
 M'Evoy stated the circumstances precisely as the reader is already 
 acquainted with them, after which the colonel turned round to his 
 agent, and asked what he had to say in reply. 
 
 " You cannot expect, Colonel B ," he replied, "that with such a 
 
 multiplicity of business on my hands I could remember, after a lapse 
 of ten years, the precise state of this particular case. Perhaps I may 
 have some papers, a memorandum or so, at home, that may throw 
 light upon it. At present I can only say that the man failed in his 
 rents, I ejected him, and put a better tenant in his place. I cannot 
 see a crime in that." 
 
 " Plase your honour," replied M'Evoy, " I can prove by them that's 
 standin' to the fore this minute, as well as by this written affidavit, sir, 
 that I offered him the full rint, havin', at the same time, as God is my 
 judge, ped part of it afore." 
 
 " That is certainly false — an untrue and malicious statement," said 
 Carson. " I now remember that the cause of my resentment — yes, of 
 my just resentment against you, was your reporting that I received 
 your rent and withheld your receipt." 
 
 " Then," observed the colonel, " there has been inore tha7i one 
 charge of that nature brought against you? You mentioned a/wZ/z^r 
 to me this morning, if I mistake not." 
 
 " I have made my oath, your honour, of the thruth of it ; an' here 
 is a dacent man, sir, a Protestant, that lent me the money, an' was 
 present when I offered it to him. Mr. Smith, come forrid, sir, an' 
 spake up for the poor man, as you're always willin' to do." 
 
 " I object to his evidence," said Carson : " he is my open enemy." 
 
 " I am your enemy, Mr. Carson, or, rather, the enemy of your 
 corruption and want of honesty," said Smith ; " but, as you say, an 
 open one. I scorn to say behind your back what I wouldn't say to 
 your face. Right well you know I was present when he tendered you 
 his rent. I lent him part of it. But why did you and your bailiffs 
 turn him out when his wife was on her sick bed ? Allowing that he 
 could not pay his rent, was that any reason you should do so barbarous 
 an act as to drag a woman from her sick bed, and she at the point of 
 death ? But we know your reasons for it." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the colonel, " pray what character do M'Evoy 
 and Smith here bear in the country ?" 
 
 " We have known them both for years to be honest, conscientious 
 men," said those whom he addressed : " such is their character, and m 
 our opinion they well deserve it." 
 
 "God bless you, gintlemen!" said M'Evoy — "God bless your 
 honours for your kind words ! I'm sure, for my own part, I hope I'll 
 alwavs desarve your good opinion, although but a poor man now, God 
 helpm?!" 
 
152 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Pray, who occupies the farm at present, Mr. Carson ? " 
 
 "The man I mentioned to you this morning, sir? His name is 
 Jackson ?" 
 
 " And pray, Mr. Carson, who is his wife?" 
 
 " Oh, by-the-by, colonel, that's a little too close. I see the gentle- 
 men smile ; but they know I must beg to decline answering that 
 question — not that it matters much. We have all sown our wild oats 
 in our time — myself as well as another — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " The fact, under other circumstances," observed the colonel, "could 
 never draw an inquiry from me ; but as it is connected with, or 
 probably has occasioned, a gross, unfeeling, and an unjust act of 
 oppression towards an honest man, I therefore alluded to it, as 
 exhibiting the motives from which you acted. She is your illegitimate 
 daughter, sir?" 
 
 " She's one o' the baker's dozen o' them, plase your honour," obser^'ed 
 a humorous little Presbyterian, with a sarcastic face, and sharp northern 
 accent — " for feth, sir, for my part, A thenk he hes one on every hill- 
 head. A'U count, your honour, on my fingers, a roun' half-dozen, aall 
 on your estate, sir, featherin' their nests as fast as they can." 
 
 " Is this Jackson a good tenant, Mr. Carson ?" 
 
 "I gave you his character this moming, Colonel V- ." 
 
 *' Hout, colonel," said the Presbyterian, " deil a penny rent the man 
 pays, at aal at aal. A'U swear A hev it from Jackson's own lips. He 
 made him a bailey, sir ; he suts rent free. Ask the man, sir, for his 
 receipts, an' A'll warrant the truth will come out." 
 
 " I have secured Jackson's attendance," said the colonel ; " let him 
 be called in." 
 
 The man in a few minutes entered. 
 
 "Jackson," said the colonel, "how long is it since you paid Mr, 
 Carson here any rent ? " 
 
 Jackson looked at Carson for his cue ; but the colonel rose up 
 indignantly. " Fellow ! " he proceeded, " if you tamper with me a 
 single moment, you shall find Mr. Carson badly able to protect you. 
 If you speak falsehood, be it at your peril." 
 
 " By jing, sir," said Jackson, " A'll say nothin' aginst my father-in- 
 laa, an' A don't care who tcks it well or ull. A was jist tekin' z.giin ^ 
 
 with a fren' or two — an' d me, A say, A'll stick to my father-in- 
 
 laa, for he hes stuck to me." 
 
 " You appear to be a hardened, drunken wretch," observed the 
 colonel. '• Will you be civil enough to show your last receipt for 
 rent ? " 
 
 " Wall A show it ? A done whether A wuU or not, nor A dono 
 whether A. hev it or not ; but ef aal the receipts in Europe wur burnt, 
 d my blood but A'll stick to my fathcr-in-laa." 
 
 "Your father-in-law may be proud of you," said the colonel. 
 
 " By h , A'll back you en that," said the fellow, nodding his 
 
 head, and looking round him confidentlv. " By h , A say that, 
 
 too ! " 
 
 ' A half-tumbler of punch. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. I53 
 
 " And I'm sorry to be compelled to add," continued the colonel, 
 *' that you may be equally proud of your father-in-law." 
 
 " A say right agane ! D me, bit A'll back that too ! " and he 
 
 nodded confidently, and looked around the room once more. " A 
 
 wull ; d my blood, bit no man can say agane it. A'm married to 
 
 his daughther ; an', by the sun that shines, A'll still stan' up for my 
 father-in -laa." 
 
 "Mr. Carson," said the colonel, " can you disprove these facts ? Can 
 you show that you did not expel M'Evoy from his farm, and put the 
 husband of your illegitimate daughter into it .-' That you did not receive 
 his rent, decline giving him a receipt, and afterwards compel him to 
 pay twice, because he could not produce the receipt which you with- 
 held?" 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Carson, not directly replying to the colonel, 
 "there is a base conspiracy got up against me ; and I can perceive, 
 moreover, that there is evidently some unaccountable intention on the 
 
 part of Colonel B to insult my feelings and injure my character. 
 
 When paltry circumstances that have occurred above ten years ago are 
 raked up in my teeth, I have little to say but that it proves how very 
 badly off the colonel must have been for an imputation against my 
 conduct and discretion as his agent, since he finds himself compelled 
 to hunt so far back for a charge." 
 
 " That is by no means the heaviest charge I have to bring against 
 you," replied the colonel. " There is no lack of them ; nor shall you 
 be able to complain that they are not recent , as well as of longer 
 standing. Your conduct in the case of poor honest M'Evoy here is 
 black and iniquitous. He must be restored to his farm, but by other 
 hands than yours, and that ruffian instantly expelled from it. From 
 this moment, sir, you cease to be my agent. You have betrayed the 
 confidence I reposed in you ; you have misled me as to the character 
 of my tenants ; you have been a deceitful, cringing, cunning, selfish, 
 and rapacious tyrant. My people you have ground to dust ; my 
 property you have lessened in value nearly one-half, and for your 
 motives in doing this, I refer you to certain transactions and legal 
 documents which passed between us. There is nothing cruel or 
 mercenary which you did not practise in order to enrich yourself. 
 The whole tenor of your conduct is before me. Your profligacy is 
 not only discovered, but already proved ; and you played those 
 villainous pranks, I suppose, because I have been mostly an absentee. 
 Do not think, however, that you shall enjoy the fruits of your extor- 
 tion ? I will place the circumstances, and the proofs of the respective 
 charges against you, in the hands of my solicitor, and, by the sacred 
 heaven above me, you shall disgorge the fruits of your rapacity ! 
 My good people, I shall remain among you for another fortnight, 
 during which time I intend to go through my estate, and set every- 
 thing to rights as well as I can, until I may appoint a humane and 
 feeling gentlevian as my agent — such a one as will have, at least, a 
 character to lose. I also take this opportunity of informing you that 
 in future I shall visit you often, will redress your grievances, should 
 
15+ THE POOR SCHOLAli. 
 
 vou have any to complain of, and will give such assistance to the 
 honest and industrious among you — but to them only — as I trMst may 
 make us better pleased with each other than we have been. Do not 
 you go, M'Evoy, until I speak to you." 
 
 During these observations Carson sat with a smile, or rather a 
 sneei, upon his lips. It was the sneer of a purse-proud villain, con- 
 fident that his wealth, no matter how ill-gotten, was still wealth, and 
 worth its value. 
 
 " Colonel," said he, " I have heard all you said, but you see me ' so 
 strong in honesty ' that I am not moved. In the course of a few 
 weeks I shall have purchased an estate of my own, ivhich I will 
 manage differently, for my fortune is made, sir. I intend also to 
 give up my other agencies : I am rather old, and must retire to enjoy 
 a little of the otium cian dignitate. I wish you all good morning ! " 
 
 The colonel turned away in abhorrence, but disdained any reply. 
 
 " A say, Sam," said the Presbyterian, " bring your son-in-laa wuth 
 you." 
 
 " An' A say that too," exclaimed the drunken ruffian — ** A say that, 
 
 A do. A'm married to his daughther ; an' A say stull that, d n 
 
 my blood, bit A'U stick to my father-in-laa ! That's the point ! " — 
 and again he nodded his head, and looked round him with a drunken 
 swagger. " A'U stick to my father-in-laa ! A'll do that ; feth, A 
 wulll"^ 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader that the colonel's 
 address to Carson soon got among the assembled tenantry, and a 
 vehement volley of groans and hisses followed the discarded agent 
 up the street. 
 
 " Ha ! bad luck to you for an ould villain ! You were made to 
 hear on the deaf side o' your head at last ! You may take the black 
 wool out o' your ears now, you rip ! The cries an' curses o' the 
 widows an' orphans that you made and oppressed has ris up agin 
 you at the long run! Ha ! you beggarly nager ! maybe you'll make 
 us neglect our own work to do yours agin ! Go an' gather the dhry 
 cow-cakes, you misert, an' bring them home in your pocket, to throw 
 on the dunghill ! " 
 
 " Do you remimber the day," said others, " you met Mr. M , an' 
 
 you goin' up the street wid a cake of it in your fists, undher your 
 shabby skirts ; an' whin the gintleman wint to shake hands wid you, 
 how he discovered your maneness ? Three groans for Yallow Sam, 
 the extortioner ! A short coorse to him ! Your corner's warm below 
 for you, you villain ! " 
 
 "But now, boys, for the colonel!" they exclaimed. "Huzza for 
 
 noble Colonel B , the rale Irish gintleman, that wouldn't see his 
 
 tenants put upon by a villain ! — Huzza ! Hell resave yces, shout ! 
 
 Huzza ! Huzza ! Huzza ! Huz tundher-an'-ounze, my voice is 
 
 cracked ! Where's his coach .'' — where's his honours coach .? Come , 
 boys, out wid it I — out wid it! Tattheration to yees, come! We'll 
 
 ' This dialtci ib local. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ^55 
 
 dhraw it to the divil, to hell an' back agin, if it plases him! Success 
 
 to Colonel B ! Blood-an-turf ! what'U we do for a fight ? Long 
 
 life to noble Colonel B , the poor man's friend ! — long life to him 
 
 for ever, an' a day longer ! Whoo ! my darlins ! Huzza ! " &c. 
 
 The wann interest which the colonel took in M'Evoy's behalf was 
 looked upon by the other tenants as a guarantee of his sincerity in aU 
 he promised. Their enthusiasm knew no bounds. They got out hit. 
 carriage from the inn-yard, and drew it through the town, though the 
 colonel himself, beyond the fact of their shouting, remained quite 
 ignorant of what was going forward. 
 
 After Carson's departure, the colonel's friends, having been first 
 asked to dine with him at the inn, also took their leave, and Bone 
 jdmained but M'Evoy, who waited with pleasing anxiety to hear 
 what the colonel proposed to say — for he felt certain that it would be 
 agreeable. 
 
 " M'Evoy," said the colonel, " I am truly sorry for what you have 
 suffered through the villainy of my agent ; but 1 will give you redress, 
 and allow you for what you have lost by the transaction. It is true, 
 as I have been lately told by a person who pleaded your cause nobly 
 and eloquently, that I can never repay you for what you have suffered. 
 However, what we can, we will do. You are poor, I understand?" 
 
 " God he sees that, sir ; and afflicted, too, plase your honour." 
 
 "Afflicted! How is that?" 
 
 " I had a son, sir — a blessed boy ! a darlin' boy ! — once our 
 -comfort, an' once we thought he'd be our pride an' our staff, but " 
 
 The poor man's tears here flowed fast ; he took up the skirt of his 
 ^* Cotha More," or great coat, and after wiping his eyes, and clearing 
 his voice, proceeded : — 
 
 " He was always, as I said, a hjessed boy, and we looked up to him 
 always, sir. He saw our poverty, your honour, an' he felt it, sir, keen 
 •enough, indeed, God help him ! How-an'-ever, he took it on him to 
 go up to Munster, sir, undher hopes of risin' us — undher the hopes, 
 poor child — an' God knows, sir — if — oh, Jemmy, avourneen machree! 
 — I doubt — I doubt you sunk undher what proved too many for you ! 
 I doubt my child's dead, sir — him that all our hearts wor fixed upon ; 
 and if that ud happen to be the case, nothin', sir, — oh, nothin' — not 
 >even your kindness in doin' us justice, could make us happy. We 
 would rather beg wid him, sir, nor have the best in the world widout 
 him. His poor young heart, sir, was fixed upon the place your honoui 
 ■is restorin' us to ; an' I'm afeard his mother, sir, would break her heart 
 if she thought he couldn't share our good fortune ! And we don't know 
 whether he's livin' or dead ! That, sir, is what's afflictin' us. I had 
 some notion of goin' to look for him ; but he tould us he would never 
 write, or let us hear from him, till he'd be either one thing or other." 
 " I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that your son is well, M'Evoy. 
 Believe me, he is well — I know it." 
 
 " Well ! Before God, does your honour spake truth ? Well ! Oh, 
 -sir, for His sake that died for us, an' for the sake of His blessed mother, 
 -can you teli me is my darlin' son alive ? " 
 
156 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " He is living ; is in excellent health ; is as well dressed as I am ; and 
 has friends as rich and capable of assisting him as myself. But how 
 is this ? What's the matter with you ? You are pale ! Good God' 
 Here, waiter ! Waiter ! Waiter, I say ! " 
 
 The colonel rang the bell violently, and two or three waiters entered 
 at the same moment. 
 
 " Bring a little wine and water, one of you, and let the other two 
 remove this man to the open window. Be quick. What do you stare 
 at?" 
 
 In a few minutes the old man recovered, and, untying the narrow, 
 coarse cravat which he wore, wiped the perspiration off his pale 
 face. 
 
 " Pray don't be too much affected," said the colonel. " Waiter^ 
 bring up refreshment — bring wine — be quiet and calm — you are weak, 
 poor fellow — but we will strengthen you by-and-by." 
 
 " I am wake, sir," he replied ; " for, God help us ! this was a hard 
 year upon us ; and we sutTered what few could bear. But he's livin', 
 colonel. Our darlin' is livin' ! Oh, colonel, your kindness went to my 
 heart this day afore, but that was nothin' — he's livin' an well ! On my 
 two knees, before God, I thank you for them words ! I thank you a 
 thousand an' a thousand times more for them words nor for what your 
 honour did about Yallow Sam." 
 
 '' Get up," said the colonel — '•' get up. The proceedings of the day 
 have produced a revulsion of feeling which has rendered you incapable 
 of sustaining intelligence of your son. He is well, I assure you. 
 Bring those things to this table, waiter." 
 
 " But can your honour tell me anything in particular about him,, 
 sir ? What he's doin' — or what he intends to do } " 
 
 " Yes ! he is at a respectable boarding-school." 
 
 " Boordin'-school ! But isn't boordin'-schools Protestants, sir?" 
 
 "Not all; he is at a Catholic boarding-school, and reading hard 
 to be a priest, which, I hope, he will soon be. He has good friends, 
 and you may thank him for being restored to your farm." 
 
 " Glory be to my Maker for that ! Oh, sir, your tenants wor desaved 
 in you ! They thought, sir, that you wor a hard-hearted gintleman, 
 that didn't care whether they lived or died." 
 
 " I feel that I neglected them too long, M'Evoy. Now take some 
 refreshment : eat something, and afterwards drink a few glasses of 
 wine. Your feelings have been much excited, and you will be the 
 better for it. Keep up your spirits. I am going to ride, and must 
 leave you : but if you call on me to-morrow, at one o'clock, I shall have 
 more good news for you. We must stock your farm, and enable you 
 to enter upon it creditably." 
 
 " Sir." said M'Evoy, " you are a Protestant ; but, as I hope to enther 
 glory, I an' my wife an' childhre will pray that your bed may be made 
 in heaven, this night ; and that your honour may be led to see the 
 thruth an' the right coorse." 
 
 The colonel then left him, and the simple man, on looking at the cold 
 meat, bread, and wine before him, raised his hanas and eyes towards 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ^Vt 
 
 heaven to thank God for his goodness, and to invoke a blessing upon 
 his noble and munificent benefactor. 
 
 But how shall we describe the feelings of his family when, after re- 
 turning home, he related the occurrences of that day. The severe and 
 pressing exigencies under which they laboured had prevented his sons 
 from attending the investigation that was to take place in town. T^eir 
 expectations, however, were raised, and they looked out with inicnse 
 anxiety for the return of their father. 
 
 At length he was seen coming slowly up the hill ; the spades were 
 thrown aside, and the whole family assembled to hear " what was done." 
 
 The father entered in silence, sat down, and after wiping his brow, 
 and laying down his hat, placing his staff across it, upon the floor, he 
 drew his breath deeply. 
 
 " Dominick," said the wife, " what news ? What was done ? " 
 
 " Vara," replied Dominick, " do you remember the day — fair and 
 handsome vou wor then — when I first kissed your lips as my own 
 darlin' wife ? " 
 
 " Ah, avourneen, Dominick, don't spake of them times. The hap- 
 piness we had then is long gone, acushla, in one sense." 
 
 " It's before me like yestherday,Vara — the delight that went through 
 my heart, jist as clear as yestherday, or the blessed sun that's shinin' 
 through the broken windy on the floor there. I remimber, Vara, say- 
 ing to you that day — I don't know whether _j'<77/ remimber it or not — 
 but /remimber savin' to you, that if I lived a thousand years I could 
 rever feel sich happiness as I did when I first pressed you to my heart 
 as my own wife." 
 
 " Well, but we want to hear what happened, Dominick, achora." 
 
 "Do you remimber the words, Vara ? " 
 
 " Uch ! I do, avourneen. DidiiH they go into my heart at the time, 
 ?i\\ how could \ forget them? But I can't bear, somehow, to look 
 back at what we wor then, bekase I feel my heart brakin', acushla ! " 
 
 " Well, Vara, look at me. Amn't I a poor wasted crathur now, in 
 comparishment to what I was thin ? " 
 
 '' God he sees the change that's in you, darlin' ! But sure 'twasn't 
 your fau't, or mine either, Dominick, avillish ! " 
 
 " Well, Vara, you see me now — I'm happier — before God, I'm hap- 
 pier — happier a thousand degrees, than I was thin' ! Come to my 
 arms, asthore machree — my heart's breakin' — but it's wid happiness — 
 don't be frightened — it's wid joy I'm sheddin' these tears — it's wid 
 happiness an' delight I'm crying ! Jemmy is livin', an' well, childhre 
 — he's livin' an' well. Vara — the star of our hearts is livin' an' well, an' 
 happy ! Kneel down, childhre — kneel down ! Bend before the great 
 God, an' thank him for his kindness to your blessed brother — to our 
 blessed son. Bless the colonel, childhre ; bless him whin you're down, 
 IVotestant an' all as he is. Oh, bless him as if you prayed for myself, 
 or for Jemmy, that's far away from us ! " 
 
 He paused for a few minutes, bent his head upon his hands as he 
 knelt in supplication at the chair, then resumed his seat, as did the 
 whole family, deeply affected. 
 
»5« THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 " Now, childhre," said he, " I'll tell yeas all ; but don't any of yoi» 
 Vjc so poor a crathur as I was to-day. Bear it mild an' asy, Var.i, 
 acushla, for I know it will take a start out of you. Sure were to go 
 back to our own ould farm ! Ay, an' what's more — oh, God of heaven,, 
 bless him !— what's more, the colonel is to stock it for us, an' to help 
 us ; an' what is more, Yallow Sam is 07ct ! OUT ! ! " 
 
 " Out ! " they exclaimed : " Jemmy well, an' Yallow Sam out ! Oh, 
 hither, surely " 
 
 " Now behave, I say. Ay, and never to come in again ! But who 
 do you think got him out .'' " 
 
 " Who .'' — why God he knows. Who could get h'm out ? " 
 
 " Our son. Vara — our son, childhre : Jemmy got him out, an' got 
 ourselves back to our fai'm ! I had it partly from the noble colonel's 
 
 own lips, an' the remainder from Mr. M y, that I met on my way 
 
 home. But there's more to come : sure Jemmy has friends aquil to 
 the colonel himself : an' sure he's at a Catholic boordin'-school, 
 among gintlemen's childhre, an' in a short time he'll be a priest in full 
 jrdhers." 
 
 We here draw a veil over the delight of the family. Questions 
 upon questions, replies upon replies, sifting and cross-examinations, 
 followed in rapid succession, until all was known that the worthy 
 man had to communicate. 
 
 Another simple scene followed, which, as an Irishman, I WTite with 
 sorrow. When the joy of the family had somewhat subsided, the 
 father, putting his hand in his coat-pocket, pulled out several large 
 slices of mutton. 
 
 " Along wid all, childhre," said he, " the colonel ordhered me my 
 dinner. I ate plenty myself, an' slipped these slices in my pocket 
 for yees : but the devil a one o' me knows what kind o' mate it is. An' 
 I got wine, too ! Oh ! — well, they may talk, but wine is the dhrink ! 
 Bring me the ould knife, till I make a fair divide among yees. 
 Musha, what kind o' mate can it be, for myself doesn't remimber atin* 
 any sort, barrin' bacon, an' a bit o' beef of an odd time 'i " 
 
 They all ate with an experimental air of sagacity that was rather 
 amusing. None, however, had ever tasted mutton before, and conse- 
 quently the nature and quality of the meat remained, on that occasion, 
 a profound secret to IM'Evoy and his family.^ It is true they supposed 
 it to be mutton ; but not one of them could pronounce it to be such, 
 from any positive knowledge of its peculiar flavour. 
 
 " Well," said Dominick, " it's no matther what the name of it is, 
 in regard that it's good mate, anyway, for them that has enough of it." 
 
 With a fervent heart and streaming eyes did this virtuous family offer 
 up their grateful prayers to that God whose laws they had not know- 
 ingly violated, and to whose providence they owed so much. Nor was 
 their benefactor forgotten. The strength and energy of the Irish 
 language, being that in which the peasantry usually pray, were well 
 adapted to express the depth of their gratitude towards a man who 
 
 ' There are hundreds of thousands — yes, millions — of the poorer classes in Ireland 
 who have never tasted mutton I 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. ^59 
 
 had, as they said, " humbled himself to look into their wants, as if he 
 was like one of themselves !" 
 
 For upwards of ten years they had not gone to bed free from the 
 heaviness of care, or the wasting grasp of poverty. Now their hearth 
 was once more surrounded by peace and contentment ; their burthens 
 were removed, their pulses beat freely, and the language of happiness 
 again was heard under their humble roof. Even sleep could not 
 repress the vivacity of their enjoyments : they dreamt of their brother 
 — for in the Irish heart the domestic affections hold the first place — 
 they dreamt of the farm to which those affections had so long yearned. 
 They trod it again as its legitimate possessors. Its fields were 
 brighter, its corn waved with softer murmurs to the breeze, its har- 
 vests were richer, and the song of their harvest home more cheerful 
 than before. Their delight was tumultuous, but intense ; and when 
 they arose in the morning to 
 
 A sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 
 they again knelt in worship to God with exulting hearts, and again 
 offered up their sincere prayers in behalf of the just man who had 
 asserted their rights against the oppressor. 
 
 Colonel B was a man who, without having been aware of it, 
 
 possessed an excellent capacity for business. The neglect of his pro- 
 perty resulted not from want of feeling, but merely from want of con- 
 sideration. There had, moreover, been no precedent for him to follow. 
 He had seen no Irishman of rank ever bestow a moment's attention 
 on his tenantry. They had been, for the most part, absentees like 
 himself, and felt satisfied if they succeeded in receiving their half- 
 yearly remittance in due course, without ever reflecting for a moment 
 upon the situation of those from whom it was drawn. 
 
 Nay, what was more — he had not seen even the resident gentry 
 €nter into the state and circumstances of those who lived upon their 
 property. It was a mere accident that determined him to become 
 acquainted with his tenants ; but no sooner had he seen his duty, 
 and come to the resolution of performing it, than the decision of 
 his character became apparent. It is true that within the last few 
 years the Irish landlords have advanced in knowledge. Many of 
 them have introduced more improved systems of agriculture, and 
 instructed their tenants in the best methods of applying them ; but 
 during the time of which we write, an Irish landlord only saw his 
 tenants when canvassing them for their votes, and instructing them 
 in dishonesty and perjury, not reflecting that he was then teaching 
 them to practise the arts of dissimulation and fraud against himself. 
 This was the late system : let us hope that it will be superseded by 
 a better one ; and that a landlord will think it a duty, but neither a 
 trouble nor a condescension, to look into his own affairs, and keep 
 an eye upon the morals and habits of his tenantry. 
 
 The colonel, as he had said, remained more than a fortnight upon 
 his estate ; and, as he often declared since, the recollections arising 
 from the good which he performed during that bi ef period rendered 
 
i6o THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 it the portion of his past Ufe upon which he could look with most 
 satisfaction. He did not leave the country till he =aw M'Eviyand 
 his family restored to their farm, and once more independent —until 
 he had redressed every wellfeunded complaint, secured the aftections 
 of those who had before detested him, and diffused \ eace and comfort 
 amongst every family upon his estate. From thenceforth he watched 
 the interests of his tenants, and soon found that in promoting their 
 welfare, and instructing them in their duties, he was more his own 
 benefactor than theirs. Before many years had elapsed, his property 
 was wonderfully improved ; he himself was called the " Lucky Land- 
 lord," " bekase," said the people, "ever since he spoke to, an' advised 
 his tenants, we find that it's hicky to live undher him. The people 
 has heart to work wid a gintleman that won't grind thim ; an' so sign's 
 on it, everyone thrives upon his land ; an' dang my bones, but I believe 
 a rotten stick ud grow on it, set in case it was thried." 
 
 In sooth his popularity became proverbial ; but it is probable that 
 not even his justice and humanity contributed so much to this as the 
 vigour with which he prosecuted his suit against "Yellow Sam," whom 
 he compelled literally to " disgorge " the fruits of his heartless extor- 
 tions. This worthy agent died soon after his disgrace, without any 
 legitimate issue ; and his property, which amounted to about fifty 
 thousand pounds, is now inherited by a gentleman of the strictest 
 honour and integrity. To this day his memory is detested by the 
 people, who, with that bitterness by which they stigmatise a villain, 
 have erected him into a standaiJ of dishonesty. If a man become 
 remarkable for want of principle, they usually say, " He's as great a 
 rogue as Yellow Sam," or, " He is the greatest sconce that ever was 
 in the country, barriii Yellow Sam." 
 
 We now dismiss him, and request our readers,at the same time, not 
 to suppose that we have held him up as a portrait of Irish agents in 
 general. On the contrary, we believe that they constitute a most 
 respectable class of men, who have certainly very difficult duties to 
 perform. The Irish landlords, we are happy to say, taught by experi- 
 ence, have, for the most part, both seen and felt the necessity of 
 appointing gentlemen of property to situations so very important, and 
 which require so much patience, consideration, and humanity in those 
 who fill them. We trust they will persevere in this plan ; but we can 
 assure them that all the virtues of the best agent can never compen- 
 sate, in the opinion of the people, for neglect in the " Head Landlord." 
 One visit or act, even of nominal kindness, from /;/;«, will at any time 
 produce more attachment and gratitude among them than a whole 
 life spent in good offices by an agent. Like Sterne's French Beggar, 
 they would prefer a pinch of snuff from the one, to a guinea from the 
 other. The agent only renders them a favour, but the Head Landlord 
 does them an honour. 
 
 Colonel B immediately after his return home, sent for Mr. 
 
 O'Brien, who waited on him with a greater degree of curiosity than 
 perhaps he had ever felt before. The colonel smiled as he extended 
 his hand to him. 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. i6i 
 
 " Mr. O'Brien." said he, " I knew you would feel anxious t^o hear 
 the result of my visit to the estate which this man with the ni-xname 
 managed for me." 
 
 " Maiiaged, sir ! Did you say mz.wz.'ged? " 
 
 " I spoke in the past time, O'Brien : he is out." 
 
 " Then yo\xr prote'gPs story was correct, sir ? " 
 
 " To a tittle. O'Brien, there is something extraordinary in that 
 boy ; otherwise, how could it happen that a sickly, miserable-look- 
 ing creature, absolutely in tatters, could have impressed us both so 
 strongly with a sense of the injustice done ten years ago to his father? 
 It is, indeed, remarkable." 
 
 " The boy, colonel, deeply felt that act of injustice, and the expres- 
 sion of it came home to the heart." 
 
 " I have restored his father, however. The poor man and his 
 family are once more happy. I have stocked their old farm for them ; 
 in fact, they now enjoy comfort and independence " 
 
 " I am glad, sir, that you have done them justice. That act, alone, 
 will go far to redeem your character from the odium which the con- 
 duct of your agent was calculated to throw upon it." 
 
 " There is not, probably, in Ireland, a landlord so popular as I am 
 at this moment — among my tenants on that property. Restoring 
 M'Evoy, however, is but a small part of what I have done. Carson's 
 pranks were incredible. He was a rack-renter of the first water. A 
 person named Brady had paid him twenty-five guineas as a douceur — 
 in other words, as a bribe — for renewing a lease for him ; yet, after 
 having received the money, he kept the poor man dangling after him, 
 and at length told him that he was offered a larger sum by another. 
 In some cases he kept back the receipts, and made the poor people 
 pay twice, which was still more iniquitous. Then, sir, he would not 
 take bank notes in payment. No ; he was so wonderfully con- 
 scientious, and so zealously punctual, in fulfilling 7ny wishes, as he 
 told them, on the subject, that nothing would pass in payment but 
 gold. This gold, sir, they were compelled to receive from himself at 
 a most oppressive premium : so that he actually fleeced them, under 
 my name, in every conceivable manner and form of villainy. He is a 
 usurer, too ; and, I am told, worth forty or fifty thousandfpounds : but, 
 thank heaven ! he is no longer an agent of mine," 
 
 " It gives me sincere pleasure, sir, that you have at length got correct 
 habits of thinking upon your duties as an Irish landlord ; for believe 
 
 me, Colonel B , as a subject involving a great portion of national 
 
 happiness or national misery, it is entitled to the deepest and most 
 serious consideration, not only of the class to which you belong, but of 
 the legislature. Something should be done, sir, to improve the con- 
 dition of the poorer classes. A rich country and poor inhabitants is 
 an anomaly ; and whatever is done should be prompt and effectual. 
 If the Irish landlords looked directly into the state of their tenantry, 
 and set themselves vigorously to the task of bettering their circum- 
 stances, they would, I am certain, establish the tranquillity and happi- 
 ness of the country at large. The great secret, colonel, of the dissen* 
 
162 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 sions that prevail among us is the poverty of the people. They are 
 poor, and therefore the more easily wrought up to outrage ; they are 
 poor, and think that any change must be for the better ; they are not 
 only poor, but imaginative, and the fittest recipients for those vague 
 speculations by which they are deluded. Let their condition be im- 
 proved, and the most fertile source of popular tumult and crime is 
 closed. Let them be taught how to labour : let them not be bowed 
 to the earth by rents so far above the real value of their lands. The 
 pernicious maxims which float among them must be refuted — not by 
 theory, but by practical lessons performed before their eyes for their 
 own advantage. Let them be taught how to discriminate between 
 their real rnterests and their prejudices ; and none can teach them all 
 this so effectually as their landlords, if they could be roused from their 
 apathy, and induced to undertake the task. Who ever saw a poor 
 nation without great crimes .-' " 
 
 " Very true, O'Brien — quite true. I am resolved to inspect per- 
 sonally the condition of those who reside on my other estates. But 
 now about owx p'oiegc? How is he doing ? " 
 
 " Extremely well. I have had a letter from him a few days ago, in 
 which he alludes to the interest you have taken in himself and his 
 family with a depth of feeling truly affecting." 
 
 "When you write to him, let him know that I have placed his father 
 in his old farm ; and that Carson is out. Say I am sure he will con- 
 duct himself properly, in which case I charge myself with his expenses 
 until he shall have accompHshed his purpose. After that he may work 
 his own way through life, and I have no doubt but he will do it well 
 and honourably." 
 
 Colonel B 's pledge on this occasion was nobly redeemed. Our 
 
 humble hero pursued his studies with zeal and success. In due time 
 he entered Maynooth, where he distinguished himself not simply for 
 smartness as a student, but as a young man possessed of a mind far 
 above the common order. During all this time nothing occurred 
 worthy of particular remark, except that, in fulfilment of his formel 
 vow, he never wrote to any of his friends ; for the reader should have 
 been told that this was originally comprehended in the determination 
 he had formed. He received ordination at the hands of his friend the 
 bishop, whom we have already introduced to the reader, and on the 
 same day he was appointed by that gentleman to a curacy in his own 
 parish. The colonel, whose regard for him never cooled, presented 
 him with fifty pounds, together with a horse, saddle, and bridle ; so 
 that he found himself in a capacity to enter upon his duties in a decent 
 and becoming manner. Another circumstance that added consider- 
 ably to his satisfaction was the appointment of Mr. O'Brien to a 
 parish adjoining that of the bishop. James's afflictions had been the 
 means of bringing the merits of that excellent man before his spiritual 
 superior, v/ho became much attached to him, and availed himself of 
 the earliest opportunity of rewarding his unobtrusive piety and bene- 
 volence. 
 
 No sooner was his ordination completed than the Jong-suppressed 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. .^ 
 
 yearnings after his home and kindred came upon his spirit with a 
 power that could not be restrained. He took leave of his friends with 
 a beating heart, and set out on a delightful summer mornin^^ to revisit 
 all that had been, notwithstanding his long absence and severe Irials, 
 so strongly wrought into his memory and affections. Our readers 
 may, therefore, suppose him on his journey home, and permit them- 
 selves to be led in imagination to the house of his former friend. 
 Lanigan, where we must lay the scene for the present. 
 
 Lanigan's residence has the same comfortable and warm appearance 
 which always distinguishes the habitation of the independent and 
 virtuous man. What, however, can the stir, and bustle, and agitation 
 which prevail in it mean? The daughters run out to a little mound, 
 or natural terrace, beside the house, and look anxiously towards the 
 road : then return, and almost immediately appear again, with the 
 same intense anxiety to catch a glimpse of someone whom they ex- 
 pect. They look keenly ; but why is it that their disappointment 
 appears to be attended with such dismay .-* They go into their father's 
 house once more, wringing their hands and betraying all the symp- 
 toms of affliction. Here is their mother, too, coming to peer into the 
 distance ; she is rocking with that motion peculiar to Irishwomen when 
 suffering distress. She places her open hand upon her brows that she 
 may collect her sight to a particular spot ; she is blinded by her tears, 
 breaks out into a low wail, and returns with something like the dark- 
 ness of despair on her countenance. She goes into the house, passes 
 through the kitchen, and enters into a bedroom ; seats herself on a 
 chair beside the bed, and renews her low but bitter wail of sorrow. 
 Her husband is lying in that state which the peasantry know usually 
 precedes the agonies of death. 
 
 " For the sake of the livin' God," said he, on seeing her, " is there 
 any sign o' them ? " 
 
 " Not yet, a stcillishj but they will soon — they must soon, asthore, 
 be here, an' thin your mind will be asy." 
 
 " Oh, Alley, Alley, if you could know what I suffer for fraid I'd die 
 widout the priest, you'd pity me!" 
 
 " I do pity you^ asthore : but don't be cast down, for I have my 
 trust in God that he won't desart you in your last hour. You did 
 what you could, my heart's pride ; you bent before Him night an' 
 mornin', and sure the poor neighbour never wint from your door 
 widout lavin' his blessin' behind him." 
 
 The dying man raised his hands feebly from the bed-clothes. 
 " Ah ! " he exclaimed, " I thought I did a great dale, Alley : but now — 
 but now — it appears nothin' to what I ought to a' done when I could. 
 Still, avourneen, my life's not unpleasant when I look back at it ; for 
 I can't remimber that I ever purposely offinded a livin' mortal. All 
 I want to satisfy me is the priest." 
 
 " No, avourneen, you did not ; for it wasn't in you to offind a 
 child." 
 
 " Alley, you'll pardon me an' forgive me, acushla, if ever — if ever I 
 did what was displasin' to you ! An' call in the childhre, till 1 see 
 
1 64 ' THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 them about me — I want to have their forgiveness, too. 1 know 111 
 have it— for they wor good childhre, an' ever loved me." 
 
 The daughters now entered the room, exclaiming, " Ahir dheelish 
 (beloved father), Pether is comin' by himself, but no priest ! Blessed 
 Queen of Heaven, what will v>c do ! Oh ! father darlin', are you to 
 die widout the Holy Ointment?" 
 
 The sick man clasped his hands, looked towards heaven, and 
 groaned aloud. 
 
 "Oh, it's hard, this," said he. " It's hard upon me! Yet I won't 
 be cast down. I'll trust in my good God; I'll trust in his blessed 
 name ! " 
 
 His wife, on hearing that her son was returned without the priest, 
 sat with her face shrouded by her apron, weeping in grief that none 
 but they who know the dependence which those belonging to her 
 Church place in its last rites can comprehend. The children appeared 
 almost distracted ; their grief had more of that stunning character 
 which attends unexpected calamity than of sorrow for one who is 
 gradually drawn from life. 
 
 At length the messenger entered the room, and, almost choked 
 with tears, stated that both priests were absent that day at Conference, 
 and would not return till late. 
 
 The hitherto moderated grief of the wife arose to a pitch much 
 wilder than the death of her husband could, under ordinary circum- 
 stances, occasion. To die without absolution — to pass away into 
 eternity " unanointed, unaneled " — without being purified from the 
 inherent stains of humanity — was to her a much deeper affliction than 
 her final separation from him. She cried in tones of the most piercing 
 despair, and clapped her hands, as they do who weep over the dead. 
 Had he died in the calm confidence of having received the Viatictim, 
 '^r Sacrament, before death, his decease would have had nothing 
 remarkably calamitous in it, beyond usual occurrences of a similar 
 nature. Now the grief was intensely bitter in consequence of his 
 expected departure without the priest. His sons and daughters felt 
 it as forcibly as his wife ; their lamentations were full of the strongest 
 and sharpest agony. 
 
 For nearly three hours did they rernain in this situation ; poor 
 Lanigan sinking by degrees into that collapsed state from which 
 there is no possibility of rallying. He was merely able to speak, and 
 recognise his family ; but every moment advanced him, with awful 
 certamty, nearer and nearer to his end. • 
 
 A great number of the neighbours were now assembled, all partici- 
 pating in the awful feeling which predominated, and anxious to com- 
 pensate by their prayers for the absence of that confidence derived by 
 Roman Catholics, during the approach of death, from the spiritual 
 aid of the priest. They were all at prayer ; the sick room and 
 kitchen were crowded with his friends and acquaintances, many of 
 whom knelt out before the door, and joined with loud voices in the 
 Rosary which was offered up in his behalf. 
 
 In thi.i crisis were they, when a horseman, dressed in bkck, 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 165 
 
 approached the house. Every head was instantly turned round, with 
 a hope that it might be the parish priest or his curate ; but, alas ! 
 they were doomed to experience a fresh disappointment. The 
 stranger, though clerical enough in his appearance, presented a 
 countenance with which none of them was acquainted. On glancing 
 at the group who knelt around the door, he appeared to understand 
 the melancholy cause which brought them together. 
 
 "How is this?" he exclaimed. "Is there anyone here sick or 
 dying.?" 
 
 " Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departin', glory be to God ! 
 An' what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout 
 the priest. They're both at Conwhirence, sir, an' can't come — Mr. 
 Dogherty an' his curate." 
 
 " Make way ! " said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, 
 and passing quickly through the people. " Show me to the sick 
 man's room — be quick, my friends — I am a Catholic clergyman." 
 
 In a moment a passage was cleared, and the stranger found himself 
 beside the bed of death. Grief in the room was loud and bitter ; but 
 his presence stilled it, despite of what they felt. 
 
 " My dear friends," said he, " you know there should be silence in 
 the apartment of a dying man. For shame ! — for shame ! Cease 
 this clamour ; it will but distract him for whom you weep, and pre- 
 vent him from composing his mind for the great trial that is before 
 him." 
 
 " Sir," said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and 
 looking distractedly in his face, " are you a priest ? For heaven's 
 sake tell us ! " 
 
 " I am," he replied ; " leave the room every one of you. I hope 
 your husband is not speechless ? " 
 
 " Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her name be praised ! but 
 near it, your reverence — widin little or no time of it." 
 
 Whilst they spoke, he was engaged in putting the stole about his 
 neck, after which he cleared the room, and commenced hearing 
 Lanigan's confession. 
 
 The appearance of a priest, and the consolation it produced, rallied 
 the powers of life in the benevolent farmer. He became more collected; 
 made a clear and satisfactory confession ; received the sacrament of 
 extreme unction ; and felt himself able to speak w^ith tolerable dis- 
 tinctness and precision. The effects of all this were astonishing. A 
 placid serenity, full of hope and confidence, beamed from the pale and 
 worn features of him who was but a few minutes before in a state ol 
 terror altogether indescribable. When his wife and family, after having 
 been called in, observed this change, they immediately participated in 
 his tranquillity. Death had been deprived of its sting, and grief oi 
 its bitterness ; their sorrow was still deep, but it was not darkened by 
 the dread of future misery. They felt for him as a beloved father, a 
 kind husband, and a dear friend, who had lived a virtuous life, feared 
 God, and was now about to pass into happiness. 
 
 When the rites of the Church were administered, and the family 
 
1 66 THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 again assembled around the bed, the priest sat down in a position 
 which enabled him to see the features of this good man more dis- 
 tinctly. 
 
 " I would be glad," said Lanigan, "to know who it is that God in 
 his goodness has sent to smooth my bed in death, if it ud be plasin', 
 sir, to you to tell me i^' 
 
 " Uo you remember," replied the priest, " a young lad whom you met 
 some years ago on his way to Munster as a poor scholar? You and 
 your family were particularly kind to him ; so kind that he has never 
 since forgotten your affectionate hospitality." 
 
 " We do, your reverence, we do. A mild, gentle crathur he was, 
 poor boy. I hope God prospered him." 
 
 " You see him now before you," said the priest. " I am that boy, 
 and I thank God that I can testify, however slightly, my deep sense 
 of the virtues which you exercised towards me ; although I regret that 
 the occasion is one of such affliction." 
 
 The farmer raised his eyes and feeble hands towards heaven. 
 " Praise an' glory to your name, good God !" he exclaimed. " Praise 
 an' glory to your holy nanif: I Now I know that I'm not forgotten, 
 when you brought back the little kindness I did that boy lox your sake, 
 wid so many blessins to me in the hour of my affliction an' sufferin' ! 
 Childhre, remimber this, now t^at I'm goin' to lave yees for ever ! 
 Remimber always to help the stranger, an' thim that's poor an' in 
 sorrow. If you do, God won't forget it to you ; but will bring it back 
 to yees when you stand in need of it, as he has done to me this day. 
 You see, childhre dear, how small trifles o' that kind depend on one 
 another. If I hadn't thought of helpin' his reverence here, when he 
 was young an' away from his own, he wouldn't think of callin' upon us 
 this day as he was passin'. You see the hand of God is in it, childhre : 
 which it is, indeed, in everything that passes about us, if we could only 
 see it as we ought to do. Thin, but I'd like to look upon your face, 
 sir, if ivs plasin' to you ? A little more to the light, sir. There, I now 
 see you. Ay, indeed, it's changed for the betther, it is— the same mild, 
 clear countenance, but not sorrowful, as when I seen it last. Suffer 
 me to put my hand on your head, sir ; I'd like to bless you before i 
 die, for I can't forget what you undhertook to do for your paarents." 
 
 The priest sat near him ; but finding that he was scarcely able to 
 raise his hand to his head, he knelt down, and the farmer, before he 
 communicated the blessing, inquired : 
 
 " Musha, sir, may I ax, wor you able to do anythink to help your 
 family as you expected ?" 
 
 " God," said the priest, " made me the instrument of raising them 
 from their poverty ; they are now comfortable and happy." 
 
 " Ay ! Well I knew at the time, an' I said it, that a blessin' would 
 attind your endayvours. An' now resave my blessin'. May you never 
 depart from the right way ! May the blessin' of God rest upon you 
 forever — Amin ! Childhre, I'm gettin' wake ; come near mc, till — till 
 I bless you, too, for the last time ! They wor good childhre, sir — they 
 weie ever an' always good to me, an' to their poor mother, youi 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. i<^l 
 
 reverence ; an' — God forgive me if it's a sin ! — but I feel a grate dale 
 o' my heart an' my love fixed upon them. But sure, I'm their father, 
 an' God, I hope, will look over it ! Now, darlins, afore I bless yees, I 
 axe your forgiveness if ever I was harsher to yees than I ought ! " 
 
 The children with a simultaneous movement encircled his bed, and 
 could not reply for some minutes. 
 
 " Never, father darlin' ! Oh, never did you offind us ! Don't speak 
 in that way, or you'll break our hearts ; but forgive us, fatner asthore • 
 Oh, forgive an' bless us, an' don't remimber against us our folly an' 
 disobedience, for it's only now that we see we warn't towards you as 
 we ought to be. Forgive us an' pardon us ! " 
 
 He then made them all kneel around his bed, and with solemn 
 words, and an impressive manner, placed his hand upon their heads, 
 and blessed them with a virtuous father's last blessing. 
 
 He then called for his wife, and the scene became not only more 
 touching, but more elevated. There was an exultation in her manner, 
 and an expression of vivid hope in her eye, arising from the fact of her 
 husband having received, and been soothed by, the rites of her Church, 
 that gave evident proof of the unparalleled attachment borne by 
 persons of her class to the Catholic religion. The arrival of our hero 
 liad been so unexpected, and the terrors of the tender wife for her 
 husband's soul so great, that the administration of (the sacrament 
 almost superseded from her heart every other sensation than that of 
 devotional triumph. Even now, in the midst of her tears, that triumph 
 kindled in her eye, with a light that shone in melancholy beauty upon 
 the bed of death. In proportion, however, as the parting scene — 
 which was to be their last — began to work with greater power upon 
 her sorrow, so did this expression gradually fade away. Grief for his 
 loss resumed its dominion over her heart so strongly that their last 
 parting was aiiiicting even to look upon. 
 
 When it was over, Lanigan once more addressed the priest. 
 
 " Now, sir," he observed, but with great difficulty, " let me have 
 your blessin' an' your prayers ; an' along wid that, your reverence, if 
 you remimber a request 1 once made to you " 
 
 " I remem.ber it well," replied the priest : "you allude to the masses 
 which you wished me to say for you, should I ever receive Orders. 
 Make your mind easy on that point. I not only shall offer up mass 
 for the repose of your soul, but I can assure you that I have mentioned 
 you by name in every mass which I celebrated since my ordination," 
 
 He then proceeded to direct the mind of his dying benefactor to 
 such sub ects as were best calculated to comfort and strengthen him. 
 
 About daybreak the next morning this man of many virtues, after 
 struggling rather severely for two hours preceding his death, passed 
 into eternity, there to enjoy the recompense of a well-spent life. 
 
 When he was dead, the priest, who never left him during the night, 
 approached the bed, and after surveying his benevolent features, now 
 composed in the stillness of death, exclaimed ■ 
 
 " Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from the' 
 labours, and their works do follow them ! " 
 
"'S THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 Having uttered these words aloud, he sat down beside the bed, 
 buried his face in his handkerchief, and wept. 
 
 He was now only a short day's journey from home, and as his 
 presence, he knew, would be rather a restraint upon a family so much 
 in affliction, he bade them farewell, and proceeded on his way. He 
 travelled slowly, and, as every well-known hill or lake appeared to 
 him, his heart boat quickly, his memory gave up its early stores, and 
 his affections prepared themselves for the trial that was before them. 
 
 "It is better for me not to arrive," thought he, "until the family 
 shall have returned from their daily labour, and are collected about 
 the hearth." 
 
 In the meantime, many an impression of profound and fervid piety 
 came over him, when he reflected upon the incontrovertible proofs of 
 providential protection and interference which had been, during his 
 absence from home, under his struggles, and in his good fortune, so 
 clearly laid before him. " Deep," he exclaimed, " is the gratitude I 
 owe to God for this ; may I never forget to acknowledge it ! " 
 
 It was now about seven o'clock ; the evening was calm, and the 
 sun shone with that clear amber light which gives warmth and the 
 power of exciting tenderness to natural scenery. He had already 
 gained the ascent which commanded a view of the rich sweep of 
 country that reposed below. There it lay — his native home — his 
 native parish — bathed in the light and glory of the hour. Its fields 
 were green — its rivers shining like loosened silver — its meadows 
 already studded with haycocks, its green pastures covered with sheep, 
 and its unruffled lakes reflecting the hills under which they lay. 
 Here and there a gentleman's residence rose among the distant trees, 
 and well did he recognise the church spire that cut into the western 
 sky on his right. It is true, nothing of the grandeur and magnificence 
 of nature was there ; everything was simple in its beauty. The quiet 
 charm, the serene light, the air of happiness and peace that reposed 
 upon all he saw, stirred up a thousand tender feelings in a heart 
 whose gentle character resembled that of the prospect which it felt so 
 exquisitely. The smoke of a few farm-houses and cottages rose in 
 blue, graceful columns to the air, giving just that appearance of life 
 which was necessary ; and a figure or two, with lengthened shadows, 
 moved across the fields and meadows a little below where he stood. 
 
 But our readers need not to be told that there w-as one spot whicli, 
 beyond all others, riveted his attention. On that spot his eager eye 
 rested long and intensely. The spell of its remembrance had clung 
 to his early heart : he had never seen it in his dreams without weep- 
 ing ; and often had the agitation of his imaginary sorrow awoke him 
 with his eyelashes steeped in tears. He looked down on it steadily. 
 At length he was moved with a strong sensation like grief: he sobbed 
 twice or thrice, and the tears rolled in showers from his eyes. His 
 gathering affections were relieved by this : he felt lighter, and in the 
 same slow manner rode onward to his father's house. 
 
 To this there were two modes of access : one by a paved bridleway, 
 or boreen, that ran up directly before the door — the other by a green 
 
THE POOR SCHOLAR. 169 
 
 lane, that diverged from the boreen about a furlong below the house. 
 He took the latter, certain that the family could not notice his 
 approach, nor hear the noise of his horse's footsteps, until he could 
 arrive at the very threshold. On dismounting, he felt that he could 
 scarcely v/alk. He approached the door, however, as steadily as he 
 could. He entered — and the family, who had just finished their 
 supper, rose up, as a mark of their respect to the stranger. 
 
 "Is this," he inquired, "the house in which Dominick IM'Evoy 
 lives?" 
 
 "That's my name, sir," replied Dominick. 
 
 " The family, I trust, are — all — well 1 I have been desired — but no 
 — no — I cannot— I cannot ! — FATHER ! — MOTHER?" 
 
 " It's him!'''' shrieked the mother — " It's himself! — Jemmy ! " 
 
 "Jemmy ! — Jemmy !" shouted the father, with a cry of joy which 
 might be heard far beyond the house. 
 
 " Jemmy ! — our poor Jemmy ! " exclaimed his brothers and sisters. 
 
 " Asy, childhre," said the father — "asy ; let the mother to him — let 
 her to him. Who has the right that she has? Vara, asthore — Vara, 
 think of yourself. God of heaven ! what is comin' over her? — Her 
 brain's turned ! " 
 
 " Father, don't remove her," said the son. " Leave her arms where 
 they are : it's long since they encircled my neck before. Often— often 
 would I have given the wealth of the universe to be encircled in my 
 blessed and beloved mother's arms ! Yes, yes ! — Weep, my father — 
 weep, each of you. You see those tears ; consider them as a proof 
 that I have never forgotten you ! Beloved mother ! recollect your- 
 self: she knows me not — her eyes wander! — I fear the shock has been 
 too much for her. Place a chair at the door, and I will bring her to 
 the air." 
 
 After considerable effort the mother's faculties were restored so far 
 as to be merely conscious that our hero was her son. She had not 
 yet shed a tear, but now she surveyed his countenance, smiled and 
 named him, placed her hands upon him, and examined his dress with 
 a singular blending of conflicting emotions, but still without being 
 thoroughly collected. 
 
 " I will speak to her," said Jemmy, "in Irish ; it will go directly to 
 her heart. Mhair, avourneen, tha ma, laht, anish ! — Mother, my 
 darling, I am with you at last." 
 
 ^' Shamtts, aroon, avick ma chree, wiiil thu Ihufn ? ivjiil thu — wiiil 
 thu Ihtan? — Jemmy, my beloved, son of my heart, are you with me? 
 — are you — are you with me ? " 
 
 " /j-/i maheen a tha in, a vair dheelish machree. — It is / who am 
 with you, beloved mother of my heart ! " 
 
 She smiled again, but only for a moment. She looked at him, laid 
 his head upon her bosom, bedewed his face with her tears, and mut- 
 tered out, in a kind of sweet, musical cadence, the Irish cry of joy. 
 
 We are incapable of describing this scene further. Our readers 
 must be contented to know that the delight and happiness of our hero's 
 whole famil) were complete. Their son, after many years of toil and 
 
I70 WILDGOOSE LODGE. 
 
 struggle, hnd at length succeeded, by a virtuous course of action, in 
 raising them from poverty to comfort, and in effecting his own object, 
 which was to become a member of the Catholic priesthood. During 
 all his trials he never failed to rely on God ; and it is seldom that 
 those who rely upon Him, when striving to attain a laudable purpose, 
 are ever ultimately disappointed. 
 
 •X- -tr * ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 We regret to inform our readers that the poor scholar is dead ! He 
 did not, in fact, long survive the accomplishment of his wishes. But 
 as we had the particulars of his story from his nearest friends, we 
 thought his virtues of too exalted a nature to pass into oblivion with- 
 out some record, however humble. He died as he had lived — the 
 friend of God and of man. 
 
 WILDGOOSE LODGE. 
 
 HAD read the anonymous summons, but, from its general 
 import, I believed it to be one of those special meetings con- 
 vened for some purpose affecting the usual objects and pro- 
 ceedings of the body ; at least, the terms in which it was conveyed to me 
 had nothing extraordinary or mysterious in them beyond the simple 
 fact that it was not to be a general but a select meeting : this mark 
 of confidence flattered me, and I determined to attend punctually. I 
 was, it is true, desired to keep the circumstance entirely to myself; but 
 there was nothing startling in this, for I had often received summonses 
 of a similar nature. I therefore resolved to attend, according to the 
 letter of my instructions, " on the ne.xt night, at the solemn hour of 
 midnight, to deliberate and act upon such matters as should then 
 and there be submitted to my consideration." The morning after 1 
 received this message I arose and resumed my usual occupations ; 
 but, from whatever cause it may have proceeded, I felt a sense of 
 approaching evil hang heavily upon me : the beats of my pulse were 
 languid, and an undcfinable feeling of anxiety pervaded my whole 
 spirit ; even my face was pale, and my eye so heavy that my father 
 and brothers concluded me to be ill ; an opinion which I thought at 
 the time to be correct, for I felt exactly that kind of depression which 
 precedes a severe fever. I could not understand what I experienced, 
 nor can I yet, except by supposing that there is in human nature some 
 mysterious faculty by which, in coming calamities, the dread of some 
 fearful evil is anticipated, and that it is possible to catch a dark pre- 
 sentiment of the sensations which they subsequently produce. For 
 my part, I can neither analyze nor define it ; but on that day I knew it 
 hy painful experience, and so have a thousand others in similar rircum- 
 B.ances. 
 
WILDCOOSE LODGE. 171 
 
 It wab about the middle of winter. The day was gloomy and tem- 
 pestuous almost beyond any other I remember : dark clouds rolled 
 over the hills about me, and a close, sleet-like rain fell in slanting drifts 
 that chased each other rapidly towards the earth on the course of the 
 blast. The outlying cattle sought the closest and calmest corners of 
 the fields for shelter ; the trees and young groves were tossed about, 
 for the wind was so unusually high that it swept in hollow gusts through 
 them with that hoarse murmur which deepens so powerfully on the 
 mind the sense of dreariness and desolation. 
 
 As the shades of night fell, the storm, if possible, increased. The 
 moon was half gone, and only a few stars were visible by glimpses, as 
 a rush of wind left a temporary opening in the sky. I had determined, 
 if the storm should not abate, to incur any penalty rather than attend 
 the meeting ; but the appointed hour was distant, and I resolved to 
 be decided by the future state of the night. 
 
 Ten o'clock came, but still there was no change ; eleven passed, and 
 on opening the door to observe if there were any likelihood of its clear- 
 ing up, a blast of wind, mingled with rain, nearly blew me off my feet. 
 At length it was approaching to the hour of midnight ; and on examin 
 ing a third time, I found it had calmed a little, and no longer rained. 
 
 I instantly got my oak stick, muffled myself in my great coat, 
 strapped my hat about my ears, and, as the place of meeting was only 
 a quarter oif a mile distant, I presently set out. 
 
 The appearance of the heavens was lowering and angry, particularly 
 in that point where the light of the moon fell against the clouds, from 
 a seeming chasm in them, through which alone she was visible. The 
 edges of this chasm were faintly bronzed, but the dense body of the 
 masses that hung piled on each side of her was black and impene- 
 trable to sight. In no other point of the heavens was there any part 
 of the sky visible : a deep veil of clouds overhung the horizon, yet was 
 the light sufficient to give occasional glimpses of the rapid shifting 
 which took place in this dark canopy, and of the tempestuous agitation 
 with which the midnight storm swept to and fro beneath it. 
 
 At length I arrived at a long slated house, situated in a solitary part 
 of the neighbourhood ; a little below it ran a small stream, which was 
 now swollen above its banks, and rushing with mimic roar over the 
 flat meadows beside it. The appearance of the bare slated building 
 in such a night was particularly sombre, and to those, like me, who 
 knew the purpose to which it was usually devoted, it was, or ought to 
 have been, peculiarly so. There it stood, silent and gloomy, without 
 any appearance of human life or enjoyment about or within it. As I 
 approached, the moon once more had broken out of the clouds, and 
 shone dimly upon the wet, glittering slates and windows with a death- 
 like lustre, that gradually faded away as I left the point of observation 
 and entered the folding-door. It was the parish chapel. 
 
 The scene which presented itself here was in keeping not only with 
 the external appearance of the house, but with the darkness, the 
 storm, and tne hour, which was now a little after midnight. About 
 eighty persons were sitting in dead silence upon the circui.-^.r steps oi 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. 
 
 the altar. They did not seem to move ; and as I entered and advanced 
 the echo of my footsteps rang through the building with a lonely dis- 
 tinctness, which added to the solemnity and mystery of the circum- 
 stances about me. The windows were secured with shutters on the 
 inside, and on the altar a candle was lighted, which burned dimly 
 amid the surrounding darkness, and lengthened the shadow of the 
 altar itself, and those of six or seven persons who stood on its upper 
 steps, until they mingled in the obscurity which shrouded the lower 
 end of the chapel. The faces of the men who sat on the altar 
 steps were not distinctly visible, yet their prominent and more charac- 
 teristic features were in sufficient relief, and I observed that som<i of 
 the most malignant and reckless spirits in the parish were assembled. 
 In the eyes of those who stood at the altar, and whom I knew to be 
 invested with authority over the others, I could perceive gleams of 
 some latent and ferocious purpose, kindled, as I soon observed, into a 
 fiercer expression of vengeance by the additional excitement of ardent 
 spirits, with w-hich they had stimulated themselves to a point of deter- 
 mination that mocked at the apprehension of all future responsibility, 
 either in this world or the next. 
 
 The welcome which I received on joining them was far different 
 from the boisterous good-humour that used to mark our greetings on 
 other occasions : just a nod of the head from this or that person, on 
 the part of those luJio sat, with a ohud dJie/iiur tha tliu?'^ in a sup- 
 pressed voice, even below a common whisper : but from the standing 
 group, who were evidently the projectors of the enterprise, I received 
 a convulsive grasp of the hand, accompanied by a fierce and desperate 
 look, that seemed to search my eye and countenance, to try if I were a 
 person not likely to shrink from whatever they had resolved to execute. 
 It is surprising to think of the powerful expression which a moment 
 of intense interest or great danger is capable of giving to the eye, the 
 features, and the slightest actions, especially in those whose station in 
 society does not require them to constrain nature, by the force of 
 social courtesies, into habits that conceal their natural emotions. 
 None of the standing group spoke ; but as each of them wrung my 
 hand in silence, his eye was fixed on mine with an expression of 
 drunken confidence and secrecy, and an insolent determination not to 
 be gainsayed without peril. If looks could be translated with certainty, 
 they seemed to say, " We are bound upon a project of vengeance, and 
 if you do not join us, remember that we can revenge." Along with 
 this grasp they did not forget to remind me of the common bond by 
 \\ hich we were united, for each man gave me the secret grip of Rib- 
 bonism in a manner that made the joints of my fingers ache for some 
 minutes afterwards. 
 
 There was one present, however — the highest in authority — whose 
 actions and demeanour were calm and unexcited. He seemed to 
 labour under no unusual influence whatever, but evinced a serenity so 
 placid and philosophical that I attributed the silence of the sitting 
 
 • How are you ? 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. I73 
 
 group, and the restraint which curbed in the out-breaking passions of 
 those who stood, entirely to his presence. He was a schoolmaster, who 
 taught his daily school in that chapel, and acted also, on Sunday, in 
 the capacity of clerk to the priest — an excellent and amiable old man, 
 who knew little of his illegal connections and atrocious conduct. 
 
 When the ceremonies of brotherly recognition and friendship were 
 past, the captain (by which title 1 shall designate the last-mentioned 
 person) stooped, and raising a jar of whisky on the corner of the altar, 
 held a wine-glass to its neck, which he filled, and, with a calm nod, 
 handed it to me to drink. I shrunk back, with an instinctive horror 
 at the profaneness of such an act, in the house, and on the altar, of 
 God, and peremptorily refused to taste the proffered draught. He 
 smiled mildly at what he considered my superstition, and added 
 quietly, and in a low voice, " You'll be wantin' it, I'm thinkin', afther 
 the wettin' you got." 
 
 " Wet or dry," said I 
 
 " Stop, man ! " he replied, in the same tone ; " spake low. But why 
 wouldn't you take the whisky ? Sure there's as holy people to the fore 
 as you : didn't they all take it ? An' 1 wish we may never do worse nor 
 dhrink a harmless glass o' whisky to keep the-cowld out, anyway." 
 
 " Well," said I, " I'll jist trust to God and the consequences for the 
 cowld, Paddy, ma bouchal ; but a blessed dhrop of it won't be crossin' 
 my lips, avick ; so no more ghosther about it — dhrink it yourself, if 
 you like. Maybe you want it as much as I do ; wherein I've the 
 patthern of a good big coat upon me, so thick, your sowl, that if it was 
 rainin' bullocks a dhrop wouldn't get under the nap of it." 
 
 He gave me a calm but keen glance, as I spoke. 
 
 " Well, Jim," said he, " it's a good comrade you've got for the weather 
 that's in it ; but, in the manetime, to set you a dacent patthern, I'll 
 just take this myself" — saying which, with the jar still upon its side, 
 and the forefinger of his left hand in its neck, he swallowed the spirits. 
 " It's the first I dhrank to-night," he added, " nor would I dhrink it 
 now, only to show you that I've heart an' spirit to do the thing that 
 we're all bound an' sworn to, when the proper time comes ; " after 
 which he laid down the glass, and turned up the jar, with much cool- 
 ness, upon the altar. 
 
 During our conversation those who had been summoned to this 
 mysterious meeting were pouring in fast ; and as each person ap- 
 proached the altar he received from one to two or three glasses of 
 whisky, according as he chose to limit himself ; but, to do them justice, 
 there were not a few of those present who, in spite of their own desire, 
 and the captain's express invitation, refused to taste it in the house of 
 God's worship. Such, however, as were scrupulous he afterwards re- 
 commended to take it on the outside of the chapel door, which they did, 
 as, by that means, the sacrilege of the act was supposed to be evaded. 
 
 About one o'clock they were all assembled except six ; at least, so 
 the captain asserted, on looking at a written paper. 
 
 " Now, boys," said he, in the same low voice, " we are all present 
 •except the thraitors whose names I am goin' to read to you ; not that 
 
174 WILDGOOSE LODGE. 
 
 we are to count thim thraitors, till we know whether or not it was in 
 their power to come. Anyhow, the night's terrible — but, boys, you're 
 to know that neither fire nor \.'ather is to prevint yees, when d\ily 
 summoned to attind a meeting — particularly whin the summons is 
 widout a name, as you have been told that there is always something 
 of consequence to be done thin." 
 
 He then read out the names of those who were absent, in order that 
 the real cause of their absence might be ascertained, declaring that 
 they would be dealt with accordingly. After this, with his usual 
 caution, he shut and bolted the door, and having put the key in his 
 pocket, ascended the steps of the altar, and for some time traversed 
 the little platform, from which the priest usually addresses the con- 
 gregation. 
 
 Until this night I had never contemplated the man's countenance 
 with any particular interest ; but as he walked the platform I had 
 an opportunity of observing him more closely. He was slight 
 in person, apparently not thirty ; and, on a first view, appeared 
 to have nothing remarkable in his dress or features. I, however, 
 was not the only person whose eyes were fixed upon him at that 
 moment ; in fact, everyone present observed him with equal interest, 
 for hitherto he had kept the object of the meeting perfectly secret, 
 and of course we all felt anxious to know it. It was while he tra- 
 versed the platform that I scrutinised his features with a hope, if pos- 
 sible, to glean from them some evidence of what v/as passing within 
 him. I could, however, mark but little, and that little was at first 
 rather from the intelligence which seemed to subsist between him and 
 those whom I have already mentioned as standi'iii^ against the altar 
 than from any indication of his own. Their gleaming eyes were fixed 
 upon him with an intensity of savage and demon-like hope which 
 blazed out in flashes of malignant triumph, as, upon turning, he threw 
 a cool but rapid glance at them, to intimate the progress he was 
 making in the subject to which he devoted the undivided energies of 
 his mind. But in the course of his meditation I could observe, on 
 one or two occasions, a dark shade come over his countenance, that 
 contracted his brow into a deep furrow, and it was then, for the first 
 time, that I saw the Satanic expression of which his face, by a very 
 slight motion of its muscles, was capable. His hands, during this 
 silence, closed and opened convulsively ; his eyes shot out two or three 
 baleful glances, first to his confederates, and afterwards vacantly into 
 the deep gloom of the lower part of the chapel ; his teeth ground 
 against each other like those of a man whose revenge burns to reach 
 a distant enemy, and finally, after having wound himself up to a 
 certain determination, his features relapsed into their original calm 
 and undisturbed expression. 
 
 At this moment a loud laugh, having something supernatural in it, 
 rang out wildly from the darkness of the chapel : he stopped, and 
 putting his open hand over his brows, peered down into the gloom, and 
 said calmly, in Irish, " Bee dim ]iHsiIi ; ha nihl annin iiih — hold youi 
 I'lnguCf it is not yet the lime." 
 
WTLDGOOSE LODGE. '75 
 
 Every eye was now directed to the same spot, but, in consequence 
 of its distance from the dim light on the altar, none could perceive the 
 person from whom the laugh proceeded. It was, by this time, near 
 two o'clock in the morning. 
 
 He now stood for a few moments on the platform, and his chest 
 heaved with a depth of anxiety equal to the difficulty of the design he 
 wished to accomplish. 
 
 " Brothers," said he — " for we are all brothers — sworn upon all that's 
 blessed an' holy to obey whatever them that's over us, manin^ amojig 
 oitrselves^ wishes us to do — are you now ready, in the name of God, 
 upon whose althar I stand, to fulfil yer oaths ? " 
 
 The words were scarcely uttered, when those who had stood beside 
 the altar during the night sprang from their places, and descending 
 its steps rapidly, turned round, and raising their arms, exclaimed, 
 " By all that's sacred an' holy, we're willin'." 
 
 In the meantime, those who sat upon the steps of the altar instantly 
 rose, and following the example of those who had just spoken, ex- 
 claimed after them, " To be sure — by all that's sacred an' laoly, we're 
 wilHn'." 
 
 " Now boys," said the captain, " ar'n't yees big fools for your pains ? 
 an' one of yees doesn't know what I mane." 
 
 "You're our captain," said one of those who had stood at the altar, 
 " an' has yer ordhers from higher quarthers ; of coorse, whatever ye 
 command upon us we're bound to obey you in." 
 
 " Well," said he, smiling, " I only wanted to thry yees ; an' by the 
 oath yees tuck, there's not a captain in the county has as good a right 
 to be proud of his min as I have. Well, yees won't rue it, maybe, 
 when the right time comes ; and for that same rason every one of yees 
 must have a glass from the jar ; thim that won't dhrink it in the chapel 
 can dhrink it widoitt j an' here goes to open the door for them." 
 
 He then distributed another glass to every man who would accept 
 it, and brought the jar afterwards to the chapel door, to satisfy the 
 scruples of those who would not drink within. When this was per- 
 formed, and all duly excited, he proceeded : 
 
 " N ow, brothers, you are solemnly sworn to obay me, and I'm sure 
 there's no thraithur here that ud parjure himself for athrifle ; but Fin 
 sworn to obay them that's above me, manin' still among ourselves ; 
 an' to show you that I don't scruple to do it, here goes ! '' 
 
 He then turned round, and taking the Missal between his hands, 
 placed it upon the altar. Hitherto every wori was uttered in a low, 
 precautionary tone ; but on grasping the book he again turned round, 
 and looking upon his confederates with the same Satanic expression 
 which marked his countenance before, exclaiaied, in a voice of deep 
 determination : 
 
 " By this sacred an' holy book of God, I will perform the action 
 which we have met this night to accomplish, be that what it may ; an 
 this I swear upon God's book an' God's althar I " 
 
 * In opposition to the constituted au^worlties. 
 
176 WILDGOOSE LODGE. 
 
 On concluding he struck the book violently with his open hand. 
 
 At this moment the candle which burned before him went suddenly 
 out, and the chapel was wrapped in pitchy darkness ; the sound as if 
 of rushing winLjs fell upon our ears, and fifty voices dwelt upon the last 
 words of his oath with wild and supernatural tones, that seemed to 
 echo and to mock what he had sworn. There was a pause, and an ex- 
 clamation of horror from all present ; but the captain was too cool and 
 steady to be disconcerted. He immediately groped about until he got 
 the candle, and proceeding calmly to a remote corner of the chapel, 
 took up a half-burned turf which lay there, and after some trouble, suc- 
 ceeded in lighting it again. He then explained what had taken place ; 
 which indeed was easily done, as the candle happened to be extin- 
 guished by a pigeon which sat directly above it. The chapel, I should 
 have observed, was at this time, like many country chapels, unfinished 
 inside, and the pigeons of a neighbouring dove-cote had built nests 
 among the rafters of the unceiled roof ; v/hich circumstance also ex- 
 plained the rushing of the wings, for the birds had been affrighted by 
 the sudden loudness of the noise. The mocking voices were nothing 
 but the echoes, rendered naturally more awful by the scene, the mys- 
 terious object of the meeting, and the solemn hour of the night. 
 
 When the candle was again lighted, and these startling circum- 
 stances accounted for,the persons whose vengeance had been deepening 
 more and more during the night rushed to the altar in a body, where 
 each, in a voice trembling with passionate eagerness, repeated the 
 oath, and as every word was pronounced, the same echoes heightened 
 the wildness of the horrible ceremony by their long and unearthly 
 tones. The countenances of these human tigers were livid with sup- 
 pressed rage : their knit brows, compressed lips, and kindled eyes fell 
 under the dim light of the taper with an expression calculated to 
 sicken any heart not absolutely diabolical. 
 
 As soon as this dreadful rite was completed we were again startled 
 by several loud bursts of laughter, which proceeded from the lower 
 darkness of the chapel, and the captain, on hearing them, turned to 
 the place, and reflecting for a moment, said in Irish, " Giitsho ntsh, 
 avoheUiee — come hither now, boys." 
 
 A rush immediately took place from the corner in which they had 
 secreted themselves all the night ; and seven men appeared, whom we 
 instantly recognised as brothers and cousins of certain persons who had 
 been convicted, some time before, for breaking into the house of an 
 honestpoor man in the neighbourhood, from whom, after having treated 
 him with barbarous violence, they took away such fire-arms as he kept 
 for his own protection. 
 
 It was evidently not the captain's intention to have produced these 
 persons until the oath should have been generally taken, but the exult- 
 ing mirth with which they enjoyed the success of his scheme betrayed 
 them, and put him to the necessity of bringing them fo-rward somewhat 
 before the concerted moment. 
 
 The scene which now took place was beyond all power of descrip- 
 tion ; peals of wild, fiend-like veils rang through the chapel, as the 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. I77 
 
 party which stood on the altar, and that which had croucned in the 
 darkness, met ; wringing of hands, leaping in triumph, striking of 
 sticks and tire-arms against the ground and the altar itself, dancing 
 and cracking of fingers, marked the triumph of some hellish deter- 
 mination. Even the captain for a time was unable to restrain theii 
 fury ; but at length he mounted the platform before the altar once 
 more, and, with a stamp of his foot, recalled their attention to himself 
 and the matter in hand. 
 
 " Boys," said he, " enough of this, and too much ; an' well for us it 
 is that the chapel is in a lonely place, or our foolish noise might do 
 us no good. Let thim that swore so manfully jist now stand a one 
 side, till the rest kiss the book, one by one." 
 
 The proceedings, however, had by this time taken too fearful a 
 shape for even the captain to compel them to a blindfold oath ; the 
 first man he called flatly refused to answer until he should hear the 
 nature of the service that was required. This was echoed by the 
 remainder, who, taking courage from the firmness of this person, 
 declared generally that until they first knew the business they were 
 to execute none of them would take the oath. The captain's lip 
 quivered slightly, and his brow again became knit with the s^ ae 
 hellish expression, which I have remarked gave him so much the 
 appearance of an embodied fiend ; but this speedily passed away, 
 and was succeeded by a malignant sneer, in which lurked, if there 
 ever did in a sneer, "a laughing devil," calmly, determinedly 
 atrocious. 
 
 " It wasn't worth yer whiles to refuse the oath," said he, mildly, "for 
 the truth is, I had next to nothing for yees to do. Not a hand, maybe, 
 would have to rise, only jist to look on, an' if any resistance would be 
 made, to show yourselves ; yer numbers would soon make them see 
 that resistance would be no use whatever in the present case. At all 
 evints, the oath of secrecy must be taken, or woe be to him that will 
 refuse that ; he won't know the day, nor the hour, nor the minute, 
 when he'll be made a spatchcock ov." 
 
 He then turned round, and placing his right hand on the Missal, 
 swore, " In the presence of God, and before his holy altar, that what- 
 ever might take place that night he would keep secret from man or 
 mortal, except the priest, and that neither bribery, nor imprisonment, 
 nor death would wring it from his heart." 
 
 Having done this, he again struck the book violently, as if to con- 
 firm the energy with which he swore, and then calmly descending the 
 steps, stood with a serene countenance, like a man conscious of having 
 performed a good action. As this oath did not pledge those who 
 refused to take the other to the perpetration of any specific crime, it 
 was readily taken by all present. Preparations were then made to 
 execute what was intended ; the half-burned turf was placed in a little 
 pot ; another glass of whisky was distributed ; and the door being 
 locked by the captain, who kept the key as parish clerk and master, 
 the crowd departed silently from the chapel. 
 
 The moment those who la> in the darkness during the night made 
 
I7S WILD GOOSE LODGE. 
 
 their appearance at the altar, we knew at once the persons we were to 
 visit ; for, as 1 said before, they were related to the miscreants whom 
 one of those persons had convicted, in consequence of their midnight 
 attack upon himself and his family. The captain's object in keeping 
 them unseen was that those present, not being aware of the duty 
 about to be imposed on them, might have less hesitation about swear- 
 ing to its fulfilment. Our conjectures were correct, for on leaving the 
 chapel we directed our steps to the house in which this devoted man 
 resided. 
 
 The night was still stormy, but without rain ; it was rather dark^ 
 too, though not so as to prevent us from seeing the clouds careering 
 swiftly through the air. The dense curtain which had overhung and 
 obscured the horizon was now broken, and large sections of the sky 
 were clear, and thinly studded with stars that looked dim and watery, 
 as did indeed the whole firmament ; for in some places black clouds 
 were still visible, threatening a continuance of tempestuous weather. 
 The road appeared washed and gravelly ; every dike was full of yellow 
 water ; and every little rivulet and larger stream dashed its hoarse 
 music in our ears ; every blast, too, was cold, fierce, and wintry, 
 sometimes driving us back to a standstill, and again, when a turn in 
 the road would bring it in our backs, whirling us along for a few steps 
 with involuntary rapidity. At length the fated dwelling became visible, 
 and a short consultation was held in a sheltered place between the 
 captain and the two parties who seemed so eager for its destruction. 
 The fire-arms were now loaded, and their bayonets and short pikes, 
 the latter shod and pointed with iron, were also got ready. The live 
 coal which was brought in the small pot had become extinguished ; 
 but to remedy this two or three persons from a remote part of the 
 county entered a cabin on the wayside, and under pretence of lighting 
 their own and their comrades' pipes, procured a coal of fire, for so 
 they called a lighted turf. From the time we left the chapel until this 
 moment a profound silence had been maintained, a circumstance 
 which, when I considered the number of persons present, and the 
 mysterious and dreaded object of their journey, had a most appalling 
 effect upon my spirits. 
 
 At length we arrived within fifty perches of the houjre, walking in a 
 compact body, and with as little noise as possible ; but it seemed as 
 if the very elements had conspired to frustrate our design, for on 
 advancing within the shade of the farm-hedge, two or three persons 
 found themselves up to the middle in water, and on stooping to ascer- 
 tain more accurately the state of the place, we could see nothing but 
 one immense sheet of it — spread like a lake over the meadows which 
 surrounded the spot we wished to reach. 
 
 Fatal night ! The very recollection of it, when associated with the 
 fearful tempests of the elements, grows, if that were possible, yet 
 more wild and revolting. Had we been engaged in any innocent or 
 benevolent enterprise, there was something in our situation just then 
 that had a touch of interest in it to a mind imbued v/ith a relish for 
 the savage beauties of nature. There we stood, about a hundred and 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. i79 
 
 thirty in number, our dark forms bent forward, peering into the dusky- 
 expanse of water, with its dim gleams of reflected light, broken by the 
 weltering of the mimic waves into ten thousand fragments, whilst the 
 few stars that overhung it in the firmament appeared to shoot through 
 it in broken lines, and to be multiplied fifty-fold in the gloomy mirror 
 on which we gazed. 
 
 Over us was a stormy sky, and around us a darkness through which 
 we could only distinguish, in outline, the nearest objects, whilst the 
 wind swept strongly and dismally upon us. When it was discovered 
 that the common pathway to the house was inundated, we were about 
 to abandon our object and return home. The captain, however, stooped 
 down low for a moment, and, almost closing his eyes, looked along the 
 surface of the waters, and then, raising himself very calmly, said, in his 
 visual quiet tone, " Yees needn't go back, boys, I've found a way ; jist 
 Ibllow me." 
 
 He immediately took a more circuitous direction, by which we 
 reached a causeway that had been raised for the purpose of giving a 
 free passage to and from the house during such inundations as the 
 present. Along this we had advanced more than half way, when we 
 discovered a breach in it, which, as afterwards appeared, had that 
 night been made by the strength of the flood. This, by means of our 
 sticks and pikes, we found to be about three feet deep and eight yards 
 broad. Again we were at a loss how to proceed, when the fertile brain 
 of the captain devised a method of crossing it. 
 
 " Boys," said he, " of coorse you've all played at leap-frog ; vtry 
 well, strip and go in, a dozen of you, lean one upon the back of 
 another from this to the opposite bank, where one must stand facing 
 the outside man, both their shoulders agin one another, that the out- 
 side man may be suoported. Then we can creep over you, an' a dacent 
 bridge you'll be, anyway." 
 
 This was the work of only a few minutes, and in less than ten we were 
 all safely over. 
 
 Merciful heaven ! how I sicken at the recollection of what is to 
 follow ! On reaching the dry bank, we proceeded instantly, and in 
 profound silence, to the house ; the captain divided us into companies, 
 and then assigned to each division its proper station. The two parties 
 who had been so vindictive all the night he kept about himself ; for of 
 those who were present they only were in his confidence, and knew 
 his nefarious purpose : their number was about fifteen. Having made 
 these dispositions, he, at the head of about five of them, approached 
 the house on the windy side, for the fiend possessed a coolness which 
 enabled him to seize upon every possible advantage. That he had 
 combustibles about him was evident, for in less than fifteen minutes 
 nearly one-half of the house was enveloped in flames. On seeing this, 
 the others rushed over to the spot where he and his gang were standing, 
 and remonstrated earnestly, but in vain ; the flames now burst forth 
 with renewed violence, and as they flung their strong light upon the 
 faces of the foremost group, I think hell itself could hardly present 
 anything more Satanic than their countenanceSj now worked up into 
 
I So WILDOOOSE LODGE. 
 
 a paroxysm of infernal triumph at their own revenge. The captain's 
 look had lost all its calmness, every feature started out into distinct 
 malignity, the curve in his brow was deep, and ran up to the root of 
 the hair, dividing his face into two segments, that did not seem to 
 have been designed for each other. His lips were half open, and the 
 corners of his mouth a little brought back on each side, like those of 
 a niL^n expressing intense hatred and triumph over an enemy who is in 
 the death struggle under his grasp. His eyes blazed from beneath his 
 knit eyebrows with a fire that seemed to be lighted up in the infernal 
 pit itself. It is unnecessary and only painful to describe the rest of 
 ins gang ; demons might have been proud of such horrible visages as 
 they exhibited : for they worked under all the power of hatred, revenge, 
 and joy ; and these passions blended into one terrible scowl, enough 
 almost to blast any human eye that would venture to look upon it. 
 
 When the others attempted to intercede for the lives of the inmates, 
 there were at least fifteen guns and pistols levelled at them. 
 
 " Another word,* said the captain, " an' you're a corpse where you 
 stand, or the first man who will dare to spake for them ; no, no, it 
 wasn't to spare them we came here. * No mercy ' is the password for 
 the night, an' by the sacred oath I swore beyant in the chapel, anyone 
 among yees that will attempt to show it will find none at iny hand. 
 Surround the house, boys, I tell ye, I hear them stirring. * No quarther 
 — no mercy,' is the ordher of the night." 
 
 Such was his command over these misguided creatures, that in an 
 instant there was a ring round the house to prevent the escape of the 
 unhappy inmates, should the raging element give them time to attempt 
 it ; for none present durst withdraw themselves from the scene, not only 
 from an apprehension of the captain's present vengeance, or that of his 
 gang, but because they knew that, even had they then escaped, an early 
 and certain death awaited them from a Cjuartcr against which they had 
 no means of defence. The hour now was about half-past two o'clock. 
 Scarcely had the last v/ords escaped from the captain's lips, when one 
 of the windows of the house was broken, and a human head, having 
 the hair in a blaze, was descried, apparently a woman's, if one might 
 judge by the profusion of burning tresses, and the softness of the tones, 
 notwithstanding that it called, or rather shrieked aloud, for help and 
 mercy. The only reply to this was the whoop from the captain and his 
 gang of " No mercy — no mercy! "and that instant the former and 
 one of the latter rushed to the spot, and ere the action could be 
 perceived the head was transfixed with a bayonet and a pike, both 
 having entered it together. The word mercy was divided in her mouth ; 
 a short silence ensued ; the 'nead hung down on the window, but was 
 instantly tossed back into the flames ! 
 
 This action occasioned a cry of horror from all present, except the 
 gang and their leader, which startled and enraged the latter so much 
 that he ran towards one of them, and had his bayonet, now reeking 
 with the blood of its innocent victim, raised to plunge it in his body, 
 when, dropping the point, he said in a piercing whisper, that hissed in 
 the ears of all, " Its no use now^ you know ; if one's to hang, all will 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. i8i 
 
 hang ; so our safest way, j'ou persave, is to lave none of them to tell 
 the story. Ye viay go now, if you wish ; but it won't save a hair of 
 your heads. You cowardly set ! I knew if I had tould yees the sport, 
 that none of yees, except my own boys, would come, so I jist played 
 a thrick upon you ; but remimber what you are sworn to, and stand 
 to the oath ye tuck." 
 
 Unhappily, notwithstanding the wetness cf the preceding weather. 
 the materials of the house were extremely combustible ; the whole 
 dwelling was now one body of glowing flame, yet the shouts and 
 shrieks within rose awfully above its crackling and the voice of the 
 storm, for the wind once more blew in gusts and with great violence. 
 The doors and windows were all torn open, and such of those within 
 as had escaped the flames rushed towards them, for the purpose of 
 further escape, and of claiming mercy at the hands of their destroyers ; 
 but whenever they appeared the unearthly cry of " NO MERCY " rung 
 upon their ears for a moment, and for a moment only, for they were 
 flung back at the points of the weapons which the demons had brought 
 with them to make the work of vengeance more certain. 
 
 As yet there were many persons in the house whose cry for life 
 was strong as despair, and who clung to it with all the awakened 
 powers of reason and instinct. The ear of man could hear nothing 
 so strongly calculated to stifle the demon of cruelty and revenge 
 within him as the long and wailing shrieks which rose beyond the 
 elements in tones that were carried off rapidly upon the blast, until 
 they died away in the darkness that lay behind the surrounding hills. 
 Had not the house been in a solitary situation, and the hour the dead 
 of night, any person sleeping within a moderate distance must have 
 heard them, for such a cry of sorrow rising into a yell of despair was 
 almost sufficient to have awakened the dead. It was lost, however, 
 upon the hearts and ears that heard it : to them, though in justice be 
 it said, to only comparatively a few of them, it was as delightful as 
 the tones of soft and entrancing music. 
 
 The claims of the surviving sufferers were now modified ; they 
 supplicated merely to suffer death by the weapons of their enemies; 
 they were willing to bear that, provided they should be allowed to 
 escape from the flames ; but no — the horrors of the conflagration 
 were calmly and malignantly gloried in by their merciless assassins, 
 who deliberately flung them back into all their tortures. In the 
 course of a few minutes a man appeared upon the side-wall of the 
 house, nearly naked ; his figure, as he stood against the sky in horrible 
 relief, was so finished a picture of woe-begone agony and supplication 
 that it is yet as distinct in my memory as if I were again present at 
 the scene. Every muscle, now in motion by the powerful agitation 
 of his sufferings, stood out upon his limbs and neck, giving him an 
 appearance of desperate strength, to which by this time he must have 
 been wrought up ; the perspiration poured from his frame, and the 
 veins and arteries of his neck were inflated to a surprising thickness. 
 Every moment he looked down into the flames which were rising to 
 where he stood ; and as he looked the indescribable horror which 
 
 (3) G 
 
iS2 WILDCOOSE LODGE. 
 
 flitted over liis features mii;ht have worked upon the devil himself to 
 relent. His words were few. 
 
 " My child," said he, " is still safe ; she is an infant, a younj crathur 
 that never harmed you nor anyone — she is still safe. Your mothers, 
 your wives, have young innocent childhre like it. Oh, spare her ; 
 think for a moment that it's one of your own : spare it, as you hope 
 to meet a just God, or if you don't, in mercy shoot me first — put an 
 end to me before I see her burned ! " 
 
 The captain approached him coolly and deliberately. ** You'll 
 prosecute no one now, you bloody informer," said he : " you'll convict 
 no more boys for takin' an ould gun an' pistol from you, or for givin' 
 you a neighbourly knock or two into the bargain." 
 
 Just then, from a window opposite him, proceeded the shrieks of a 
 woman, who appeared at it with the infant in her arms. She herself 
 was almost scorched to death ; but, with the presence of mind and 
 humanity of her sex, she was about to put the little babe out of the 
 window. The captain noticed this, and, with characteristic atrocity, 
 thrust, with a sharp bayonet, the little innocent, along with the person 
 who endeavoured to rescue it, into the red flames, where they both 
 perished. This was the work of an instant. Again he approached 
 the man. " Your child is a coal now^," said he, with deliberate 
 mockery ; " I pitched it in myself, on the point of this " — showing 
 the weapon — " an' now is your turn " — saying which he clambered up, 
 by the assistance of his gang, who stood with a front of pikes and 
 bayonets bristling to receive the wretched man, should he attempt, in 
 his despair, to throw himself from the wall. The captain got up, and 
 placing the point of his bayonet against his shoulder, flung him into 
 the fiery element that raged behind him. He uttered one wild and 
 terrific cry as he fell back, and no more. After this nothing was 
 heard b*t the crackling of the fire and the rushing of the blast : all 
 that had possessed life within were consumed, amounting either to 
 eleven or fifteen persons. 
 
 When this was accomplished, those wno -uok an active part in the 
 murder stood for some time about the conflagration ; and as it threw 
 its red light upon their fierce faces and rough persons, soiled as they 
 now were with smoke and black streaks of ashes, the scene seemed 
 to be changed to hell, the murderers to spirits of the damned, re- 
 joicing over the arrival and the torture of some guilty soul. The 
 faces of those who kept aloof from the slaughter were blanched to 
 the whiteness of death : some of them fainted, and others were in 
 such agitation that they were compelled to lean on their comrades. 
 They became actually powerless with horror ; yet to such a scene 
 were they brought by the pernicious influence of Ribbonism. 
 
 It was only when the last victim went down that the conflagration 
 shot up into the air with most unbounded fury. The house was 
 large, deeply thatched, and well furnished ; and the broad red 
 pyramid rose up with fearful magnificence towards the sky. Ab- 
 stractedly it had sublimity, but now it was associated with nothing in 
 my mind but blood and terror. It was not, however, without a 
 
WILDGOOSE LODGE. 183 
 
 purpose that the captain and his gang stood to contemplate its effect. 
 " Boys," said he, " we had betther be sartin that all's safe ; who 
 knows but there might be some of the sarpents crouchin' under a hape 
 o' rubbish, to come out an' gibbet us to-morrow or next day ; we had 
 betther wait av\hile, anyhow, if it was only to see the blaze." 
 
 Just then the flames rose majestically to a surprising height. Our 
 eyes followed their direction ; and we perceived, for the first time, 
 that the dark clouds above, together with the intermediate air, 
 appeared to reflect back, or rather to have caught, the red hue of the 
 fire. The hills and country about us appeared with an alarming 
 distinctness ; but the most picturesque part of it was the effect or 
 reflection of the blaze on the floods that spread over the surrounding 
 plains. These, in fact, appeared to be one broad mass of hquid 
 copper, for the motion of the breaking waters caught from rhe blaze 
 of the high waving column, as reflected in them, a glaring light, which 
 eddied, and rose, and fluctuated as if the flood itself had been a lake 
 of molten fire. 
 
 Fire, however, destroys rapidly. In a short time the flames sank — 
 jecame weak and flickering — by-and-by they shot out only in fits — 
 the crackling of the timbers died away — the surrounding darkness 
 deepened— and, ere long, the faint light was overpowered by the thick 
 volumes of smoke that rose from the ruins of the house and its murdered 
 inhabitants. 
 
 " Now, boys," said the captain, " all is safe — we may go. Re- 
 member, every man of you, what you've sworn this night on the book 
 an' altar of God — not on a heretic Bible. If you perjure yourselves, 
 you may hang us ; but let me tell you, for your comfort, that if you do 
 there is them livin' that will take care the lase of your own lives will 
 but short." 
 
 After this we dispersed every man to his own home. 
 
 Reader, not many months elapsed ere I saw the bodies of this 
 captain, whose name was Patrick Devann, and all those who were 
 actively concerned in the perpetration of this deed of horror, withering 
 in the wind, where they hung gibbetted near the scene of their ne- 
 farious villainy ; and while I inwardly thanked heaven for my own 
 narrow and almost undeserved escape, I thought in my heart how 
 seldom, even in this world, justice fails to overtake the murderer, and 
 to enforce the righteous judgment of God — that " whoso sheddeth 
 man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." 
 
 This tale of terror is, unfortunately, too true. The scene of hellish murder 
 detailed in it lies at Wildgoose Lodge, in the county of Louth, within about four 
 miles of Carrickmacross, and nine of Dundalk. No such multitudinous murder 
 has occurred, under similar circumstances, except the burning of the Sheas in the 
 county of Tipperary. The name of the family burned in Wildgoose Lodge was 
 Lvnch. One of them had, shortly before this fatal night, prosecuted and convicted 
 some of the neighbouring Ribbonmen, who visited him with severe marks of their 
 displeasure in consequence of his having refused to enrol himself as a member of 
 their body. 
 
 The language of the story is partly fictitious ; but the facts are pretty closely such 
 OS were developed during the trial of the murderers. Both parties were Roman 
 
iS4 WILDGOOSE LOCGE. 
 
 Catholics. There were, if the author mistake not, either twenty-five or twenty- 
 eight of those who took an active part in the burning hanged and gibbetted in 
 different parts of the county of Louth. Devann, the ringle.ider, hung for some 
 months in chains, within about a hundred yards of his own house, and about lialf 
 a mile from Wildgoose Lodge. His mother could neither go into or out of her 
 cabin without seeing his body swinging from the gibbet. Her usual exclamation 
 on looking at him was, "God be good to the sowl of my poor marthyr!" The 
 peasantry, too, frequently exclaimed, on seeing him, "Poor Paddy!" a gloomy fact 
 that speaks volumes. 
 
TRAITS AND STORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE IRISH PEASANTRY. 
 
 FOURTH SERIES. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 — ^^SS>-c — 
 
 Page. 
 Tubber Derg; or, The Red Well i 
 
 Denis O'Shaughnessy Going to Maynooth 54 
 
 Phelim O'Toole's Courtship 152 
 
TUB BE R DERGi 
 Or, The Red Well. 
 
 [^•psIHE following story owes nothing to any colouring or invention 
 ra ^ of mine ; it is unhappily a true one, and to me possesses a 
 ' ^ ' peculiar and melancholy interest, arising from my intimate 
 knowledge of the man whose fate it holds up as a moral lesson to Irish 
 landlords. I knew him well, and many a day and hour have I played 
 about his knee, and ran, in my boyhood, round his path, when, as he 
 said himself, the world was no trouble to him. 
 
 On the south side of a sloping tract of light ground, lively, warm, 
 and productive, stood a white, moderate-sized farmhouse, which, in 
 consequence of its conspicuous situation, was a prominent and, we 
 may add, a graceful object in the landscape of which it formed a part. 
 The spot whereon it stood was a swelling natural terrace, the soil of 
 which was heavier and richer than that of the adjoining lands. On 
 each side of the house stood a clump of old beeches, the only survivors 
 of that species then remaining in the country. These beeches extended 
 behind the house in a kind of angle, with opening enough at their 
 termination to form a vista, through which its white walls glistened 
 with beautiful effect in the calm splendour of a summer evening. 
 Above the mound on which it stood rose two steep hills, overgrown 
 with furze and fern, except on their tops, which were clothed with 
 purple heath ; they were also covered with patches of broom, and 
 studded with grey rocks, which sometimes rose singly or in larger 
 masses, pointed or rounded into curious and fantastic shapes. Exactly 
 between these hills the sun went down during the month of June, and 
 nothing could be in finer relief than the rocky and picturesque outlines 
 of their sides, as, crowned with thorns and clumps of wild ash, they 
 appeared to overhang the valley, whose green foliage was gilded by 
 the sunbeams, which lit up the scene into radiant beauty. The bottom 
 of this natural chasm, which opened against the deep crimson of the 
 evening sky, wasnearly upon a level with the house, and completely so 
 with the beeches that surrounded it. Brightly did the sinking sun fall 
 upon their tops, whilst the neat white house below, in their quiet 
 shadow, sent up its wreath of smoke among their branches, itself an 
 
TUBBER DERG, OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 emblem of contentment, industry, and innocence. It was, in fact, a 
 lovely situation ; perhaps the brighter to me that its remembrance is 
 associated with days of happiness and freedom from the cares of a 
 world which, like a distant mountain, darkens as we approach it, 
 and only exhausts us in struggling to climb its rugged and barren 
 paths. 
 
 There was to the south-west of this house another little hazel glen, 
 that ended in a precipice formed by a single rock some thirty feet high, 
 over which tumbled a crystal cascade into a basin worn in its hard bed 
 below. From this basin the stream murmured away through the copse- 
 wood, until it joined a larger rivulet that passed, with many a winding, 
 through a fine extent of meadows adjoining it. Across the foot of this 
 glen, and past the door of the house we have described, ran a bridle- 
 road, from time immemorial, on which, as the traveller ascended it 
 towards the house, he appeared to track his way in blood ; for a chaly- 
 beate spa arose at its head, oozing out of the earth, and spread itself 
 in a crimson stream over the path in every spot whereon a footmark 
 could be made. From this circumstance it was called Tubber Dcrg, or 
 the Red Well. In the meadow where the glen terminated was another 
 spring of delicious crystal ; and clearly do I remember the ever-beaten 
 pathway that led to it through the grass, and up the green field which 
 rose in a gentle slope to the happy-looking house of Owen IM'Carthy, 
 for so was the man called who resided under its peaceful roof. 
 
 I will not crave your pardon, gentle reader, for dwelling at such 
 length upon a scene so dear to my heart as this, because I write not 
 now so much for your gratification as my own. Many an eve of gentle 
 May have I pulled the Majgowans which grew about that well and 
 over that smooth meadow. Often have I raised my voice to its shrillest 
 pitch that I might hear its echoes rebounding in the bottom of the 
 green and still glen, where silence, so to speak, was deepened by the 
 continuous murmur of the cascade above ; and when the cuckoo 
 uttered her first note from among the hawthorns on its side, with what 
 trembling anxiety did I, an urchin of some eight or nine years, look 
 under my right foot for the white hair, v;hose charm was such that, by 
 keeping it about me, the first female name I should hear was destined, 
 I believed in my soul, to be that of my future wife. Sweet was the 
 song of the thrush, and mellow the whistle of the blackbird, as they 
 rose in the stillness of evening over the " birken shaws " and greerv 
 dells of this secluded spot of rural beauty. Far, too, could the rich 
 voice of Owen M'Carthy be heard along the hills and meadows, as, 
 with a little chubby urchin at his knee and another in his arms, he sat 
 on a bench beside his own door, singing the " Trougha " in his native 
 Irish ; whilst Kathleen his wife, with her two maids, each crooning a 
 low song, sat before the door milking the cows, whose sweet breailv 
 mingled its perfume with the warm breeze of evening. 
 
 Owen M'Carthy was descended from a long line of honest ancestor.^, 
 whose names had never, within the memory of man, been tarnished by 
 the commission of a mean or disreputable action. They were always 
 a kind-hearted family, but stern and proud in the common intercourse 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, TIM RED IV ELL. 
 
 of life. They believed themselves to be, and probably were, a branch 
 of the MacCarthy More stock ; and although only the possessors of a 
 small farm, it was singular to observe the effect which this conviction 
 produced upon their bearing and manners. To it might, perhaps, be 
 attributed the high and stoical integrity for which they were remark- 
 able. This severity, however, was no proof that they wanted feeling, 
 or were insensible to the misery and sorrows of others : in all the little 
 cares and perplexities which chequered the peaceful neighbourhood in 
 which they lived they were ever the first to console, or, if necessary, to 
 support a distressed neighbour with the means which God had placed 
 in their possession ; for, being industrious, they were seldom poor 
 Their words were few but sincere, and generally promised less than the 
 honest hearts that dictated them intended to perform. There is in 
 some persons an hereditary feeling of just principle, the result neither of 
 •education nor of a clear moral sense, but rather a kind of instinctive 
 honesty, which descends, like a constitutional bias, from father to son, 
 pervading every member of the family. It is difficult to define this, or 
 to assign its due position in the scale of human virtues. It exists in 
 ■the midst of the grossest ignorance, and influences the character in 
 the absence of better principles. Such was the impress which marked 
 so strongly the family of which I speak. No one would ever think of 
 imputing a dishonest act to the M'Carthys ; nor would any person 
 acquainted with them hesitate for a moment to consider their word as 
 good as the bond of another. I do not mean to say, however, that 
 their motives of action were not higher than this instinctive honesty ; 
 far from it : but I say that they possessed it iti addition to a strong 
 feeling of family pride and a correct knowledge of their moral 
 duties. 
 
 I can only take up Owen McCarthy at that part of the past to which 
 my memory extends. He was then a tall, fine-looking young man ; 
 silent, but kind. One of the earliest events within my recollection is 
 his wedding ; after that the glimpses of his state and circumstances are 
 imperfect ; but as I grew up they became more connected, and I am 
 able to remember him the father of four children; an industrious, in- 
 offensive small farmer, beloved, respected, and honoured. No man 
 could rise, be it ever so early, who would not find Owen up before 
 him ; no man could anticipate him in an early crop ; and if a widow 
 or a sick acquaintance were unable to get in their harvest, Owen was 
 certain to collect the neighbours to assist them, to be the first there 
 himself, with quiet benevolence, encouraging them to a zealous per- 
 formance of the friendly task in which they were engaged. 
 
 It was, I believe, soon after his marriage, that the lease of the farm 
 held by him expired. Until that time he had been able to live with 
 perfect independence ; but even the enormous rise of one pound per 
 acre, though it deprived him in a great degree of his usual comforts, 
 did not sink him below the bare necessaries of life. For some years 
 after that he could still serve a deserving neighbour ; and never was 
 the hand of Owen M'Carthy held back from the wants and distresses 
 of those whom he knew to be honest. 
 
4 TUBDER DERC ; OR, T//E RED HELL. 
 
 I remember once an occasion upon which a widow Murray applied 
 to him for a loan of five pounds, to prevent her two cows from being 
 auctioned for half a year's rent, of which she only wanted that sum. 
 Owen sat at dinner with his family, when she entered the house in 
 tears, and, as well as her agitation of mind permitted, gave him a 
 detailed account of her embarrassment. 
 
 " The blessin' o' God be upon all here," said she, on entering. 
 
 " The double o' that to you, Rosha," replied Owen's wife : "'won't you 
 sit in an' be atin' .'' — here's a sate beside Nanny ; come over, Rosha." 
 
 Owen only nodded to her, and continued to eat his dinner, as if he 
 felt no interest in her distress, Rosha sat down at a distance, and 
 with the corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes, shed tears in that 
 bitterness of feeling which marks the helplessness of honest industry 
 under the pressure of calamity. 
 
 " In the name o' goodness, Rosha," said Mrs. McCarthy. " what ails 
 you, asihore .? Sure Jimmy — God spare him to you — wouldn't be 
 dead ? " 
 
 " Glory be to God ! no, avournecn machrce. Och, och ! but it ud 
 be the black sight, an' the black day, that ud see my brave boy, the 
 staff of our support, an' the bread of our mouth, taken away from us. 
 No, no, Kathleen, dear, it's not that bad vvid me yet. I hope we'll 
 never live to see his manly head laid down before us. 'Twas his o>vn 
 manliness, indeed, brought it an him — backin' the sack when he was 
 bringin' home our last nieldhre from the mill ; for, you see, he should do 
 it, the crathur, to show his strinth, an' the sack, when he got it an 
 was too heavy for him, an' hurted the small of his back — for his bones, 
 you see, are too young, an' hadn't time to fill up yet. No, avourneen. 
 Glory be to God ! he's gettin' betther wid me ! " and the poor creature's 
 eyes glistened with delight through her tears and the darkness of her 
 affliction. 
 
 Without saying a word, Owen, when she finished the eulogium on 
 her son, rose, and taking her forcibly by the shouklcr, set her down 
 at the table, on which a large pot-full of potatoes had been spread 
 out, with a circle in the middle for a dish of rashers and eggs, into 
 which dish every right hand of those about it was thrust, with a quick- 
 ness that clearly illustrated the principle of competition as a stimulus 
 to action. 
 
 " Spare your breath," said Owen, placing her rather roughly upon 
 the seat, " an' take share of what's goin' : when all's cleared off we'll 
 hear you, but the sorra wurd till then." 
 
 " Musha, Owen," said the poor woman, "you're the same man still ; 
 sun; we all know your ways ; I'll strive, avourneen, to ate — I'll strive, 
 asihore — to plase you, an' the Lord bless you an' yours, an' may you 
 never be as I an' my fatherless childhre are this sorrowful day 1" — and 
 she accompanied her words by a flood of tears. 
 
 Owen, without evincing the slightest sympathy, \\ ithdrew himself 
 from the table. Not a muscle of his face was moved ; but as the cat 
 came about his feet at the time, he put his foot under her, and flung 
 her as c.isily as possible to the lower end of the kitclien. 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 5 
 
 " Arrah, what harm did the crathur do," asked his wife, " that you'd 
 kick her for, that way ? an' why but you ate out your dinner ? " 
 
 " Pm done," he rephed, rather gruffly, " but that's no raso.i that 
 Kosha, an' you, an' thim boys that has the work afore them, shouldn't 
 finish your male's mate." 
 
 Poor Rosha thought that by his withdrawing he had already sus- 
 pected the object of her visit, and of course concluded that her chance 
 of succeeding was very slender. 
 
 The wife, who guessed what she wanted, as well as Ae nature of 
 her suspicion, being herself as affectionate and obliging as Owen, re- 
 verted to the subject, in order to give her an opportunity of proceeding. 
 
 "Somethin' bitther, an' out o' the common coorse, is a throuble to 
 you, Rosha," said she, " or you wouldn't be in the state you're in. The 
 Lord look down on you this day, you poor crathur — widout the father 
 of your childhre to stand up for you, an' your only other depindence 
 laid on the broad of his back, all as one as a cripple : but no matther, 
 Rosha ; trust to Him that can be a husband to you, an' a father to 
 your orphans— trust to Him, an' his blessed mother in heaven, this 
 day, an' never fear but they'll rise up a frind for you. Musha, Owen, 
 ate your dinner as you ought to do, wid your capers ! How can you 
 take a spade in your hand upon that morsel .? " 
 
 " Finish your own," said her husband, " an never heed me ; jist let 
 me alone. Don't you see that if I wanted it I'd ate it, an' what more 
 would you have about it ? " 
 
 " Well, acushla, it's your own loss, sure, of a sartinty. An', Rosha, 
 whisper, ahagur, what can Owen or I do for you ? Throth, it would 
 be a bad day we'd see you at a desJi07't for a friend, for you never wor 
 nothin' else nor a civil, oblagin' neighbour yourself ; an' him that's 
 gone before — the Lord make his bed in heaven this day — was as good 
 a warrant as ever broke bread to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour 
 of midnight." 
 
 " Ah ! when I had Iiim" exclaimed the distracted widow, " I never 
 had occasion to throuble aither friend or neighbour ; but he's gone, 
 an' now it's otherwise wid me — glory be to God for all his mercies — a 
 wurrah dheelish ! Why, thin, since I must spake, an' has no other 
 frind to go to — but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark upon me — sure 
 I'd put my hand to a stamp, if my word wouldn't do for it, an' sign the 
 blessed crass that saved us, for the payment of it ; or I'd give it to 
 him in oats, for I hear you want some, Owen — phatie oats it is, and 
 a betther shouldhered or fuUer-lookin' grain never went undher a 
 harrow — indeed, it's it that's the beauty, all out, if it's good seed you 
 want." 
 
 " What is it for, woman alive ? " inquired Owen, as he kicked a three- 
 legged stool out of his way. 
 
 " What is it for, is it ? Och, Owen, darlin', sure my two brave cows 
 15 lavin' me. Paddy Dannellan, the driver, is over wid me beyant, an' 
 has them ready to set off wid. I reared them both, the two of them, 
 wid my own hands ; CkceIioney,ih2iX. knows my voice, an' would come 
 to me from the fardest corner c/' the field, is goin', an' nothin' will we 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WEIL. 
 
 Iiave — nothin' will my poor sick boy have — but the black wather, or 
 the dhry salt ; besides the butther of them bein' lost to us for the 
 rent, or a small taste of it, of an odd time, for poor Jimmy. Owen, 
 next to God, I have no friend to depind upon but yourself !" 
 
 " Me !" said Owen, as if astonished. " Phoo, that's quare enough ! 
 Now do you think, Rosha — hut, hut, woman alive ? Come, boys, 
 you're all done ; out wid yees to your spades, an' finish that viecrin 
 before night. ]Me ! — hut, hut ! " 
 
 " I have it all but five pounds, Owen, an' for the sake of him that's in 
 his grave — an' that, maybe, is able to put up his prayer for you " 
 
 " An' what would you want me to do, Rosha 1 Fitther for you to sit 
 down an' finish your dinner, when it's before you. I'm goin' to get an 
 ould glove ^ that's somewhere about this chist, for I must weed out 
 that bit of oats before night, wid a blessin'," and as he spoke he 
 passed into another room, as if he had altogether forgotten her solici- 
 tation, and in a few minutes returned. 
 
 " Owen, avick ! — an' the blessin' of the fatherless be upon you, sure 
 an' many a one o' them you have, anyhow, Owen ! " 
 
 "Well, Rosha, well?" 
 
 " Och, och, Owen, it's low days wid me to be depindin' upon the 
 sthranger .'' Little thim that reared me ever thought it ud come to 
 this. You know I'm a dacent father's child, an' I have stooped to 
 you, Owen M'Carthy — what I'd scorn to do to any other but yourself 
 — poor an' friendless as I stand here before you. Let thim take the 
 cows, thin, from my childhre : but the father of the fatherless wiH 
 support thim an' me. Och, but it's well for the O'Donohoes that their 
 landlord lives at home among themselves, for, may the heavens look 
 down on me, I wouldn't know where to find mine, if one sight of him 
 ud save me an' my childhre from the grave ! The agent, even he 
 lives in Dublin, an' how could I lav^e my sick boy an' small girshas by 
 themselves, to go a hundre' miles, an' maybe not see him afther all. 
 Little hopes I'd have from him, even if I did ; he's paid for gatherin' 
 in his rents ; but it's well known he wants the touch of nathur for 
 the sufferins of the poor, an' of them that's honest in their intintions." 
 
 " I'll go over wid you, Rosha, if that will be of any use," replied 
 Owen, composedly ; " come, I'll go an' spake to dirty Uannellan." 
 
 " The sorra blame I blame him, Owen," replied Rosha: "his bread's 
 depindin' upon the likes of sich doins, an' he can't get over it ; but a 
 word from you, Owen, will save me, for who ever refused to lake the 
 word of a .Al'Carthy ?" 
 
 When Owen and the widow arrived at the house of the latter, they 
 found the situation of the bailiff laughable in the extreme. Her eldest 
 son, who had been confined to his bed by a hurt received in his back, 
 was up, and had got the unfortunate driver, who was rather old, 
 wedged in between the dresser and the wall, where his cracked voice 
 —for he was asthmatic — was raised to the highest pitch, calling for 
 assistance. Beside him was a large tub half-hlled with water, into 
 
 1 In "hand-weeding," old gloves are used to prevent the hinds from being 
 injured by ihe thistles. 
 
7UBBER DERG; OR, THE RED V/EIL. 7 
 
 which the little ones were emptying small jugs, carried at the top of 
 their speed from a puddle before the door. In the meantime, Jemmy 
 was tugging at the bailiff with all his strength — fortunately for that 
 personage it was but little — with the most sincere intention of invert- 
 ing him into the tub, which contained as much muddy v/ater as would 
 have been sufficient to make him a subject for the deliberation of a 
 coroner and twelve honest men. Nothing could be more con- 
 scientiously attempted than the task which Jemmy had proposed to 
 execute ; every tug brought out his utmost strength, and when he 
 failed in pulling down the bailiff, he compensated himself for his want 
 of success by cuffing his ribs, and peeling his shins by hard kicks ; 
 whilst from those open points which the driver's grapple with his man 
 naturally exposed, were inflicted on him by the rejoicing urchins 
 numberless punches of tongs, potato-washers, and sticks whose points 
 were from time to time hastily thrust into the coals, that they might 
 more effectually either blind or disable him in some other manner. 
 
 As one of the little ones ran out to fill his jug, he spied his mother 
 and Owen approaching, on which, with the empty vessel in his hand, 
 he flew towards them, his little features distorted by glee and ferocity, 
 wildly mixed up together. 
 
 " Oh, mudher, mudher — ha, ha, ha ! — don't come in yet ; don't come 
 in, Owen, till Jimmy, an' huz, an' the Denises, gets the bailey 
 drownded. We'll soon have the bot^ full ; but Paddy an' Jack Denis 
 have the eyes amost pucked out of him ; an' Katty's takin' the hook 
 from behind the cicppel, to get it about his neck." 
 
 Owen and the widow entered with all haste, precisely at the moment 
 when Dannellan's head was dipped, for the first time, into the vessel. 
 
 "Is it goin' to murdher him yees are?" said Owen, as he seized 
 Jemmy with a grasp that transferred him to the opposite end of the 
 house. "Hould back, ye pack of young devils, an' let the man up. 
 What did he come to do but his duty ! I tell you, Jimmy, if you wor 
 at yourself, an' in full strinth, that you'd have the man's blood on you 
 where you stand, and would suffer as you ought to do for it.'' 
 
 " There let me," replied the lad, his eyes glowing, and his veins 
 swollen with passion ; " I don't care if I did. It would be no sin, an' 
 no disgrace, to hang for the like of him ; dacenter to do that than 
 stale a creel of turf, or a wisp of straw, 'tanny rate." 
 
 In the meantime, the bailiff had raised his head out of the water, 
 and presented a visage which it was impossible to view with gravity. 
 The widow's anxiety prevented her from seeing it in a ludicrous light ; 
 Dut Owen's severe face assumed a grave smile as the man shook him- 
 S(;lf and attempted to comprehend the nature of his situation. The 
 young urchins, who had fallen back at the appearance of Owen and 
 the widow, now burst into a peal of mirth, in which, however, Jemmy 
 whose fiercer passions r^ad been roused, did not join. 
 
 " Paddy Dannellan," said the widow, " I take the mother of heaven 
 to witness that it vexes rav heart to see you get sich thratemeat in 
 
 » A tub. 
 
TUB PER DERG , OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 my place ; an' I wouldn't for the best cow in my b)Te that sich a 
 br-'culiagh happened. Dher charp agtis maiding Jimmy, but I'll 
 make you sufier for drawin' down this upon my head, an' me had 
 enough over it afore." 
 
 " I dont care," replied Jemmy ; " whoever comes to take our pro- 
 perty from us, an' us willin' to work, will suffer for it. Do you think 
 rd see thim crathurs at their dhry phatie, an' our cows standin' in a 
 pound for no rason .? No ; high hangin' to me, but I'll split to the 
 skull the first man that takes them ; an' all I'm sorry for is that it's not 
 the vagabone landlord himself that's near me. That's our thanks for 
 payin' many a good pound in honesty an' daccncy to him an' his ; 
 lavin' us to a schamin' agent, an' not even to that same, but to his 
 undher-strappers, that's robbin' us on both sides between them. May 
 hard fortune attind him for a landlord ! You may tell him this, 
 Dannellan — that his wisest plan is to keep clear of the counthry. 
 Sure it's a gambler he is, they say, an' we must be harrished an' racked 
 to support his villainy : but wait a bit ; maybe there's a good time 
 oomin', when we'll pay our money to thim that won't be too proud to 
 hear our complaints wid their own ears, an' who won't turn us over to 
 a divil'c limb of an agent, //i? had need, anyhow, to get his coffin sooner 
 nor he thmks. What signifies hangin' in a good cause ? " said he, as 
 the tears of keen indignation burst from his glowing eyes. " It's a 
 dacent death, an a happy death, when it's for the right," he added — 
 for his mind was evidently fixed upon the contemplation of those 
 means of redress which the habits of the countrj-^ and the prejudices 
 of the people present to them in the first moments of passion. 
 
 " It's well that Dannellan's one of ourselves," replied Owen, coolly, 
 " otherwise, Jemmy, you said words that would lay you up by the 
 heels. As for you, Dannellan, you must look over this. The boy-'s the 
 son of dacent poor parents, an' it's a nev thing for him to see the cov/s 
 druv from the place. The poor fellow's vexed, too, that he has been so 
 long laid up wid a sore back ; an' so, you see, one thing or another has 
 put him through other. Jimmy is warm-hearted, afther all, an' will be 
 sorry for it when he cools, an' remimbers that yo2c wor only doin' your 
 duty." 
 
 " But what am I to do about the cows ? Sure I can't go back widout 
 cither thim or the rint ? " said Paddy, with a look of fear and trembling 
 at Jemmy. 
 
 " The cows ! " said another of the widow's sons, who then came in ; 
 " why, you dirty spalpeen of a rip, you may whistle on the wrong side 
 o' your mouth for rhem. I dnru them off of the estate ; an' now take 
 them, if you dar ; it's conthrairy to law," said the urchin, " an' if you'd 
 touch them, I'd make my mudher sar\-e you wid a latlitat or a ficry- 
 fiashes^' 
 
 This was a triumph to the youngsters, who began to shake their 
 little fists at him, and to exclaim in a chorus, " Ha, you dirty rip ! 
 wait tiU we get you out o' the house, an' if we don't put you from ever 
 
 ■ Dy my soul and body. 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 drivin' ! Why but j-ou work like another ? — ha, you'll get it ! " — and 
 every little fist was shook in vengeance at him. 
 
 "Whisht wid yees," said Jemmy to the little ones : "let him alone, 
 he got enough. There's the cows for you ; an' keen may the curse ^)' 
 the widow an' orphans light upon you, an' upon therr that sent you, 
 frcm first to last ! — an' that's the best we wish you ! " 
 
 " Paddy," said Owen to the bailiff, "is there anyone in the towTi below 
 that will take the rint, an' give a resate for it ? Do you think, man, that 
 the neighbours of an honest, industrious woman ud see the cattle 
 taken out of her byre for a thrifle ? Hut, tut ! no, man alive — no sich 
 thing ! There's not a man in the parish, wid manes to do it, would see 
 them taken away to be canted at only about a fourth part of their 
 value. Hut, tut — no ! " 
 
 As the sterling fellow spoke, the cheeks of the widow were suffused 
 with tears, and her son Jemmy's hollow eyes once more kindled, but 
 tvith a far different expression from that which but a few minutes 
 before flashed from them. 
 
 '* Owen," said he, and utterance nearly failed him — " Owen, if /was 
 well, it wouldn't be as it is wid us ; but — no, indeed, it would not : but 
 — may God bless you for this ! Owen, never fear but you'll be paid : 
 may God bless you, Owen ! " 
 
 As he spoke the hand of his humble benefactor was warmly grasped 
 in his. A tear fell upon it : for with one of those quick and fervid 
 transitions of feeling so peculiar to the people, he now felt a strong, 
 generous emotion of gratitude, mingled, perhaps, with a sense of 
 wounded pride on finding the poverty of their little family so openly 
 exposed. 
 
 " Hut, tut, Jimmy, avick," said Owen, who understood his feelings, 
 "phoo, man alive ! hut — hem ! Why, sure it's nothin', at all at all ; 
 anybody would do it — only a bare five-an'-twenty shillins — [it was five 
 pounds] — any neighbour — Mick Cassidy, Jack JNIoran, or Pether 
 M'Cullagh — would do it. Come, Paddy, step out ; the money's to the 
 fore. Rosha, put your cloak about you, and let us go down to the 
 agint or clerk, or whatsomever he is — sure that makes no maxim any- 
 how — I suppose he has power to give a resate. Jemmy, go to bed 
 again, you're pale, poor bouchal ; and childhre, ye crathurs, ye, the 
 cows won't be taken from yees this bout. Come, in the name of God, 
 let us go, and see everything rightified at once — hut, tut — come." 
 
 Many similar details of Owen M'Carthy's useful life could be given, 
 in which he bore an equally benevolent and Christian part. Poor 
 fellow ! he was, ere long, brought low ; but to the credit of our 
 peasantry, much as is said about their barbarity, he was treated, when 
 helpless, with gratitude, pity, and kindness. 
 
 Until the peace of 1814, Owen's regular and systematic industry 
 enabled him to struggle successfully against a weighty rent and sudden 
 depression in the price of agricultural produce ; that is, he was able, 
 by the unremitting toil of a man remarkable alike for an unbending 
 spirit and a vigorous frame of body, to pay his rent with tolerable 
 regularity. It is true a change began to be visible in his personal 
 
lo TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 appearance, in his farm, in the dress of his children, and in the economy 
 of his household. Improvements, which adequate capital would have 
 enabled him to effect, were left either altogether unattempted, or in an 
 imperfect state resembling neglect, though, in reality, the result of 
 poverty. His dress at mass, and in fairs and markets, had, by degrees, 
 lost that air of comfort and warmth which bespeaks the independent 
 farmer. The evidences of embarrassment began to disclose themselves 
 in many small points, inconsiderable, it is true, but not the less sig- 
 nificant. His house, in the progress of his declining circumstances,. 
 ceased to be annually ornamented by a new coat of whitewash ; 
 it soon assumed a faded and yellowish hue, and sparkled not in the 
 setting sun as in the days of Owen's prosperity. It had, in fact, a 
 wasted, unthriving look, like its master ; the thatch became black and 
 rotten upon its roof, the chimneys sloped to opposite points, the 
 windows were less neat, and ultimately, when broken, were patched 
 with a couple of leaves from the children's blotted copy-books. His 
 outhouses also began to fail ; the neatness of his httle farmyard, and 
 the cleanliness which marked so conspicuously the space fronting his 
 dwellinghouse, disappeared in the course of time. Filth began to 
 accumulate where no filth had been ; his garden was not now planted 
 so early, nor with such taste and neatness as before ; his crops were 
 later and less abundant ; his haggards neither so full nor so trim as 
 they were wont to be, nor his ditches and enclosures kept in such good 
 repair. His cars, ploughs, and other farming implements, instead of 
 being put under cover, were left exposed to the influence of wind and 
 weather, where they soon became crazy and useless. 
 
 Such, however, were only the slighter symptoms of his bootless 
 struggle against the general embarrassment into which the agricultural 
 interests were, year after year, so unhappily sinking. 
 
 Had the tendency to general distress among the class to which he 
 belonged become stationar)', Owen would have continued by toil and 
 incessant exertion to maintain his ground ; but, unfortunately, there 
 was no point at which the national depression could then stop. 
 \'ear after year produced deeper, more extensive, and more compli- 
 cated misery ; and when he hoped that every succeeding season would 
 bring an improvement in the market, he was destined to experience 
 not merely a fresh disappointment, but an unexpected depreciation in 
 the price of his corn, butter, and other disposable commodities. 
 
 When a nation is reduced to such a state, no eye but tliat of God 
 himself can see the appalling wretchedness to which a year of disease 
 and scarcity strikes down the poor and working classes. 
 
 Owen, after a long and noble contest for nearly three years, sank, at 
 length, under the united calamities of disease and scarcity. The 
 father of the family was laid low upon the bed of sickness, and those 
 of his little ones who escaped it were almost consumed by famine. 
 This twofold shock sealed his ruin ; his honest heart was crushed — 
 his hardy frame shorn of its strength, and he, to whom every neighbour 
 tied as to a friend, now required friendship at a moment when the 
 wide-spread poverty of the country rendered its assistance hopeless. 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 On rising from his bed of sickness, the prospect before him required 
 his utmost fortitude to bear. He was now wasted in energy both of mind 
 and body, reduced to utter poverty, with a large family of children too 
 young to assist him, without means of retrieving his circumstances, 
 his wife and himself gaunt skeletons, his farm neglected, hii house 
 wrecked, and his offices falling to ruin, yet every day bringing the 
 half year's term nearer ! Oh, ye who riot on the miseries of such men 
 — ye who roll round the easy circle of fashionable Hfe — think upon this 
 picture ! Ye vile and heartless landlords, who see not, hear not, know 
 not those to whose heart-breaking toil ye owe the only merit ye possess 
 — that of rank in society — come and contemplate this virtuous man, 
 as unfriended, unassisted, and uncheered by those who are bound by 
 a strong moral duty to protect and aid him, he looks shuddering into 
 the dark, cheerless future ! Is it to be wondered at that he, and such 
 as he, should, in the misery of his despair, join the nightly meetings, 
 be lured to associate himself with the incendiar}', or seduced to grasp, 
 in the stupid apathy of wretchedness, the weapon of the murderer ? 
 By neglecting the people, by draining them, with merciless rapacity, 
 of the means of life, by goading them on under a cruel system of 
 rack rents, ye become not their natural benefactors, but curses and 
 s'jourges, nearly as much in reality as ye are in their opinion. 
 
 When Owen rose, he was driven by hunger, direct and immediate, 
 to sell his best cow ; and having purchased some oatmeal, at an 
 enormous price, from a well-known devotee in the parish, who 
 hoarded up this commodity for a " dear summer," he laid his plans 
 for the future with as much judgment as any man could display. 
 One morning after breakfast he addressed his wife as follows : — 
 
 " Kathleen, mavourneen, I want to consult wid you about what we 
 ought to do ; things are low wid us, asthore ; and except our heavenly 
 Father puts it into the heart of them I'm goin' to mention, I don't 
 know what we'll do, nor what 'ill become of these poor crathurs that's 
 naked and hungry about us. God pity them, they don't know — and 
 maybe that same's some comfort — the hardships that's before them. 
 Poor crathurs, see how quiet and sorrowful they sit about their little 
 play, passin' the time for themselves as well as they can ! Alley, 
 acushla machree, come over to me. Your hair is bright and fair, 
 Alley, and curls so purtily that the finest lady m the land might envy 
 it, but, acushla, your colour's gone, your little hands are wasted away 
 too ; that sickness was hard and sore upon you, a colleen machree, 
 and he that ud spend his heart's blood for you, darlin', can do nothin' 
 to help you ! " 
 
 He looked at the child as he spoke, and a slight motion in the 
 muscles of his face was barely perceptible, but it passed away ; and, 
 after kissing her, he proceeded ; — 
 
 "Ay, ye crathurs — you and I, Kathleen, could earn our bread for 
 ourselves yet, but these can't do it. This last stroke, darlin', has laid 
 us at the door of both poverty and sickness, but, blessed be the mother 
 of heaven for it. thev are all left wid us ; and sure that's a blessin' 
 we've to be thankful for —glory be to God ! " 
 
12 TUBBER DERG : OR, THE RED IVELU 
 
 " Ay, poor things, it's well to have them spared, Owen, dear ; sure 
 I'd rather a thousand times beg from door to door, and have my 
 ohildher to look at, than be in comforc widout them." 
 
 "Beg— that ud go hard wid me, Kathleen. I'd work— [■ i live on 
 next to nothing all the year round — but to see the crathu.'s that wor 
 dacently bred up brought to that — I couldn't bear it, Kathleen-'twould 
 break the heart widin me. Poor as they are, they have the blood of 
 kings in their veins ; and besides, to see a M'Carthy beggin' his 
 bread in the counthry where his name was once grea*. The M'Carthy 
 More, that was their title. No, acushla ; I love them as I do the 
 blood in my own veins ; but I'd rather see them in the arms of God 
 in heaven, laid down dacently, with their little sorrowful faces washed, 
 and their little bodies stretched out purtily before my eyes — I would 
 — in the graveyard there beyant, where all belonging to me lie, than 
 have it cast up to them, or have it said, that ever a M'Carthy was 
 seen beggin' on the highway."' 
 
 " But, Owen, can you strike out no plan for us that ud put us in the 
 way of comin' round agin? These poor ones, if we could hould out 
 for two or three year, would soon be able to help us." 
 
 " They would — they would. I'm thinkin' this day or two of a plan : 
 but I'm doubtful whether it ud come to anything." 
 
 " What is it, acushla ? Sure we can't be worse nor we are, any- 
 way." 
 
 " I'm goin' to go to Dublin. I'm tould that the landlord's come 
 home from France and that he's there now ; and if I didn't see hnn, 
 sure I could see the agent. Now, Kathleen, my intintion ud be to lay 
 our case before the head landlord himself, in hopes he might hould 
 back his hand, and spare us for a while. If I had a line from the 
 agent, or a scrape of a pen that I could show at home to some of the 
 nabours, who knows but I could borry what ud set us up agin. I 
 think many of them ud be sorry to see me turned out ; eh, Kath- 
 leen ?" 
 
 The Irish are an imaginative people : indeed, too much so for either 
 their individual or national happiness. And it is this and superstition, 
 which also depends much upon imagination, that makes them so 
 easily inrtuenced by those extravagant dreams that are held out to 
 them by persons who understand their character. 
 
 When Kathleen heard the plan on which Owen founded his ex- 
 pectations of assistance, her dark, melancholy eye flashed with a 
 portion of its former fire ; a transient vivacity lit up her sickly 
 features, and she turned a smile of hope and affection upon her 
 children, then upon Owen. 
 
 " Arrah, thin, who knows, indeed ! — who knows but he might do 
 something for us? And maybe we might be as well as ever yet ! 
 May the Lord put it into his heart this day ! I declare, ay !— maybe 
 It was God put it into your heart, Owen ! " 
 
 " I'll set otf," replied her husband, who was a man of decision — "I'll 
 set off on other morrow mornin' ; and as nobody knows anythin^J 
 about it, so Let there not be a word said upon the subject, good orba»l. 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. '3 
 
 If I have success, well and good ; but if not, why nobody need be the 
 wiser." 
 
 The heart-broken wife evinced, for the remainder of the day, a 
 lightness of spirits which she had not felt for many a month before. 
 Even Owen was less depressed than usual, and employed himself in 
 making such arrangements as he knew would occasion his family to 
 feel the inconvenience of his absence less acutely. But as the hour 
 of his departure drew nigh, a sorrowful feeling of affection, rising into 
 greater strength and tenderness, threw a melancholy gloom around 
 his hearth. According to their simple view of distance, a journey to 
 Dublin was a serious undertaking, and to them it was such. Owen 
 was in weak health, just risen out of illness, and what was more 
 trying than any other consideration was that since their marriage 
 they had never been separated before. 
 
 On the morning of his departure he was up before daybreak, and 
 so were his wife and children, for the latter had heard the conversa- 
 tion already detailed between them, and, with their simple-minded 
 parents, enjoyed the gleam of hope which it presented ; but this soon 
 changed — when he was preparing to go an indefinite sense of fear, 
 and a more vivid clinging of affection, marked their feelings. He 
 himself partook of this, and was silent, depressed, and less ardent 
 than when the speculation first presented itself to his mind. His 
 resolution, however, was taken, and should he fail, no blame at a 
 future time could be attached to himself. It was the last effort ; and 
 to neglect it, he thought, would have been to neglect his duty. When 
 breakfast was ready, they all sat down in silence ; the hour was yet 
 early, and a rushlight was placed in a wooden candlestick that stood 
 beside them to afford light. There was something solemn and 
 touching in the group as they sat in dim relief, every face marked by 
 the traces of sickness, want, sorrow, and affection. The father 
 attempted to eat, but he could not ; Kathleen sat at the meal, but 
 could taste nothing ; the children eat, for hunger at the moment was 
 predominant over every other sensation. At length it was over, and 
 Owen rose to depart ; he stood for a minute on the floor, and seemed 
 to take a survey of his cold, cheerless house, and then of his family ; 
 he cleared his throat several times, but did not speak. 
 
 " Kathleen," said he, at length, " in the name of God, I'll go ; and 
 may his blessin' be about you, asthore machree, and guard you and 
 these darlins till 1 come back to yees." 
 
 Kathleen's faithful heart could bear no more ; she laid herself on 
 his bosom — clung to his neck — and, as the parting kiss was given, 
 she wept aloud, and Owen's tears fell silently down his worn cheeks. 
 The children crowded about them in loud wailings, and the grief of 
 this virtuous and afflicted family was of that profound description 
 which is ever the companion, in such scenes, of pure and genuine 
 love. 
 
 " Owen ! " she exclaimed — " Owen, a-suilish mahiiil agus tiiachreg 1"^ 
 
 ' L iglit ol" my eyes and of my heart. 
 
'4 TUBBER DERG: OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 1 doubt we wor wrong in thinkin' of this journey. How can you, 
 mavourncen, walk all the way to Dublin, and you so worn and 
 weakly wid that sickness, and the bad feedin' both before and since? 
 Och, give it up, achree, and stay wid us — let what will happen. 
 You're not able for sich a journey, indeed, you're not. Stay wid me 
 and the childher, Owen; sure we'd be so lonesome widout you — will 
 you, agrah? and the Lord will do for us some other Way, maybe." 
 
 Owen pressed his faithful wife to his heart, and kissed her chaste 
 lips with a tenderness which the heartless votaries of fashionable hfe 
 can never know. 
 
 " Kathleen, asthore," he replied, in those terms of endearment 
 which flow so tenderly through the language of the people — " sure 
 whin I remimber your fair young face — your ysllow hair, and the 
 light that was in your eyes, acushla machree — but that's gone long 
 ago — och, don't ax me to stop. Isn't your lightsome laugh, whin you 
 wor young, in my ears .'' and your step that ud not bend the flower of 
 the field — Kathleen, 1 can't, indeed I can't, bear to think of what you 
 wor, nor of what you are now, when, in the coorse of age and natur, 
 but a small change ought to be upon you ! Sure I ought to make 
 every struggle to take you and these sorrowful crathurs out of the 
 ^t^ate you're in." 
 
 The children flocked about them, and joined their entreaties to 
 those of their mother. " Father, don't lave us — we'll be lonesome if 
 you go ; and if my mother ud get unwell, who'd be to take care of 
 her? Father, don't lave your own 'weeny crathurs' (a pet name he 
 had for them) — maybe the meal ud be eat out before you'd come 
 back ; or maybe something ud happen you in that strange place." 
 
 " Indeed, there's truth in what they say, Owen," said the wife ; 
 " do be said by your own Kathleen for this time, and don't take sich 
 a long journey upon you. Afther all, maybe, you wouldn't see him — 
 sure the nabours will help us, if you could only humble yourself to 
 ax them ! " 
 
 " Kathleen," said Owen, " when this is past you'll be glad I went — 
 indeed, you will ; sure it's only the tindher feclin' of your hearts, 
 darlins. Who knows what the landlord may do when I see himself, 
 and show him these resates — every penny paid him by our own 
 family. Let me go, acushla; it does cut me to the heart to lave yees 
 the way yees are in, even for a while ; but it's far worse to see your 
 poor wasted faces, widout havin' it in my power to do anything for 
 yees." 
 
 He then kissed them again, one by one ; and pressing the affec- 
 tionate partner of his sorrows to his breaking heart, he bade God 
 bless them, and set out in the twilight of a bitter March morning. 
 He had not gone many yards from the door when little Alley ran 
 after him in tears ; he felt her hand upon the skirts of his coat, which 
 she plucked with a smile of affection that neither tears nor sorrow 
 could repress. " Father, kiss 7ne again," said she. He stooped 
 down and kissed her tenderly. The child then ascended a green 
 ditch, and Owen, as he looked back, saw her standing upon it ; her 
 
7VBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. '5 
 
 fair tresses were tossed by the blast about her face, as with stiaining 
 eyes she watched him receding from her view. Kathleen and the 
 other children stood at the door, and also with deep sorrow watched 
 his form, until the angle of the bridle road rendered him no longer 
 visible ; after which they returned slowly to the fire and wept bitterly. 
 
 We believe no men are capable of bearing greater toil or privation 
 than the Irish. Owen's viattaim was only two or three oaten cakes 
 tied in a little handkerchief, and a few shillings in silver to pay for his 
 bed. With this small stock of food and money, an oaken stick in his 
 hand, and his wife's kerchief tied about his waist, he undertook a 
 journey of one hundred and eighty miles in quest of a landlord who, 
 so far from being acquainted with the distresses of his tenantry 
 scarcely knew even their names, and not one of them in person. 
 
 Our scene now changes to the metropolis. One evening, about 
 half-past six o'clock, a toil-worn man turned his steps to a splendid 
 mansion in Mountjoy Square ; his appearance was drooping, fatigued, 
 and feeble. As he went along, he examined the numbers on the re- 
 spective doors, until he reached one — before which he stopped for a 
 moment ; he then stepped out upon the street, and looked through 
 the windows, as if willing to ascertain whether there was any chance 
 of his object being attained. Whilst in this situation a carriage rolled 
 rapidly up, and stopped with a sudden check that nearly threw the 
 horses on their haunches. In an instant the thundering knock of the 
 servant intimated the arrival of some person of rank ; the hall-door 
 was opened, and Owen, availing himself of that opportunity, entered 
 the hall. Such a visitor, however, was too remarkable to escape 
 notice. The hand of the menial was rudely placed against his breast, 
 and as the usual impertinent interrogatories were put to him, the 
 pampered ruffian kept pushing him back, until the afflicted man stood 
 upon the upper step leading to the door. 
 
 " For the sake of God, let me spake but two words to him. I'm his 
 tenant ; and I know he's too much of a gintleman to turn away a man 
 that has lived upon his honour's estate — father and son — for upwards 
 of two hundre years. My name's Owen " 
 
 "You can't see him, my good fellow, at this hour. Go to Mr. M 
 
 his agent : we have company to dinner. He never speaks to a tenant 
 on business ; his agent manages all that. Please leave the way ; 
 here's more company." 
 
 As he uttered the last word he pushed Owen back, who, forgetting 
 that the stairs were behind him, fell, received a severe cut, and was 
 so completely stunned that he lay senseless and bleeding. Another 
 carriage drove up, as the fellow, now much alarmed, attempted to raise 
 him from the steps, and, by order of the gentleman who came in it, he 
 was brought into the hall. The circumstance now made some noise. 
 
 It was whispered about that one of Mr. 's tenants, a drunken 
 
 fellow from the country, wanted to break in forcibly to see him ; but 
 then it was also asserted that his skull was broken, and that he lay 
 dead in the hall. Several of the gentlemen above stairs, on hearing 
 that a man had been killed, immediately assembled about him. and 
 
i<3 TUBBER DERG : OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 by the means of restoratives he soon recovered, though the blood 
 streamed copiously from the wound in the back of his head. 
 
 '' Who are you, my good man ? " said Mr. S 
 
 Owen looked about him rather vacantly, but soon collected himself, 
 and replied in a mournful and touching tone of voice, " I'm one of 
 your honour's tenants from Tubbcr Uerg. My name is Owen M'C<.rthy 
 your honour — that is, if you be Mr. ." 
 
 " And pray what brought you to town, McCarthy ? " 
 
 " I wanted to make an humble appale to your honour's feelins, in 
 regard of my bit of farm. I and my poor family, your honour, have 
 been broken down by hard times and the sickness of the sason — God 
 knows how they are." 
 
 " If you wish to speak to me about that, my good man, you must 
 know I refer all these matters to my agent — go to him : he knows 
 them best ; and whatever is right and proper to be done for you, he 
 will do it. Sinclair, give him a crown, and send him to the Dis- 
 pensary to get his head dressed. I say, Carthy, go to my agent; he 
 knows whether your claim is just or not, and will attend to it accord- 
 ingly." 
 
 " Plase your honour, I've been wid him, and he says he can do 
 nothin' whatsomever for me. I went two or three times, and couldn't 
 see him, he was so busy ; and when I did get a word or two wid him, 
 he tould me there was more offered for my land than I'm payin' ; and 
 that if I did not pay up, I must be put out — God help me ! " 
 
 " But I tell you, Carthy, I never interfere between him and my 
 tenants." 
 
 " Och, indeed, and it would be well both for your honour's tenants 
 and yourself if you did, sir. Your honour ought to know, sir, more 
 about us, and how we're thrated. I'm an honest man, sir, and I tell 
 you so for your good." 
 
 •' And pray, sir," said the agent, stepping forward, for he had arrived 
 a few minutes before, and heard the last observation of M'Carthy — 
 " pray, how are they treated, you that know so well, and are so honest 
 a man ? As for honesty, you might have referred to me for that, I 
 think," he added. 
 
 "^I^. M ," said Owen, "we're thrated very badly. Sir, you 
 
 needn't look at me, for I'm not afeerd to spake the thruth; no buUyin,' 
 sir, will make me say anything in your favour that you don't desarve. 
 You've broken the half of them by severity : you've turned the 
 tenants aginst yourself and his honour here ; and I tell you now, 
 though you're to the fore, that, in the coorse of a short time, there'll 
 be bad work upon the estate, except his honour, here, looks into his 
 own affairs, and hears the complaints of the people. Look at these 
 resates, yer honour, they'll show you, sir " 
 
 " Carthy, I can hear no such language against the gentleman to 
 whom I entrust the management of my property ; of course I refer 
 the matter solely to him ; I can do nothing in it." 
 
 " Kathleen, avourneen ! " exclaimed the poor man, as he looked up 
 despairingly to heaven — " and ye, poor darlins of my heart ! Is thi? 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED IV ELL. i? 
 
 the news I'm to have for yees whin I go home ? As you hope for 
 mercy, sir, don't turn away your ear from my petition, that I'd humbly 
 make to yotu'self. Cowld, and hunger, and hardship are at home 
 before me, yer honour. If you'd be plased to look at these resates, 
 you'd see that I always paid my rent, and 'twas sickness and hard 
 times ." 
 
 " And your own honesty, industry, and good conduct," said the 
 agent, giving a dark and malignant sneer at him. " Carthy, it shall be 
 my business to see that you do not spread a bad spirit through the 
 tenantry much longer. Sir, you have heard the fellow's admission. 
 It is an implied threat that he will give us much serious trouble. 
 There is not such another incendiary on your property — not one, upon 
 my honour." 
 
 " Sir," said a servant, " dinner is on the table." 
 
 " Sinclair," said his landlord, " give him another crown, and tell him 
 to trouble me no more." Saying which, he and the agent went up to 
 the drawing-room, and, in a moment, Owen saw a large party sweep 
 down stairs, full of glee and vivacity, by whom both himself and his 
 distresses were as completely forgotten as if they had never existed. 
 
 He now slowly departed, and knew not whether the house steward 
 had given him money or not until he felt it in his hand. A cold, 
 sorrowful weight lay upon his heart ; the din of the tc (\-n deadened 
 his affliction into a stupor ; but an overwhelming sense of his disap- 
 pointment and a conviction of the agent's diabolical falsehood entered 
 like barbed arrows into his heart. 
 
 On leaving the steps he looked up to heaven in the distraction of 
 his agonizing thoughts ; the clouds were black and lowering, the wind 
 stormy, and as it carried them on its dark wing along the sky, he 
 wished, if it were the will of God, that his head lay in the quiet 
 graveyard where the ashes of his forefathers reposed in peace. But 
 he again remembered his Kathleen and their children, and the large 
 tears of anguish, deep and bitter, rolled slowly down his cheeks. 
 
 We will not trace him into an hospital, whither the wound on his 
 head occasioned him to be sent, but simply state that, on the second 
 week after this, a man with his head bound in a handkerchief, lame, 
 bent, and evidently labouring under severe illness or great affliction, 
 might be seen toiling slowly up the little hill that commanded a viev/ 
 of Tubber Derg. On reaching the top, he sat down to rest for a few 
 minutes, but his eye was eagerly turned to the house which contained 
 all that was dear to him on this earth. The sun was setting, and 
 shone with half his disk visible, in that dim and cheerless splendour 
 which produces almost in every temperament a feeling of melancholy. 
 His house, which in happier days formed so beautiful and conspicuous 
 an object in the view, was now, from the darkness of its walls, 
 scarcely discernible. The position of the sun, too, rendered it more 
 difficult to be seen, and Owen, for it was he, shaded his eyes with his 
 hand, to survey it more distinctly. Many a harrowing thought and 
 remembrance passed through his mind as his eye traced its dim out- 
 line in the fading light. He had done his duty — he had goce to the 
 
i8 TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 fountain head, with a hope that his simple story of affliction might be 
 heard. But all was fruitless : the only gleam of hope that opened 
 upon their misery had now passed into darkness and despair for ever. 
 He pressed his aching forehead with distraction as he thought of this; 
 then clasped his hands bitterly, and groaned aloud. 
 
 At length he rose, and proceeded with great difficulty, for the short 
 rest had stiffened his weak and fatigued joints. As he approached 
 home his heart sank ; and as he ascended the blood-red stream which 
 covered the bridle way that led to his house, what with fatigue and 
 affliction, his agitation weakened him so much tliat he stopped and 
 leaned on his staff several times, that he might take breath. 
 
 " It's too dark, may be, for them to see me, or poor Kathleen would 
 send the darlins to give me the she dha veha} Kathleen, avourneen 
 machree, how my heart beats wid long to see you, asthore, and to see 
 the weeny crathurs — glory be to Him that has left them to me — praise 
 and glory to His name ! " 
 
 He was now within a few perches of the door ; but a sudden mis- 
 giving shot across his heart when he saw it shut, and no appearance 
 of smoke from the chimney, nor of stir or life about the house. He 
 advanced. 
 
 " Mother of glory, what's this ! — but, wait, let me rap again. 
 Kathleen — Kathleen — are you widin, avourneen t Owen — Alley — • 
 arn't vecs widin, childhre ? Alley, sure I'm come back to yees all ! " 
 and he rapped more loudly than before. A dark breeze swept through 
 the bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the 
 house ; all was still as death within. '• Alley ! " he called once more 
 to his little favourite, " I'm come home wid something for you, asthore. 
 I didn't forget you, alanna — I brought it from Dublin all the way — 
 Alley ! " but the gloomy murmur of the blast was the only reply. 
 
 Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew as misery was that 
 which he then felt ; but this state of suspense was soon terminated by 
 the appearance of a neighbour who was passing. 
 
 " Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home agin, my poor fellow ; 
 and I'm sorry that I haven't betther news for you, and so are all of us." 
 
 He whom he addressed had almost lost the power of speech. 
 
 " Frank," said he, and he wrung his hand. " What — what ? was 
 death among them ? for the sake of heaven, spake ! " 
 
 The severe pressure which he received in return ran like a shock of 
 paralysis to his heart. " Owen, you must be a man ; everyone pities 
 yees, and may the Almighty pity and suppport yees ! She is, indeed, 
 Owen, gone; the weeny fair-han-ed child, your favourite Alley, is gone. 
 Yestherday she was berrid ; and daccntly the nabours attinded the 
 place, and' sent in, as far as they had it, both mate and dhrink to 
 Kathleen and the other ones. Now, Owen, you've heard it ; trust in 
 God, an' be a man." 
 
 A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the heart. " Gone !— the 
 fair-haire.d one ! — Alley !--Alley ! — the pride of both our hearts ; the 
 
 ' The wrJcoroe. 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 19 
 
 sweet, the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom played wid the 
 
 rest, hxxt kept wid mys ! Oh, my darlin', my darlin' ! gone from 
 
 my eyes for ever ! God of glory ! won't you support me this night of 
 sorrow and misery I " With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, 
 he dropped on his knees at the threshold, and as the tears rolled down 
 his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in a burst of sublime piety not at all 
 uncommon amongst our peasantry, " I thank you, O my God ! I 
 thank you, an' I put myself an' my weeny ones, my pastchee boght, into 
 your hands. I thank you, O God, for what has happened ! Keep me 
 up and support me — och, I want it ! You loved the weeny one, and 
 you took her ; she was the light of my eyes, and the pulse of my broken 
 heart ; but you took her, blessed Father of heaven ! an' we can't be 
 angry wid you for so doin' . Still, if you had spared he7- — if — if — oh, 
 blessed Father, my heart was in the very one you took — but I thank 
 you, O God ! May she rest in pace, now and for ever, Amin !" 
 
 He then rose up, and, slowly wiping the tears from his eyes, 
 departed. 
 
 " Let me hould your arm, Frank, dear," said he. " I am weak and 
 tired wid a long journey. Och, and can it be that she's gone — the fair- 
 haired colleen ! When I was lavin' home, an' had kissed them all — 
 'twas the first time we ever parted, Kathleen and 1, since our marriage 
 — the blessed child came over an' held up her mouth, savin', ' Kiss me 
 agin, father ! ' and this was afther herself an' all of them had kissed me 
 afore. But och, oh ! Blessed Mother, Frank, where's my Kathleen 
 and the rest ? — and why are they out of their own place ?" 
 
 " Ov/en, I tould you awhile agone that you must be a m>an. I gave 
 you the worst news first, an' what's to come doesn't signify much. It 
 w^as too dear ; for if any man could live upon it you could — you have 
 neither house nor home, Owen, nor land. An ordher came from the 
 agint, your last cow was taken, so was all you had in the world — hem — 
 barrin' a thrifle. No, bad manners to it — no, you're not widout a 
 home, anyway — the family's in my barn, brave and comfortable, com- 
 pared to what your own house was, that let in the wather through the 
 roof like a sieve ; and while the same barn's to the fore, never say you 
 want a home." 
 
 " God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to them and me. If 
 you're not rev.-arded for it here, you will be in a betther place. Och, I 
 long to see Kathleen and the childher ! But I'm fairly broken down, 
 Frank, and hardly able to mark the ground ; and, indeed, no wondher, 
 if you knew but all ; still, let God's will be done ! Poor Kathleen, I 
 must bear up afore her, or she'll break her heart, for I know how she 
 loved the goolden-haired darlin' that's gone from us. Och, and how 
 did she go, Frank, for I left her betther ? " 
 
 " Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and wasn't strong enough to 
 bear up aginst the last attack ; but it's one comfort that you know 
 she's happy." 
 
 Owen stood for a moment, and looking solemnly in his neighbour's 
 face, exclaimed, in a deep and exhausted voice, " Frank ! " 
 
 " What are you goin' to say, Owen ? " 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 " The heart widin me's broke — broke ! " 
 
 The large tears rolled down his weather-beaten cheeks, and he pro- 
 ceeded in silence to the house of his friend. There was, however, a 
 feeling of sorrow in his words and manner which Frank could not 
 withstand. He grasped Owen's hand, and, in a low and broken voice, 
 simply said, " Keep your spirits up — keep them up." 
 
 When they came to the barn in which his helpless family had taken 
 up their temporary residence, Owen stood for a moment to collect 
 himself ; but he was nervous, and trembled with repressed emotion. 
 They then entered ; and Kathleen, on seeing her beloved and affec- 
 tionate husband, threw herself on his bosom, and for some time felt 
 neither joy nor sorrow — she had swooned. The poor man embraced 
 her with a tenderness at once mournful and deep. The children, on 
 seeing their father safely returned, forgot their recent grief, and clung 
 about him with gladness and delight. In the meantime Kathleen 
 recovered, and Owen for many minutes could not check the loud and 
 clamorous grief — now revived by the presence of her husband— with 
 which the heart-broken and emaciated mother deplored her departed 
 child ; and Owen himself, on once more looking among the little 
 ones — 0T\ seeing her little frock hanging up, and her stool vacant by 
 the fire — on missing her voice and her blue, laughing eyes, and re- 
 membering the affectionate manner in which, as with a presentiment 
 of death, she held up her little mouth and offered him the last kiss- 
 he slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased for her out of 
 his pocket, surveyed them for a moment, and then, putting his hands 
 on his face, bent his head upon his bosom and wept with the vehement 
 outpouring of a father's sorrow. 
 
 The reader perceives that he was a meek man, that his passions 
 were not dark nor violent ; he bore no revenge to those who neglected 
 or injured him ; and in this he differed from too many of his country- 
 men. No ; his spirit was broken down with sorrow, and had not 
 room for the fiercer and more destructive passions. His case excited 
 general pity. Whatever his neighbours could do to soothe him and 
 alleviate his aftliction was done. His farm was not taken ; for fearful 
 threats were held out against those who might venture to occupy it. 
 In these threats he had nothing to do ; on the contrary, he strongly 
 deprecated them. Their existence, however, was deemed by the agent 
 sufficient to justify him in his callous and malignant severity towards 
 him. 
 
 We did not write this story for effect. Our object was to relate 
 facts that occurred. In Ireland there is much blame justly attached 
 to landlords for their neglect and severity, in such depressed times, 
 towards their tenants. There is also much that is not only inde- 
 fensible bui atrocious on the part of the tenants. But can the landed 
 proprietors of Ireland plead ignorance or want of education for their 
 neglect and rapacity ? whilst the crimes of the tenants, on the contrary, 
 may in general be ascribed to both. He who lives, as perhaps his 
 forefathers have done, upon any man's property, and fails from un- 
 avoidable calamity; has as just and clear a right to assistance from 
 
TVBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 the landlord as if the amount of that aid were a bonded debt. Common 
 policy, common sense, and common justice should induce the Irish 
 landlords to lower their rents according to the market for agricultural 
 produce ; otherwise poverty, famine, crime, and vague political specu- 
 lations, founded upon idle hopes of a general transfer of property, will 
 spread over and convulse the kingdom. Any man who looks into our 
 poverty may see that our landlords ought to reduce their rents to a 
 standard suitable to the times and to the ability of the tenant. 
 
 But to return. Owen, for another year, struggled on for his family 
 without success ; his firm spirit toas broken ; employment he could 
 not get, and even had it been regular, he would have found it in> 
 practicable to support his helpless wife and children by his iabour. 
 The next year unhappily was also one of sickness and of want ; the 
 country was not only a wide waste of poverty, but overspread with 
 typhus fever. One Saturday night he and the family found them- 
 selves without food ; they had not tasted a morsel for twenty-four 
 hours. There were murmurings and tears, and, finally, a low conver- 
 sation among them, as if they held a conference upon some subject 
 which filled them with both grief and satisfaction. In this alternation 
 of feeling did they pass the time until the sharp gnawing of hunger 
 was reheved by sleep. A keen December wind blew with a bitter 
 blast on the following morning ; the rain was borne along upon it 
 with violence, and the cold was chill and piercing. Owen, his wife, 
 and their six children issued at daybreak out ol the barn in which, 
 ever since their removal from Tubber Derg, they had lived until 
 then ; their miserable fragments of bed-clothes were tied in a bundle 
 to keep them dry ; their pace was slow, need we say sorrowful ; all 
 were in tears. Owen and Kathleen went first, with a child upon the 
 back, and another in the hand, of each. Their route lay by their 
 former dwelling, the door of which was open, for it had not been 
 inhabited. On passing it they stood a moment ; then with a simul- 
 taneous impulse both approached — entered— and took one last look 
 of a spot to which their hearts clung with enduring attachment. 
 They then returned ; and as they Dassed, Owen put forth his hand, 
 picked a few small pebbles out of the wall, and put them in his 
 pocket. 
 
 " Farewell ! " said he, " and may the blessin' of God rest upon you ! 
 We now lave you for ever ! We're goin' at last to beg our bread 
 through the world wide, where none will know of the happy days we 
 passed widin your walls ! We vmst lave you ; but glory be to the 
 Almighty, we are goin' wid a clear conscience ; we took no revenge 
 into our own hands, but left everything to God above us. We are 
 poor, but there is neither blood, nor mui-der, nor dishonesty upon our 
 heads. Don't cry, Kathleen — don't cry, childher ; there is still a 
 good God above, who can and may do something for us yet, glory be 
 to his name ! " 
 
 He then passed on with his family, which, including himself, made, 
 in all, eight paupers, being an additional burden upon the country 
 which might easily have been avoided. His land was about two 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 years waste, and when it was ultimately taken the house was a ruin, 
 and the money allowed by the landlord for building a new one, 
 together with the loss of two years' rent, would, if humanely directed, 
 have enabled Owen McCarthy to remain a solvent tenant. 
 
 When an Irish peasant is reduced to pauperism he seldom com- 
 mences the melancholy task of soliciting alms in his native place. 
 The trial is always a severe one, and he is anxious to hide his shame 
 and misery from the eyes of those who know him. This is one 
 reason why some system of poor-laws should be introduced into the 
 country. Paupers of this description become a burden upon strangers, 
 whilst those who are capable of entering with friendly sympathy into 
 their misfortunes have no opportunity of assisting them. Indeed, this 
 shame of seeking alms from those who have known the mendicant in 
 better days is a proof that the absence of poor laws takes away from 
 the poorer classes one of the strongest incitements to industry ; for 
 instance, if every pauper in Ireland were confined to his own parish, 
 nnd compelled to beg from his acquaintances, the sense of shame 
 alone would, by stirring them up to greater industry, reduce the 
 number of mendicants one Ki.lf. There is a strong spirit of family 
 pride in Ireland, which would be sufficient to make many poor, of 
 both sexes, exert themselves to the uttermost rather than cast a stain 
 upon their name, or bring a blush to the face of their relations. But 
 now it is not so ; the mendicant sets out to beg, and in every instance 
 commences his new mode of life in some distant part of the country, 
 where his name and family are not known. 
 
 Indeed, it is astonishing how any man can, for a moment, hesitate 
 to form his opinion upon the subject of poor-laws. The English and 
 Scotch gentry know something about the middle and lower classes of 
 their respective countries, and of course they have a fixed system of 
 provision for the poor in each. The ignorance of the Irish gentry 
 upon almost every subject connected with the real good of the people 
 is only in keeping with their ignorance of the people themselves. It 
 is to be feared, however, that their disinclination to introduce poor 
 laws arises less from actual ignorance than from an illiberal selfish- 
 ness. The facts of the case are these : — In Ireland the whole support 
 of the inconceivable multitude of paupers, who swarm like locusts 
 over the surface of the country, rests upon the middle and lower 
 classes, or rather upon the latter, for there is scarcely such a thing in 
 this unhappy country as a middle class. In not one out of a thousand 
 instances do the gentry contribute to the mendicant poor. In the 
 first place, a vast proportion of our landlords are absentees, who 
 squander upon their own pleasures or vices, in the theatres, saloons, 
 or gaming-houses of France, or in the softer profligacies of Italy, that 
 which ought to return in some shape to stand in the place of duties 
 so shamefully neglected. These persons contribute nothing to the 
 poor, except the various evils which their absence entails upon them. 
 
 On the other hand, the resident gentry never, in any case, assist a 
 beggar, even in the remote parts of the country, where there are no 
 Mendicity Institutions. Nor do the beggars ever thmk of applying to 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED I'VELL. 23 
 
 them. They know that his honour's dogs would be shpped at them ; 
 or that the whip might be laid, perhaps, to the shoulders of a broken- 
 hearted father, with his brood of helpless children wanting food ; 
 perhaps upon the emaciated perscm of a miserable widow, who begs 
 for her orphans, only because the hands that supported, and would 
 have defended, both her and them are mouldered into dust. 
 
 Upon the middle and lower classes, therefore, comes directly the 
 heavy burden of supporting the great mass of pauperism that presses 
 upon Ireland. It is certain that the Irish landlords know this, and 
 that they are reluctant to see any law enacted which might make the 
 performance of their duties to the poor compulsory. This, indeed, is 
 natural in men who have so inhumanly neglected them. 
 
 But what must the state of a country be where those who are on 
 the way to pauperism themselves are exclusively burdened with the 
 support of the vagrant poor .'' It is like putting additional weight on 
 a man already sinking under the burden he bears. The landlords 
 suppose that because the maintenance of the idle who are able, and 
 of the aged and infirm who are not able, to work comes upon the 
 renters of land, they themselves are exempted from their support. 
 This, if true, is as bitter a stigma upon their humanity as upon their 
 sense of justice ; but it is not true. Though the cost of supporting 
 such an incredible number of the idle and helpless does, in the first 
 place, fall upon the tenant, yet, by diminishing his means, and by 
 often compeUing him to purchase, towards the end of the season, a 
 portion of food equal to that which he has given away in charity, it 
 certainly becomes ultimately a clear deduction from the landlord's 
 rent. In either case it is a deduction, ^ut in the latter it is often 
 doubly so ; inasmuch as the poor tenants must frequently pay, at the 
 close of a season, double, perhaps treble, the price which provision 
 brought at the beginning of it. 
 
 Any person conversant with the Irish people must frequently have 
 heard such dialogues as the following, during the application of a 
 beggar for alms. 
 
 Alejidicant. " We're axin your charity, for God's sake ! " 
 
 Poor Tenant. " Whethen, for His sake you would get it, poor 
 crathur, if we had it ; but it's not for you widin the four corners of the 
 house. It ud be well for us if we had now all we gave away in charity 
 duriu' the -whole year j we wouldn't have to be buyin' for ourselves at 
 three prices. Why don't you go up to the Big House ? They're rich, 
 and can afford it." 
 
 Mendicant, with a shrug, which sets all his coats and bags in motion, 
 *' Och ! och ! The Big House, inagh ! Musha, do you want me, an' 
 the childhre here, to be torn to pieces wid the dogs ? or lashed wid 
 a whip by one o' the sarwints ? No, no, avourneen (with a hopeless 
 shake of the head). That ud be a blue look-up, like a clear evenin'." 
 
 Poor Tenant. " Then, indeed, we haven't it to help you now, poor 
 man. We're buyin' ourselves." 
 
 Metidicant. " Thin, throth, that's lucky, so it is ! I've as purty a 
 grain o' male here as you'd wish to thicken wather wid, that I struv to 
 
TUf^bER LERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 get tocjether, in hopes to be able to buy a quarther o' tobaccy, along 
 wid a pair o' new bades an' a scapular for myself. I'm suspicious that 
 there's about a stone ov it altogether. You can have it anundher the 
 market price, for I'm frettin' at not havin' the scapular an rne. Sure 
 the Lord will sind me an' the childhre a bit an' sup some way else — 
 glory to his name ! — besides a lock o' praties in the corner o' the baij 
 here, that'll do us for this day, anyway." 
 
 The bargain is immediately struck, and the poo»' tenant is glad to 
 purchase, even from a beggar, his stone of meal, in consequence of 
 getting it a few pence under market price. Such scenes as this, which 
 are of frequent occurrence in the country parts of Ireland, need no 
 comment. 
 
 This, certainly, is not a state of things which should be permitted to 
 exist. Every man ought to be compelled to support the poor of his 
 native parish according to his means. It is an indelible disgrace co 
 the legislature so long to have neglected the paupers of Ireland. Is it 
 to be thought of with common patience that a person rolling in wealth 
 shall feed upon his turtle, bis venison, and his costly luxuries of every 
 descrijption, for which he will not scruple to pay the highest price — 
 that this heartless and selfish man, whether he reside at home or 
 abroad, shall thus unconscionably pamper himself with viands pur- 
 chased by the toil of the people, and yet not contribute to their 
 miseries, when poverty, sickness, or age, throws them upon the scanty 
 support of casual charity ! 
 
 Shall this man be permitted to batten in luxury in a foreign land or 
 at home, to whip our paupers from his carriage, or hunt them, like 
 beasts of prey, from his grounds, whilst the lower classes — the gradu- 
 ally decaying poor— are compelled to groan under the burden of their 
 support in addition to their other burdens ? Surely it is not a question 
 which admits of argument. This subject has been darkened and 
 made difficult by fine-spun and unintelligible theories, when the only 
 knowledge necessary to understand it may be gained by spending a 
 few weeks in some poor village in the interior of the country. As for 
 Parliamentary Committees upon this or any other subject, they are, 
 with reverence be it spoken, thoroughly contemptible. They will 
 summon and examine witnesses who, for the most part, know little 
 about the habits or distresses of the poor ; public money will be 
 wasted in defraying their expenses and in printing reports ; resolutions 
 will be passed ; something will be said about it in the House of Com- 
 mons ; and, in a few weeks, after resolving and re-resolving, it is as 
 little thought of as if it had never been the subject of investigation. 
 In the meantime the evil proceeds — becomes more inveterate — eats 
 into the already declining prosperity of the country — whilst those who 
 suffer under it have the consolation of knowing that a Parliamentary 
 Committee sat longer upon it than so many geese upon their eggs, but 
 hatched nothing. Two circumstances connected with pauperism in 
 Ireland are worthy of notice. The first is this — the Roman Catholics, 
 who certainly constitute the bulk of the population, feel themselves 
 called upon, from the peculiar tenets of their religion, to exercise 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL, 25 
 
 indiscriminate charity largely to the begging poor. They act under 
 the impression that eleemosynary good works possess the power of 
 cancelling sin to an extent almost incredible. Many of their r«r]igious 
 legends are founded upon this view of the case ; and the reader will 
 find an appropriate one in the priest's sermon, as given in our tale of 
 the " Poor Scholar." That legend is one which the author has many 
 a time heard from the lips of the people, by whom it was implicitly 
 believed. A man who may have committed a murder over night will 
 the next day endeavour to wipe away his guilt by alms given for the 
 purpose of getting the benefit of "the poor mar'i prayer." The 
 principle of assisting our distressed fellow-creatures when rationally 
 exercised, is one of the best in society ; but here it becomes entangled 
 with error, superstition, and even with crime — acts as a bounty upon 
 imposture, and in some degree predisposes to guilt, from an erroneous 
 belief that sin may be cancelled by alms and the prayers of mendicant 
 impostors. 
 
 The second point in connection with pauperism is the immoral in- 
 fluence that proceeds from the relation in which the begging poor in 
 Ireland stand towards the class by whom they are supported. These, 
 as we have already said, are the poorest, least educated, and con- 
 sequently the most ignorant description of the people. They are, 
 also, the most numerous. There have been for centuries, probably 
 since the Reformation itself, certain opinions floating among the 
 lower classes in Ireland, all tending to prepare them for some great 
 change in their favour, arising from the discomfiture of heresy, the 
 overthrow of their enemies, and the exaltation of themselves and their 
 religion. 
 
 Scarcely had the public mind subsided after the Rebellion of Ninety- 
 eight, when the success of Bonaparte directed the eyes and the hopes 
 of the Irish people towards him, as the person designed to be their 
 deliverer. Many a fine fiction has the author of this work heard about 
 that great man's escapes, concerning the bullets that conveniently 
 turned aside from his person, and the sabres that civilly declined to 
 cut him down. Many prophecies too were related, in which the glory 
 of this country under his reign was touched off in the happiest colours. 
 Pastorini also gave such notions an impulse. Eighteen twenty-five 
 was to be the year of their deliverance : George the Fourth was never 
 to fill the British throne ; and the mill of Lowth was to be turned 
 three times with human blood. The miller with the two thumbs was 
 then living, said the mendicants, for they were the principal pro- 
 pagators of these opinions, and the great expounders of their own 
 prophecies ; so that of course there could be no further doubt upon 
 the subject. Several of them had seen him, a red-haired man with 
 broad shoulders, stout legs, exactly as a miller ought to have, and two 
 thumbs on his right hand ; all precisely as the prophecy had stated. 
 Then there was Beal-derg, and several others of the fierce old Milesian 
 chiefs, who along with their armies lay in an enchanted sleep, all ready 
 to awake and take a part in the delivery of the country. " Sure such 
 a man," and they would name him, in the time of the mendicant's 
 
 (4) B 
 
26 TUBBF.R DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 grandfather, " was once going to a fair to sell a horse — well and good 
 the time was the dawn of morning, a little before daylight. He met a 
 man who undertook to purchase his horse ; they agreed upon the 
 price, and the seller of him followed the buyer into a Rath, where he 
 found a range of horses, each with an armed soldier asleep by his 
 side, ready to spring upon him if awoke. The purchaser cautioned 
 the owner of the horse, as they were about to enter the subterraneous 
 dwelling, against touching either horse or man ; but the countryman, 
 happenmg to stumble, inadvertently laid his hand upon a sleeping 
 soldier, who immediately leaped up, drew his sword, and asked, 
 ' Willi anam ink ?' (Is the time in it ? Is the time arrived ?) To 
 which the horsedealer of the Rath replied, ' //a niel. Gho dhee 
 collhoiu areesht.' (No ; go to sleep again.) Upon this, the soldier 
 immediately sank down in his former position, and unbroken sleep 
 reigned throughout the cave." The influence on the warm imagina- 
 tions of ignorant people of the fictions concocted by vagrant mendi- 
 cants is very pernicious. They fill their minds with the most palpable 
 absurdities, and, what is worse, with opinions which, along with being 
 injurious to those who receive them, in every instance insure for those 
 who propagate them a cordial and kind reception. 
 
 These mendicants consequently pander, for their own selfish ends, 
 to the prejudices of the ignorant, which they nourish and draw out in 
 a manner that has in no slight degree been subversive of the peace of 
 the country. Scarcely any political circumstance occurs which they 
 do not immediately seize upon and twist to their own purposes, or, in 
 other words, to the opinions of those from whom they derive their 
 support. When our present police first appeared in their uniforms 
 and black belts, another prophecy, forsooth, was fulfilled. Immediately 
 before the downfall of heresy a body of " Black Militia " was to 
 appear. The police, then, are the black militia, and the people con- 
 sider themselves another step nearer the consummation of their vague 
 speculations. 
 
 In the year Ninety-eight, the Irish mendicants were active agents, 
 clever spies, and expert messengers on the part of the people ; and to 
 this day they carry falsehood and the materials of outrage in its worst 
 shape into the bosom of peaceable families, who would, otherwise, 
 never become connected with a system which is calculated to bring 
 nothing but ruin and destruction upon those who permit themselves 
 to join it. 
 
 This evil, and it is no small one, would, by the introduction of poor- 
 laws, be utterly abolished. The people would not only be more easily 
 improved by purer knowledge ; but education, when received, would 
 not be corrupted by the infusion into it of such ingredients as the 
 above. In many other points of view the confirmed and hackneyed 
 mendicants of Ireland are a great evil to the morals of the people. 
 We could easily detail them, but such not being our object at present, 
 we will now dismiss the subject of poor-laws, and resume our narra' 
 live. 
 
 far — far dififerent from this description of impostors were Owen 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 27 
 
 M'Carthy and his family. Their misfortunes were not the con- 
 sequences of negligence or misconduct on their own part. They 
 struggled long but unavailingly against high rents and low markets ; 
 against neglect on the part of the landlord and his agent ; against 
 sickness, famine, and death. They had no alternative but to beg or 
 starve. Owen was willing to work, but he could not procure employ- 
 ment, and provided he could, the miserable sum of sixpence a day, 
 when food was scarce and dear, would not support him, his wife, and 
 six little ones. He became a pauper, therefore, only to avoid starva- 
 tion. 
 
 Heavy and black was his heart, to use the strong expression of the 
 people, on the bitter morning when he set out to encounter the dismal 
 task of seeking alms in order to keep life in himself and his family. 
 The plan was devised on the preceding night ; but to no mortal, except 
 his wife, was it communicated. The honest pride of a man whose 
 mind was above committing a mean action would not permit him to 
 reveal what he considered the first stain that ever was known to rest 
 upon the name of M'Carthy. He therefore sallied out under the 
 beating of the storm, and proceeded, without caring much whither he 
 went, until he got considerably beyond the bounds of his own parish. 
 
 In the meantime hunger pressed keenly upon him and them. The 
 day had no appearance of clearing up ; the heavy rain and sleet beat 
 into their thin, worn garments, and the clamour of his children for 
 food began to grow more and more importunate. They came to the 
 shelter of a hedge which enclosed on one side a remote and broken 
 road, along which, in order to avoid the risk of being recognised, they 
 had preferred travelling. Owen stood here for a few minutes to con- 
 sult with his wife as to where and when they should " make a begin- 
 ning," but on looking round he found her in tears. 
 
 " Kathleen, asthore," said he, " I can't bid you not cry ; bear up, 
 acushla machree ; bear up : sure, as I said when we came out this 
 mornin', there's a good God above us, that can still turn over the good 
 lafe for us, if we put our hopes in him." 
 
 "Owen," said his sinking wife, "it's not altogether bekase we're 
 brought to this, that I'm cryin'. No, indeed." 
 
 " Thin what ails you, Kathleen, darlin ? " 
 
 The wife hesitated, and evaded the question for some time ; but at 
 length, upon his pressing her for an answer, with a fresh gush of sorrow 
 she replied : 
 
 " Owen, since you irntst knO'iv — och, may God pity us ! — since you 
 must know, it's wid hunger — wid hmiger! I kept, unknownst, a little 
 bit of bread to give the childhre this mornin', and that was part of it 
 I gave you yesterday early — I'm near two days fastin'." 
 
 " Kathleen ! Kathleen ! Och ! sure I know your worth, avillish. 
 You were too good a wife, an' too good a mother, a'most ! God forgive 
 me, Kathleen ! I fretted about beggin', dear ; but as my heavenly 
 Father's above me, I'm now happier to beg wid you by my side, nor 
 if I war in the best house in the province widout you ! Hould up, 
 aTourneen, for a while. Come on, childhre, darlins, an' the first house 
 
28 TUBBER DERG: OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 we meet, we'll ax their char their assistance. Come on, darlins, 
 
 all of yees. Why, my heart's asier, so it is. Sure we have your mother, 
 ciiildhre, safe wid us, an' what signifies anything, so long as sJu's left 
 to us." 
 
 He then raised his wife tenderly, for she had been compelled to sit 
 from weakness, and they bent their steps to a decent farm-house that 
 siood a few perches off the road, about a quarter of a mile before 
 them. 
 
 As they approached the door, the husband hesitated a moment ; his 
 f.ice got paler than usual, and his lips quivered, as he said, " Kath- 
 leen " 
 
 " I know what you're goin' to say, Owen. No, acushla, j'i?;^ won't ; 
 /7/ax it myself." 
 
 " Do," said Owen, with difficultv ; " I can't do it ; but I'll overcome 
 my pride afore long, I hope. It's thryin' to me, Kathleen, an' you 
 know it is — for you know how little I ever expected to be brought to 
 this." 
 
 " Husht, avillish ! We'll thrj', then, in the name o' God." 
 
 As she spoke, the children, herself, and her husband entered, to beg 
 for the first time in their lives a morsel of food. Yes ! timidly — with 
 a blush of shame, red even to crimson, upon the pallid features of 
 Kathleen — with grief acute and piercing — they entered the house 
 together. 
 
 For some minutes they stood and spoke not. The unhappy woman, 
 unaccustomed to the language of supplication, scarcely knew in what 
 terms to crave assistance. Owen, himself, stood back, uncovered, his 
 tine but much changed features overcast with an expression of deep 
 affliction. Kathleen cast a single glance at him as if for encourage- 
 ment. Their eyes met ; she saw the upright man — the last remnant 
 of the M'Carthy — himself once the friend of the poor, of the unhappy, 
 of the afflicted — standing crushed and broken down by misfortunes 
 which he had not deserved, waiting with patience for a morsel of 
 charity. Owen, too, had his remembrances. He recollected the days 
 when he sought and gained the pure and fond affections of his Kath- 
 leen ; when beauty, and youth, and innoceo<'e encircled her with their 
 light and their grace, as she spoke or movetl ; he saw her a happy 
 wife and mother in her own home, kind and benevolent to all who re- 
 quired her good word or her good ofiice, and remembered the sweetness 
 of her light-hearted song ; but now she was homeless. He remembered, 
 too, how she used to plead with himself for the afflicted. It was but 
 a moment ; yet when their eyes met that moment was crowded by 
 recollections that flashed across their minds witli a keen sense of a lot 
 so bitter and wretched as theirs. Kathleen could not speak, although 
 she tried ; her sobs denied her utterance ; and Owen involuntarily sat 
 upon a chair, and covered his face with his hand. 
 
 To an observing eye it is never difficult to detect the cant of impos- 
 ture, or to perceive distress when it is real. The good woman of the 
 house, as is usual in Ireland, was in the act of approaching them, 
 unsolicited^ with a double handful of meal — that is, what the Scotch 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 29 
 
 and northern Irish call a gowpen, or as much as both halds locked 
 together can contain — when, noticing their distress, she paused a 
 moment, eyed them more closely, and exclaimed : 
 
 " What's this ? Why, there's something wrong wid you, good people ! 
 But first an' foremost take this, in the name an' honour of God." 
 
 " IMay the blessin' of the same Man^ rest upon yees !" replied 
 Kathleen. " This is a sorrowful thrial to us ; for it's our first day to 
 be upon the world ; an' this is the first help of the kind we ever axed 
 for, or ever got ; an' indeed, now I find we haven't even a place to 
 carry it in. I've no — b — b — cloth, or anything to hould it." 
 
 " Your first, is it ?" said the good woman. " Your first ! May the 
 jnarciful queen o' heaven look down upon yees, but it's a bitther day 
 yees war driven out on ! Sit down there, you poor crathur. God pity 
 you, I pray this day, for you have a heart-broken look ! Sit down 
 awhile, near the fire, you an' the childhre ! Come over, darlins, an' 
 warm yourselves ! Och, oh ! but it's the thousand pities to see sich 
 fine childhre — handsome an' good-lookin' even as they are, brought to 
 this ! Come over, good man ; get near the fire, for you're wet an' 
 could all of yees. Brian, ludher them two lazy thieves o' dogs out o* 
 that. Eiree suas, a wadhee bradagh, agus go mah a sliin ! — be off wid 
 yees, ye lazy divils, that's not worth your feedin' ! Come over, honest 
 man." 
 
 Owen and his family were placed near the fire ; the poor man's 
 heart was full, and he sighed heavily. 
 
 " May he that it plased to thry us," he exclaimed, " reward you for 
 this ! We are," he continued, " a poor an' a sufferin' family ; but it's 
 the will of God that we should be so, an' sure we can't complain wid- 
 out committin' sin. All we ax now is that it may be plasin' to him 
 that brought us low to enable us to bear up undher our thrials. We 
 would take it to our choice to beg an' be honest, sooner nor to be 
 wealthy an' wicked ! We have our failins an' our sins, God help us ; 
 but still there's nothin' dark or heavy on our consciences. Glory be to 
 the name of God for it ! " 
 
 " Throth, I believe you," replied the farmer's wife ; " there's thruth 
 an' honesty in your face ; one may easily see the remains of dacency 
 about yees all. Musha, throw your little things aside, an' stay where 
 yees are to-day : you can't bring out the childhre undher the teem of 
 rain an' sleet that's in it. Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all 
 out ! Faix, Paddy will get a dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair 
 wid the stirks, poor bouchal — a son of ours that's gone to Ballyboulteen 
 to sell some cattle, an' he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comes 
 back. I hope he'll have sinse to go into some house, when he's done, 
 an' dhry himself well, anyhow, besides takin' somethin' to keep out the 
 could. Put by your things, an' don't think of goin' out sich a day." 
 " We thank you," replied Owen. ** Indeed, we're glad to stay undher 
 
 » God is sometimes thus termed in Ireland. By " Man " here is meant person or 
 being. He is also called the "Man above;" although this must have be*"! iu- 
 tended for, and often is applied to Christ only. 
 
30 TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 your roof ; for, poor things, they're badly able to thravel sich a day — 
 these childhre." 
 
 " Musha, yees ate no breakfast, maybe ? " 
 
 Oweii and his family were silent. The children looked wistfully at 
 their parents, anxious that they should confirm what the good woman 
 surmised ; the father looked again at his famished brood and his 
 sinking wife, and nature overcame him. 
 
 " Food did not crass our lips this day," replied Owen ; " an' I may 
 say hardly anything yesterday." 
 
 " Oh, blessed mother ! Here, Katty Murray, drop scrubbin' that 
 dresser, an' put down the midlin' pot for stirabout. Be livin' ! manim 
 an diouol, woman alive, handle yourself ; you might a had it boilin' 
 by this. God presarve us ! — to be two days widout atin ! Be the 
 crass, Katty, if you're not alive, I'll give you a douse o' the churnstaff 
 that'll bring the fire to your eyes ! Do you hear me .'' " 
 
 " I do hear you, an' did often feel you, too, for fraid hearin' wouldn't 
 do. You think there's no places in the world but your own, I b'lieve. 
 Faix, indeed ! it's well come up wid us, to be randied about wid no 
 less a switch than a churnstaff ! " 
 
 " Is it givin' back talk you are ? Bad end to me, if you look crucked 
 but I'll lave you a mark to remember me by. What woman ud put 
 ap wid you but myself, you shkamin flipe ? It wasn't to give me your 
 bad tongue I hired you, but to do your business ; an' be the crass 
 above us, if you turn your tongue on me agin, I'll give you the weight 
 o' the churnstaff. Is it bekase they're poor people, that it plased God 
 to bring to this, that you turn up your nose at doin' anything to sarve 
 them ? There's not wather enough there, I say — put in more. What 
 signifies all the stirabout that ud make ? Put plinty in : it's betther 
 always to have too much than too little. Faix, I tell you, you'll want 
 a male's meat an' a night's lodgin' afore you die, if you don't mend 
 your manners." 
 
 " Och, musha, the poor girl is doin' her best," observed Kathleen ; 
 " an' I'm sure she wouldn't be guilty of usin' pride to the likes of us, 
 or to anyone that the Lord has laid his hand upon." 
 
 " She had betther not, while I'm to the fore," said her mistress. 
 " What is she herseii T Sure if it was a sin to be poor, God help the 
 world! No ; it's neither a sin nor a shame." 
 
 "Thanks be to God, no," said Owen ; " it's neither the one nor the 
 other. So long as we keep a fair name, an' a clear conscience, we 
 can't ever say that our case is hard." 
 
 After some further conversation a comfortable breakfast was pre- 
 pared for them, of which they partook with an appetite sharpened by 
 their long abstinence from food. Their stay here was particularly 
 fortunate, for as they were certain of a cordial welcome, and an 
 abundance of that which they much wanted — wholesome food — the 
 pressure of immediate distress was removed. They had time to think 
 more accurately upon the little preparations for misery which were 
 necessary, and, as the day's leisure was at their disjjosal, Kathleen's 
 needle and scibsuis were industriously plied in merding the tattered 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL, 
 
 clothes of her husband and her children, in order to meet the incle- 
 mency of the weather. 
 
 On the following morning, after another abundaiit breakfast, and 
 substantial marks of kindness from their entertainers, they prepared 
 to resume their new and melancholy mode of life. As they were 
 about to depart, the farmer's wife addressed them in the following 
 terms — the farmer himself, by the way, being but the shadow of his 
 worthy partner in life : 
 
 Wife. " Now, good people, you're takin'the world on your heads — " 
 
 Fartner. " Ay, good people, you're takin' the world on your 
 heads -" 
 
 IVife. "Hold your tongue, Brian, an' suck your dudeen. It's me 
 that's spakin' to them, so none of your palaver, if you plase, till I'm 
 done, an' then you may prache till Tib's Eve, an' that's neither before 
 Christmas nor afther it." 
 
 tarmer. " Sure I'm sayin' nothm', Evleen, barrin' houldin' my 
 tongue, « shuchar."'^ 
 
 Wife. " You're takin' the world on yees, an' God knows 'tis a heavy 
 load to carry, poor crathurs." 
 
 Faj-jner. " A heavy load, poor crathurs ! God he knows it's 
 that." 
 
 IVife. " Brian ! Glutitho ma ? — did you hear me } Youll be 
 puttin' in your gab, an' me spakin' ? How-an'-diver, as I was sayin', 
 <iur house was the first yees came to, an' they say there's a great 
 blessin' to thim that gives \h.^ first charity to a poor man or woman 
 settin' out to look for their bit." 
 
 Farmer. " Throgs, ay ! Whin they set out to look for their 
 bit." 
 
 Wife. " By the crass, Brj'an, you'd vex a saint. What have you 
 to sayin it, you pittioguei Hould your whisht now, an' suck your 
 dudeen, I say ; sure I allow you a quarther o' tobaccy a week, an' 
 what right have you to be puttin' in your gosther when other people's 
 spakin' ? " 
 
 Farmer. " Go an." 
 
 Wife. " So, you see, the long an' tne short of it is, that whenever 
 you happen to be in this side of the counthry, always come to us. 
 You know the ould sayin' — when the poor man comes he brings a 
 blessin', an' whin he goes he carries away a curse. You have as much 
 meal as will last yees a day or two ; an' God he sees you're heartily 
 welcome to all yees got ? " 
 
 Farmer. " God he sees you're heartily welcome " 
 
 Wife. " Chorp an diouol, Brian, hould your tongue, or I'll turn you 
 out o' the kitchen. One can't hear their own ears for you, you poor 
 squakin' dhrone. By the crass I'll — eh ? Will you whisht, now ?" 
 
 Farmer. " Go an, Amn't I dhrawin' my pipe ? " 
 
 Wife. " Well, dhraw zVy but don't dhraw me down upon you, barrin- 
 ■ Do you hear me? an' the sthrange people to the fore, too ! Well, 
 
 My sugar. 
 
32 TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 the Lord be wid yees, and bless yees ! But afore yees go, jist lare 
 your blessin' wid us ; for it's a good thing to have the blessin' of the 
 poor." 
 
 " The Lord bless you an' yours ! " said Owen, fervently. " May > o i 
 an' them never — oh, may you never — never suffer what we've suffered, 
 nor know what it is to want a male's mate or a night'* lodgin' ! " 
 
 " Amin ! " exclaimed Kathleen ; " may the world fiow upon you ! 
 for your good kind heart desarves it." 
 
 Farmer " An' whisper ; 1 wish you'd offer up a prayer for the 
 rulin' o' the tongue. The Lord might hear yoic, but there's no great 
 hopes that ever he'll hear me j though I've prayed for it a'most ever 
 since I was married, night an' day, winther an' summer ; but no use, 
 she's as bad as ever." 
 
 This was in a kind of friendly insinuating undertone to Owen, who, 
 on hearing it, simply nodded his head, but made no other reply. 
 
 They then recommenced their journey, after having once more 
 blessed, and been invited by, their charitable entertainers, who made 
 them promise never to pass their house without stopping a night with 
 them. 
 
 It is not our intention to trace Owen McCarthy and his wife through 
 all the variety which a wandering pauper's life affords. He never 
 could reconcile himself to the habits of a mendicant. His honest 
 pride and integrity of heart raised him above it ; neither did he sink 
 into the whine and cant of imposture, nor the slang of knavery. 
 No ; there was a touch o.f manly sorrow about him which neither 
 time, nor familiarity with his degraded mode of life, could take away 
 from him. His usual observation to his wife, and he never made it 
 without a pang of intense bitterness, was, " Kathleen, darlin', it's 
 thrue we have enough to ate an' to dhrink ; but we have no home / — 
 no home ! " To a man like him it was a thought of surpassing bitter- 
 ness, indeed. 
 
 " Ah ! Kathleen," he would observe, " if we had but the poorest 
 shed that could be built, provided it was oicr oivji, wouldn't we be 
 happy? The bread we ate, avourneen, doesn't do us good. We 
 don't work for it ; it's the bread of shame and idleness : and yet it's 
 Owen M'Carthy that ates it ! But, avourneen, that's past ; an' we'll 
 never see our own home, or our own hearth, agin. That's what's 
 cuttin' into my heart, Kathleen. Never ! — never ! " 
 
 Many a trial, too, of another kind was his patience called upon to sus- 
 tain ; particularly from the wealthy and the more elevated in life, when 
 his inexperience as a mendicant led him to solicit their assistance. 
 
 " Begone, sirrah, off my grounds ! " one would say. " Why don't 
 you work, you sturdy impostor," another would exclaim, " rather than 
 stroll about so lazily, training your brats to the gallows?" "You 
 should be taken up, fellow, as a vagrant," a third would observe , 
 "and if I ever catch you coming up my avenue ngam, depend upon 
 it, I will slip my dogs at you and your idle spawn." 
 
 Owen, on these occasions, turned away in silence ; he did not 
 curse them ; but the pangs of his honest heai^ went belore him who 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 3Z 
 
 will, sooner or later, visit upon the heads of such men their cruel 
 spurning and neglect of the poor. 
 
 " Kathleen," he observed to his wife one day, about a year or more 
 after they had begun to beg — " Kathleen, I have been tumin' it in 
 my mind that some of these childhre might sthrive to earn their bit 
 an' sup, an' their little coverin' of clo'es, poor things. We might put 
 them to herd cows in the summer, an' the girshas to somethin* else 
 in the farmers' houses. What do you think, asthore ? " 
 
 " For God's sake do, Owen ; sure my heart's crushed to see them — • 
 my own childhre, that I could lay down my life for — beggin' from 
 door to door. Och, do something for them that way, Owen, an' you'll 
 relieve the heart that loves them. It's a sore sight to a mother's eye, 
 Owen, to see her childhre beggin' their morsel." 
 
 " It is, darlin' — it is ; we'll hire out the three eldest — Brian, an' 
 Owen, an' Pether, to herd cows ; an' we may get Peggy into some 
 farmer's house to do loose jobs an' run of messages. Then we'd have 
 only little Kathleen an' poor Ned along wid us. I'll thry, anyway, 
 an' if I can get them places, who knows what may happen ? I have 
 a plan in my head that I'll tell you, thin." 
 
 " Arrah, what is it, Owen jewel ? Sure if I know it, maybe when 
 I'm sorrowful, that thinkin' of it, an' lookin' forrid to it will make me 
 happier. An' I'm sure, acushla, you would like that." 
 
 " But maybe, Kathleen, if it wouldn't come to pass, that the disap- 
 pointment ud be heavy on you ? " 
 
 " How could it, Owen .'' Sure we can't be worse nor we are, what- 
 ever happens ? " 
 
 " Thrue enough indeed, I forgot that ; an' yet we might, Kathleen. 
 Sure we'd be worse, if we or the childhre had bad health." 
 
 " God forgive me thin for what I said ! We might be worse. 
 Well, but what is the plan, Owen?" 
 
 " Why, when we get the childhre places, I'll sthrive to take a little 
 house, an' work as a cottar. Then, Kathleen, ' we ^d have a home of 
 our oivn.^ I'd work from light to light ; I'd work before hours an' 
 afther hours ; ay, nine days in the week, or we'd be comfortable in 
 our own little home. We might be poor, Kathleen, I know that, an' 
 hard pressed, too ; but then, as I said, we'd have our own home, an' 
 our own hearth ; our morsel, if it ud be homely, would be sweet, for 
 it would be the fruits of our own labour." 
 
 " Now, Owen, do you think you could manage to get that ?" 
 
 "Wait, acushla, till we get the childhre settled. Then I'll thry the 
 other plan, for it's good to thry anything that could take us out of this 
 disgraceful life." 
 
 This humble speculation was a source of great comfort to them. 
 Many a time have they forgotten their sorrows in contemplating the 
 simple picture of their happy little cottage. Kathleen, in particular, 
 drew with all the vivid colouring of a tender mother and an affec- 
 tionate wife the various sources of comfort and contentment to be 
 lound even in a cabin, whose inmates are blessed with a love of inde- 
 pendence, industry, and mutual affection. 
 
34 rUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 Owen, in pursuance of his intention, did not neglect, when the 
 proper season arrived, to place out his eldest children among the 
 farmers. The reader need not be told that there was that about him 
 which gained respect. He had, therefore, httle trouble in obtaining 
 his wishes on this point, and, to his great satisfaction, he saw three of 
 them hired out to earn their own support. 
 
 It was now a matter of some difficulty for him to take a cabin and 
 get employment. They had not a single artic e of furniture, and 
 neither bed nor bedding, with the e.xception of blankets almost worn 
 past use. He was resolved, however, to give up, at all risks, the life 
 of a mendicant. For this purpose he and his wife agreed to adopt a 
 plan quite usual in Ireland under circumstances somewhat diiTerent 
 from his : this was that Kathleen should continue to beg for their 
 support until the first half-year of their children's service should expire ; 
 and in the meantime that he, if possible, shoukl secure employment for 
 himself. By this means his earnings and those of his children might 
 remain untouched, so that in half a year he calculated upon being 
 able to furnish a cabin, and proceed, as a cottier, to work for and sup- 
 port his young children and his wife, who determined, on her part, not 
 to be idle any more than her husband. As the plan was a likely one, 
 and as Owen was bent on earning his bread rather than be a burthen 
 to others, it is unnecessary to say that it succeeded. In less than a 
 year he found himself once more in a home, and the force of what he 
 felt on sitting for the first time since his pauperism at his own hearth 
 may easily be conceived by the reader. For some years after this, 
 Owen got on slowly enough : his wages as a daily labourer being so 
 miserable that it required him to exert every nerve to keep the house 
 over their head. What, however, will not carefulness and a virtuous 
 determination, joined to indefatigable industry, do? 
 
 After some time, backed as he was by his wife, and even by his 
 youngest children, he found himself beginning to improve. In the 
 mornings and the evenings he cultivated his garden and his rood of 
 potato ground. He also collected with a wheelbarrow, which he bor- 
 rowed from an acquaintance, compost from the neighbouring road ; 
 scoured an old drain before his door ; dug rich earth, and tossed it 
 into the pool of rotten water beside the house, and, in fact, adopted 
 several other modes of collecting manure. By this means he had, each 
 spring, a large portion of rich stuff on which to plant his potatoes. 
 His landlord permitted him to spread this for planting upon his land ; 
 and Owen, ere long, instead of a rood, was able to plant half an acre, 
 and ultimately an acre of potatoes. The produce of this being more 
 than sufficient for the consumption of his family, he sold the surplus, and 
 with the money gained by the sale was enabled to sow half an acre of 
 oats, of which, when made into meal, he disposed of the greater share. 
 
 Industry is capital ; for even when unaided by capital it creates it ; 
 whereas idleness with capital produces only poverty and ruin. Owen, 
 after selling his meal and as much potatoes as he could spare, found 
 himself able to purchase a cow. Here was means of making morp 
 manure ; he had also straw enough for her provender during th- 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 35 
 
 winter. The cow, by affording milk to his family, enabled them to live 
 more cheaply ; her butter they sold, and this, in addition to his surplus 
 meal and potatoes every year, soon made him feel that he had a few 
 guineas to spare. He now bethought him of another mode of helping 
 himself forward in the world : after buying the best " slip " of a pig 
 he could find, a sty was built for her, and ere long he saw a fine litter 
 of young pigs within a snug shed. These he reared until they were 
 about two months old, when he sold them, and found that he had con- 
 siderably gained by the transaction. This department, however, was 
 under the management of Kathleen, whose life was one of incessant 
 activity and employment. Owen's children, during the period of his 
 struggles and improvements, were, by his advice, multiplying their 
 little capital as fast as himself. The two boys, who had now shot up 
 into the stature of young men, were at work as labouring servants in 
 the neighbourhood. The daughters were also engaged as servants with 
 the adjoining farmers. The boys bought each a pair of two year old 
 heifers, and the daughters one. These they sent to graze up in the 
 mountains at a trifling charge for the first year or two : when they 
 became springers, they put them to rich infield grass for a few months, 
 until they got a marketable appearance, after which their father 
 brought them to the neighbouring fairs, where they usually sold to 
 great advantage, in consequence of the small outlay required in 
 rearing them. 
 
 In fact, the principle of indcttry ran through the family. There was 
 rone of them idle, none of them a burthen or a check upon the profits 
 made by the labourer. On the contrary, " they laid their shoulders 
 together," as the phrase is, and proved to the world that when the 
 proper disposition is followed up by suitable energy and perseverance, 
 it must generally reward him who possesses it. 
 
 It is certainly true that Owen's situation in life tww was essentially 
 different from that which it had been during the latter years of his 
 struggles as a farmer. It was much more favourable, and far better 
 calculated to develop successful exertion. If there be a class of men 
 deserving public sympathy, it is that of the small farmers of Ireland. 
 Their circumstances are fraught with all that is calculated to depress 
 and ruin them : rents far above their ability, increasing poverty, and 
 bad markets. The land, which during the last war might have 
 enabled the renter to pay three pounds per acre, and yet still maintain 
 himself with tolerable comfort, could not now pay more than one 
 pound, or, at the most, one pound ten ; and yet such is the infatuation 
 of landlords, that, in most instance*, the terms of leases taken out 
 then are rigorously exacted. Neither can the remission of yearly 
 arrears be said to strike at the root of the evils under which they 
 suffer. The fact of the disproportionate rent hanging over them is a 
 disheartening circumstance that paralyses their exertion and sinks 
 their spirits. If a landlord remit the rent for one term, he deals more 
 harshly with the tenant at the next : whatever surplus, if any, his 
 former indulgence leaves in the tenant's hands, instead of being ex- 
 pended upon his property as capital, and being permitted to lay the 
 
36 TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 foundation of hope and prosperity, is drawn from him, at next term, 
 and the poor struggling tenant is thrown back into as much distress, 
 embarrassment, and despondency as ever. There are, I beUeve, few 
 tenants in Ireland of the class I allude to, who are not onp gale to 
 three in arrear. Now, how can it be expected that such men will 
 labour with spirit and earnestness to raise crops which they may never 
 reap? crops which the landlord m.'.y seize upon to secure as much of 
 his rent as he can. 
 
 We have known a case in which the arrears were not only remitted, 
 but the rent lowered to a reasonable standard, such as, considering 
 the markets, could be paid. And what was the consequence .'' The 
 tenant, who was looked upon as a negligent man, from whom scarceU 
 any rent could be got, took courage, worked his farm with a spirit 
 and success which he had not evinced before, and ere long was in a 
 capacity to pay his gales to the very day ; so that the judicious and 
 humane landlord was finally a gainer by his own excellent economy. 
 This was an experiment, and it succeeded beyond expectation. 
 
 Owen M'Carthy did not work with more zeal and ability as a 
 humble cottier than he did when a farmer ; but the tide was against 
 him as a landholder, and instead of having advanced, he actually lost 
 ground until he became a pauper. No doubt the peculiarly unfavour- 
 able run of two hard seasons, darkened by sickness and famine, were 
 formidable obstacles to him ; but he must eventually have failed, even 
 had they not occurred. They accelerated his downfall, but did not 
 cause it. 
 
 The Irish people, though poor, are exceedingly anxious to be inde- 
 pendent. Their highest amlaition is to hold alarm. So strong is this 
 principle in them, that they will, without a single penny of capital, or 
 any visible means to rely on, without consideration or forethought, 
 come forward and offer a rent which, if they reflected only for a 
 moment, they must feel to be unreasonably high. This, indeed, is a 
 great evil in Ireland. But what, in the meantime, must we think 
 of those imprudent landlords, and their more imprudent agents, 
 who let their land to such persons, without proper inquiry into their 
 means, knowledge of agriculture, and general character as moral and 
 industrious men. A farm of land is to be let ; it is advertised through 
 the parish ; application is to be made, before such a day, to so and 
 so. The day arrives, the agent or the land-steward looks over the 
 proposals, and after singling out the highest bidder, declares him 
 tenant, as a matter of course. Now perhaps this said tenant does 
 not possess a shilling in the world, nor a shilling's worth. Most 
 likely he is a new-married man, with nothing but his wife's bed and 
 bedding, his wedding suit, and his blackthorn cudgel, which we may 
 suppose him to keep in reserve for the bailiff However, he com- 
 mences his farm ; and then follow the shiftings, the scramblings, and 
 the fruitless struggles to succeed where success is impossible. His 
 farm is not half tilled ; his crops are miserable ; the gale day has 
 already passed, yet he can pay nothing until he takes it out of the 
 land. Perhaps he runs away — makes a moonlight flitting— and, by 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL 37 
 
 the aid of his friends, succeeds in bringing the crop with him. The 
 landlord or agent declares he is a knave, forgetting that the man had 
 no other alternative, and that they were the greater knaves, and fools 
 too, for encouraging him to undertake a task that was beyond his 
 strength. 
 
 In calamity we are anxious to derive support from the sympathy of 
 our friends ; in our success we are eager to communicate to them the 
 power of participating in our happiness. When Owen once more 
 found himself independent and safe, he longed to realise two plans on 
 which he had some time before been seriously thinking. The first was 
 to visit his former neighbours, that they might at length know that 
 Owen M'Carthy's station in the world was such as became his character. 
 The second was, if possible, to take a farm in his native parish, that 
 he might close his days among the companions of his youth and the 
 friends of his maturer years. He had also another motive : there lay 
 the burying-place of the M,Carthys, in which slept the mouldering 
 d>ust of his own " golden-haired " Alley. With them— in his daughter's 
 grave — he intended to sleep his long sleep. Affection for the dead is 
 the memory of the heart. In no other graveyard could he reconcile it 
 to himself to be buried ; to it had all his forefathers been gathered ; 
 and though calamity had separated him from the scenes where they 
 had passed through existence, yet he was resolved that death should 
 not deprive him of its last melancholy consolation— that of reposing 
 with all that remained of the " departed," who had loved him, and 
 whom he had loved He believed that to neglect this would be to 
 abandon a sacred duty, and felt sorrow at the thought of being like 
 an absent guest from ftie assembly of his own dead ; for there is a 
 principle of undying hope in the heart that carries, with bold and 
 beautiful imagery, the realities of life into the silent recesses of death 
 itself. 
 
 Having formed the resolution of visiting his old friends at Tubbei 
 Derg, he communicated it to Kathleen and his family ; his wife 
 received the intelligence with undisguised delight. 
 
 " Owen," she replied, " indeed, I'm glad you mintioned it. Many a 
 time the thoughts of our place, an' the people about it, comes over me. 
 I know, Owen, it'll go to your heart to see it ; but still, avourneen, 
 you'd like, too, to see the ould faces an' the warm hearts of them that 
 pitied us an' helped us, as well as they could, when we war broken 
 down." 
 
 " I would, Kathleen ; but I'm not goin' merely to see thim an' the 
 place. I intind, if I can, to take a b-t of land somewhere near Tubber 
 Derg. I'm unasy in my mind, for fraid I'd not sleep in the grave- 
 yard where all belongin' to me lie." 
 
 A chord of the mother's heart was touched, and in a moment the 
 memory of their beloved child brought the tears to her eyes. 
 
 "Owen, avourneen, I have one requist to ax of you, and I'm sure 
 you von't refuse it to me : if I die afore you, let me buried wid Alley. 
 Whu has a right to sleep so rear her as her own mother.'"' 
 
 " The child's in my heart still," said Owen, suppressing his emotion ; 
 
3S TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 " thinkin' of the unfortunate mornin' I wint to Dublin brings her back 
 to me. I see her standin', wid her fair, pale face — pale — oh, my God ! 
 — wid hunger an' sickness — her little thin clo'es an' her golden hair 
 tossed about by the dark blast — the tears in her eyes, an' the smile 
 that she once had on her face — houldin' up her mouth, an' sayin', 
 ' Kiss ifie agin, father,' as if she knew, somehow, that I'd never 
 see her, nor her me, any more. An' whin I looked back, as I was 
 turnin' the corner, there she stood, strainin' her eyes afther her 
 father, that she was then takin' the last sight of until the judgment 
 day ! " 
 
 His voice here became broken, and he sat in silence for a lew 
 minutes. 
 
 ** It's sthrange," he added, with more firmness, " how she's so often 
 in my mind ! " 
 
 " But, Owen dear," replied Kathleen, " sure it was the will of God 
 that she should lave us. She's now a bright angel in heaven, an' I 
 dunna if it's right — indeed, I doubt it's sinful for us to think so much 
 about her. Who knows but her innocent spirit is makin' inthercession 
 for us all, before the blessed Mother o' God ! Who knows but it was 
 her that got us the good fortune that flowed in upon us, an' that made 
 our strugglin' an' our labourin' turn out so lucky ^ 
 
 The idea of being lucky or unlucky is, in Ireland, an enemy to 
 industry. It is certainly better that the people should believe success 
 in life to be, as it is, the result of virtuous exertion, than of contin- 
 gent circumstances over which they thems dves have no control. 
 Still, there was something beautiful in the su )erstition of Kathleen's 
 affections ; something that touched the heart and its dearest associa- 
 tions. 
 
 " It's very true, Kathleen," replied her husband ; " but God is ever 
 ready to help them that keeps an honest heart, an' do everything 
 •n their power to live creditably. They may fail for a time, or he 
 may thry them for a while, but sooner or later good intintions and 
 honest labour will be rewarded. Look at ourselves — blessed be his 
 name ! " 
 
 " But whin do you mane to go to Tubber Derg, Owen ? " 
 
 " In the beginnin' of the next week. An' Kathleen, ahagur, if you 
 remimber the bitther mornin' we came upon the world — but we'll not 
 be spakin' of that now. I don't like to think of it. Some other time, 
 maybe, when we're settled among our ould friends, I'll mintioh it." 
 
 " Well, the Lord bliss your endayvours, anyhow ! Och, Owen, do 
 thr}' an' get us a snug farm somewhere near them. But you didn't 
 answer me about Alley, Owen .?" 
 
 " W' hy, you must have your wish, Kathleen, although I intended to 
 keep that place for myself. Still, we can sleep one on aich side of her ; 
 an' that may be asily done, for our buryin' ground is large : so set your 
 mind at rest on that head. I hope God won't call us till we see our 
 chiifilire settled dacently in the world. But sure, at all evints, let his 
 blessed will be done ! " 
 
 " Amin ! amin \ It's not right of anyone to keep their hearts hxcd 
 
TUBBER DERG ; OR. THE RED WELL. 39 
 
 too much upon the world ; nor even, they say, upon one's own 
 childhre." 
 
 " People may love their childhre as much as they plase, Kathleen, il 
 they don't let their grah for them spoil the crathurs, by givin' them 
 their own will, till they become headstrong an' overbearin'. Now let 
 my linen be as white as a bone before Monday, plase goodness , 1 
 hope, by that time, that Jack Dogherty will have my new clo'es made ; 
 for I intind to go as dacent as ever they seen me in my best days." 
 
 " An' so you will, too, avillish. Throth, Owen, it's you that'll be the 
 proud man, steppin' in to them in all your grandeur! Ha, ha, ha! 
 The spirit o'the M'Carthys is in you still, Owen." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! It is, darlin' ; it is, indeed ; an' I'd be sarry it wasn't. 
 I long to see poor Widow Murray. I dunna is her son. Jemmy, 
 married. Who knows, afther all we suffered, but I might be able to 
 help her yet ? — that is, if she stands in need of it. But I suppose her 
 childhre's grown up now, an' able to assist her. Now, Kathleen, mind 
 Monday next ; an' have everything ready. I'll stay away a week or so, 
 at the most, an' afther that I'll have news for you about all o' them." 
 
 When Monday morning arrived, Owen found feimself ready to set 
 out for Tubber Derg. The tailor had not disappointed him ; and 
 Kathleen, to do her justice, took care that the proofs of her good house- 
 wifery should be apparent in the whiteness of his hnen. After break- 
 fast, he dressed himself in all his finery ; and it would be difficult to 
 say whether the harmless vanity that peeped out occasionally from 
 his simplicity of character, or the open and undisguised triumph of his 
 faithful wife, whose eye rested on him with pride and affection, was 
 most calculated to produce a smile. 
 
 " Now, Kathleen," said he, when preparing for his immediate 
 departure, " I'm thinkin' of what they'll say, when they see me so 
 smooth an' warm lookin'. I'll engage they'll be axin one anolher, 
 * Musha, how did Owen M'Carthy get an at all, to be so well to do in 
 the world as he appears to be, afther failin' on his ould farm ? ' " 
 " Well, but Owen, you know how to manage them." 
 "Throth, I do that. But there's one thing they'll never get out o'me, 
 anyway." 
 
 '• You won't tell that to any o' them, Owen ?" 
 
 " Kathleen, if I thought they only suspected it, I'd never show my 
 face in Tubber Derg agin. I think I could bear to be— an' yet it ud 
 be a hard struggle wid me too — but I tJvnk I could bear to be buried 
 among black strangers, rather than it should be said, over my grave, 
 among my own, 'There's where Owen M'Carthy lies — who was the 
 only man of his name that ever begged his morsel on the king's 
 highway. There he lies, the descendant of the great M'Carthy Mores, 
 an' yet he was a beggar.' I know, Kathleen achora, it's neither a sin 
 nor a shame to ax one's bit from our fellow-creatures, whin fairly 
 brought 10 it, widout any fault of our own ; but still I feel something 
 in me that can't bear to think of it widout shame an' heaviness of 
 heart." 
 
 " Well, it's one comfort that nobody knows it but ourselves. The 
 
40 TUBBER DERG: OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 poor childhre, for their own sakes, won't ever breathe it ; so that it's 
 likely the sacret 'ill be berrid wid us." 
 
 " I hope so, acushla. Does this coat sit asy atween the shouldhers ? 
 I feel it catch me a little." 
 
 " The sorra nicer. There ; it was only your waistcoat that was 
 turned down in the collar. Here — hould your arm. There now — it 
 wanted to be pulled down a little at the cuffs. Owen, it'.r a beauty ; 
 an' I think I have good right to be proud out of it, for it's every thread 
 my own spinnin'." 
 
 " How do I look in it, Kathleen .-' Tell me thruth, now." 
 
 " Throth, you're twenty years younger ; the never a day less." 
 
 " I think I needn't be ashamed to go afore my oukl friends in it, any- 
 way. Now bring me my staff from undher the bed above, an', in the 
 name o' God, I'll set out." 
 
 " Which o' them, Owen ? Is it the oak or the blackthorn ? 
 
 " The oak, acushla. Oh, no ; not the blackthorn. It's it that I 
 brought to Dublin wid me, the unlucky thief, an' that I had while we 
 wor a sliaitglwan. Divil a one o' me but ud blush in the face, if I 
 brought it even in my hand afore them. The oak, ahagur ; the oak. 
 "S'ou'll get it atween the foot o' the bed an' the wall." 
 
 When Kathleen placed the staff in his hand, he took off his hat and 
 blessed himself, then put it on, looked at his wife, and said : " Now, 
 darlin', in the name o' God, I'll go. Husht, avillish machree, don't be 
 cryin' ; sure I'll be back to you in a week." 
 
 " Och ! I can't help it, Owen. Sure this is the second time you 
 war ever away from me more nor a day ; an' I'm thinkin' of what hap- 
 pened, both to you an' me, theyfr^/ time you wint. Owen, acushla, I 
 feel that if anything happened you, I'd break my heart." 
 
 " Arrah, what ud happen me, darlin', wid God to protect me "i Now, 
 God be wid you, Kathleen dheelish, till I come back to you wid good 
 news, I hope. I'm not goin' in sickness an' misery, as I wint afore, to 
 see a man that wouldn't hear my appale to him ; an' I'm lavin' you 
 comfortable, agrah, an' wantin' for nothin'. Sure it's only about five- 
 an'-tvventy miles from this — a mere step. The good God bless an' take 
 care of you, my darlin' wife, till I come home to you ! " 
 
 He kissed the tears that streamed from her eyes ; and, hemming 
 several times, pressed her hand, his face rather averted, then grasped 
 his staff, and commenced his journey. 
 
 Scenes like this were important events to our humble couple. Life, 
 when untainted by the crimes and artificial manners which destroy its 
 purity, is a beautiful thing to contemplate among the virtuous -^'-lor ; 
 and where the current of affection runs deep and smooth, the slightest 
 incident will agitate it. So was it with Owen M'Carthy and his wife. 
 Simplicity, truth, and affection constituted their character. In them 
 there was no complication of incongruous elements. The order of 
 their virtues was not broken, nor the purity of their affections violated, 
 by the anomalous blending together of opposing principles, such as are 
 to be found in those who are involuntarily contaminated by the cor- 
 ^"iiption of human society. 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 41 
 
 Owen had not gone far, when Kathleen called to him : " Owen, 
 ahagur — stand, darlin' ; but don't come back a step, for fraid o' bad 
 luck."i 
 
 "Did I forget anything, Kathleen?" he inquired. "Let me see; 
 no ; sure I have my beads an' my tobaccy box, an' my two clane shirts 
 an' hankerchers in the bundle. What is it, acushla .'"' 
 
 " I needn't be axin' you, for I know you wouldn't forget it ; but for 
 fraid you might — Owen, whin you're at Tubber Derg, go to little 
 Alley's grave, an' look at it ; an' bring me back word how it appears. 
 You might get it cleaned up, if there's weeds or anything growin' upon 
 it ; and, Owen, would you bring me a bit o' the clay, tied up in your 
 pocket. Whin you're there, spake to her ; tell her it was the lovin' 
 mother that bid you, an' say anything that you'd think might keep her 
 asy, an' give her pleasure. Tell her we're not now as we wor whin 
 she was wid us ; that we don't feel hunger, nor cowld, nor want ; an' 
 that nothin' is a throuble to us, barrin' that we miss /;<?;' — ay, even yet 
 — -A. siiillish viaclu-ee^ that she was — that we miss her fair face an' 
 goolden head from among us. Tell her this ; an' tell her it was the 
 lovin' mother that said it, an' that sint the message to her." 
 
 " I'll do it all, Kathleen ; I'll do it all — all. An' now go in, darlin', 
 an' don't be frettin'. Maybe we'll soon be near her, plase God, where 
 we can see the place she sleeps in often." 
 
 They then separated again ; and Owen, considerably affected by 
 the maternal tenderness of his wife, proceeded on his journey. He 
 had not, actually, even at the period of his leaving home, been able 
 to determine on what particular friend he should first call. That 
 his welcome would be hospitable, nay, enthusiastically so, he was 
 certain. In the meantime, he vigorously pursued his journey ; and 
 partook neither of refreshment nor rest until he arrived, a little after 
 dusk, at a turn of the well-known road, which, had it been daylight, 
 would have opened to him a view of Tubber Derg. He looked to- 
 wards the beeches, however, under which it stood ; but to gain a 
 sight of it was impossible. His road now lying a little to the right, 
 he turned to the house of his sterling friend, Frank Farrell, who had 
 given him and his family shelter and support, when he was driven, 
 without remorse, from his own holding. In a short time he reached 
 Frank's residence, and felt a glow of sincere satisfaction at finding the 
 same air of comfort and warmth about it as formerly. Through the 
 kitchen window he saw the strong light of the blazing fire, and heard, 
 ere he presented himself, the loud hearty laugh of his friend's wife, 
 precisely as light and animated as it had been fifteen years before. 
 
 Owen lifted the latch and entered, with that fluttering of the pulse 
 which every man feels on meeting with a friend after an interval of 
 many years. 
 
 " Musha, good people, can yees tell me is Frank Farrell at home?" 
 
 ' When an Irish peasant sets out on a journey, or to transact business in a fair 
 or market, he will not, if possible, turn back. It is considered unlucky : as it ;j 
 also to be crossed by a hare, or met by a red-haired woman. 
 
 ^ Lieht of w.y heart. 
 
4' rUDBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 " Why, thin, he's not jist widin now, but he'll be here in no time 
 entirely," replied one of his daughters. " Win't yoi2 sit down, honest 
 man, an' we'll sind for him ? " 
 
 " I'm thankful to you," said Owen. " I'll sit, sure enough, t'ii he 
 comes in." 
 
 " Why, thin !— eh ! it must — it can be no other !" exclaimed Far- 
 rell's wife, bringing over a candle and looking Owen earnestly in the 
 face; "sure, I'd know that voice all the world over! Why, thin, 
 marciful Father — Owen M'Carthy, — Owen M'Carthy, is it your four 
 quarthers that's livin' an' well .'' Queen o' Heaven, Owen M'Carthy, 
 darlin', you're welcome !" the word was here interrupted by a hcartv 
 kiss from the kind housewife — "welcome a thousand an' a thousand 
 times ! Vick na hoiah! Owen, dear, an' are you livin' at all ? An' 
 Kathleen, Ovv'en, an' the childhre, an' all of yees — an' how are they ?" 
 
 "Throth we're livin' an' well, Bridget; never was betther, thanks 
 be to God an- -ou, in our lives." 
 
 Owen was now surrounded by such of Farrell's children as were 
 old enough to remember him, every one of whom he shook hands 
 with, and kissed. 
 
 " Why, thin, the Lord sa.'^ my sowl, Bridget," said he, "' are these 
 the little bouchaleens an' cohcens that were runnin' about my feet 
 whin I was here afore ? Well to be sure ! how they do shoot up ! An' 
 is this Atty ?" 
 
 " No ; but this is Atty, Owen ; faix, Brian outgrew him ; an' here's 
 Mary, an' this is Bridget Oge." 
 
 " Well ! — well ! But where did these two young shoots come from, 
 this boy an' the colleen here? They worn't to the fore, in my tinn. 
 Bridget." 
 
 " This is Owen, called afther yourself, — an' this is Kathleen, i 
 needn't tell you who she was called afther." 
 
 ■' dtis/io, alanna ? tJiurin pugne? — come here, child, and kiss me," 
 said Owen, to his, little namesake ; " an' sure I can't forget the little 
 woman here ; gutsho, a colleen, and kiss me too." 
 
 Owen took her on his knee, and kissed her twice. 
 
 " Och, but poor Kathleen," said he, " will be the proud woman of 
 this, when she hears it ; in throth she will be that." 
 
 "Arrah ! what's comin' over me !" said Mrs. P'arrcU. " Brian, run 
 up to Micky Lowrie's for your father. An' see, Brian, don't say who's 
 wantin' him, till we give him a start. Mary, come here, acush'la," she 
 added to her eldest daughter in a whisper — "take these two bottles, 
 an' fly up to Peggy Finigan's for the full o' them o' whisky. Xow be 
 back before you're there, or if you don't, that I mightn't, but you'll 
 3ee what you'll get. Fly, aroon, an' don't let the grass grow undher 
 your feet. An' Owen, darlin' — but hist sit over to the fire— here, gel 
 over to this side, it's the snuggest ; arrah, Owen — an' sure I dunna 
 what to ax you first. You're all well ? all to the fore ? " 
 
 " All well, Bridget, an' thanks be to heaven, all to the fore." 
 
 " Glory be to God ! Throth, it warms iny heart to hear it. An' the 
 cbildhre's all up f nely, boys an' girls ?" 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED IV ELL. 
 
 " Throth, they are, Bridget, as good-lookin' a family o' childhre as 
 you'd wish to see. An' what is betther, they're as good as they're 
 good-lool<in'." 
 
 " Throth, they couldn't but be that, if they tuck at all afther their 
 father an' mother. Bridget, aroi/r,, rub the pan betther — an' lay the 
 knife down, I'll cut the bacon myself, but go an' get a dozen o' the 
 freshest eggs; an' Kathleen, Owen, how does poor Kathleen look.? 
 Does she stand it as well as yourself.'"' 
 
 " As young as ever you seen her. God help her 1 a thousand degrees 
 betther now nor whin you seen her last." 
 
 " An' well to do, Owen ? — now tell the truth ? Och, musha, I forget 
 who I'm spakin' to, or I wouldn't disremimber the ould sayin' that's 
 abroad this many a year : — who ever knew a M'Carthy of Tubber 
 Derg to tell a lie, break his word, or refuse to help a friend in distress. 
 But, Owen, you're well to do in the world ? " 
 
 " We're as well, Bridget, or may be betther, nor you ever knew us, 
 except, indeed, afore the ould lase was run out wid us." 
 
 " God be praised agin ! Musha, turn round a little, Owen, for 'fraid 
 Frank ud get too clear a sight of your face at first. Arrah, do you 
 think he'll know you ? Och, to be sure he will ; I needn't ax. Your 
 voice would tell upon you, any day." 
 
 " Know me ! Indeed, Frank ud know my shadow. He'll know me 
 wid half a look." 
 
 And Owen was right, for quickly did the eye of his old friend 
 recognise him, despite of the little plot that was laid to try his pene- 
 tration. To describe their interview would be to repeat the scene we 
 have already attempted to depict between Owen and Mrs. Farrell. 
 No sooner were the rites of hospitality performed than the tide of 
 conversation began to flow with greater freedom. Owen ascertained 
 one important fact, which we will here mention, because it produces 
 in a great degree the want of anything like an independent class of 
 yeomanry in the country. On inquiring after his old acquaintances, 
 he discovered that a great number of them, owing to high rents, had 
 emigrated to America. They belonged to that cla»b o." independent 
 farmers who, after the expiration of their old leases, finding the little 
 capital which they had saved beginning to dimmish in consequence 
 of rents which they could not pay, deemed it more prudent, while any- 
 thing remained in their hands, to seek a country where capital and 
 industry might be made available. Thus did the landlords, by their 
 mismanagement and neglect, absolutely drive off their estates the only 
 men who, if properly encouraged, were capable of becoming the 
 i-trength and pride of thi* country. It is this system, joined to the 
 curse of middlemen and sub-letting^ which has left the country with- 
 out any third grade of decent, subscantial yeomen, who might stand 
 as a bond of peace between the highest and the lowest classes. It is 
 this which has split the kingdom into two divisions, constituting the 
 extreme ends of society — the wealthy and the wretched. If this 
 tiiird class existed, Ireland would neither be so political nor dis- 
 contented as she is ; but, on the contrary, more remarkable for peace 
 
44 TUBBER DERG ; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 and industry. At present, '^'^e lower classes, being too poor, are 
 easily excited by those who pif-unise them a better order of things than 
 that which exists These theorists step into the exercise of that legiti- 
 mate influence which the landed proprietors have lost by their neglect 
 There is no middle class in the country, who can turn round to "them 
 and say, " Our circumstances are easy, we want nothing ; carry your 
 promises to the poor, for that which you hold forth to their hopes, we 
 enjoy in reality." The poor soldier, who, because he was wretched, 
 volunteered to go on the forlorn hope, made a fortune ; but when 
 asked if he would go on a second enterprise of a similar kind, shrewdly 
 replied : " Gencrul, I am nozu an independent man ; send some poor 
 devil on your forlorn hope who wants to make a fortune." 
 
 Owen now heard anecdotes and narratives of all occurrences, 
 whether interesting or strange, that had taken place during his 
 absence. Among others, was the death of his former landlord, and 
 the removal of the agent who had driven him to beggary. Tubber 
 Derg, he found, was then the property of a humane and considerate 
 man, who employed a judicious and benevolent gentleman to manage 
 It. 
 
 " One thing I can tell you," said P'rank ; " it was but a short time 
 in the new agent's hands when the dacent farmers stopped goin' to 
 America." 
 
 " But, Frank," said Owen, and he sighed on putting the question, 
 "who is in Tubber Derg now.?" 
 
 " Why, thin, a son of ould Rousin' Red-head's, of Tullyvernon — 
 young Con Roe, or the Ace o' Hearts — for he was called both by the 
 youngsters — if you remimber him. His head's as red, an' double as 
 big, even, as his father's was, an' you know that no hat would fit ould 
 Con, until he sent his measure to Jemmy Lamb, the hatter. Dick 
 Nugent put it out on him that Jemmy always made Rousin' Red- 
 head's hat either upon the half-bushel pot or a five gallon keg of 
 whisky. * Talkin' of the keg,' says Dick, ' for the matther o' that,' says 
 he, ' divil a much differ the hat will persave ; for the one ' — meaning 
 ould Con's head, who was a hard drinker — ' the one,' says Dick, ' is as 
 much a keg as the other — ha ! ha ! ha ! ' Dick met Rousin' Red- 
 head another day. ' Arrah, Con,' says he, ' fthy do you get your hats 
 made upon a pot, man alive ? Sure that's the rason that you're so 
 fond o' po/een.' A quare mad crathur was Dick, an' would go forty 
 miles for a fight. Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in a skrimmage 
 betwixt the Redmonds and the O'Hanlons ; an' his last words were, 
 ' Bad luck to you, Redmond — O'Hanlon, I never thought _)v;/, above 
 all men, dead an' gone, would be the death o' me.' Poor fellow ! he 
 was for pacifyin' them, for a wondher ; but instead o' that, he got paci- 
 fied himself." 
 
 *' An' how is young Con doin', Frank ?" 
 
 " Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither well or ill, yit. There 
 was four tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an' he's the fifth. 
 It's hard to say how he'll do ; but I b<tlieve he's the best o' thim, lor 
 so far. That may be owin' to the lan'^lord. The rent's let down to 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 45 
 
 him ; an' I think he'll be able to take bread, an' good bread too, out 
 of it." 
 
 " God send, poor man ! " 
 
 " Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it ? " 
 
 " I can't say that. I love the place, but I sneered too 7micli in it. 
 No ; but I'll tell you, Frank, if there was e'er a snug farm near it that 
 I could get rasonable, I'd take it." 
 
 Frank slapped his knee exultingly. *' Ma chuirp ? — do you say so, 
 Owen ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do." 
 
 " Thin, upon my song, that's the luckiest thing I ever knew. 
 There's this blessed minute a farm o' sixteen acres that the Lacys is 
 lavin' — goin' to America — an' it's to be set. They'll go the week afther 
 next, an' the house needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the very 
 day afther they lave it." 
 
 " Well," said Owen, " I'm glad of that. Will you come wid me to- 
 morrow, an' we'll see about it.'"' 
 
 " To be sure I will ; an' what's betther, too, the agint is a son of 
 ould Misther Rogerson's, a man that knows you an' the history o' 
 them you came from well. An' another thing, Owen ! I tell you, 
 whin it's abroad that yoti want to take the farm, there's not a man in 
 the parish would bid agin you. You may know that yourself." 
 
 " I think, indeed, they would rather serve me than otherwise," 
 replied Owen ; "an' in the name o' God, we'll see what can be done. 
 Misther Rogerson himself ud spake to his son for me, so that I'll be 
 sure of his intherest. Arrah, Frank, how is an ould friend o' mine, 
 that I have a great regard for — poor Widow Murray?" 
 
 " Widow Murray ! Poor woman, she's happy." 
 
 " You don't mane she's dead V 
 
 " She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in the Saviour. She died 
 last spring was a two years." 
 
 " God be good to her sowl ! An' are the childhre in her place still .'' 
 It's she that was the dacent woman." 
 
 " Throth, they are ; an' sorrow a betther doin' family in the parish 
 than they are. It's they that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a 
 time I seen their poor mother, heavens be her bed, lettin' down the 
 tears whin she used to be spakin' of you, or mintionin' how often you 
 sarved her ; cspishially about some day or other that you previnted 
 ^ -jr cows from bein' canted for the rint. She's dead now, an' God he 
 knows an honest, hard-workin' woman she ever was." 
 
 " Dear me, Frank, isn't it a wondhtr to think how the people dhrop 
 off! There's Widow Murray, one o' my ouldest frinds, an' Pether 
 M'Mahon, an' Barny Lorinan — no« to forget pleasant Rousin' Red- 
 head — all taken away ! Well !— « ill ! Sure it's the will o' God ! 
 We can't be here always." 
 
 After much conversation, enlivened by the bottle, though but 
 sparingly used on the part of Owen, the hour of rest arrived, when 
 the family separated for the night. 
 
 The grey dawn of a calm, beautiful summer's morning found Owtn 
 
46 TUB BE R DERG ; OR, Tf/E RED WELL. 
 
 up and abroad long before ilit family of honest Frank had risen. 
 \Vhen dressing himself, with an intention of taking; an early walk, he 
 was asked by his friend why he stirred so soon, or if he — his host — 
 should accompany him. 
 
 "No," replied Owen ; "lie still ; jist let me look over the country 
 while it's asleep. Whin I'm musin' this a-way I don"t like anybody to 
 be along wid me. I have a place to go an' see, too — an' a message — 
 a tendher message, from poor Kathleen, to deliver, that I wouldn't 
 wish a second person to hear. Sleep Frank. Fll jist crush the head 
 o' my pipe agin one o' the half-burned turf that the fire was rak<"d wid, 
 an' walk out for an hour or two. Afther our breakfast we'll go an' 
 look about this new farm." 
 
 He sallied out as he ^poke, and closed the door after him in that 
 quiet, thoughtful way for which he was ever remarkable. The season 
 was midsummer, and the morning wanted at least an hour of sunrise. 
 Owen ascended a little knoll above Frank's house, on which he stood 
 and surveyed the surrounding country with a pleasing but melancholy 
 interest. As his eye rested on Tubber Derg, he felt the difference 
 strongly between the imperishable glories of nature's works and 
 those which are executed by man. His house he would not have 
 known, except by its site. It was not, in fact, the same house, 
 but another which had been built in its stead. This disappointed and 
 vexcJ him. An object on which his affections had been placed was 
 removed. A rude stone house stood before him, rough and un- 
 plastered, against each end of which was built a stable and cow- 
 house, sloping down from the gables to low doors at both sides ; 
 adjoining these rose two mounds of filth, large enough to be easily 
 distinguished from the knoll on which he stood. He sighed as he 
 contrasted it with the neat and beautiful farm-house which shone 
 there in his happy days, white as a lily, beneath the covering of the 
 lofty beeches. There was no air of comfort, neatness, or independ- 
 ence about it ; on the contrary, everything betrayed the evidence of 
 struggle and difficulty, joined, probably, to want both of skill and of 
 capital. He was disappointed, and turned his gaze upon the general 
 aspect of the country, and the houses in which either his old acquaint- 
 ances or their children lived. The features of the landscape were 
 certainly the same ; but even here was a change for the worse. The 
 warmth of colouring which wealth and independence give to the 
 appearance of a cultivated country was gone. Decay and coldness 
 seemed to brood upon everything he saw. The houses, the farmyards, 
 the ditches, and enclosures were all marked by the blasting proofs of 
 national decline. Some exceptions there were to this disheartening 
 prospect ; but they were only sufficient to render the torn and ragged 
 evidences of poverty and its attendant — carelessness — more con- 
 spicuous. He left the knoll, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and 
 putting it into his waistcoat pocket, ascended a larger hill, which led 
 to the graveyard where his child lay buried. On his way to this hill, 
 which stood about half a mile distant, he passed a few houses of 
 a humble description, with whose inhabitants he had been well ac- 
 
TUBDER DERG: OR. THE RED WELL. 47 
 
 quainted. Some of these stood nearly as he remembered them ; but 
 others were roofless, with their dark mud gables either fallen >n 
 or partially broken down. He surveyed their smoke-coloured wa./s 
 with sorrow ; and looked, with a sense of the transient character of 
 all man's works, upon the chickweed, docks, and nettles which had 
 shot up so rankly on the spot where many a chequered scene of joy 
 and sorrow had riitted over the circumscribed circle of humble life, ere 
 the annihilating wing of ruin swept away them and their habitations. 
 
 When he had ascended the hill his eye took a wider range. The 
 more distant and picturesque part of the country lay before him. 
 " Ay ! " said he, in a soliloquy, " Lopd bless us, how sthrange is this 
 world ! — an' what poor crathurs are men ! There's the dark moun- 
 tains, the hills, the rivers, an' the green glens, all the same ; an 
 nothin' else a'most but's changed ! The very song of that blackbird, 
 in thim thorn-bushes an' hazels below me, is like the voice of an ould 
 friend to my ears. Och, indeed, hardly that, for even the voice of 
 man changes ; but that song is the same as 1 heard it for the best 
 part o' my life. That mornin' star, too, is the same bright crathur up 
 there that it ever was ! God help us ! Hardly anything changes b'lt 
 man, an' he seems to think that he can never change, if one is to judge 
 by his thoughtlessness, folly, an' wickedness ! " 
 
 A smaller hill, around the base of which went the same imperfect 
 road that crossed the glen of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing 
 the graveyard to which he was about to extend his walk. To thii 
 road he directed his steps. On reaching it he looked, still with 
 a strong memory of former times, to the glen in which his children, 
 himself, and his ancestors had all, during their day, played m the 
 happy thoughtlessness of childhood and youth. But the dark and 
 ragged house jarred upon his feelings. He turned from it with pain, 
 and his eyes rested upon the still green valley with evident relief. He 
 thought of his '' buried flower" — ''his goolden-haired darlin'," as he 
 used to call her — and almost fancied that he saw her once more 
 wandering waywardly through its tangled mazes, gathering berries, oi 
 strolling along the green meadow with a garland of gowans about her 
 neck. Imagination, indeed, cannot heighten the image of the dead 
 whom we love ; but even if it could, there was no standard of ide il 
 beauty in her fathers mind beyond that of her own. She had been 
 beautiful, but her beauty was pensive ; a fair yet melancholy child ; 
 for the charm that ever encompassed her was one of sorrow and 
 tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful, as children usually 
 are, he would not have carried so far into his future life the love of 
 her which he cherished. Another reason why he still loved her 
 strongly was a consciousness that her death Lad been occasioned by 
 distress and misery ; for, as he said, when looking upon the scenes of 
 her brief but melancholy existence — " Avourneen machree, I remimber 
 to see you pickin' the berries ; but asthore — asthore — it wasn't lor 
 play you did it ; it was to keep away the cuttin' of hunge/ from your 
 heart ! Of all our childhre everyone said that you wor the M'Catthv 
 — never sayin' much, but the heart in you ever full of goodness au 
 
48 TUBBER DEKG ; OR, THE RED WELT, 
 
 aff'^ction. God hel,-» me, I'm glad — an', now that I'm comin' neai It, 
 loth — to see her gravt. " 
 
 He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin 
 stood there as usual, but not altoi^ether without the symptoms of 
 change. Some persons had, for the purposes of building, thrown 
 down one of its most picturesque walls. Still its ruins clothed with 
 ivy, its muUions moss-covered, its gothic arches and tracery grey 
 with age, were the same in appearance as he had ever seen them. 
 
 On entering this silent palace of death he reverently uncovered 
 his head, blessed himself, and, with feelings deeply agitated, sought 
 the grave of his beloved child. He approached it ; but a sudden 
 transition from sorrow to indignation took place in his mind, even 
 before he reached the spot on which she lay. " Sacred Mother ! " he 
 exclaimed, " who has dared to bury in our ground .'' Who has — 
 what villain has attimpted to come in upon the M'Carthys — upon the 
 McCarthy Mores, of Tubber Derg? Who could — had I no friend to 
 
 prev eh ? Sacred Mother, what's this 1 Father of Heaven forgive 
 
 me ? Forgive me, sweet Saviour, for this bad feclin' I got into ! 
 Who — who — could raise a head-stone over the darlin' o' my heart 
 widout one of us knowin' it ? Who — who could do it .'' But let me 
 see if I can make it out. Oh, who could do this blessed thing for 
 the poor an' the sorrowful?" He began, and with difficulty read as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Here lies the body of Alice M'Carthy, the beloved daughter of Owen and 
 Kathleen M'Carthy, aged nine years. She was descended from the M'Carthy 
 Mores. 
 
 " Requiescat in pace. 
 
 "This head-stone was raised over her by widow Murray, a.nd her son, James 
 Murray, out of grateful respect for Owen and Kathleen M'Carthy, who nevei 
 suffered the widow and orphan, or a distressed neighbour, to crave assistance from 
 the-Ti in vain, until it pleased God to visit them with affliction." 
 
 " Thanks to you, my Saviour ! " said Owen, dropping on his knees 
 over the grave. " Thanks an' praise be to your holy name, that in 
 the middle of my poverty — of all my poverty — I was not forgotten ! 
 ror my darlin' child let to lie widout honour in the grave of her 
 family ! Make me worthy, blessed Heaven, of what is written down 
 upon me here ! An' if the departed spirit of her that honoured the 
 dust of my buried daughter is unhappy, oh, let her be relieved, an' 
 let this act be remimbered to htr ! Eless her son, too, gracious 
 Father, an' all belongin' to her on this earth ! an', if it be your holy 
 will, let them never know distress, or poverty, or wickedness ! " 
 
 He then offered up a Pater Noster for the repose of his child's soul, 
 and another for the kind-hearted and grateful Widow Murray, after 
 whicn he stood to examine the grave with greater accuracy. 
 
 There was, in fact, no grave visible. The little mound, under 
 which lay what was once such a touching image of innocence, beauty, 
 and feeling, had sunk down to the level of the earth about it. He 
 regretted this, inasmuch as it took away, he thought, part of her 
 individuality. Still he knew it was the spot wherein she had been 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 49 
 
 buried, and with much of that vivid feeling, and strong figurative 
 language, inseparable from the habits of thought and language of the 
 old Irish families, he delivered the mother's message to the inanimate 
 dust of her once beautiful and heart-loved child. He spoke in a 
 broken voice, for even the mention of her name aloud, over the clay 
 that contained her, struck with a fresh burst of sorrow upon hi? 
 heart. 
 
 " Alley," he exclaimed, in Irish, ** Alley, nJiien macliree, your fathei 
 that loved you more nor he loved any other human crathur, brings a 
 message to you from the mother of your heart, avourneen ! She bid 
 me call to see the spot where you're lyin', my buried flower, an' to 
 tell you that we're not now, thanks be to God, as we wor whin you 
 lived wid us. W« are well to do now, aciishla oge machree, an' not 
 in hunger, an' sickness, an' misery, as we wor whin you suffered them 
 all ! You will love to hear this, pulse of our hearts, an' to know that, 
 through all we suffered — an' bittherly we did suffer since you de- 
 parted — we never let you out of our memory. No, asthore villish, we 
 thought of you, an' cried afther our poor dead flower, many and many's 
 the time. An' she bid me tell you, darlin' of my heart, that we feel 
 nothin' now so much as that you are not wid us to share our comfort 
 an' our happiness. Oh, what wouldn't the mother give to have you 
 back wid her ; but it can't be — an' what wouldn't I give to have you 
 before my eyes agin, in health an' in life — but it can't be. The lovin' 
 mother sent this message to you. Alley. Take it from her ; she bid 
 me tell you that we are well an' happy ; our name is pure, and, like 
 yourself, widout spot or stain. Won't you pray for us before God, an' 
 get him an' his blessed Mother to look on us wid favour and com- 
 passion ? Farewell, Alley, asthore ! May you sleep in peace, an' 
 rest on the breast of your great Father in heaven, until we all meet in 
 happiness together. It's your father that's spakin' to you, our lost 
 flower ; an' the hand that often smoothed your goolden head is now 
 upon your grave." 
 
 He wiped his eyes as he concluded, and after lifting a little of the 
 clay from her grave, he tied it carefully up, and put it into his pocket. 
 
 Having left the graveyard, he retraced his steps towards Frank 
 Farrell's house. The sun had now risen, and as Owen ascended the 
 larger of the two hills which we have mentioned, he stood again to 
 view the scene that stretched beneath him. About an hour before all 
 was still ; the whole country lay motionless, as if the land had been a 
 land of the dead. The mountains, in the distance, were covered 
 with the thin mists of morning ; the milder and richer parts of the 
 landscape had appeared in that dim grey distinctness which gives to 
 distant objects such a clear outline. With the exception of the 
 blackbird's song, everything seemed as if stricken into silence ; there 
 was not a breeze stirring ; both animate and inanimate nature reposed 
 as if in a trance ; the very trees appeared asleep, and their leaves 
 motionless, as if they had been of marble. But now the scene was 
 changed. The sun had flung his splendour upon the mountain-tops, 
 from which the mists were tumbling in broken fragments to the valleys 
 
5° TV BRER nERG ; OR, THE RED IV ELL. 
 
 between them. A thousand birds poured their sonj^s upon the "ear ; 
 the breeze w,ts up, and the columns of smoke from the farm-he nses 
 and cottages played, as if in frolic, in the air. A white haze was 
 beginning to rise from the meadows ; early teams were afoot ; and 
 labourers going abroad to their employment. The lakes in the 
 distance shone like mirrors ; and the clear springs on the mountain 
 sides glittered in the sun like gems on which the eye could scarcely 
 rest. Life and light and motion appear to be inseparable. The dew 
 of morning lay upon nature like a brilliant veil, realising the beautiful 
 image of Horace, as applied to woman : — 
 
 " Vultus nimium lubricus aspici." 
 
 By-and-by the songs of the early workmen were heard ; nature had 
 awoke ; and Owen, whose heart was strongly, though unconsciously, 
 alive to the influence of natural religion, participated in the general 
 elevation of the hour, and sought with freshened spirits the house of 
 his entertainer. 
 
 As he entered this hospitable roof, the early industry of his friend's 
 wife presented him with a well-swept hearth and a pleasant tire, before 
 which had been placed the identical chair that they had appropriated 
 to his own use. Frank was enjoying " a blast o' the pipe," alter 
 having risen, to which luxury the return of Owen gave additional 
 zest and placidity. In fact, Owen's presence communicated a holiday 
 spirit to the family ; a spirit, too, which declined not for a moment 
 during the period of his visit. 
 
 " Frank," said Owen, " to tell you the thruth, I'm not half plased 
 wid you this mornin' ! I think you didn't thrate me as I ought to 
 expect to be thrated." 
 
 " Musha, Owen M'Carthy, how is that ?" 
 
 "Why, you said nothin' about Widow Murray raisin' a head-stone 
 over our child. You kep' me in the dark there, Frank, an' sich a 
 start 1 never got as I did this mornin', in the graveyard beyant." 
 
 " Upon my sowl, Owen, it wasn't my fau't, nor any of our fau'ts ; for 
 to tell you the thruth, we had so much to think and discoorse of last 
 night that it never sthruck me, good or bad. Indeed, it was Bridget 
 that put it first in my head, afther you wint out, an' thin it was too 
 late. Ay, poor woman, the dacent strain was ever in her, the heavens 
 be her bed ! " 
 
 " Frank, if any one of her family was to abuse me till tlie dogs 
 wouldn't lick my blood, I'd only give them back good for evil afther 
 that. Oh, Frank, that goes to my heart I To put a head-stone over 
 my weeny gooldcn-haired darlin', for the sake of the little thriflcs I 
 sarved thim in ! WoU ! — may none belonging to her ever know 
 
 poverty or hardship ! but if they do, an' that 1 have it How-an'- 
 
 iver, no matther. God bless thim ! Wait till Kathleen hears it ! " 
 
 "An' the best of it was, Owen, that she never expected to see one 
 of your faces. But, Owen, you think too much about that child. Lei 
 as talk of something else. You seen Tubber Derg wanst more." 
 
 " 1 did ; an' I love it still, in spite of the state its in." 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL, Si 
 
 " Ah ! it's different from what it was in your happy days. I was 
 spakin' to Bridget about the farm, an' she advises us to go, widout 
 losin' a minute, an' take it if we can." 
 
 " It's near this place I'll die, Frank. I'd not rest in my grave if I 
 wasn't berrid among my own ; so we'll take the farm if possible." 
 
 " Well, then, Bridget, hurry the breakfast, avourneen ; an' in the 
 name o' goodness, we'll set out, an' clinch the business this very day." 
 
 Owen, as we said, was prompt in following up his determinations. 
 After breakfast they saw the agent and his father, for both lived 
 together. Old Rogerson had been intimately acquainted with the 
 M'Carthys, and, as Frank had anticipated, used his influence with the 
 agent in procuring for the son of his oid friend and acquaintance the 
 farm which he sought. 
 
 "Jack," said the old gentleman, " you don't probably know the 
 history and character of the Tubber Derg M'Carthys so well as I do. 
 No man ever required the written bond of a M'Carthy ; and it was 
 said of them, and is said still, that the widow and orphan, the poor 
 man or the stranger, never sought their assistance in vain. I, myself, 
 will go security, if necessary, for Owen M'Carthy." 
 
 " Sir," replied Owen, I'm thankful to you; " I'm grateful to you. But 
 I wouldn't take the farm, or bid for it at all, unless I could bring forrid 
 enough to stock it as I wish, an' to lay in all that's wantin' to work 
 it well. It ud be useless for me to take it — to struggle a year or 
 two — impoverish the land — an' thin run away out of it. No, no ; I 
 have what'U put me upon it wid dacency an' comfort." 
 
 " Then, since my father has taken such an interest in you, M'Carthy, 
 you must have the farm. We shall get .eases prepared, and the 
 business completed, in a few days ; for I go to Dublin on this day 
 week. Father, I now remember the character of this family ; and I 
 remember, too, the sympathy which was felt for one of them, who was 
 narshly ejected, about seventeen or eighteen years ago, out of the 
 lands on which his forefathers had lived, I understand, for centuries." 
 
 " I am that man, sir," returned Owen. '* It's too long a story to tell 
 now ; but it was only out o' part of the lands, sir, that I was put. 
 What I held was but a poor patch compared to what the family held 
 in my grandfather's time. A great part of it went out of our hands at 
 his death." 
 
 " It was veiy kind of you, Misther Rogerson, to offer to go security 
 for him," said Frank; "but if security was wantin', sir, I'd not be 
 willin' to let anybody but myself back him. I'd go all I'm worth in 
 the world — an', be my sowl, double as much — for the same man." 
 
 " I know that, Frank, an' I thank you ; but I could put security in 
 Mr. Rogerson's hands here, if it was wanted. Good mornin', an' 
 thank you both, gintlemen. To tell yt^es the thruth," he added, with 
 a smile, " I long to be among my ould friends — manin' the people, an' 
 the hills, an' the green fields of TubVier Derg — agin ; an', thanks be 
 to goodness, sure I will soon." 
 
 In fact, wherever Owen went, within the bounds of his native 
 f Irish, his name, to use a significant ph'-ase of the people, was before 
 
52 TUBEER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 
 
 him. His arrival at Frank FarrcU's was now generally known by all 
 his acquaintances, and the numbers who came to see him wcie almost 
 beyond belief. During the two or three successive days, he went 
 among his old ^^ cronicns ;" and no sooner was his arrival at any 
 particular house intimated than the neighbours all flocked to him. 
 Scythes were left idle, spades were stuck in the earth, and work 
 neglected for the time being ; all crowded about him with a warm and 
 friendly interest, not proceeding from idle curiosity, but from affection 
 and respect for the man. 
 
 The interview between him and Widow Murray's children was affect- 
 ing. Owen felt deeply the delicate and touching manner in which 
 they had evinced their gratitude for the ser\dces he had rendered 
 them ; and young Murray remembered, with a strong gush of feeling, 
 the distresses under which they lay when Owen had assisted them. 
 Their circumstances, owing to the strenuous exertions of the w'idow's 
 eldest son, soon afterwards improved ; and, in accordance with the 
 sentiments of hearts naturally grateful, they had taken that method of 
 testifying what they felt. Indeed, so well had Owen's unparalleled 
 affection for his favourite child been known that it was the general 
 opinion about Tubber Derg that her death had broken his heart. 
 
 "Poor Owen! he's dead," they used to say; "the death of his 
 weeny one, while he was away in Dublin, gave him the finishin' blow. 
 It broke his heart." 
 
 Before the week was expired, Owen had the satisfaction of deposit- 
 ing the lease of his new farm, held at a moderate rent, in the hands 
 of Frank Farrell, who, tying it up along with his own, secured it in 
 " the black chest." Nothing remained now but to return home forth- 
 with, and communicate the intelligence to Kathleen. Frank had 
 promised, as soon as the Lacys should vacate the house, to come with 
 a long train of cars and a number of his neighbours, in order to transfer 
 Owen's family and furniture to his new dwelling. Everything, there- 
 fore, had been arranged, and Owen had nothing to do but hold him- 
 self in readiness for the welcome arrival of Frank and his friends. 
 
 Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment when not participated 
 in by his beloved Kathleen. If he felt sorrow, it was less as a per- 
 sonal feeling than as a calamity to her. If he experienced happiness, 
 it was doubly sweet to him as reflected from his Kathleen. All this 
 was mutual between them. Kathleen loved Owen precisely as he 
 loved Kathleen. Nor let our readers suppose that such characters are 
 not in humble life. It is in humble life, where the springs of feeling 
 are not corrupted by dissimulation and evil knowledge, that the purest 
 and tcnderest and strongest virtues are to be found. 
 
 As Owen approached his home, he could not avoid contrasting 
 the circumstances of his return now with those under which, almost 
 broken-hearted after his journey to Dublin, he presented himself to 
 his sorrowing and bereaved wife about sixteen years before. He 
 raised his hat, and thanked God for the success which had, since that 
 period, attended him ; and immediately after his silent thanksgiving, 
 entered the house. 
 
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL. 53 
 
 His welcome, our readers may be assured, was tender and affec- 
 tionate. The whole family gathered about him, and on his informing 
 them that they were once more about to reside on a farm adjoining 
 to their beloved Tubber Derg, Kathleen's contenance brightened, and 
 the tear of delight gushed to her eyes. 
 
 " God be praised, Owen ! " she exclaimed ; " we will have the ould 
 place afore our eyes, an' what is betther, we will be near where Alley 
 is lyin'. But that's true, Owen," she added, " did you give the light 
 of our hearts the mother's message ?" 
 
 Owen paused, and his features were slightly overshadowed, but 
 only by the solemnity of the feeling. 
 
 " Kathleen," said he, " I gave her your message ; but, avourneen, I 
 have sthrange news for you about Alley." 
 
 " What, Owen .'' What is it, acushla .'' Tell me quick ? " 
 
 " The blessed child was not neglected ; no, but she was honoured 
 in our absence. A head-stone was put over her, an' stands there 
 purtily this minute." 
 
 " IViother of glory, Owen ! " 
 
 " It's thruth. Widow Murray an' her son Jemmy put it up, with 
 words upon it that brought the tears to my eyes. Widow Murray is 
 dead, but her childher's doin' well. May God bless an' prosper them, 
 an' make her happy ! " 
 
 The delighted mother's heart was not proof against the widow's 
 gratitude, expressed, as it had been, in a manner so affecting. She 
 rocked herself to and fro in silence, whilst the tears fell in showers 
 down her cheeks. The grief, however, which this affectionate couple 
 felt for their child was not always such as the reader has perceived it 
 to be. It was rather a revival of emotions that had long slumbered, 
 but never died ; and the associations arising from the journey to 
 Tubber Derg had thrown them back, by the force of memory, almost 
 to the period of her death. At times, indeed, their imagination had 
 conjured her up strongly ; but the present was an epoch in the history 
 of their sorrow. 
 
 There is little more to be said. Sorrow was soon succeeded by 
 cheerfulness and the glow of expected pleasure, which is ever the 
 more delightful as the pleasure is pure. In about a week their old 
 neighbours, with their carts and cars, arrived ; and before the day was 
 closed on which Owen removed to his new residence, he found himself 
 once more sitting at his own hearth, among the friends of his youth, 
 and the companions of his maturer years. Ere the twelvemonth 
 elapsed, he had his house perfectly white, and as nearly resembling 
 that of Tubber Derg in its better days as possible. About two years 
 ago we saw him one evening in the month of June, as he sat on a 
 bench beside his door, singing with a happy heart his favourite song of 
 " Colleen dhas crootlia na jho." It was about an hour before sunset. 
 The house stood on a gentle eminence, beneath which a sweep of 
 green meadow stretched away to the skirts of Tubber Derg. Around 
 him was a country naturally fertile, and, in spite of the national de> 
 pression, still beautiful to contemplate. Kathleen and two servant- 
 
54 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESJY GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 
 
 maids were milking, and the whole family were assembled about *h{ 
 door. 
 
 " Well, childher," said the father, " didn't I tell yees, the b-'tther 
 mornin' we left Tubber Derg, not to cry or be disheartened -that 
 'there was a good God above, who might do somethin' for \\% yet' 'i 
 I never did give up my trust in Him, an' I never will. You see, 
 afther all our little throubles, he has wansc more brought us together, 
 an' made us happy. Praise an' glory to his name ! " 
 
 I looked at him as he spoke. He had raised his eyes to heaven, 
 and a gleam of elevated devotion, perhaps worthy of being called 
 sublime, irradiated his features. The sun, too, in setting, fell upon his 
 broad temples and iron-grey locks with a light solemn and religious. 
 The effect to me, who knew his noble character, and all that he had 
 suffered, was as if the eye of God then rested upon the decline of a 
 virtuous man's life with approbation ; as if he had lifted up the glory 
 of his countenance upon him. Would that many of his thoughtless 
 countrymen had been present ! They might have blushed for their 
 crimes, and been content to sit and learn wisdom at tlie feet of 
 Owen M'Carthy. 
 
 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING 
 TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 |OUNG Denis CShaughnessy was old Denis's son ; and old 
 Denis, like many great men before him, was the son of his 
 father and mother in particular, and of a long line of respect- 
 able ancestors in general. He was, moreover, a great historian, a 
 perplexing controversialist, deeply read in Dr. Gallagher and Pastorini, 
 and equally profound in the history of Harry the Eighth, and Luther's 
 partnership with the devil, at that particular period when they invented 
 the Protestant Church between them, and gave the Popeship of it to 
 Her Holiness, Queen Elizabeth. Denis was a tall man, who from his 
 peculiar appearance, and the nature of his dress — a light drab-coloured 
 frieze — was nicknamed the walking pigeon-house ; and truly on seeing 
 him at a distance, a man might naturally enough hit upon a worse 
 comparison. He was quite straight, carried both arms hanging by his 
 sides, motionless and at their full length, like the pendulums of a clock 
 that has ceased going. In his head, neck, and chest there was no 
 muscular action visible ; he walked, in fact, as if a milk-pail were upon 
 his crown, or as if a single nod of his head would put the planets out 
 of order. But the principal cause of the similarity lay in his round- 
 ness, which resembled that of a pump, running to a point, or the 
 pigeon-house aforesaid, which is s'.ill better. 
 
 Denis, though a large man, was but a small farmer, for he rented 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOVH. 55 
 
 only eighteen acres of good land. His family, howr-ver, like hi nself, 
 was large, consisting of thirteen children, among whom Uenis janior 
 stood preeminent. Like old Uenis, he was exceedingly long-winded 
 in argument, pedantic as the schoolmaster who taught him, and 
 capable of taking a very comprehensive grasp of any tangible 
 subject. 
 
 Young Denis's display of controversial talents was so remarkably 
 precocious that he controverted his father's statements upon all 
 possible subjects with a freedom from embarrassment which promised 
 well for that most distinguished trait in a controversialist — hardihood 
 of countenance. This delighted old Denis to the finger ends. 
 
 " Dinny, if he's spared," he would say, " will be a credit to us all 
 yet. The sorra one of him but's as manly as anything, and as long- 
 headed as a four-footed baste, so he is ! Nothing daunts or daslies 
 him, or puts him to an amplush : but he'll look you in the face so 
 stout an' cute, an' never redden or stumble, whether he's right or 
 wrong, but it does one's heart good to see him. Then he has such a 
 laning to it, you see, that the crathur ud ground an argument on 
 anything, thin draw it out to a narration, an' make it as clear as 
 lock-water, besides insensing you so well into the rasonof the thing 
 that Father Finnerty himself ud hardly do it betther from the 
 althar. 
 
 The highest object of an Irish peasant's ambition is to see his son a 
 priest. Whenever a farmer happens to have a 'crge family, he usually 
 destines one of them for tne Church, if his circumstances are at all 
 such as can enable him to afford the boy a proper education. This 
 youth becomes the centre in which all the affections of the family 
 meet. He is cherished, humoured in all his caprices, indulged in his 
 boyish predilections, and raised over the heads of his brothers, 
 independently of all personal or relative merit in himself. The conse- 
 quence is that he gradually becomes self-willed, proud, and arrogant, 
 often to an offensive degree ; but all this is frequently mixed up with a 
 lolty bombast, and an undercurrent of strong disguised affection, that 
 render his early life remarkably ludicrous and amusing. Indeed, the 
 pranks of pedantry, the pretensions to knowledge, and the humour 
 with which it is mostly displayed, render these scions of divinity, in 
 their intercourse with the people until the period of preparatory 
 education is completed, the most interesting and comical class, 
 perhaps, to be found in the kingdom. Of these learned priestlings 
 young Denis was undoubtedly a first-rate specimen. His father, a 
 man of no education, was, nevertheless, as profound and unfathomable 
 upon his favourite subjects as a philosopher ; but this profundity raised 
 him mightily in the opinion of the people, who admired him the more 
 the less they understood him. 
 
 Now old Denis was determined that young Denis should tread in his 
 own footsteps ; and sooth to say, ^, oung Denis possessed as bright ? 
 talent for the dark and mysterious as the father himself. No sooner 
 had the son commenced Latin with the mtention of adorning the 
 Church than the father put him in traming for controversy For a 
 
56 DENIS O'SIIAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 considerable time the laurels were uniformly borne away by the 
 veteran : but what will not learnin^^ do ? Ere long the son got as far 
 as syntax, about which time the father began to lose ground, in conse- 
 quence of some ugly quotations which the son threw into his gizzard, 
 and which unfortunately stuck there. By-and-by the father receded 
 more and more, as the son advanced in his Latin and Greek, until, at 
 length, their encounters were only resorted to for the purpose of 
 showing off the son. 
 
 When young Denis had reached the age of sixteen or seventeen, he 
 was looked upon by his father and his family, as well as by all their 
 relations in general, as a prodigy. It was amusing to witness the 
 delight with which the worthy man would call upon his son to exhibit 
 his talents, a call to which the son instantly attended. This was 
 usually done by commencing a mock controversy for the gratification 
 of some neighbour to whom the father was anxious to prove the great 
 talents of his son. When old Denis got the young sogarth fairly in 
 motion, he gently drew himself out of the dispute, but continued a 
 running comment upon thv. son's erudition, pointed out his good 
 things, and occasionally resumed the posture of a controversalist, to 
 reinspirit the boy if he appeared to flag. 
 
 *' Dinny, abouchal, will you come up till Phadrick Murray hears you 
 arguin' Scripther wid myself, Dinny. Now, Phadrick, listen, but keep 
 your tongue sayin' nothin' ; jist lave us to ourselves. Come up, Dinny, 
 till you have a hate at arguin' wid myself." 
 
 " Fadher, I condimnate you at once — I condimnate you as being a 
 most ungrammatical ould man, an' not fit to argue wid anyone that 
 knows Alurray's English Grammar, an' more espaciously the three 
 concords of Lilly's Latin one ; that is the cognation between the 
 nominative case and the verb, the consanguinity between the substan- 
 tive and the adjective, and the blood relationship that irritates between 
 the relative and the antecedent." 
 
 " I tould you, Phadrick ! There's the boy that can rattle off the 
 high English, and the larned Latin, jist as if he was born wid an 
 English Dictionary in one cheek, a Latin Neksuggawn in the other, 
 an' Doctor Gallagher's Irish Sarmons nately on the top of his tongue 
 between the two." 
 
 "Fadher, but that, unfortunately I am afiflicted wid modesty, I'd 
 blush crocus for your ignorance, as Virgil asserts in his Bucolics, vt 
 Virgilius ait in Bucolicis ; and as Horatius, a book that I'm well 
 acquainted wid, says in another place, ^ H21C pertinent verba* says he, 
 * commoda'tiiii, comparandi, dandi, promittetidi, solvendi inipcrattdi 
 nuntiandi, fidendi, obsetjuendi, 7nina7idi, irascendi, et iis contraria! " 
 
 " That's a good boy, Dinny ; but why would you blush for my 
 ignorance, avourneen? Take care of yourself now, an' spake deep, 
 for I'll out argue you at the heel o' the hunt, cute as you arc." 
 
 "Why do I blush for your ignorance, is it? why, thin, I'm sure T 
 have sound rasons for it : only think of the gross pcrsivarance wid 
 wh'jhyou call that larned work, the Lexicon in Greek, a Necksuggan. 
 Fadher, never attimpt to argue or display your ignorance wid me 
 
DENIS 0*SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNCOTH. 57 
 
 again. But, moreover, I can probate you to be an ungrammatical 
 man, from your own inodiis of argument." 
 
 " Go on, avourneen. Phadrick ! " 
 
 " I'm listenin'. The sorra's no match for his cuteness, an' one's 
 puzzled to think where he can get it all." 
 
 " Why, you don't know at all what I could do by larnin'. It would 
 be no throuble to me to divide myself into two halves, an' argue the 
 one agin the other." 
 
 "You would, in throth, Dinny." 
 
 " Ay, father, or cut myself acrass, an' dispute my head, maybe, agin 
 my heels." 
 
 " Throth would you ! " 
 
 " Or practise logic wid my right hand, and bate that agin wid my 
 left." 
 
 " The sarra lie in it." 
 
 " Or read the Greek Tistament wid my right eye, an' thranslate it at 
 the same time wid my left, according to the Greek an' English sides 
 of my face, wid my tongue constrein' into Irish, unknownst to both o' 
 them. 
 
 " Why, Dennis, he must have a head like a bell to be able tp get 
 into things." 
 
 " Throth an' he has that, an' 'ill make a noise in conthroversy yet, 
 if he lives. Now, Dinny, let us have a hate at histhory." 
 
 " A hate at histhory .'' — wid all my heart ; but before we begin, I 
 tell you that I'll confound you precipitately ; for you see, if you bate 
 me in the English, I'll scarify you wid Latin, and give you a bang or 
 two of Greek into the bargain. Och ! I wish you'd hear the sackin' 
 I gave Tom Reilly the other day ; rubbed him down, as the masther 
 says, wid a Greek towel, an' whenever I complimented him with 
 the loan of a cut on the head, I always gave him a plaster of Latin 
 to heal it ; but the sorra worse healin' flesh in the world than Tom's is 
 for the Latin, so I bruised a few Greek roots and laid them to his 
 caput so nate that you'd laugh to see him. Well, is it histhory we 
 are to begin wid .'' If it is, come on — advance. I'm ready for you — 
 in protection — virid my guards up." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Well, if he isn't the drollest crathur, an' so cute ! 
 But now for the histhory. Can you prove to me, upon a clear found- 
 ation, the differ atween black an' white, or prove that Phadrick Murray 
 here, long life to him, is an ass ? Now, Phadrick, listen, for you must 
 decide betune us." 
 
 " Orra, have you no other larnin' than that to argue upon ? Sure if 
 you call upon me to decide, I must give it agin Dinny. Why, my 
 judgment won't be worth a haporth, if he makes an ass of me ! " 
 
 " What matther how you decide, man alive, if he proves you to be 
 one ; sure that's all we want. Never heed shakin' your head — listen 
 an' it will be well worth your while. Why, man, you'll know more nor 
 you ever knew or suspected before, when he proves you to be an ass." 
 
 "In the first place, fadher, you're ungrammatical in one word ; in- 
 stead of sayin' ' prove/ always say probate or probe ; the word is de- 
 
 (4) c 
 
58 DEmS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOThJ. 
 
 scinded, that is, the ancisthor of it '\s probo, a deep Greek word— />roi>d 
 drodas, prod-ass— that is to say, I'm tQ probe Phadrick here to be 
 an ass. Now, do you see how pat I brought that in ? That's the way, 
 Phadrick, I chastise my fadher with the languages." 
 
 " In throth it is ; go an, avick. Phadrick !" 
 
 " Pm Hstenin'." 
 
 " Phadrick, do you know the differ atween black an' white ' " 
 
 " Atween black an' white ? Hut, gorsoon, to be sure I do." 
 
 " Well, an' what might it be, Phadrick, my larned Athiop ? Whai 
 might it be, I negotiate ?" 
 
 " Why, thin, the differ atween them is this, Dinny, that black is — 
 let me see— why — that black is not red — nor yallow — nor brown — nor 
 green — nor purple — nor cutbeard — nor a heather colour — nor a gro- 
 gram " 
 
 "Nor a white?" 
 
 " Surely, Dinny, not a white, abouchal ; don't think to come over 
 me that way." 
 
 " But I want to know what colour it is, most larned sager." 
 
 "All rasonable, Dinny. Why, thin, black is — let me see — but, 
 death alive ! — it's — a — a — why, it's black, an' that's all I can say about 
 it ; yes, faix, I can — black is the colour of Father Curtis's coat." 
 
 " An' what colour is that, Phadrick ? " 
 
 " Why, it's black to be sure." 
 
 "Well, now, what colour is white, Phadrick? " 
 
 " Why, it's a snow-colour ; for all the world the colour of snow." 
 
 "White is?" 
 
 " Ay, is it." 
 
 "The dearhelpyourhead, Phadrick, if that's all you know about snow. 
 In England, man, snow is an Oxford grey, an' in Scotland a pepper 
 an' salt, an' sometimes a cutbeard, when they get a hard winther. I 
 found that much in the Greek, anyway, Phadrick. Thry agin, you 
 imigrant, I'll give you another chance — what colour is white ? " 
 
 " Why, thin, it's — white — an' nothin' else. The sorra one but you'd 
 puzzle a saint wid your long-headed screwtations from books." 
 
 " So, Phadrick, your preamble is that white is white, and black is 
 black." 
 
 " Asy, avick. I said, sure enough, that white is white ; but the 
 black I deny — I said it was the colour of Father Curtis's black coat." 
 
 " Oh, you barbarian of the world, how I scorn your profundity 
 an' emotions ! You're a disgrace to the human sex by your super- 
 ciliousness of knowledge, an' your various quotations of ignorance. 
 Ignoratttia, Phadrick, is your date an' superscription. Now, stretch 
 out your ears, till I probate, or probe to you the differ atween black 
 an' white." 
 
 " Phadrick ! !" said the father. 
 
 " I'm listenin'." 
 
 " Now, Phadrick, here's the griddle, an' here's a clane plate. Dovcn 
 tec them here beside one another ?" 
 
 " I'm lookm' at ihcm." 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 59 
 
 " Now shut your eyes." 
 
 " Is that j£'z/r way, Denis, of judgin' colours?" 
 
 " Shut your eyes, I say, till I give you oadar demonstration of the 
 differ atween these two respectable colours." 
 
 " Well, they're shut." 
 
 " An' keep them so. Now, what differ do you see atween them ? " 
 
 " The sorra taste, man alive ; I never seen anything in my whole life 
 so clearly of a colour as they are both this minute." 
 
 " Don't you see now, Phadrick, that there's not the smallest taste o' 
 differ in them, an' that's accordin' to Euclid." 
 
 " Sure enough, Phadrick, that's the point settled. There's no dis- 
 crimination at all atween black an' white. They're both of the same 
 colour — so long as you keep your eyes shut." 
 
 " But if a man happens to open his eyes, Dinny ? " 
 
 " He has no right to open them, Phadrick, if he wants to prove the 
 truth of a thing. I should have said p7-obc — but it does not significate." 
 
 " The heavens mark you to grace, Dinny. You did that in brave 
 stj^e. Phadrick, ahagur, he'll make the darlin' of an arguer when he 
 gets the robes an him." 
 
 " I don't deny that ; he'll be aquil to the best o' thim : still, Denis, 
 I'd rather, whin I want to pronounce upon colours, that he'd let me 
 keep my eyes open." 
 
 " Ay, but he did it out o' the books, man alive ; and there's no goin' 
 beyant thim. Sure he could prove it out o' the Divinity, if you went 
 to that. An' what is still more, ne could, by shuttin' your eyes, in the 
 same way prove black to be white, an' white black, jist as asy." 
 
 " Surely myself doesn't doubt it. I suppose, by shutting my eyes, 
 the same lad could prove anything to me." 
 
 " But, Dinny, avourneen, you didn't prove Phadrick to be an ass 
 yit. Will you do that by histhorj', too, Dinny, or by the norrations of 
 lUocution ? " 
 
 " Father, I'm surprised at your gross imperception. Why, man, if you 
 were not a rara avis of somnolency, a man of most frolicsome deter- 
 minations, you'd be able to see that I've proved Phadrick to be an ass 
 already." 
 
 " Throth, I deny that you did ; there wasn't a word about my bein' 
 an ass in the last discoorse. It was all upon the differ atween black 
 an' white." 
 
 " Oh, how I scorn your gravity, man ! Ignoraniia, as I said, is 
 your date an' superscription ; an' when you die you ought to go an' 
 engage a stone-cutter to carve you a headstone, an' make him write 
 on it, Hicjacet Ignorajitius Redivivus. An' the translation of that is, 
 accordin' to Publius Virgilius Maro — ' Here lies a quadruped who 
 didn't know the differ atween black an' white.' " 
 
 " But, Dinny, won't you give us the histhory of how the Protestant 
 Church was invinted by the divil an' Luther, backed by Harry the 
 Aighth, while he was a Protestant ? Give it to Phadrick, Dinny, till 
 he hears it." 
 
 " Yes, my worthy paterfamilias, it shall be done ; but upon the 
 
6o DE.YIS 0*SHAUGHNESSY GOTNG 70 MAYNOOTH. 
 
 hypothesis of your taciturnity. Experientia docet — which is, on bein' 
 rendered into vernacularity, " You are too much addicted to intherrup- 
 tion, an' throw the darkness of your intellect over the splendour of my 
 narrations." 
 
 " But afore you go on, Dinny, will you thranslate doshet for 
 Phadrick ? " 
 
 " Fadher, I'll tolerate incongruity in no man. If you must become 
 jocular, why go an' lam Latin an' Greek to substantiate your jocu- 
 larity. Become erudite for yourself, an' tell the story to your friends ; 
 but I vow to Demosthenes, if you provoke me I'll unsluice the flood- 
 gates of my classicality, an' bear you off like a sthraw on the surface 
 of my lamed indignation." 
 
 " Well, I won't, Dinny ; I won't, avick. I'll say nothin' barrin' listen. 
 Phadrick, isn't that the larnin' ? " 
 
 " Bedad, it couldn't be bate." 
 
 " Well ! is it the history of the confab atween Luther an' the invintor 
 o' the long-tailed heresy I'm to give you ? " 
 
 " But why was it long-tailed, Dinny ? Tell that to Phadrick." 
 
 " Fadher, I tould you before that I'll not tolerate incongruity in 
 any man who is ignorant of the classics. Was it not that Phadrick 
 Murray's ignorance protects you, I'd take the liberty of lettin' you 
 contemplate your own impenetrability to admonition. I call the 
 Protestant heresy long-tailed for three reasons : first — id est — 
 fjrimo " 
 
 " Phadrick ! ! ! " 
 
 "I'mlist'nin'!" 
 
 " Prinio — Because it was not short. Secundo — Because the dragon 
 that invinted it in the Revelations had a tail that reached over the 
 third part of heaven. Tertio — Because the divil, who was joint 
 partner wid the dragon, never goes widout a switcher ; so that it is 
 from the purest of logic I call it the long-tailed heresy. Are you now 
 satisfied ? " 
 
 " Throth, we are, avick. Isn't that the larnin', Phadrick .-"' 
 
 " Bedad, he's as ould as Killileagh bog, all but one bank." 
 
 "Well! Quid mtiltis? Luther was sittin' one evenin' in his 
 iitudiiim or study, afther havin' secured a profound dinner ; one foot 
 was upon the hob, an' the other in the most convanient place, of 
 coorse. One elbow was placed upon a round black table, near a 
 decanther of wine an' a bottle of Ennishowen whisky. I will not 
 pnrtind to say which he was most in the habit of drinkin', lest I might 
 glide into veracity. Ovid says, in his Metamorphoses, that tradition is 
 in favour of the whisky. His words are — "■ Luiheriis semper potavit 
 tnertim Etinishomim, which has puzzled the commentators very much. 
 St. Augustin, who was a good judge, thinks that ' merum Ennishonum' 
 means the ' pure native,' which, he says, is jolly drink. Paul the 
 Hermit, an' St. Anthony, on the other hand, say that ' merum Ennisho- 
 num ' is incorrect ; for that had he stuck, as they did, to ' merum 
 Ennishonum,' he would never have left the Church. Others read 
 clarum Ennishonum ;' however, it does not significate. There he sat. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYN007H. 6i 
 
 as I have chalked him out for you, in a state of relaxation, frohcsome 
 an' sohtary, wid his countenance placid an' bloomin', his rosy, semi- 
 derai-quaver dewlap dependin' from his chin, just ripe for meditation 
 an' a tumbler. 
 
 "* Now, Luther, you sinner,' says he, lookin' over at his own shadow 
 upon the wall beyant — ' Luther,' says he, ' here you sit, wid a good 
 •coat to your back, good shoes to your feet, good Connemara stockins 
 to your legs, and excellent linen undher your penitential hair-clot> 
 shirt. What more do you want, you knave, you ? ' says he, continuin' to 
 hould a logical controversy wid himself. ' I say, you born desaver,' 
 says he, ' what is it you would be at .-" Maybe it's a fat mithre you'd 
 be smellin' afther? But I doubt,' says he, 'that an ecclesiastical union 
 between your head an' a mithre was never intinded to be in rerum 
 natural " 
 
 "Phadrick! ! !" 
 
 " I'm list'nin' ! " 
 
 " ' What would you be at then ? ' says he, carryin' on the controversy : 
 ■* haven't you enough o' the world ? Haven't you ase an' indepindence, 
 an' susceptibility, an' tergiversation, not to mintion that a fast dinner 
 wid you would make a faste for a layman ! Go off wid you,' says he 
 to a fly that was leadin' a party of pleasure towards his nose, ' go 'long 
 wid you, you sinner, an' don't be timptin' me ! The fact or factum is, 
 Luther,' says he " 
 
 " Dinny, thranslate whack'dem for Phadrick." 
 
 " Fadher, you're incorrigible. Why, factum's a fact, an' so is what 
 I'm relatin'. ' The fact or factum is, Luther,' says he, * that you are 
 anxious to thranslate some honest man's daughter into an uxor for 
 yourself. You are,' says he, ' you born sconce ; an' you're puzzlin' 
 your pineal gland how to effectuate the innculum matrimonii.' He 
 was thinkin', too, at the time, of a small taste of a vow — votian it is in 
 the larned languages — that he had to dispose of at first cost, because 
 the shabby intintion was in him. But no matther : it was all the same 
 to honest Luther in the Greek. 
 
 *' ' Hould up your anterior countenance,' says he, 'an' look yourself 
 -straight in the face widout blushin', if you can.' " 
 
 " What's the manin' of antlerian countenance, Dinny ?" 
 
 " It signifies, fadher, that part of the human caput upon which the 
 faces of most single-faced gintlemen are to be found." 
 
 " An' where do thim that have two faces keep the second, Dinny ?" 
 
 " Did you never hear of the fades Hypocritica, an' the fades atra ? 
 The fades Hypocritica is worn over the fades atra, like a mask on a 
 blackamoor. The former, fadher, is for the world in general, an' the 
 latter for private use, when the wearer happens to practise a thrifle in 
 the reflectin' style. These belong to the double-faced gintlemen. 
 There is a third, called the fades Candida, which every fool an' knave 
 can look through ; but it's not worth washin'. I wouldn't give three 
 sthraws for xSx^facies Candida. No, no ; commend me to the other two." 
 
 " Sure they say, Dinny, two heads is betther than one ; an' so, of 
 coorse, is two faces." 
 
62 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTH 
 
 " Rii;ht, fadher. Sallem recte dixisti. I'll practise wid both myself, 
 plase the fates," 
 
 " Throth, you will, avick." 
 
 " * Well,' the Reformer proceeded, * Luther, how are w; to manage f 
 You're health ! in the meantime,' says he, puttin' the dilation to h s 
 lips. ' Our best plan, at all evints, is to dhrink upon it. It's a hard 
 subject, an' requires to be softened by the moisture, so as to make it 
 tractable. The fact is,' he went on, ' that you're gettin' frolicsome on 
 my hands — you are, you sinner ; and have a tendency to make some 
 honest man's daughter flesh of your flesh, an' bone of your bone, by 
 effectin' the vincnlmn. Isn't that the case, Luther ?' 
 
 " ' Faith, I bleeve so,' said he to himself ; ' but I'd give a thrifle to 
 know in what manner I could accomplish the union. However, the 
 fact cannot be denied that I'm runnin* fast into uxoriety, an' will marry, 
 if the whole Christian world should become champions of abnegation. 
 There's nothin' like a plural life,' says Luther. ' I'll not only live in my 
 own person, but by proxy, as the bishops an' cardinals go to heaven.' 
 
 " In this manner was Luther debatin' the subject wid himself, assisted 
 by the dilution, when a grave-looking man, in the garbage of a monk, 
 walked in to him. He had all the appearance of a steady, sober eccle- 
 siastic ; his countenance was what they call a slate-colour — ' vultus 
 slate-colorius,' as Jugurtha says when giving an account ot the trans- 
 action to Cornelius Agrippa, the centurion. 
 
 " * Salve Lutherum^ says iht peregrifius j which is, * Good-morrow, 
 Luther. 
 
 " * Tu sis salvus quoque^ says Luther, back to him ; which is, 
 ' Good-morrow, an' good luck.' " 
 
 " Phadrick ! ! " 
 
 " I'm list'nin'." 
 
 " ' Won't you taKe a sate, brother,' says Luther, ' an' be sated.' 
 
 " ' Thank you kindly, brother,' replied the other. They called each 
 other brothers, because the strangei was dressed, as I said, in the 
 garbage of a monk, the vagrant. ' Thank you kindly,' says he ; ' an' 
 if you'll allow me, I'll also take a tumbler of Ennishowen,' says he, 
 ' bein' a little warm an' thirsty afther my walk.' 
 
 '"You're as welcome as the flowers o' May,' says Luther, 'to the 
 best in my house. Katty, get another tumbler an' more hot wather, 
 an' place a chair over there on the opposite side o' the table. I'm 
 sorry, brother,' says he, ' that I haven't somethin' betther to offer you ; 
 but the thruth is, this bein' a fast day wid me, I had only a cut o' 
 salmon, an' two or three other things, more in the shape of a collation 
 than a dinner— not but that I came undher the exception, an' might 
 nave ate meat ; for, indeed, I wasn't to say too well to-day. However, 
 I always think it right to obsarve the rules o' the Church, an' to prac- 
 tise macerosity an' tiniperance. Here's to our betther acquaintance I" 
 
 " ' Thank you kindly, an' here's ditto,' says the other. ' I'm much 
 of your way o' thinkin' myself^' says he, ' an' think it both clerical an' 
 churchmanlike to mortify myself upon turbot, salmon, or any other 
 miserable substitute for a dinner that smacks of penance : though, in- 
 
DEA'IS 0-SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 63 
 
 deed, like yourself, I wasn't to say well to-day, bein' rather feverish, 
 an' might have practised the exception too.' 
 
 " ' In that case, then,' said Luther, * I'll ordher down a couple of fat 
 pullets an' a ham for supper. You know we're commanded to observe 
 hospitality towards God's saints ; but in case you have a scruple about 
 the exception, why I'll absolve you, an' you'll absolve me, so that, after 
 all, it won't signify. The thing's as long as it's short,' says Luther, 
 
 * Shud orth !' says he, puttin' the dilution to his lips agin. 
 
 " ' Here's to your best wishes ! ' says the other. ' Yes, Luther,' says 
 he, with a sigh of devotion : ' there's nothin' like humility an' carnation 
 in a religious ministher. We have weighty duties to perform, an' we 
 ought to see that the practice of self-denial is properly theorized in 
 our own persons, an' its theory reduced to practicality by the hardened 
 laity, who would ate an' dhrink like ourselves, an' encroach upon our 
 other privileges widout remorse, as if they had a right to them. They 
 \\ould ate like bastes, an' dhrink like fishes, Luther, if we allowed 
 tnem,' says he. ' Here's to you ! ' 
 
 " * They would, the vulgarians,' says Luther. ' Katty, more hot 
 wather ; an', Katty, asthore, put down two of the fattest of them 
 crammed pullets, an' a ham, an' have them ready for supper, an' fetch 
 another bottle of Ennishowen ; afther which, Katty, we'll give you a 
 dispensation for absence until supper time. Well but, my worthy,' 
 says Luther, ' what's your opinion of clerical affairs in general ? Don't 
 you think they're in a bad state?' 
 
 " ' Not at all,' says the other. ' I think they're just as they ought 
 to be.' 
 
 " * I doubt that,' says Luther. ' The infarior clargy laid undher 
 great restrictions, in quensequence of their poverty. Look at the 
 cardinals, an' bishops, an' rich abbots ! Why, they've a monopoly 
 of all that the world's good for.' 
 
 " ' Thrue,' said \.h.Q peregfinus/' 
 
 " Phadrick ! ! ! " 
 
 " I'm list'nin' ! " 
 
 " ' Thrue,' says the peregruius, ' an' my wish is to see that broken 
 down.' 
 
 " ' An' so is mine,' says Luther. * They won't allow us infarior 
 clargy to take wives to ourselves, though they're not ashamed to 
 carry comforters about their necks in the open face of day. A poor 
 clerical now can't afford to be licentious, for want o' money.' 
 
 " ' Thrue ; an' I would wish to see it made chape,' says the other, 
 
 * if it was only to vex the wealthy.' 
 
 " ' You know as well as I do,' says Luther, ' that profligacy at present 
 is at an extravagant price. The rich can afford to buy themselves 
 dispensations for a month's or three months' licentiousness, or from a 
 year's to seven years' indulgence, or seven hundred years', for that 
 matther, if they lay down the cash ; but wid us it's different : we can't 
 afford to purchase the right to sin an' threspass, yet we won't be 
 allowed to marry. Now I'm determined to rescue the people an' the 
 tlhrudgin' clargv from this tyranny.' 
 
64 DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYXOOTH. 
 
 " ' Then you'd wish to see the clargy married, an' dispensations 
 taken away ? ' 
 
 " ' To be sure I would ; an' an interesting sight it ud be, to see the 
 rogues, every man wid a legal doxy undher his arm. I tell you, the 
 vinculum must be effected.' 
 
 " ' I have no objection to the vinculum^ replied the advena, ' for it's 
 all the same thing in the end. How do you think it could be brought 
 about ? ' 
 
 " Luther, who was meditatin' upon the subject in the time, didn't 
 hear him. 
 
 "' I'll hould you a gallon of Roscrea to a gallon of Ennishowen,*" 
 says the strange monk, ' that I could put you on a plan of havm' them 
 married in scores — ay, in dhroves.' 
 
 " ' If you do,' says Luther, ' I'll say you're a cleverer man than I 
 am.' 
 
 " * Do you know much about England ? ' says the sthranger. 
 
 "* A thrifle," says Luther. 
 
 «< Well,' says the other, ' there's Harry the Aighth goin' to put away 
 his wife, an' to take another in her place. Now's your time,' says he, 
 ' strike while the iron's hot. He's at loggerheads wid the Pope an' the 
 Church in gineral, an' will defend the right o' marrying to the last dav 
 of his life. Broach the subject now, Luther, an' he"s the boy will 
 support it.' 
 
 " ' Give me your hand,' says Luther : * eh, St. Pether ! but your 
 palm's burnin'.' 
 
 " ' Not at all,' says the other, ' I'm naturally hot ; besides, as I 
 said a while ago, I'm a thrifle faverish. Will you take my hint ? ' 
 
 " ' Would a cat take new milk ? ' says Luther. 
 
 <« < Well then,' says the other, ' I'll give you some advice.' " 
 
 " But, Dinny," said the father, " wasn't all the two thieves said 
 about the Church lies ? " 
 
 " Every word of it a lie — as gross as Luther himself. There was no 
 such thing as tyranny, or persecution, or overgrown wealth in the 
 Church then, at all. No man ud be punished for not thinkin' or 
 spakin' accordin' as the Church commanded. The clargy were as mild 
 as lambs, an' didn't lord it over or trample upon the people, good or 
 bad. If a washerwoman was to summon a bishop for his quarther's 
 washin', he'd attend like any other man, an' pay down the money, if 
 he had it, or if he hadn't, he'd give it to her at half a crown a week ; 
 so that Luther, the dirty vagrant, had no grounds for makin' such a 
 schism in the Church as he did." 
 
 " Phadrick, there's the knowledge ! " 
 
 " Bedad, it bangs ! " 
 
 " The advena thin instructed Luther at a great rate, tellin' him how 
 he'd get on wid his heresy, an' many othei things o' that nature. Luther, 
 however, began to feel unasy where he sat. He first put one finger to 
 his nosthril, afther that his thumb to the other, lookin' arnestly at the 
 monk ;..ll the time. 
 
 " ' I beg your pardon,' says he, ' but maybe you'd take the other 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 65 
 
 side o' the room ; I think you'd find yourself more comfortable in it. 
 There's a blast o' wind from your side,' says he, * that's not pleasant 
 somehow.' 
 
 '" Oh, that ud be too much throuble,' says the other : ' I'm very 
 well where I am.' 
 
 "' No throuble in life, to me,' says Luther, 'but the conthrary. 1 
 find that I'm no sich theologian as you are ; an' I think it but right 
 that you should keep me at as respectful a distance as possible. I'll 
 thank you to take the other side o' the room, I say ; or indeed, for 
 that matther, if you sat on the outside for some time, it ud be as well. 
 A thrifle o' fresh air ud sarve us both.' 
 
 " ' Why, you're too delicate entirely,' said the stranger. 
 
 " ' Don't stand on ceremony wid me,' says Luther ; ' you may go out 
 like shot, an' I'll never say ill you did it. St. Pether, what's this at 
 all!' 
 
 " He then looked at the monk, an' saw a grim sneer upon his face : 
 his eyes, too, began to blaze, an' a circle o' fire played round his 
 head. Another peep undher the table showed Luther the cloven foot, 
 an' a long tail coiled round the chair. Luther, however, was a 
 hardened sinner that there was no puttin' fear into ; so he instantly 
 whipped up the poker that had been stickin' between the bars, an', of 
 coorse, red hot : an' the monk, seein' him about to commence the 
 •attack, took the liberty of rethratin' in double-quick time. 
 
 " ' Ha ! ' exclaimed Luther, ' there you go, you common vagabone ; 
 but a sweet perfume do you lave behind you ! ' 
 
 " Now, Phadrick, that's the way the Protestant Church was invinted 
 by the divil an' Martin Luther, Harry the Aighth, an' his daughther 
 Elizabeth, who was then Queen o' Scotland, both came in an' sup- 
 ported him aftherwards." 
 
 "Well, by the livin', Dinny, I dunna where you get all this deep 
 read in' ! " 
 
 " Sure he gets it all in the Dixonary." 
 
 " Bedad, that Dixonary must be a fine book entirely, to thim that 
 can undherstand it." 
 
 " But, Dinny. will you tell Phadrick the Case of Conscience atween 
 Barny Branagan's two goats an' Para Ghastha's mare ? " 
 
 " Fadher, if you were a grammarian I'd castigate your incom- 
 patibility as it desarves — I'd lay the scourge o' syntax upon you, as 
 no man ever got it since the invintion o' the nine parts o' speech. By 
 what rule of logic can you say that aither Barny Branagan's goats or 
 Parra Ghastha's mare had a conscience ? I tell you it wasn't they had 
 the conscience, but the divine who decided the difficulty. Phadrick, 
 lie down till I illusthrate." 
 
 " How is that, Dinny? I can hear you sittin'." 
 
 " Lie down, you reptile, or I shall decline the narration altogether." 
 
 " Arra, lie down, Phadrick ; sure he only wants to show you the 
 rason o' the thing." 
 
 " Well, well ; I'm down. Now, Dinny, don't let your feet be too 
 larned, if you plase." 
 
66 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOIXG TO MAYNOOTIT. 
 
 "Silence! — taceto! you reptile. Now, Phadrick, here, on this side 
 o' you, lies Barny Branagan's field ; an' there, on that side, lies a field 
 of Parra Ghastha's : you're the ditch o' mud betuxt them." 
 
 " The ditch o' mud ! Faix, that's dacent ! " 
 
 "Now here, on Barny Branagan's side, feeds Parra Ghastha's mare ; 
 an' there, on Parra Ghastha's side, feed Barny Branagan's goats. Do 
 you comprehend .'* Do you insinuate .-' " 
 
 " I do — I do. Death alive ! there's no use in punchin' my sides wid 
 your feet that way." 
 
 " Well, get up now an' set your ears." 
 
 " Now listen to him Phadrick ! " 
 
 " It was one night in winter, when all nature shone in the nocturnal 
 beauty of tenebrosity : the sun had set about three hours before ; an', 
 accordin' to the best logicians, there was a dearth of light. It's the 
 general opinion of philosophers — that is, of the soundest o' them — that 
 when the sun is down, the moon an' stars are usually up ; an' so they 
 were on the night that I'm narratin' about. The moon was, wid great 
 respect to her character, night-walkin' in the sky ; and the stars vege- 
 tated in celestial genuflexion around her. Nature, Phadrick, was in 
 great state ; the earth was undher our feet, an' the sky above us. The 
 frost, too, was hard, Phadrick, the air keen, an' the grass tendher. All 
 things were enrobed wid verisimilitude an' scrupulosity. In this 
 manner was the terraqueous part of our system, when Parra Ghastha's 
 mare, after havin' taken a cowld collation on Barny Branagan's grass, 
 was returnin' to her master's side o' the merin ; an' Barny Branagan's 
 goats, havin' tasted the sweets of Parra Ghastha's cabbages, were on 
 their way acrass the said merin to their own side. Now it so happened 
 that they met exactly at a narrow gap in the ditch behind Rosha Hal- 
 pin's house. The goats, bein' coupled together, got one on each side 
 of the rift, wid the rope that coupled them extended acrass it. The 
 mare stood in the middle of it, so that the goats were in the way of the 
 mare, an' the mare in the way of the goats. In the meantime they 
 surveyed one another wid great composure, but had neither of them the 
 politeness to stir, until Rosha Halpin came suddenly out, an' emptied 
 a vessel of untransparent wather into the ditch. The mare, who must 
 have been an animal endowed wid great sensibility of soul, stooped her 
 head suddenly at the noise ; an' the goats, who were equally sentimen- 
 tal, gave a start from nervishness. The mare, on raisin' her head came 
 in contact wid the cord that united the goats ; an' the goats, havin' lost 
 their commandin' position, came in contact wid the neck o' the mare. 
 Quid imdtis ? They pulled an' she pulled, an' she pulled an' they 
 pulled, until at length the mare was compelled to practise the virtue of 
 resignation in the ditch, wid the goats about her neck. She died by 
 suspinsion ; but the mettlesome ould crathur, wid a love of justice that 
 did her honour, hanged the goats in requital ; for they departed this 
 vale of tears on the mountain-side along wid her, so that they had 
 the satisfaction of dyin' a social death together. Now, Phadrick, 
 you quadruped, the case of conscience is, whether Parra Ghastha 
 has a right to make restitution to Barny Branagan for the loss o< 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. ^7 
 
 his goats, or Barny Branagan to Parra Ghastha for the loss of his 
 inare?" 
 
 " Bedad. that's a puzzler ! " 
 
 " Isn't it. Phadrick ? But wait till you hear how he'll clear it up ! 
 Do it for Phadrick, Dinny." 
 
 " Yis, Phadrick, I'll illusthrate your intellects by divinity. You see, 
 Phadrick, you're to suppose me to be in the chair, as Confessor. Very 
 well — or valde, in the larned languages — Parra Ghastha comes to con- 
 fess to me, an' tells me that Barny Branagan wants to be paid for his 
 goats. I tell him it's a disputed point, an' that the price o' the goats 
 must go to the Church. On the other hand, Barny Branagan tells me 
 that Parra Ghastha wishes to be paid for his mare. I say, again, it's a 
 disputed point, an' that the price o' the mare must go to the Church — 
 the amount of the proceeds to be applied in prayer towards the benefit 
 of the parties in the first instance, an' of the faithful in general 
 aftherwards." 
 
 "Phadrick!!!" 
 
 " Oh, that I may never, but he bates the globe I " 
 
 Denny's character is a very cominon one in the remote parts of 
 Ireland, where knowledge is novelty, and where the shghtest tinge of 
 learning is looked upon with such reverence and admiration as can 
 be properly understood only by those who have an opportunity of 
 witnessing it. Indeed, few circumstances prove the great moral in- 
 fluence which the Irish priesthood possess over the common people 
 more forcibly than the extraordinary respect paid by the latter to such 
 as are designed for the " mission." The moment the determination is 
 made, an incipient sanctity begins, as it were, to consecrate the young 
 priest, and a high opinion of his learning and talents to be enter- 
 tained, no matter how dull he may be, so far as honest nature is con- 
 cerned. Whatever he says is sure to have some hidden meaning in it, 
 that would be highly edifying if they themselves understood it. But 
 their own humility comes in here to prop up his talents ; and whatso- 
 ever perplexity there may be in the sense of what he utters is 
 immediately attributed to learning altogether beyond their depth. 
 
 Love of learning is a conspicuous principle in an Irish peasant ; and 
 in no instance is it seen to greater advantage than when the object of 
 it appears in the " makins of a priest." Among all a peasant's good 
 and evil qualities, this is not the least amiable. How his eye will 
 dance in his head with pride, when the young priest thunders out a line 
 of Virgil or Homer, a sentence from Cicero, or a rule from syntax ! 
 And with what complacency and aft''ection will the father and relations 
 of such a person, when sitting during a winter evening about the 
 hearth, demand from him a translation of what he repeats, or a gram- 
 matical analysis, in which he must show the dependencies and relations 
 of word upon word — the concord, the verb, the mood, the gender, and 
 the case ; into every one and all of which the learned youth enters 
 with an air of oracular importance, and a polysyllabicism of language 
 that fails not in confounding them with astonishment and edification. 
 Neither does Paddy confine himself to Latin or Greek, for his curiosity 
 
6S DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSV GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 in hearing a little upon all known branches of human learning is 
 boundless. When a lad is desii^ncd for the priesthood, he is, as if by 
 a species of intuition, supposed to know more or less of everything ; 
 astronomy, fluxions, Hebrew, Arabic, and the black art are subjects 
 upon which he is frequently expected to dilate ; and vanity scruples 
 not, under the protection of their ignorance, to lead the erudite youth 
 through what they believe to be the highest regions of imagination, or 
 the profoundest depths of science and philosophy. 
 
 It is, indeed, in those brilliant moments, when the young priest is 
 launching out in full glory upon some topic of which he knows not a 
 syllable, that it would be a learned luxury to catch him. These flights, 
 however, are very pardonable, when we consider the importance they 
 give him in the eyes of his friends, and reflect upon that lofty and 
 contemptuous pride, and those delectable sensations, which the appear- 
 ance of superior knowledge gives to the pedant, whether raw or trained, 
 high or low, in this profession or the other. It matters little that such 
 a feeling dilates the vanity in proportion to the absence of real know- 
 ledge or good sense : it is not real but affected knowledge we are 
 writing about. Pride is confined to no condition ; nor is the juvenile 
 pedantry of a youth upon the hob of an Irish chimney-corner much, 
 different from the pride which sits upon the brow of a worthy Lord 
 Mayor, freshly knighted, lolling with strained dignity beside his 
 honourable brother, the mace, during a city procession ; or of a Lady 
 Mayoress, when she reads upon a dead-wall her own name, flaming in 
 yellow capitals, at the head of a subscription ball ; or, what is better 
 still, the contemptuous glance which, while about to open the said ball, 
 her ladyship throws at that poor creature and upstart — the sheriff's wife. 
 
 In addition, however, to the enjoyment of this assumption of 
 profound learning which characterises the young priest, a different 
 spirit, considerably more practical, often induces him to hook in other 
 motives. The learning of Denis O'Shaughnessy, for intance, blazed 
 with peculiar lustre whenever he felt himself out at elbows ; for the 
 logic with which he was able to prove the connection between his 
 erudition and a woollen-draper's shop was, like tht ignorance of those 
 who are to be saved, invincible. Whenever his father considered a 
 display of the son's powers in controversy to be capital, Denis, who 
 knew the inollia ioiipora /audi, applied to him for a hat. Wlicnever 
 he drew a heretic as a person who will be found hereafter without 
 the wedding garment, and clinched the argument with half a dozen 
 quotations from jyntax or Greek grammar, he uniformly came down 
 upon the father for a coat, the cloth of which was fine in proportion to 
 the web of logic he wove during the disputation. Whenever he seated 
 himself in the chair of rhetoric, or gave an edifying homily on prayer, 
 with such eloquence as rendered the father's admiration altogether 
 inexpressible, he applied for a pair of small-clothes ; and if, in the e.x- 
 cursiveness of his vigorous imagination he travelled anywhere beyond 
 the bounds of common sense, he was certain to secure a pair of shoes. 
 
 This, of course, did not escape the satirical observation of the 
 neighbours, who commented upon the circumstance with that good- 
 
DENIS 0*SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 69 
 
 humour which renders their mother-wit so pleasant and spicy. The 
 scenes where many of these displays took place varied accord'ng to 
 the occurrence of those usual incidents which diversify countiylife. 
 Sometimes old Denis's hearth was selected, at others a neighbouring 
 wake-house, and not unfrequently the chapel-green, where, surrounded 
 by a crowd of eager listeners, the young priest and his Latin would 
 succeed in throwing the hedge-schoolmaster and his problems com- 
 pletely into the shade. 
 
 The father's pride, on these occasions, always prompted him to 
 become the aggressor ; but he only did this to draw out the talents of 
 his son to more advantage. Never was man foiled with less regret 
 than old Denis ; nor did ever man more bitterly repent those little 
 touches nf vanity, which sometimes induced him, when an opportunity 
 of prosiia,ung Denny arrived, to show what he could have done, by 
 giving the son's argument an unexpected brain-blow. These accidental 
 defeats always brought the son more than he lost by them ; for the 
 father usually made him a peace-offering in the shape of pocket-money, 
 books, or clothes. The great amusement of the peasantry around the 
 chapel-green of a Sunday was to hear the father and son engaged 
 in argument ; and so simple was the character of both that their 
 acquaintances declared they could know by the state of young Denis's 
 coat, and the swaggering grasp with which old Denis held his staff, 
 that an encounter was about to take place. 
 
 "Young Shaughnessy's gettin' bare," they would observe ; "there'll 
 be hard arguin' till he gets the clothes. He's puttin' in for a black 
 coat now, he's so grave. Go on, Denny," they would say again : 
 " more power an' a dacenter sleeve to your elbow. Stick to him ! — 
 very good ! — that's a clincher ! — you're gone beyond the skirts, Denny ! 
 — let him pocket that larnin' ! Dinis, you're bate, body an' slaves ! ^ 
 — you're no match for the gorsoon, Dinis. Good agin, abouchal ! — 
 that's puttin' the collar on it ! " And so on, varying the phrase 
 according to the whim of the moment. 
 
 Nothing gave the father greater pleasure than these observations, 
 although the affected earnestness with which he encountered the son, 
 and his pretended indignation at those who affirmed him to have been 
 beaten, were highly amusing to the bystanders. 
 
 Such discussions were considered highly edifying and instructive by 
 them, and they were sometimes at a loss whether to give the palm of 
 ingenuity and eloquence to the father or Denny. The reader, how- 
 ever, must not suppose that the contemptuous expressions scattered 
 over Denny's rhetorical flourishes, when discussing these points 
 with his father, implied want of reverence or affection — far from it. 
 On the contrary, the father always liked him the better for them, 
 inasmuch as they proved Denny's vast superiority over himself. 
 They were, therefore, only the licences and embellishments of dis- 
 cussion, tolerated and encouraged by him to whom they were applied. 
 
 Denny at length shot up to the stature of a young man, probably 
 
 ' Altogether^completely. 
 
7° DENIS O'SHAi'GHAT.SSV GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 
 
 about eighteen ; and during the two last years of his school studies he 
 presented a considerable if not a decidedly marked change in his 
 character and external appearance. His pride became moie haughty, 
 and the consciousness of his learning, and of the influence annexed to 
 the profession for which he was intended, put itself forth with less 
 discussion but more energy. His manners and attitude became con- 
 strained ; the expression of his face began to darken, and to mould 
 itself into a stiff, gloomy formality that was strongly calculated to con- 
 ceal the natural traits of his character. His dress, too, had undergone a 
 great improvement ; for instead of wearing shop blue or brown, he 
 wore good black broadcloth, had a watch in his fob, a respectable hat, 
 and finer linen. 
 
 This change, now necessary in consequence of his semi-clerical 
 character, influenced him through every relation of life. His nearest 
 friends, whilst their pride in him increased, fell off to a more respectful 
 distance ; and his deportment, so far from being that of the good- 
 humoured Bobadil of polemics and pedantry upon all known and 
 unknown subjects, became silent and solemn, checkered only during 
 the moments of family conviviality by an excessive flow of that 
 pleasant and still incomprehensible learning for the possession of 
 which he had so honestly earned himself a character. Much of his 
 pedantry was now lopped off, it is true, because the pride of his station 
 prevented him from entering into discussions with the people. It cost 
 him, however, some trouble to overcome his early tendencies ; nor, 
 after sll, can it be affirmed that he altogether succeeded in eradicating 
 them. Many a grave shrug, and solemn wink, and formal nod had he 
 to answer for, when his foot touched the debateable land of contro- 
 versy. Though contrary to the keeping and dignity of his position in 
 life, yet did honest Denny then get desperately significant, and his face 
 amazingly argumentative. Many a pretender has he fairly annihilated 
 by a single smile of contempt that contained more logic than a long 
 argument from another man. In fact, the whole host of rhetorical 
 figures seemed breaking out of his face. By a solitary glance of his 
 eye he could look a man into a dilemma, and practise a sorites, or a 
 home-made syllogism, by the various shiftings of his countenance, as 
 clearly as if he had risen to the full flight of his former bombast. He 
 had, in short, a priind facie disposition to controversy ; his nose was 
 set upon his face in a kind of firm defiance against infidels, heretics, 
 and excommunicated persons ; and when it curled with contempt of 
 another, or with pride in the power that slumbered in itself, it seemed 
 to give the face from which it projected, and the world at large, the 
 assurance of a controversialist. Nor did his negative talents rest 
 here : a twist of his mouth to the right or left ear was nicely shaded 
 away into a negative or affirmative, according as he intended it should 
 be taken ; and when he used his pocket-handkercief he was certain, 
 though without uttering a syllable, to silence his opponent, so con- 
 temptuously did his intonations rout the arguments brought against 
 him. The significance and force of all these were heightened by the 
 mystery in which they were wrapped ; for whenever unbending decorum 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 7i 
 
 constrained him to decline the challenges of the ignorant, with whom 
 discussion would now be degradation, what could he do to soothe his 
 vanity, except, as the poet says, with folded arms and a shaking of the 
 head to exclaim — " Well, well, lue knoiv ;" or, " We could, an if we 
 would J " or, " If we list to speak; " or, " There be, an if they might j " 
 which left the imaginations of his hearers at liberty to conceive more fully 
 of those powers which his modesty declined exhibiting. For some time 
 before he got absolutely and finally into black even his father ga\e up 
 his accustomed argument in despair. The son had become an adept 
 in all the intricacies and obscurities of Latin, and literally overwhelmed 
 the old man with small inundations of that language, which, though, 
 like all inundations, rather muddy, yet were quite sufficient to sweep 
 the worthy veteran before them. 
 
 Young Denis O'Shaughnessy was now pretty nearly finished at 
 school, that is say, almost fit for Maynooth ; his studies, though 
 higher, were less assiduous ; his leisure was consequently greater ; 
 and it is well known that a person of his character is never asked to 
 work, except it be his own pleasure to labour a day or two by way of 
 amusement. He might now be seen walking of a warm day along the 
 shady sides of the hedges, with a book in his hand, or stretched list- 
 lessly upon the grass, at study ; or sauntering about among the neigh- 
 bouring workmen, with his fore-finger between the leaves of his book, 
 a monument of learning and industry . 
 
 It is not to be supposed, however, that Denis, who was an Irishman 
 of eighteen, handsome and well made, could be altogether insensible 
 to female beauty and the seductive charms of the sex. During his 
 easy saunterings — or, as the Scotch say, " daunerings" — along the road 
 and about the green hedges, it often happened that he met a neigh- 
 bour's daughter ; and Denis, who, ay a young gentleman of breeding, 
 was bound to be courteous, could not do less than accost her with 
 becoming urbanity. 
 
 " Good mornin', Miss Norah," we will suppose him to say, when 
 meeting a good-looking, arch girl of his acquaintance. 
 
 '■ Good morrow, Mr. O'Shaughnessy. I hope you're well, sir?" 
 
 "Indeed, I am, at present, in superlatively ecclesiastical health, 
 Miss Norah. I hope all j^«r family are well.'"' 
 
 " All very well, I thank you, sir, barrin' myself." 
 
 " An' pray what's the matter wid you, Miss Norah ? I hope" (with 
 an exceeding grave but complacent smile) " you're not affected wid the 
 amorous passion of love?" 
 
 " Oh, that ud be tellin', Mr. O'Shaughnessy ! But supposin' I am, 
 what ought I to do ? " 
 
 "That's really a profound question, Miss i-Iorah. But though I 
 cannot tell you what to do, I can tell you what I think." 
 
 " An' what is that, sir ? " 
 
 " Why, Miss Norah, that he who is so beatified as to secure you in 
 the matrimonial paction — compactuni it is in the larned languages — in 
 other words — to condescend to your capacity — he who is married to 
 you will be a happy man. There is a juvenility about your eyes, and 
 
72 DEyiS O'SHAUGHNE^SY GCING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 an efflorescence of amaranthine odoriferousness about your cheeks and 
 breath, that are enough to communicate the centrifugal motion to any 
 brain adorned with the slightest modicum of sentiment." 
 
 "He who marries me will be a hippy man !" she exclaimed, repeat- 
 ing his expressions, probably because they were the only words she 
 understood. " I hope so, Misther O'Shaughnessy. But, sure enough, 
 who'd expect to hear sich soft talk from the makins of a priest ! Very 
 well, sir ! Upon my word I'll be tellin' Father Finnerty that you do 
 be spakin' up to the girls ! — Now ! !" 
 
 " No, no, Miss Norah ; you wouldn't do that merely for my savin' 
 that you're the handsomest girl in the parish. Father Finnerty him- 
 self might say as much, for it would be nothing but veracity — nothing 
 but truth, IMiss Norah." 
 
 "Ay, but he wouldn't be pattin' me on the cheek! Be asy, Mr. 
 O'Shaughnessy , there's Darby Brady lookin' at you, an' he'll be tellin'! " 
 
 " Where .' " said Denis, starting. 
 
 The girl replied only by an arch laugh. 
 
 " Upon my classicality, Miss Norah, you're a rogue ; there's nobody 
 lookin', you seraphim ! " 
 
 " Then there's a pair of us rogues, Misther Dinis." 
 
 " No, no, Miss Norah ; I was only feeling your cheek as a philo- 
 sophical experiment. Philosophers often do it, in order to make out 
 an hypothesis. They call it in Scotland_/l'^/t;j-(7//;j/." 
 
 " Misther Dinis, if I'm not married till you're a priest, won't you 
 say the words for me for nothing ? " 
 
 " So long as you ask it wid such a brilliant smile, Miss Norah, do 
 you think that any educated young man, who has read about beauty 
 an' sentimentality in books, could refuse you -^ But you knew, Miss 
 Norah, that the clergyman who marries a couple has always the right 
 of kissin' the bride. Now, I wouldn't claim my right then j but it 
 
 might be possible by a present compromise to — to What would 
 
 you think, for instance, to give me that nozu ?" 
 
 " To give you what .'' " 
 
 " Why the indeed, it's but a slight recompense, the — k — the 
 
 salutation — the kiss. You know what t'\sting the head means ? " 
 
 " Faix, Misther Dinis, you're a great rogue. Who'd think it, indeed ? 
 Sure enough, they say smooth water runs deep ! Why one ud suppose 
 butther wouldn't melt in your mouth to look at you ; an' yet you want 
 to be toyin' wid the girls ! Indeed an' faix, it's a great shame for the 
 likes o' you, that's bint on Maynooth, to be thinkin' of coortin' at all. 
 But wait ! Upon my word, I'll have a fine story agin you, plase 
 goodness ! " 
 
 This latter threat the mischievous girl threw out with a grave face, 
 in order to bring Denis into a more ridiculous dilemma : for she saw 
 clearly that he laboured under a heavy struggle between timidity and 
 gallantry. The ruse succeeded. Denis immediately changed his 
 tone, and composed his face into a grave admonitory aspect, nearly 
 ■•qual to a homily on prudence and good conduct. 
 
 "Miss Norah," said he, " perhaps 1 acted wrong in carrying mj 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 73 
 
 trial of your disposition too far. It's a thing, however, tvhich we who 
 are intended for the Church are ordered to do, that we nay be able to 
 make out what are called, in this very book you see wid me, cases oj 
 conscience. But the task is now over, Aliss Norah ; and in requital for 
 your extreme good-nature, I am bound to administer to you a slight 
 lecture on decorum. 
 
 " In the first place, attend 3'our duties regularly. I will soon be 
 goin' to Maynooth ; an' as you are one of the girls for whom I have 
 the greatest regard, I will expect on my return to hear a good account 
 of you. It is possible that you will be introduced in my absence to 
 the honours of matrimony ; but even so, I know that peace, an' 
 taciturnity, an' submission will be your most signal qualifications. 
 You will then be in a situation equal to that of a Roman matron. Af 
 for us, Miss Norah, we are subject to the dilapidations of occasional 
 elevation. The ambrosia of sentiment lies in our path. We care not 
 for the terrestrialities of life, when separated from the great principle 
 of the poet — 
 
 ' Omnia vin cit amor, ct nos cedamus amori,' 
 
 That's Hebrew, Miss Norah !" 
 
 " They say you know a power of larnin', Misther Dinis." 
 
 " Yes, I know the seven languages ; but what is all that compared 
 to the cardinal virtues ? This world is a mere bird of passage. Miss 
 Norah ; and it behoves us to be ever on the wing for futurity and pre- 
 meditation. Now, will you remember the excellent moral advice 1 
 have given you ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I will, sir," replied the roguish minx, tripping away, "par- 
 ticularly that you promised to marry me for nothin' if I'd give you a 
 kiss!" 
 
 " Give up everything like levity. Miss Norah. Attend your du " 
 
 " You're a fool, Misther O'Shaughnessy ! WTiy didn't you take the 
 kiss an' spare the king's English .'' " 
 
 On making this observation she redoubled her pace, and left Denis 
 now perfectly sensible that he was a proper subject for her mirth. Hi? 
 turned about, and called after her : 
 
 "Had I known you were only in jocosity, Miss Norah, upon m.y 
 classicality I'd have given you the k -" 
 
 He now perceived that she was beyond hearing, and that it was 
 unnecessary to finish the sentence. 
 
 These accidental meetings between Denis and the pretty daughters 
 of the neighbouring farmers were, somehow very frequent. Our hero, 
 however, was always extremely judicious in tempering his gallantry 
 and moral advice to his young female acquaintances. In the begin- 
 ning of the conversation he was sly and complimentary, afterwards 
 he became more insinuating, then more direct in his praises of their 
 beauty ; but as his timidity on the point of character was known, the 
 mischief-loving girls uniformly ended with a threat of exposing him to 
 the priest, to his friends, or to the neighbours, as the whim directed 
 them. This brought him back to his morality again ; he immediately 
 
^^ DEmS O'SHAUGHNESSV GO/XG TO MAYiYOOTH. 
 
 commenced an exhortation touching their religious duties, thus hoping 
 to cover, by a trait more becoming his future destination, the httle 
 harmless badinage in which he had indulged. 
 
 The girls themselves frequently made him the topic of convjrsation 
 — a proof that he was not altogether indifferent to them. In these little 
 conclaves he came very well off. Among them all it was admitted 
 "that there was a rogue in his coat," but this was by no means uttered 
 in a tone of voice that betrayed any disrelish to him. On the contrary, 
 they often said — and many of them with an involuntary sigh — that 
 " he was too purty to be made a priest of ;"' others, that '' it was a pity 
 to make a priest of so fine a young man ;" others, again, that " if he 
 must be a priest, the colleens would be all flockin' to hear his sar- 
 mons." There was one, however, among them who never mentioned 
 him either in praise or censure ; but the rapid changes of her expres- 
 sive countenance gave strong indications to an observing eye that his 
 name, person, and future prospects were capable of exciting a deep 
 and intense interest in her heart. 
 
 At length he began to appear on horseback ; and as he had hitherto 
 been in the habit of taking that exercise bare-backed, so he was 
 resolved to get into a saddle, and ride like a gentleman. Henceforth 
 he might be seen mounted upon one of his father's horses, quite erect, 
 and with but one spur, which was, in fact, the only spur, except the 
 whisky bottle, that had been in the family for three generations. This 
 was used, he declared, for no other purpose in life than that of stimu- 
 lating the animal to the true clerical trot. 
 
 From the moment he became a mounted man he assumed an air of 
 less equivocal command in the family ; and not only to his own rela- 
 tions was this authority manifested, but to his more distant acquaint- 
 ances, and, in short, to the whole parish. The people now began to 
 touch their hats to him, which act of respect he returned as much in 
 imitation of the parish priest as possible. They also began to ab ^im 
 what o'clock it was, and Denis, with a peculiar condescension, balanced 
 still with becoming dignity, stopped, pulled out his watch, and told 
 the hour, after which he held it for a few seconds to his ear with an 
 experienced air, then put it in a dignified manner in his fob, touched 
 the horse with the solitary spur, put himself more erect, and pro- 
 ceeded with — as he himself used to say when condemning the pride 
 of the curate — " all the lordliness of the parochial priest." 
 
 The notions which the peasantry entertain of a priest's learning are 
 as extravagant as they are amusing, and such, indeed, as would be too 
 much for the pedantic vanity inseparable from a half-educated man to 
 disclaim. The people are sufficiently reasonable, however, to admit 
 gradations in the extent of knowledge acquired by their pastors ; but 
 some of the figures and illustrations which they use in estimating their 
 comparative merits are highly ludicrous. I remember a young man 
 who, at the age of twenty-two, set about preparing himself for the 
 Church. He lived in the bosom of a mountain, whose rugged breast 
 he cultivated with a strength proportioned to the difficulty of sub- 
 duing it. He was a powertul ycung fellow, quiet and inoffensive in 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 75 
 
 his manners, and possessed of great natural talents. It was upon a 
 Monday morning, in the month of June, that the schoolroom-door 
 opened a foot and a half wider than usual, and a huge, colossal figure 
 stalked in, with a kind of bashful laugh upon his coup-tenance, as if 
 conscious of the disproportion betwixt his immense s ee and that of 
 the other schoolboys. His figure, without a syllable of exaggeration, 
 was precisely such as I am about to describe. His he'ght six feet, 
 his shoulders of an enormous breadth, his head red as fiie ; his body- 
 coat made after the manner of his grandfather's — the skirts of it being 
 near his heels, and the buttons behind little less than eighteen inches 
 asunder. The pockets were cut so low that, when he stretched his arm 
 to its full length, his fingers could not get further than the flaps ; the 
 breast of it was about nine inches longer than was necessary, so that, 
 when he buttoned it, he appeared all body. He wore no cravat, nor 
 was his shirt-collar either pinned or buttoned, but lay open, as if to 
 disclose an immense neck and chest scorched by the sun into a rich 
 and healthy scarlet. His chin was covered with a sole of red, dry 
 bristles, that appeared to have been clipped about a fortnight before ; 
 and as he v/ore neither shoe nor stocking, he exhibited a pair of legs 
 to which Rob Roy's were drumsticks. They gave proof of power- 
 ful strength, and the thick fell of bristly hair with which they were 
 covered argued an amazing hardihood of constitution and tremendous 
 physical energy. 
 
 " Sure, masther, I'm comin' to school to you ! " were the first words 
 he uttered. 
 
 Now there ran beneath the master's solemnity of manner a broad 
 but shallow under-current of humour which agreed but poorly with his 
 pompous display of learning. On this occasion his struggle to retain 
 the grave and overcome the ludicrous was unavailing. The startling 
 fact, thus uncouthly announced by so grotesque a candidate for 
 classical knowledge, occasioned him to receive the intelligence with 
 more mirth than was consistent with good breeding. His pupils, too, 
 who were hitherto afraid to laugh aloud, on observing his countenance 
 dilate into an expression of laughter which he could not conceal, made 
 the roof of the house ring with their mirth. 
 
 " Silence, gintlemen ! " said he, " legite, perlegite, relegite — study, 
 gintlemen, study — pluck the tree of kr/owledge, I say, while the fruit is 
 in season. Denny Shaughnessy, what are you facetious for ? Quid 
 rides, Dionysi? And so, Pether — is Pether your pronomen — quo 
 nojuine gowdes ? Silence, boys ! — perhaps he was at Latin before 
 and we'll try him — qtco noiiitne gowdes, Pethre ? " 
 
 A stare of awkward perplexity was the only reply he could get fron 
 the colossus he addressed. 
 
 " And so you're fished up from the Streights at last, Pether?" 
 
 "Sir, my name's not Pether. My father's name is Paddy Doorish 
 but my own is Franky. I was born in Lisnagh ; but we lived doubk 
 as long as I can mind in the Mountain Bar." 
 " And, Franky, what put Latin into your head ? " 
 " There was no Latin put into my head ; I'm comin' to you for that.' 
 
76 DENIS 0'SHAUGHNES3Y GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 " And, you graceful sprig of juvenility, have you the conscience to 
 think that I'd undhertake to fill what you carry on your sho widen on 
 the same terms that I'd take for replenishing the head of a rasonable 
 youth ? Would you be so unjust in all the principles of correct 
 erudition as to expect that, my worthy man-mountain ? " 
 
 " I don't expect it," said Frank ; " all that's in your head wouldn't 
 fill a corner of mine, if you go accorriin' to size ; but I'll pay you for 
 tachin' me as much as you know yourself, an' the more I lam the less 
 pains you'll have wid mc." 
 
 Franky, however, made an amazing progress — so very rapid, indeed, 
 that in about three years after that day he found himself in Maynooth, 
 and in three years more was an active curate, to whom that very 
 teacher appeared as slavishly submissive as if he had never ridiculed 
 his vulgarity or ungainly dimensions. Poor Frank, however, in con- 
 sequence of the rapid progress he made, and of the very short interval 
 which elapsed from the period of his commencing Latin until that of 
 his ordination, was assigned by the people the lowest grade in learn- 
 ing. The term used to designate the rank which they supposed him 
 to hold was both humorous and expressive. 
 
 " Franky." they would say, " is no finished priest in the larnin' ; hes 
 but a scowdher." 
 
 Now a scoivdher is an oaten cake laid upon a pair of tongs placed 
 over the greeshmeg-Ji, or embers, that are spread out for the purpose of 
 baking it. In a few minutes the side first laid down is scorched : it 
 is then turned, and the other side is also scorched : so that it has the 
 appearance of being baked, though it is actually quite raw within. 
 It is a homely but an exceedingly apt illustration, when applied to 
 such men as Frank. 
 
 " Poor Frank," they would observe, " is but a scowdher ; the sign of 
 the tongs — No. ii — is upon him ; so that it is asy known he never was 
 laid to the muddha arraJi"'^ — that is to say, properly baked — or duly 
 and thoroughly educated. 
 
 Denis, however, to resume more directly the thread of our narrative, 
 on finding himself mounted, took an inveterate prejudice against 
 walking. There was something, he thought, far more dignified in 
 riding than in pacing slowly upon the earth, like a common 
 man, who had not the justification of Latin and Greek for becoming 
 an equestrian. Besides this accomplishment, there were also many 
 other habits to be broken off, and more genteel ones to be adopted 
 in their place. These were all suggested by his rising pride ; 
 and, in sooth, they smacked strongly of that adroitness with which 
 the Irish priest, and every priest, contrives to accomplish the pur- 
 pose of feeding well through the ostcnsi'ole medium of a different 
 motive. 
 
 He accordingly took his father aside one morning, after he had 
 
 » The muddha arran is literally " the bread slick," a term in opposition to the 
 tcowdher. U is a forked stick with three legs, that stands opposite the fire, and 
 supports the cake, which is placed on the edge until it is gradually baked. The 
 icowdher is, for the most part, made in cases of hurrv. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 77 
 
 eaten a more meagre breakfast than usual, and, after licking his lips^ 
 addressed him in these words : — 
 
 " I think, father, that upon considerating the consequence to which 
 I am now entitled, and the degree of respectability which, in my own 
 person — in propria perso7id — 1 communicate to the vulgarians with 
 whom I am connected — I call them vulgarians from no derogatory 
 motive ; but you will concede yourself that they are ignorant of the 
 larned languages, an' consequently, though dacent enough, still, in 
 reference to Latin an' Greek, but vulgarians. Well ! Quid iniiltis ? — 
 I say, that taking all these things into speculation, looking at them — 
 veluti in specnlu?n — it is neither dacent nor becoming that I should 
 ate in the manner I have done, as vulgarly as themselves — that I 
 should ate, I say, any longer without knife and fork. Neither, I 
 announce, shall I in future drink my milk any longer, as I have, with 
 all humility, done hitherto, out of a noggin ; nor continue to disrobe 
 my potatoes any longer without a becoming instrument. I must also 
 have better viands to consume. You are not to be informed that I 
 am in that situation of life in which, from my education and other 
 accomplishments, 1 must be estimated as duly qualified to ate beef 
 and mutton instead of bacon, an' to have my tay breakfast instead of 
 stirabout, which, in polite society, is designated ^f/'rzV^^^. You know 
 yourself, and must acknowledge, that I'm soon likely to confer dis- 
 tinction and pre-eminence upon the poor illiterate, but honest creatures, 
 with whom I am associated in the bonds of blood-relationship. If 
 I were a dunce, or a booby, or a leather-head, the case might be 
 different ; but you yourself are well acquainted with my talents at 
 logic and conthroversy ; an' I have sound rasons and good authority,, 
 which I could quote, if necessary, for proving that nothing increases 
 the weight of the brain, and accelerates to gravity and solidity, more 
 than good feeding. Pay attention, therefore, to my words, for I expect 
 that they will be duly observed: — buy me a knife and fork; and 
 when I get them, it's not to lay them past to rust, you consave. The 
 beef and mutton must follow ; and in future I'm resolved to have my 
 tay breakfast. There are geese and turkeys and pullets enough about 
 the yard, and I am bent on accomplishmg myself in the art of carving 
 them. I'm not the man now to be placed among the other riff-raff of 
 the family over a basket of potatoes, wid a black clerical coat upon me, 
 and a noggin of milk under my arm ! I tell you the system must be 
 changed : the schoolmaster is abroad, and I'll tolerate such vulgarity 
 no longer. Now saddle the horse till I ride across the bog to Pether 
 Rafferty's station, where I'm to sarve mass : plase heaven, I'll soon be 
 able to say one myself, and give you all a lift in spirituals — ehem ! " 
 
 " Throth, Dinny, I b'lieve you're right, avick : and " 
 
 " Vick me no longer, father — that's another thing I forgot. It's full 
 time that I should be sirred ; and if my own relations won't call me 
 sir instead of Dinny, it's hardly to be expected that strangers will do 
 it. I wish to goodness you had never stigmatized me wid so vnlgai 
 an epithet as Dinny. The proper word is Dionysius ; and, in future, 
 I'll expect to be called Misther Dionysius." 
 
7S DENIS 0' SUA UGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTFI. 
 
 " Sure I or your mother needn't be sirrin' you, Dinny ? " 
 
 " i haven't made up my mind as to whether I'll demand that proof 
 of my respectability from you and my mother, or not ; but on this 
 I'm immovable, that instead of Dinny, you must, as I said, designate 
 me Dionysius." 
 
 " Well, well, avourneen, I suppose only it's right you wouldn't be 
 axin' us ; but I'm sure your poor mother will never be able to get her 
 tongue about Uionnisis, it's so long and larned a word." 
 
 *' It is a larned word, no doubt ; but she must persevere until she's 
 able to masther it. I wouldn't for three tenpennies that the priest 
 would hear one of you call me Dinny : it would degradate me very 
 much in his estimation. At all events, if my mother cannot manage 
 the orthography of Dionysius, let it be Denis, or anything but that 
 signature of vulgarity, Dinny. Now, father, you won't neglect to 
 revale what I've ordered to the family." 
 
 " No, indeed, I will not, avick— I mane Dionnisis, avourneen — I'll 
 tell them everything as you ordhered, but as to Dionnisis, I'm cock 
 sure that poor Mave will never be able to get her ould tongue about 
 so new-fangled a piece of larnin' as that is. Well, well, this know- 
 ledge bates the world ! " 
 
 When the horse was saddled, and Dionysius on his way with all 
 due pomp to the station, old Denis broke the matter to his wife. 
 
 " Mave, achora," said he, " I have sthrange news to tell you ; sure 
 Dionnisis is goin' to make himself a gintleman." 
 
 •' Sure what t " 
 
 " Dionnisis, our son Dionnisis, is goin' to make himself a gintleman ; 
 he'll ate no longer widout a knife and fork." 
 
 "Samts about us," exclaimed Mave, rising, and looking with alarm 
 into her husband's face — " saints about us, Denis, what is't ails you .'' 
 Sure there would be nothin' wrong wid you about the head, Denis.'' or 
 maybe it's a touch of a faver you've got, out riddling that corn bare- 
 headed, yistherday ? I remimber the time my aunt Bridget tuck the 
 scarlet faver she begun to rave and spake foolish in the same way." 
 
 '• Why, woman, if your aunt Bridget had a faver made up of all the 
 colours in the rainbow, I tell you I'm spakin' sinse ! Our son Dion- 
 nisis proved himself a gintleman out in the garden wid me about an 
 hour ago." 
 
 " I suppose so, Denis," she replied, humouring him, for she was still 
 doubly convinced that he laboured under some incipient malady, if 
 not under actual insanity ; " an' what son is this^ Dinny ? I've never 
 hc^rd of him before." 
 
 "Our son Denis, woman alive. You must know he's not to be 
 called Dinny or Dinis any more, but Dionnisis ; he's to begin atin' 
 wid a knife an' fork to-morrow ; we must get him beef and mutton, an' 
 a tay breakfast. He says it's not fair play in anyone that's so deep 
 read in the larnin' as he is to ate like a vulgarian, or to peel his 
 phatirjs wid his fingers, an' him knows so much Latin an Greek ; an' 
 my sowl to happiness, but he'll stick to the gintlemanly way of livm' 
 BO fai as the beef an' mutton an' tay is consarned." 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOL TH. 79 
 
 " He will ! An', Dinis Shaughnessy, who has a betther right to turn 
 gintleman nor the gorsoon that studied for that ? Isn't it proud you 
 ought to be that he has the spirit to think of sich things ? " 
 
 " I'll engage, Mave, on that point you'll find him spirited enough • 
 for my part, I don't begrudge him what he wants, but I heard the 
 people say that no man's a gintleman who's not College-bred, and you 
 know he's not that yet." 
 
 " You forget that he has gentle blood in his veins, Denis. There 
 was a day when my family, the Magennises, held their heads up ; and 
 Kolumkill says that the same time is to come back agin to all the ould 
 families. Who knows if it's altogether from hiviself he's takin' to the 
 beef an' mutton, but from propliecy j he knows what he's about, I'll 
 warrant him. For our part, it's not right for us to cross him in it ; it's 
 for the good of the Church, no doubt, an' we might lose more by a 
 blast upon the com or the cattle than he'd ate the other way. That's 
 my dhrame out that I had last night about him. I thought we were 
 all ^tf^//,?r somewhere that I can't rightly remimber ; but anyhow, there 
 was a great sight of people in it, an' high doins goin' an in the atin' 
 way. I looked about me, an' seen ever so many priests dressed all 
 like the Protestant clargy ; our Dinis was at the head of them, wid a 
 three-cocked hat an' a wig upon him ; he was cuttin' up beef an' 
 mutton at the rate of a weddin', an' dhrinkin' wine in metherfuls. 
 
 " ' Musha, Dinis,' says myself, ' what's all this for "f 
 
 " ' Why,' says he, ' it's all for the good of the Church an' the faithful. 
 I'm now Archbishop of the county,' says he, ' the Protestants are aU 
 banished, an' we are in their place.' 
 
 "The sorra one o' myself all this time but thought he was a priest 
 still ; so says I, ' Dinny, you're a wantin' to anoint Paddy Diarmud, 
 who's given over, an' if you don't make haste you won't overtake 
 him?' 
 
 "' He must wait then till mornin',' says Dinny, 'or if he chooses to 
 die against my will, an' the will o' the Church, let him take the quense- 
 quences. We're wealthy now.' 
 
 " I was so much frightened at tne kind of voice that he spoke to 
 me in that I awoke ; an' sure enough, the first thing I heard was the 
 fizzin' o' bacon in the pan. I wondered who could be up so early, an' 
 puttin' my head through the door, there was Dinny busy at it, wid 
 an ould knife in one hand, an' an iron skiver in the other, imitatin' a 
 fork. 
 
 *• ' What are you doin' so early, Dinny ?' says I. 
 
 " * I'm practisin',' says he. 
 
 "'What for?' says I. 
 
 " ' Oh, I'm practisin',' says he, ba.ck again, 'go to bed; I'm practisin' 
 for the Church, an' the station that's to be in Pether Raffert/s to-day.' 
 
 " Now, Dinny, between you an' me, that dhrame didn't come for 
 nothin'. So give the gorsoon his way, an' if he chooses to be a gintle- 
 man, why, let him ; he'll be the more honour to thim that reared him." 
 
 " Thrje for you, indeed, JVfave ; he always had a high spirit ever 
 since ha was intinded for the robes, and would have his own w ly and 
 
So DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 will in whatever he took into his head, right or wrong, as cleverly as if 
 he had the authority for it." 
 
 ** An' so he ought, scein' he wasn't to be slavin' at the spade like the 
 rest o' the family. The ways o' them that have great larnin' as he has 
 isn't like other people's ways — they must be humoured, and have their 
 own will, otherwise what ud they be betthcr than their neighbours ?" 
 
 The other arrangements laid down by Denis, touching his deter- 
 mination not to be addressed so familiarly by his brothers and sisters, 
 were next discussed in this conversation, and of course the same pre- 
 judice in his favour was manifested by his indulgent parents. The whole 
 code of his injunctions was subsequently disclosed to the family in all 
 its extent and rigour. Some of them heard it with surprise, and others 
 with that kind of dogged indignation evinced by those who are in some 
 degree prepared for the nature of the communication about to be laid 
 before them. Altogether the circumstances in which it placed them 
 were peculiar and embarrassing. The Irish peasant can seldom bear 
 to have the tenderness of domestic affection tampered with, whether 
 from pride, caprice, or any other motive not related to his prejudices. 
 In this instance the strongest feelings of the O'Shaughnessys were 
 brunted, as it were, in hostile array against each other ; and although 
 the moral force on each side was nearly equal, still the painful revulsion 
 produced by Denis's pride, as undervaluing their affection, and substi- 
 tuting the cold forms of artificial life for the warmth of honest hearts 
 like theirs, was, in the first burst of natural fervour, strongly and some- 
 what indignantly expressed. 
 
 Denis had been their pride, the privileged person among them— the 
 individual whose talents were to throw lustre upon a nameless and un- 
 known family ; the future priest — the embryo preacher of eminence — 
 the resistless controversialist — the holy father confessor — and perhaps, 
 for with that vivacity of imagination peculiar to the Irish, they could 
 scarcely limit his exaltation — perhaps the bishop of a whole diocese. 
 Had not the Lord Primate himself been the son of as humble a man .? 
 *'And who knows," said his youngest and fairest sister, who of all the 
 family was most devoted to him, "but Dinny might yet be a primate.'"' 
 And as she spoke, the tear of affection, pride, and enthusiasm glistened 
 in her eye. Denis, therefore, had been much, even in his youth, to 
 their simple hearts, and far more to their hopes and expectations than 
 he was in all the pride of his petty polemics ; but when he, before 
 whose merits, both real and imaginary, every heart among them bowed 
 as before the shrine of a tutelar saint, turned round, ere the destined 
 eminence he aimed at was half attained, and laid upon their fervent 
 affection the icy chain of pride and worldly etiquette, the act was felt 
 keenly and unexpectedly as the acute spasm of some sudden malady. 
 
 The father and mother, however, both defended him with great 
 warmth ; and by placing his motives in that point of view which 
 agreed best with their children's prejudices, they eventually succeeded 
 in reconciling his brothers and sisters in some degree to the necessity 
 of adopting the phraseology he proposed, that they might treat him 
 with suitable respect in the eye of the world. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 8i 
 
 " It's proud of him we ought to be," said his father, "and delighted 
 that he has sich a risin' spirit ; an' sure, the more respect is paid to 
 him, the greater credit he will be to ourselves." 
 
 " But sure, he has no right," said his eldest brother, " to be settin' 
 up for a gintleman till he's priested. I'm willin' enough to sir him, 
 only that it cuts me more than I'll say to think that I must be callin' 
 the boy that I'd spill the last dhrop of my blood for, afther the manner 
 of a sthranger ; and besides," he added, " I'm not clear but the neigh- 
 bours will be passin' remarks upon us, as they did when you and he 
 used to be arguin'." 
 
 " I'd like to see th«m that ud turn it into a joke," said his father ; " I 
 would let them know that Dinis O'Shaughnessy's dog is neither to be 
 made or meddled wid in a disrespectful manner, let alone his son. We 
 are not widout friends and connections that ud take our quarrel upon 
 them in his defince, if there was a needcessity for it ; but there will 
 not, for didn't my heart lep the other day to my throat wid delight 
 when I saw Larry Neil put his hand to his hat to him, comin' up the 
 Esker upon the mare ; an' may I never do an ill turn, if he didn't 
 answer the bow to Larry as if he was the priest of the parish already. 
 It's the wondher of the world how he picks up a jinteel thing anyhow, 
 an' ever did, since he was the hoith o' that." 
 
 " Why," said the mother, " what a norration yees rise about thratin' 
 the boy as everyone like him ought to be thrated. Wait till ye see 
 him a parish priest, and then ye'U be comin' round him to get your 
 daughters to keep house for him, and your sons edicated and made 
 priests of ; but now that the child takes a ginteel relish for beef and 
 mutton, and wants to be respected, yees are mane an' low spirited 
 enough to grumble about it," 
 
 " No, mother," said his youngest sister, bursting into tears, " I'd 
 beg it for him, sooner nor he should want ; but I can't bear to be 
 callin' my brother Dinny sh- — like a stranger. It looks as if / didn't 
 love him, or as if he was forgettin' us, or carin' less about us nor he 
 used to do." 
 
 This, in fact, was the root and ground of the opposition which 
 Denis's plan received at the hands of his relations ; it repressed the 
 cordial and affectionate intercourse which had hitherto subsisted be- 
 tween them ; but the pride of life, and, what is more, the pride of an 
 office which ought always to be associated with humility, had got into 
 his heart ; the vanity of learning, too, thin and shallow though it was, 
 inflated him ; and the effect of both was a gradual induration of feeling 
 — an habitual sense of his own importance, and a notion of supreme 
 conter. ,pt for all who were more ignorant than himself. 
 
 After the first impression of pain and mortification had passed away 
 from the minds of his brothers and sisters, it was, however, unani- 
 mously admitted that he was right, and ere long no other feeling than 
 one of good humour mingled with drollery could be perceived among 
 them. They were clearly convinced that he claimed no more from 
 strangers than was due to him ; but they certainly were not prepared 
 to hear that he had brought the exaction of personal respect so com- 
 
S2 DE.VIS O'SHAUGHXESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 pletely and unexpectedly home to themselves as he had done. The 
 thing, too, along with being unreasonable, was awkward and embar- 
 rassing in the extreme ; for there is a kind of feeling among brothers 
 and sisters, which, though it cannot be described, is very trying to 
 their delicacy and shamefacedness under circumstances of a similar 
 nature. In humble life you will see a married woman who cannot call 
 her husband after his Christian name ; or a husband who, from some 
 extraordinary restraint, cannot address his wife except in that distant 
 manner which the principle I allude to dictates, and habit confirms. 
 
 Denis, however, had overcome this modesty, and felt not a whit too 
 shamefaced to arrogate to his own learning and character the mo«'t 
 unhesitating manifestation of their deference and respect, and they 
 soon scrupled not to pay it. 
 
 The night of that evening was pretty far advanced, when a neigh- 
 bour's son, named Condy Callaghan, came to inform the family that 
 Denis, when crossing the bog on his way home, had ridden into a swamp, 
 from which he found much difficulty in extricating himself, but added, 
 " The mare is sunk to the saddle-skirts, and cannot get out widout men 
 and ropes." In a short time a sufficient number of the neighbours 
 were summoned together, and proceeded to the animal's relief. 
 Denny's importance, as well as his black dress, was miserably tar- 
 nished ; he stood, however, with as dignified an air as possible, and 
 in a bombastic style proceeded to direct the men as to the best 
 manner of relieving her. 
 
 "Asy, Dinny," said his brother, with a good-humoured but signifi- 
 cant smile — " laming may be very good in its place ; in the mane- 
 time, lave the business in our hands rather than in your head — or if 
 you have e'er a scrap of Greek or Latin that ud charm ould Sobersides 
 out, where was the use of sendin' for help 1 " 
 
 " I say," replied Denis, highly offended, " I'll not tolerate vulgarity 
 any longer ; you must /am to address me in a more polite style. If 
 the animal — that purblind quadruped — walked into the mire, by what 
 logic can you produce an association between her blindness and my 
 knowledge of Latin and Greek ? But why do I degradate my own 
 consequence by declaiming to you a eulogium upon logic. It's only 
 throwing pearls before swine." 
 
 " I didn't mane to offind you," replied the warm-hearted brother ; 
 •' I meant you no offince in what I said, so don't take it ill — we'll have 
 Sobersides out in no time — and barrin an' extra rubbin' down to both 
 of you, neither will be the worse, I hope." 
 
 " As to what you hope or despair, Brian, it could produce no other 
 impression on the subtilty of my fancy than pity for the man who 
 could compare me — considering the brilliancy of my career, and the 
 extent of my future speculations — to a quadruped like Sobersides, by 
 asserting that I, as well as she, ought to be rubbed down ! And were 
 it not that I confront the offince with your own ignorance, I would 
 expose you before the townland in which we stand ; ay, to the whole 
 parish — but I spare you, out of respect to my own consequence." 
 
 " I ax your pardon," said the brother ; " I won't offind you in the 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 83 
 
 same way again. WTiat I said, I said to you as I thought a brother 
 might — I ax your pardon ! " 
 
 There was a slight agitation approaching to a tremor in his brother'^ 
 voice that betokened sorrow for hi? own impropriety in too familiarly 
 addressing Denis, and perhaps regret that so slight and inoffensive r 
 jest should have been so harshly received in the presence of strangers 
 by a brother who had in reality been his idol. He reflected upon the 
 conversation held on that morning in the family, touching Denny's 
 prerogative in claiming a new and more deferential deportment from 
 them all ; and he could not help feeling that there was in it a violation 
 of some natural principle long sacred to his heart. But the all-per- 
 vading and indefinite awe felt for that sacerdotal character into which 
 his brother was about to enter subdued all, and reconciled him to 
 those inroads upon violated nature, despite her own voice, loudly 
 expressed as it was in his bosom. 
 
 When the family was once more assembled that night, Denis 
 addressed them in a tone which implied that the odium tJieolcgicum 
 had not prevented the contrition expressed by his brother from alto- 
 gether effacing from his mind the traces of his offence. 
 
 " Unworthy of respect," he proceeded, " as it appears by some of 
 my relations I am held," and he glanced at his brother, " yet I beg 
 permission to state that our worthy parochial priest, or, I should 
 rather say, the Catholic rector of this parish, is of a somewhat different 
 habit of thought or contemplation. I dined with him to-day — ehem — 
 dined with him upon an excellent joint of mutton — I say, father, the 
 mutton was good — and with his proud, pertinacious curate, whom I do 
 not at all relish ; whether, as Homer says — I enumerate his scurrilous 
 satire, or his derogatory insinuations. His parochial pastor and 
 spiritual superior is a gentleman, or as Horace says, homo /actus ad 
 tmguefn — which is, paraphrastically, every inch a gentleman — or more 
 literally — a gentleman to the tops of his fingers — ehem — hem — down 
 to the very nails — as it were. 
 
 " Well — having dicusssed that — observatis observandis, quoad 
 sacerdotem — having passed my eulogium upon Father Finnerty — upon 
 my word and credit, though, punch is primd facie drink — and, father, 
 that brings me to remember an omission which I committed in my 
 dialogue with you this morning. I forgot to say that after my dinner, 
 in the manner I expounded to you, it will be necessary to have a 
 tumbler of punch — for, as Father Finnerty says, there is nothing which 
 so effectually promotes the organs of digestion. Now, my introduction 
 of this, in the middle of my narrative, is what the hypercritics call a 
 parenthesis, which certainly betrays no superficial portion of literar)- 
 perusal on my part, if you could at all but understand it as well as 
 Father Finnerty, our worthy parochial incumbent, does. As for the 
 curate, should I ever come to authority in the Irish hierarchy, I shall be 
 strongly disposed to discountenance him, if it were only for his general 
 superciliousness of conduct. So there's another clause disposed of. 
 
 "Well — to proceed— I say I have intelligence regarding myself that 
 will be by no means unsavoury to you all. Father Finnerty and J 
 
84 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOO.H. 
 
 had, about an hour before dinner this day, a long and tedious conver- 
 sation, the substance of which was my future celebrity in the Church. 
 He has a claim on the bishop, which he stated to me will be exercised 
 in my favour, although there are several candidates for it in this parish, 
 not one of whom, however, is within forty-five degrees of being so well 
 qualified for college as myself. Father, is there not a jar — an amphora 
 — as that celebrated satirist, Juvenal, has it — an amphora — in the 
 chimly-brace, filled with liquor — get it, and let us inter animosity — I'll 
 not be long a member of the domestic circle with you— so, upon the 
 basis of the communication I have to make, let us, as I said, become 
 sextons to animosity and care. ' Dionysius,' said Father Finnerty, 
 addressing me, which shows, at all events, that I am not so unimport- 
 ant as some of my friends would suppose — ^ Dionysius^ said he, ^ inter 
 nos — Detween you and me — I believe I have it in my power to send 
 up a candidate to Maynooth. 'Tis true I never make a promise — 
 nunquafn facio votutn — except in certain cases, or in other words, 
 Dionysius, exceptis excipiendis — in which is the essence, as it were, of 
 a proper vow.' In the meantime he proceeded — 'With regard to your 
 prospects in the Church, I can only say, in the first place, and I say it 
 with much truth and sincerity— //i«/ /'wz badly off for a horse; that, 
 however, is, as I said, inter nos — sub sigillo. The old garran I have 
 is fairly worn out — and, not that I say it^ your father has as pretty a 
 colt as there is within the bounds — i7itra terminos parochii inei, within 
 the two ends of my parish : verbian sat — which is, I'm sure you are 
 a sensible and discreet young man. Your father, Dionysius, is a 
 parishioner whom I regard and esteem to the highest degree of 
 comparison, and you will be pleased to report my eulogium to himself 
 and to his dacent family — and proud may they be of havmg so brilliant 
 a youth among them as you are — ehem ! ' 
 
 "Now, you may all think that this was plain conversation; but I 
 had read too much for that. In fact, it was logic — complate, convincing 
 logic, every word of it. So I responded to him in what is called in 
 the books, the argumentum ad criivicnatn ; although I question but 
 it ought to be designated here the argic7nentH}n ad btstiam. Said I, 
 ' Father Finnerty, the colt, my paternal property, which you are 
 pleased to eulogise so highly, is a good one ; it was designed foi 
 myself when I should come out on the mission ; however, I will under- 
 take to say, if you get me into Maynooth, that my father on my 
 authority will lend you the colt to-morrow, and the day of his claiming 
 it will be dependent upon the fulfilment of your promise, or 7'otinn.' 
 
 " ' Sii^tiatian et sigillatum est,' said he, for, indeed, the best part 
 of the discussion was conducted in Latin ; * and now,' he continued, 
 ' my excellent Dionysius, nothing remains but that the colt be pre- 
 sented ' 
 
 " ' Lent,' I responded, correcting him, you see, even although 
 he was the priest— * /^«/,' said I, 'and your reverence will be good 
 enough to give the votmn before one or two of my fiicnds.' 
 
 " He looked at me sharply, not exoecting to find such deep logic n 
 one he conjectured to be but a tvro. 
 
DEiVTS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. S5 
 
 " ' You will be a useful man in the Church,' he added, ' and you 
 deserve to be pushed on, at all events. In the meantimt, tell your 
 father that I'll ride up and breakfast with him to-morrow, a:ld he can 
 have a friend or two to talk over the compachnn.^ 
 
 " So, father, there's the state of the question at present, the accom- 
 plishment of the condition is dependent upon yourself." 
 
 My readers may perceive that Denis, although a pedant, was not a 
 fool. It has been said that no man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre ; 
 but I think the truth of the sentiment contained in that saying is 
 questionable. Denis, on the contrary, was nowhere so great a man as 
 in his own chimney-corner, surrounded by his family. It was there he 
 was learned, accomplished, profound ; next to that, he was great among 
 those who, although not prejudiced in his favour by the bonds of 
 aftection, were too ignorant to discover those literary pranks which he 
 played off because he knew he could do so without detection. The 
 basis, however, of his character was shrewd humour and good sense ; 
 and, even at the stage of life which we have just described, it might 
 have been evident to a close observer that, when a proper knowledge 
 of his powers, joined to a further 'acquaintance with the world, would 
 enable him to cast off the boyish assumption of pedantry, a man of a 
 keen, ready intellect and considerable penetration would remain. 
 
 Many of my readers may be inclined to exclaim that the character 
 of Denny is not to be found in real life ; but they are mistaken who 
 think so. They are not to suppose that Denis O'Shaughnessy was 
 the same person in his intercourse with intelligent men and scholars 
 that he appeared among the illiterate peasantry or his own relations. 
 Far from it. With the former, persons like him are awkward and 
 bashful, or modest and unassuming, according to the bent of their 
 natural disposition. With scholars, Denis made few pretensions to 
 superior knowledge; but, on the contrary, took refuge, if he dreaded a 
 scrutiny into his acquirements, in the humblest acknowledgment of 
 his limited reading, and total unacquaintance with those very topics 
 on which he was, under other circumstances, in the habit of expa- 
 tiating so fluently. In fact, were I to detail some of the scenes of 
 his exhibitions as they were actually displayed, then I have no doubt 
 I might be charged with colouring too highly. 
 
 When Denis had finished the oration from the chimney-corner, 
 delivered with suitable gesticulation while he stood drying himself at 
 the fire after the catastrophe of the swamp, a silence of some minutes 
 followed. The promise of the colt made to the priest with such an 
 air of authority was 2l finale which the father did not expect, and by 
 which he was not a little staggered. 
 
 " I could like it all very well," replied the father, " save an' except 
 givin' away the coult, that's worth five-an'- twenty guineas, if he's worth 
 a crona-bazim. To tell the blessed thruth, Dinis, if you had settled 
 the business widout that, I'd be betther plased." 
 
 " Just exercise your contemplation upon it for a short period," 
 replied Denis, " and you will perceive that I stipulated to letid him 
 before witnesses ; and if Father Finnerty does not matriculate me 
 
S6 DENJS O'SIIAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 into Maynooth, then do you walk down some brilliant morning or other 
 and take your baste by the head, direct yourself home, hold the bridle 
 as you proceed, and by the time you're at the rack you'll find the 
 horse at the manger. 1 have now stated the legality of the matter, 
 and you may act as your own subtlety of perception shall dictate. I 
 have laid down the law, do you consider the equity." 
 
 " Why," said the father, " if I thought he v.-ould get you into '• 
 
 " Correct, quite correct : the cardinal point there is the if. If he 
 does, give him the horse ; but if not, reclaim the quadruped without 
 hesitation. I am not to be kept back, if profundity and erudition can 
 substantiate a prospect. Still, father, the easiest way is the safest, 
 and the shortest the most expeditious.'' 
 
 The embarrassing situation in which the other members of the 
 family were placed imposed upon them a profound silence in reference 
 to the subject of conversation. Yet, while Denny delivered the afore- 
 said harangue from the chimney-corner, every eye was fixed upon him 
 with an expression of pride and admiration which escaped not his own 
 notice. Their deportment towards him was affectionate and respectful; 
 but none of them could so far or so easily violate old habits as to 
 address him according to his own wishes ; they therefore avoided 
 addressing him at all. 
 
 The next morning Father Finnerty paid them his purposed visit, 
 and, as he had promised, arrived in time for breakfast. A few of 
 Denis's relations were assembled, and in their presence the arrange- 
 ments respecting the colt and Denny's clerical prospects were privately 
 concluded. So far everything was right ; the time of Denny's de- 
 parture for Maynooth was to be determined by the answer which 
 Father Finnerty should receive from the bishop ; for an examination 
 must, of course, take place, which was to be conducted by the prelate, 
 or by some other clergyman appointed for that purpose. This and 
 the necessary preparation usual on such occasions were the only 
 impediments in the way of his departure for Maynooth, a place 
 associated with so many dreams of that lowly ambition which the 
 humble circumstances of the peasantry permit them to entertain. 
 
 The Irish people, I need scarcely observe, are a poor people ; they 
 are also, very probably for the same reason, an imaginative people ; 
 at all events, they are excited by occurrences which would not produce 
 the same vivacity of emotion which they experience upon any other 
 people in the world. This, after all, is but natural ; a long endurance 
 of hunger will render the coarsest food delicious; and, on the contrary, 
 when the appetite is glutted with the richest viands, it requires a dish 
 whose flavour is proportionably high and spicy to touch the jaded 
 palate. It is so with our moral enjoyments. In Ireland a very simple 
 accession to their hopes or comforts produces an extraordinary 
 elevation of miryd, and so completely unlocks the sluices of their 
 feelings, that every consideration is lost in the elation of the moment. 
 At least it was so in Denis O'Shaughnessy's family upon this occasion. 
 
 No sooner had Father Finnerty received the colt, and pledged him- 
 self that Denny should have the pierce in Maynooth that was then 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSV GOING TO MAYNOOTH 87 
 
 vacant, than a tumultuous expression of delight burst from his family 
 and relations. Business was then thrown aside for the day; the house 
 was scoured and set in order, as if it were for a festival ; their > est 
 apparel was put on ; every eye was bright, every heart throbbed with 
 a delightful impulse, whilst kindness and hilarity beamed from their 
 faces. In a short time they all separated themselves among their 
 neighbours to communicate the agreeable tidings; and the latter, with 
 an honest participation in their happiness, instantly laid aside their 
 avocations, and flocked to Denis O'Shaughnessy's, that they might 
 congratulate him and his friends upon what was considered the com- 
 pletion of their hopes. When the day was more advanced, several of 
 Denny's brothers and sisters returned, and the house was nearly filled 
 with their acquaintances and relations. Ere one o'clock had passed 
 they were all assembled, except old Denis, of whom no person could 
 give any intelligence. Talk, loud laughter, pure poteen, and good 
 humour all circulated freely ; the friendly neighbour, unshaved, and 
 with his Sunday coat thrown hastily over his work-day apparel, drank 
 to Denny's health, and wished that he might "bate all Maynevvth out 
 of the face ; an' sure there's no doubt of that, anyhow — doesn't myself 
 remimber him puttin' the explanations to Pasthorini before he was the 
 bulk o' my fist." His brothers and sisters now adopted with enthu- 
 siasm the terms of respect which he had prescribed for them through 
 his father ; he was Sirred and Misthered, and all but Reverenced^ 
 with a glow of affectionate triumph which they strove not to conceal. 
 He was also overwhelmed with compliments of all hues and com- 
 plexions ; one reminded him of the victory he obtained over a hedge- 
 schoolmaster who came one Sunday a distance of fifteen miles to sack 
 him in English Grammar on the chapel-green ; but as the man was 
 no classical scholar, " Sure," observed his neighbour, " I remember 
 well that he couldn't get a word out of Misther Denis's head there but 
 Latin ; so that the poor crathur, aflher travellin' fifteen long miles, 
 had to go home agin', the show o' the world, widout undherstandin' a 
 sintence of the larnin' that was put an him ; an' so here's wishin' you 
 health, Ivlisther Dinis, agra, an' no fear in life but you'll be the jewel 
 at the prachin', sir, plase goodness ! " 
 
 Another reminded him of " how often he proved Phadrick Murray 
 to be an ass, and showed him how he couldn't make out the differ 
 atween black an' white." 
 
 " Sure, an' he did," said Phadrick, scratching his head, for he was 
 one of the first at the house ; " an' no wondher, wid his long-headed 
 screwtations from the books. Throth, his own father was the best 
 match, barrin' Eather Lawdher that was broke of his bread, he ever 
 met wid, till he got too many for him by the Latin an' Greek." 
 
 This allusion to old Denis occasioned his absence to be noticed. 
 
 "Can nobody tell where Denis More is?" said the wife. "My 
 gracious, but it's quare he should be from about the place this day, 
 anyway. Brian, mavourneen, did you see him goin' anywhere ?" 
 
 " No," said Brian, " but 1 see him comin' down there, c^rryin' Foma 
 atables in a basket." 
 
88 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO AIAYNOOTfl. 
 
 Brian had scarcely ended when his father entered, bearing beef and 
 mutton, as aforesaid, both of which he deposited upon the kitchen 
 table, with a jerk of generosity and pride that seemed to say, as he 
 looked significantly at Denny — and, in fact, as he did say afterwards — 
 " Never spare, Dinny ; ate like a gintleman ; make yourself as bright 
 an' ginteel a6 you can ; you won't want for beef an' mutton ! " 
 
 Old Denis now sat down, and after wiping the perspiration from his 
 forehead, took the glass of poteen which the wife handed him ; he 
 held it between his finger and thumb for a moment, glanced around him 
 upon the happy faces present, then laid it down again, fixed his eyes 
 upon his son, and cast them once more upon the company. The affec- 
 tionate father's heart was full ; his breast heaved, and the large tears 
 rolled slowly down his cheek. By a strong effort, however, he mastered 
 his emotion ; and taking the glass again, he said, in a broken voice : 
 
 "Neighbours! — God bless yees ! — God bless yees ! — Dinny — 
 Dinny— I " 
 
 The last words he pronounced with difficulty ; and drinking off his 
 glass, set it down empty upon the table. He then rose up, and shook 
 his neighbours by the hand. 
 
 " I am," said he, " a happy man, no doubt of it, an' we're all happy ; 
 an' it's proud any father might be to hear the account of his son that 
 I did of mine, as I was convoyin' Father Finnerty a piece o' the way 
 home. * Your son,' says he, when he took that bit of a coult out o' my 
 hand, ' will be an honour to you all. I tell you,' says he, 'that he's 
 nearly as good a scholar as myself, an' spakes Latin not far behind 
 my own, an' as for pracher,' says he, ' I can tell you that he'll be hard 
 farther nor any man i know.' He tould me them words >.vid his own 
 two lips. An' surely, neighbours," said he, relapsing into strong feeling, 
 " you can't blame me for bein' both proud an' happy of sich a son." 
 
 My readers, from the knowledge already given them of Denny's 
 character, are probably disposed to think that his learning was thrown 
 out on this occasion in longer words and more copious quotations than 
 usual. This, however, was not the case ; so far from that, he never 
 displayed less pedantry, nor interspersed his conversation with fewer 
 scraps of Latin. In fact, the proceedings of the day appeared to 
 affect him with a tone of thought decidedly at variance with the 
 exuberance of joy experienced by the family. He was silent, moody, 
 and evidently drawn by some secret reflection from the scene around 
 him. He held a book in his hand, into which he looked from time to 
 time with the air of a man who balances some contingency in his 
 mind. At length, when the conversation of those who were assembled 
 became more loud and boisterous, he watched an opportunity of gliding 
 out unperceived ; having accomplished this, he looked cautiously 
 about him, and finding himself not observed, he turned his steps to a 
 glen which lay about half a mile below his father's house. 
 
 At the lowest skirt of this little valley, protected by a few spxeading 
 hawthorns, stood a small white farm-house, more immediately shaded 
 by a close row of elder or boor trees, which hung over one of the 
 gables, and covered the garden gate, uigether with a nea? gra-ssy seal, 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 89 
 
 that was built between the gate and the gable. It was impervious to 
 sun and rain : or^e of those pretty spots which present themselves on 
 the road-side in the country, and strike the eye with a pleasing notion 
 of comfort ; especially when, during a summer shower, the cocks and 
 hens of the little yard are seen by the traveller who takes shelter 
 under it huddled up in silence, the white dust quite dry, whilst the 
 heavy shower patters upon the leaves above, and upon the dark, 
 drenched road beside them. 
 
 Under the shade of this sat an interesting girl, aged about seven- 
 teen, named Susan Connor. She was slender, and not above the 
 middle size ; but certainly, in point of form and feature, such as might 
 be called beautiful — handsome she unquestionably was ; but be that 
 as it may, with this rustic beauty the object of Denis's stolen visit was 
 connected. She sat knitting under the shade of elder which we have 
 described, a sweet picture of innocence and candour. Our hero's face, 
 as he approached her, was certainly a fine study for anyone who 
 wished to embody the sad and the ludicrous. Desperate was the con- 
 flict between pedantry and feeling which he experienced. His manner 
 appeared more pompous and affected than ever : yet was there blended 
 with the flush of approaching triumph as a candidate such woe- 
 begone shades of distress, flitting occasionally across his features, as 
 rendered his countenance inscrutably enigmatical. 
 
 When the usual interchange of preliminary conversation had passed, 
 Denis took his seat beside her on the grassy bench ; and after looking in 
 several directions, and giving half a dozen hems, he thus accosted her : 
 
 " Susan, cream of my affections, I may venture to conjecture that 
 the fact, or fact7im, of my being the subject of 2L/ama clamosa to-day 
 has not yet reached your ears ? " 
 
 " Now, Denis, you are at your deep laming from the books again. 
 Can't you keep your reading for then that undherstands it, an' not be 
 spakin' so Englified to a simple girl like me ?" 
 
 "There is logic in that same, however. Do you know, Susan, I 
 have often thought that, provided always you had resaved proper in- 
 struction, you would have made a first-rate classical scholar." 
 
 " So you tould me, Denis, the Sunday evening we exchanged the 
 promise. But sure, when you get me, I can lam it. Won't you tache 
 me, Denis ?" 
 
 She turned her laughing eyes archly at him as she spoke^ with a 
 look of joy and affection : it was a look, indeed, that staggered for the 
 moment every ecclesiastical resolution within him. He returned her 
 glance, and ran over the features of her pure and beautiful counte- 
 nance for some minutes ; then, placing his open hand upon his eyes, 
 he seemed buried in reflection. At length he addressed her. 
 
 " Susan, I am thinking of that same Sunday evening on which we 
 exchanged the hand-promise. I say, Susan, — dimiditan animcs mecz — 
 I am in the act of meditating upon it : and sorry am I to be compel — 
 to be under the neces — to be reduced, I say — that is, redacfus in the 
 
 larned langua : in other words — or terms, indeed, is more elegant 
 
 — in other terms, then, Susan, I fear that what I just now alluded to, 
 
 (4) D 
 
90 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 touching ihe/a7na clamosa which is current about me this day, will 
 render that promise a rather premature one on both our parts. Some 
 bachelors in my situation might be disposed to call it foolish, but 1 
 entertain a reverence — a veneration for the feelings of the feminine 
 sex, that inclines me to use the mildest and most classical language in 
 divulging the change that has taken place in my fortunes since I saw 
 you last." 
 
 " What do you mane, Denis ?" inquired Susan, suddenly ceasing to 
 knit, and fixing her eyes upon him with a glance of alarm. 
 
 " To be plain, Susy, I find that Maynooth is my destination. It has 
 been arranged between my father and Docthor Finnerty thai I must 
 become a labourer in the vineyard ; that is, that I must become a 
 priest, and cultivate the grape. It's a sore revelation to make to an 
 amorous maiden ; but destiny will be triumphant : — 
 
 " ' Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.' " 
 
 The poor girl suddenly laid down the work on which she had been 
 engaged, her face became the colour of ashes, and the reply she was 
 about to make died upon her lips. She again resumed her stocking, 
 but almost instantly laid it down a second time, and appeared wholly 
 unable either to believe or comprehend what he said. 
 
 " Denis," she at length asked, " did you say that all is to be over 
 between us ? " 
 
 " That was my insinuation," replied Denis. " The fact is, Susy, 
 that destiny is adverse ; clean against our union in the bonds of 
 matrimonial ecstacy. But, Susy, my charmer, I told you before that 
 you were not destitute of logic, and I hope you will bear this heavy 
 visitation as becomes a philosopher." 
 
 " Bear it, Denis ! How ought I to bear it, after your saying and 
 swearing, too, that neither father nor mother, nor priest, nor anybody 
 else would make you desart me "i " 
 
 " But, Susan, my nightingale, perhaps you are not aware that there 
 is an authority in existence to which father, mother, and all must 
 knuckle down. That is the Church, Susan. Reflect — du/ce decus 
 ineum — that the power of the Church is able to loose and unloose, to 
 tie and untie, tc forgive and to punish, to raise to the highest heaven, 
 or to sink to the profoundest Tartarus. That power, Susan, thinks 
 proper to claim your unworthy and enamoured swain as one of the 
 brightest Colossuses of her future glory. The Irish hierarchy is pl.ised 
 to look on me as a luminary of almost superhuman brilliancy and cor- 
 ruscation : my talents she pronounces to be of the first magnitude ; 
 my eloquence classical and overwhelming, and my learnmg only 
 adorned by that poor insignificant attribute denominated by philoso- 
 phers unfathomability ! — hem ! hem ! " 
 
 " Denis," replied the innocent girl, " you sometimes spake that I can 
 undherstand you ; but you oftener spake in a way that 1 can hardly 
 make out what you say. If it's a thing that my love for you, or the 
 solemn promise that passed between us, would stand in your light, or 
 prevint you from higher things as a priest, 1 am willing to — to— to 
 
/ERSITT 
 
 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 91 
 
 give you up, whatever I may suffer. Bu' you know yourself that you 
 brought me on from time to time undher your promise that nothing 
 would ever lead you to lave me in sorrow an' disappointment. Still, I 
 say, that But, Denis, is it thrue that you could lave me for any- 
 thing?'' 
 
 The innocent confidence in his truth expressed by the simplicity of 
 her last question staggered the young candidate ; that is to say, her 
 words, her innocence, and her affection sank deeply into his heart. 
 
 " Susan," he replied, " to tell the blessed truth, I am fairly dilem- 
 ma'd. My heart is in your favour ; but — but — hem — you don't know 
 the prospect that is open to me. You don't know the sin of keeping 
 back such a — a — a — galaxy as I am from the Church. I say you don't 
 know the sin of it. That's the difficulty. If it was a common case it 
 would be nothing ; but to keep back a person like me — a rara avis in 
 terns — from the priesthood, is a sin that requires a great dale of 
 interest with the Pope to have absolved. 
 
 " Heaven above forgive me ! " exclaimed the artless girl. " In that 
 case I wouldn't for the riches of the wide earth stand between you and 
 God . But I didn't know that before, Denis ; and if you had tould me, I 
 think, sooner than get into sich a sin, I'd struggle to keep down my 
 love for you, even although my heart should break," 
 
 " Poor darling," said Denis, taking her passive hand in his, " and 
 would it go so hard with you ? Break your heart ! Do you love me so 
 well as that, Susan ? " 
 
 Susan's eyes turned on him for a moment, and the tears which his 
 question drew forth gave it a full and a touching reply. She uttered 
 not a word, but after a few deep sobs wiped her eyes, and endeavoured 
 to compose her feelings. 
 
 Denis felt the influence of her emotions ; he remained silent for a 
 short time, during which, however, ambition drew in the background 
 all those dimly splendid visions that associate themselves with the 
 sacerdotal functions in a country where the people place no bounds to 
 the spiritual power of their pastors. 
 
 " Susan," said he, after a pause, " do you know the difference 
 between a Christian and a hathen .'' " 
 
 " Between a Christian an' a hathen ? Why, aren't hathens all 
 sinners ?" 
 
 " Very right. Faith, Susan, you would have shone at the classics. 
 You see, dilecta co/'dis niei, or, cordi jneo, for either is good grammar 
 —you see, Susan, the difference between a Christian and a hathen is 
 this : — a Christian bears disappointments with fortitude — with what is 
 denominated Christian fortitude ; whereas, on the contrary, a hathen 
 doesn't bear disappointments at all. Now, Susan, it would cut me to 
 the heart to find that you would become a hathen on this touching and 
 trying occasion." 
 
 " I'll pray to God, Denis. Isn't that the way to act under afflic- 
 tions ? " 
 
 " Decidedly. There is no other legitimate mode of quelling a heart- 
 ache. And, busan, when you go to supplication you are at liberty \! 
 
92 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 mention my name — no, not yet ; out if I were once consecrated you 
 might. However, it is better to sink this ; say nothing about me when 
 you pray, for, to tell you truth, I believe you have as much influence 
 above — super astra — as I have. There is one argument which 1 am 
 anxious to press upon you. It is a very simple but -i very respectable 
 one after all. I am not all Ireland. You will find excellent good hus- 
 bands even in this parish. There is, as the old proverb says, as good 
 fish in the .•.7y as ever were caught. Do you catch one of them. For 
 me, Susan, the vineyard claims me ; I must, as I said, cultivate the 
 grape. We must, consequently — hem ! — we must — hem ! hem ! — con- 
 sequently strive to forget — hem ! — I say, to forget each other. It is 
 a trial — I know — a desperate visitation, poor fawn, upon your feelings ; 
 but, as I said, destiny will be triumphant. What is decreed, is de- 
 creed — I must go to Maynooth." 
 
 Susan rose, and her eyes flashed with an indignant sense of the cold- 
 blooded manner in which he advised her to select another husband. 
 She was an illiterate girl, but the purity of her feelings supplied the 
 delicacy which reading and a knowledge of more refined society would 
 have given her. 
 
 " Is it from jyour lips, Denis," she said, "that I hear sich a mane and 
 low-minded an advice ? Or do you think that with my weak and, I 
 now see, foolish heart settled upon you, I could turn round and fix my 
 love upon the first that might ax me .'' Denis, you promised before 
 God to be mine, and mine only ; you often said and swore that you 
 loved me above any human being : but I now see that you only 
 intended to lead me into sin and disgrace, for indeed, and before God, 
 I don't think — I don't — I don't — believe that you ever loved me." 
 
 A burst of grief, mingled with indignation and affliction, followed the 
 words she had uttered. Denis felt himself called on for a vindication, 
 and he was resolved to give it. 
 
 " Susan," he returned, " your imagination is erroneous. By all the 
 classical authors that ever were written, you are antipodially opposed 
 to facts. What harm is there, seeing that you and I can never be 
 joined in wedlock — what harm is there, I say, in recommending you 
 another husb " 
 
 Susan would hear no more. She gathered up her stocking and ball 
 of thread, placed them in her apron, went into her father's house, shut 
 and bolted the door, and gave way to violent grief. All this occurred 
 in a moment, and Denis found himself excluded. 
 
 He did not wish, however, to part from her in anger ; so after 
 having attempted to look through the keyhole of the door, and applied 
 his eye in vain to the window, he at length spoke. 
 
 "Is there anybody within but yourself, Susy ?" 
 
 He received no reply. 
 
 " 1 say, Susy — dilccta juventutis mcce — touching the recommenda- 
 tion — now don't be crying — touching the recommendation of another 
 husband, by all the classics that ever were mistranslated, I meant 
 nothing but the purest of consolation. If I did, may I be reduced lo 
 prirgeval and aboriginal ignorance ! But you know yourself that they 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 93 
 
 never prospered who prevented a rara avis like me from entering the 
 Church — from labouring in the vineyard, and cultivating the grape. 
 Don't be hathenish ; but act with a philosophy suitable to so dignified 
 an occasion. Farewell ! Made virtute, and be firm. I swear again, 
 by all the class " 
 
 The appearance of a neighbour caused him to cut short his oath. 
 Seeing that the man approached the house, he drew off, and returned 
 home, more seriously atfected by Susan's agitation than he was willing 
 to admit even to himself. 
 
 This triumph over his affection was, in fact, only the conquest of one 
 passion over another. His attachment to Susan Connor was certainly 
 sincere, and ere the prospects of his entering Maynooth were un- 
 expectedly brought near him by the interference of Father Finnerty, 
 his secret purpose all along had been to enter with her into the state 
 of matrimony, rather than into the Church. Ambitior., however, is 
 beyond all comparison the most powerful principle of human conduct, 
 and so Denny found it. Although his unceremonious abandonment of 
 Susa.i appeared heartless and cruel, yet it was not effected on his part 
 A'ithout profound sorrow and remorse. Th^ two principles, when they 
 beg^n to struggle in his heart for supremacy, resembled the rival 
 desunies of Csesar and Mark Antony. Love declined in the presence 
 of ambition ; and this in proportion as all the circumstances calculated 
 to work upon the strong imagination of a young man, naturally fond of 
 power, began to assume an appearance of reality. To be in the course 
 of a few years a bond fide priest ; to possess unlimited sway over the 
 fears and principles of the people ; t^ be endowed with spiritual gifts 
 to he knew not what extent ; and to enjoy himself as he had an 
 opportunity of seeing Father Finnerty and his curate do, in the full 
 swing of convivial pleasure, upon the ample hospitality of those who, in 
 addition to this, were ready to kiss the latchet of his shoes — were, it 
 must be admitted, no inconsiderable motives in influencing the conduct 
 of a person reared in a humble condition of life. The claims of poor 
 Susan, her modesty, her attachment, and her beauty — were all in- 
 sufficient to prevail against such a host of opposing motives ; and the 
 consequence, though bitter, and subversive of her happiness, was a 
 final determination on the part of Denny to acquaint her, with a kind 
 of ex-officio formality, that all intercourse upon the subject of their 
 mutual attachment must cease between them. Notwithstanding his 
 boasted knowledge, however, he was ignorant of sentiment, and accord- 
 ingly confined himself, as I have intimated, to a double species of 
 argument ; that is to say, first, the danger and sin of opposing the 
 wishes of the Church, which had claimed him, as he said, to labour in 
 the vmeyard ; and, secondly, the undoubted fact that there were 
 plenty of good husbands besides himself in the world, from some one of 
 which, he informed her, he had no doubt she could be accommodated. 
 
 In the meantime, her image, meek and fair and uncomplaming, 
 would from time to time glide into his imagination ; and the melody 
 of her voice send its music once more to his vacillating heart. He 
 usually paused then, and almost considered himself under the influence 
 
94 DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 of a droam ; but ambition, with ics train of shadowy honours, would 
 immediately present itself, and Susan was again forgotten. 
 
 When he rejoined the company, to whom he had given the slip, he 
 found them all gone, except about six or eight whom his father had 
 compelled to stop for dinner. His mind was now much lighter than 
 it had been before his interview with Susan, nor were his spirits at all 
 depressed by perceiving that a new knife and fork lay glittering upon 
 the dresser for his own particular use. 
 
 " Why, thin, where have you been all this time? " said the father ; 
 " an' we wantin' to know whether you'd like the mutton to be boiled 
 or roasted .'' " 
 
 " I was soliloquising in the glen below," replied Denny, once more 
 resuming his pedantry — "meditating upon the transparency of all 
 human events ; but as for the beef and mutton, I advise you to boil 
 the beef and roast the mutton ; or, vice versd, to boil the mutton and 
 roast the beef. But I persave my mother has anticipated me, and 
 boiled them both with that flitch of bacon that's playing the vagrant 
 in the big pot there. Tria jiatcta in uno, as Horace says in the 
 Epodes, when expatiating upon the Roman emperors — ehem ! " 
 
 " Misther Denis," said one of those present, " maybe you'd tell us 
 upon the watch what the hour is, if you plase, sir ? myself never can 
 know right at all, except by the shadow of the sun from the comer of 
 our own gavel." 
 
 " Why," replied Denis, pulling it out with much pomp of manner, 
 " it's just half-past two to a quarter of a minute and a few seconds." 
 
 " Why, thin, what a quare thing entirely a watch is," the other con- 
 tinued ; " now what makes you hould it to your ear, Misther Denis, if 
 you plase ? " 
 
 " The efficient cause of that, Larry, is that the drum of the ear— 
 you persave, the drum of the ear — is enabled to catch the intonations 
 produced by the machinery of its internal operations, otherwise the 
 fact of applying it to the ear would be unnecessary — altogether uri- 
 necessary." 
 
 " Dear me ! see what it is to have the knowledge, any^vay ! But 
 isn't it quare how it moves of itself like a livin' crathur ? How is that. 
 Misther Denis ?" 
 
 " Why, Larry — ehem — you see the motions of it are — that is, the 
 works or operations — are all continually going ; and sure it is from 
 that explanation that we say a watch goes well. That's more than you 
 ever knew before, Larry." 
 
 " Indeed, it surely is, sir, an' is much oblaged to you, Misther Denis : 
 sure if 1 ever come to wear a watch in my fob, I'll know something 
 about it, anyhow." 
 
 For the remainder of that day Denis was as learned and conse- 
 quential as ever; his friends, when theii hearts were opened by his 
 father's hospitality, promised him substantial aid in money, and in 
 presents of such articles as they supposed might be serviceable to him 
 in Maynooth. Denny received their proffers of support with suitable 
 dignity and gratitude. A scene of bustle and preparation now coni- 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 95 
 
 nienced among them, nor was Denny himself the least engaged ; foi 
 it somehow happened that, notwithstanding his profound erudition, he 
 felt it necessary to read night and day in order to pass with more 
 dclat the examination which he had to stand before the bishop ere his 
 appointment to Maynooth. This ordeal was to occur upon a day 
 fixed for the purpose in the ensuing month ; and, indeed, Denis occu- 
 pied as much of the intervening period in study as his circumstcjices 
 would permit. His situation was, at this crisis, certainly peculiar. 
 Every person related to him in the slightest degree contrived to revive 
 their relationship ; his former schoolfellows, on hearing that he was 
 actually destined to be of the Church, renewed their acquaintance 
 with him ; and those who had been servants to his father took the 
 liberty of speaking to him upon the strength of that fact. No child, 
 to the remotest shade of affinity, was born for which he did not stand 
 godfather ; nieces and nephews thickened about him, all with remark- 
 able talents, and many of them — particularly of the nieces — said to be 
 exceedingly genteel, very thrifty for their ages, and likely to make excel- 
 lent housekeepers. A strong likeness to himself was also pointed out 
 in the features of his nephews, one of whom had his born nose — 
 another his eyes — and a third, again, had his brave, high-flown way 
 with him. In short, he began to feel some of the inconveniences 
 of greatness, and, like it, to be surrounded by cringing servility and 
 meanness. When he went to chapel, he was beset and followed from 
 place to place by a retinue of friends, who were all anxious to secure 
 to themselves the most conspicuous marks of his notice. It was the 
 same thing in fair or market ; they contended with each other who 
 should do him most honour, or afford him and his father's imme- 
 diate family the most costly treat, accompanied by the grossest 
 expressions of flattery. Every male infant born among them was 
 called Dionysius, and every female one Susan, after his favourite 
 sister. All this, to a lad like Denis, already remarkable for his vanity, 
 was very trying, or, rather, it absolutely turned his brain, and made 
 him, probably, as finished a specimen of pride, self-conceit, and domi- 
 neering arrogance, mingled with a lurkmg, humorous contempt for 
 his cringing relations, as could be displayed in the person of some 
 shallow but knavish prime minister, surrounded by his selfish syco- 
 phants, whom he encourages and despises. 
 
 At home he was idolized — overwhelmed with respect and deference. 
 The slightest intimation of his wish was a command to them ; the 
 beef and fowl and mutton were at hand in all the variety of culinary 
 skill, and not a soul in the house durst lay a hand upon his knife and 
 fork but himself. In the morning, when the family were to be seen 
 around the kitchen-table at their plain but substantial breakfast, Denis 
 was lording it, in solitary greatness, over an excellent breakfast of tea 
 and eggs in another room. 
 
 It was now, too, that the king's English, as well as the mutton, was 
 carved and hacked to some purpose ; epithets prodigiously long and 
 foreign to the purpose were pressed into his conversation, for no 
 other reason than because those to whom he spoke could not under- 
 
95 DENIS 0'SllAUGIh\'ESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 
 
 stand them ; but the principal portion of his time was devoted to 
 study. The bishop, he had heard, was a sound scholar, and scrupu- 
 lous in recommending any to Maynooth except such as were well 
 versed in the preparatory course. Independently of this, he was 
 anxious, he said, to distinguish himself in his examination, and, if 
 possible, to sustain as high a character with the bishop and his fellow- 
 students as he did among the peasantry of his own neighbourhood. 
 
 At length the day approached. The bishop's residence vas not 
 distant more than a few hours' ride, and he would have sufficient time 
 to arrive there, pass his examination, and return in time for dinner. On 
 the eve of his departure old Denis invited Father Fmnerty, his curate, 
 and about a dozen relations and friends to dine with him the next 
 day, when — Denis having surmounted the last obstacle to the ac- 
 complishment of his hopes — their hearts could open without a single 
 teflertion to check the exuberance of their pride, hospitality, and 
 aappiness. 
 
 1 have often said to my friends, and I now repeat it in print, that 
 after all there is no people bound up so strongly to each other by the 
 ties of domestic life as the Irish. On the night which preceded this 
 joyous and important day a spirit of silent but tender affection dwelt 
 in every heart of the O'Shaughnessys. The great point of interest was 
 the son. He himself was serious, and evidently laboured under that 
 strong anxiety so natural to a youth in his circumstances. A Roman 
 Catholic bishop, too, is a personage looked upon by the people with a 
 kind of feeling that embodies in it awe, reverence, and fear. Though, 
 in this country, a humble man possessing neither the rank in society, 
 outward splendour, nor the gorgeous profusion of wealth and pomp 
 which characterise a prelate of the Established Church, yet it is un- 
 questionable that the gloomy dread, and sense of formidable power, 
 with which they impress the minds of the submissive peasantry, im- 
 measurably surpass the more legitiiarate influence which any Protestant 
 dignitary could exercise over those who stand, with respect to him, in 
 a more rational and independent position. 
 
 It was not surprising that Denis, who practised upon ignorant 
 people that petty despotism for which he was so remarkable, should 
 now, on coming in contact with great spiritual authority, adopt his own 
 principles, and relapse from the proud pedant into the cowardly slave. 
 True it is that he presented a most melancholy specimen of independ- 
 ence in a crisis where moral courage v*^as so necessary ; but his dread 
 of the coming day was judiciously locked up in his own bosom. His 
 silence and apprehension were imputed to the workings of a mind 
 learnedly engaged in arranging the vast stores of knowledge with 
 which it was so abundantly stocked ; his moody picture of the bishop's 
 brow, his reflection that he was going before a sacred person, as a 
 candidate for the Church, with his heart yet redolent of earthly affection 
 for Susan Connor, his apprehension that the bishop's spiritual scent 
 might sagaciously smell it oat, were all put down by the family to the 
 credit of uncommon learning, which, as his mother observed truly, 
 ** often makes men do quare things." His embarrassments, however. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 97 
 
 inasmuch as they were ascribed by them to wrong causes, endeared 
 him more to their hearts than ever. Because he spoke httle, neither 
 the usual noise nor bustle of a large family disturbed the silence of the 
 house : every word was uttered that evening in a low tone, at once 
 expressive of tenderness and respect. The family supper was tea, in 
 compliment to Denis ; and they all partook of it with him. Nothing 
 humbles the mind and gives the natural feelings their full play so well 
 as a struggle in life, or the appearance of its approach. 
 
 " Denis," said the father, " the time will come when we won't have 
 you at all among us ; but, thank goodness, you'll be in a betther 
 plac;." 
 
 Denis heard him not, and consequently made no reply. 
 
 " They say Maynewth's a tryin' place, too," he continued, " an' I'd be 
 sorry to see him pulled down to an atomy, like some of the scarecrows 
 that come out of it. I hope you'll bear it betther." 
 
 " Do you speak to me l" said Denis, awaking out of a reverie. 
 
 "I do, xz>," replied the father ; and as he uttered the words the son 
 perceived that his eyes were fixed upon him with an expression of 
 affectionate sorrow and pride. 
 
 The youth was then in a serious mood, free from the dominion of 
 that learned mania under which he had so frequently signalised him- 
 self : the sorrow of his father, and a consciousness of the deep affection 
 and unceasing kindness which he had ever experienced from him, 
 joined to a recollection of their former friendly disputes and com- 
 panionship, touched Denny to the quick. But the humility with 
 which he applied to him the epithet sir, touched him most. " What ! " 
 thought he, "ought my affectionate father to be thrown such a distance 
 from a son who owes everything to his love and goodness ! " The 
 thought of his stooping so humbly before him smote the boy's heart, 
 and the tears glistened in his eyes. 
 
 " Father," said he, " you have been kind and good to me beyond my 
 deserts ; surely, then, I cannot bear to hear you address me in that 
 manner, as if we were both strangers. Nor while I am with you shaH 
 any of you so address me. Remember that I am still your son." 
 
 The natural affection displayed in this speech soon melted the whole 
 family into tears — not excepting Denis himself, who felt that grief 
 which we experience when about to be separated for the first time from 
 those we love. 
 
 " Come over, avourneen," said his mother, drying her eyes with the 
 corner of her check apron : " come over, acushla machree, an' sit be- 
 side me ; sure, although we're sorry for you, Denis, it's proud our 
 hearts are out of you, an' good right we have, a suilis> ' Come over, 
 an' let me be near you as long as I can, anyway." 
 
 Denis placed himself beside her, and the proud mother drew his 
 head over her bosom, and bedewed his face with a gush of tears. 
 
 " They say," she observed, " that it's sinful to shed tears when there's 
 no occasion for grief; but I hope it's no sin to cry when one's heart is 
 fill of somethin' that brmgs them to one's eyes, whether thw will or 
 
9S DE.VIS O'SHAUGHIVESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 " Mave," said the father, " P// rnxs^ him more nor any of you : but 
 sure he'll often send letters to us from Maynewth, to tell us how he's 
 gcttin' on ; an' we'll be proud enough, never fear." 
 
 " You'll miss me, Denis," said his favourite sister, who was also 
 called Susan ; " for you'll find no one in Maynewth that will keep 
 your linen so white as I did : but never fear, I'll be always knittin' 
 you stockins ; an' every year I'll make you half a dozen shirts, an' 
 you'll think them more natural nor other shirts, when you know they 
 came from your own home — from them that you love ! Won't you, 
 Denis?" 
 
 " I will, Susy, and I will love the shirts for the sake of the hands 
 that made them." 
 
 '' And I won't allow Susy Connor to help me as she used to do ; 
 they'll be all Alley's sevvin' and mine." 
 
 " The poor colleen — listen to her ! " exclaimed the affectionate 
 father : " indeed, you will, Susy ; ay, and hem his cravats, that we'll 
 send him ready made an' all." 
 
 " Yes," replied Denis, " but as to Susy Connor — hem — why, upon 
 considera — he — hem — upon second thoughts, I don't see why you 
 should prevent her from helping you ; she's a neighbour's daughter, 
 and a well-wisher, of whose prosperity in life I'd always wish to 
 hear." 
 
 " The poor girl's very bad in her health for the last three weeks," 
 observed his other sister, Alley : " she has lost her appetite, an' is 
 cast down entirely in her spirits. You ought to go an' see her, Denis, 
 before you set out for the college, if it was only on her dacent fcither's 
 account. When I was tellin' her yisterday that you wor to get the 
 bishop's letter for Maynewth to-morrow, she was in so poor a state of 
 health that she nearly fainted. I had to give her a drink of wather, 
 and sprinkle her face with it. Well, she's a purty crathur an' a good 
 girl, an' was always that, dear knows ! " 
 
 " Denis, achree," said his mother, somewhat alarmed, " are you any 
 way unwell ? Why, your heart's batin' like a new catched chicken ! 
 Are you sick, acushla ; or are you used to this ? " 
 
 " It won't signify," replied Denis, gently raising himself from his 
 mother's arms, " I will sit up, mother ; it's but a sudden stroke or two 
 of tremo7- cordis, produced probably by having my mind too much 
 upon one object." 
 
 '■ I think," said his father, " he will be the betther of a little drop oi 
 (.he poteen made into punch, an' for that matter we can all take a sup 
 of it ; as there's no one here but ourselves, we will have it snug an' 
 comfortable." 
 
 Nothing resembles an April day more than the general disposition 
 of the Irish people. When old Denis's proposal for the punch was 
 made, the gloom which hung over the family — originating, as it did, 
 more in joy than in sorrow — soon began to disappear. Their coun- 
 tenances gradually brightened, by-and-by mirth stole out, and ere the 
 punch had accomplished its first round, laughter, and jest, and gooti- 
 bumour — each, in consequence of the occasion, more buoyant and 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING 70 MAYNOOTH. 93 
 
 vivacious than usual, were in full play. Denis himself, when animated 
 by the unexcised liquor, threw off his dejection, and ere the night was 
 half spent, found himself in the highest region of pedantry. 
 
 " I would not," said he, " turn my back upon any other candidate 
 in the province in point of preparatory excellence and ardency of 
 imagination. I say, sitting here beside you, my worthy and logical 
 father, I would not retrograde from any candidate for the honours of 
 the Cathohc Church in the province — in the kingdom — in Earope ; 
 and it is not improbable but I might progradiate another step, and 
 say Christendom at large. And now what's a candidate ? !• ather, 
 you have some apprehension in you, and are a passable second-hand 
 controversialist — what's a candidate ? Will you tell me ?" 
 
 " I give it up, Denis ; but you'll tell us." 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you. Candidate signifies a man dressed in fustian ; 
 it comes from candidus^ which is partly Greek, partly Latin, and 
 partly Hebrew. It was the learned designation for Irish linen, too, 
 which, in the time of the Romans, was in great request at Rome ; but 
 it was changed to signify fustian, because it was found that everything 
 a man promised, on becoming a candidate for any office, turned out 
 to be only fustian when he got it." 
 
 " Denis, avourneen," said his mother, "the greatest comfort myself 
 has is to be thinkin' that when you're a priest you can be sayin' 
 masses for my poor sinful sowl." 
 
 " Yes, there is undoubtedly comfort in that reflection ; and depend 
 upon it, my dear mother, that I'll be sure to clinch your masses in the 
 surest mode. I'll not fly over them like Camilla across a field ol 
 potato oats, without discommoding a single walk, as too many of my 
 worthy brethren — I mane as too many of those whose worthy brother 
 1 will soon be — do in this present year of grace. I'm no fool at the 
 Latin, but, as I'm an unworthy candidate for Maynooth, I cannot 
 even understand every fifteenth word they say when reading mass, 
 independently of the utter scorn with which they treat those two 
 scholastic old worthies called Syntax and Prosody." 
 
 " Denis," said the father, "nothing would give me greater delight 
 than to be present at your first mass an' your first sarmon ; and next 
 to that would I like to be stumpin' about wid a dacent staff in my 
 hand, maybe wid a bit of silver on the head of it, takin' care of your 
 place when you'd have a parish." 
 
 '' At all events, if you're not with me, father, I'll keep you comfort- 
 able wherever you'll be, whether in this world or the other ; for, plase 
 goodness, I'll have some influence in both. When I get a parish, 
 however, it is not improbable that I may have occasion to see com- 
 pany ; the neighbouring gentlemen will be apt to relish my society, 
 particularly those who are addicted to conviviality ; and our object 
 will be to render ourselves as populous as possible ; now, whether in 
 that case it would be compatible — but never fear, father, whilst I have 
 the means, you or one of the family shall never want." 
 
 "Will you let the people be far behind in their dues, Denis?" in- 
 quired Brian. 
 
loo DENIS O'SUAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 '* No, no — leave that point to my management. Depe/id upon it, 
 I'll have them like mice before me — ready to run into the first augur- 
 hole they meet. I'll collect lots of oats, and get as much yarn every 
 year as would clothe three regiments of militia, or, for that matthcr, 
 of dragoons. I'll appoint my stations, too, in the snuggest fanners' 
 houses in the parish, just as Father Finnerty, our worthy parochial 
 priest, ingeniously contrives to do. And, to revert secondarily to the 
 collection of the oats, I'll talk liberally to the Protestant boddaghs ; 
 give the Presbyterians a learned homily upon civil and religious 
 freedom ; make hard hits with them at that inxubus, the Established 
 Church ; and, never fear, but I shall fill bag after bag with good corn 
 from many of both creeds." 
 
 " That," said Brian, " will be givin' them the bag to hould in 
 arnest." 
 
 " No, Brian, but it will be makin' them fill the bag when I hold it, 
 which will be better still." 
 
 " But," said Susan, " who'll keep house for you? You know that a 
 priest can't live widout a housekeeper." 
 
 " That, Susy," replied Denis, " is, and will be, the most difficult 
 point on which to accomplish anything like a satisfactory determina- 
 tion. I have nieces enough, however. There's Peter Finncgan's 
 eldest daughter, Mary, and Hugh Tracy's Ailsey — (to whom he added 
 about a dozen and a half more) — together with several yet to be 
 endowed with existence, all of whom will be brisk candidates for the 
 situation." 
 
 " I don't think," replied Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, " that you'll ever get 
 anyone who'd be more comfortable about you nor your own ould 
 mother. What do you think of takin' myself, Denis?" 
 
 " Ay, but consider the accomplishments in the culinary art — in re 
 vel in arte culitiaria — which will be necessary for my housekeeper to 
 know. How would you, for instance, dress a dinner for the bishop 
 if he happened to pay me a visit, as you may be certain he will? 
 How would you make pies and puddings, and disport your fancy 
 through all the varieties of roast and boil ? How would you dress a 
 fowl that it would stand upon a dish as if it was going to dance a 
 hornpipe? How would you amalgamate the different genera of wine 
 with boiling fluid and crystallised saccharine matter? How would 
 you dispose of the various dishes upon the table according to high 
 life and mathematics? Wouldn't you be too old to bathe my feet 
 when I'd be unwell ? Wouldn't you be too old to bring me my whey 
 in th^ morning as soon as I'd awake, perhaps with a severe headache, 
 after the plenary indulgence of a clerical compotation? Wouldn't 
 you l)e too old to sit up till the middle of the nocturnal hour, awaiting 
 my arrival home? Wouldn't you be " 
 
 " Hut, tut, that's enough. Denny, I'd never do at all. No, no, but 
 I'll sit a clane dacent ould woman in the corner upon a chair that 
 you'll get made for me ! There I'll be wid my pipe and tobacco, 
 smokin' at my ase, chattin' to the sarvints, and sometimes discoorsin' 
 the neighbours that'll come to inquire for you, when they'll be sinin' 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. loi 
 
 in the kitchen waitin' till you get through your office. Jist let me 
 have that, Dinny, achora, and I'll be as happy as the day's long." 
 
 " And I on the other side," said his father, naturally enough struck 
 with the happy simplicity of the picture which his wife drew, " on the 
 other side, Mave, a snug, dacent ould man, chattin' to you across the 
 fire, proud to see the bishop an' the gintlemen about him. An' I 
 wouldn't ax to be taken into the parlour at all, except, maybe, when 
 there would be nobody there but yourself, Denis ; an' that your mother 
 an' I would go into the parlour to get a glass of punch, or, if it could 
 be spared, a little taste of wine for novelty." 
 
 " And so you shall, both of you — you, father, at one side of the hob, 
 and my mother here at the other, the king and queen of my culinary 
 dominions. But practise taciturnity a little — I'm visited by the muse, 
 and must indulge in a strain of vocal melody — hem — 'tis a few lines of 
 my own composure, the offspring of a moment of inspiration by the 
 nine female Heliconians ; but before I anticipate, here's to my own 
 celebrity to-morrow, and afterwards all your healths ! " 
 
 He then proceeded to sing in his best style a song composed, as he 
 said, by himself, but which, as the composition was rather an eccentric 
 one, we decline giving. 
 
 " Denis," said his brother, " you'll have great sport at the stations." 
 
 " Yes, Brian, most inimitable specimen of fraternity, I do look into 
 the futurity of a station with great complacency. Hem — in the 
 morning \ rise up in imagination, and after reading part of my office, 
 I and my curate — ego et coadjutor mens — or if I get a large parish, 
 perhaps I and my two curates — ego et coadjutores mei — order our 
 horses, and of a fine calm summer morning we mount them as grace- 
 fully as three throopers. The sun is up, and of cocfrse the moon is 
 down, and the glitter of the light, the sparkling of the dew, the can- 
 ticles of the birds, and the melodious cawing of the crows in Squire 
 Grimshaw's rookery " 
 
 " Why, Denis, is it this parish you'll have ?" 
 
 " Silence, silence, till I complate my rural ideas — in some gentle- 
 man's rookery, at all events ; the thrush here, the blackbird there, the 
 corncraik chanting its varied note in another place, and so on. In 
 the meantime, we reverend sentimentalists advance, gazing with odo- 
 riferous admiration upon the prospect about us, and expatiating in the 
 purest of Latin upon the beauties of unsophisticated nature. When 
 we meet the peasants going out to their work, they put their hands to 
 their hats for us ; but as I am known to be the parochial priest, it is 
 to me the salutation is directed, which I return with the air of a man 
 who thinks nothing of such things ; but, on the contrary, knoivs them 
 to be his due. The poor creatures of curates, you must know, don't 
 presume to speak of themselves, but simply answer whenever I conde- 
 scend to propose conversation, for I'll keep them down, never fear. 
 In this edifying style we proceed — I a few steps in advance, and they 
 at a respectful distance behind me, the heads of their horses just to 
 my saddle skirts — my clerical boots as brilliant as the countenance of 
 Phoebus when decked with rosy smiles, theirs more subordinately 
 
102 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSy GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 polished, for there should be gradations in all things, and humility is 
 the first of virtues in a Christian curate. My bunch of goold sales 
 stands out proudly from my anteiior rotundity, for by this time, plase 
 God, I'll be getting frolicsome and corpulent ; they with only a poor 
 bit of ribbon, and a single twopenny kay, stained with verdigrac 
 In the meantime, we come within sight of the wealthy farmer's house 
 wherein we are to hold the edifymg solemnity of a station. There 
 is a joyful appearance of study and bustle about the premises ; the 
 peasantry are flocking towards it, dressed in their best clothes ; the 
 proprietors of the mansion itself are running out to try if we are in 
 appearance, and the very smoke disports itself hilariously in the air, 
 and bounds up as if it was striving to catch the first glimpse of the 
 clargy. When we approach, the good man — pater faniilias — comes 
 out to meet us, and the good woman — tnater faniilias — comes curt- 
 sying from the door to give us the kcad millia failiha. No sooner 
 do we persave ourselves noticed, than out comes the Breviary, and in 
 a moment we arc at our morning devotions. I, being the rector, am 
 particularly grave and dignified. I do not speak much, but am rather 
 sharp, and order the curates, whom I treat, however, with great respect 
 before the people, instantly to work. This impresses those who are 
 present with awe and reverence for us all, especially for Father 
 O'Shaughnessy hitnself—{t\\sX.' s me). I then take a short turn or two 
 across the floor, silently perusing my office, after which I lay it aside 
 and relax into a little conversation with the people of the house, to 
 show that I can conciliate by love as readily as I can impress them 
 with fear ; for, you see, divide et iinpera is as aptly applied to the 
 passions as to maxims of state policy — ehem. I then go to my 
 tribunal, and first hear the man and woman and family of the house, 
 and afther them the other penitents, according as they can come to 
 me. 
 
 " Thus we go on absolving in great style, till it is time for the matu- 
 tinal meal — vulgarly called breakfast ; when the whisky, eggs, toast, 
 and tea as strong as Hercules, with ham, fowl, beef-steaks, or mutton- 
 chops, all pour in upon us in the full tide of hospitality. Helter- 
 skelter, cut and thrust, right and left, we work away, till the appetite 
 reposes itself upon the cushion of repletion : and off we go once more, 
 full and waim, to the delicate employment of adjudicating upon sin 
 and transgression, until dinner comes, when, having despatched as 
 many as possible — for the quicker we get through them the better — we 
 set about despatching what is always worth a ship-load of such riff-raft' 
 — videlicet, a good and extensive dinner. Oh, ye pagan gods of eating 
 and drinking, Bacchus and — let me see who the presiding deity of 
 good feeding was in the Olympian synod — as I'm an unworthy candi- 
 date, I forget that topic of learning ; but no matter, non constat. Oh, 
 ye pagan professors of ating and drinking, Bacchus, Epicunis, and 
 St. Heliogabalus, Anthony of Padua, and Paul the Hermit, who 
 poached for his own venison, St. Tuck and St. Tak'em, St. Drinkcm 
 and St. Eatem, with all ye other reverend worthies, who bore the 
 blushing honours of the table thick upon your noses, come and inspire 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. io3 
 
 your unworthy candidate, while he essays to chant the praises of a 
 station dinner ! 
 
 " Then, then, does the priest appropriate to himself his due share of 
 enjoyment. Ihen does he, like Elias, throw his garment of inspira- 
 tion upon his coadjutors. Then is the goose cut up, and the farmer's 
 distilled Latin is found to be purer and more edifying than the dis- 
 tillation of Maynooth. 
 
 ' Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring, 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing.' 
 
 And so it is, as far as this inspiring language is concerned. A station 
 dinner is the very pinnacle of a priest's happiness. There is the fun 
 and frolic ; then does the lemon-juice of mirth and humour come out 
 of their reverences, like secret writing, as soon as they get properly 
 warm. The song and the joke, the laugh and the leer, the shaking of 
 hands, the making of matches, and the projection o<" weddings, the 
 nipping on the ribs, and the pressing of the toes, the poking and the 
 joking — och, I must conclude, or my brisk fancy will dissolve in the 
 deluding vision ! Here's to my celebrity to-morrow, and may the 
 bishop catch a Tarthar in your son, my excellent and logical father ! 
 — as I tell you among ourselves he will do. Mark me, I say it, but 
 it's inter nos, it won't go further ; but should he trouble me with pro- 
 fundity, I'll make a liidibriutn of him." 
 
 " But you forget the weddings and christenings, Denis ; you'll have 
 great sport at them too." 
 
 " I can't remember three things at a time, Brian : but you are mis- 
 taken, however ; I had them snug in one corner of my cranium. The 
 weddings and the christenings ! do you think I'll have nothing to do 
 in them, you stiiltus, you 1 " 
 
 " But, Denis, is there any harm in the priests enjoying themselves, 
 and they so holy as we know they are ? " inquired his mother. 
 
 "Not the least in life ; considering what severe fasting and great 
 praying they have ; besides, it's necessary for them to take something 
 to put the sins of the people out of their heads, and that's one reason 
 why they are often jolly at stations." 
 
 " My goodness, what light Denis can throw upon anything ! " 
 
 " Not without deep study, mother ; but let us have another portion 
 of punch each, afther which I'll read a Latin De Profundis, and we'll 
 go to bed. I must be up early to-morrow ; and, Brian, you'll please 
 to have the black mare saddled and my spur brightened as jinteely 
 as you can, for I must go in as much state and grandeur as possible." 
 
 Accordingly, in due time, after hearing the De Profundis, which 
 Denis read in as sonorous a tone, and as pompous a manner, as he 
 could issume, they went to bed for the night, to dream of future 
 dignities for their relative. 
 
 When Denis appeared the next morning it was evident that the 
 spirit of prophecy in which he had contemplated the enjoyments 
 annexed to his ideal station on the preceding night had departed from 
 him He was pale and anxious, as in the early part of the previous 
 
I04 DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 evening. At breakfast, his very appetite treacherously abandoned 
 hiin, despite the buttered toast and eggs which his mother forced 
 ui;on him with such tender assiduity, in order, she said, to make 
 him stout against the bishop. Her solicitations, however, were in 
 vain ; after attempting to eat to no purpose, he arose and began to 
 prepare himself for his journey. This, indeed, was a work of con- 
 siderable importance, for, as they had no looking-glass, he was obliged 
 to dress himself over a tub of water, in which, since truth must be told, 
 he saw a very cowardly visage. In due time, however, he was ready 
 to proceed upon his journey, apparelled in a new suit of black that 
 sat stiffly and awkwardly upon him, crumpled in a manner that 
 enabled any person at a glance to perceive that it was worn for the 
 first time. 
 
 When he was setting out, his father approached him with a small 
 jug of holy water in his hand. " Denis," said he, " I think you won't be 
 the worse of a sprinkle of this," and he accordingly was about to shake 
 it with a little brush over his person, when Denis arrested his hand. 
 
 " Easy, father," he replied, " you don't remember that my new 
 clothes are on. I'll just take a little with my fingers, for you know 
 one drop is as good as a thousand." 
 
 " I know that," said the father, " but on the other hand you know 
 it's not lucky to refuse it." 
 
 " I didn't refuse it," rejoined Denis, " I surely took a quatitum suJJ. 
 of it with my own hand." 
 
 " It was very near a refusal," said the father, in a disappointed and 
 somewhat sorrowful tone ; " but it can't be helped now. I'm only 
 sorry you put it and quantum stiff, in connection at all. Quantum 
 suff. is what Father Finnerty says when he will take no more punch ; 
 it doesn't argue respect in you to make as little of a jug of holy 
 wather as he does of a jug of punch." 
 
 " I'm sorry for it, too," replied Denis, who was every whit as super- 
 stitious as his father ; " and to atone for my error, I desire you will 
 sprinkle me all over with it — clothes and all." 
 
 The father complied with this, and Denis was sett'"':^ out, when 
 his mother exclaimed, " Blessed be them above us, .^enis More ! 
 Look at the boy's legs ! There's luck. Why, one of his stockins has 
 the wrong side out, and it's upon the right leg too ! Well, this will 
 be a fortunate day for you, Denis, anyway ; the same thing never 
 happened myself but something good followed it." 
 
 This produced a slight conflict between Denis's personal vanity and 
 superstition ; but on this occasion superstition prevailed : he even 
 felt his spirits considerably elevated by the incident, mounted the 
 mare, and after jerking himself once or twice in the saddle, to be 
 certain that a.i was right, he touched her with the spur, and set out to 
 be examined by the bishop, exclaiming as he went, " Let his lordship 
 take care that I don't make a ludiby-iuvi of him." 
 
 The family at that moment all came to the door, where they stood 
 looking after and admiring him, until he turned a corner of the road 
 B.nd lelt their sight. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 105 
 
 Many were the speculations entered into during his absence as to 
 the fact whether o" not he would put down the bishop in the course 
 of the examination ; some of them holding that he could do 'o if he 
 wished ; but others of them denying that it was possible for nim, in- 
 asmuch as he had never received holy orders. 
 
 The day passed, but not in the usual way, in Denis More O'Shaugh- 
 nessy's. The females of the family were busily engaged in preparing 
 for the dinner, to which Father Finnerty, his curate, and several of 
 their nearest and wealthiest friends had been invited ; and the men in 
 clearing out the stables and other offices for the horses of the guests. 
 Pride and satisfaction were visible on every face, and that disposition 
 to cordiality, and to the oblivion of ever)'thing unpleasant to the mind, 
 marked, in a prominent manner, their conduct and conversation. Old 
 Denis went, and voluntarily spoke to a neighbour with whom he had 
 not exchanged a word, except in anger, for some time. He found him 
 at work in the field, and, advancing with open hand and heart, he 
 begged his pardon for any offence he might have given him. 
 
 " My son," said he, " is goin' to Maynooth ; and as he is a boy that 
 we have a good right to be proud of, and as our friends are comin' to 
 ate their dinner wid us to-day, and as — as my heart is too full to bear 
 ill-will against any livin' sowl, let alone a man that I know to be sound 
 at the heart, in spite of all that has come between us — I say, Darby, I 
 forgive you, and I expect pardon for my share of the ofience. There's 
 the hand of an honest man — let us be as neighbours ought to be, and 
 not divided into parties and factions against one another, as we have 
 been too long. Take your dinner wid us to-day, and let us hear no 
 more about ill-will and unkindness." 
 
 " Denis," said his friend, "it ill becomes you to spake first. 'Tis I 
 that ought to do that, and to do it long ago, too ; but you see, some- 
 how, so long as it was to be decided by blows between the families, 
 I'd never give in. Not but that / might do so, but my sons, Denis, 
 wouldn't hear of it. Throth, I'm glad of this, and so will they, too ; for 
 only for the honour and glory of houldin' out, we might be all friends 
 through other long ago. And I'll tell you what, we couldn't do better, 
 the two factions of us, nor join and thrash them Haigneys, that always 
 put between us." 
 
 " No, Darby, I tell you I bear no ill-will, no bad thoughts, agin any 
 born Christian this day, and I won't hear of that. Come to us about 
 five o'clock : we're to have Father Finnerty, and Father Farrell, his 
 curate : all friends, man, all friends ; and Denny, God guard him this 
 day, will be home, afther passin' the bishop, about four o'clock." 
 
 " I always thought that gorsoon would come to somethin'. Why, it 
 was wondherful how he used to discoorse upon the chapel-green, your- 
 self and himself : but he soon left you behind. And how he sealed up 
 poor ould Dixon the parish dark's mouth, at Barny Boccagh's wake. 
 God resi his souk It was talkin' about the Protestant Church thf^y 
 wor. ' Why,' said Misther Denis, 'you ould termagant, can you tell 
 me who first discovered your Church ?' The dotin' ould crathur began 
 of hunmim' and hawin', and advisin' the boy to have more sensA 
 
io5 DENIS O'SHAUGHNEZSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 ' Come,' said he, ' you ould canticle, can you answer ? But for fear 
 you can't, I'll answer for you. It was the divil discovered it oi.e fine 
 mornin' that he went to get an appetite, bein' in delicate health: 
 Why, Denis, you'd tie all that wor present wid a rotten sthraw." 
 
 " Darby, I ax your pardon over agin for what came between us ; and 
 I see now, betther than I did, that the fault of it was more mine nor 
 yours. You'll be down surely about five o'clock." 
 
 " I must go and take this beard off o'me, and clane myself; and I 
 may as well do that now : but I'll be down, never fear." 
 
 " In throth the boy was always bright ! — ha, ha, ha !— and he sobered 
 Dixon?" 
 
 " Had him like a judge in no time." 
 
 " Oh, he could do it — he could do that, at all times. God be wid 
 you. Darby, till I see you in the evenin'." 
 
 " Baiiii -if^ht Ihaih, Denis, an' I'm proud we're as we ought to be." 
 
 About four o'clock the guests began to assemble at Denis's ; and 
 about the same hour one might perceive Susan O'Shaughnessy running 
 out to a stile a little above the house, where she stood for a few minutes, 
 with her hand shading her eyes, looking long and intensely towards 
 the direction from which she expected her brother to return. Hitherto, 
 however, he could not be discovered in the distance, although scarcely 
 five minutes elapsed during the intervals of her appearance at the stile 
 to watch him. Some horsemen she did notice ; but after straining her 
 eyes eagerly and anxiously, she was enabled only to report, with a 
 dejected air, that they were their own friends coming from a distant 
 part of the parish to be present at the dinner. At length, after a long 
 and eager look, she ran in with an exclamation of delight, saying : 
 
 " Thank goodness, he's comin' at last ; I see somebody dressed in 
 black ridin' down the upper end of Tim Marly's boreen, an' I'm sure 
 an' certain it must be Denis, from his dress !" 
 
 "I'll warrant it is, my colleen," replied her father ; "he said he'd be 
 here before the dinner would be ready, an' it's widin a good hour of 
 that. I'll thry myself." 
 
 He and his daughter once more went out ; but, alas ! only to ex- 
 perience a fresh disappointment. Instead of Denis, it was Father 
 Finnerty ; who, it appeared, felt as anxious to be in time for dinner as 
 the young candidate himself could have done. He was advancing 
 dt a brisk trot, not upon the colt which had been presented to him, 
 but upon his old nag, which seemed to feel as eager to get at Denis's 
 oats as its owner did to taste his mutton. 
 
 " I see, Susy, we'll have a day of il, plase goodness," observed Denis 
 to the girl : " here's Father Finnerty, and I wouldn't for more nor I'll 
 mention that he had stayed away ; and I hope the cowjuthcr will come 
 as well as himself. Do you go in, aroon, and tell them he's comin', and 
 I'll go and meet him." 
 
 Most of Denis's friends were now assembled, dressed in their best 
 apparel, and raised to the highest pitch of good-humour ; for no man 
 who knows the relish with which Irishmen enter into convivial 
 enjoyments can be ignorant of the remarkable flow of spirits which 
 
DENIS 0*SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 107 
 
 the prospect of an abundant and hospitable dinner produces amonp 
 them. 
 
 Father Finnerty was one of those priests who constit itea numerous 
 species in Ireland ; regular, but loose and careless, in the observances 
 of his Church, he could not be taxed with any positive neglect of 
 pastoral duty. He held his stations at stated times and places with 
 great exactness, but when the severer duties annexed to them were 
 performed, he relaxed into the boon companion, sang his song, told 
 his story, laughed his laugh, and occasionally danced his dance, the 
 very beau ideal of a rough, shrewd, humorous divine, who, amidst 
 the hilarity of convivial mirth, kept an eye to his own interest, and 
 sweetened the severity with which he exacted his " dues" by a manner 
 at once jocose and familiar. If a wealthy farmer had a child to 
 christen, his reverence declined baptizing it in the chapel, but as a 
 proof of his marked respect for its parents, he and his curate did them 
 tlie honour of performing the ceremony at their own house. If a 
 marriage was to be solemnized, provided the parties were wealthy, he 
 adopted the same course, and manifested the same flattering mark of 
 his particular esteem for the parties, by attending at their residence ; 
 or if they preferred the pleasure of a journey to his own house, he 
 and his curate accompanied them home from the same motives. This 
 condescension, whilst it raised the pride of the parties, secured a good 
 dinner and a pleasant evening's entertainment for the priests, en- 
 hanced their humility exceedingly, for the more they enjoyed them- 
 selves, the more highly did their friends consider themselves honoured. 
 This mode of life might, one would suppose, lessen their importance 
 and that personal respect which is entertained for the priests by the 
 people ; but it is not so — the priests can, the moment such scenes are 
 ended, pass, with the greatest aptitude of habit, into the hard, gloomy 
 character of men who are replete with profound knowledge, exalted 
 piety, and extraordinary power. The sullen frown, the angry glance, 
 or the mysterious allusion to the omnipotent authority of the Church, 
 as vested in their persons, joined to some unintelligible dogma, laid 
 down as their authority, are always sufficient to check anything dero- 
 gatory towards them, which is apt to originate in the unguarded 
 moments of conviviality. 
 
 " Plase your reverence, I'll put him up myself," said Denis to Father 
 Finnerty, as he took his horse by the bridle, and led him towards the 
 stable, " and how is viy cowlt doin' wid you, sir "i " 
 
 " Troublesome, Denis ; he was in a bad state when I got him, and 
 he'll cost me nearly his price before I have him thoroughly broke." 
 
 " He was pretty well broke wid me, I know," replied Denis, "and 
 I'm afeard you've given him into the hands of someone that knows 
 little about horses. Mave," he shouted, passing the kitchen door, 
 " here's Father Finnerty — go in, docthor, and put big Brian Buie out 
 o' the corner ; for goodness' sake, exkunnicate him from the hob — an' 
 sure you have power to do that, anyway." 
 
 The priest laughed, but immediately assum'-ig a grave face, as he 
 entered, exclaimed : 
 
I OS DENIS O'LHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYXOOTH. 
 
 " Brian Buie, in the name of the forty-seventh proposition of Euclid's 
 Elements — in the name of the cube and square roots of Algebra, 
 Mathematics, Fluxions, and the doctrine of all essential spirits that 
 admit of proof — in the name of Nebucharlanezar the divine, who in- 
 vented the convenient scheme of taking; a cold collation under a hedge 
 — by the power of that profound branch of learning, the Greek 
 Digamma — by the authority of true Latin, /r/w^, of Beotian Greek, 
 secundo, and of Arabian Hebrew, tertioj which is, when united by the 
 skill of profound erudition, ^r//«<7, secundo, tertio ; or, being reversed 
 by the logic of illustration, tertio, sectuu/o, pruno. Commando te in 
 no7nine botteli, pothefni botii drinkaudi his cedibics, hac node, ititer 
 arnicas excellentissimt amici mei, Dionisii O'Shaug/inessy, qncni 
 beknavavi ex excellentissimo col to ejus, causa p-datttissimi Jilii ejus, 
 destg}iati ecclesice, pa!ri,scd nequaqiiavi aeo, nee nattirce, nee inj^oiioj 
 cotnviando te, inquain, Bernarde Buie, surgere, stare, ambulare, et 
 decedere e cornero isto vel hobbo, quo mune sedes ! Yes, I command 
 thee, Brian Buie, who sit upon the hob of my worthy and most excel 
 lent friend and parishioner, Denis O'Shaughnessy, to rise, to stand up 
 before your spiritual superior, to walk down from it, and to tremble 
 as if you were about to sink into the earth to the neck, but no further ; 
 — before the fulmmations of him who can wield the thunder of that 
 mighty Salmoneus, his holiness the Pope, successor to St. Peter, who 
 left the servant of the centurion earless, I command and objurgate thee, 
 sinner as thou art, to vacate your seat on the hob for a man of sanctity, 
 whose legitimate possession it is ; otherwise I shall send you, like that 
 tvorthy archbishop, the aforesaid Nebuchadanezar, to live upon leeks 
 for seven years in the renowned kingdom of Wales, where the leeks 
 may be seen to thi?. day ! Presto ! " 
 
 These words, pronounced with a grave face, in a loud, rapid, and 
 sonorous tone of voice, startled the good people of the house, who sat 
 mute and astonished at such an exordium from the worthy pastor ; but 
 no sooner had he uttered Brian Buie's name, giving him, at the same 
 time, a fierce and authoritative look, than the latter started to his feec, 
 and stepped down in a kind of alarm towards the door. The priest 
 immediately placed his hand upon his shoulder in a mysterious man- 
 ner, exclaiming : 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, Brian, I have taken the force of the anathema 
 off you ; your power to sit, or stand, or go where you please is re- 
 turned again. I wanted your seat, and Denis desired me to excom- 
 municate you out of it, which I did, and you accordingly left it without 
 your own knowledge, consent, or power ; I transferred you to where 
 you stand, and you had no more strength to resist me than if you 
 were an infant not three hours in the world ! " 
 
 " I ax God's pardon, an' your reverence's," said Brian, in a tremor, 
 " if I have given offince. Now, bless my soul ! what's this ? As sure 
 as I stand before you, neighbours, I know neither act nor part of how 
 i was brought from the hob at all — neitb.er act nor part. Did any of 
 yees see me lavin' it ; or how did I come here — can yees tell me ?" 
 
 '■' Pad Jy," said one of his friends, " did you see him ? " 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 105 
 
 " The sorra one o' me seen him," replied Paddy : " I was lookin' at 
 ;.is reverence, sthrivin' to know what he was sayin'." 
 
 " Pether, did you ?" another inquired. 
 
 "Me ! I never seen a stim of him till he was standin' alone o<i the 
 flure ! Sure, when he didn't see or find himself goin', how could 
 another see him?" 
 
 "Glory be to God !" exclaimed Mave ; "one ought to think well 
 what they say when they spake of the clargy, for they don't know what 
 it may bring down upon them, sooner or later ! " 
 
 '■ Our Denis will be able to do that yet," said Susan to her eldest 
 sister. 
 
 " To be sure he will, girshn, as soon as he's ordained — every bit as 
 well as Father Finnerty," replied Mary. 
 
 The young enthusiast's countenance brightened as her sister spoke : 
 her dark eye became for a minute or two fixed upon vacancy, during 
 whicl. it flashed several times ; until, as the images cf her brother's 
 future glory passed before her imagination, she became wrapt — her lip 
 quivered — her cheek flushed into a deeper colour, and the tears burst 
 in gushes from her eyes. 
 
 The mother, who was now engaged in welcoming Father Finnerty — 
 a duty which the priest's comic miracle prevented her fr jm performing 
 sooner — did not perceive her daughter's agitation, nor, m fact, did any- 
 one present understand its cause. Whilst the priest was taking Brian 
 Buie's seat, she vv'ent once more to watch the return of Denis ; and 
 while she stood upon the stile, her father, after having put up the 
 horse, entered the house, " to keep his reverence company." 
 
 "An' pray, docthor," he inquired, "where is Father Molony, that 
 he's not wid you .'' I hope he won't disappoint us ; he's a mighty 
 pleasant gintleman of an evenin', an', barrin' your reverence, I don't 
 know a man that tells a betther story." 
 
 " He entreated permission from me this morning," replied Father 
 Finnerty, " and that was leave to pay a visit to the bishop ; for v/hat 
 purpose I know not, unless to put in a word in season for the first 
 parish that becomes vacant." 
 
 " Throth, an' he well desarves a parish," replied Denis ; " an' 
 although we'd be loth to part wid him, still we'd be proud to hear of 
 his promotion." 
 
 " He'll meet Denis there," observed Susan, who had returned from 
 the stile : "he'll be apt to be present at his trial wid the bishop ; an' 
 maybe he'll be home along wid him. I'll go an' thry if I can see them 
 agin," and she flew once more to watch their return. 
 
 " Now, Father Finnerty," said an uncle of Denis's, " you can give 
 a good guess at what a dacent parish ought to be worth to a parish 
 priest ? " 
 
 " Mrs. O'Shaughnessy," said the priest, "is that fat brown goose, 
 suspended before the fire, of your own rearing ? " 
 
 " Indeed it is, plase your reverence ; but as far as good m.ale an' 
 phaties could go, for the last month it got the benefit of them." 
 
 "And pray, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, have you many of the same 
 
'lo DENIS O'SnAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 kidney? I only ask for information, as I said to Peery Racket's wife, 
 the last day 1 held the station in Peery's. There was just such 
 another goose hanging before the fire ; but, you must know, the cream 
 of the joke was that 1 had been after coming from the confessional, 
 as hungry as a man could conveniently wish himself ; and seeing the 
 brown fat goose before the fire, just as this is, why my teeth, Mave, 
 began to get lachrymose. Upon my priesthood, it was such a goose 
 as a priest's corpse might get up on its elbow to look at, and exclaim, 
 ^ Avoiirneen viacJiree, it's a thousand pities that I'm not living to have 
 a cut at you !'— ha, ha, ha! God be good to old Friar Hennessy, 
 I have that joke from him. 
 
 " * Well, Mrs. Racket,' says I, as I was airing my fingers at the fire, 
 ' I daresay you haven't another goose like this about the house .-' 
 Now, tell me, like an honest woman, have you any of the same kidney.' 
 — I only ask for information.' 
 
 " Mrs. Racket, however, told me she believed there might be a few 
 of the same kind straggling about the place, but said nothing further 
 upon it until the Saturday following, when her son brings me down a 
 pair of the fattest geese I ever cut up for my Sunday's dinner. Now, 
 Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, wasn't that doing the thing dacentf" 
 
 " Well, well, docthor," said Denis, " that was all right; let Mave 
 alone, an' maybe she'll be apt to find out a pair that will match Mrs. 
 Racket's. Not that I say it, but she doesn't like to be outdone 
 in anything." 
 
 " Docthor, I was wishin' to know, sir," continued the uncle of the 
 absent candidate, " what the value of a good parish might be," 
 
 " I think, Mave, there's a discrepancy between the goose and the 
 shoulder of mutton. The fact is, that if it be a disputation between 
 them as to which will be roasted first, I pronounce that the goose will 
 have it. It's now, let me see, half-past four o'clock, and in my 
 opinion it will take a full half-hc-i^co bring up the mutton. So, Mave, 
 if you'll be guided by your priest, advance the mutton towards the fire 
 about two inches, and keep the girsJia basting steadily, and then 
 you'll be sure to have it rich and juicy." 
 
 " Docthor, wid submission, I was wantin' to know what a good 
 parish might be " 
 
 " Mike Lawdher, if I don't mistake, you ought to have good grazing 
 down in your meadows at Ballinard. What will you be charging for 
 a month or two's grass for this colt I've bought from my daccnt friend, 
 Denis O'Shaughnessy, here.'' And, Mike, be rasonable upon a poor 
 man, for we're all poor, being only tolerated by the State we live 
 under, < ^id ought not, of coorse, to be hard upon one another." 
 
 " An' what did he cost you, docthor .?" replied Mike, answering one 
 question by another; "what did you get for him, Denis?" he con- 
 tinued, referring for information to Denis, to whom, on reflection, he 
 thought it more decorous to put the question. 
 
 Denis, however,felt the peculiardelicacyof his situation, and looked at 
 the priest, whilst the latter, under a momentary embarrassment, looked 
 significantly at Denis. His reverence, however, was seldom at a loss 
 
DENIS O'SIIAUG/nVESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. "' 
 
 " What would you take him to be worth, Mike ?" he asked ; " re- 
 member he's but badly trained, and I'm sure it will cost me both 
 money and trouble to make anything dacent out of him." 
 
 " If you got him somewhere between five-and-twenty and tb'rty 
 guineas, I would say you have good value for your money, plase jour 
 reverence. What do you say, Denis — am I near it.-"' 
 
 " Why, Mike, you know as much about a horse as you do about the 
 Pentateuch or Paralipomenon, Five-and-twenty guineas, indeed ! I 
 hope you won't set your grass as you would sell your horses." 
 
 " Why, thin, if your reverence ^^^ ready i loney for him, I maintain 
 he was as well worth twenty guineas as a thiet's worth the gallows ; an' 
 you know, sir, I'd be long sorry to differ wid you. Am I ne? it now, 
 docthor ? " 
 
 " Denis got for the horse more than that," said his reverence, " and 
 he may speak for himself." 
 
 " Thrue for you, sir," replied Denis : " I surely got above twenty 
 guineas for him, an' I'm well satisfied wid the bargain." 
 
 "You hear that now, Mike— you hear what he says." 
 
 "There's no goin' beyant it," returned Mike; "the proof o' the 
 puddin' is in the atin', as we'll soon know, Mave — eh, docthor ?" 
 
 " I never knew Mave to make a bad one," said the priest, " except 
 upon the day Friar Hennessy dined with me here — my curate was sick, 
 and I had to call in the Friar to assist me at confession ; however, to 
 do Mave justice, it was 7tot her fault, for the Friar drowned the pud- 
 ding, which was originally a good one, with a deluge of strong whisky. 
 
 " ' It's too gross,' said the facetious Friar, in his loud, strong voice — 
 * it's too gross, Docthor Finnerty, so let us spiritualise it, that it may be 
 Christian atin', fit for pious men to digest,' and then he came out with 
 his thundering laugh — oigh, oigh, oigh, oigh ! but he had consequently 
 the most of the pudding to himself, an', indeed, brought the better half 
 of it home in his saddle-bags." 
 
 " Faix, an' he did," said Mave, " an' a fat goose that he coaxed Mary 
 to kill for him unknownst to us all in the coorse o' the day." 
 
 " How long is he dead, docthor ! " said Denis ; " God rest him, any- 
 way, he's happy ! " 
 
 " He died in the hot summer, now nine years about June last ; 
 and talking about him reminds me of a trick he put on me about 
 two years before his death. He and I had not been on good terms 
 for long enough before that time ; but as the curate I had was then 
 sickly, and as I wouldn't be allowed two, I thought it might be con- 
 venient to call in the friar occasionally, a regulation he did not at 
 all relish, for he said he could make far more by guesting and poaching 
 about among the old women of the parish, with wh^m he was a great 
 favourite, in consequence of the Latin hymns he used to sing for them, 
 and the great cures he used to perform — a species of devotion which 
 neither I nor my curate had time to practise. So, in order to renew 
 my intimacy, I sent him a bag of oatmeal and a couple of flitches of 
 bacon, both of which he readily accepted, and came down to me on the 
 tollowing day to borrow three guineas. After attempting to evade him 
 
112 DENTS O'SHAUG/fXESSy GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 —for, in fact, I had not the money /"(? spare — he at length succeeded in 
 getting them from me, on the condition that he was to give my horse 
 a month's grass by way of compensation, for I knew that to expect pay- 
 ment from him was next to going for piety to a parson. 
 
 " ' I will,' said he, * gi^e your horse the run of my best field ' — foi ne 
 held a comfortable bit of ground ; ' but,' he added, ' as you have been 
 always cutting at me about my principle, I must insist, if it was onl ^ 
 to convince you of my ginerosity, that you'll lave the choosing of the 
 month to myself.' 
 
 '' As I really wanted an assistant at the time, he had me bound, in 
 some degree, to his own will. I accordingly gave him the money ; but 
 from that till the day of his death he never sent for my horse, except 
 when there was a foot and a half of snow on the grounri, at which time 
 he was certain to despatch a messenger for him, 'with Father Hennessy's 
 compliments, and he requested Doctor Finnerty to send his horse to 
 Father Hennessy's field to ate his month's grass.' " 
 
 " But is it true, docthor, that his face was shinin' after his death ?" 
 
 " True enough, and, to my own knowledge, long before that event." 
 
 " Dear me," exclaimed Mave, " he was a holy man, afther all ! " 
 
 " Undoubtedly he was," said the priest ; " there are spots in the sun, 
 Mrs. O'Shaughnessy — we are not all immaculate. There never was 
 one sent into this world without less or more sin upon them. Even 
 the saints themselves had venial touches about them, but nothing to 
 signify." 
 
 " Docthor," said the uncle, pertinaciously adhering to the original 
 question, " you have an opportunity of knowin' what a good parish 
 might be worth to a smart, active priest. For the sake of a son of 
 mine that I've some notion of " 
 
 " By-the-by, I wonder Denis is not here before now," exclaimed his 
 reverence, lending a deaf ear to Mike O'Shaughnessy's interrogatory. 
 
 Old Denis's favourite topic had been started, and he accordingly 
 launched out upon it with all the delight and ardour of a fond father. 
 
 *■ Now, docthor dear, before us all — an' sure you know as well as I 
 do that we're all friends together — what's your downright opinion of 
 Denis ? Is he as bright as you tould me the other mornin' he was ? " 
 
 " Really, Denis O'Shaughnessy," replied his reverence, " it's not 
 pleasant to me to be pressed so often to eulogise a young gintleman of 
 whose talents I have so frequently expressed my opinion. Is not once 
 sufficient for me to say what I've said concerning him .'' But, as we are 
 all present, I now say and declare that my opinion of Denis O'Shaugh- 
 nessy, jun., is decidedly pec7iliar — decidedly. Come, girshah, keep 
 basting the mutton, and never heed my boots — turn it about and baste 
 the back of it better." 
 
 ■' God be thanked," exclaimed the delighted father, "sure it's a com- 
 fort to hear that, anyhow — afther all the pains and throuble we've 
 taken wid him, to know it's not lost. Why, that boy was so smart, 
 docthor, that, may I never sin, when he went first to the Latin, but — 
 an' this is no lie, for I have it from his own lips — when he'd look upon 
 his task two or three times over night, he'd waken wid every word of it 
 
DENIS O'SnAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. "3 
 
 pat off the book, the next mornin'. And how do you think he got it ? 
 Why, the crathur, you see, used to dhrame that he was readin' it off, 
 and so he used to get it that way in his sleep." 
 
 At this moment Darby Moran, Denis's old foe, entered, and his 
 reception was cordial and, if the truth were known, almost magnani- 
 mous on the part of Denis. 
 
 " Darby Moran," said he, "not a man, barrin' his reverence here, in 
 the parish we sit in, that I'm prouder to see on my flure — give me 
 your hand, man ahve, and Mave and all of yees welcome him. Every- 
 thing of what you know is buried between us, and you're bound to 
 welcome him, if it was only in regard of the handsome way he spoke 
 of our son this day — here's my own chair. Darby, and sit down." 
 
 " Throth," said Darby, after shaking hands with the priest and 
 greeting the rest of the company, " the same boy no one could spake 
 ill of ; and although we and his people were not upon the best footin', 
 still the sarra one o' me but always gave hi7n his due." 
 
 "Indeed, I believe you, Darby," said his father; "but are you 
 comfortable? Draw your chair nearer the fire — the evenin's gettin' 
 cowld." 
 
 " I'm very well, Denis, I thank you ; nearer the fire ! Faix, except 
 you want to have me roasted along wid that shoulder of mutton and 
 goose, I think I can't go much nearer it." 
 
 " I'm sorry you warn't in sooner, Darby, till you'd hear what 
 Docthor Finnerty here — God spare him long among us — said of Denis 
 awhile ago. Docthor, if it wouldn't be makin' too free, maybe you'd 
 oblage me wid repatin' it over again ? " 
 
 " I can never have any hesitation," replied the priest, " in repeating 
 anything to his advantage — I stated. Darby, that young Misther 
 O'Shaughnessy was a youth of whom my opinion was decidedly 
 peculiar — keep basting, child, you're forgetting the goose now ; did 
 you never see a priest's boots before ?" 
 
 "An' nobody has a better right to know nor yourself, wherever 
 larnin' and education's consarned," said the father. 
 
 "Why, it's not long since I examined him myself; I say it sitting 
 here, and I believe everyone that hears me is present ; and during the 
 course of the examination I was really astonished. The translations, 
 Tnd derivations, and conjugations, and ratiocinations, and variations, 
 and investigations that he gave were all the most remarkably original 
 I ever heard. He would not be contented with the common sense of 
 a passage, but he'd keep hunting, and hawking, and fishing about for 
 something that was out of the ordinary course of reading, that I was 
 truly struck with his eccentric turn of genius." 
 
 " You think he'll pass the bishop wid great credit, docthor?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what I think, Denis — which is going further than I 
 went yet — I think that if he were the bishop, and the bishop the candi- 
 date for Maynooth, that his lordship would have but a poor chance of 
 passing. There's the pinnacle of my eulogium upon him ; and now to 
 give my opinion on another important subject : I pronounce the goo?e 
 and mutton done to a turn. As it appears that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy 
 
"4 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 has even' other portion of the dinner ready, I move that we commence 
 operations as soon as possible." 
 
 " But Uenis, docthor? it would be a pleasure to me to have him, 
 poor fellow, wid all his throuble over, and his mind at ase \ maybe 
 if we wait a weeshy while longer, docthor, that he'll come, and you 
 know Father Molony, too, is to come yet, and some more of our 
 friends." 
 
 " If the examination was a long one, I tell you that Misther 
 O'Shaughnessy may not be here this hour to come ; and you may be 
 sure the bishop, meeting such a bright boy, wouldn't make it a short 
 one. As for Father Molony, he'll be here time enough, so I move 
 again that we attack the citadel." 
 
 " Well, well, never say it again — the sarra one o' me will keep it 
 back, myself bein' as ripe as any of you, barrin' his reverence, that 
 we're not to take the foreway of in anything. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Whilst Mave and her daughters were engaged in laying dinner, and 
 in making all other arrangements necessary for their comfort, the 
 priest took Denis aside, and thus addressed him : — 
 
 " Denis, I need scarcely remark that this meeting of our friends is 
 upon no common occasion ; that it's neither a wedding, nor a station, 
 nor a christening, but a gathering of relations for a more honourable 
 purpose than any of them, excepting the station, which you know is a 
 religious rite. I just mention this privately, lest you might not be 
 properly on your guard, and to prevent any appearance of mane s ; 
 or— in short, I hope you have abundance of everything ; I hope you 
 have, and that not for your own sake so much as for that of your son. 
 Remember your boy, and what he's designed for, and don't let the 
 dinner or its concomitants be discreditable to himj for, in fact, it's his 
 dinner, observe, and not yours." 
 
 "I'm thankful, I'm deeply thankful, an' for ever oblaged to your 
 reverence for your kindness : although, widout at all makin' little of 
 it, it wasn't wanted here ; never fear, docthor, there'll be lashins and 
 lavins." 
 
 " Well, but make that clear, Denis ; here now are near two dozen 
 of us, and you say there are more to come, and all the provision I see 
 for them is a shoulder of mutton, a goose, and something in that large 
 pot on the fire, which I suppose is hung beef." 
 
 *' Thrue for you, sir, but you don't know that we've got a tarin' fire 
 down in the barn, where there's two geese more and two shouldhers of 
 mutton to help what you seen — not to mintion a great big puddin', an' 
 lots of other things. Sure you might notice Mave and the girls runnin' 
 in an' out to attind the cookin' of it." 
 
 " Enough, Denis, that's sufficient ; and now, between you and me, I 
 say your son will be the loadstar of Maynooth, which out-tops anything 
 [ said of him yet." 
 
 '• There's a whole keg of whisky, docthor." 
 
 " I see nothinji to prevent him from being a bishop ; indeed, it's 
 Almost certain, for he can't be kept back." 
 
 " I only hope your reverence will be livin' when he praches his tifat 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MA YNOOTH. "5 
 
 sarmon. I have the dam of the couh still, an' a wink's as good as a 
 nod, please your reverence." 
 
 " A strong letter in his favour to the President of Maynooth will do 
 him no harm," said the priest. 
 
 They then joined their other friends, and in a few minutes an excel- 
 lent dinner, plain and abundant, was spread out upon the table. It 
 consisted of the usual materials which constitute an Irish feast in the 
 house of a wealthy farmer, whose pride it is to compel every guest to 
 eat so long as he can swallow a morsel. There were geese and fowl of 
 all kinds — shoulders of mutton, laughing-potatoes, carrots, parsnips, 
 and cabbage, together with an immense pudding, boiled in a clean 
 sheet, and ingeniously kept together with long straws ^ drawn through 
 it in all directions. A lord or duke might be senseless enough to lock 
 upon such a substantial, yeoman-like meal with a sneer ; but with 
 all their wealth and elegance, perhaps they may envy the health 
 and appetite of those who partook of it. When Father Finnerty 
 had given a short grace, and the operations of the table were com- 
 menced, Denis looked round him with a disappointed air, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Father Finnerty, there's only one thing, indeed, I may say two 
 a-wantin'to complete our happiness — I mean Denis and Father Molony. 
 What on earth does your reverence think can keep them ? " 
 
 To this he received not a syllable of reply, nor did he consider 
 it necessary to urge the question any further at present. Father 
 Finnerty's powers of conversation seemed to have abandoned him ; 
 for although there were some few expressions loosely dropped, yet the 
 worthy priest maintained an obstinate silence. 
 
 At length, in due time, he began to let fall an occasional remark, 
 impeded considerably by hiccups, and an odd Deo Gratias or Lam 
 Deo, uttered in that indecisive manner which indicates the position of 
 a man who debates within himself whether he ought to rest satisfied 
 or not. 
 
 At this moment the trampling of a horse was heard approaching the 
 door, and immediately every one of Denis's family ran out to ascertain 
 whether it was the young candidate. Loud and clamorous was their 
 joy on finding that they were not mistaken ; he was alone, and on 
 arriving at the door dismounted slowly, and received their welcomes 
 and congratulations with a philosophy which perplexed them not a 
 little. The scene of confusion which followed his entrance into the 
 house could scarcely be conceived : every hand was thrust out to 
 welcome him, and every tongue loud in wishing him joy and happiness. 
 The chairs and stools were overturned as they stood in the way of 
 those who wished to approach him ; plates fell in the bustle, and 
 wooden trenchers trundled along the ground ; the dogs, on mingling 
 with the crowd that surrounded him, were kicked angrily from amonj,-^ 
 them by those who had not yet got shaking hands with Denis. Father 
 Finnerty, during this commotion, kept his seat in the most dignified 
 
 ' This, about thirty years ago, was usual at woddings and other feasts, where 
 everything went upon a larpe scale. 
 
Ii6 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTH. 
 
 manner ; but the moment it had subsided, he stretched out his \ and 
 to Denis, exclaiming : 
 
 " Mr. O'Shaughncssy, I congratulate you upon the event of this 
 auspicious day ! I wish you joy and happiness !" 
 
 "So do we all, over and over agin!" they exclaimed; "a pioud 
 gintleman he may be this night ! " 
 
 " I thank you, Father Finnerty," said Denis, " and I thank you 
 all ! " 
 
 " Denis avourneen," said his mother, " sit down an' ate a hearty 
 dinner ; you must be both tired and hungry, so sit down, avick, and 
 when you're done you can tell us all." 
 
 " Boimin concilium, mi chare Dioiiysi — the advice is good, Mrs, 
 O'Shaughncssy, and I myself will, in honour of this day, although I 
 have already dined, just take another slice ; " and as he spoke he 
 helped himself. " Anything to honour a friend," he continued ; " but, 
 by-the-by, before I commence I will try your own prescription, Denis 
 — a whetter of this poteen at intervals. Hoch, that's glorious stuff — 
 pure as any one of the cardinal virtues, and strong as fortitude, which 
 is the champion of them all." 
 
 Denis, during these pleasant observations of the priest, sat silent, 
 with a countenance pale and apparently dejected. When his mother 
 had filled his plate, he gently put it away from him ; but poured out a 
 little spirits and water, which he drank. 
 
 " I cannot eat a morsel," said he ; " mother, don't press me, it's 
 impossible. We are all assembled here — friends, neighbours, and 
 relations — I'll not disguise the fact — but the truth is I have been badly 
 treated this day. I have been, in the most barefaced manner, re- 
 jected by the bishop, and a nephew of Father Molony elected in my 
 place." 
 
 The effect which this disclosure produced upon the company present, 
 especially upon his own family, utterly defies description. His father 
 hastily laid down his glass, and his eyes opened to the utmost stretch 
 of their lids ; his mother let a plate fall which she was in the act of 
 handing to one of her daughters, who was about to help a poor beggar 
 at the door ; all convivial enjoyment was suspended ; the priest laid 
 down his knife and fork, and fixed his large eyes upon Denis, with his 
 mouth full ; his young sister, Susan, flew over to his side, and looked 
 intensely into his countenance for an explanation of what he meant, 
 for she had not properly understood. 
 
 " Rejected ! " exclaimed the priest — " rejected ! Young man, I am 
 your spiritual superior, and I command you, on this occasion, to 
 practise no jocularity whatsoever — I lay it upon you as a religious duty 
 to be serious and candid, to speak truth, and inform us at once whether 
 what you have advanced be true or not } " 
 
 " I wish," said Denis, " that it was only jocularity on my part ; but 
 I solemnly assure you all that it is not. 'l"hc bishop told me that I 
 suffered myself to be misled as to my qualifications for entrance : he 
 says it will take a year and a half's hard study to enable me to matri- 
 culate v/ith a good grace. I told him that your reverence examined 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. "5 
 
 me, and said I was well prepared ; and he said to me in reply that 
 your reverence was very little of a judge as to my fitness." 
 
 " Very well," said the priest, " I thank his lordship ; 'tis true 1 
 deserved that from Jiinij but it can't be helped. I see, at all events, 
 how the land lies. Denis O'Shaughnessy, I pronounce you to be, in 
 the first place, an extremely stultified and indiscreet young man ; and 
 in the next place, as badly treated and as oppressed a candidate for 
 Maynooth as ever entered it. I pronounce you, in the face of the 
 world, right well prepared for it ; but I see now who is the spy of 
 the diocese — oh, oh, thank you, Misther Molony — I now remimber 
 that he is related to his lordship through the beggarly clan of the 
 
 M s. But wait a little ; if I have failed here, thank heaven I 
 
 have interest in the next diocese, the bishop of which is my cousin, 
 and we will yet have a tug for it," 
 
 The mother and sisters of Denis were now drowned in tears ; and 
 the grief of his sister Susan was absolutely hysterical. Old Denis's 
 brow became pale and sorrowful, his eye sunk, and his hand trembled. 
 His friends all partook of this serious disappointment, and sat in 
 silence and embarrassment around the table. Young Denis's distress 
 was truly intense : he could not eat a morsel ; his voice was tremulous 
 with vexation ; and, indeed, altogether the aspect of those present 
 betokened the occurrence of some grievous affliction. 
 
 " Well," said Brian, Denis's elder brother, " I only say this, that it's 
 a good story for him to tell that he is a bishop, otherwise I'd think no 
 more of puttin' a bullet through him from behind a hedge than I 
 would of shootin' a cur dog." 
 
 " Don't say that, Brian," said his mother : "bad as it is, he's one 
 of our clargy, so don't spake disrespectful of him ; sure a year is not 
 much to wait, an' the next irrne you go before him it won't be in his 
 power to keep you back. As for Father Molony, we wish him well, 
 but undher the roof of this house, at a station, or anything else 
 of the kind, he will never sit, barrin' I thought he was either dhry 
 or hungry, that I wouldn't bring evil upon my substance by refusin' 
 him." 
 
 " And that was his lordship's character of me ? " inquired the priest 
 once more with chagrin. 
 
 " If that was not, perhaps you will find it in this letter," replied 
 Denis, handing him a written communication from the bishop. Father 
 Finnerty hastily broke open the seal, and read silently as follows : — 
 
 '* To the Rev. Father Finnerty, peace and benediction. 
 
 " Rev. Sir, — I feel deep indignation at hearing the disclosure made to me 
 this day by the bearer, touching your negotiation wiih him and his family con- 
 cerning a horse, as the value paid by them to you for procuring the use of my 
 influence in his favour ; and I cannot sufficiently reprobate such a transaction, 
 nor find terms strong enough in which to condemn the parties concerned in it. 
 Sir, I repeat it that snch juggling is more reprehensible on your part than on theirs, 
 and that it is doubly disrespectful to me to suppose that I could be influenced by 
 anything but merit in the candidates. I desire you will wait upon me to-morrow, 
 w hen I hope you nay be able to place the transaction in such a light as will rais«» 
 
iiS DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 you once more to the estimation in which I have always held you. There are 
 three other candidates, one of whom is a relation of your excellent curate's ; but 
 I have as yet made no decision, so that the appointment is still open. In the mean- 
 time, I command you to send back the horse to his proper owner, as soon after 
 the receipt of this as possible, for O Shaughnessy must not be shackled by any 
 such stipulations. I have now to ask your Christian forgiver^^ss for having, und'-r 
 the influence of temporary anger, spoken of you before this lad with disrespect. 
 I hereby make restitution, and beg that yon will remember me by name in your 
 prayers, as I shall also name you in mine. 
 
 " I am, &c., + James M." 
 
 When Father Finnerty read this letter, his countenance gradually 
 assumed an expression of the most irresistible humour ; nothing could 
 be more truly comic than the significant look he directed at each 
 individual of the O'Shaughnessys, not omitting even the little girl who 
 had basted the goose, whom he patted on the head with that mechani- 
 cal abstraction resulting from the occurrence of something highly 
 agreeable. The cast of his features was now the more ludicrous, 
 when contrasted with the rueful visage he presented on hearing the 
 manner in which his character had been delineated by the bishop. 
 At length he laid himself back in his chair, and putting his hands tu 
 his sides, fairly laughed out loudly for near five minutes. 
 
 " Oh !" he exclaimed, " Dionysius, Dionysius, but you are the simple 
 and unsophisticated youth ! Oh, you bocaun of the w-ide earth, to 
 come home with a long face upon you, telling us you were rejected, 
 and you jioi rejected." 
 
 " Not rejected ! — not rejecet ! — not rejeckset ! — not raxjaxet ! " they 
 all exclaimed, attempting to pronounce the word as well as they could. 
 
 " For the sake of heaven above us, docthor, don't keep us in doubt 
 one minute longer," said old Denis. 
 
 " Follow me," said the priest, becoming instantly grave, " follow me, 
 Dionysius ; fcilow me, Denis More, and Brian, all follow — follow me. 
 I have news ir>r you ! My friends, we'll be back instantly." 
 
 They accoidingly passed into another room, where they remained 
 in close conference for about a quarter of an hour, after which they 
 re-entered in the highest spirits. 
 
 " Come," said Denis, " Pether,go over, abouchal, to Andy Bradagh's 
 for Larry Cassidy the piper ; fly like a swallow, Pether, an' don't come 
 widout him. Mave, achora, all's right. Susy, you darlin', dhry your 
 eyes, avourneen, all's right. Nabours, friends — fill, fill — 1 say all's 
 right still. My son's not disgraced, nor he won't be disgraced whilst 
 1 have a house over my head or a beast in my stable. Docthor, 
 reverend docthor, dhrink : may I never sin, but you must get merry, 
 an' dance a * cut-along^ wid myself, when the music comes, and you 
 must thrip the * priest in his boots ' wid Susy here afther. Excuse 
 me, nabours — docthor, you won't blame me, there's both joy and 
 sorrow in these tears. I have had a good family of childhre, an' a 
 faithful wife ; an' Mave, achora, although time has laid his mark upon 
 you as well as upon myself, and the locks are grey that wor once as 
 clack as a raven : yet, Mave, I seen the day, an' there's many livin' to 
 prove it — ay, Mave, I seen the day when you wor worth lookin' at — 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. "9 
 
 the wild rose of Lisbuie she was called, docthor. Well, Mave, I hope 
 that my eyes may be closed by the hands I loved an' love so well — an' 
 that's your own, agrah machree, an' Denis's." 
 
 "Whisht, Denis asthore," said Mave, wiping her eyes, " I hope I'll 
 never see that day. Afther seein' Denis here what we all hope him 
 to be, the next thing I wish is that I may never live to see my hus- 
 band taken away from me, acushla ; no, I hope God will take me to 
 himself before that comes." 
 
 There is something touching in the burst of pathetic affectio" which 
 springs strongly from the heart of a worthy couple, when^ seated 
 among their own family, the feelings of the husband and the father, 
 the wife and the mother, overpower them. In this case the feeling is 
 always deep in proportion to the strength and purity of domestic 
 affection ; still it is checked by the melancholy satisfaction that our 
 place is to be filled by those who are dear to us. 
 
 " But now," said the priest, " that the scent lies still warm, let me 
 ask you, Dionysius, how the bishop came to understand the coiii- 
 pactum ? " 
 
 " I really cannot undertake to say," replied Denis ; " but if any man 
 has on eye like a basileics, he has. On finding, sir, that there was 
 some defect in my responsive powers, he looked keenly at me, closing 
 his piercing eyes a little, and inquired upon what ground I had pre- 
 sented myself as a candidate. I would have sunk the compactiim 
 altogether, but for the eye. I suspended and hesitated a little, but at 
 length told him that there was an understanding — a — a — kind of — in 
 short, he squeezed the whole secret out o' me gradationally. You 
 know the result ! " 
 
 "Ah, Dionysius, you are yet an unfledged bird ; but it matters little. 
 All will be rectified soon." 
 
 " Arrah, Dinis," inquired his mother, " was it only takin' a rise out 
 of us you wor all the time ? Throth, myselPs not the betther of the 
 fright you put me into." 
 
 " No," replied Denis, " the bishop treated me harshly I thought : he 
 said I was not properly fit. ' You might pass,' said he, ' upon a 
 particular occasion, or under peculiar circumstances ; but it will take 
 at least a year and a half s study to enable you to enter Maynooth as 
 I would wish you. You may go home again,' said he ; 'at present I 
 have dismissed the subject.' 
 
 " After this, on meeting Father Molony, he told me that his cousin 
 had passed, and that he would be soon sent up to Maynooth : so I 
 concluded all hope was over with me ; but I didn't then know what 
 the letter to Father Finnerty contained. I now see that I may 
 succeed still." 
 
 '• You may and shall, Denis ; but no thanks to Father Molony for 
 that : however, I shall keep my eye upon the same curate, never fear. 
 Well, let that pass, and now for harmony, conviviality, and friendship. 
 Gentlemen, fill your glasses — I mean your respective vessels. Come, 
 Denis More, let that porringer of yours be a brimmer. Ned Hanratt), 
 charge your noggin. Darby, although your mug wants an ear, ii can 
 
DEISTS O'SITAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 hold the full of it. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, tlint old family cruiskcen 
 ought to be with your husband : but no matther — non constat. — Eh i 
 Dionysi ? hitelligisne ? '' 
 
 " Inti-lligo, domineJ'' 
 
 " Here, then, is health, success, and prosperity to Mr. Dionysius 
 O'Shaughnessy, jun.! May he soon be on the retreat in the vivacious 
 walls of that learned and sprightly seminary, Maynooth ! On the 
 retreat, I say, getting fat upon half a meal a day for the first week, 
 fasting tightly against the grain, praying sincerely for a set in at the 
 king's mutton, and repenting thoroughly of his penitence !" 
 
 " Well, docthor, that is a toast. Denis, have you nothing to say to 
 that? Won't you stand up an' thank his reverence, anyhow? " 
 
 " I am really too much oppressed with relaxation," said Denis, " to 
 return thanks in that florid style which would become my pretensions. 
 I cannot, however, but thank Father Finnerty for his ingenious and 
 learned toast, which does equal honour to his head and heart, and I 
 might superadd, to his intellects also ; for in drinking toasts, my 
 friends, I always elaborate a distinction between strength of head and 
 strength of intellect. I now thank you all for having in so liberal a 
 manner drunk my health ; and in grateful return I request you will 
 once more fill your utensils, and learnedly drink— long life and a mitre 
 to the Reverend Father Finnerty, of the Society of St. Dominick, 
 Doctor of Divinity and Parochial Priest of this excellent parish ! — 
 Propino tibi saliitein, Doctor doctissinie, reverendissime, et sanctissinie ; 
 nee non oj/uiibus amicis hie cotigregatis ! " 
 
 The priest's eye, during this speech, twinkled with humour : he saw 
 clearly that Denis thoroughly understood the raillery of his toast, and 
 that the compliment was well repaid. On this subject he did not 
 wish, however, to proceed further, and his object now was that the 
 evening should pass off as agreeably as possible. 
 
 Next morning Father Finnerty paid Denis a timely visit, having 
 first, as he had been directed, sent home the colt a little after day- 
 break. They then took an early breakfast, and after about half an 
 hour's further deliberation, the priest, old Denis, and his son — the last 
 mounted upon the redoubtable colt — proceeded to the bishop's 
 residence. His lordship had nearly finished breakfast, which he took 
 in his study ; but as he was engaged with his brother, the barrister, 
 who slept at his house the night before, in order to attend a public 
 meeting on that day, he could not be seen for some time after they 
 arrived. At length they were admitted. The Right Reverend Doctor 
 was still seated at the breakfast table, dressed in a morning gown of 
 fine black stuff, such as the brothers of the Franciscan order of monks 
 usually wear, to which order he belonged. He wore black silk 
 stockings, gold knee-buckles to his small-clothes, a rich ruby ring 
 upon his finger, and a small gold cross, set with brilliants, about his 
 neck. This last was not usually visible ; but as he had not yet 
 dressed for the day, it hung over his vest. He sat or rather lolled 
 back in a stuffed easy chair, one leg thrown inaolcntly over the other. 
 Though not an old man, he wore powder, which gave him an air of 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 12 r 
 
 greater reverence ; and as his features were sharp and intelligent, his 
 eye small but keen, and his manner altogether impressive and gentle- 
 manly, if not dignified, it was not surprising that Father Finnerty's 
 two companions felt awed and embarrassed before him. Nor was the 
 priest himself wholly free from that humbling sensation which one 
 naturally feels when in the presence of a superior mind in a superior 
 station of life. 
 
 " Good morning to your lordship," said the priest, " I am exceed- 
 ingly happy to see you look so well. Counsellor, your most obedient; 
 I hope, sir, you are in good health ! " 
 
 To this both gentlemen replied in the usual commonplace t<»rms. 
 
 " Docthor," continued the priest, " this is a worthy dacent parish- 
 ioner of mine, Denis O'Shaughnessy ; and this is his son, who has the 
 honour to be already known to your lordship." 
 
 " Sit down, O'Shaughnessy," said the bishop, " take a seat, young 
 man." 
 
 " I humbly thank your lordship," replied Denis the elder, taking a 
 chair as he spoke, and laying his hat beside him on the carpet. 
 
 The son, who trembled at the moment from head to foot, did not 
 sit as he was asked, but the father, after giving him a pluck, said in a 
 whisper, " Can't you sit when his lordship bids you .?" He then took a 
 seat, but appeared scarcely to know whether he sat or stood. 
 
 " By-the-by, doctor, you have improved this place mightily," con- 
 tinued Father Finnerty, " since I had the pleasure of being here last. 
 I thought I saw a green-house peeping over the garden-wall." 
 
 " Yes," rephed the bishop, " I am just beginning to make a collec- 
 tion of shrubs and flowers upon a small scale. I believe you are 
 aware that tending and rearing flowers, Mr. Finnerty, is a favourite 
 amusement with me," 
 
 " I believe I have a good right to know as much. Dr. M ," 
 
 replied Mr. Finnerty. " If I don't mistake, I sent you some specimens 
 for your garden that were not contemptible. And if I don't mistake 
 again, I shall be able to send your lordship a shrub that \\''ould take 
 the pearl off a man's eye only to look at it. And what's more, 
 it's quite a new comer ; not two years in the country." 
 
 " Pray how is it called, Mr. Finnerty ?" 
 
 " Upon my credit, doctor, with great respect, I will tell you nothing 
 more about it at present. If you wish to see it, or to know its name, 
 or to get a slip of it, you must first come and eat a dinner with me. 
 And, counsellor, if you, too, could appear on your own behalf, so 
 much the better." 
 
 " I fear I cannot, Mr. Finnerty, but I daresay my brother will do 
 himself the pleasure of dining with you " 
 
 " It cannot be for at least six weeks, Mr. Finnerty," said the bishop. 
 " You forget that the Confirmations begin in ten days ; but I shall 
 have the pleasure of dining with you when I come to confirm in your 
 parish." 
 
 " Phoo ! Why, doctor, that's a matter of course. Couldn't your 
 lordshio make it convenient to come during the week, and bring the 
 
 (4) E 
 
122 DES'IS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOT//. 
 
 counsellor here with you ? Don't say no, counsellor : I'll nave no 
 demurring." 
 
 '' Mr. Finnerty," said the bishop, " it is impossible at present. My 
 brother goes to Dublin to-morrow, and I must go on the following day 
 to attend the consecration of a chapel in the metropolis." 
 
 " Then upon my credit, your lordship will get neither the name nor 
 description of my Fucia, until you earn it by eating a dinner, and 
 drinking a glass of claret with the Rev. Father Finnerty, Are those 
 hard terms, counsellor.-* — Ha ! ha ! ha? I'm not the man to be pui 
 orf a thing, I assure you." 
 
 " Mr. Finnerty," said the bishop, smiling at but not noticing the 
 worthy priest's blunder about the Fucia, " il possible, I shall dine 
 with you soon ! but at present it is out of my power to appoint a 
 day." 
 
 " Well, well, doctor, make your own time of it ; and now for the 
 purport of our journey. Denis O'Shaughnessy here, my lord, is a 
 warm, respectable parishioner of mine — a man, indeed, for whom I 
 nave great regard — he is reported to have inherited from his 
 worthy father, two horns filled with guineas. His grandmother, as 
 he could well inform your lordship, was born with ■^liccky caul upon 
 her, which caul is still in the family. Isn't it so, Denis .'' " 
 
 " My lord, in dignity, it's thruth," replied Denis, " and from the 
 time it came into the family they always thruv, thanks be to good- 
 ness !" 
 
 The lawyer sat eyeing the priest and Denis alternately, evidently 
 puzzled to comprehend what such a remarkable introduction could 
 lead to. 
 
 The bishop seemed not to be surprised, for his features betrayed no 
 change whatsoever. 
 
 " Having, therefore, had the necessary means of educating a son for 
 the Church, he has accordingly prepared this young man with much 
 anxiety and expense for Maynooth." 
 
 "Plase'your lordship," said Denis, " Docthor Finnerty is clothin' 
 it betther than I could do. My heart is fixed upon seem' him what we 
 all expect him to be, your lordship." 
 
 "Mr. Finnerty," observed the bishop, " you seem to be intimately 
 acquainted with O'Shaughnessy's circumstances ; you appear to take 
 a warm interest in the family, particularly in the success of his son." 
 
 " Undoubtedly, my lord ; I am particularly anxious for his 
 success." 
 
 " You received my letter yesterday ? " 
 
 " I am here to-day, my lord, in consequence of having received it. 
 But, by-the-by, there was, under favour, a slight misconception on the 
 part of your " 
 
 '• What misconception, sir ? " 
 
 " Why, my lord — counsellor, this is a — a — kind of charge his 
 lordship is bringing against me, under a slight misconception. My 
 lord, the fact is, that I didn't see what ecclesiastical right I had to 
 prevent Deris here from disposing of his own property to " 
 
DENIS O'CHaOGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNUOTH. 123 
 
 " I expect an apology from you, Mr. Finnerty, but neither a defence 
 nnr a justification. An attempt at either will not advance the interests 
 of your young friend, believe me." 
 
 " Then I have only to say that the wish expressed in your lord- 
 ship's letter has been complied with. But wait awhile, my lord," con- 
 tinued the priest, good humouredly, " I shall soon turn the tables on 
 yourself." 
 
 " How is that, pray ?" 
 
 " Why, my lord, the horse is in your stable, and Denis declares he 
 will not take him out of it." 
 
 " I have not the slightest objection to that," replied the bishop, 
 " upon the express condition that his son shall never enter Maynooth." 
 
 " For my part," observed Mr. Finnerty, " I leave the matter now 
 between your lordship and O'Shaughnessy himself. You may act as 
 you please, doctor, and so may he." 
 
 " Mr. Finnerty, if I could suppose for a moment that the suggestion 
 of thus influencmg me originated yN\\hyou, I would instantly deprive 
 you of your parish, and make you assistant to your excellent curate, 
 for whom I entertain a sincere regard. I have already expressed my 
 opinion of the transaction alluded to in my letter. You have frequently 
 offended me, Mr. Finnerty, by presuming too far upon my good 
 Inmper, and by relying probably upon your own jocular disposition. 
 Take care, sir, that you don't break down in some of your best jokes. 
 I fear that, under the guise of humour, you frequently avail yourself 
 of the weakness, or ignorance, or simplicity, of your parishioners. 
 I hope, Mr, Finnerty, that while yoii laugh at the jest, tluy don't pay 
 for it." 
 
 The priest here caught the counsellor's eye, and gave him a dr> 
 wink, not unperceived, however, by the bishop, who could scarcely 
 repress a smile. 
 
 " You should have known me better, Mr, Finnerty, than to suppose 
 that any motive could influence me in deciding upon the claims ot 
 candidates for Maynooth besides their own moral character and 
 literary acquirements. So long as I live, this, and this alone, will be 
 the rule of my conduct, touching persons in the circumstances of 
 young O'Shaughnessy." 
 
 " My gracious lord," said Denis, " don't be angry wid Misther 
 Finnerty. I'll bear it all, for it was my fau't. The horse is mine, and 
 say what you will, out of your stable I'll never bring him. I think, 
 wid great sibmission, a man may do what he pleases wid his own." 
 
 " Certainly," said the bishop; " my consent to permit your son to go 
 to Maynooth is my own. Now this consent I will not give if you 
 press that mode of argument upon me." 
 
 " My reverend lord, as heaven's above me, I'd give all I'm worth to 
 see the boy in Maynooth. If he doesn't go, afther all our hopes, I'd 
 break my heart." He was so deeply affected that the large tears 
 rolled down his cheeks as he spoke. 
 
 " Will your lordship huv the horse ! ' he added : " I don't want 
 bim, and you, maybe, do t " 
 
124 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 " I do not want him," said the bishop ; " and if I did, I would not, 
 under the present circumstances, purchase him from you." 
 
 " Then my boy won't get in, your lordship ? And you'll neither buy 
 the horse nor take him as a present. My curse upon him for a V orse ! 
 The first thing I'll do when I get home will be to put a bullet througii 
 him, for he has been an unlucky thief to us. Is my son aquil to the 
 others that came to pass your lordship ? " asked Denis. 
 
 " There is none among them properly qualified," said the bishop. 
 " If there be any superiority among them, your son has it. He ii not 
 without natural talent, Mr. Finnerty ; his translations are strong and 
 fluent, but ridiculously pedantic. That, however, is perhaps less his 
 fault than the fault of those who instructed him." 
 
 "Are you anxious to dispose of the horse.''" said the counsellor. 
 
 " A single day, sir, he'll never pass in my stable," said Denis ; 
 "he's been an unlucky baste to me an' mine, an' to all that had any- 
 thing to do wid him." 
 
 " Pray what age is he ?" 
 
 " Risin' four, sir ; 'deed I believe he's four all out, an' a purty devil's 
 clip he is as you'd wish to see." 
 
 "Come," said the counsellor, rising, "let's have a look at him. 
 Mr. Finnerty, you're an excellent judge, will you favour me with your 
 opinion ? " 
 
 The priest and he, accompanied by the two O'Shaughnessys, passed 
 out to the stable-yard where their horses stood. As they went, Father 
 Finnerty whispered to O'Shaughnessy — 
 
 " Now, Denis, is your time. Strike while the iron is hot ! Don't 
 take a penny ! — don't take a fraction ! Get into a passion, and swear 
 you'll shoot him unless he accepts him as a present. If he does, all's 
 right ; he can twine the bishop round his finger." 
 
 " I see, sir," said Denis, " I see ! Let me alone for managin' him." 
 
 The barrister was already engaged in examining the horse's mouth, 
 as is usual, when the priest accosted him with — 
 
 " You are transgressing etiquette in this instance, counsellor. You 
 know the proverb — ' Never look a gift horse in the mouth.' " 
 
 " How, Mr. Finnerty ? — a gift horse ! " 
 
 "His reverence is right!" exclaimed Denis; "the sorra penny 
 ever will cross my pocket for the same horse. You must take him as 
 he stands, sir, barrin' the bridle and saddle ; that's not my own." 
 
 " He will take no money," said the priest. 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear sir ! Why not take a fair price for him ? " 
 
 " Divil the penny will cross my pocket for him, the unlucky thief.'" 
 replied the shrewd farmer. 
 
 " Then in that case the negotiation is ended," replied the barrister. 
 " 1 certainly will not accept him as a present Why should I ? What 
 claim have I on Mr. O'Shaughnessy ! " 
 
 " I don't want you to take him," said Denis ; " I want nobody to 
 take him : but I know the dogs of the parish '11 be pickin' his bones 
 afore night. You may as well have him, sir, as not." 
 
 *' i * the man serious, Mr. Finnerty ? " 
 
DEiWS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTH. 125 
 
 " I never saw a man in my life having a more serious appearance, 
 I assure you," said the priest. 
 
 " By Jove, it's a queer business," replied the other ; " a most extra 
 ordinary affair as I ever witnessed ! Why, it would be madness to 
 destroy such a fine animal as that ! The horse is an excellent 
 one ! However, I shall certainly 7iot accept him until I ascertain 
 whether I can prevail upon the bishop to elect his son to this 
 vacancv. If I can make the man no return for him, I shall le^ him 
 go to the dogs." 
 
 " Go up and set to work," said the priest ; " but remember that 
 tace is Latin for a candle. Keep his lordship in the dark, otherwise 
 the scion is ousted." 
 
 "True," said the other. "In the meantime, bring them into the 
 parlour until I try what can be done," 
 
 " Take the bishop upon the father's affection for him," said the 
 priest. 
 
 " You are right. I am glad you mentioned it." 
 
 " The poor man will break his heart," said the priest. 
 
 ** He will,'"' responded the counsellor, smiling. 
 
 " So will the mother, too," said the priest, with an arch look. 
 
 "And the whole family," replied the counsellor. 
 
 " Go up instantly " said the priest ; " you have often got a worse 
 fee." 
 
 " And perhaps with less prospect of success," said the other. 
 " Gentlemen, have the goodness to walk into the parlour for a few 
 minutes, while I endeavour to soften my brother a Httle, if I can, 
 upon this untoward business." 
 
 When the priest and his two friends entered the parlour, which was 
 elegantly furnished, they stood for a moment to survey it. Old Denis, 
 however, was too much engaged in the subject which lay nearest his 
 heart to take pleasure in anything else ; at least, until he should hear 
 the priest's opinion upon the posture of affairs." 
 
 "What does your reverence think?" said Denis. 
 
 " Behave yourself," replied the pastor. " None of your nonsense I 
 You know what I think as well as I do myself." 
 
 " But will Dionissis pass t Will he go to Maynooth ? " 
 
 "Will you go to your dinner to-day, or to your bed to-night ?" 
 
 "God be praised ! Well, docthor, wait till we seen him off; then 
 I'll be spakin' to you ! " 
 
 " No," said the priest ; " but wait till you take a toss upon this sofa, 
 and then you will get a taste of ecclesiastical luxury." 
 
 "Ay," said Denis, " but would it be right o' me to sit in it ? Maybe 
 it's consecrated." 
 
 " Faith, you may swear that ; but it is to the ease and comfort of 
 his lordship ! Come, man, sit down, till you see how you'll sink in it." 
 
 " Oh, murdher ! " exclaimed Denis, " where am I at all ? Docthor 
 dear, am I in sight ? Do you see the crown o' my head, good or bad .' 
 Oh, may I never sin, but that's great state ! — Well to be sure ! " 
 
 " Ay," said the priest, " see what it is to be a bishop in any Church I 
 
126 DE.VIS O'SILiUGIIXESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 Tlie moment a man becomes a bishop, he fastens tooth s.nd nail upon 
 luxury, as if a mitre was a disj^ensation for enjoying the world that 
 they have sworn to renounce. Dionysius, look about you I Isn't this 
 worth studying for ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the hitherto silent candidate, " if it was perusal on 
 the part of his lordship that got it." 
 
 " Upon my credit, a shrewd observation ! Ah, Dionysius, merit is 
 overlooked in every Church, and in every profession ; or perhaps — 
 hem ! — ehem ! — perhaps some of your reverend friends might be 
 higher up ! I mean ndbody ; but if sound learning, and wit, and 
 humour, together with several other virtues which I decline enume- 
 rating, could secure a mitre, why mitres might be on other brows." 
 
 '' This is surely great state," observed the candidate ; " and if it 
 be a thing that I matriculate " 
 
 " And yet," said the priest, interrupting him, " this same bishop— 
 who is, no doubt, a worthy man, but who has no natural ear for a jest 
 — was once upon a time the priest of an indifferent good parish, like 
 myself ; ay, and a poor, cowardly, culprit-looking candidate, ready to 
 sink into the earth before his bishop, like you." 
 
 " Me cowardly ! " said the candidate : " I decline the insinuation 
 altogether. It was nothing but veneration and respect, which you 
 enow we should entertain for all our spiritual superiors." 
 
 " That's truth decidedly ; though, at the same time, your nerves 
 were certainly rather entangled, like a ravelled hank. But no matter, 
 man ; we have all felt the same in our time. Did you observe how I 
 managed the bishop ?" 
 
 " I can't say I did," replied the candidate, who felt hurt at the im- 
 putation of cowardice, before his father ; " but I saw, sir, that the 
 bishop managed you." 
 
 " Pray for a longer vision, Dionysius, I tell you that no other priest 
 in the diocese could have got both you and me out of the dilemma in 
 which v;e stood but myself. He has taken to the study of weeds and 
 plants in his old days ; and I, who have a natural taste for botany, 
 know it is his weak side. I tell you, he would give the right of fil- 
 ling a vacancy in Maynooth any day in the year, for a rare plant or 
 flower. So much for your knowledge of human nature. You'll grant 
 I managed the counsellor ? " 
 
 " Between my father and you, sir, things look well. We have not, 
 however, got a certificate of success yet." 
 
 " Patieniia fit levior fereftdo ! — Have patience, man. Wait till we 
 see the counsellor." 
 
 He had scarcely uttered the last words when that gentleman 
 entered. 
 
 " Well, counsellor," said the priest, " is it a hit ?" 
 " Pray what is your Christian name, Mr. O'Shaughnessy .'' " inquired 
 the lawyer of young Denis. 
 
 "My Christian name, sir," replied Denis, "is Di-o-ny-si-us 
 O'Shaughnessy. That, sir, is the name by which I am alwaj* 
 ippellated." 
 
DENIS 0'SHAUGHNES:iY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 127 
 
 " That's quite sufficient," said the other. " I shall be with you again 
 in a few minutes." 
 
 '■ But won't you give us a hint, my good sir, as to how the land 
 ■lies ? " said the priest, as the lawyer left the room, 
 
 " Presently, Mr. Finnerty, presently." 
 
 " Intelligisne^ Dionisi ? " 
 
 " Vix, Domini. Quid sentis ?" 
 
 " Quid seniis ! No, but it was good fortune sent us. Don't y<ju 
 persave, Dionysius, and you, Denis — don't you know, I say, that this 
 •letter of admission couldn't be written except the laishop knew his 
 name in full .'' Unlucky ! Faith if ever a horse was lucky this is he." 
 
 " I declare, docthor," said the father, " I can neither sit nor stand, 
 nor think of any one thing for a minute, I'm so much on the fidgets 
 to know what the bishop 'ill say." 
 
 " I also," said Dionysius, " am in a state of evaporation and uncer- 
 tainty touching the same point. However, this I can affirm with 
 veracity, that if I am rejected, my mind is made up to pursue an anti- 
 thetical course of life altogether. If he rejects me now, he will never 
 reject me again." 
 
 " Musha, how — Denny — Dionissis, avick .? What do you mane i" 
 said the father. 
 
 " I will give," said the son, " what is designated a loose translatioi 
 of my meaning to Mr. Finnerty here, if I find that I am excluded or 
 this occasion." 
 
 "And if you do succeed," said the priest, "I would advise you to 
 hire a loose translator during the remainder of your residence among 
 us ; for upon my veracity, Dionysius, the king's English will perform 
 hard duty until you enter Maynooth. Not a word under six feet will 
 be brought into the ranks — grenadiers every one of them, not to men- 
 lion the thumpers you will coin." 
 
 " Come, Docthor Finnerty," said our candidate, pulling up a little, 
 " if the base Latin which you put into circulation were compared with 
 my English thumpers, it would be found that, of the two, I am more 
 legitimate and etymological." 
 
 '' I shall be happy to dispute that point with you another time," 
 
 said the priest ; " when we can Silence, here comes the coun- 
 
 -sellor." 
 
 " Mr. O'Shaughnessy," said the lawyer, addressing the candidate, 
 ■" allow me to congratulate you on your success ! Your business is 
 accomplished.' The bishop is just finishing a letter for you to the 
 President of Maynooth. I assure you I feel great pleasure at your 
 -success." 
 
 "Accept my thanks, sir," said Denis, whose eye was instantly lit up 
 with delight — " accept my most obsequious thanks to the very furthest 
 extent of my gratitude." 
 
 The barrister then shook hands with old Denis. " O'Shaughnessy," 
 said he, " I am very happy that I have had it in my power to serve 
 ■you and your son." 
 
 " Counsellor," said Denis, seizing his hand in both his — " coun- 
 
I2S DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYXOOTH. 
 
 seller, ahagur machree — counsellor, oh, what — what — can I say ! Is 
 he — is it possible — is it thruth that my boy is to go to Maynewth this 
 rime ? Oh, if you knew, but knew, the heavy, dead weight you tuck 
 off o' my heart ! Our son not cast aside — not disgraced !— for what 
 else would the people think it ? The horse ! — a poor bit of a coult — a 
 poor unsignified animal ! To the devil v/id him ! What is he com- 
 pared to the joy an' delight of this minute ! Take him, sir ; take 
 him — an' if he was worth his weight in goold, I vow to heaven above 
 me I'd not think him too good. Too good ! — no nor half good enough 
 for you. God remimber this to you ! an' he will, too. Little you know 
 the happiness you have given us, counsellor ! Little you know it. But 
 no matthcr ! An' you, too, Father Finnerty, helped to bring this 
 about. But sure you were ever an' always our friend ! Well, no 
 matther — no matther ! God will reward you both." 
 
 " My brother wishes to see Mr. Finnerty and your son," said the 
 barrister ; " I think they had better go up to him. He is anxious to- 
 get a slip of your shrub, Mr. Finnerty." 
 
 "Ah, I thought so," said the priest — " I thought as much." 
 
 The bishop, on their re-appearance, presented Denis with the long 
 wished-for letter. He then gave him a suitable exhortation with refer- 
 ence to the serious and responsible duties for which he was about to 
 prepare himself. After concluding his admonition, he addressed 
 Father Finnerty as follows : 
 
 " Now, Mr. Finnerty, this matter has ended in a manner satisfactor)', 
 not only to your young friend, but to yourself. You must promise me 
 that there shall be no more horse-dealing. I do not think jockeying 
 of that description either creditable or just. I am unwilling to use 
 harsher language, but I could not conscientiously let it pass without 
 reproof. In the next place, will you let me have a slip of that flowering 
 shrub you boast of." 
 
 " Doctor," said the priest, " is it possible you can ask it of me ? 
 Why, I think your lordship ought to know that's your own, as is every 
 plant and flower in my garden that you fancy. Do you dine at home 
 to-morrow, my lord .'' " 
 
 " I do," said the bishop. 
 
 " Well, then, I shall come up with a slip or two of it, and dine with 
 you. I know the situation in which it grows best ; and knowing this,. 
 I will put it down with my own hands. But I protest, my lord, against 
 your allowing me to be traced in the business of the shrub at all, 
 otherwise I shall have the whole county on my back." 
 
 " Be under no apprehension of that, Mr, Finnerty. I shall be happy 
 if y Du dine with me, but bring it with you. How did you come to get 
 it i,o early after its appearance in this country .''" 
 
 " I got it from head-quarters, doctor — from one of the best botanists 
 in the three kingdoms ; certainly from the best Irish botanist living — 
 my friend, Mr. Mackay, of the College Botanic Ga-rdens. My lord, 
 I wish you good morning ; but before I go, accept my thanks for your 
 kindness to my young friend. I assure you he will b* a useful man j 
 for he is even now no indifferent casuist." 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 129 
 
 "And I, my lord," said Denis, " return you my most grateful — hem 
 — my most grateful — and — most supercilious thanks for the favou'"- 
 the stupendous favour you have conferred upon me." 
 
 " God bless you, my dear child," returned the bishop ; " but if you 
 be advised by me, speak more intelligibly. Use plain words, and 
 discard all difficult and pedantic expressions. God bless you ! 
 Farewell ? " 
 
 On coming down, they found old Denis in the stable-yard in rather 
 a ridiculous kind of harness. The saddle that had been on the colt 
 was strapped about him with the bridle, for both had been borrowed 
 from a neighbour. 
 
 " Dionissis an' I must both ride the same horse," said he, " an' as 
 we have two saddles, I must carry one of them." 
 
 An altercation then ensued as to which should ride foremost. The 
 son, now in high glee, insisted on the father's taking the seat of 
 honour ; but the father would not hear of this. The lad was, in his 
 opinion, at least semi-clerical, and to ride behind would be a degra- 
 dation to so learned a youth. They mounted at length, the son fore- 
 most, and the father on the crupper, the saddle strapped about him, 
 with the stirrups dangling by the horse's flanks. Father Finnerty, who 
 jccompanied them, could not, however, on turning from the bishop's 
 grounds into the highway, get a word out of them. The truth is, both 
 their hearts were full ; both were, therefore, silent, and thought every 
 minute an hour until they reached home. 
 
 This was but natural. A man may conceal calamity or distress even 
 from his dearest friends ; for who is there who wishes to be thrust back 
 from his acknowledged position in life? Or who, when he is thrust 
 back, will not veil his misfortunes or his errors with the guise of 
 indifference or simulation t In good fortune we act differently. It is a 
 step advanced ; an elevation gained ; there is nothing to fear or to be 
 ashamed of, and we are as strongly prompted by vanity to proclaim it 
 to the world as we are by pride to ascribe its occurrence to our own 
 talents or virtues. There are other and purer motives for this. The 
 affections will not be still ; they seek the hearts to which they tend ; 
 and having found them, the mutual interchange of good takes place. 
 Father Finnerty — whose heart, though a kind one, had, probably, been 
 too long out of practice to remember the influence and working of 
 the domestic affections — could not comprehend the singular conduct 
 of the two O'Shaughnessys. 
 
 " What the devil is the matter with you } " he inquired. *' Have you 
 lost the use of your speech ? " 
 
 " Push an, avourneen," said the father to Denis — " push an ; lay the 
 spur to him. I'srCt yotcr spur on the right foot ?" 
 
 " Most certainly," said Denis, now as pedantic as ever — "most cer- 
 tainly it is. You are not to be informed that our family spur is a right- 
 foot spur." 
 
 " Well, then, Pether Gallagher's spur that I have an is a left-foot 
 spur, for it's an my left foot." 
 
 " You are a bright pair," said the priest, somewhat nettled at their 
 
«3<^ DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 neglect of him — " you are a bright pair, and deeply learned in spu^s. 
 Can't you ride asier?" 
 
 " Never heed him," said the father in a whisper ; " do you sjive the 
 mare the right spur, an' I'll give her the left. Push an ! That's it." 
 
 They accordingly dashed forward, Denis plying one heel, and the 
 father another, until the priest found himself gradually falling behind. 
 In vain he plied both spurs ; in vain he whipped, and wriggled on the 
 saddle, and pressed forward his hack. Being a priest's horse, the 
 animal had been accustomed for the last twelve years to a certain 
 jog-trot pace, beyond which it neither would nor could go. On finding 
 .ill his efforts to overtake them unsuccessful, he at last shouted after 
 tnem : 
 
 " Do you call that gratitude, my worthy friends ? To lave me 
 creeping over the ups and downs of this villainous road without 
 company?" 
 
 •' Lay an, aroon," said the father. " Let us get home. Oh, how 
 your poor mother will die wid joy, an' Susy, an' Nanny, an' Brian, an' 
 Michael, an' Dick, an' Lanty, an' all o' them. Glory be to heaven ! 
 what a meetin' we'll have ! An' the nabours, too ! Push an, avick 
 machree." 
 
 " My curse upon you, Friar Hennessy !" exclaimed the priest, in a 
 soliloquy ; " it was you who first taught this four-footed snail to go 
 like a thief to the gallows. I wish to heaven you had palmed him on 
 some one else, for many a dinner I have lost by him in my time. Is 
 that your gratitude, gentlemen .'' Do I deserve this ?" 
 
 " What is he sayin' ? " said the father. 
 
 " He is declaiming about gratitude," replied Denis. 
 
 " Lay an her," said the father. " Poor Alave ! " 
 
 " Such conduct does you credit," shouted the priest. " It's just th^; 
 way of the world. You have got what you wanted out of me, a'/ 
 now you throw me off. However, go on." 
 
 " What's that?" said the father again. 
 
 " He is desiring us to go on," replied the son. 
 
 " Then, in the name o' goodness, do so, avourneen. Susy will die 
 downright." 
 
 "Where am I to dine to-day?" shouted the priest, m a louder 
 voice. " I say, where am I to come in for my dinner, for I'm not 
 expected at home, and my curate dines out?" 
 
 " I can't hear him," said the father. 
 
 " He says the curate dines out ; an' he want's to know if he's to 
 dine with us." 
 
 " Throth, an' he won't ; not that we begrudge it to him ; but for 
 this day the sarra one we'll have but our own relations. Push an. 
 An' Brian, too, poor fellow, that was always so proud of you !" 
 
 They had now reached the top of an ascent on the road, whilst the 
 priest toiled up after them. In a few minutes they began to descend, 
 and consequently were out of his sight. 
 
 No description of mine could give an adequate perception to the 
 r ader of what was felt by the family on hearing hat the object n* 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNGCTH. 131 
 
 Denis's hopes, and their own proud ambition, was at length accom- 
 phshed. The bishop's letter was looked at, turned in every direction, 
 and the seal inspected with a kind of wonderful curiosity, such as a 
 superstitious person would manifest on seeing or touching so ne 
 sacred relic. The period appointed for his departure now depended 
 upon the despatch with which they could equip him for college. But 
 until this event should arrive, his friends lost no opportunity of 
 having him among them. Various were the treats he got in fair and 
 market. Proud were his relations when paying him the respect 
 which he felt right sincere pleasure in receiving. The medium 
 between dignity and humility which he hit off in these scenes was 
 ■worthy of being recorded ; but, to do him justice, his forte lay in 
 humility. He certainly condescended with a grace, and made them 
 feel the honour done them by hi^ vouchsafing to associate with such 
 poor creatures as if he were on*.- if themselves. To do them also 
 justice, they appeared to feel his ^ fidescension ; and, as a natural 
 consequence, were ready to lick the Wry dust under his feet, consider- 
 ing him, as they did, a priest in everything but ordination. 
 
 Denis, besides his intercourse with humble relatives, was now 
 asked to dine with the neighbouring clergymen, and frequently made 
 one at their parties. In the beginning, his high opinion and awe of 
 the clerical character kept him remarkably dull and sheepish. Many 
 an excellent joke was cracked at his expense ; and often did he ask 
 himself what Phadrick Murray, his father's family, or his acquaint- 
 ances in general, would say, if they saw his learning and his logic so 
 villainously degraded. In proportion, however, as conviviahty de- 
 veloped among his reverend friends many defects, opinions, and 
 failings which he never suspected them to possess, so did he begin to 
 gather courage and facility of expression. By degrees he proceeded 
 modestly from the mild and timid effort at wit, to the steadier nerve 
 of moderate confidence ; another step brought him to the indifference 
 of a man who can bea/ an unsuccessful attempt at pleasantry, without 
 being discomposed ; the third ar d last stage advanced him to down- 
 right assurance, which having rea-ched, he stopped at nothing. From 
 this forward he began to retort upon his clerical companions, who 
 found that the sheepish youth whom they had often made ridiculous 
 possessed skill, when properly excited, to foil them at their own 
 weapons. He observed many things in their convivial meetings. 
 The holy man, whom his flock looked upon as a being of the highest 
 sanctity, when lit up into fun and frolic, Denis learned to estimate at 
 his just value. He thought, besides, that a person resolved to go to 
 heaven had as good a chance of being saved by the direct mercy of 
 God, as through the ministration of men, whose only spiritual advan- 
 tage over himself consisted in the mere fact of being in orders. To 
 be sure, he saw the usual exceptions among them that are to be found 
 among every other class ; but he drew his conclusions from the 
 general rule. All this, however, failed in removing that fundamental 
 principle of honest superstition in which he had been trained. The 
 clergymen whom he saw were only a few of those who constituted the 
 
r^:! DEAT/S O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYXOOJif. 
 
 preat body of the Church ; but when the long and sanctified calendar 
 of saints and miracles opened upon him, there still remained enough 
 to throw a dim and solemn charm of shadowy pomp around the visions 
 of a mind naturally imaginative. 
 
 Messengers were once more sent abroad, to inform their friends of 
 his triumph, who, on ascertaining that his journey was fixed for an 
 early day, lost no time in pouring in, each with some gift suited to 
 their circumstances. Some of these were certainly original, the 
 appropriateness having been in every case determined by the wealth 
 or poverty, ignorance or knowledge, of those who of^^ed them. Some 
 poor relation, for instance, brought him a shirt or two of materials so 
 coarse that to wear it in a college would be out of the question ; 
 others offered him a pair of brogues much too vulgar for the society 
 he was about to enter ; others, again, would present him with books — 
 for it is not at all uncommon to find in many illiterate Irish families 
 half a dozen old volumes, of whose contents they are ignorant, lying 
 in a dusty corner, where they are kept till some young scion shall be 
 sufficiently instructed to peruse them. The names of these were 
 singular enough. One presented him with " The Necessity of 
 Penance," another with " Laugh and be Fat," a third with the 
 " Key of Paradise," a fourth with " Hell Open ; " a fifth handed him a 
 copy of the " Irish Rogues and Rapparees," a sixth gave him " Butler's 
 Lives of Saints," a seventh " The Necessity of Fasting," an eighth 
 "The Epicure's Vade MeciimP The list ran on very ludicrously, 
 ^mong them were the " Garden of Love and Royal Flower of 
 Fidelity;" "An Essay on the Virtue of Celibacy;'"' and another 
 " On the Increase of Population in Ireland." To these we may add 
 " The Devil upon Two Sticks," and " The Life of St. Anthony." 
 
 " Take these, Misther Denis," said the worthy souls ; '" they're of 
 no use to us, at all at all; but they'll sarve you, of coorse, where 
 you're goin*, bekase when you want books in the college you can use 
 them." 
 
 Honest Phadrick Murray, in lieu of a more valuable present, 
 brought him his wife's largest end b'^.st shawl as a pockethandker- 
 chief. 
 
 " Katty, sir, sent you this," said Phadrick, " as a pockethandkerchy ; 
 an' be gorra, Misther Denis, if you begin at this corner, an' take it 
 out o' the face, it'll last you six months at a time, anyhow." 
 
 Another neighbour came with a cool of rendered lard, hoping it 
 might be serviceable. 
 
 " Norah. sir," said the honest friend who brought it, "sent you a 
 crock of her own lard. When yoa're makin' colcanon, sir, or sthilk^ 
 in the college, if you slip in a lua»p of this, it'll save you the price of 
 butther. The grace 'ill be useful to you, whether or not ; an' they say 
 there's a scarcity of it in the college." 
 
 ' Sthilk is made by bruising a quantity of boiled potatoes and beans together. 
 The potatoes, however, having first been reduced to a pulpy state, the beans are 
 but partially broken. It is then put into a dish, and a pound of butter or rendered 
 lard thrust into the middle of it. 
 
DENIbi O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTH. i33 
 
 A third brought him an oak sapling to keep in his hand about the 
 purlieus of the establishment. 
 
 " We know," said he, " that you're given to arguin' an' to that thing 
 you call logic, Misther Denis. Now, sir, if you're ever hard set in an 
 argument or the like o' that, or if any o' the shthudjeents ud be 
 throublesome or imperant, why give them a touch o' this— a lick of it, 
 do you see ; jist this-a-way. First come wid a back sthroke upon the 
 left ear, if they want to be properly convinced ; an' thin agin', afore 
 they have time to recover, come down wid a visitation upon the 
 kidney. My life for yours, they'll soon let you alone. Nothin* 
 puzzles one in an argument more than it does." 
 
 "Ay," said Denis, "that is what they call in the books the argu- 
 meiititin baculimim. I accept your present, Roger ; but I flatter 
 myself I shall be a match for any of the collegians without having 
 recourse to the argiimentiim bacidimnnP 
 
 A poor old widow, who was distantly related to them, came upwards 
 of four miles with two or three score of eggs, together with a cock 
 and hen ; the eggs for his own use, and the latter for breeding in 
 Maynooth. 
 
 " Avourneen, Misther O'Shaughnessy," said she, in broken English, 
 " when you ate out all the eggs, maybe you could get a sonsy little 
 corner about the collegian that you're goin' to lam to be a priest in, 
 an' put them both into it ;" — pointing at the same time to the cock 
 and hen — "an' whishper," she continued, in a low, friendly voice, "if 
 you could get a weeshy whisp o' sthraw, an' slip it undher your own 
 bed, it would make a nest for them, an' they'd lay an egg for your 
 breakfast all days in the year. But, achora, don't let them be widout 
 a nest ^^g : an' whishper— maybe you'd breed a clackin' out o' them, 
 that you might sell. Sure they'd help to buy duds of does for you ; 
 or you might make presents of the crathurs to the blessed an' holy 
 collegian himself. Wouldn't it be good to have him an your side — 
 he'd help to make a gintleman of you, anyway. Faix, sure he does 
 it for many, they say. An' whishper — the breed, avourneen, is good ; 
 an' I'm not afeard to say that there never was sich a chicken in the 
 whole collegian as the ould cock himself. He's the darlin' all out, 
 an' can crow so stoutly that it bates the world. Sure his comb's a 
 beauty to look at, the darlin' ; an' only it's to yourself, an' in regard 
 of the blessed place he's goin' to, I wouldn't part wid him to nobody 
 whatsomever at all, good or bad." 
 
 The most original gift of all was a purse, formed of a small bladder, 
 ingeniously covered with silk. It was given to him by his uncle, as a 
 remembrance of him, in the first place, and- secondly, for a more 
 special purpose. 
 
 "This will sarve you, sir," said his uncle, " an' I'll tell you how : if 
 you want to smuggle in a sup of good whisky — as of coorse you will, 
 plase goodness — why this houlds exactly a pint, an' is the very thing 
 lor it. The sorra one among them will ever think of searchin' your 
 purse, at least for whisky. Put it in your pocket, Misther Dionissis ; 
 an' I'd take it as a great kindness if you'd write me a scrape or two 
 
134 DES'IS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYAOOTH. 
 
 of the pen, mentionin' what a good parish ud be worth ; you'll soor 
 be able to tell me ; for I've some notion myself of puttin' Barny to the 
 Latin." 
 
 Denis was perfectly aware of the honest warmth of heart with 
 which these simple tokens of esteem were presented to him ; and young 
 as he was, his knowledge of their habits and prejudices prevented him 
 from disappointing them by a refusal. He consequently accepted every- 
 thing offered him, appropriated to himself whatever was suitable to his 
 wants, converted the remainder into pocket-money, and. of course, 
 kept his conscience void of offc7ice towards them all ; a state of Chris- 
 tian virtue which his refusal of any one gift would have rendered 
 uifficult. 
 
 On the day before his departure the friends and relations of the 
 family assembled to hold their farewell meeting. The same spirit 
 which marked all their rustic symposia presided in this ; if we except 
 a feeling of sorrow natural to his family on being separated from one 
 they loved so affectionately. Denis, who was never deficient in warmth 
 of feeling, could not be insensible to the love and pride with which his 
 family had always looked upon him. Ambition, as he approached it, 
 lost much of its fictitious glitter A sense of sorrow, if not of remorse 
 for the fastidious and overbearing spirit he had manifested to them, 
 pressed upon his heart. Pride, in fact, was expelled ; nature resumed 
 her empire over him ; he looked upon the last two months of his life 
 as a man would be apt to do who had been all that time under the 
 dominion of a feverish dream. We do not say, however, that either 
 ambition or superstition was thoroughly expelled from his mind ; for it 
 is hard at all times to root them out of the system of man : but they 
 ceased to govern him altogether. A passion, too, as obstinate as either 
 of them, was determined to dispute their power. The domestic 
 affections softened his heart ; but love, which ambition left for dead, 
 was only stunned ; it rose again, and finding a favourable position, set 
 its seal to his feelings. 
 
 Denis himself, some days before that appointed for his departure, 
 became perfectly conscious that his affections were strongly fixed upon 
 Susan Connor. The nature of their last interview filled him with 
 shame ; nay, more, it inspired him with pity for the fair, artless girl 
 whom he had so unfeelingly insulted. The manner in which he had 
 won her young affections ; the many tender interviews that had passed 
 between thc-m ; the sacred promises of unchangeable love they had 
 made to each other, all crowded to his imagination with a power which 
 reduced his spiritual ambition and ecclesiastical pride at least to the 
 possession only ot a divided empire. He had, therefore, with his book 
 m his hand as usual, taken many solitary walks for the preceding few 
 days, with the expectation of meeting Susan. He heard that for the 
 last month or six weeks she had looked ill, been in low spirits, and lost 
 her health. The cause of this change, though a secret to the world, 
 was known to him. He felt, indeed, that an interview between them 
 was indispensable ; but had it not been so, we question whether he 
 would have been able to leave home without seein;r her. 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. '35 
 
 His evening strolls, however, up until the day before his setting out 
 for college, were fruitless. Susan, who heretofore had been in the 
 liabit of walking in the evenings among the ^reen dells around her 
 father's house, was ever since their last meeting almost invisible. In 
 the meantime, as the day before that of his leaving the neighbourhood 
 had arrived, and as an interview with her was, i"n a religious point o< 
 view, essentially necessary, he took his book in the course of the 
 evening, and by a path slightly circuitous, descendxi the valley that 
 ran between his father's house and hers. With solemn strides he 
 perambulated it in every direction — north, south, east, and west ; not 
 a natural bower in the glen was unexplored ; not a green quiet nook 
 unsearched ; not a shady tree unexamined ; but all to no purpose. 
 Yet, although he failed in meeting herself, a thousand objects brought 
 her to his heart. Every dell, natural bower, and shady tree presented 
 him with a history of their past affections Here was the spot where, 
 with beating heart and crimson cheek, she had first breathed out in 
 broken music the acknowledgment of her love ; there had another 
 stolen meeting, a thousand times the sweeter for being stolen, taken 
 place. Every spot, in fact, was dear to him, and every object associ- 
 ated itself With delightful emotions that kindled new life in a spirit 
 from which their parent affections had not yet passed away. 
 
 Denis now sought the only other place where he had any likelihood 
 of meeting her : this was at the well below her fathers house. He 
 walked down along the banks of the little stream that ran past it, until 
 he reached a thorn-bush that grew within a few yards of the spring. 
 Under this he sat, anxiously hoping that Susan might come to fill her 
 evening pail, as he knew she was wont to do. A thick flowery branch 
 of the hawthorn, for it was the latter end of May, hung down from 
 the trunk, and served as a screen through which he could observe her, 
 should she appear, without being visible himself. 
 
 It was now the hour of twilight ; the evening was warm and balmy ; 
 the whitethorn under which he sat, and the profusion of wild-flowers 
 that spangled the bosom of the green glen, breathed their fragrance 
 around him, and steeped the emotions and remembrances which 
 crowded thickly on him in deep and exquisite tenderness. Up in the 
 air he heard the quavering hum of the snipe, as it rose and fell in 
 undulating motion, and the creak of the rail in many directions around 
 him. From an adjoining meadow in the distance the merry voices of 
 the village children came upon hisear, aslhey gathered '.ne wild honey 
 which dropped like dew from the soft clouds upon the long grassy 
 stalks, and meadow-sweet, on whose leaves it la> like amber. He 
 remembered when he and Susan, on meeting there for a similar pur- 
 pose, felt the first mysterious pleasure in being together, and the 
 unaccountable melancholy produced by separation and absence. 
 
 At length he heard a footstep ; but be could not persuade himself 
 that the 5low and lingering tread of the person approaching him was 
 that of Susan, so much did it differ from the buoyant and elastic step 
 with which she used to trip along. On looking through the branches, 
 however, he perceived her coming towards him, carrying the pitcher a» 
 
136 DENTS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAVNOOTH. 
 
 usual in her hand. The blood was already careering at full speed 
 through his veins, and the palpitations of his heart were loud enough 
 to be neard by ''he ear. 
 
 Oh, beauty, beauty ! teterrivia causa belli, thou dost play the devil 
 with the hearts of men ! Who is there who doth not wish to look 
 upon thee, from the saint to the sinner ? — None. For thee worlds have 
 been lost ; nations swept off the earth ; thrones overturned ; and cities 
 laid in ashes ! Adam, David, Marc Antony, Abelard, and Denis 
 O'Shaughnessy exhibit histories of thy power never to be forgotten, 
 but the greatest of these is Denis O'Shaughnessy. 
 
 Susan was about the middle size ; her tresses, like those of the 
 daughters of her country, were a fair brown, and abundant. Her 
 features were not such, we admit, as mark regular and scientific per- 
 fection, and perhaps much of their power was owing to their not 
 being altogether symmetrical. Her great charm consisted in a spirit 
 of youthful innocence so guileless that the \"ery light of purity and 
 truth seemed to break in radiance from her countenance. Her form 
 was round, light, and flexible. When she smiled, her face seemed to 
 lose the character of its mortality — so seraphic and full of an inde- 
 scribable spell were its lineaments ; that is, the spell was felt by its 
 thrilling influence upon the beholder, rather than by anye.xtraordmary 
 perception of her external beauty. The general expression of her 
 countenance, however, was that of melancholy. No person could look 
 upon her white forehead and dark flashing eyes, without perceiving 
 that she was full of tenderness and enthusiasm ; but let the light of 
 cheerfulness fall upon her face, and you wished never to see it beam 
 with any other spirit. In her met those extremes of character peculiar 
 to her country. Her laughing lips expanded with the playful delicacy 
 of mirth, or breathed forth, with untaught melody and deep pathos, 
 her national songs of sorrow. 
 
 A little before she made her appearance the moon had risen and 
 softened with her dewy light the calm secluded scene around them. 
 Denis, too, had an opportunity of seeing the lov^ely girl more distinctly. 
 Her dress was simple but becoming. Her hair, except the side ringlets 
 that fell to heighten the beauty of her neck, was bound up with a 
 comb which Denis himself had presented to her. She wore a white 
 dimity bedgown, that sat close to her well-formed person, descended 
 below her knee, and opened before ; the sleeves of it did not reach the 
 elbow, but displayed an arm that could not be surpassed for whiteness 
 and beauty. The bedgown was frilled about the shoulder, which it 
 covered, leaving the neck only and the upper part of her snowy bosom 
 visible. A dark ribbon, tied about her waist, threw her figure into 
 exquisite outline, and gave her that simple elegance which at once 
 bespeaks the harmony of due proportion. 
 
 On reaching the well she filled her vessel, and placed it on a small 
 mound beside her ; then sitting down, she mused for some time, and 
 turning her eyes towards Denis's father's, sighed deeply. 
 
 " It's the least," said the humbled girl, "that I may look towards 
 the house that the only one I ever loved, or ever will love, lives in. 
 
DENTS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MA VNOOTH. i37 
 
 Little I thought when I loved him that I was standin' between him3.r.' 
 God. Loved him ! I wish I could say it was past. I wish I could ; 
 for I am afeard that till my weak heart breaks it will love him still. 
 God pity me ! It would be well for me I had never seen him. But 
 why he should go to Maynooth without givin' me back my promise, I 
 cannot tell." 
 
 Denis rose and approached her. Susan, on seeing him, started, and 
 her lover could perceive that she hastily wiped the tears from her eyes 
 A single glance, however, convinced her that it was he ; and such was 
 the guileless simplicity of her heart, joined to the force of habit, that 
 her face beamed with one of her wonted smiles at his appearance. 
 This soon passed away, and her features again resumed an expression 
 of deep melancholy. 
 
 Our hero now forgot his learning ; his polysyllables were laid aside, 
 and his pedantry utterly abandoned. His pride, too, was gone, and 
 the petty pomp of artificial character flung aside like an unnecessary 
 garment which only oppresses the wearer. 
 
 " Susan," said he, " I am sorry to see you look so pale and unhappy. 
 I deeply regret it ; and I could not permit this day to pass without 
 seeing and speaking to you. If I go to-morrow, Susan, may I now 
 ask m what light will you remember me .'' " 
 
 " I'll remember you without anger, Denis ; with sorrow will I 
 remember you, but not, as I said, in anger ; though God knows, and 
 you know, the only token you lave me to remember you by is a broken 
 heart." 
 
 " Susan," said Denis, " it was an unhappy attachment, as circum- 
 stances have turned out : and I wish for both our sakes we had never 
 loved one another. For some time past my heart has been torn 
 different ways, and to tell you the truth, I acknowledge that within the 
 last three or four months I have been little less than a villain to you." 
 
 " You speak harshly of yourself, Denis j I hope more so than you 
 deserve." 
 
 " No, Susy. With my heart fixed upon other hopes, I continued to 
 draw your affections closer and closer to me." 
 
 "Well, that was wrong, Denis ; but you loved me long before that 
 time, an' it's not so asy a thing to draw away the heart from what we 
 love ! th#.t is, to draw it away for ever, Denis, even although greater 
 things may rise up before us." 
 
 As she pronounced the last words, her voice, which she evidently 
 strove to keep firm, became unsteady. 
 
 " That's true, Susan, I know it ; but I will never forgive myself for 
 acting a double part to you and to the world. There is not a pang you 
 suffer but ought to fall as a curse upon my head, for leading you into 
 greater confidence, at a time when I was not seriously resolved to 
 fulfil my vows to you." 
 
 " Denis," said the unsuspecting girl, " you're imposin' on yourself — 
 you never could do so bad, so treacherous an act as that. No, you 
 never could, Denis ; an', above all the world, to a heart that loved and 
 trusted you as mine did. I won't believe it, even from your own lip* 
 
i.^S DENIS O'SHAUGIINESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTII. 
 
 You surely loved me, Denis, and in that case yow could n'tht desateful 
 to me." 
 
 " I never loved you half so well as I ought, Susy ; and I never was 
 worthy of you. Susy, 1 tell you — I tell you — my heart is breaking fo- 
 your sake. It would have been well for both of us we had never seen, 
 or known, or loved each other ; for I know by my own heart what you 
 must suffer." 
 
 " Denis, don't be cast down on my account ; before I ever thought 
 of you, when 1 was runnin' about the glens here, a lonely little orphan, 
 I was often sorry, without knowin' why. Sometimes I used to wonder 
 at it, and search my mind to find out what occasioned it : but I never 
 could. I suppose it was because I saw other girls, like myself, havin' 
 their little brothers an' sisters to play with ; or because I had no 
 mother's voice to call me night or mornin', or her bosom to lay 
 my head on, if I was sick or tired. I suppose it was this. Many a 
 time, Denis, even then, I knew what sorrow was, and I often thought 
 that, come what would to others, there was sorrow before me. I now 
 find I was right ; but for all that, Denis, it's betther that we should 
 give up one another in time, than be unhappy by my bein' the means 
 of turnin' you from the ways and duties of God." 
 
 The simple and touching picture which she drew of her orphan 
 childhood, together with the tone of resignation and sorrow which ran 
 through all she said, affected Denis deeply. 
 
 " Susan," he replied, " I am much changed of late. The prospect 
 before me is a dark one — a mysterious one. It is not many months 
 since my head was dizzy with the gloomy splendour which the pomps 
 and ceremonies of the Church — soon, I trust, to be restored in this 
 country to all her pride and power — presented to my imagination. 
 But I have mingled with those on whom before this — that is, during 
 my boyhood — I looked with awe, as on men who held vested in them- 
 selves some mysterious and spiritual power. I have mingled with 
 them, Susan, and I find them neither better nor worse than those 
 who still look upon them as I once did." 
 
 '' Well, but, Denis, how does that bear upon your views ? " 
 
 " It does, Susan. I said I have found them neither better nor 
 worse than their fellow-creatures ; but I believe they are not so happy. 
 I think I could perceive a gloom, even in their mirth, that told 
 of some particular thought or care that haunted them like a spirit. 
 Some of them, and not a few, in the moments of undisguised feeling, 
 dissuaded me against ever entering the Church." 
 
 " I'm sure they're happy," said Susan. " Some time ago, accordin' 
 to your own words, you thought the same ; but something has turned 
 your heart from the good it was fixed upon. You're in a dangerous 
 time, Denis : and it's not to be wondhered at, if the temptations of the 
 devil should thry you now, in hopes to turn you from the service of 
 God. This is a warnin' to me, too, Denis. May heaven above forbid that 
 / should be the means of temptin' you from the duty that's b' fore you ! '' 
 
 "No, Susan dear, it's not temptation, but the fear of temptation, 
 Ihat prevails with me." 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. I39 
 
 " But, Denis, surely if you think yourself not worthy to enther that 
 blessed state, you have time enough to avoid it." 
 
 " Ay, but, Susy, there is the difficulty. I am now so placed ^hat I 
 can hardly go back. First, the disgrace of refusing to enter the 
 Church would lie upon me as if I had committed a crime. Again, I 
 would break my father's and mother's heart : and rather than do that, 
 I could almost submit to be miserable for life. And, finally, I could 
 not live in the family, nor bear the indignation o*" my brothers and 
 other relations. You know, Susan, as well as I do, the character 
 attached to those who put their friends to the expense of educating 
 them for the Church, who raise their hopes and their ambition, and 
 afterwards disappoint them." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " This, Susan dear, prevails with me. Besides, the Church now is 
 likely to rise from her ruins. I believe that if a priest did his duty, he 
 might possibly possess miraculous power. There is gveat pomp and 
 splendour in her ceremonies, a sense of high and boundless authority 
 in her pastors; there is rank in her orders sufficient even for ambition. 
 Then the deference, the awe, and the humility with which they are 
 approached by the people — ah ! Susan, there is much still in the 
 character of a priest for the human heart to covet. The power of say- 
 ing mass, of forgiving sm, of relieving the departed spirits of the 
 faithful in another world, and of minghng in our holy sacrifices with 
 the glorious worship of the cherubims, or angels, in heaven — all this is 
 the privilege of a p>-iest, and what earthly rank can be compared to it.'" 
 
 " None at all, Denis— none at all. Oh, think this way still, and let 
 no earthly temptation — no — don't let — even me — what am I ? — a poor 
 humble girl— oh ! no, let nothing keep you back from this." 
 
 The tears burst from her eyes, however, as she spoke. 
 
 " But, Denis," she added, "there is one thing that turns my brain. 
 I fear that, even afther your ordination, I couldn't look upon you as I 
 would upon another man. Oh, my heart would break if one improper 
 thought of it was fixed upon you then." 
 
 " Susy, hear me. I could give up all but you. I could bear to dis- 
 appoint father, mother, and all ; but the thought of giving you up for 
 ever is terrible. I have been latterly in a kind of dream. I have 
 been among friends and relatives until my brain was turned ; but 
 now I am restored to myself, and I find I cannot part with you. I 
 would gladly do it ; but I cannot. Oh, no, Susan dear, my love for 
 you was dimmed by other passions ; but it was not extinguished. It 
 now burns stronger and purer in my heart than ever. It does — it 
 does. And, Susan, I always loved you." 
 
 Susan paused for a time, and unconsciously plucked a wild flower 
 which grew beside her : she surveyed it a moment, and exclaimed — 
 
 "Do you see this flower, Denis.' it's a faded primrose. I'm like 
 that flower in one sense ; I'm faded ; my heart's broke." 
 
 " No, my beloved Susan, don't say so ; you're only low-spirited. 
 Why should your heart be broke, and you in the very bloom of yorah 
 and beauty .' " 
 
140 DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 "Do you remember our last meetin', Denis ? Oh, how could you be 
 so cruel then as to bid me think of marryin' another, as if I had loved 
 you for anything but yourself? I'm but a simple girl, Penis, and 
 know but little of the world ; but if I was to live a thousand years, 
 you would always see the sorrow that your words made me feel visible 
 upon my countenance. I'm not angry with you, Denis ; but I'm tell' 
 ing you the truth." 
 
 " Susan, my darling, this is either weakness of mind or ill-health. 
 I will see you as beautiful and happy as ever. For my part, I now 
 tell you that no power on earth can separate us ! Yes, my beloved 
 Susan, I will see you as happy and happier than I have ever seen you. 
 That will be when you are my own young and guileless wife." 
 
 " Ah, no, Denis ! My mind is made up : I can never be your wife. 
 Do you think that I would bring the anger of God upon myself by 
 temptin' you back from the holy office you're enterin' into ? Think 
 of it yourself, Denis. Your feelings are melted now by our discoorse, 
 and, maybe, because I'm near you ; but when time passes, you'll be 
 glad that in the moment of weakness you didn't give way to them. I 
 know it's natural for you to love me now. You're lavin' me — you're 
 lavin' the place where I am — the little river and the glen where we so 
 often met, and where we often spent many a happy hour together. 
 That has an effect upon you ; for why should I deny it .'' — you see it 
 — it is hard — very hard — even upon myself." 
 
 She neither sobbed nor cried so as to be heard, but the tears gushed 
 down her cheeks in torrents. 
 
 " Susan," said Denis, in an unsteady voice, " you speak in vain. 
 Every word you say tells me that I cannot live without you ; and I 
 will not." 
 
 " Don't say that, Denis. Suppose we should be married, think of 
 what I would suffer if I saw you in poverty or distress, brought on 
 because you married me ! Why, my heart would sink entirely under 
 it. Then your friends would never give me a warm heart. Me ! they 
 would never give yourself a warm heart ; and I would rather be dead 
 than see you brought to shame, or ill-treatment, or poverty, on my 
 account. Pray to God, Denis, to grant you grace to overcome whatever 
 you feel for me. / have prayed both for you and myself. Oh, pray 
 to him, Denis, sincerely, that he may enable you to forget that ever 
 such a girl — such an unhappy girl — as Susan Connor ever lived ! " 
 
 Poor Denis was so much overcome that he could not restrain his 
 tears. He gazed upon the melancholy countenance of the fair girl in 
 a delirium of love and admiration ; but in a few minutes he replied : 
 
 " Susan, your words are lost : I am determined. Oh ! great heaven, 
 what a treasure was I near losing ! Susan, hear me : 1 will bear all 
 that this world can inflict ; I will bear shame, ill-treatment, anger, 
 scorn, and every harsh word that may be uttered against me ; I will 
 renounce Church, spiritual power, rank, honour ; I will give up father 
 and family— all— all that this world could flatter me with ■ yes, I will 
 renounce each and i\\\ for your sake ! Do not dissuade me ; my mind 
 is fixed, and no power on earth can change it." 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. I4i 
 
 " Yes, Denis," she replied, calmly, " there is a power, and a weak 
 power, too, that will change it ; for I will change it. Don't think, 
 Denis, that in arguin' with you, against the feelins of my own heart, I 
 am doin' it without sufferin'. Oh, no, indeed ! You know, Denis, I 
 am a lonely girl ; that I have neither brother, nor sister, nor mother 
 to direct me. Sufferin' ! — oh, I wish you knew it ! Denis, you must 
 forget me. I'm hopeless now : my heart, as I said, is broke and I'm 
 strivin' to fix it upon a happier world ! Oh ! if I had a mother or a 
 sister, that I could, when my breast is likely to burst, throw myself in 
 their arms, and cry and confess all I feel ! But I'm alone, and must 
 bear all my own sorrows. Oh, Denis ! I'm not without knowin' how 
 hard the task is that I have set to myself. Is it nothing to give up all 
 that the heart is fixed upon ? Is it nothing to walk about this glen, 
 and the green fields, to have one's eyes upon them, and to remember 
 what happiness one has had in them, knowin', at the same time, that 
 it's all blasted ? Oh, is it nothing to look upon the green earth itself, 
 and all its beauty — to hear the happy songs and the joyful voices of 
 all that are about us — the birds singing sweetly, the music of the 
 river flowin' — to see the sun shinin', and to hear the rustlin' of the 
 trees in the warm winds of summer — to see and hear all this, and to 
 feel that a young heart is brakin', or already broken within us — that 
 we are goin' to lave it all — all we loved — and to go down into the clay 
 under us .? Oh, Denis, this is hard ! — bitter is it to me, I confess it ; 
 for something tells me it will be my fate soon ! " 
 
 " But, Susan " 
 
 " Hear me out. I have now repated what I know I must suffer — 
 what I know I must lose. This is my lot, and I must bear it. Now, 
 Denis, will you grant your own Susan one request ?" 
 
 "If it was that my life should save yours, 1 would grant it." 
 
 " It's the last and only one I will ever ask of you. My health has 
 been ill, Denis ; my strength is gone, and I feel I am gettin' worse 
 every day : now when you hear that I am — that I am — gone, — will you 
 offer up the first Mass you say for my pace and rest in another world ? 
 I say \ht first, for you know there's more virtue in a first Mass than 
 in any other. Your Susan will be then in the dust, and you may feel 
 sorrow, but not love for her." 
 
 " Never, Susan ! For God's sake, forbear ! You will drive me 
 distracted. As I hope to meet judgment, I think I never loved you 
 till now ; and by the same oath, I will not change my purpose in 
 making you mine." 
 
 " Then you do love me still, Denis ? And you would give up all 
 for your Susan ? Answer me truly, for the ear of God is open to our 
 wards and thoughts." 
 
 " Then, before God, I love you too strongly for words to express : 
 and I would give up all for your sake ! " 
 
 Susan turned her eyes upon vacancy, and Denis observed that a 
 sudden and wild light broke from them, which alarmed him exceed- 
 ingly. She put her open hand upon her forehead, as if she felt pain, 
 and remained glancing fearfully around her for a few minutes ; hei- 
 
r42 DENIS O'SHAUGUNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 countenance, which became instantly like a sheet of paper, lost all its 
 intelligence, except, perhaps, what might be gleaned from a smile of 
 the most ghastly and desolating misery. 
 
 "Gracious heaven! Susan, dear, what's the matter? Oh, my 
 God, your face is like marble ! Dearest Susan, speak to me ! Oh, 
 speak to me, or I will go distracted ! " 
 
 She looked upon him long and steadily ; but he perceived with 
 delight that her consciousness was gradually returning. At length 
 she drew a deep sigh, and requested him to listen. 
 
 " Denis," said she, " you must now be a man. We can never be 
 married. I AM PROMISED TO axother ! " 
 
 " Promised to another ! Your brain is turned, Susy. Collect your- 
 self, dearest, and think of what you say." 
 
 " I know what I say — I know it too well ! What did I say ? Why 
 — why," she added, with an unsettled look, " that I'm promised to 
 another ! It is true — true as God's in heaven ! Oh, Denis ! why did 
 you lave me so long without scein' me ? I said my heart was broke, 
 and you will soon know that it has bitter, bitter rason to be so. See 
 here." 
 
 She had, during her reply, taken from her bosom a small piece of 
 brown cloth, of a square shape, marked with the letters I. M. I., the 
 initials of the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. She kissed it 
 fervently as she spoke, and desired Denis to look upon it and hear. 
 
 " When you saw me last," she continued, " I left you in anger, 
 because I thought you no longer loved me. Many a scaldin' tear I 
 shed that nobody witnessed ; many a wringin' my heart felt since 
 that time. I got low, and, as I said, my health left me. I began to 
 think of what 1 ought to do ; and, bein' so much alone, my thoughts 
 were never off it. At last I remembered the Virgin Mother of God 
 as bein' once a woman, and the likelier to pity one of her own kind in 
 sorrow. I then thought of a scapular ; and made a promise to myself 
 that, if you didn't come within a certain time, I would dedicate myself 
 to her for ever. I saw that you neglected me, and I heard so much 
 of the way in which you spent your time, how you were pleasant and 
 merry while my heart was breakin', that I made a vow to remain a 
 spotless virgin all my life. I got a scapular, too, that I might be 
 strengthened to keep my holy promise ; for you didn't come to me 
 within the time. This is it in my hand. It is now on me. The 
 
 vow IS MADE, AND I AM MISERABLE FOR EVER !" 
 
 Denis sobbed and wrung his hands, whilst tears intensely bitter fell 
 from his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Susan!" he exclaimed, "what have you done.'' Oh, you 
 have ruined vie utterly ! You have rendered us both for ever 
 miserable ! " 
 
 " Miserable ! " she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. " Who talks of 
 misery?" But again she put her hand to Vier forehead, and en- 
 deavoured to recollect herself. "' Denis," she added — " Denis, my 
 brain is turning ! Oh, I have no friend I Oh, mother that I have 
 never seen, but as if it was in a dream — mother, daughter of yoiu 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH, I43 
 
 daughter's heart, look down from heaven and pity your orphan child 
 HI her sore trouble and affliction 1 Oh, how often did I miss you, 
 mother, darlin', durin' all my life ! In sickness \ had not you 
 tendher hands about me ; in sorrow I could not hear your voice ; 
 and in joy and happiness you were never with me to share them ! I 
 had not your advice, my blessed mother, to guide and direct me — to 
 tache me what was right and what was wrong ! Oh, if you will not 
 hear your own poor lonely orphan, who will you hear ? if you will not 
 assist her, who ought you to assist ? for, as sure as I stand here this 
 night, you are a blessed saint in heaven. But let me not forget the 
 Virgin Queen of Heaven that I am bound to. / kneel to you, Hope 
 of the Afflicted ! To you let them go who have a broken heart, as I 
 have ! Queen of Glory, pity me ! Star of the Sea — Comfort of the 
 Hopeless — Refuge of Sinners, hear me, strengthen, and support me ! 
 And you will, too. Who did you ever cast away, mild and beautiful 
 Virgin of Heaven .'' ' As the lily among thorns, so are you among the 
 daughters of Adam ! ' ^ Yes, Denis, she will support me — she will 
 support me ! I feel her power on me now ! I see the angels of 
 heaven about her, and her mild countenance smilin' sweetly upon the 
 broken flower. Yes, Denis, her glory is upon me ! " 
 
 The last words were uttered with her eyes flashing wildly as before, 
 and her whole person and countenance evidently under the influence 
 of a highly excited enthusiasm, or perhaps a touch of momentary 
 insanity. 
 
 Poor Denis stood with streaming eyes, incapable of checking or 
 interrupting her. He had always known that her education and 
 understanding were above the common ; but he never anticipated 
 from her such capacity for deep feeling, united to so much vivacity of 
 imagination as she then displayed. Perhaps he had not philosophy 
 enough, at that period of his youth, to understand the effects of a 
 solitary life upon a creature full of imagination and sensibility. The 
 scenery about her father's house was wild, and the glens singularly 
 beautiful ; Susan lived among them alone, so that she became in a 
 manner enamoured of solitude ; which, probably, more than any- 
 thing else, gives tenderness to feeling, and force to the imaginative 
 faculties. Soon after she had pronounced the last words, however, 
 her good sense came to her aid. 
 
 " Denis," said she, " you have seen my weakness, but you must 
 now see my strength. You know we have a trial to go through 
 before we part for ever." 
 
 " Oh ! Susy, don't say * for ever.* You know that the vow you 
 made was a rash vow. It may be set aside." 
 
 " It was not a rash vow, Denis. I made it with a Arm intention of 
 keepin' it, and keep it I will. The Mother of God is not to be 
 mocked because i am weak, or choose to prefer my own will to 
 hers." 
 
 " But, Susy, the Church can dissolve it. You know she has power 
 
 ' The form of the Service to the Virgin, from which most of the above expro 
 sions are taken, is certainly replete with beauty and poetry. 
 
'44 DENIS O-SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 to bind and loose. Oh, for God's sake, Susy, if you ever loved me. 
 don't attempt to take back your promise." 
 
 " I love you too well to destroy you, Denis. I will never stand 
 between you and God, for that would be my crine. I will never bring 
 disgrace, or shame, or poverty upon you ; for surely these things would 
 fall upon you as a punishment for desartin'" him. If you were another 
 — if you weren't intended to be the servant of God, I could beg with 
 you — starve with you — die with you. But when I am gone, remember 
 that I gave up all my hopes that you might succeed in yours. I'm 
 sure that is love. Now, Denis, we must return our promises, the time 
 is passin', we'll both be missed from home." 
 
 " Susan, for the sake of my happiness, both in this world and in 
 the next, don't take away all hope. Make me not miserable and 
 wretched ; send me not into the Church a hypocrite. If you do, I 
 will charge you with my guilt ; I will charge you with the crimes of 
 a man who will care but little what he does." 
 
 " You will have friends, Denis ; pious men, who will direct you, 
 and guide you, and wean your heart from me and the world. You 
 will soon bless me for this. Denis," she added, with a smile of un- 
 utterable misery, " my mind is made up. I belong now to the Virgin 
 Mother of God. I never will be so wicked as to forsake her for a 
 mortal. If I was to marry you with a broken vow upon me, I could 
 not prosper. The curse of God and of his Blessed Mother would 
 follow us both." 
 
 Denis felt perfectly aware of the view entertained by Susan respect- 
 ing such a vow as she had taken. To reason with her was only to 
 attack a prejudice which scorned reason. Besides this, he was not 
 himself altogether free from the impression of its being a vow too 
 solemn to be broken without the sanction of the Church. 
 
 " Let us go," said Susan, " to the same spot where we first promised. It 
 was under this tree, in this month, last year. Let us give it back there." 
 
 The hand-promise in Ireland between the marriageable young of 
 both sexes is considered the most solemn and binding of all obliga- 
 tions. Few would rely upon the word or oath of any man who had 
 been known to break a hand-promise. And, perhaps, few of the 
 country girls would marry or countenance the addresses of a young 
 person known to have violated such a pledge. The vow is a solemn 
 one, and, of course, given by mutual consent ; by mutual consent also 
 must it be withdrawn, otherwise it is considered still binding. When- 
 ever death removes one of the parties, without the other having had 
 an opportunity of "giving it back," the surviving party comes, and in 
 the presence of witnesses, first grasping the hand of the deceased, 
 repeats the form of words usual in withdrawing it. Some of these 
 scenes are ver}' touching and impressive, particularly one which the 
 author had an opportunity of witnessing. It is supposed that in cases 
 of death, if the promise be not dissolved, the snirit of the departed 
 returns and haunts the survivor until it be cancelled. 
 
 When Denis and Susan had reached the hawthorn, they both knell 
 down. So exhausted, however, had Susan been by the agitation of he* 
 
DENIS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. US 
 
 feelings that Denis was under the necessity of assisting her to the 
 place. He could perceive, too, that amid the workings of her religious 
 enthusiasm she trembled like an aspen leaf. 
 
 "Now," said she, "you are stronger than I am, begin and repeat 
 the words ; I will repeat them with you." 
 
 " No," replied Denis, " I will never begin. I will never be the first 
 to seal both your miseiy and mine." 
 
 " I am scarcely able," said she ; " dear Denis, don't ask me to do 
 what I have not strength for. But it's useless," she added : ' you will 
 never begin unless / do." 
 
 They then blessed themselves after the form of their Chuich, and as 
 they extended their right hands to each other the tears fell fast from 
 the eyes of both. The words they repeated were the same, with the 
 difference of the name only. 
 
 " I, Susan Connor, in the presence of God, do release you, Denis 
 O'Shaughnessy, from your promise of marriage to me, and from all 
 promises of marriage that you ever made me. I now give you back 
 that promise of marriage, and all promises of marriage you ever made 
 me. To which I call God to witness." 
 
 Denis repeated the same words, substituting the name of Susan 
 Connor. 
 
 The sobs of Susan were loud and incessant, even before she had 
 concluded the words ; their eyes were fixed upon each other with a 
 hopeless and agonizing expression ; but no sooner were they uttered 
 than a strong hysteric sense of suffocation rose to her throat ; she 
 panted rapidly for breath ; Denis opened his arms, and she fell, or 
 rather threw herself, over in a swoon upon his bosom. To press his 
 lips to hers, and carry her to the brink of the well, was but the work of 
 a moment. There he laid her, and after having sprinkled her face 
 with water, proceeded to slap the palms of her hands, exclaiming — 
 
 " Susan, my beloved, will you not hear me ? Oh, look upon me, my 
 heart's dearest treasure, and tell me that you're living. Gracious God ! 
 her heart is broken — she is dead ! This — this— is the severest blow of 
 all ! I have killed her ! " 
 
 She opened her eyes as he spoke, and Denis, in stooping to assist 
 her, weeping at the same time like a child, received — a bang from a 
 cudgel that made his head ring. 
 
 " Your sowl to the divil, you larned vagabone," said her father, for 
 it was he, " is this the way you're preparin' yourself for the Church ? 
 Comin' over that innocent colleen of a daughter o' mine before you set 
 out," he added, taking Denis a second thwack across the shoulders — 
 " before you set out for Maynewth ! " 
 
 " Why, you miserable vulgarian," said Denis, " I scorn you from the 
 head to the heel. Desist, I say," for the father was about to lay in 
 another swinger upon his kidney — " desist, I say, and don't approxi- 
 mate, or I will entangle the ribs of you ! " 
 
 " My sowl to glory," said the father, " if ever I had a greater mind 
 to ate my dinner than I have to anoint you wid this cudgel, you 
 black-coated skamer ! " 
 
'40 DBMS O'SH AUG IIXEr^SY GOIWG TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 " Get out, you barbarian," replied Denis, "how dare you talk about 
 unction in connection with a cudgel ? Desist, 1 say, or 1 will re- 
 taliate, if you approximate an inch. Desist, or I will baptize you in 
 the well, as Philip did the Ethiopian, without a sponsor. No man 
 but a miserable barbarian would have had the vulgarity to interrupt 
 us in the manner you did. Look at your daughter's situation ! " 
 
 "The hussy," replied the father, "it's the supper she ought to have 
 ready, instead of coortin' wid sich a larned vag — Heavens above me ! 
 What ails my child ? Susy! Susy, alanna, dhas ! what's over you.' 
 Oh, I see how it is," he continued — " I see how it is ! This accounts 
 for her low spirits an' bad health for some time past ! Susy, rouse 
 yourself, avourneen ! Sure I'm not angry wid you ! My sowl to 
 glory, Denny Shaughnessy, but you have broke my child's heart, I 
 (doubt ! " 
 
 "Owen," said Denis, "your indecorous interruption has stamped 
 you with the signature of genuine ignorance and vulgarty ; still, I 
 say, we must have some conversation on that subject immediately. 
 Yes, I love your daughter a thousand times better than my own life." 
 
 " Faith, I'll take care that we'll have discoorse aboiit it," replied the 
 father. " If you have been a villain to the innocent girl — if you have, 
 Denny, why you'll meet your God sooner than you think. Mark my 
 words. I have but one life, and I'll lose it for her sake, if she has 
 come to ill." 
 
 " Here," said Denis, "let me sprinkle her face with this cool water, 
 that we may recover her, if possible. Your anger and your outrage, 
 Owen, overcame the timid creature. Speak kindly to her, she is 
 recovering. Thank God, she is recovering." 
 
 •' Susy, avourneen," said the father, " rouse yourself, ma colleen ; 
 rouse yourself, an' don't thrimble that way. The sorra one o' me's 
 angry wid you, at all at all." 
 
 " Oh, bring me home," said the poor girl. " Father dear, have no 
 bad opinion of me. I done nothing, an' I hope I never will do any- 
 thing that would bring the blush of shame to your face." 
 
 "That's as true as that God's in heaven," observed Denis. "The 
 angels in his presence are not purer than she is." 
 
 " I take her own word for it," said the father ; " a lie, to the best of 
 my knowledge, never came from her lips." 
 
 " Let us assist her home," said Denis. " I told you that we must 
 have some serious conversation about her. I'll take one arm, and do 
 you take the other." 
 
 " Do so," said the father, "an', Denny, as you're the youngest and 
 the strongest, jist take up that pitcher o' wather in your hand, an' 
 carry it to the house above." 
 
 Denis, who was dressed in his best black from top to toe, made a 
 wry face or two at this proposal. He was able, however, for Susan's 
 sake, to compromise his dignity ; so looking about him, to be certain 
 that there was no other person observing them, he seized the pitcher 
 in one hand, gave Susan his arm, and in this unheroic manner assisted 
 to conduct her home. 
 
PEy/S O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. "47 
 
 In about half an hour, or better, after this, Denis and Owen Conr dt 
 proceeded in close and earnest conversation towards old Shaughness>'s. 
 On entering, Denis requested to speak with his fathe)" and toothers 
 in private. 
 
 " Father," said he, " this night is pregnant — that is, vulgariter, in 
 the family way — with my fate." 
 
 "Throth it is, avick. Glory be to goodness ! " 
 
 " Here is Owen Connor, an honest, dacent neighbour " 
 
 ■'Throth, he is an honest, dacent man," said the father, interrupting 
 him. 
 
 " Yes," replied the son, " I agree with you. Well, he has a certain 
 disclosure or proposal ^o make, which you will be pleased to take into 
 your most serious consideration. I, for my part, cannot help being 
 endowed with my own gifts, and if I happen to possess a magnet to 
 attract feminine sensibility, it is to heaven I owe it, and not to myself." 
 
 " It is," said the father, " glory be to his name ! " 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, or surprised, or angry, at anything Owen 
 Connor may say to you. I speak significantly. There are perplexities 
 in all human events, and the cardinal hinge of fate is for ever turning. 
 Now I must withdraw ; but in the meantime, I will be found taking a 
 serenade behind the garden, if I am wanted." 
 
 " Brian," said the father, " get the bottle ; we can't on this night, 
 anyway, talk to Owen Connor, or to anybody else, wid dhry lips." 
 
 The bottle was accordingly got, and Owen, with no very agreeable 
 anticipations, found himself compelled to introduce a very hazardous 
 topic. 
 
 Denis, as he said, continued to walk to-and-fro behind the garden. 
 He thought over the incidents of the evening, but had no hope that 
 Owen Connor's proposal would be accepted. He knew his father 
 and family too well for that. With respect to Susan's vow, he felt 
 certain that any change of opinion on her part was equally im.pro- 
 bable. It was clear, then, that he had no pretext for avoiding May- 
 nooth ; and as the shame, affliction, and indignation of the family 
 would, he knew, be terrible, he resolved to conform himself to his 
 circumstances, trusting to absence for that diminution of affection 
 which it often produces. Having settled these points in his mind, he 
 began to grope that part of his head which had come in contact with 
 Owen Connor's cudgel. He had strong surmises that a bump existed, 
 and on examining, he found that a powerful organ of self-esteem had 
 been created. 
 
 At this moment he saw Owen Connor running past him at full 
 speed, pursued by his father and brothers, the father brandishing a 
 cudgel in his hand. The son, who understood all, intercepted the 
 pursuers, commanding them in a loud voice to stop. With his 
 brothers he succeeded ; but the father's wrath was not to be appeased 
 so easily. Nothing now remained but to stand in his way, and arrest 
 him by friendly violence ; Denis, therefore, seized him, and, by 
 assuming all his authority, at length prevailed upon him to give over 
 the chase. 
 
MS DENIS O'SHAUGHA^ESSV GOrA^G TO MAYNOOTH. 
 
 "Only think of him," exclaimed the father, breathless — -only thmk 
 of him havin' the assurance to propose a match between you an' his 
 baby-faced daughter ! Ho! Dlier manim, O.ven Connor," he shouted, 
 shaking che staff at Owen as he spoke — " Dhcr manim'. if I was neat 
 you, Id pit your bones through other, for darin' to mintion sich «i 
 thing I ' 
 
 Owen Connor, on finding that he was no longer pursued, stood to 
 reconnoitre the enemy : — 
 
 "Denis Oge," he shouted back, "be off to Maynooth as f»5t as 
 possible, except you wish to have my poor child left fatherless entirely. 
 Go way, an' my blessin' be along wid you ; but let there be never 
 another word about that business while you live." 
 
 " Father," said Denis, " I'm scandalised at your conduct on this dig- 
 nified occasion. I am also angry with Brian and the rest of /ou. Did 
 you not observe that the decent man was advanced in liquor.'' I 
 would have told you so at once, were it not that he was present while 
 I spoke. Did I not give you as strong a hint as possible? Did I not 
 tell you that * I spoke sij;;nificantly ?' Now hear me. Take the first 
 opportunity of being reconciled to Owen Connor. Be civil to him ; 
 for I assure you he esteems tne very highly. Be also kind to his 
 daughter, who is an excellent girl ; but, I repeat it, her father esteems 
 me highl}'." 
 
 " Does he think highly of you, Denis ? " 
 
 " I have said so," he replied. 
 
 "Then, throth, we're sorry for what has happened, poor man. But 
 the never a one o' me, Denis, saw the laste sign of liquor about him. 
 Throth, we will make it up wid him, thin. An' we'll be kind to his 
 daughter, too, Denis." 
 
 " Then, as a proof that you will follow my advice, I lay it on you as 
 a duty, to let me know how they are, whenever you write to me." 
 
 " Throth, we will, Denis ; — indeed will we. Come in now, dear ; 
 this is the last night you're to be wid us, an' they're all missin' you in 
 the house." 
 
 On that night no person slept in Denis O'Shaughnessy's, except our 
 hero and his mother and sisters. As morning approached, a heavi- 
 ness of spirit prevailed among the family, which of course was not felt 
 by any except nis immediate relations. The more distant friends, who 
 remained w'ith them for the night, sang and plied the bottle with a 
 steadiness which prevented them from feeling the want of rest. About 
 six o'clock, breakfast was ready, Denis dressed, and every arrange- 
 ment made for his immediate departure. His parents— his brothers, 
 and his sisters were all in tears, and he himself could master his 
 emotions with great difficulty. At length the hour to which the family 
 of our candidate had looked forward arrived, and Denis rose to depart 
 for Maynooth. Except by the sobs and weeping, the silence was un- 
 broken when he stood up to bid them farewell. 
 
 The first he embraced was his eldest brother, Brian : " Brian," said 
 he, but he could not proceed — his vorce failed him ; he then extended 
 his hand, but Brian clasped him in his arms — kissed his beloved 
 
DENIS O 'SHA UGHNESS V GOING 70 MA YNO OTH. 1 49 
 
 brother, and wept with strong grief ; even then there was not a dry 
 eye in the house. The parting with his other brothers was equally 
 tender — they wept loudly and bitterly, and ^Denis joined in their grief. 
 Then came his sisters, who, one by one, hung upon him, and sobbed 
 as if he had been dead. The grief of his youngest sister, Susan, was 
 excessive. She threw her arms about his neck, and said she would 
 not let him go ; Denis pressed her to his heart, and the grief which he 
 felt seemed to penetrate his very soul. 
 
 " Susan," said he " Susan, may the blessing of God i est upon you till 
 I see you again ! " and the affectionate girl was literally torn from his 
 arms. 
 
 But now came the most affecting part of the ceremony. His parents 
 had stood apart — their hands locked in each other, both in tears, 
 whilst he took leave of the rest. He now approached his mother, and 
 reverently kneeling down, implored, in words scarcely intelligible, her 
 blessing and forgiveness ; he extended both his hands — " Mother," he 
 added, " I ask — humbly and penitently, I ask your blessing ; it will be 
 sweet to me from your beloved lips, dear mother ; — pardon me if I 
 ever — as I feel I often did — caused you a pang of sorrow by my dis- 
 obedience and folly. Oh, pardon me — pardon me for all NOW ! Bless 
 your son, kindest of mothers, with your best and tenderest blessing!" 
 
 She threw herself in his arms, and locking him in her embrace, im- 
 printed every part of his face with kisses. " Oh, Denis," she exclaimed, 
 " there is but one more who will miss you more nor I will — Oh, my 
 darlin' son — our pride — our pride — our heart's pride — our honour, and 
 our credit ! Sure, a7iim jnachree^ I have nothin' to forgive you for, my 
 heart's life ; but may the blessin' of God and of a happy mother light 
 on you ! And, Denis asthore, wasn't it you that made me happy, and 
 that made us all happy ! May my blessin' and the blessin' of God rest 
 upon you — keep you from every evil, and in ever}' good, till my eyes 
 will be made glad by lookin' on you agin ! " 
 
 A grief more deep, and a happiness more full than had yet been 
 felt were now to come forth. Denis turned to his father — his com- 
 panion in many a pastime, and in many a walk about their native 
 fields. In fair — in market — at mass — and at every rustic amusement 
 within their reach — had he been ever at the side of that indulgent 
 father, whose heart and soul were placed in him. 
 
 Denis could not utter a word, but kept his streaming eyes fixed upon 
 the old man, with that yearning expression of the heart which is felt 
 when it desires to be mingled with the very existence of the object 
 that it loves. Old Denis advanced, under powerful struggles to sup- 
 press his grief ; he knelt, and as the tears ran in silence down his 
 cheeks, thus addressed himself to God : 
 
 " I kneel down before you, oh, my God ! a poor sinner ! I kneel here 
 in your blessed presence, with a heart — with a happy heart — this day, 
 to return you thanks in the name of myself and the beloved partner 
 you have given me through the cares and thrials of this world, to give 
 yoi/ our heart's best thanks for graciously permittin' us to see this day'l 
 It is to you we owe it, good Father of heaven ! It is to you we ov/e 
 
'50 DENIS O'SHAUCHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOTII. 
 
 this — an' him — my heart's own son, that kneels before me to be blessed 
 by my own lips ! Yes — yes, he is— he is the pride of our lives I —He 
 is the mornin' star among us ! he was ever a good son ; anu }'0u 
 know that from the day he was born to this minute he never gave me 
 a sore heart I Take him under your own protection ! Oh, bless him 
 as we wish, if it be your holy will to do so ! — Bless him and guard 
 him, for my heart's in him : it is — he knows it— everybody knows i ; 
 — and if anything was to happen him " 
 
 He could proceed no further : the idea of losing his son, even in 
 imagination, overpowered him ; — he rose, locked him to his breast, 
 and for many minutes the grief of both was loud and vehement. 
 
 Denis's uncle now interposed : " The horses," said he, " are at the 
 door, an' time's passin'." 
 
 " Och, thrue for you, Barny," said old Denis : " come, acushla, an' 
 let me help you on your horse. We will go on quickly, as we're to 
 meet Father Finnerty at the crass-roads." 
 
 Denis then shook hands with them all, not forgetting honest Phad- 
 rick Murray, who exclaimed, as he bid him farewell, " Arrah ! Misther 
 Denis, aroon, won't you be thinkin' of me now an' thin in the college ! 
 Faix, if you always argue as bravely wid the collegians as you did the 
 day you proved me to be an ass, you'll soon be at the head of them ! " 
 
 " Denis," said the uncle, " your father excuses me in regard of havin' 
 to attend my cattle in the fair to-day. You won't be angry wid me, 
 dear, for lavin' you now, as my road lies this other way. May the 
 blessin' of God and his holy mother keep you till I see you agin ! an', 
 Denis, if you'd send me a scrape or two, lettin' me know what a good 
 parish ud be worth ; for I intend next spring to go wid little Barny to 
 the Latin." 
 
 This Denis promised to do ; and after bidding him farewell, he and 
 his friends — some on horseback and numbers on foot — set out on their 
 journey ; and as they proceeded through their own neighbourhood, 
 many a crowd was collected to get a sight of Denis 0''Shaughnessy 
 going to Maynooth. 
 
 It was one day in autumn, after a lapse ot about two years, that the 
 following conversation took place between a wealthy grazier from the 
 neighbouring parish and one of oui hero's most intimate acquaint- 
 ances. It is valuable only as it throws light upon Denis's ultimate 
 situation in life, which, after all, was not what oar readers might be 
 inclined to expect. 
 
 " Why, then, honest man," said Denis's friend, "that's a murdherin' 
 fine dhrove o' bullocks you're bringin' to the fair ?" 
 
 "Ay!" replied the grazier, "you may say that. I'm thinkin' it 
 wouldn't be asy to aquil them." 
 
 " Faix, sure enough. Where wor they fed, wid simmission ?" 
 
 "Up in Teernahusshogue. Arrah, will you tell me what weddin 
 «-as that that passed awhile agone ? " 
 
DEMS O'SHAUGHNESSY GOING TO MAYNOOTH. 151 
 
 " A son of ould Denis O'Shaughnessy's, God be merciful lo his 
 sowl ! " 
 
 " Denis O'Shaughnessy ! Is it him they called the ' Pigeon-house ' ? 
 An' is It possible he's dead ?" 
 
 " He's dead, nabour, an', in throth, an honest man's dead ! " 
 
 "As ever broke the world's bread. The Lord make his _ bed in 
 heaven this day ! Hasn't he a son larnin' to be a priest in May- 
 newth ? " 
 
 •'Ah! Fahreer gairh ! That's all over." 
 
 " Why, is he dead, too ? " 
 
 " Be Gorra, no — but the conthrairy to that, 'Twas his vveddin' you 
 seen passin' a minute agone." 
 
 '•' Is it the young sogarth's ? Musha, bad end to you, man alive, an' 
 spake out. Tell us how that happened ? Sowl, it's a quare business, 
 an' him was in Maynewth ! " 
 
 " Faith, he was so ; an' they say there wasn't a man in Maynewth 
 able to tache him. But, passin' that over — you see, the father, ould 
 Denis— an' be Gorra, he was very bright too, till the son grewn up, 
 an' drownded him wid the langridges — the father, you see, ould Denis 
 himself, tuck a faver whin the son was near a year in the college, an' 
 it proved too many for him. He died ; an' whin young Dinny hard of 
 it, the divil a one of him would stay any longer in Maynewth. He 
 came home like a scarecrow, said he lost his health in it, an' refused to 
 go back. Faith, it was a lucky thing that his father died beforehand, 
 for it would brake his heart. As it was, they had terrible work about 
 it. But ould Denis is never dead while young Denis is livin'. Faix, 
 he was as stiff as they wor stout, an' wouldn't give in ; so, afther ever 
 so much wranglin', he got the upper hand by tellin' them that he 
 wasn't able to bear the college at all ; an' that if he'd go back to it 
 he'd soon folly his father." 
 
 " An' what turned him against the college ? Was that thrue ?" 
 
 " Thrue ! — thrue indeed ! The same youth was never at a loss for 
 a piece of invintion whin it sarved him. No, the sarra word of thruth 
 at all was in it. He soodhered an' palavered a daughther of Owen 
 Connor's, Susy — all the daughther he has, indeed — before he wint to 
 Maynewth at all, they say. She herself wasn't for marryin' him, in 
 regard of a wow she had ; but there's no doubt but he made her fond 
 of him, for he has a tongue that ud make black white, or white black, 
 for that matther. So, be Gorra, he got the wow taken off her by the 
 bishop ; she soon recovered her health, for she was dyin' for love of 
 him, an' — you seen their weddin'. It ud be worth your while to go a 
 day's journey to get a sight of h.;r— she's allowed to be the purtiest 
 grl that ever was in this part o' the counthry." 
 
 " Well ! well ! It's a quare world. An' is the family all agreeable 
 to it now ?" 
 
 " Hut ! where was the use of houldin' out aginst him ? I tell you, 
 he'd make them agreeable to anythink, wanst he tuck it into his head. 
 Indeed, it's he that has the great larnin' all out ! Why, now, you'd 
 hardly b'lieve me, when I tell you that he'd prove you to be an ass. in 
 
PIIELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 three minutes : make it as plain as the sun. He would ; an' often 
 made an ass o' myself." 
 
 " Why, now that I look at you — aren't you Dan Murray's nephew 1 " 
 
 " Phadrick Murray, an' divil a one else, sure enough." 
 
 '' How is your family, Phadrick? Why, man, you don't know your 
 friends — my name's Cahill." 
 
 " Is it Andy Cahill of Phuldhu ? Why thin, death alive, Andy, how 
 is every bit of you ? Andy, I'm regulatin' everything at this weddin', 
 an' you must turn over your horse till we have a dhrop for ould times. 
 Bless my sowl ! sure, I'd know your brother round a corner ; an' your- 
 self, too, I ought to know, only that I didn't see you since you wor a 
 slip of a gorsoon. Come away, man, sure thim men o' yours can take 
 care o' the cattle. You'll asily overtake thim." 
 
 " Throth, I don't care if I have a glass wid an ould friend. But I 
 hope your whisky won't overtake me, Phadrick." 
 
 " The never a fear of it, your father's son has too good a head for 
 that. Ough ! man alive, if you could stay for the weddin' ! Divil a 
 sich a let out ever was seen in the county widin the mimory of the 
 ouldest man in it, as it 'ill be. Dinis is the boy that ud have the 
 dacent thing or nothin'." 
 
 The grazier and Phadrick Murray then bent their steps to Owen 
 Connor's house, where the wedding was held. It is unnecessary to say 
 that Phadrick plied his new acquaintance to some purpose. Ere two 
 hours had elapsed the latter had forgotten his bullocks as completely 
 as if he had never had them, and his drovers were left to their own 
 discretion in effecting their sale. As for Andy Cahill, like many other 
 sapient Irishmen, he preferred his pleasure to his business, got drunk, 
 and danced, and sung at Denis O'Shaughnessy's wedding, which we 
 are bound to say was the longest, the most hospitable, and frolicsome 
 that ever has been remembered in the parish from that day to the 
 present. 
 
 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 HELIM O'TOOLE, who had the honour of being that interest- 
 ing personage, an only son, was heir to a snug estate of 
 half an acre, which had been the family patrimony since the 
 time of his grandfather, Tyrrell O'Toole, who won it from the Sassetiah 
 at the point of his reaping-hook, during a descent once made upon 
 England by a body of " spalpeens," in the month of August. This 
 resolute little ban \ was led on by Tyrrell, who, having secured about 
 eight guineas by the excursion, returned to his own country with a 
 coarse linen travelling bag slung across his shoulder, a new hat in one 
 hand, and a staff in the other. On reaching once more his native 
 village of Teernarogarth , he immediately took half an acre, for which 
 he paid a moderate rent in the shape of daily labour as a cottar. On 
 
PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. I53 
 
 this he resided until death, after which event he was succeeded by his 
 son, Larry O'Toole, the father of the " purty boy " who is about to 
 shine in the following pages. 
 
 Phelim's father and mother had been married near seven year<? 
 without the happiness of a family. This to both was a great affliction. 
 Sheelah O'Toole was melancholy from night to morning, and Lariy 
 was melancholy from morning to night. Their cottage was silent a/.d 
 solitary ; the floor and furniture had not the appearance of any cottage 
 in which Irish children are wont to amuse themselves. Wlien they 
 rose in the morning a miserable stillness prevailed around them ; 
 young voices were not heard — laughing eyes turned not on their parents 
 — the melody of angry squabbles, as the urchins, in their parent's 
 fancy, cuffed and scratched each other — half, or wholly naked among 
 the ashes in the morning, soothed not the yearning hearts of Larry 
 and his wife. No, no ; there was none of this. Morning passed in a 
 quietness hard to lae borne : noon arrived, but the dismal, dreary sense 
 of childlessness hung upon the house of their hearts : night again 
 returned, only to add its darkness to that which overshadowed thf» 
 sorrowful spirits of this disconsolate couple. 
 
 For the first two or three years they bore this privation with a 
 strong confidence that it would not last. The heart, however, some- 
 times becomes tired of hoping, or unable to bear the burthen of expec- 
 tation, which time only renders heavier. They first began to fret and 
 pine, then to murmur, and finally to recriminate. 
 
 sheelah wished for children, " to have the crathurs to spake to," she 
 said, " and comfort us when we'd get ould an' helpless." 
 
 Larry cared not, provided they liad a son to inherit the " half acre." 
 This was the burthen of his wishes, for in all their altercations his 
 closing observation usually was — " Well, but what's to become of the 
 half acre ? " 
 
 " What's to become of the half acre .'' Arrah, What do I care for the 
 half acre? It's not that you ought to be thinkin' of, but the dismal 
 poor house we have, wid not the laugh or schreech of a %\n^Q pastiah ^ 
 in it from year's end to year's end." 
 
 " Well, Sheelah ? " 
 
 " Well yourself, Larry ? To the dioiiol I pitch your half acre, 
 man." 
 
 " To the dioiiol you pitch — What do you fly at me for 1 " 
 
 " Who's flyin' at you ? They'd have little tow on their rock that ud 
 fly at you." 
 
 " You are flyin' at me ; an' only you have a hard face you wouldn't 
 do it." 
 
 "A hard face ! Indeed it's well come over wid us, to be tould that 
 by the likes o' you ! ha ! " 
 
 " No matther for that ! You had betther keep a soft tongue in your 
 head, an' a civil one, in the manetime. Why did the devil iimpt you 
 t") take a fancy to me at all ? " 
 
 ' A child 
 (4) F 
 
1 5 1 PHELIM 0' TOOLE' S COUR TSHIP. 
 
 " That's it. Throw the ^-ra/i an' love I once had for you in my teeth 
 now. It's a manly thing for you to do, an' you may be proud of it. 
 Dear knows it would be betther for me I had fell in consate wid ivny 
 face but yours." 
 
 " I wish to goodness you had ! I wouldn't be as I am to-day. 
 There's that half acre " 
 
 " To the diouol, I say, I pitch yourself an' your half acre ! Why do 
 you be comin' acrass me wid your half acre ? Eh .-' Why do you ? " 
 
 " Come, now ; don't be puttin' your hands again your sides an' 
 waggin' your impty head at me, like a rockin' stone." 
 
 "An' why do you be aggravatin' at me wid your half acre .''** 
 
 " Bekase I have a good right to do it. What'll become of it when 
 I d " 
 
 " That for you an' it, you poor excuse ! " 
 
 "When I di " 
 
 " That for you an' it, I say ! That for you an' it, you atomy ! " 
 
 "What will become of my half acre when I die.'' Did you hear 
 that?'' 
 
 " You ought to think of what'll become of yourself when you die ; 
 that's what you ought to think of; but little it throubles you, you sin- 
 ful reprobate ! Sure the neighbours despises you." 
 
 "That's a falsity; but they know the life I lade wid _y£»7^. The 
 edge of your tongue's well known. They pity me for bein' joined to 
 the likes of you. Your bad tongue's all you're good for." 
 
 " Aren't you afeard to be flyin' in the face o' Providence the way 
 you are .-* An' to be ladin' me sich a heart-scalded life for no rason .-' " 
 
 " It's your own story you're tellin'. Sure I haven't a day's pace wid 
 you, or ever had these three years. But wait till next harvest, an' if 
 I'm spared I'll go to England. Whin I do, I've a consate in my head 
 that you'll never see my face agin." 
 
 " Oh, you know that's an' ould story wid you. Many a time you 
 threatened us wid that afore. Who knows but you'd be dhrownded or\ 
 your way, an' thin we'd get another husband." 
 
 " An' be these blessed tongs I'll do it afore I'm much ouldher !" 
 
 ** An' lave me here to starve an' sthruggle by myself ! Desart me 
 like a villain, to poverty an' hardship ! Marciful Mother of Heaven, 
 look down upon me this day ! but I'm the ill-thrated an' ill-used poor 
 crathur, by a man that I don't, an' never did, desarve it from ! An' 
 all in regard that that ' half acre ' must go to strangers ! Och ! oh ! " 
 
 " Ay ! now take to the cryin', do ; rock yourself over the ashes, an' 
 wipe your eyes wid the corner of your apron ; but I say agin, whafs 
 to become of the half acre?'' 
 
 " Oh, God forgive you, Larry ! That's the worst I say to you, you 
 poor half-dead blackguard ! " 
 
 " Why do you massacray me wid your tongue as you do ? " 
 
 " Go an — go an. I won't make you an answer, you atomy ! That's 
 what I'll do. The heavens above turn your heart this day, and give 
 me strinth to bear my throubles an' heart-burnin', sweet queen o' con- 
 solation 1 Or take me into the arms of Parodies, sooner nor be as I 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE* S COURTSHIP. 15S 
 
 am, wid a poor baste of a villain, that I never turn my tongue on, 
 barrin' to tell him the kind of a man he is, the blackguard ! " 
 
 " You're betther than you desarve to be ! " 
 
 To this Sheelah made no further reply ; on the contrary, she sat 
 smoking her pipe with a significant silence, that was only broken by 
 an occasional groan, an ejaculation, or a singularly devout upturning 
 of the eyes to heaven, accompanied by a shake of the head, at once 
 condemnatory and philosophical ; indicative of her dissent from what 
 he said, as well as of her patience in bearing it. 
 
 Larry, however, usually proceeded to combat all her gestures by viva 
 voce argument ; for every shake of her head he had an appropriate 
 answer, but without being able to move her from the obstinate silence 
 she maintained. Having thus the field to himself, and feeling rather 
 annoyed by the want of an antagonist, he argued on in the same form 
 of dispute, whilst she, after first calming her own spirit by the com- 
 posing effects of the pipe, usually cut him short with : 
 
 " Here, take a blast o' this, maybe it'll settle you." 
 
 This was received in silence. The good man smoked on, and every 
 puff appeared as an evaporation of his anger. In due time he was as 
 placid as herself, drew his breath in a grave, composed manner, laid 
 his pipe quietly on the hob, and went about his business as if nothing 
 had occurred between them. 
 
 These bickerings were strictly private, with the exception of some 
 disclosures made to Sheelah's mother and sisters. Even these were 
 thrown out rather as insinuations that all was not right than as 
 direct assertions that they lived unhappily. Before strangers they 
 were perfect turtles. 
 
 Larry, according to the notices of his life furnished by Sheelah, was 
 " as good a husband as ever broke the world's bread ; " and Sheelah 
 " was as good a poor man's wife as ever threw a gown over her 
 shoulders." Notwithstanding all this caution, their little quarrels took 
 wind, their unhappiness became known. Larry, in consequence of a 
 faihng he had, was the cause of this. He happened to be one of those 
 men who can conceal nothing when in a state of intoxication. When- 
 ever he indulged in liquor too freely, the veil which discretion had 
 drawn over their recriminations was put aside, and a dolorous history 
 of their weaknesses, doubts, hopes, and wishes most unscrupulously 
 given to every person on whom the complainant could fasten. When 
 sober he had no recollection of this, so that many a conversation of 
 cross-purposes took place between him and his neighbours with refer- 
 ence to the state of his domestic inquietude and their want of 
 children. 
 
 One day a poor mendicant came in at dinner hour, and stood as if 
 to solicit alms. It is customary in Ireland, when any person of that 
 description appears during meal-times, to make him waii: until the 
 meal is over, after which he is supplied with the fragments. No 
 sooner had the boccagh — as a certain class of beggars is termed — 
 advanced past the jamb than he was desired to sit until the dinner 
 should be concluded. Meantime, with the tact of an adept in his 
 
156 PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 
 
 calling, he began to ingratiate himself with Larry and his wife ; and 
 after sounding the simple couple upon their private history, he dis- 
 covered that want of children was the occasion of their unhappi- 
 ness. 
 
 " Well, good people," said the pilgrim, after listening to a dismal 
 story on the subject, "don't be cast down, sure, whether or not. 
 
 There's a holy well that I can direct yees to in the county . 
 
 Anyone, wid trust in the saint that's over it, who'll make a pilgrimage 
 to it on the patthern day won't be the worse for it. When you go 
 there," he added, " jist turn to a lucky stone that's at the side of the 
 well, say a rosary before it, and at the end of every dicken (decade) 
 kiss it once, ache of you. Then you're to go round the well nine 
 times upon your bare knees, sayin' your pathers and aves all the 
 lime. When that's over, lave a ribbon or a bit of your dress behind 
 you, or somethin' by way of an offerin', thin go into a tent an' refresh 
 yourselves, an', for that matther, take a dance or two ; come home, 
 live happily, an' trust to the holy saint for the rest." 
 
 A gleam of newly-awakened hope might be discovered lurking in 
 the eyes of this simple pair, who felt those natural yearnings of heart 
 incident to such as are without offspring. 
 
 They looked forward with deep anxiety to the anniversary of the 
 patron saint ; and when it arrived, none certainly who attended it 
 felt a more absorbing interest in the success of the pilgrimage than 
 they did. 
 
 The days on which these pilgrimages are performed at such places 
 are called pattern or patron days. The journey to holy wells or holy 
 lakes is termed a pilgrimage, or more commonly a station. It is 
 sometimes enjoined by the priest as an act of penance, and some- 
 times undertaken voluntarily as a devotional work of great merit in 
 the sight of God. The crowds in many places amount to from five 
 hundred to a thousand, and often to two, three, four, or ten thousand 
 people. 
 
 These stations have, for the most part, been placed in situations 
 remarkable for wild and savage grandeur, or for soft, exquisite, 
 and generally solitary beauty. They may be found on the high and 
 rugged mountain top, or sunk in the bottom of some still and 
 lonely glen, far removed from the ceaseless din of the world. Imme- 
 diately beside them, or close in their vicinity, stand the ruins of, 
 probably, a picturesque old abbey, or perhaps a modern chapel. 
 The appearance of these grey, ivy-covered walls is strongly calculated 
 to stir up in the minds oi' the people the memory of by-gone times, 
 when their religion, with its impc^-ng solemnities, was the religion of 
 the land. It is for this reason, probably, that patrons are coun- 
 tenanced : for if there be not a political object in keeping them up, 
 it is beyond human ingenuity to conceive how either religion or 
 morals can be improved by debauchery, drunkenness, and blood- 
 shed. 
 
 Let the reader, in order to understand the situation of the place we 
 are describing, imagine to himself a stupendous cliff overhanging a 
 
PIIELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTShlP. '57 
 
 green glen, into which tumbles a silver stream down a height of two 
 nr three hundred feet. At the bottom of this rock, a few yards from 
 I he basin formed by the cascade, in a sunless nook, was a well of 
 cool, delicious water. This was the " holy well," out of which issued 
 a slender stream that joined the rivulet formed by the cascade. On 
 the shrubs which grew out of the crag-cliffs around it might be seen 
 innumerable rags bleached by the weather out of their origmal colour, 
 small wooden crosses, locks of human hair, buttons, and other substi- 
 tutes for property, poverty allowing the people to offer it only by 
 fictitious emblems. Lower down in the glen, on the river's bank, was 
 a smooth green, admirably adapted for the dance, which, notwithstand- 
 ing the religious rites, is the heart and soul of a patron. 
 
 On that morning a vast influx of persons, male and female, old and 
 young, married and single, crowded eagerly towards the well. Among 
 them might be noticed the blind, the lame, the paralytic, and such as 
 were afflicted with various other diseases ; nor were those good men 
 who had no offspring to be omitted. The mendicant, the pilgrim, the 
 boccagh, together with every other description of impostors remarkable 
 for attending such places, were the first on the ground, all busy in 
 their respective vocations. The highways, the fields, and the boreens, 
 or bridle-roads, were filled with living streams of people pressing for- 
 ward to this great scene of fun and religion. The devotees could in 
 general be distinguished from the country folks by their Pharisaical 
 and penitential visages, as well as by their not wearing shoes, for the 
 stations to such places were formerly made with bare fec-t : most per- 
 sons now, however, content themselves with stripping off their shoes 
 and stockings on coming within the precincts of the holy ground, 
 illuman beings are not the only description of animals that perform 
 ■{-ilgrimages to holy wells and blessed lakes. Cows, horses, and sheep 
 are made to go through their duties, either by way of prevention or 
 cure of the diseases incident to them. This is not to be wondered 
 at, when it is known that every domestic animal has its patron saint, 
 to whom its owner may at any time pray on its behalf. 
 
 When the crowd was collected, nothing in the shape of an assembly 
 could surpass it in the originality of its appearance. In the glen were 
 constructed a number of tents, where whisky and refreshments might 
 be had in abundance. Every tent had a fiddler or a piper ; many two of 
 them. From the top of a pole that ran up from the roof of each tent was 
 suspended the symbol by which the owner of it was known by his 
 friends and acquaintances. Here swung a salt herring or a turf, there 
 a shillelah. in a third place a shoe, in a fourth place a wisp of hay, in 
 a fifth an old hat, and so on with the rest. 
 
 The tents stood at a short distance from the scene of devotion at 
 the well, but not so far as to prevent the spectator from both seeing 
 and hearing what went on in each. Around the well, on bare knees, 
 moved a body of people, thickly v.edged together, some praying, some 
 screaming, some excoriating their neighbour's shins, and others drag- 
 ging them out of their way by the hair of the head. Exclamations o\ 
 pain from the sick or lame, thumping oaths in Irish, recriminations in 
 
PHELIM C* TOOLE'S COUKTSHIF. 
 
 broken English, and prayers in bog Latin, all rose at once to the ears 
 of the patron saint, who, we are inclined to think — could he have 
 heard or seen his worshippers — would have disclaimed them altogether. 
 
 " For the sake of the Holy Virgin, keep your sharp elbows out o' my 
 ribs." 
 
 " My blessin' an you, young man, an' don't be lanin' an me, I' you 
 plase ! " 
 
 "Daimiho sheery orth, a rogarah Ruah ! what do you mane ? Is it 
 my back you're brakin' ? " 
 
 "Hell purshue you, you ould sinner ; can't you keep the spike of 
 your crutch out o' my stomach ! If you love me tell me so ; but, by 
 the livin' farmer, I'll take no such hints as that ! " 
 
 " FfH a pilgrim, an' don't brake my leg upon the rock, an' my blessin'' 
 an you ! " 
 
 " Oh, murdher sheery ! my poor child 'ill be smodhered !" 
 
 " My heart's curse an you ! is it the ould cripple you're thrampin' 
 over ? " 
 
 " Here, Barny, blood alive, give this purty young girl a lift, your 
 sowl, or she'll be undhermost ! " 
 
 " ' Och, 'twas on a Christmas mornin' 
 That Jeeroosillim was bom in 
 The Holy Land " 
 
 Oh, my neck's broke ! — the curse — Oh ! I'm kilt fairly, so I am 1 The 
 curse o' Cromwell an you, an' hould away 
 
 ' The Holy Land adomin 
 
 All by the Baltic Say. 
 
 Three angels on a station, 
 
 All in deep meditation, 
 
 Wor takin' raycrayation. 
 
 All by the ' 
 
 contints o' the book, if you don't hould away, I say agin, an' let me go 
 an wid my rami, it'll be worse for you ! 
 
 ' Wor takin' raycrayation, 
 All by the Baltic Say I ! "* 
 
 " Help the ould woman there." 
 
 " Queen o' patriots, pray for us ! — St. Abraham go to the divil,. 
 
 you bosthoon ; is it crushin' my sore leg you are ? — St. Abraham pray 
 for us ! St. Isinglass, pray for us ! St. Jonathan — musha, I wisht 
 you wor in America, honest man, instid o' twistin' my arm like a 
 ^ad! — St. Jonathan, pray for us ! Holy Nineveh, look down upon 
 as wid compression an' resolution this day ! Blessed Jerooslim, 
 throw down compuncture an' meditation upon us Chrystyeens as- 
 sembled here afore you to offer up our sins ! Oh, grant us, blessed 
 Catasthrophy, the holy virtues of timptation an' solitude, through 
 the improvement an' accommodation of St. Kolumbkill ! To him I 
 offer up this button, a bit o' the waistband o' my own breeches, an' a 
 taste of my wife's petticoat, in remimbrance of us havin' made this 
 
PflELIM O'TOOLE'S COUR TSHIP. 1 59 
 
 holy station ; an' may they rise up in glory to prove it for us at the last 
 ■day ! Amin .' " 
 
 Such was the character of the prayers and ejaculations A^hich issued 
 from the lips of the motley group that scrambled, and crushed, and 
 screamed on their knees around the well. In the midst of this 
 ignorance and absurdity there were visible, however, many instances 
 of apparent piety, goodness of heart, and simp'' city of character. 
 From such you could hear neither oath nor exclamation. They com- 
 plied with the usages of the place modestly and attentively ; though 
 not insensible, at the same time, to the strong disgust which the 
 general conduct of those who were both superstitious and wicked was 
 •calculated to excite. A little from the well, just where its waters 
 mingled with those of the cascade, men and women might be seen 
 washing the blood ofT their knees, and dipping such parts of their 
 body as were afflicted with local complaints into the stream. This 
 part of the ceremony was anything but agreeable to the eye. Most of 
 ♦hose who went round the well drank its waters ; and several of them 
 tilled flasks and bottles with it, which they brought home for the 
 benefit of such members of their family as could not attend in person. 
 
 Whilst all this went forward at the well, scenes of a different kind 
 were enacted lower down among the tents. No sooner had the peni- 
 tents got the difficult rites of the station over than they were off 
 to the whisky ; and decidedly, after the grinding of their bare knees 
 upon the hard rock — after the pushing, crushing, and exhaustion of 
 bodily strength which they had been forced to undergo — we say that 
 •the comforts and refreshments to be had in the tents were verj' season- 
 able. Here the dancing, shouting, singing, courting, drinking, and 
 fighting formed one wild uproar of noise that was perfectly astound- 
 ing. The leading boys and the prettiest girls of the parish were all 
 present, partaking in the rustic revelry. Tipsy men were staggering 
 in every direction ; fiddles were playing, pipes were squeaking, men 
 were rushing in detached bodies to some fight, women were doctoring 
 the heads of such as had been beaten, and factions were collecting 
 their friends for a fresh battle. Here you might see a grove of 
 shillelahs up, and hear the crash of the onset ; and in another place, 
 the heads of the dancing parties bobbing up and down in brisk 
 motion among the crowd that surrounded them. The pilgrim, having 
 now gone through his station, stood hemmed in by a circle of those 
 who wanted to purchase his beads or his scapulars. The ballad- 
 singer had his own mob, from among whom his voice might be heard 
 •rising in its purest tones to the praise of 
 
 " Brave O'Connell, the Liberathur, 
 An' great Salva.thiir of Ireland's Isle ! " 
 
 As evening approached, the whisky brought out the senseless pre- 
 judices of parties and factions in a manner quite consonant to the 
 habits of the people. Those who, in deciding their pi-'vate quarrels, 
 Jiad in the early part of the day beat and abused each other, now 
 united as the subordinate branches of a greater part-- for the purpose 
 
i6o PHELIM O' TOOLE'S C OUR TSUI P. 
 
 of opposing in one general body some other hostile faction. These 
 fights are usually commenced by a challenge from one party to 
 another, in which a person from the opposite side is simply and often 
 very good-humouredly invited to assert that " black is the white of 
 his enemy's eye," or to touch the old coat which he is pleased to 
 trail after him between the two opposing powers. This characteristic 
 challenge is soon acqppted ; the knocking down and yelling are 
 heard ; stones fly, and every available weapon is pressed into the 
 service on both sides. In this manner the battle proceeds, until, pro- 
 bably, a life or two is lost. Bones, too, are savagely broken, and 
 blood copiously spilled, by men who scarcely know the remote cause 
 of the enmity between the parties. 
 
 Such is a hasty sketch of the Pattern, as it is called in Ireland, at 
 which Larry and Sheelah duly performed their station. We, for our 
 parts, should be sorry to see the innocent pastimes of a people 
 abolished ; but surely customs which perpetuate scenes of profligacy 
 and crime should not be suffered to stain the pure and holy character 
 of religion. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to inform our readers that Larry O'Toole 
 and Sheelah complied with every rite of the station. To kiss the 
 " Lucky Stone," however, was their principal duty. Larry gave it 
 a particularly honest smack, and Sheelah impressed it w-ith all the 
 ardour of a devotee. Having refreshed themselves in the tent, they 
 returned home, and in somewhat less than a year from that period 
 found themselves the happy parents of an heir to the half acre, no less 
 a personage than young Phelim, who was called after St. Phelim, the 
 patron of the " Lucky Stone." 
 
 The reader perceives that Phelim was born under particularly- 
 auspicious influence. His face was the herald of affection everywhere. 
 From the moment of his birth Larry and Sheelah were seldom known 
 to have a dispute. Their whole future life was, with few exceptions, 
 one unchanging honeymoon. Had Phelim been deficient in comeli- 
 ness, it would have mattered not a arofia baun. Phelim, on the con- 
 trary, promised to be a beauty ; both his parents thought it, felt it, 
 asserted it ; and who had a better right to be acquainted, as Larry 
 said, " wid the outs an' ins, the ups an' downs, of his face, the darlin* 
 swaddy ! " 
 
 For the first ten years of his life Phelim could not be said to owe 
 the tailor much ; nor could the covering which he wore be, without 
 more antiquarian lore than we can give to it, exactly classed under 
 any particular term by which the various parts of human dress are 
 known. He himself, like some of our great poets, was externally well 
 acquainted with the elements. The sun and he were particularly in- 
 timate ; v.-ind and rain were his brothers, and frost also distantly 
 related to him. With mud he was hand and glove, and not a bog in 
 the parish, or a quagmire in the neighbourhood, but sprung up under 
 Phelim's tread, and threw him forward with the brisk vibration of an 
 old acquaintance. Touching his dress, however, in the early part of 
 life, if he was clothed with nothing else, he was clothed with mystery. 
 
PHEL TM O'TOOLE'S COUR TSHIH. 1 6 1 
 
 Some assert that a cast-off pair of his father's nether garments might 
 be seen upon him each Sunday, the wrong side foremost, in acconimo- 
 dation with some economy of his mother's, who thought it safest, ii» 
 consequence of his habits, to join them in this inverted way to a cape 
 which he wore on his shoulders. We ourselves have seen one who 
 saw another who saw Phelim in a pair of stockings which covered 
 him from his knee-pans to his haunches, where, in the absence 
 of waistbands, they made a pause — a breach existing from that to the 
 small of his back. The person who saw all this affirmed, at the same 
 time, that there was a dearth of cloth about the skirts of the integument 
 which stood him instead of a coat. He bore no bad resemblance, he 
 said, to a moulting fowl, with scanty feathers, running before a gale in 
 the farm-yard. 
 
 Phelim's want of dress in his merely boyish years being, in a great 
 measure, the national costume of some hundred thousand young 
 Hibernians in his rank of life, deserves a still more particular notice. 
 His infancy we pass over ; but from the period at which he did 7tot 
 enter into small-clothes, he might be seen every Sunday morning, or 
 on some important festival, issuing from his father^s mansion, with a 
 piece of old cloth tied about him from the middle to the knees, leaving 
 a pair of legs visible that were mottled over with characters which 
 would, if found on an Egyptian pillar, put an antiquary to the 
 necessity of constructing a new alphabet to decipher them. This, or 
 the inverted breeches, with his father's flannel waistcoat, or an old 
 coat that swept the ground at least two feet behind him, constituted 
 his state dress. On week days he threw off this finery, and contented 
 himself, if the season were summer, with appearing in a dun-coloured 
 shirt, which resembled a noun-substantive, for it could stand alone. 
 The absence of soap and water is sometimes used as a substitute for 
 milling linen among the lower Irish ; and so effectually had Phelim's 
 single change been milled in this manner, that, when disenshirting at 
 night, he usually laid it standing at his bedside, where it reminded 
 one of frosted linen in everything but whiteness. 
 
 This, with but little variation, was Phelim's dress until his tenth 
 year. Long before that, however, he evinced those powers of attrac- 
 tion which constituted so rems-kable a feature in his character. He 
 won all hearts ; the chickens and ducks were devotedly attached 
 to him ; the cow, which the family always intended \.o buy, was in the 
 habit of licking Phelim in his dreams ; the two goats, which they 
 actually did buy, treated him like one of themselves. Among the 
 tirst and last he spent a great deal of his early life ; for as the floor of 
 his father's house was but a continuation of the dunghill, or the dung- 
 hill a continuation of the floor, we know not rightly which, he had a 
 larger scope and a more unsavoury pool than usual for amusement. 
 Their dunghill, indeed, was the finest of its size and kind to be seen ; 
 quite a tasteful thing, and so convenient that he could lay himself 
 down at the hearth and roll out to its foot, after which he ascended it 
 on his legs with a'l the elasticity of a young poet triumphantly climb- 
 ing Parnassus. 
 
1 62 PffE LI \f O' TOOLE'S COURTS flTP. 
 
 One of the greatest wants which Phelim experienced in his young 
 days was the want of a capacious pocket. We insinuate nothing ; 
 because with respect to his a'^^ility in climbing fruit trees, it was only a 
 species of exercise to which he was addicted — the eating and carrying 
 away of the fruit being merely incidental, or, probably, the result of 
 abstraction, which, as everyone knows, proves what is termed " the 
 absence of genius." In these ambitious exploits, however, there is no 
 denying that he often bitterly rci^rctted the want of a pocket ; and in 
 connection with this we have only to add that most of his solitary 
 walks were taken about orchards and gardens, the contents of which 
 he has been seen to contemplate with interest. This, to be sure, might 
 proceed from a provident regard to health, for it is a well-known fact 
 that he has frequently returned home in the evenings distended like a 
 boa constrictor after a gorge ; yet no person was ever able to come 
 at the cause of his inflation. There were, to be sure, suspicions 
 abroad, and it was mostly found that depredations in some neighbouring 
 orchard or garden had been committed a little before the periods 
 in which it was supposed the distension took place. We mention 
 these things, after the example of those "d d good-natured" bio- 
 graphers who write great men's Hves of late, only for the purpose of 
 showing that there could be no truth in such suspicions. Phelim, we 
 assure an enlightened public, was voraciously fond of fruit ; he was 
 frequently inflated too, after the manner of those who indulL^e therein 
 to excess ; fruit was alvrays missed immediate!) after the periods of 
 his distension, so that it was impossible he could have been concerned 
 in the depredations then made upon the neighbouring orchards. In 
 addition to this, we would beg modestly to add that the pomonian. 
 temperament is incompatible with the other qualities for which he was 
 famous. His parents were too ignorant of those little eccentricities, 
 which, had they known them, would have opened up a correct view of 
 the splendid materials for village greatness which he possessed, and 
 which, probably, were nipped in their bud for the want of a pocket tO' 
 his breeches, or rather by the want of breeches to his pocket, for such 
 was the wayward energy of his disposition that he ultimately succeeded 
 in getting the latter, though it certainly often failed him to procure the 
 breeches. In fact, it was a misfortune to him that he was the son of 
 his father and mother at all. Had he been a second Melchizedec, and 
 got into breeches in time, the virtues which circumstances suppressed 
 in his heart might have flourished like cauliflowers, thou-h the world 
 would have lost all the advantages arising from the splendour of his 
 talents at going naked. 
 
 Another fact, in justice to his character, must not be omitted. His 
 penchant for fruit was generally known ; but few persons, at the perio.l 
 we are describing, were at all aware that a love of whisky lurked as a 
 predominant trait in his character, to be brought out at a future era in 
 his life. 
 
 Before Phelim reached his tenth year he and his parents had com- 
 menced hostilities. Many were their efforts to subdue some pecu- 
 liarities of his temper which then began to appear. Phelim, however. 
 
PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 163 
 
 being an only son, possessed high vantage ground. Along with other 
 small matters which he was in the habit of picking up migh<- be 
 reckoned a readiness at swearing. Several other things also n.ade 
 their appearance in his parents' cottage, for whose presence there; 
 €xcept through his instrumentality, they found it rather difficult to 
 account. Spades, shovels, rakes, tubs, frying-pans, and many other 
 articles of domestic use were transferred, as if by magic, to larry's 
 •cabin. 
 
 As Larry and his wife were both honest, these things were, of course, 
 restored to their owners, the moment they could be ascertained. Still, 
 although this honest couple's integrity was known, there were many 
 significant looks turned upon Phelim, and many spirited prophecies 
 tittered with especial reference to him, all of which hinted at the pro- 
 bability of his dying something in the shape of a perpendicular death. 
 This habit, then, of adding to their furniture was one cause of the 
 hostility between him and his parents ; we say cne, for there were at 
 least a good round dozen besides. His touch, for instance, was fatal 
 to crockery ; he stripped his father's Sunday clothes of their buttons 
 with great secrecy and skill ; he was a dead shot at the panes of his 
 neighbours' windows, a perfect neciomancer at sucking eggs through 
 pin-holes, took great delight in calling home the neighbouring farmers' 
 workmen to dinner an hour before it was ready ; and was, in fact, a 
 perfect master in many other ingenious manifestations of character 
 •ere he reached his twelfth year. 
 
 Now it was about this period that the small-pox made its appearance 
 in the village. Indescribable was the dismay of Phelim's parents lest 
 he among others might become a victim to it. Vaccination had not 
 then surmounted the prejudices with which every discovery beneficial 
 to mankind is at first met ; and the people were left principally to the 
 imposture of quacks, or the cunning of certain persons called "fairy- 
 men," or " sonsie women." Nothing remained now but that this for- 
 midable disease should be met by all the power and resources of 
 ■superstition. The first thing the mother did was to get a gospel con- 
 secrated by the priest, for the purpose of guarding Phelim against 
 •evil. What is termed a gospel, and worn as a kind of charm about 
 the person, is simply a slip of paper on which are written by the priest 
 the first few v^erses of the Gospel of St. John. This, however, being 
 worn for no specific purpose, was incapable of satisfying the honest 
 woman. Superstition had its own peculiar remedy for the small-pox, 
 and Sheelah was resolved to apply it. Accordingly she borrowed a 
 neighbour's ass, drove it home, with Phelim, however, on its back, took 
 the interesting youth by the nape of the neck, and in the name of the 
 Trinity shoved him three times under it, and three times over it. She 
 then put a bit of bread into its mouth, until the ass had mumbled it a 
 little, after which she gave the savoury morsel to Phelim as a dottne 
 iouche. This was one preventive against the small-pox ; but another 
 was to be tried. 
 
 She next clipped off the extremities of Phelim's elf-locks, tied them 
 in linen that was never bleached, and hung them beside the gospel 
 
i64 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 about his neck. This was her second cure ; but there was s'ill a third 
 to be applied. She got the largest onion possible, which, ).aving cut 
 it into nine parts, she hung from the roof tree of the cabin, having 
 first put the separated parts together. It is supposed that this has 
 the power of drawing infection of any kind to itself. It is pern itted 
 to remain untouched until the disease has passed from the neigh- 
 bourhood, when it is buried as far down in the earth as a single man 
 can dig. This was a third cure , but there was still a fourth. She 
 borrowed ten asses' halters from her neighbours, who, on hearing that 
 they were for Phelim's use, felt particular pleasure in obliging her. 
 Having procured these, she pointed them one by one at Phelim's neck, 
 until the number nine was completed. The tenth she put on him, and 
 with the end of it in her hand, led him like an ass, nine mornings be- 
 fore sunrise, to a south-running stream, which he was obliged to cross. 
 On doing this, two conditions were to be fulfilled on the part of 
 Phelim ; he was bound, in the first place, to keep his mouth filled, 
 during the ceremony, with a certain fluid which must be nameless ; in 
 the next, to be silent from the moment he left home until his return. 
 
 Sheelah, having satisfied herself that everything calculated to save 
 her darling from the small-pox was done, felt considerably relieved, 
 and hoped that, whoever might be infected, Phelim would escape. Un 
 the morning when the last journey to the river had been completed, 
 she despatched him home with the halters. Phelim, however, wended 
 his way to a little hazle copse below the house, where he deliberately 
 twined the halters together, and erected a swing-swang, with which he 
 amused himself till hunger brought him to his dinner. 
 
 " Phelim, you idle thief, what kep you away till now ?" 
 
 " Oh, mudher, mudher, gi' me a piece o' arran^' (bread). 
 
 " Why, here's the praties done for your dinner. What kep you ?" 
 
 " Oh, be gorro., it's well you ever see me at all, so it is ?" 
 
 " Why," said his father, " what happened you .'"' 
 
 " Oh, bedad, a terrible thing all out. As I was crassin' Dunroe 
 Hill, I thramped on hungry grass. First I didn't know what kern 
 over me, I got so wake ; and every step I wint, 'twas waker an' waker 
 I was growin', till at long last down I dhrops, and couldn't move hand 
 or fut. I dunna how long I lay there, so I don't ; but, anyhow, who 
 should be sthreelin' acrass the hill but an ould boccagh. 
 
 " ' My bouchaleen dims,' says he — ' my beautiful boy,' says he— 
 ' you're in a bad state I find. You've thramped upon Dunroe hungry 
 grass, an' only for somethin' it's a prabeen you'd be, afore ever you'd 
 see home. Can you spake at all ? ' says he. 
 
 " ' Oh, murdher,' says I, * I b'lieve not.' 
 
 " ' Well, here,' says the boccagh, ' open your purty giib, an' take in a 
 thrifle of this male, an' you'll soon be stout enough.' Well, to be sure, 
 it bates the world ! I had hardly tasted the male, whin I found my- 
 self as well as ever ; bekase, you know, mudher, that's the cure for it. 
 ' Now,' says the boccagh, ' this is the spot the fairies planted their 
 hungry grass an, so you'll know it agin when you see it. What's 
 your name ?' says he. 
 
PHELIM ' TO OLE'S CO VR TSHIP. 1 65 
 
 " ' Phelim O'Toole,' says I. 
 
 " * Well,' says he, ' go home an' tell your father an' mother to offe* 
 up a prayer to St. Phelim, your namesake, in regard that only for 
 him you'd be a corp before any relief would a come near you ; or, at 
 any rate, wid the fairies,' " 
 
 The father and mother, although with a thousand proofs before 
 them that Phelim, so long as he could at all contrive a lie, would 
 never speak truth, yet were so blind to his well-known propensity 
 that they always believed the lie to be truth until they discovered it 
 to be a falsehood. When he related a story, for instance, which 
 carried not only improbability, but impossibility, on the face of it, they 
 never questionsd his veracity. The neighbours, to be sure, were 
 vexed and nettled at the obstinacy of their credulity ; especially on 
 reflecting that they were as sceptical in giving credence to the narra- 
 tive of any other person as all rational people ought to be. The 
 manner of training up Phelim, and Phelim's method of governing 
 them, had become a by-word in the village. " Take a sthraw to him, 
 like Sheelah O'Toole," was often ironically said to mothers remark- 
 able for mischievous indulgence to their children. 
 
 The following day proved that no charm could protect Phelim from 
 the small-pox. Every symptom of that disease became quite evident ; 
 and the grief of his doting parents amounted to distraction. Neither 
 of them could be declared perfectly sane ; they knew not how to pro- 
 ceed — what regimen to adopt for him, nor what remedies to use. A 
 week elapsed, but each succeeding day found him in a more dangerous 
 state. At length, by the advice of some of the neighbours, an old 
 crone called " Sonsy Mary " was called in to administer relief through 
 the medium of certain powers which were thought to be derived from 
 something holy and also supernatural. She brought a mysterious 
 bottle, of which he was to take every third spoonful three times a day ; 
 it was to be administered by the hand of a young girl of virgin inno- 
 cence, who was also to breathe three times down his throat, holding 
 his nostrils closed with her fingers. The father and mother were to 
 repeat a certain number of prayers, to promise against swearing, and 
 to kiss the hearthstone nine times — the one turned north, and the 
 other south. All these ceremonies were performed with care, but 
 Phelim's malady appeared to set them at defiance ; and the old crone 
 would have lost her character in consequence, were it not that Larry, 
 on the day of the cure, after having promised not to swear, let fly an 
 oath at a hen whose cackling disturbed Phelim. This saved her 
 character, and threw Larry and Sheelah into fresh despair. 
 
 They had nothin^' now for it but the "fairy man," to whom, despite 
 the awful mystery of his character, they resolved to apply rather than 
 see their only son taken from them for ever. Larry proceeded without 
 delay to the wise man's residence, after putting a small phial of holy 
 water in his pocket to protect himself from fairy influence. The house 
 in which this person lived was admirably in accordance with his 
 mysterious character. One gable of it was formed by the mound of 
 a fairy Rath, against which the cabin stood endwise ; within a mile 
 
i66 PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 there was no other building ; the country around it was a sheep-walk, 
 ^reen, and beautifully interspersed with two or three solitary glens, in 
 one of which might be seen a cave, that was said to commanicate 
 under ground with the rath. A ridge of high peaked mountains ran 
 above it, whose evening shadow, in consequence of their form, tell 
 down on each side of the rath, without obscuring its precincts. It lay 
 south, and such was the power of superstition, that during summer 
 the district in which it stood was thought to be covered with a light 
 and silence decidedly supernatural. In spring it was the first to be 
 in verdure, and in auturan the last. Nay, in winter itself the rath 
 and the adjoining valleys never ceased to be green. These circum- 
 stances were not attributed to the nature of the soil — to its southern 
 situation, nor to the fact of its being pasture land — but simply to the 
 power of the fairies, who were supposed to keep its verdure fresh for 
 their own revels. 
 
 When Larry entered the house, which had an air of comfort and 
 snugness beyond the common, a tall thin pike of a man, about sixty 
 years of age, stood before him. He wore a brown great-coat that fell 
 far short of his knees ; his small-clothes were closely fitted to thighs 
 not thicker than hand telescopes; on his legs were drawn grey woollen 
 stockings, rolled up about six inches over his small-clothes ; his head 
 vfas covered by a bay bob wig, on which was a little round hat, with 
 the edge of the leaf turned up in every direction. His face was short 
 and sallow, his chin peaked, his nose small and turned "up. If we 
 add to this a pair of skeleton-like hands and arms projecting about 
 eight inches beyond the sleeves of his coat, two fiery ferret-eyes, and 
 a long, small hollow wand, higher than himself, we have the outline of 
 this singular figure. 
 
 "God save you, nabour," said Larry. 
 
 " Save you, save you, nabour," he replied, without pronouncing the 
 name of the deity. 
 
 "This is a thryin' time," said Larry, "to them that has childhre." 
 
 The fairy man fastened his red glittering eyes upon him with a 
 sinister glance that occasioned Larry to feel rather uncomfortable. 
 
 " So you venthured to come to the fairy man .'' " 
 
 " It is about our son, an' he all we ha " 
 
 " Whisht ! " said the man, waving his hand with a commanding air. 
 " Whisht ; I wish you wor out o' this, for it's a bad time to be here. 
 Listen ! Listen ! Do you hear nothing ? " 
 
 Larry changed colour. " I do," he replied — " the Lord protect me ! 
 Is that them?" 
 
 " What did you hear ? " said the man. 
 
 "Why," returned the other, " I heard the bushes of the rath all 
 movin', jist as if a blast o' wind came among them ! " 
 
 " Whisht," said the fairy man, "they're here; you mustn't open your 
 lips while you're in the house. I know what you want, an' will see 
 your son. Do you hear anything more ? If you do, lay your fore- 
 finger along your nose : but don't spake." 
 
 Larry heard, with astonishment, the music of a pair of bagpipei. 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COUJ? TSHIP. 1 6 7 
 
 The tune played was one which, according to a popular legend, was 
 first played by Satan ; it is called " Go to the Devil and shake your- 
 self." To our own knowledge the peasantry in certain parts of Ireland 
 refuse to sing it for the above reason. The mystery of the music va.s 
 heightened, too, by the fact of its being played, as Larry thought, 
 behind the gable of the cabin, which stood against the side of the 
 rath, out of which, indeed, it seemed to proceed. 
 
 Larry laid his finger along his nose, as he had been desired ; and 
 this appearing to satisfy the fairy man, he waved his hand to the 
 door, thus intimating that his visitor should depart ; which he did 
 immediately, but not without observing that this wild-looking being 
 closed and bolted the door after him. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that he was rather anxious to get off the 
 premises of the good people ; he therefore lost little time ur.til he 
 arrived at his own cabin ; but judge of his wonder when, on en ering 
 it, he found the long-legged spectre awaiting his return. 
 
 " Bonaght dhea orriu ! " he exclaimed, starting back ; " the blessin' 
 o' God be upon us ! Is it here before me you are .'"' 
 
 " Hould your tongue, man," said the other, with a smile of mysterious 
 triumph. " Is it that you wondher at ? Ha, ha ! That's little of it ! " 
 
 " But how did you know my name ? or who I was ? or where I lived 
 at all ? Heaven protect us ! It's beyant belief, clane out." 
 
 " Hould your tongue," replied the man, " don't be axin' me anything 
 o' the kind. Clear out, both of yees, till I begin my pisthrogues wid 
 the sick child. Clear out, I say." 
 
 With some degree of apprehension Larry and Sheelah left the 
 house as they had been ordered, and the fairy man, having pulled out 
 a flask of poteen, administered a dose of it to Phelim ; and never yet 
 did patient receive his medicine with such a relish. He licked his 
 lips, and fixed his eye upon it with a longing look. 
 
 " Be gorra," said he, " that's fine stuff entirely. WiU you lave me 
 the bottle ? " 
 
 " No," said the fairy man, "but I'll call an' give you a little of it 
 wanst a day." 
 
 " Ay, do," replied Phelim ; " the divil a fear o' me, if I get enough of 
 it. I hope I'll see you often." 
 
 The fairy man kept his word ; so that what with his bottle, a hardy 
 constitution, and light bed-clothes, Phelim got the upper hand of his 
 malady. In a month he was again on his legs ; but, alas ! his com- 
 plexion, though not changed to deformity, was woefully out of joint. 
 His principal blemish, in addition to the usual marks left by this 
 complaint, consisted in a drooping of his left eyelid, which gave to 
 his whole face a cast highly ludicrous. 
 
 When Phelim felt thoroughly recovered, he claimed a pair of " leather 
 crackers," a hareskin cap and a coat, with a pertinacity which kept 
 the worthy couple in a state of inquietude until they complied with his 
 importunity. Henceforth he began to have everything his own way. 
 His parents, sufficiently thankful that he was spared to them, resolved 
 10 thwart him no more. 
 
i68 PHELIM O' TOOLE S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " It's well we have him at all," said his mother ; " sure, if we hadn't 
 him, we'd be breakin' our hearts, and sayin' if it ud plase God to send 
 him back to us, that we'd be happy even wid givin' him his own way." 
 
 " They say it breaks their strinth, too," replied his father, " to be 
 crubbin' them in too much, an' snappin' at thim for every hand's turn, 
 an' I'm sure it does too," 
 
 " Doesn't he become the pock-marks well, the crathur?" s-^.id the 
 mother. 
 
 " Become ! " said the father ; " but doesn't the droop in his eye set 
 him off all to pieces ! " 
 
 "Ay," observed the mother, " an' how the crathur went round among 
 all the neighbours to show them the 'leather crackers' ! To see his 
 little pride out o' the hareskin cap, too, wid the hare's ears s' ickin' out 
 of his temples. That, an' the droopin' eye undher them, n.akes him 
 look so cunnin' an' ginteel that one can't help havin' their heart fi.\ed 
 upon him," 
 
 " He'd look betther still if that ould coat wasn't sweepin' the ground 
 behind him ; an' what ud you think to put a pair o' martyeens on his 
 legs to hide the mazles .'' He might go anywhere thin." 
 
 " Throth he might ; but, Larry, what in the world wide could be in 
 the fairy man's bottle that Phelim took sich a hkin' for it ? He tould 
 me this mornin' that he'd suffer to have the pock agin, set in case he 
 was cured wid the same bottle." 
 
 " Well, the heaven be praised, anyhow, that we have a son for the 
 half-acre, Sheelah." 
 
 " Amin ! An' let us take good care of him, now that he's spared 
 to us.'' 
 
 Phelim's appetite after his recovery was anything but a joke to his 
 father. He was now seldoni at home, except during meal times • 
 wherever fun or novelty was to be found, Phelim was present. He 
 became a regular attendant upon all the sportsmen. To such he made 
 himself ver> useful by his correct knowledge of the best covers for 
 game, and the best pools for fish. He was acquainted with every rood 
 of land in the parish ; knew with astonishing accuracy where coveys 
 were to be sprung and hares started. No hunt was without him ; 
 such was his wind and speed of foot that to follow a chase, and keej* 
 up with the horsemen, was to him only a matter of sport. When day- 
 light passed, night presented him with amusements suitable to itself. 
 No wake, for instance, could escape him ; a dance without young 
 Phelim O'Toole would have been a thing worthy to be remembered. 
 He was zealously devoted to cock-fighting ; on Shrovc-Tuesday he 
 shouted loudest among the crowd that attended the sport of throwing 
 at cocks tied to a stake ; football and hurling never occurred without 
 him. Bull-baiting, for it was common in his youth, was luxury to him ; 
 and ere he reached fourteen everyone knew Phelim O'Toole as an 
 adept at card-playing. Wherever a sheep, a leg of mutton, a dozen oi 
 bread, or a bottle of whisky was put up in a shebeen house, to be played 
 for by the country gamblers at the five and ten, or spoiled five. Phelim 
 always took a hand, and was generally successful. On these occasions 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 169 
 
 he was frequently charged with an over-refined dexterity ; but Phelim 
 usually swore, in vindication of his own innocence, until he got black 
 in the face, as the phrase among such characters goes. 
 
 The reader is to consider him now about fifteen, a stout, overgrown, 
 unwashed cub. His parents' anxiety that he should grow strong 
 prevented them from training him to any kind of employment. He 
 was eternally going about in quest of diversion ; and wherever a knot 
 of idlers was to be found, there was Phelim. He had, up to this period, 
 never wore a shoe, nor a single article of dress that had been made for 
 himself, with the exception of one or two pair of sheepskin small 
 clothes. In this way he passed his time, bare-lej^ged, without shoes, 
 clothed in an old coat much too large for him, his neck open, and his 
 sooty locks covered with the hareskin cap, the ears as usual sticking 
 out above his brows. Much of his time was spent in setting the idle 
 boys of the village to fight ; and in carrying lying challenges from one 
 to another. He himself was seldom without a broken head or a black 
 eye ; for, in Ireland, he who is known to be fond ot quarrelling, as the 
 people say, usually " gets enough an' lavins of it." Larry and Sheelah, 
 thinking it now high time that something should be done with Phelim, 
 thought it necessary to give him some share of education. Phelim 
 opposed this bitterly, as an unjustifiable encroachment upon his personal 
 liberty ; but by bribing him with the first and only suit of clothes he 
 had yet got, they at length succeeded in prevaiHng on him to go. 
 
 The school to which he was sent happened to be kept in what is 
 called an Inside Kiln. Th:s kind of kilr; is usually — but less so now 
 than formerly — annexed to respectable farmers' outhouses, to which, in 
 agricultural districts, it forms a very necessary appendage. It also 
 serves at the same time as a barn, the kiln-pot being sunk in the shape 
 of an inverted cone at one end, but divided from the barn floor by a 
 wall about three feet high. From this wall beams run across the kiln- 
 pot, over which, in a transverse direction, are laid a number of rafters 
 like the joists of a loft, but not fastened. These ribs are covered with 
 straw, over which again is spread a winnow cloth to keep the grain 
 from being lost. The fire is sunk on a level with the bottom of the 
 kiln-pot, that is, about eight or ten feet below the floor of the barn. 
 The descent to it is by stairs formed at the side wall. We have been 
 thus minute in describing it because, as the reader will presently 
 perceive, the feats of Phelim render it necessary. 
 
 On the first day of his entering the school he presented himself 
 with a black eye ; and as his character was well known to both master 
 and scholars, the former felt no hesitation in giving him a wholesome 
 lecture upon the subject of his future conduct. For at least a year 
 before this time he had gained the nickname of " Blessed Phelim,'' 
 and " Bouncing," epithets bestowed on him by an ironical allusion to 
 his patron saint and his own habits. 
 
 " So, Blessed Phelim," said the master, " you are coming to school ! ! . 
 Well, well ! I only say that miracles will never cease. Arrah, Phelim, 
 will you tell us candidly — ah— 1 beg your pardon; I mean, will you 
 tell us the best lie you can coin upon the cause of your coming to 
 
1 70 PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSUI P. 
 
 Imbibe moral and literary knowledge ? Silence, boy \ till we hear 
 Blessed Phelim's lie." ' 
 
 "You must hear it, masther," said Phelim. " I'm comin' to lam to 
 read an' write." 
 
 " Bravo ! by the bones of Prosodius, I expected a lie, but not such 
 a thumper as that. And you're comin' wid a black eye to prove it ! 
 A black eye, Phelim, is the blackguard's coat of arms ; and to do you 
 ustice, you are seldom widout your crest."' 
 
 For a few days Phelim attended the school, but learned not a letter. 
 The master usually sent him to be taught by the youngest lad-:, with 
 a hope of being able to excite a proper spirit of pride and emulation 
 in a mind that required some extraordinary impulse. One day he 
 called him up to ascertain what progress he had actually made ; the 
 unsuspecting teacher sat at the time upon the wall which separated 
 the barn floor from the kiln-pot, with his legs dangling at some dis- 
 tance from the ground. It was summer, and the rafters used in drying 
 the grain had been removed. On finding thaC Blessed Phelim, not- 
 withstanding all the lessons he had received, was still in a state of the 
 purest ignorance, he lost his temper, and brought him over between 
 his knees, that he might give him an occasional cuff for his idleness. 
 The lesson went on, and the masters thumps were thickening about 
 Phelim's ears, much to the worthy youth's displeasure. 
 
 " Phelim," said the master, " I'll invert you as a scarecrow for dunces. 
 I'll lay you against the wall, with your head down and your heels up, 
 like a forked carrot." 
 
 " But how will you manage that.-"'' said PheHm. " What ud /be 
 doin' in the manetime?" 
 
 " I'll find a way to manage it," said the master. 
 
 " To put my head down an' my heels up, is id ? " inquired Phelim. 
 
 " You've said it, my worthy," returned his teacher. 
 
 " If you don't know the way," replied the pupil, " I'll show you," 
 getting his shoulder under the master's leg, and pitching him heels 
 over head into the kiln-pot. He instantly seized his cap, and ran out 
 of the school, highly delighted at his feat ; leaving the scholars to 
 render the master whatever assistance was necessary. The poor man 
 was dangerously hurt, for in addition to a broken arm, he received 
 half a dozen severe contusions on the head, and in different parts of 
 the body. 
 
 This closed Phelim's education ; for no persuasion could ever in- 
 duce him to enter a school afterwards ; nor could any temptation 
 prevail on the neighbouring teachers to admit him as a pupil. 
 
 Phelim now shot up rapidly to the stature of a young man ; and a 
 graceful slip was he. From the period of fifteen until nineteen, he 
 was industriously employed in idleness. About sixteen he began to 
 look after the girls, and to carry a cudgel. The father in vain at- 
 tempted to inoculate him with a love of labour ; but Phelim would 
 not receive the infection. His life was a pleasanter one. Sometimes, 
 indeed, when he wanted money to treat the girls at fairs and markets, 
 he wo'jd prevail on himself to labour a week or fortnight with some 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 171 
 
 neighbouring farmer ; but the moment he had earned as much as hi 
 deemed sufficient, the spade was thrown aside. Phelim knew all the 
 fiddlers and pipers in the barony ; was master of the ceremonies at 
 every wake and dance that occurred within several miles of him. He 
 was a crack dancer, and never attended a dance without pp-forming a 
 hornpipe on a door or a table ; no man could shuffle, 01 treble, or 
 cut, or spring, or caper with him. Indeed, it was said that he could 
 dance " Moll Roe " upon the end of a five-gallon keg, and snuff a 
 mould candle with his heels, yet never lose the time. The father and 
 mother were exceedingly proud of Phelim. The former, when he 
 found him grown up, and associating with young men, began to feel 
 a kind of ambition in being permitted to join Phelim and his com- 
 panions, and to look upon the society of his own son as a privilege. 
 With the girls Phelim was a beauty without paint. They thought 
 every wake truly a scene of sorrow if he did not happen to be present. 
 Every dance was doleful without him. Phelim wore his hat on one 
 side, with a knowing but careless air ; he carried his cudgel with a 
 good-humoured dashing spirit, precisely in accordance with the cha- 
 racter of a man who did not care a iraneen whether he drank with 
 you as a friend, or fought with you as a foe. Never were such songs 
 heard as Phelim could sing, nor such a voice as that with which he 
 sang them. His attitudes and action were inimitable. The droop in 
 his eye was a standing wink at the girls ; and when he sang his funny 
 songs, with what practised ease he gave the darlings a roguish chuck 
 under the chin ! Then his jokes ! " Why, faix," as the fair ones often 
 said of him, " before Phelim speaks at all, one laughs at what he says." 
 This was fact. His very appearance at a wake, dance, or drinking 
 match was hailed by a peal of mirth. This heightened his humour 
 exceedingly ; for say what yoj wil!, laughter is to wit what air is to 
 lire — the one dies without the other. 
 
 Let no one talk of beauty being on the surface. This is a popular 
 error, and no one but a superficial fellow would defend it. Among ten 
 thousand you could not get a more unfavourable surface than Phelim's. 
 His face resembled the rough side of a colander, or, as he was often 
 told in raillery, "you might grate potatoes on it." The lid of his right 
 eye, as the reader knows, was like the lid of a salt-box, always closed ; 
 and when he risked a wink with the left, it certainly gave him the look 
 of a man shutting out the world and retiring into himself for the 
 purpose of self-examination. No, no ; beauty is in the mind, in the 
 soul ; otherwise Phelim never could have been such a prodigy of come- 
 liness among the girls. This was the distinction the fair sex drew in 
 his favour. " Phelim," they would say, " is not purty, but he's very 
 comely." " Bad end to the one of him but would stale a pig off a 
 tether wid his winnin' ways." And so he would too, without much 
 hesitation, for it was not the first time he had stolen his father's. 
 
 From nineteen until the close of his minority, Phelim became a 
 distinguished man in fairs and markets. He was, in fact, the hero of 
 the parish ; but unfortunately he seldom knew on the morning of the 
 fair-day the name of the party or faction on whose side he was to 
 
1/^ i'HELIM O'TOOLK'S COURlSlilF. 
 
 fight. This was merely a matter of priority, for whoever happened to 
 give him the first treat uniformly secured him. The reason of this 
 pliability on his part was that Phclim, being every person's friend, by 
 his good nature, was nobody's foe except for the day. He fought for 
 fun and whisky. When he happened to drub some companion or 
 acquaintance on the opposite side, he was ever ready to express his 
 regret at the circumstance, and abused them heartily for not having 
 treated him first, 
 
 Phclim was also a great Ribbonman ; and from the time he bu:ame 
 initiated into the system, hi« eyes were ivonderfully opened to the 
 oppressions of the country. Sessions, decrees, and warrants he 
 looked upon as gross abuses ; assizes, too, by which so many of his 
 friends were put to some inconvenience, he considered as the result 
 of Protestant ascendency ; cancers that ought to be cut out of the 
 constitution. BailifTs, drivers, tithe-proctors, tax-gatherers, policemen, 
 and parsons he thought were vermin that ought to be compelled to 
 emigrate to a much warmer countrj'than Ireland. 
 
 There was no such hand in the country as Phelim at an alibi. Just 
 give him the outline — a few leading particulars of the fact — and he 
 would work wonders. One would think, indeed, that he had been 
 born for that especial purpose ; for as he was never known to utter 
 a syllable of truth but once, when he had a design in not being believed, 
 so there was no risk of a lawyer getting truth out of him. No man 
 was ever afflicted with such convenient maladies as Phelim ; even his 
 sprains, toothaches, and colics seemed to have entered into the 
 Whiteboy system. But, indeed, the very diseases in Ireland are 
 seditious. Many a time has a tooihache come in to aid Paddy in 
 obstructing the course of justice ; and a colic been guilty of mis- 
 prison of treason. Irish deaths, too, are very disloyal, and frequently 
 at variance with the laws. Nor are our births much better; for although 
 more legitimate than those of our English neighbours, yet they are in 
 general more illegal. Phelim, in proving his alibis proved all these 
 positions. On one occasion, " he slep at the prisoner's house, and 
 couldn't close his eye with a thief of a toothache that parsecuted him 
 the whole night ; " so that, in consequence of having the toothache, it 
 was impossible that the piisoner could leave the house without his 
 knowledge. 
 
 Again, the prisoner at the bar could not possibly have shot the 
 deceased, " bekase Mickey s'ep that very night at Phelim's, an' 
 Phelim, bein' ill o' the colic, ntver slep at all durin' the whole night ; 
 an', by the vartue of his oath, ihe poor boy couldn't go out o' the 
 house unknownst to him. If he had, Phelim would a-seen him, 
 sure." 
 
 Again, " Paddy Cummisky's wife tuck ill of a young one, an' Phelim 
 was sent for to bring the midwife ; but afore he kem to Paddy's, or 
 hard o' the thing at all, the prisoner, arly in the night, comin' to sit 
 awhile wid Paddy, went for the midwife instead o' Phelim, an' thin 
 they sot up an' had a sup in regard of the 'casion ; an' the prisoner 
 never left them at all that night until the next mornir.' Ar' by the 
 
PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. ^73 
 
 same a token, he remimbered Paddy Cummisky barrin' the door, an* 
 shuttin' the windies, bekase it's not lucky to have them open, for fraid 
 that the fairies 'ud throw their pishthrogues upon the young one, an' 
 it not christened." 
 
 Phelim was certainly an accomplished youth. As an alibist, how- 
 ever, his career was, like that of all alibists, a short one. The fact 
 was that his face soon became familiar to the court and the lawyers, 
 so that his name and appearance were ultimately rather hazardous to 
 the cause of his friends. 
 
 Phelim, on other occasions, when summoned as evidence against 
 his well-wishers or brother Ribbonmen, usually forgot his English, and 
 gave his testimony by an interpreter. Nothing could equal his ignor- 
 ance and want of common capacity during these trials. His face was 
 as free from every visible trace of meaning as if he had been born an 
 idiot. No block was ever more impenetrable than he. 
 
 " What is the noble gintleman sayin' .? " he would ask in Irish ; and 
 on having that explained, he would inquire, " What is that ? " then 
 demand a fresh explanation of the last one, and so on successively, 
 until he was given up in despair. 
 
 Sometimes, in cases of a capital nature, Phelim, with the consent 
 of his friends, would come forward and make disclosures, in order to 
 have them put upon their trial and acquitted, lest an approver, or 
 some one earnestly disposed to prosecute might appear against them. 
 Now the alibi and its usual accompaniments are all of old standing in 
 Ireland ; but the master-stroke to which we have alluded is a modern 
 invention. Phelim would bear evidence against them : and whilst 
 the government— for it was mostly in government prosecutions he 
 adventured this — believed they had ample grounds for conviction in 
 his disclosures, it little suspected that the whole matter was a plan to 
 defeat itself. In accordance with his design, he gave such evidence 
 upon the table as rendered conviction hopeless. His great object was 
 to damn his own character as a witness, and to make such blunders, 
 premeditated slips, and admissions, as just left him within an inch of 
 a prosecution for perjury. Having succeeded in acquitting his friends, 
 he was content to withdraw amid a volley of pretended execrations, 
 leaving the attorney-general, with all his legal knowledge, outwitted 
 and foiled. 
 
 All Phelim's accomplishments, however, were nothing when com- 
 p..red to his gallantry. With personal disadvantages which would 
 condemn any other man to old bachelorship, he was nevertheless the 
 whiteheaded boy among the girls. He himself was conscious of this, 
 and made his attacks upon their hearts indiscriminately. If he met 
 an unmarried female only for five minutes, be she old or ugly, young 
 or handsome, he devoted at least four minutes and three quarters to 
 the tender passion ; made love to her with an earnestness that (vould 
 deceive a saint, backed all his protestations with a supernuity of 
 round oaths, and drew such a picture of her beauty as might suit the 
 houris of Mahomet's paradise. 
 
 Phelim and his father were great associates. No two agreed better. 
 
' 74 PIJELIM O ' TO OLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 
 
 They vent to fairs and markeis together, got drunk together, and 
 icturned home with their arms about each other's neck in the most 
 loving and affectionate manner. Larry, if Phelim were too modest 
 to speak for himself, seldom met a young girl without laying siege to 
 her for the son. He descanted upon his good qualities, glossed over 
 his defects, and drew deeply upon invention in his behalf Sheelah, 
 on the other hand, was an eloquent advocate for him. She had her 
 eye upon half a dozen of the village girlb, to every one of whom she 
 found something to say in Phelim's favour. 
 
 But it is time the action of our story should commence. When 
 Phelim had reached his twenty-fifth year, the father thought it was 
 high time for him to marry. The good man had, of course, his own 
 motives for this. In the first place, Phelim, with all his gallantry and 
 cleverness, had never contributed a shilling either towards his own 
 support or that of the family. In the second place, he was never 
 likely to do so. In the third place, the father found him a bad com- 
 panion ; for, in good truth, he had corrupted the good man's morals 
 so evidently that his character was now little better than that of 
 liis son. In the fourth place, he never thought of Phelim that he 
 did not see a gallows in the distance ; and matrimony, he thought, 
 might save him from hanging, as one poison neutralises another. In 
 the fifth place, the half acre was but a shabby patch to meet the 
 exigencies of the family since Phelim grew up. " Bouncing Phelim," 
 as he was called for more reasons than one, had the gift of good 
 digestion, along with his other accomplishments ; and with such 
 energy was it exercised that the "half acre" was frequently in hazard 
 of leaving the family altogether. The father, therefore, felt quite 
 willing, if Phelim married, to leave him the inheritance, and seek a 
 new settlement for himself. Or, if Phelim preferred leaving him, he 
 agreed to give him one half of it, together with an equal division of all 
 his earthly goods; to wit — two goats, of which Phelim was to get one; 
 SIX hens and a cock, of which Phelim was to get three hens and the 
 chance of a toss up for the cock ; four stools, of which Phelim was to 
 get two ; two pots — a large one and a small one — the former to 
 go with Phelim ; three horn spoons, of which Phelim was to get one 
 and the chance of a toss-up for the third. Phelim was to bring his 
 own bed, provided he did not prefer getting a bottle of fresh straw as 
 a connubial luxury. The blanket was a tender subject ; for having 
 been fourteen years in employment, it entangled the father and Phelim 
 touching the prudence of the latter claiming it all. The son was at 
 length compelled to give it up, at least in the character of an ap- 
 pendage to his marriage property. He feared that the wife, should 
 he not be able to replace it by a new one, or should she herself not be 
 able to bring him one as part of her dowry, would find the honeymoon 
 rather lively. Phelim's bedstead admitted of no dispute, the fiooi of 
 the cabin having served him in that capacity ever since he began to 
 sleep in a separate bed. His pillow was his small-clothes, and his 
 quilt his own coat, under which he slept snugly enough. 
 
 The father having proposed, and the son acceded to, these arrange- 
 
PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COURTSHIP. I75 
 
 ments, the next thing to be done was to pitch upon a proper girl as 
 his wife. This, being a more important matter, was thus discussed by 
 the father and son one evening at their own firesirk, in the presence 
 of Sheelah. 
 
 " Now, Phelim," said the father, "look about you, an' tell us what 
 girl in the neighbourhood you'd like to be married to." 
 
 " Why," replied Phelim, " I'll lave that to you ; jist point out the 
 girl you'd like for your daughiher-in-law, an' be she rich, poor, ould, 
 or ugly, /'// delude her. That's the chat." 
 
 " Ah, Phelim, if you could put your comedher an Gracey Dalton, 
 you'd be a made boy. She has the full of a rabbit-skin o' guineas." 
 
 "A made boy! Faith, they say I'm that as it is, you know. But 
 would you wish me to put my comedher on Gracey Dalton.'' Spake 
 out." 
 
 " To be sure I would." 
 
 "Ay," observed the mother, "or what ud you think of Miss Patther- 
 son. That ud be the girl. She has a fine farm, an' five hundhre 
 pounds. She's a Protestant, but Phelim could make a Christian of 
 her." 
 
 "To be sure I could," said Phelim, "have her thumpin' her breast 
 and countin' her Padareeiis in no time. Would you wish me to have 
 her, mudher ?" 
 
 " Throth an' I would, avick.'* 
 
 " That ud never do," observed the father. " Sure you don't think 
 she'd ever think of the likes o' Phelim ? " 
 
 " Don't make a goose of yourself, ould man," observed Phelim. 
 " Do you think, if I set about it, that I'd not manufacture her senses 
 as asy as I'd peel a piatee." 
 
 " VVell, well," replied the father, " in the name o' goodness make 
 up to her. Faith, it ud be something to have a jauntin'-car in the 
 family ? " 
 
 " Ay, but what the sorra will I do for a suit o' clo'es," observed 
 Phelim. " I could neier go near her in these breeches. My elbows, 
 too, are out o' this ould coat, bad luck to it ! An' as for a waistcoat, 
 why, I dunna but it's a sin to call what I'm wearin' a waistcoat at all. 
 Thin agin — why, blood alive, sure I can't go to her barefooted, an' I 
 dunna but it ud be dacenter to do that same, than to step out in sich 
 excuses for brogues as these. An' in regard o' the stockins, why, I've 
 pulled them down, sthrivin' to look dacent, till one ud think the balls 
 o' my legs is at my heels." 
 
 " The sorra word's in i-nat but thruth, anyhow," observed the 
 father; "but what's to be done? For ive have no way of gettin' 
 them." 
 
 "Faith I don't know that," said Phehm. "What il we'dborry? 
 I could get the loan of a pair of breeches from Dudley Dwire, an' a 
 coat from Sam Appleton. We might thry Billy Brady for a waistcoat 
 an' a pair o' stockins. Barny Buckram-back, the pinsioner, ud lend 
 me his pumps ; an' we want nothing now but a hat." 
 
 " Nothin' undher a Caroline ud do.goin' there," observed the father. 
 
1 70 PHELnr O ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSIIIP. 
 
 " I think Father Carroll ud oblage me wid the loan 0' one for a day 
 or two," said Phelim ; " he has two or three 0' them, all as good as 
 ever." 
 
 " But, Phelim," said the father, " before we go to all this trouble, are 
 you sure you cou/d put your comedher on Miss Pattherson?" 
 
 " None o' your nonsense," said Phelim, " don't you know I could ? 1 
 hate a man to be puttin' questions to me, when he knows them himself 
 It's a {ashion }'ou have got, an' you ought to dhrop it." 
 
 "Well, thin," said the father, " let us set about it to-morrow. If we 
 can berry the clo'es, thry your luck." 
 
 Phelim and the father, the next morning, set out, each in a differem 
 direction, to see how far they could succeed on the borrowing system. 
 The father was to make a descent on Dudley Dwire for the breeches, 
 and appeal to the generosity of Sam Appleton for the coat. Phelim 
 himself was to lay his case before the priest, and to assail Buckram- 
 back, the pensioner, on his way home for the brogues. 
 
 When Phelim arrived at the priest's house, he found none of 
 the family up but the housekeeper. After bidding her good morrow , 
 and being desired to sit down, he entered into conversation with 
 the good woman, who felt an.xious to know the scandal of the-whoL- 
 parish. 
 
 " Aren't you a son of Larry Toole's, young man ? " 
 
 " I am, indeed, Mrs. Doran. Pm Phelim O'Toole, my mother 
 says." 
 
 " I hope you're comin' to spake to the priest about your duty ?" 
 
 " Why, then, be gorra, I'm glad you axed me, so I am — for only you 
 seen the pinance in my face, you'd never suppose sich a thing. I want 
 to make my confishion to him, wid the help o' goodness." 
 
 "Is there any news goin', Phelim ? " 
 
 "Divil a much, barrin what yo*. hard yourself, I suppose, about 
 Frank Fogarty, that went mad yestherday, for risin' the meal on the 
 poor, an' ate the ears off himself afore anybody could see him." 
 
 " V/ck na hoiah, Phelim ; do you tell me so ? " 
 
 " Why, man o' Moses ! is it possible you did not hear it, ma'am ? ' 
 
 " Oh, wurrah, man alive, not a syllable ! Ate the ears off of hin-,- 
 self ! Phelim, acushla, see what it is to be hard an the poor ! " 
 
 " Oh, he was ever an' always the biggest nager livin', ma'am. Ay. 
 an' when he was tied up, till a blessed priest ud be brought to wm/V- 
 vogtie the divil out of him, he got a scythe an' cut his own two hands 
 off." 
 
 " No thin, Phelim." 
 
 " Faitha, ma'am, sure enougli. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about 
 Biddv Duignan ?" 
 
 " Who is she, Phelim ? " 
 
 " Why, the misfortunate crathur's a daughther of her father's, ould 
 Mick Duignan, of Tavenimore." 
 
 "An' what about her, Phelim ? What happened her.?" 
 
 " Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid : but, anyhow, ould 
 Harry Connolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 177 
 
 three stations to Lough Dergh for it. Bedad, they say it's as purty a 
 crathur as you'd see in a day's thravellin'." 
 
 " Harry Connolly! Why, I know Harry, but I never heard of Biddy 
 Duignan or her father at all. Harry Connolly ! Is it a man that's 
 bent over his staff for the last twenty years ! Hut, tut, Phelim, don't 
 say sich a thing." 
 
 " Why, ma'am, sure he takes wid it himself ; he doesn't deny it at 
 all, the ould sinner.'' 
 
 " Oh, that I mayn't sin, Phelim, if one knows who to thrust in this 
 world, so they don't. Why, the desateful ould— hut, Phelim, I can't 
 give in to it." 
 
 " Faix, ma'am, no wondher ; but sure, when he confesses it himself ! 
 Bedad, Mrs. Doran, I never seen you look so well. Upon my sowl, 
 you'd take the shine out o' the youngest o' thim ! " 
 
 " Is it me, Phelim ? Why, you're beside yourself." 
 
 " Beside myself, am I ? Faith an' if I am, what I said's thruth, 
 anyhow. I'd give more nor I'll name to have so red. a pair of cheeks 
 as you have. Sowl, they're thumpers." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Oh, that I mayn't sin, but that's a good joke ! An 
 ould woman, near sixty ! " 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Doran, that's nonsense, an' nothing else. Near sixty ? 
 Oh, by my purty, that's runnin' away wid the story entirely — No, nor 
 thirty. Faith, I know them that's not more nor five or six-an'-twenty, 
 that ud be glad to borry the loan of your face for a while. Divil a 
 word o' lie in that." 
 
 " No, no, Phelim, aroon, I seen the day ; but that's past. I remimber 
 when the people did say I was worth lookin' at. Won't you sit near 
 the fire ? You're in the dhraft there." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, ma'am ; faith, you have the name, far an' near, 
 for bein' the civillist woman alive this day. But, upon my sowl, if you 
 wor ten times as civil, an' say that you're not aquil to any young girl 
 in the parish, I'd dispute it wid you ; an' say it was nothin' else than a 
 bounce." 
 
 " Arrah, Phelim darlin', how can you palaver me that way ? I hope 
 your dacent father's well, Phelim, an' your honest mother." 
 
 " Divil a fear o' them. Now, I'd hould nine to one that the purtiest 
 o' them hasn't a sweeter mout' than you have. By dad you have. By 
 dad you have a pair o' lips, God bless them that — well, well " 
 
 Phelim here ogled her with looks particularly wistful. 
 
 " Phelim, you're losin' the little senses you had." 
 
 " Faix, an' it's you that's taken them out o' me, then. A purty 
 woman always makes a fool o' me. Divil a word o' lie in it. Faix, 
 Mrs. Doran, ma'am, you have a chin o' your own ! Well, well ! Oh, 
 be gorra, I wish I hadn't come out this momin', anyhow ! " 
 
 "Arrah, why, Phelim? In throth it's you that's the quare 
 Phelim ! " 
 
 " Why, ma'am — Oh, bedad it's a folly to talk. I can't go v\ idout 
 tastin' them. Sich a pair o' timptations as your lips, barrin' your 
 eyes, I didn't see this many a day." 
 
»7S PHELIM O ' TOOLE 'S CO UR TSHIP. 
 
 " Tastin' what, you mad crathur?" 
 
 " Why, I'll show you what I'd like to be afther tastin'. Oh ! becad, 
 I'll have no refusin' ; a party woman always makes a foo " 
 
 " Keep away, Phelim ; keep off— bad end to you ; what do you 
 mane ? Don't you see Fool Art lyin' in the corner there undher the 
 sacks. I don't think he's asleep." 
 
 "Fool Art! why, the misfortunate idiot, what about him? Sure 
 he hasn't sinse to know the right hand from the left. Bedad, ma'am, 
 the thruth is that a purty woman always makes a " 
 
 " Throth an' you won't," said she, struggling. 
 
 " Throth an' 1 will, thin, taste the same lips, or we'll see who's 
 strongest ! " 
 
 A good-humoured struggle took place between the housekeeper and 
 Phelim, who found her, in point of personal strength, very near a 
 match for him. She laughed heartily, but Phelim attempted to salute 
 her with a face of mock gravity as nearly resembling that of a serious 
 man as he could assume. In the meantime, chairs were overturned 
 and wooden dishes trundled about ; a crash was heard here, and 
 another there. Phelim drove her to the hob, and from the hob they 
 bounced into the fire, the embers and ashes of which were kicked up 
 into a cloud about them, 
 
 " Phelim, spare your strinth," said the funny housekeeper, " it won't 
 do. Be asy now, or I'll get angry. The priest, too, will hear the 
 noise, and so will Fool Art." 
 
 "To the divil wid Fool Art, an' the priest, too," said Phelim ; "who 
 cares a buckey about the priest whin a purty woman like you is 
 consarn " 
 
 " What's this ? " said the priest, stepping down from the parlour — 
 *' what's the matter.'' Oh, oh, upon my word, Mrs. Doran ! Very 
 good, indeed ! Under my own roof, too ! An' pray, ma'am, who is 
 the gallant .'' Turn round, young man. Yes, I see ! Why, better 
 and better ! Bouncing Phelim O'Toole, that never spoke truth ! I 
 think, Mr. O'Toole, that when you come a-courting, you ought to 
 consider it worth while to appear somewhat more smooth in your 
 habiliments. I simply venture to give that as my opinion." 
 
 " Why, sure enough," replied Phelim, without a moment's hesita- 
 tion, " your reverence \\a.s found ics out." 
 
 " Found you out ! Why, is that the tone you speak in ?" 
 
 " Faith, sir, thruth's best. I wanted her to tell it to you long ago, 
 but she wouldn't. Howsomever, it's still time enough. — Hem ! The 
 thruth, sir, is that Mrs. Doran an' I is goin' to get the words said as 
 soon as we can ; so, sir, wid the help o' goodness, I came to see if 
 your reverence ud call us ne.\t Sunday wid a blessin'." 
 
 Mrs. Doran had for at least a dozen round years before this been 
 in a state of hopelessness upon the subject of matrimony ; nothing in 
 the shape of a proposal having in the course of that period come in 
 her way. Now we have Addison's authority for affirming that an old 
 woman who permits the thoughts of love to get into her head becomes 
 a very odd kind of animal. Mrs. Doran, to do her justice, had not 
 
PHELIM O ' TO OLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 1 7 9 
 
 thought of it for nearly three lustres ; for this reason, that she had so 
 far overcome her vanity as to deem it impossible that a proposal 
 could be ever made to her. It is difficult, however, to know what a 
 day may bring forth. Here was an offer dropping like a ripe plum 
 to her mouth. She turned the matter over in her ^lind with a 
 uickness equal to that of Phelim himself. One leaaing thought 
 struck her forcibly : if she refused to close with this offer she would 
 never get another. 
 
 " Is it come to this, Mrs. Doran?" inquired the priest. 
 
 " Oh, bedad, sir, she knows it is," replied Phelim, giving her a wink 
 with the safe eye. 
 
 Now Mrs. Doran began to have her suspicions. The wink she 
 considered as decidedly ominous. Phelim, she concluded with all the 
 sagacity of a woman thinking upon that subject, had winked at her 
 to assent only for the purpose of getting themselves out of the scrape 
 for the presetit. She feared that Phelim would be apt to break off the 
 match, and take some opportunity, before Sunday should arrive, of 
 preventing the priest from calling them. Her decision, however, was 
 soon made. She resolved, if possible, to pin down Phelim to his own 
 proposal. 
 
 " Is this true, Mrs. Doran ?" inquired the priest, a second time. 
 
 Mrs. Doran could not, with any regard to the delicacy of her sex, 
 give an assent without proper emotion. She accordingly applied her 
 gown-tail to her eyes, and shed a few natural tears in reply to the 
 affecting query of the pastor. 
 
 Phelim, in the meantime, began to feel mystified. Whether Mrs. 
 Doran's tears were a proof that she was disposed to take the matter 
 seriously, or whether they were tears of shame and vexation for 
 having been caught in the character of a romping old hoyden, he 
 could not then exactly decide He had, however, awful misgivings 
 upon the subject. 
 
 " Then," said the priest, "it is to be understood that I'm to call you 
 both on Sunday." 
 
 " There's no use in keepin' it back from you," replied Mrs. Doran. 
 " I know it's foolish of me ; but we have all our failins, and to be fond 
 of Phelim, there, is mine. Your reverence is to call us next Sunday, 
 as Phelim tould you. I am sure I can't tell you how he deluded me 
 at all, the desaver o' the world ! " 
 
 Phelim's face during this acknowledgment was, like Goldsmith's 
 Haunch of Venison, " a subject for painters to study." His eyes 
 projected like a hare's, until nothing could be seen but the balls. 
 Even tha drooping lid raised itself up, as if it were never to droop 
 again. 
 
 " Well, said the priest, " I shall certainly not use a single argu- 
 ment to prevent you. Your choice, I must say, does you credit, par- 
 ticularly when it is remembered that you have come at least to years 
 of discretion. Indeed, many persons might affirm that you have gone 
 beyond them ; but I say nothing. In the meantime your wishes must 
 be complied with. I will certamlv call Phelim O' Toole and Bridget 
 
I So PHELIM O ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 
 
 Doran on Sunday next ; and one thing I know, thai we shall have a 
 very merry congregation." 
 
 Phelim's eyes turned upon the priest and the old woman alternately 
 with an air of bewilderment which, had the priest been a man of much 
 obserx'ation, might have attracted his attention. 
 
 " Oh, murdher alive, Mrs. Doran," said Phelim, "how am I to dc 
 for clo'es ? Faith, I'd like to appear dacent in the thing, anyhow." 
 
 " True," said the priest. " Have you made no provision for smooth- 
 ing the e.xternals of your admirer ? Is he to appear in this trim .'' " 
 
 " Bedad, sir," said Phelim, " we never thought o' that. All the world 
 knows, your reverence, that I might carry my purse in my eye an' 
 never feel a mote in it. But the thruth is, sir, she was so lively on the 
 subject — in a kind of pleasant, coaxin' hurry of her own — an' indeed I 
 was so myself, too. Augh, Mrs. Doran ! Be gorra, sir, she put her 
 comedher an me entirely, so she did. Well, be my sowl, I'll be the 
 flower of a husband to her, anyhow. I hope your reverence 'ill come 
 to the christ'nin' ? But about the clo'es .'' bad luck saize the tack I 
 have to put to my back but what you see an me, if we were to be 
 married to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, Phelim, aroon," said Mrs. Doran, " his reverence here 
 has my little pences o' money in his hands, an' the best way is 
 for you to get the price of a suit from him. You must get clo'es, 
 an' good ones too, Phelim, sooner nor any stop should be put to our 
 marriage." 
 
 "Augh, Mrs. Doran," said Phelim, ogling her from the safe eye 
 with a tender suavity of manner that did honour to his heart ; " be 
 gorra, ma'am, you've played the puck entirely wid me. Faith, I'm 
 getting fonder an' fonder of her every minute, your reverence." 
 
 He set his eye, as he uttered this, so sweetly and significantly upon 
 the old housekeeper that the priest thought it a transgression of 
 decorum in his presence. 
 
 " I think,'' said he, " you had better keep your melting looks to 
 yourself, Phelim. Restrain your gallantry, if you please, at least until 
 I withdraw." 
 
 " Why, blood alive ! sir, w^hen people's fond of one another it's hard 
 to keep the love down. Augh, Mrs. Doran ! Faith, you've rendhered 
 my heart like a lump o' tallow.'- 
 
 " Follow me to the parlour," said the priest, " and let me know, 
 Bridget, what sum I am to give this melting gallant of yours." 
 
 " I may as well get what'U do the weddin' at wanst," observed 
 Phelim. " It'll save throuble. in the first place ; an' sackinly, it'll save 
 time ; for, plase goodness, I'll have everything ready for houldin' the 
 weddin' the Monday afther the last call. By the hole o' my coat, the 
 minute I get the clo'es we'll be spliced, an' then for the honeymoon ! " 
 
 " How much money shall I give him."*" said the priest. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I think you ought to know that ; I'm ignorant of what 
 ud make a dacent weddin'. We don't intend to get marrid undher a 
 hedge ; we've frinds on both sides, an' of coorse we must bave thero 
 about us, plase goodness." 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. \%i 
 
 " Be gorra, sir, it's no wondher I'm fond of her, the darlin' ! Bad 
 ^\in to you, Mrs. Doran, how did you come over me at all ?" 
 
 "Bridget," said the priest, " I have asked you a simple question, to 
 vi-hich I expect a plain answer. What money am I to give this tallow- 
 hearted swain of yours ? " 
 
 " Why, your reverence, whatsomever you think may be enough for 
 full, an' plinty, an' dacency, at the weddin'." 
 
 "Not forgettin' the thatch for me, in the manetime," said Phelim. 
 " Nothin' less will sarve us, plase your reverence. Maybe, sir, you'd 
 think of comin' to the weddin' yourself? " 
 
 " There are in my hands," observed the priest, " one hundred and 
 twenty- two guineas of your money, Bridget. Here, Phelim, are ten 
 for your wedding suit and wedding expenses. Go to your wedding ? 
 No ! don't suppose for a moment that I countenance this transaction 
 in the shghtest degree. I comply with your wishes, because I heartily 
 despise you both ; but certainly this foolish old woman most. Give 
 me an acknowledgment for this, Phelim." 
 
 " God bless you, sir ! " said Phelim, as if he had paid them 
 a compliment. " In regard o' the acknowledgment, sir, I acknow- 
 ledge it wid all my heart ; but bad luck to the scrape at all I can 
 write." 
 
 " Well, no matter. You admit, Bridget, that I give this money to 
 this blessed youth by your authority and consent." 
 
 " Surely, your reverence ; I'll never go back of it." 
 
 " Now, Phelim," said the priest, " you have the money ; pray get 
 married as soon as possible." 
 
 " I'll give you my oath," said Phelim ; " an' be the blessed iron 
 tongs in the grate there I'll not lose a day in getting myself spliced. 
 Isn't she the tendher-hearted sowl, your reverence.'' Augh, Mrs. 
 Doran?" 
 
 " Leave my place," said the priest. " I cannot forget the old proverb, 
 that one fool makes many, but an old fool is worse than any. So it is 
 with this old woman." 
 
 " Ould woman ! Oh, thin, I'm sure I don't desarve this from your 
 reverence !" exclaimed the housekeeper, wiping her eyes : "if I'm a 
 little seasoned now, you know I wasn't always so. If ever there was 
 a faithful sarvant I was that, an' managed your house and place as 
 honestly as I'll manage my own, plase goodness." 
 
 As they left the parlour Phelim became the consoler. 
 
 " Whisht, you darlin' ! " he exclaimed. " Sure you'll have Bouncin 
 Phelim to comfort you. But now that he has shut the door, what — 
 hem — I'd take it as a piece o' civility if you'd open my eyes a little ; I 
 mane — hem — was it — is this doin' him, or how ? Are you — hem — do 
 you ujidkerstand me, Mrs. Doran ?" 
 
 " What is it you want to know, Phelim ? I think everything is very 
 plain." 
 
 " Oh, the divil a plainer, I suppose. But, in the manetime, might 
 one ax, out o' mere curosity, if you're in aniest?" 
 
 " In arnest ! Arrah, what did I give you my money for, Phelim \ 
 
I S2 PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S CO UR TSHIP. 
 
 Well, now that everything is settled, God forgive you if you make a 
 bad husband to me." 
 
 "Abadfi/^z/?" 
 
 " I say, God forgive you if you make a bad husband to me. I'm 
 afeard, Phelim, that I'll be too foolish about you— that J'il be too fond 
 of you." 
 
 Phelim looked at her in solemn silence, and then replied : " Let us 
 trust in God that you may be enabled to overcorr" the weakness. 
 Pray to him to avoid all folly, an' above everything, to give you a 
 dacent stock of discration, for it's a mighty fine thing for a woman of 
 
 your yea hem, a mighty fine thing it is, indeed, for a sasoned 
 
 woman, as you say you are." 
 
 " When will the weddin' take place, Phelim ?" 
 
 "The what?" said Phelim, opening his brisk eye with a fresh stare 
 of dismay. 
 
 " Why, the weddin', acushla. When will it take place. I think the 
 Monday afther the last call ud be the best time. We wouldn't lose a 
 day thin. Throth, I long to hear my last call over, Phelim, jewel." 
 
 Phelim gave her another look. 
 
 " The last call ! Thin, by the vestment, you don't long half as much 
 for your last call as I do." 
 
 '' Arrah, Phelim, did you take the — the — what you wor wantiu 
 awhile agone ? Throth, myself disremimbers." 
 
 " Ay, a round dozen o' them. How can you forget it ?" 
 
 The idiot in the corner here gave a loud snore, but composed him- 
 self to sleep, as if insensible to all that passed. 
 
 " Throth, an' I do forget it. Now, Phelim, you'll not go till you 
 take a cup o' tay wid myself. Throth, I do forget it, Phelim darlin', 
 jewel." 
 
 Phelim's face now assumed a very queer expression. He twisted his 
 features into all possible directions ; brought his mcuth first round to 
 one ear and then to the other ; put his hand, as if in great pain, on 
 the pit of his stomach ; lifted one knee up till it almost touched his 
 chin, then let it down, and instantly brought up the other in a similar 
 manner. 
 
 " Pheli'n darlin', what ails you ? " inquired the tender old nymph. 
 " Wurrah, man alive, aren't you well ? " 
 
 " Oh, be the vestment," said Phelim, "what's this at all ! Murdher 
 sheer)', what'll I do ! Oh, Pm very bad ! At death's door, so I am f 
 Be gorra, Mrs. Doran, I must be off." 
 
 " Wurrah, Phelim dear, won't you stop till we settle everything .-*" 
 
 " Oh, purshuin' to the haporth I can settle till I recover o' this 
 murdherin' colic ! All's asthray wid me in the inside. Pll see you 
 — Pll see you — Haiiiin an dioiiol! what's this — I must be off like a 
 shot — oh, murdher sheery ! — but — but — Pll see you to-morrow. In 
 the manetime, Vm. — I'm for ever oblaged to you for — for — lendin' me 
 the — loan of— oh, b> the vestments, I'm a gone man ! — for lendin' me 
 the loati of the ten guineas — Oh, I'm gone !" 
 
 Phelim disappeared on uttering these words, and his strides on 
 
PHELIM O ' TOOLE 'S COURTSHIP. 183 
 
 passing out of the house were certainly more rapid and vigorous than 
 those of a man labouring under pain. In fact, he never looked behind 
 him until one half the distance between the priest's house and his 
 father's cabin had been fairly traversed. 
 
 Some misgivings occurred to the old housekeeper, but her vanity, 
 having been revived by Phelim's blarney, would not permit her to 
 listen to them. She had, besides, other motives to fortify her faith in 
 his attachment. First, there was her money, a much larger sum than 
 ever Phelim could expect with any other woman, young or old ; again, 
 they were to be called on the following Sunday, and she knew that when 
 a marriage affair proceeds so far, obstruction or disappointment is not 
 to be apprehended. 
 
 When Phelim reached home, he found the father returned after 
 having borrowed a full suit of clothes for him. Sam Appleton, on 
 hearing from Larry that Bouncing Phelim was about to get a " great 
 match," ' generously lent him coat, waistcoat, hat, and smallclothes. 
 
 When Phelim presented himself at home he scarcely replied to the 
 queries put to him by his father and mother concerning his interview 
 with the priest. He sat down, rubbed his hands, scratched his head, 
 rose up, and walked to and fro, in a mood of mind so evidently between 
 mirth and chagrin that his worthy parents knew not whether to be 
 merry or miserable. 
 
 " Phelim," said the motner, " did you take anything while you wor 
 
 away 
 
 " Did I take anything, is ft? Arrah, be asy, old woman ? Did I 
 take anything ! Faith, you may say that ! " 
 
 " Let us know, anyhow, what's the matther wid you ? " asked the 
 father. 
 
 " Tare-an'-ounze ! " exclaimed the son, " what is this for, at all at 
 all ? It's too killin' I am, so it is." 
 
 " You're not lookin' at Sam Appleton's clo'es," said the father, " that 
 he lent you the loan of, hat an' all ? 
 
 " Do you want to put an affront upon me, ould man ? To the divil 
 wid himself an' his clo'es ! When * want clo'es I'll buy them wid my 
 own money ! " 
 
 " Larry," observed the mother, " there's yourself all over — as proud 
 as a paycock when the sup's in his head, an' ud spake as big widout 
 the sign o' money in your pocket, as if you had the rint of an estate.'' 
 
 "What do you say about the sign o' money ?" exclaimed Phelim. 
 ■with a swagger, " Maybe you'll call that the sign o' money ! " he 
 added, producing the ten guineas in gold. 
 
 The father and mother looked at it for a considerable time, then at 
 •each other, and shook their heads. 
 
 " Phelim ! " said the father, solemnly. 
 
 *' Phelim ! " said the mother, awfully ; and both shook their heads 
 again. 
 
 " You wor never over-scrupulous," the father proceeded, " an' you 
 
 I When a country girl is said to have a large fortune, the peasantry, when speak 
 ♦ng of her in reference to matrimony, say she's a "great match." 
 
iS4 PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 know you have many little things to answer for, in the w^y of picking 
 up what didn't belong to yourself. I think, too, you're not the same 
 you wor afore you tuck to swearin' the alibies." 
 
 " Faith, an' I doubt I'll have to get some one to swear an alibi for 
 myself soon," Phelim replied. 
 
 " Why, blessed hour ! " said Larry, " didn't I often tell you never to 
 join the boys in anything that might turn out a hangin' matther?" 
 
 " If this is not a hangin' matther," said Phelim, " it's something 
 nearly as bad : it's a marryin' matther. Sure I deluded another since 
 you seen me last. Divil a word o' lie in it. I was clane fell in love 
 wid this mornin' about seven o'clock." 
 
 " But how did you get the money, Phelim ?'' 
 
 "Why, from the youthful sprig that fell in I've wid me. Sure we're 
 to be ' called ' in the chapel on Sunday next.' 
 
 " Why, thin, now, Phelim ! An' who is the young crathur ? for in 
 throth she must be young to go to give the money beforehand ! " 
 
 " Alurdher ! " exclaimed Phelim, " what's this for ! Hell purshue 
 her, the ould rat-thrap ! Was ever anyone done as I am ! Who is 
 she ! Why she's — oh, murdher, oh ! — she's no other than — hem — 
 — divil a one else than Father O'Hara's housekeeper, ould Biddy 
 Doran ! " 
 
 The mirth of the old couple was excessive. The father laughed till 
 he fell off his stool, and the mother till the tears ran down her cheeks. 
 
 " Death alive, ould man ! but you're very merry," said Phelim. " If 
 you wor my age, an' in such an amplush, you'd laugh on the WTong 
 side o' your mouth. Maybe you'll turn your tune when you hear that 
 she has a hundhre an' twenty guineas." 
 
 " An' you'll be rich, too," said the father. " The sprig an' you will be 
 rich !--ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " An' the family they'll have ! " said the mother, in convulsions. 
 
 " Why, in regard o' that," said Phelim, rather nettled, " sure we can 
 do as my father an' you did : we can kiss the Lucky Stone, an' make 
 a station." 
 
 " Phelim, aroon," said the mother, seriously, " put it out o' your 
 head. Sure you wouldn't go to bring me a daughter-in-law ouider nor 
 myself.'"' 
 
 '' I'd as socn^<7 over"^ said Phelim ; "or swing itself, before I'a 
 marry sich a piece o' desate. Hard feedin' to her ! how she did me 
 to my face ! " 
 
 Phelim then entered into a long-visaged detail of the scene at Father 
 O'Hara's, dwelling bitterly on the alacrity with which the old house- 
 keeper ensnared him in his own mesh. 
 
 "However," he concluded, "she'd be a sharp one if she'd do me 
 altogether. We're not marrid yet ; an' I've a consate o' my own that 
 she's done for the ten guineas, anyhow ! " 
 
 A family council was immediately held upon Phelim's matrimonial 
 prospects. On coming close to the speculation of Miss Patterson, it 
 
 ' A familiar term for " transporlation." 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 185 
 
 was somehow voted, notwithstanding Phelim's powers of attractior,to 
 be rather a discouraging one. Gracey Dalton was also given up. The 
 matter was now serious, the time short, and Phehm's bounces touching 
 his own fascinations with the sex in general were considerably abated. 
 It was therefore resolved that he ought to avail himself of Sam 
 Appleton's clothes until his own could be made. Sam, he said, 
 would not press him for them immediately, inasmuch as he was 
 under obligation to Phelim's silence upon some midnight excursions 
 that he had made. 
 
 " Not," added Phelim, "but I'm as much, an' maybe more, in his 
 power than he is in mine." 
 
 When breakfast was over, Phelim and the father, after having deter- 
 mined to " drink a bottle " that night in the family of a humble young 
 woman, named Donovan, who, they all agreed, would make an excel- 
 lent wife for him, rested upon their oars until evening. In the mean- 
 time Phelim sauntered about the village, as he was in the habit of 
 doing, whilst the father kept the day as a holiday. We have never 
 told our readers that Phelim was in love, because, in fact, we know not 
 whether he was or not. Be this as it may, we simply inform them 
 that in a little shed in the lower end of the village lived a person with 
 whom Phelim was very intimate, called Foodie Flattery. He was, 
 indeed, a man after Phelim's own heart, and Phelim was a boy after 
 his. He maintained himself by riding country races ; by handing, 
 breeding, and feeding cocks ; by fishing, poaching, and serving pro- 
 cesses ; and finally, by his knowledge as a cow-doctor and farrier — 
 into the two last of which he had given Phelim some insight. We 
 say the two last, for in most ol the other accomplishments Phelim was 
 fully his equal. Phelim frequently envied him his life. It was an idle, 
 amusing, vagabond kind of existence, just such a one as he felt a 
 relish for. This man had a daughter, rather well-looking ; and it so 
 happened that he and Phelim had frequently spent whole nights out 
 together, no one knew on what employment. Into Flatten-'s house 
 did Phelim saunter with something like an inclination to lay the events 
 of the day before him, and to ask his advice upon his future prospects. 
 On entering the cabin he was much surprised to find the daughter in 
 a very melancholy mood ; a circumstance which puzzled him not a 
 little, as he knew that they lived very harmoniously together. Sally 
 had been very useful to her father ; and, if fame did not belie her, 
 was sometimes worthy Foodie's assistant in his nocturnal exploits. 
 She was certainly reputed to be " light handed ; " an imputation 
 which caused the young men of her acquaintance to avoid, in their 
 casual conversations with her, any allusion to matrimony. 
 
 " Sally, achora," said Phelim, when he saw her in distress, " what's 
 the fun. Where's your father ? " 
 
 " Oh, Phelim," she replied, bursting into tears, " long runs the fox, 
 but he's cotch at last. My father's in gaol." 
 
 Phelim's jaw dropped. " In gaol ! Cho?-p an dio7(ol, no ! " 
 
 " It's thruth, Phelim. Curse upon this Whiteboy business ; I wish 
 it had never come into the counthry at all." 
 
 (4) G 
 
iS6 PIIELIM 0*TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " Sally, I must see him ; you know I must. But tell me how it 
 happened. Was it at home he was taken ?" 
 
 " No ; he was taken this mornin' in the market. I was wid him 
 sellin' some chickens. What'U you and Sam Appleton do, Phelim ?" 
 
 " Uz ! Why, what danger is there aither to Sam or me, you 
 darlin' ? " 
 
 " I'm sure, Phelim, I don't know ; but he tould me that if I was 
 provided for he'd be firm, an' take chance of his thrial. But he says, 
 poor man, that it ud break his heart to be thransported, lavin' me 
 behind him wid nobody to take care o' me. He says, too, if any- 
 thing 'ud make him siag, it's fear of the thrial goin' aginst himself ; 
 for, as he said to me, what ud become of you, Sally, if anything 
 happened me ?" 
 
 A fresh flood of tears followed this disclosure, and Phelim's face, 
 which was certainly destined to undergo on that day many variations 
 of aspect, became remarkably blank. 
 
 " Sally, you insinivator, I'll hould a thousand guineas you'd never 
 guess what brought me here to-day." 
 
 " Arrah, how could I, Phelim ? To plan somethin' wid my fadher, 
 maybe." 
 
 " No, but to plan somethin' wid yourself, you coaxin' jewel, you. 
 Now tell me this — Would you marry a certain gay, roguish, well-built 
 young fellow they call Bouncin' Phelim ?" 
 
 " Phelim, don't be gettin' an wid your fun now, an' me in affliction. 
 Sure, I know well you wouldn't throw yourself away on a poor girl 
 like me, that has nothing but a good pair of hands to live by." 
 
 " Be my sowl, an' you live by them. Well, but set in case — 
 supposin' — that same Bouncin' Phelim was willin' to make you mis- 
 tress of the half acre, what ud you be sayin' ? " 
 
 " Phelim, if a body thought you worn't jokin' them — ah, the dickens 
 go wid you, Phelim — this is more o' your thricks — but if it was thruth 
 you wor spakin', Phelim? " 
 
 " It is thruth," said Phelim ; " be the vestment, it's nolhin' else. 
 Now, say yes or no ; for if it's a thing that it's to be a match, you 
 must go an' tell him that I'll marry you, an' he must be as firm as a 
 rock. But see — Sally, by thim five crasses, it's not bekase your 
 father's in I'm marryin' you at all. Sure I'm in love wid you, acushla ! 
 Divil a lie in it. Now, yes or no ?" 
 
 " Well — throth — to be sure — the sorra one, Phelim, but you have 
 quare ways wid you. Now, are you downright in airnest ? " 
 
 " Be the stool I'm sittin' on ! " 
 
 " Well, in the name o' goodness, I'll go to my father, an' let him 
 know it. Poor man, it'll take the fear out of his heart. Now, can he 
 depind on you, Phelim .'"' 
 
 "Why, all I can say is that we'll get ourselves called on Sunday 
 next. Let himself, sure, send some one to autorize the priest to call 
 us. An' now that all's settled, don't I desarve somethin'.? Oh, be 
 gorra, surely." 
 
 •* Behave, Phelim — oh— oh — Phelim, now — there, you've tuck it — 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. '^7 
 
 och, the curse of the crows on you, see the way you have my hair 
 down ! There now, you broke my comb, too. Throth, you're a wild 
 slip, Phelim. I hope you won't be goin' on this a-way wid the girls 
 when you get married." 
 
 " Is it me, you coaxer? No, faith, I'll wear a pair of winkers, foi 
 fraid o' lookin at them at all. Oh, be gorra, no, Sally, I'll lave that 
 to the great people. Sure, they say, the devil a differ they make 
 at all." 
 
 " Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready an' set out to my father. But, 
 Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein' in gaol. No one 
 knows it but ourselves — that is, none o' the neighbours." 
 
 " I'll sing dumb," said Phelim. " Well, banaght lath a rogorah ! ^ 
 Tell him the thruth — to be gajne, an' he'll find you and me sweeled 
 together whin he comes out, plase goodness." 
 
 Phelim was but a few minutes gone when the old military cap of 
 Fool Art projected from the little bedroom, which a wicker wall, 
 plastered with mud, divided from the other part of the cabin. 
 
 " Is he gone .'"' said Art. 
 
 " You may come out. Art," said she, " he's gone." 
 
 '' Ha !" said Art, triumphantly, " I often tould him, when he vexed 
 me an' pelted me wid anowballs, that I'd come 'long sides wid him 
 yet. An' it's not over aither. Fool Art can snore when he's not 
 asleep, an' see wid his eyes shut. Wherroo for Art ! " 
 
 " But, Art, maybe he intinds to marry the housekeeper afther all ? " 
 
 "Hi the colic, the colic ! 
 An' ho the colic for Phelim 1 " 
 
 " Then you think he won't, Art ? " 
 
 Hi the coJic, the colic ! 
 
 An' ho tHe colic for Phelim I " 
 
 '* Now, Art, don't say a word about my father not bein' in gaol. 
 He's to be back from my grandfather's in a short time, an' if we 
 manage well, you'll see what you'll get. Art — a brave new shirt, 
 Art." 
 
 " Art has the lane for Phelim, but it's not the long one wid no turn 
 in it. Wherroo for Art." 
 
 Phelim, on his return home, felt queer ; here was a second matri- 
 monial predicament, considerably worse than the first, into which he 
 was hooked decidedly against his will. The worst feature in this case 
 was the danger to be apprehended from Foodie Flattery's disclosures, 
 should he take it into his head to 'peach upon his brother Whiteboys. 
 Indeed, Phelim began to consider it a calamity that he ever entered 
 into their system at all ; for on running over his exploits along with 
 them, he felt that he was liable to be taken up any morning of the 
 week and lodged in one of his Majesty's boarding-houses. The only 
 security he had was the honesty of his confederates ; and experience 
 took the liberty of pointing out to him many cases in which those who 
 
 ' My blessing be with you, you roguf I 
 
' SS PHELIM O ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 
 
 considered themselves quite secure upon the same grounds either 
 dangled or crossed the water. He remembered, too, some prophecies 
 that had been uttered concerning him with reference both to hanging 
 and matrimony. Touching the former, it was often said that " he'd 
 die where the bird flies "—between heaven and earth ; on matrimony, 
 that there seldom was a swaggerer among the girls but came to the 
 ground at last. 
 
 Now Phelim had a memory of his own, and in turning over his 
 situation, and the prophecies that had been so confidently pronounced 
 concerning him, he felt, as we said, rather queer. He found his 
 father and mother in excellent spirits when he got home. The good 
 man had got a gallon of whisky on credit ; for it had been agreed on 
 not to break the ten golden guineas, until they should have ascertained 
 how the match-making would terminate that night at Donovan's. 
 
 " Phelim," said the father, " strip yourself, an' put on Sam's clo'es : 
 you must send him down yours for a day or two ; he says it's the least 
 he may have the wearin' o' them, so long as you have his." 
 
 " Right enough," said Phelim ; " wid all my heart. I'm ready to 
 make a fair swap wid him any day, for that matther." 
 
 " I sent word to the Donovans that we're to go to coort there to- 
 night," said Larry, " so that they'll be prepar/^d for us ; an' as it 
 would be shabby not to have a friend, I asked Sam Appleton himself. 
 He's to folly us." 
 
 " I see," said Phelim, " I see. Well, the best boy in Europe Sam 
 is for sich a spree. Now, fadher, you must lie like the ould diouol to- 
 night. Back eveiything I say, an' there's no fear of us. But about 
 what she's to get, you must hould out for that. I'm to despise it, you 
 know. I'll abuse you for spakin' about foitune, but don't budge an 
 inch." 
 
 " It's not the first time I've done that for you, Phelim; but in regard 
 o' these ten guineas, why, vou must put them in your pocket, for fraid 
 they'd be wantin' to get off wid layin' down guinea for guinea. You 
 see, they don't think we have a rap I an' if they propose it, we'll be up 
 to them." 
 
 " Larry," observed Sheelah, " don't make a match, except they give 
 that pig they have. Hould out for that by all means." 
 
 "Tare an' ounze ! " exclaimed Phelim, "am I goin' to take the 
 counthry out o' the face ? By the vestments, I'm a party boy ! Do 
 you know the fresh news I have for yees .-" " 
 
 " Not ten guineas more, Phelim," replied the father. 
 
 " Maybe you soodhered another ould woman," said the mother. 
 
 " Be asy," replied Phelim. " No, but by the five crasses, I deluded 
 a young one since I went out ! " 
 
 The old couple were once more disposed to be mirthful, but Phelim 
 confirmed his assertion with such a multiplicity of oaths that they 
 believed him. Nothing, however, could wring the secret of her name 
 out of him. He had reasons for concealing it which he did not wisli 
 to divulge. In fact, he could never endure ridicule, and the name of 
 Sally Flattery, as the person whom he had " deluded," would constitute 
 
PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 on his part a triumph quite as sorry as that which he had achieved in 
 Father O'Hara's. In Ireland no man ever thinks of marrying a 
 female thief — which Sally was strongly suspected to be — except some 
 worthy fellow who happens to be gifted with the same propensity. 
 
 When the proper hour arrived, honest Phelim, after having already 
 made arrangements to be called on the following Sunday as the in- 
 tended husband of two females, now proceeded with great coolness 
 to make, if possible, a similar engagement with a third. 
 
 There is something, however, to be said for Phelim. His conquest 
 over the housekeeper was considerably out of the common course of 
 love affairs. He had drawn upon his invention only to bring himself 
 and the old woman out of the ridiculous predicament m which the 
 priest found them. He had, moreover, intended to prevail on her to 
 lend him the hat, in case the priest himself had refused him. He 
 was consequently not prepared for the vigorous manner in which Mrs. 
 Doran fastened upon the subject of matrimony. On suspecting that 
 she was inclined to be serious, he pleaded his want of proper apparel; 
 but here again the liberality of the housekeeper silenced him, whilst, 
 at the same time, it opened an excellent prospect of procuring that 
 which he most required — a decent suit of clothes. This induced him 
 ■to act a part that he did not feel. He saw the old woman was resolved 
 to outwit him, and he resolved to overreach the old woman. 
 
 His marriage with Sally Flattery was to be merely a matter of 
 chance. If he married her at all, he knew it must be in self-defence. 
 He felt that her father had him in his power, and that he was any- 
 thing but a man to be depended on. He also thought that his being 
 called with her on the Sunday following would neutralise his call with 
 the housekeeper ; just as positive and negative quantities in algebra 
 cancel each other. But he was quite ignorant that the story of 
 Flattery's imprisonment was merely " plan of the daughter's to induce 
 him to marry her. 
 
 With respect to Peggy Donovan, he intended, should he succeed in 
 extricating himself from the meshes which the othsr two had thrown 
 around him, that she should be the elected one to whom he was 
 anxious to unite himself. As to the confusion produced by being 
 called to three at once, he knew that, however laughable in itself, it 
 would be precisely something like what the parish would expect from 
 him. Bouncing Phelim was no common man, and to be called to 
 three on the same Sunday would be a corroboration of his influence 
 with the sex. It certainly chagrined him not a little that one of them 
 was an old woman, and the other of indifferent morals, but still it 
 exhibited the claim of three women upon one man, and that satisfied 
 him. His mode of proceeding with Peggy Donovan was regular and 
 according to the usages of the country. The notice had been given 
 that he and his father would go a-courting, and of course they brought 
 the whisky with them, that being the custom among persons in their 
 circumstances in life. These humble courtships very much resemble 
 the driving of a bargain between two chapmen ; for, indeed, the 
 •closeness of the demands on the one side, and the reluctance of con- 
 
I90 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 cession on the other, are almost incredible. Many a time has a ma'.ch> 
 been broken up by a refusal on the one part to give a slip cf a pig, 
 or a pair of blankets, or a year-old calf. These art small matters in 
 themselves, but they are of importance to those who, perhaps ha\e 
 nothing else on earth with which to bejjin the world. 
 
 The house to which Phclim and his father directed themselves was, 
 like their own, of ths humblest description. The floor of it was about 
 sixteen feet by twelve ; its furniture rude and scanty. To the right 
 of the fire was a bed, the four posts of which ran up to the low roof ; 
 it was curtained with straw mats, with the exception of an opening 
 about a foot and a half wide on the side next the fire, through which 
 those who slept in it passed. A little below the foot of the bed were 
 ranged a few shelves of deal, supported by pins of wood driven intO' 
 the wall. These constituted the dresser. In the lower end of the 
 house stood a potato-bin, made up of stakes driven into the floor, and 
 wrought with strong wickerwork. Tied to another stake beside this 
 bin stood a cow, whose hinder part projected so close to the door that 
 those who entered the cabin were compelled to push her over out o 
 their way. This, indeed, was effected without much difnculty, for the 
 animal became so habituated to the necessity of moving aside that it 
 was only necessary to lay the hand upon her. Above the door in the 
 inside, almost touching the roof, was the hen-roost, made also of 
 wickerwork ; and opposite the bed, on the other side of the fire, 
 stood a meal chest, its lid on a level with the little pane of glass which 
 served as a window. An old straw chair, a few stools, a couple of 
 pots, some wooden vessels and crockery, completed the furniture of 
 the house. The pig to which Sheelah alluded was not kept within 
 the cabin, that filthy custom being now altogether obsolete. 
 
 This catalogue of cottage furniture may appear to our English 
 readers very miserable. We beg them to believe, however, that if 
 every cabin in Ireland were equally comfortable, the country would be 
 comparatively happy. Still it is to be remembered that the dratnatis 
 persona of our story are of the humblest class.. 
 
 When seven o'clock drew nigh, the inmates of this little cabin placed 
 themselves at a clear fire ; the father on one side, the mother at the 
 other, and the daughter directly between them, knitting, for this is 
 usually the occupation of a female on such a night. Everything in the 
 house was clear ; the floor swept, the ashes removed from the hearth, 
 the parents in their best clothes, and the daughter also in her holiday 
 apparel. She was a plain girl, neither remarkable for beauty nor 
 otherwise. Her eyes, however, were good, so were her teeth, and an 
 anxious look, produced of course by an occasion so interesting to a 
 female, heightened her complexion to a blush that became her. The 
 creature had certainly made the most of her little finery. Her face 
 shone like that of a child after a fresh scrubbing with a strong towel ; 
 her hair, carefully curled with the hot blade of a knife, had been 
 smoothed with soap until it became lustrous by repeated polishing, and 
 her best red ribbon was tied tightly about it in a smart knot, that stood 
 out on the side of her head with something of a coquettish air. Old 
 
PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 191 
 
 Donovan and his wife maintained a conversation upon some indifferent 
 subject, but the daughter evidently paid little attention to what they 
 sa.id. It being near the hour appointed for Phelim's arrival, she sat 
 with an appearance of watchful trepidation, occasionally hstening, and 
 starting at every sound that she thought bore any resemblance to a 
 man's voice or footstep. 
 
 At length the approach of Phelim and his father was announced by 
 a verse of a popular song, for singing which Phelim was famous. 
 
 " * A sailor coorted a farmer's daughter 
 
 That lived cofitagious to the Isle of Man. 
 
 A long time coortin', an' still discoorsin' 
 
 Of things consarnin" the ocean wide ; 
 
 At linth he saize, ' Me own dearest darlint, 
 
 Will you consint for to be me bride ? ' 
 
 * An' so she'd did consint, the darlin', but what the puck would she do 
 •else ? God save the family ! Paddy Donovan, how is your health ? 
 Molly, avourneen, I'm glad to hear that you're thrivin'. An' Peggy — 
 •eh ! Ah, be gorra, fadher, here's somethin' to look at ! Give us the 
 hand of you, you bloomer ! Och, och ! faith, you're the daisy I " 
 
 " Phelim," said the father, " will you behave yourself? Haven't you 
 the night before you for your capers. Paddy Donovan, I'm glad to see 
 you ! IMolly, give us your right hand, for, in throth, I have a regard 
 for you ! Peggy, dear, how are you .? But I'm sure I needn't be axin' 
 when I look at you ! In throth, Phelim, she is somethin' to throw your 
 eye at." 
 
 " Larry Toole, you're welcome," replied Donovan and his wife, *•' an' 
 30 is your son. Take stools, both of you, an' draw near the hearth. 
 Here, Phelim," said the latter, "draw in an* sit beside myself." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, Molly," replied Phelim; "but I'll do no sich 
 thing. Arrah, do you think, now, that I'd begin to gosther wid an 
 ould woman, while I have the likes o'Peggy, the darlin', beside me? 
 I'm up to a thrick worth nine of it. No, no ; this chest 'II do. Sure, 
 you know, I must help the * duck of diamonds ' here to count her 
 stitches." 
 
 "Paddy," said Larry, in a friendly whisper, "put this whisky past 
 for a while, barrin' this bottle that we must taste for good luck. Sam 
 Appleton's to come up afther us, an' I suppose some o' your own 
 ■cleaveejis 'ill be here after a while." 
 
 "Thrue for you," said Donovan. "Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin 
 is to come over presently. But, Larry, this is nonsense. One bottle 
 o' whisky was lashins ; my goodness, what'll we be doin' wid a whole 
 gallon ? " 
 
 " Dacency or nothin', Paddy ; if it was my last I'd show sperit, an' 
 ■why not ? Who'd be for the shabby thing ? " 
 
 " Well, well, Larry, I can't say but you're right, afther all ! Maybe 
 I'd do the same thing myself, for all I'm spakin' aginst it." 
 
 The old people then passed round an introductory glass, after 
 ■which they chatted away for an hour or so, somewhat like the riemb'srs 
 
192 FHELIM C TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 of a committee who talk upon indifferent topics until their brethrpn are 
 
 all assembled. 
 
 Phelim, in the meantime, grappled with the daughter, whose knit- 
 ting he spoiled by hooking the thread with his fingrr, joggmg her 
 elbow until he ran the needles past each other, and finally unravelling 
 her clue ; all which she bore with great good-humour. Sometimes,, 
 indeed, she ventured to give him a thwack upon the shoulder, with a 
 laughing frown upon her countenance, in order to correct him for 
 teabing her. 
 
 When Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin arrived the spirits of the 
 party got up. The whisky was formally produced, but as yet the 
 subject of the courtship, though perfectly understood, was not intro- 
 duced. Phelim and the father were anxious to await the presence of 
 Sam Appleton, who was considered, by the way, a hrst-rate hand at 
 match-making. 
 
 Phelim, as is the wont, on finding the din of the conversation 
 raised to the proper pitch, stole one of the bottles, and prevailed on 
 Peggy to adjourn with him to the potato-bin. Here they ensconced 
 themselves very snugly ; but not, as might be supposed, contrary to 
 the knowledge and consent of the seniors, who wmked at each other 
 on seeing Phelim gallantly tow her down with the bottle under his 
 arm. It was only the common usage on such occasions, and not 
 considered any violation whatsoever of decorum. When Phelim's 
 prior engagements are considered, it must be admitted that there was 
 something singularly ludicrous in the humorous look he gave over 
 his shoulder at the company as he went toward the bin, having the 
 bottom of the whisky bottle projecting behind his elbow, winking at 
 them in return, by way of a hint to mind their own business and allow 
 him to plead for himself. The bin, however, turned out to be rather 
 an uneasy seat, for as the potatoes lay in a slanting heap against the 
 wall, Phelim and his sweetheart were perpetually sliding down from 
 the top to the bottom. Phelim could be industrious when it suited 
 his pleasure. In a few minutes those who sat about the fire imagined, 
 from the noise at the bin, that the house was about to come about 
 their ears. 
 
 " Phelim, you thief," said the father, " what's all that noise for?" 
 '■^Chrosh orriti !" said Molly Donovan, "is that tundher ?" 
 " Devil carry these piatees," exclaimed Phelim, raking them down 
 with both hands and all his might, " if there's any sittin' at all upon 
 them! I'm levellin' them to prevint Peggy, the darlin', from slidderin', 
 an' to give us time to be talkin' somethin' lovin' to one another. The 
 curse o' Cromwell an them I One might as well dhrink a glass o' 
 whisky wid his sweetheart, or spake a tindher word to her, on the 
 wings of a windmill as here. There, now they're as level as you 
 plase, acushla ! Sit down, you jewel, you, an' give me the egg-shell, 
 till we have a sup o' the crathur in comfort. Faith, it was too soon 
 for us to be comin' down in the world ! " 
 
 Phelim ?.nd Peggy, having each emptied the egg-shell, which among 
 the poorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered into 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COUFTSHrP. I93 
 
 the following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud 
 and entangled conversation of their friends about the fire ; Phelim's 
 arm lovingly about her neck, and his head laid down snugly against 
 her cheek. 
 
 " Now, Peggy, you darlin' o' the world — bad cess to me but I'm as 
 glad as two tenpennies that I levelled these piatees ; there was no 
 sittin' an them. Eh, avourneen?" 
 
 " Why, we're comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim ! " 
 
 " Faith, you may say that " — (a loving squeeze). " Now, Peggy, 
 ■begin an' tell us all about your bachelors." 
 
 " The sarra one ever I had, Phelim." 
 
 " Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce ! Bad cess to me, if you can 
 spake a word o' thruth afther that, you common desaver ! Worn't 
 you an' Paddy Moran puUin' a coard ? " 
 
 " No, in throth ; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim. 
 Nothin' ever passed betune us but common civility. He thrated my 
 father an' mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, 
 when I was along wid them ; but he never broke discoorse wid me, 
 barrin', as I sed, in civility an' friendship." 
 
 " An' do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had a 
 sweetheart at all ?" 
 
 " The nerra one." 
 
 "Oh, you thief ! Wid two sich lips o' your own, an' two sich eyes 
 o' your own, and two sich cheeks o' your own ! Oh, by the tarn, that 
 won't pass." 
 
 " Well, an' supposin' I had — behave, Phelim — supposin' I had, 
 Where's the harm .'' Sure, it's well known all the sweethearts you had, 
 an' yet have, I suppose." 
 
 " Be gorra, an' that's thruth ; an' the more the merrier, you jewel, 
 you, till one get's marrid. I had enough o' them in my day, but 
 you're the flower cf them all, that I'd like to spend my life wid " — (a 
 squeeze). 
 
 " The sarra one word the men say a body can trust. I warrant 
 you tould that story to every one o' them as well as to me. Stop, 
 Phelim — it's well known that what you say to the colleens is no 
 gospel. You know what they christened you ' Bouncin' Phelim ' for." 
 
 "Betune you an' me, Peggy, I'll tell you a sacret ; I was the boy 
 for deludin' them. It's very well known the matches I might a' got ; 
 but you see, you little shaver, it was waitin' for yourself I was." 
 
 " For me !' A purty story, indeed! I'm sure it was ! Oh, afther 
 
 that ! Why, Phelim, how can you Well, well, did anyone ever 
 
 hear the likes ?" 
 
 " Be the vestments, it's thruth. I had you in my eye these three 
 years, but was waitin' till I'd get together as much money as ud set 
 us up in the world dacently. Give me that egg-shell agin. Talkin's 
 druthy work. Shiidorth, a rogarah ! an' a pleasant honeymoon 
 to us ! " 
 
 " Wait till we're marrid first, Phelim ; thin it'll be time enough to 
 dhrink that." 
 
'9* I'HELIM O' TOOLE* S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " Come, acushla, it's your turn now ; taste the shell, an' you'll sf'e 
 how lovin' it'll make us. Mother's milk's a thrifle to it." 
 
 " Well, if I take this, Phelim, I'll not touch another dhrop to- 
 night. In the manetime, here's whatever's best for us ! Whoo I 
 Oh, my ! but that's strong ! I dunna how ihp people can dhrink so 
 much of it ! " 
 
 " Faith, nor me ; except bekase they have % regard for it, an' that 
 it's worth havin' a regard for, jist like youi lelf an' me. Upon my 
 faix, Peggy, it bates all, the love an' likin' I have for you, an' ever had 
 these three years past. I tould you about the eyes, mavourneen, an' — 
 an' — about the lips " 
 
 "Phelim — behave — I say — now stop vvid you — well — well — but 
 you're the tazin" Phelim ! — Throth ! the girls may be glad when you're 
 marrid," exclaimed Peggy, adjusting her polished hair. 
 
 " Bad cess to the bit, if ever I got so sweet a one in my life — the 
 soft end of a honeycomb's a fool to it. One thing, Peggy, I can tell 
 you — that I'll love you in great style. Whin we're marrid it's I that'll 
 soodher you up. I won't let the wind blow on you. You must give 
 up workin', too. AH I'll ax you to do will be to nurse the childhre ;. 
 an' that same will keep you busy enough, plase goodness." 
 
 " Upon my faix, Phelim, you're the very sarra, so you are. Will 
 you be asy now ! I'll engage when you're marrid it'll soon be another 
 story wid you. Maybe you'd care little about us thin !" 
 
 "Be the vestrhents, I'm spaking pure gospel, so I am. Sure you 
 don't know that to be good husbands riuis in our family. Every one 
 o' them was as sweet as thracle to their wives. Why, there's that 
 ould cock, my fadher, an' if you'd see how he butthers up the ould 
 woman to this day, it ud make your heart warm to any man o' the 
 family." 
 
 " Ould an' young was ever an' a.' ways the same to you, Phelim. 
 Sure the ouldest woman in the parish, if she happened to be single, 
 couldn't miss of your blarney. It's reported you're going to be marrid 
 to an ould woman." 
 
 " He — hem — ahem ! Bad luck to this cowld I have ! It's stickin' 
 in my throath entirely, so it is ! — hem ! — to a what ? " 
 
 " Why, to an ould woman vvid a great deal o' the hard goold ! " 
 
 Phelim put his hand instinctively to his waistcoat-pocket, in which 
 he carried the housekeeper's money. 
 
 " Would you oblige one wid her name ? " 
 
 " You know ould Molly Kavanagh well enough, Phelim." 
 
 Phelim put up an inward ejaculation of thanks. 
 
 " To the sarra wid her, an' all sasoned women ! God be praised 
 — that the night's fine, anyhow ! Hand me the shell, and we'll take a 
 ^auliogue aich, an' afther that we'll begin an' talk over how lovin' an' 
 fond o' one another we'll be." 
 
 "You're takin' too much o' the whisky, Phelim. Oh, for goodness' 
 sake ! — oh — b — b — n — now be asy. Faix, I'll go to the fire, an' lave 
 you altogether, so I will, if you don't give over slustherin' me that way, 
 an' stoppin' my breath." 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S CO UR TSHIP. ' 95 
 
 " Here's all happiness to our two selves, acushla machree ! Now 
 thry SinoiheT jfuii/io^ue, an' you'll see how deludin' itil make you." 
 " Not a sup, Phelim," 
 
 " Arrah, nonsense ! Be the vestments, it's as harmless as new milk 
 from the cow. It'll only do you good, alanna. Come now, Peggy, 
 don't be ondacent, an' it our first night's coortin' ! Blood alive ! don't 
 make little o' my father's son on sich a night, an' us at business like 
 this, anyhow ! 
 
 " Phelim, by the crass, 1 won't take it ; so that ends it. Do you 
 want to make little o' me? It's not much you'd think o' me in your 
 mind, if I'd dhrink it." 
 
 " The shell's not half full." 
 
 " I wouldn't brake my oath for all the whisky in the kingdom ; so 
 ■don't ax me. It's neither right nor proper of you to force it an me." 
 
 " Well, all I say is that it's makin' little of one Phelim O'Toole, 
 that hasn't a thought in his body but what's over head an' ears in love 
 wid you. I must only dhrink it for you myself, thin. Here's all kinds 
 o' good fortune to us ! Now, Peggy — sit closer to me acushla ! — Now, 
 Pegg)', are you fond o' me at all.'' Tell thruth now." 
 
 " Fond o' you ! Sure you know all the girls is fond of you. Aren't 
 you ' the boy for deludin' them' ? — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " Come, come, you shaver ; that won't do. Be sarous. If you 
 knew how my heart's warmin' to you this minute, you'd fall in love 
 wid my shadow. Come, now, out wid it. Are you fond of a sartin 
 boy not far from you, called Bouncin' Phelim ?" 
 
 " To be sure I am. Are you satisfied now .? Phelim ! I say " 
 
 " Faith, it won't pass, avourneen. That's not the voice for it. Don't 
 you hear fne, how tendher I spake wid my mouth brathin' into your 
 tar, acushla machree ? Now turn about, like a purty entisin' girl as 
 you are, an' put your sweet bill to my ear the same way, an' whisper 
 what you know into it } That's a darlin' ! Will you, achora ? " 
 "An' maybe all this time you're promised to another .'"' 
 " Be the vestments, I'm not promised to one. Now ! Saize the 
 •one ! " 
 
 " You'll say that, anyhow ! " 
 
 * Do you see my hands acrass ? Be thim five Grasses, I'm not 
 promised to a girl livin', so I'm not, nor wouldn't, bekase I had you in 
 my eye. Now will you tell me what I'm wantin' you ? The grace o' 
 heaven light down an you, an' be a good, coaxin' darlin' for wanst ! 
 Be this an' be that, if ever you heerd or seen sich doins an' times as 
 we'll have when we're marrid. Now the weeny whispher,« colleen dhasP' 
 " It's time enough yet to let you know my mind, Phelim. If you 
 
 behave yourself an' be ^^"hy, thin, is it at the bottle agin you are ? 
 
 Now don't dhrink so much, Phelim, or it'll get into your head. I was 
 sayin' that if you behave yourself, an' be a good boy, I may tell you 
 somethin' soon." 
 
 "Somethin' soon ! Live horse, an' you'll get grass ! Pcggy> il 
 that's the way wid you, the love's all on my side, 1 see clearly. Are 
 you wiliin' to marry me, anyhow 1 " 
 
19^ PIIELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " I'm wiUin' to do whatsomever my father an' mother wishes." 
 
 •'/;« for havin' the weddin' off-hand ; an', of coorse, if we agree 
 to-night, I think our best plan is to have ourselves called on Sanday. 
 An' I'll tell you what, avourneen, — be the holy vestments, if I was to 
 be 'called' to fifty on the same Sunday, you're the darlin' I'd marry." 
 
 " Phelim, it's time for us to go up to the fire ; we're long enough 
 here. I thought you had only three words to say to me." 
 
 " Why, if you're tired o' me, Peggy, 1 don't want you to stop. I 
 wouldn't force myself on the best girl that ever stepped." 
 
 " Sure you have tould me all you want to say, an' there's no 
 use in us stayin' here. You know, Phelim, there's not a girl in 
 the parish ud believe a word that ud come out o' your lips. Sure 
 there's none o' them but you coorted one time or other. If you 
 could get betther, Phelim, I dunna whether you'd be here to-night at 
 all or not." 
 
 "Answer me this, Peggy. What do you think your father ud be 
 willin' to give you .-^ Not that I care a crona baun about it, for Pd 
 marry you wid an inch of candle." 
 
 " You know my father's but a poor man, Phelim, an' can give little 
 or nothin'. Them that won't marry me as I am needn't come here to 
 look for a fortune." 
 
 " I know that, Peggy, an' be the same a token, I want no fortune at 
 all wid you but yourself, darlin'. In the manetime, to show you that 
 I could get a fortune — Dhcr a Lorha HeenUf I could have a wife wid a 
 hundhre an' twenty guineas ! " 
 
 Peggy received this intelligence much in the same manner as Larry 
 and Sheelah had received it. Her mirth v/as absolutely boisterous for 
 at least ten minutes. Indeed, so loud had it been, that Larry and her 
 father could not help asking : 
 
 " Arrah, what's the fun, Peggy achora ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothin'," she replied, " but one o' Phehm's bounces." 
 
 " Now,'' said Phelim, " you won't believe me 1 Be all the books " 
 
 Peggy's mirth prevented his oaths from being heard. In vain he 
 declared, protested, and swore. On this occasion he was compelled 
 to experience the fate peculiar to all liars. Even truth, from his lips^ 
 was looked upon as falsehood. 
 
 Phelim, on finding that he could neither extort from Peggy an 
 acknowledgment of love, nor make himself credible upon the subject 
 of the large fortune, saw that he had nothing for it now, in order to 
 produce an impression, but the pathetic. 
 
 " Well," said he, " you may lave me, Peggy achora, if you like ; but 
 out o' this /'// not budge, wid a blessin', till I cry my skinful, so I won't. 
 Saize the toe I'll move, now, till I'm sick wid cryin' ! Oh, murdher 
 alive, this night ! Isn't it a poor case entirely, that the girl I'd suffer 
 myself to be turned inside out for won't say that she cares about a 
 hair o' my head ! Oh, thin, but I'm the misfortunate blackguard all 
 out ! Och, oh ! Peggy achora, you'll break my heart ! Hand me 
 that shell, acushla — for I'm in the height of affliction ! " 
 
 Peggy could neither withhold it nor reply to him. Her mirth was 
 
PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIT. i97 
 
 even more intense now than before ; nor, if all were known, wai 
 Phelim less affected with secret laughter than Pegg)'. 
 
 "Is it makin' fun o' me you are you thief. Eh ? — Is it laughin' at 
 my grief you are ? " exclaimed Phelim. " Be the tarn' o' war, I'll 
 punish you for that." 
 
 Peggy attempted to escape, but Phelim succeeded, ere she went, 
 in taking a salutation or two, after which both joined those who sat at 
 the fire, and in a few minutes Sam Appleton entered. 
 
 Much serious conversation had already passed in reference to the 
 courtship, which was finally entered into and debated, pro and con. 
 
 " Now, Paddy Donovan, that we're altogether, let me tell you one 
 thing — there's not a betther-natur'd boy, nor a stouther, claner young 
 fellow in the parish, than my Phelim. He'll make your daughther as 
 good a husband as ever broke bread ! " 
 
 " I'm not sayin' aginst that, Larry. He is a good-nathured boy : but 
 I tell you, Larry Toole, my daughther's his fill of a wife any day. An' 
 I'll put this to the back o' that — she's a hard-workin' girl, that ates no 
 idle bread." 
 
 " Very right," said Sam Appleton. " Phelim's a hairo, an she's a 
 beauty. Dang me, but they wor made for one another. Phelim, 
 abouchal, why don't you — oh, I see you are. Why, I was goin' to bid 
 you make up to her." 
 
 " Give no gosther, Sam," replied Phelim, " but sind round the bottle, 
 an' don't forget to let it come this way. I hardly tasted a dhrop to- 
 night." 
 
 " Oh, Phelim ! " exclaimed Peggy. 
 
 " Whisht ! " said Phelim, " there's no use in lettin' the ould fellows be 
 committin' sin. Why, they're hearty ^ as it is, the sinners." 
 
 " Come, nabours," said Burn, " I'm the boy that's for close work. 
 How does the match stand ? You're both my friends, an' may this be 
 poison to me, but I'll spake like an honest man for the one as well as 
 for the other." 
 
 " Well, then," said Donovan, "how is Phelim to support my daughther, 
 Larry ? Sure that's a fair questin', anyway." 
 
 " Why, Paddy," replied Larry, " when Phelim gets her, he'll have a 
 patch of his own, as well as another. There's that ' half acre,' and a 
 betther piece o' land isn't in Europe ! " 
 
 " Well, but what plenishin' are they to have, Larry ? A bare half 
 acre's but a poor look up." 
 
 " I'd as soon you'd not make little of it, in the manetime, ' replied 
 Larry, rather warmly. " As good a couple as ever they wor lived on 
 that half acre : along wid what they earned by hard work otherwise." 
 
 " I'm not disparagin' it, Larry ; I'd be long sorry ; but about the 
 furniture. What are they to begin the world wid? " 
 
 "Hut," said Devlin, "go to the sarra wid yees ? — What ud they 
 want, no more nor other young people like them, to begin the world 
 wid ? Are you goin' to make English or Scotch of them, that neve» 
 
 ' Tipsy. 
 
1 98 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S CO UR TSUI P. 
 
 marries till they're able to buy a farm an' stock it, the nagers. By the 
 staff in my hand, an Irishman ud lash a dozen o' them, wid all their 
 prudence ! Hasn't Phelim an' Peggy health and hands, what most 
 new-married couples in Ireland begins the world wid? Sure they're 
 not worse nor a thousand others ? " 
 
 " Success, Antony," said Phelim ; "here's your health for that !" 
 
 " God be thanked, they have health an' hands," said Donovan. 
 " Still, Antony, I'd like that they'd have somethin' more." 
 
 " Well, then, Paddy, spake up for yourself," observed Larry. " What 
 will vou put to the fore for the colleen ? Don't take both flesh an' 
 bone ! " 
 
 " I'll not spake up, till I know all that Phelim's to expect," said 
 Donovan. " I don't think he has a right to be axin' anything wid sich 
 a girl as my Peggy." 
 
 " Hut, tut, Paddy ! She's a good colleen enough ; but do you think 
 she's above anyone that carries the name of O'Toole upon him? Still 
 it's but raisonable for you to wish the girl well settled. My Phelim 
 will have one half o' my worldly goods, at all evints." 
 
 " Name them, Larry, i' you plase." 
 
 " Why, he'll have one o' the goats ; the grey one, for she's the best 
 o' the two, in throth. He'll have two stools ; three hens, an' a toss 
 up for the cock. The biggest o' the two pots : two good crocks ; three 
 good wooden trenchers, an' — hem — he'll have his own — I say, Paddy, 
 are you listenin* to me .'' — Phelim, do you hear what I'm givin' you, a 
 veehonee ? — his own bed! An' there's all I can or will do for him. 
 Now do you spake up for Peggy." 
 
 " I'm to have my own bedstead too ; " said Phelim, " an' bad cess to 
 the stouter one in Europe. It's as good this minute as it was eighteen 
 years agone." 
 
 " Paddy Donovan, spake up," said Larry. 
 
 " Spake up ! " said Paddy, contemptuously. " Is it for three crowns' 
 worth I'd spake up ? The bedstead, Phelim ! Bedhu hiisht, man ! " 
 
 " Put round the bottle," said Phelim, " we're dhry here." 
 
 " Thrue enough, Phelim," said the father. " Paddy, here's towarst 
 you an' yours — nabours, all your healths — young couple ! Paddy, 
 give us your hand, man alive ! Sure, whether we agree or not, this 
 won't put between us." 
 
 "Throth, it won't, Larr}- — an' I'm thankful to you. Your health, 
 Larrj', an' all your healths ! Phelim an' Peggy, success to yees, 
 whether or not ! An' now, in regard o' your civility, / -will spake up. 
 My proposal is this : — I'll put down guinea for guinea wid you." 
 
 Now we must observe, by the waj, that this was said under the firm 
 conviction that neither Phelim nor the father had a guinea in their 
 possession. 
 
 " I'll do the same, Paddy," said Larry ; " but I'll lave it to the 
 present company if you're not bound to put down the Jirst guinea. 
 Nabours, amn't I right ? " 
 
 " You are right, Larry," said Burn, " it's but fair that Paddy should 
 put down the first." 
 
PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COURTSHIP. I99 
 
 " jMoUy achora," said Donovan to the wife, who, by the way, was 
 engaged in preparing the little feast usual on such occasions — " Molly 
 achora, give me that ould glove you have in your pocket." 
 
 She immediately handed him an old shammy glove, tied up into a 
 hard knot, which he felt some difficulty in unloosing. 
 
 " Come, Larry," said he, layin ~ down a guinea note, " cover that 
 like a man." 
 
 " Phelim carries my purse," observed the father ; but he had scarcely 
 spoken when the laughter of the company rang loudly through the 
 house. The triumph of Donovan appeared to be complete, for he 
 thought the father's allusion to Phelim tantamount to an evasion. 
 
 " Phelim ! Phelim carries it ! Faix, an' I doubt he finds it a light 
 burdyeen." 
 
 Phelim approached in all his glory. 
 
 " What am I to do "i " he inquired, with a swagger. 
 
 " You're to cover that guinea note wid a guinea, if you can," said 
 Donovan. 
 
 " Whether ud you prefar goold or notes," said Phelim, looking 
 pompously about him ; " that's the talk." 
 
 This was received with another merry peal of laughter. 
 
 " Oh, goold — goold by all manes ! " replied Donovan. 
 
 " Here goes the goold, my worthy," said Phelim, laying down his 
 guinea with a firm slap upon the table. 
 
 Old Donovan seized it, examined it, then sent it round, to satisfy 
 himself that it vvas a bond fide guinea. 
 
 On finding that it was good he became blank a little ; his laugh 
 lost its strength, much of his jollity was instantly neutralised, and his 
 face got at least two inches longer. Larry now had the laugh against 
 him, and the company heartily joined in it. 
 
 " Come, Paddy," said Larry, " go an ! — ha, ha, na !" 
 
 Paddy fished for half a minute through the glove ; and, after what 
 vvas apparently a hard chase, brought up another guinea, which he 
 laid down. 
 
 " Come, Phelim ! " said he, and his eye brightened again with a hope 
 that Phelim would fail. 
 
 " Good agin ! " said Phelim, thundering down another, which was 
 instantly subjected to a similar scrutiny. 
 
 " You'll find it good," said Larry. " I wish we had a sackful o' 
 them. Go an, Paddy. Go an, man, who's afeard 1 " 
 
 " Sowl, I'm done," said Donovan, throwing down the purse with a 
 hearty laugh — " give me your hand, Larry. Be the goold afore us, I 
 thought to do you. Sure these two guineas is for my rint, an' we 
 mustn't let them come atween us at all." 
 
 " Now," said Larry, " to let you see that my son's not widout some- 
 thing to begin the world wid — Phelim, shill out the rest o' the yallow 
 boys." 
 
 " Faix, you ought to dhrink the ould woman's health for this," said 
 Phelim. " Poor ould crathur, many a long day she was saving up 
 these for me. It's my mother I'm speakin' about." 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " An' we will, too," said the father ; " here's Sheelah 's health, neigh' 
 hours ! The best poor man's wife that ever threwn a gown over her 
 shouldher." 
 
 This was drank with all the honours, and the negotiation proceeded. 
 
 "Now," said Appleton, "what's to be done? Paddy, say what 
 you'll do for the girl." 
 
 " Money's all talk," said Donovan ; " I'll give the girl the two-yeai 
 old heifer — an' that's worth double what his father has promised 
 Phelim ; I'll give her a stone cj' flax, a dacent suit o' cLo'es, my blessin' 
 — an' there's her fortune." 
 
 " Has she neither bed nor beddin' ?" inquired Larry. 
 
 " Why, don't you say that Phelim's to have his own bed ? " observed 
 Donovan. " Sure one bed 'ill be plenty for them." 
 
 " I don't care a damn about fortune," said Phelim, for the first time 
 taking a part in the bargain — " so long as I get the darlin' herself. 
 But 1 think there ud be no harm in havin' a spare pair o' blankets — 
 an', for that matther, a bedstead, too — in case a friend came to see a 
 body." 
 
 " I don't much mind givin' you a brother to the bedstead you have, 
 Phelim," replied Donovan, winking at the company, for he was per- 
 fectly aware of the nature of Phelim's bedstead. 
 
 " I'll tell you what you must do," said Larry, " otherwise I'll not 
 stand it. Give the colleen a chaff bed, blankets, an' all other parts 
 complate, along wid that slip of a pig. If you don't do this, Paddy 
 Donovan, why we'll finish the whisky, an' part friends — but it's do 
 match." 
 
 " I'll never do it, Larr\', The bed an' beddin' I'll give ; but the pig 
 I'll by no manner o' manes part wid." 
 
 " Put round the bottle," said Phelim, "we're gettin' dhry agin — say- 
 ing nothin' is dhroothy work. Ould man, will you not bother us 
 about fortune ! " 
 
 " Come, Paddy Donovan," said Devlin, " dang it, let out a little, 
 considher he has ten guineas ; an' I give it as my downright maxim 
 an' opinion that he's fairly entitled to the pig." 
 
 " You're welcome to give your opinion, Antony, an' I'm welcome not 
 to care a rotten sthraw about it. My daughther^s wife enough for him, 
 widout a gown to her back, if he had his ten guineas doubled." 
 
 " An' my son," said Larry, "is husband enough for a betthergirl nor 
 ever called you father — not makin' little, at the same time, of either 
 you or her." 
 
 " Paddy," said Burn, "there's no use in spakin' that way. I agree 
 wid Antony that you ought to throw in the ' slip.' " 
 
 " Is it what I have to pay my next gale o' rint wid ? No, no I If he 
 won't marry her widout it, she'll get as good that will." 
 
 " Saize the ' slip,' " said Phelim, " the darlin' herself here is all the 
 slip I want." 
 
 " But I'm not so," said Larry, " the ' slip ' must go in, or it's a brake 
 off. Phelim can get girls that has money enough to buy us all out o' 
 root. Uid you ^^Ar that, Paddy Donovan?" 
 
FHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " I hear it," said Paddy, " but I'll b'lieve as much of it as I like " 
 
 Phelim apprehended that, as his father got warm with the liquor he 
 might, in vindicating the truth of his own assertion, divulge the affair 
 of the old housekeeper. 
 
 " Ould man," said he, "have sinse, an' pass that over, if you have 
 any regard for Phelim." 
 
 " I'd not be brow-bate into anything," observed Donovan. 
 
 " Sowl, you would not," said Phelim; "for rr.y part, Paddy, I'm 
 ready to marry your daughther[a squeeze to Peggy] widout a hap'orth 
 at all, barrin' herself. It's the girl I want, an' not the slip.' 
 
 " Thin, be the book, you'll get both, Phelim, for your dacency," 
 Slid Donovan ; " but, you see, I wouldn't be bullied into puttin' one 
 foot past the other, for the best man that ever stepped on black 
 leather." 
 
 " Whisht ! " said Appleton, " that's the go ! Success, ould heart ! 
 Give us your hand, Paddy ; here's your good health, an' may you 
 never button an empty pocket ! " 
 
 " Is all settled ?" inquired Molly. 
 
 " All but about the weddin' an' the calls," replied her husband. 
 *' How are we to do about that, Larry ? " 
 
 " Why, in the name o' goodness, to save time," he replied, " let 
 them be called on Sunday next, the two Sundays afther, an' thin 
 marrid, wid a blessin'." 
 
 " I agree wid that entirely," observed Molly ; " an' now, Phelim, 
 clear away, you an' Peggy, off o' that chist, till we have our bit o' 
 supper in comfort." 
 
 " Phelim," said Larry, "when the supper's done, you must slip over 
 to Roche's for a couple o' bottles more o' whisky. We'll make a night 
 of it." 
 
 " There's two bottles in the house," said Donovan ; " an', be the 
 saikerment, the first man that talks of bringin' in more, till these is 
 dhrunk, is ondacent." 
 
 This was decisive. In the meantime the chest was turned into a 
 table, the supper laid, and the attack commenced. All was pleasure, 
 fun, and friendship. The reader may be assured that Phelim, during 
 the negotiation, had not misspent the time with Peggy. Their con- 
 versation, however, was in a tone too low to be heard by those who 
 were themselves talking loudly. 
 
 One thing, however, Phelim understood from his friend Sam 
 Appleton, which was that some clue had been discovered to an 
 outrage in which he (Appleton) had been concerned. Above all 
 other subjects, that was one on which Phelim was but a poor 
 comforter. He himself found circumspection necessary ; and he 
 told Appleton that if ever danger approached him, he had resolved 
 either to enlist, or to go to America, if he could command the 
 money. 
 
 " You ought to do that immediately," added Phelim. 
 
 " Where's the money ? " replied the other. 
 I don't know," said Phelim ; " but if I was bent on goin', the want 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 of money wouldn't stop me, as long as it could be found in the 
 counthry. We had to do as bad for others, an' it can't be a greater 
 sin to do that m»ch for ourselves." 
 
 " I'll thin kof it," said Appleton. " At any rate, it's in for a penny, 
 in for a pound, wid me." 
 
 When supper was over they resumed their drinking, sang songs, 
 and told anecdotes with great glee and hilarity. Phelim and Peggy 
 danced jigs and reels, whilst Appleton sang for them, and the bottle 
 also did its duty. 
 
 On separating about two o'clock there was not a sober man among 
 them but Appleton. He declined drinking, and was backed in his 
 abstemiousness by Phelim, who knew that sobriety on the part of 
 Sam would leave himself more liquor. Phelim, therefore, drank for 
 them both, and that to such excess that Larry, by Appleton's advice,, 
 left him at his father's, in consequence of his inability to proceed 
 homewards. It was not, however, without serious trouble that Apple- 
 ton could get Phelim and the f.<ther separated ; and when he did^ 
 Larry's grief was bitter in the extreme. By much entreaty, joined to 
 some vigorous shoves towards the door, he was prevailed upon to 
 depart without him ; but the old man compensated for the son's 
 absence by indulging in the most vociferous sorrow as he went along, 
 about " his Phelim." When he reached home his grief burst out 
 afresh ; he slapped the palms of his hands together, and indulged in 
 a continuous howl, that one on hearing it would imagine to be the 
 very echo of misery. When he had fatigued himself he fell asleep on 
 the bed, without having undressed, where he lay until near nine 
 o'clock the next morning. Having got up and dreakfasted, he related 
 to his wife, with an aching head, the result of the last night's proceed- 
 ings. Everything, he assured her, was settled ; Phelim and Peggy 
 were to be called the following Sunday, as Phelim, he supposed, had 
 already informed her. 
 
 " Where's Phelim }" said the wife ; " an' why didn't he come home 
 wid you last night ?" 
 
 " Where is Phelim ? Why, Sheelah woman, sure he did come 
 home wid me last night ?" 
 
 " Chrush orrin, Larry, no ! What could happen him? Why, man, 
 I thought you knew where he was ; an' in regard of his bein' abroad 
 so often at night, myself didn't think it sthrange." 
 
 Phelim's absence astounded them both, particularly the father, who 
 had altogether forgotten everything that had happened on the preced- 
 ing night after the period of his intoxication. He proposed to go- 
 back to Donovan's to inquire for him, and was about to proceed 
 there when Phelim made his appearance, dressed in his own tender 
 apparel only. His face was three inches longer than usual, and the 
 droop in his eye remarkably conspicuous. 
 
 " No fear of him," said the father : " here's himself. Arrah, Phelim, 
 what became of you last night ? Where wor you ? " 
 
 Phelim sat down very deliberately and calmly, looked dismally at 
 hi» mother, and then looked more dismally at his father. 
 
PIIELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 203 
 
 " I suppose you're sick too, Phelim," said the father. " My head's 
 goin' round like a top." 
 
 " Ate your breakfast," said his mother ; " it's the best thing for 
 you." 
 
 " Where wor you last night, Phelim ?" inquired the father. 
 
 " What are you sayin', oula man ? " 
 
 " Who wor you wid last night .' " 
 
 " Do, Phelim," said the mother ; "tell us, aroon. I hope it wasn't 
 met you wor. Tell us, avourneen .'"' 
 
 " Ould woman, what are you talkin' about ? " 
 
 Phelim whistled " Ulican dho oh" or the '* Song of Sorrow." At 
 length he bounced to his feet, and exclaimed in a loud, rapid voice — 
 
 " 3/a chuirp an diouoll ould couple, but I'm robbed of my ten 
 guineas by Sam Appleton ! " 
 
 "Robbed by Sam Appleton ! Heavens above!" exclaimed the 
 father. 
 
 " Robbed by Sam Appleton ! Gra machree, Phelim ! no, you 
 aren't ! " exclaimed the mother. 
 
 " Gra machree yotirself, but I say I am," replied Phelim ; " robbed 
 clane of every penny of it ? " 
 
 Phelim then sat down to breakfast — for he was one of those happy 
 mortals whose appetite is rather sharpened by affliction — and imme- 
 diately related to his father and mother the necessity which Apple- 
 ton's connection had imposed on him of leaving the country ; adding, 
 that while he was in a state of intoxication he had been stripped of 
 Appleton's clothes, that his own were left beside him ; that when he 
 awoke the next morning he found his borrowed suit gone ; that on 
 searching for his own he found, to his misery, that the ten guineas 
 had disappeared along with Appleton, who, he understood from his 
 father, had " left the neighbourhood for awhile, till the throuble he 
 was in ud pass over." 
 
 " But I know where he's gone," said Phelim, " an' may the divil's 
 !uck go wid him, an' God's curse on the day I ever had anything to do 
 wid that hell-fire Ribbon business ! 'Twas he first brought me into 
 it, the villain ; an' now I'd give the townland we're in to be fairly out 
 of it." 
 
 " Hanini an dioiiol!" said the father, "is the ten guineas gone? 
 The curse of hell upon him, for a black desaver ! Where's the 
 villain, Phelim ?" 
 
 "He's gone to America," replied the son. "The divil tare the 
 tongue out o' myself, too ! I should be puttin' him up to go there, an' 
 to get money, if it was to be had. The villain bit me fairly." 
 
 " Well, but how are we to manage .'' " inquired Larry. " What's to 
 be done .'* " 
 
 "Why," said the other, "to bear it, an' say nothin'. Even if he was 
 in his father's house, the double-faced villain has me so much in his 
 power that 1 couldn't say a word about it. My curse on the Ribbon 
 business, I say, from my heart out ! " 
 
 That day was a miserable one to Phelim and the father. The loss 
 
204 fHELIM O'TCCLE'S COUI 7 SHIP. 
 
 of the ten guineas and the feverish sickness produced by their de- 
 bauch rendered their situation not enviable. Some other small 
 matters, too, in which Phelim was especially concerned, independent 
 of the awkward situation in which he felt himself respecting the thtee 
 calls on the following day, which was Sunday, adde.l greater weight 
 to his anxiety. He knew not how to manage, especially upon the 
 subject of his habiliments, which certainly were in a very dilapidated 
 state. An Irishman, however, never despairs. If he has not apparel 
 of his own sufficiently decent to wear on his wedding day, he borrows 
 from a friend. Phelim and his father remembered that there were 
 several neighbours in the village who would oblige him with a suit 
 for the wedding ; and as to the other necessary expenses, they did 
 what their countrymen are famous for — they trusted to chance. 
 
 " We'll work ourselves out of it some way," said Larry. " Sure if 
 all fails us, we can sell the goats for the weddin' expenses. It's one 
 comfort that Paddy Donovan must find the dinner ; an' all we have to 
 get is the whisky, the marriage-money, an' some other thrifles." 
 
 " They say," observed Phelim, " that people have more luck whin 
 they're marrid' than whin they're single. I'll have a bout at the 
 marriage, so I will ; for worse luck I can't have, if I had half a dozer, 
 wives, than I always met wid." 
 
 " I'll go down," observed Larry, " to Paddy Donovan's an' send him 
 to the priest's io give in your names to be called to-morrow. Faith, 
 it's well that you won't have to appear, or I dunna how you'd get 
 over it." 
 
 " No," said Phelim, " that bill won't pass. You must go to the 
 priest yourself, an' see the curate: if you go near Father O'Hara, it 
 ud knock a plan on the head that I've invinted. I'm in the notion 
 that I'll make the ould woman bleed agin. I'll squeeze as much out 
 of her as 'ill bring me to America, for I'm not overly safe here ; or, if 
 all fails, I'll marry her, an' run away wid the money. It ud bring us 
 all acrass" 
 
 Larry's interview with the curate was but a short one. He waited 
 on Donovan, however, before he went, who expressed himself satisfied 
 with the arrangement, and looked forward to the marriage as certain. 
 As for Phelim, the idea of being called to three females at the same 
 time was one that tickled his vanity very much. Vanity where the 
 fair sex was concerned had been always his predominant failing. He 
 was not finally determined on marriage with any of them ; but he 
 knew that should he even escape the three, the eclat resulting from so 
 celebrated a transaction would recommend him to the sex for the 
 remainder of his life. Impressed with this view of the matter, he 
 sauntered about as usual ; saw Foodie Flattery's daughter, and under- 
 stood that her uncle had gone to the priest, to have his niece and 
 worthy Phelim called the next day. But besides this hypothesis 
 Phelim had another, which, after all, was the real one. He hoped 
 
 ' This is another absurd opinion peculiar to the Irish, and certainly one of the 
 most pernicious that prevail among them. Indeed, I believe there is no country 
 In which so many absurd maxims exist. 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 that the three applications would prevent the priest from calling him 
 at all. 
 
 The priest, who possessed much sarcastic humour, on finding the 
 name of Phelim came in as a candidate for marriage honours with 
 three different women, felt considerably puzzled to know what he could 
 be at. That Phelim might hoax one or two of them was very probable 
 but that he should have the effrontery to make him the instrument of 
 such an affair he thought a Iktle too bad. 
 
 " Now," said he to his curate, as they talked the matter over that 
 night, "it is quite evident that tLL; scapegrace reckons upon our 
 refusing to call him with a7iy of those females to-morrow. It is also 
 certain that not one of the three to whom he has pledged himself 13 
 aware that he is under similar obligations to the other two." 
 
 " How do you intend to act, sir .f"' inquired the curate. 
 
 " Why," said IVIr. O'Hara, " certainly to call him to each ; it will 
 give the business a turn for which he is not prepared. He will stand 
 exposed, moreover, before the congregation, and that will be some 
 punishment to him." 
 
 " I don't know as to the punishment," replied the curate. " If ever 
 a human being was free from shame, Phelim is. The fellow will con- 
 sider it a joke." 
 
 " Very possible," observed his superior ; " but I am anxious to 
 punish this old woman. It may prevent her from uniting herself with 
 a fellow who certainly would, on becoming master of her money, 
 immediately abandon her — perhaps proceed to America.'' 
 
 " It will also put the females of the parish on their guard against 
 him," said the innocent curate, who knew not that it would raise him 
 highly in their estimation. 
 
 " \Ve will have a scene, at all events," said Mr. O'Hara ; "for I'm 
 resolved to expose him. No blame can be attached to those whom he 
 has duped, excepting only the old woman, whose case will certainly 
 excite a great deal of mirth. That matters not, however; she has 
 earned the ridicule, and let her bear it." 
 
 It was not until Sunday morning that the three calls occurred to 
 Phelim in a new light. He forgot that the friends of the offended 
 parties might visit upon his proper carcass the contumely he offered to 
 them. This, however, did not give him much anxiety, for Phelim was 
 never more in his element than when entering upon a row. 
 
 The Sunday in question was fine, and the congregation unusually 
 large : one would think that all the inhabitants of the parish of 
 Teernarogarah had been assembled. Most of them certainly Vvfere. 
 
 The priest, after having gone through the usual ceremonies of the 
 Sabbath worship, excepting those with which he concludes the mass, 
 turned round to the congregation, and thus addressed them : — 
 
 " I would not," said he, " upon any other occasion of this kind, 
 think it necessary to address you at all ; but this is one perfectly 
 unique, and in some degree patriarchal, because, my friends, we are 
 informed that it was allowed in the times of Abraham and his suc- 
 cessors to keep mOi« than one wife. This custom is about being 
 
2o6 PHELIM OnOOLE'S CGUR TSHIF. 
 
 revived by a modern, who v.ants, in rather a barefaced minner, to 
 palm himself upon us as a patriarch. And who do you think, my 
 friends, this Irish patriarch is ? Why, no other than Bouncing Phelim 
 O'Toole!" 
 
 This was received precisely as the priest had anticipated ; loud 
 were the shouts of laughter from all parts of the congregation. 
 
 " Divil a fear o' Phelim ! " they exclaimed, " He wouldn't be him- 
 self or he'd kick up a dust some way," 
 
 "Blessed Phelim ! Jist like him! Faith, he couldn't be marrid in 
 the common coorse ! " 
 
 " Arrah, whisht till we hear the name o' the happy crathur that's to 
 be blisthered wid Phelim ! The darlin's in luck, whoever she is, an' 
 has gained a blessed prize in the ' bouncer.' " 
 
 " This bouncing patriarch," continued the priest, " has made his 
 selection with great judgment and discrimination. In the first place, 
 he has pitched upon a hoary damsel of long standing in the world ; — 
 one blessed with age and experience. She is qualified to keep Phelim's 
 house well, as soon as it shall be built ; but whether she will be able 
 to keep Phelim himself is another consideration. It is not unlikely 
 that Phelim, in imitation of his great prototypes, may prefer living in 
 a tent. But whether she keeps Phelim or the house, one thing is 
 certain, that Phelim will keep her money. Phelim selected this aged 
 woman, we presume, for her judgment ; for surely she who has given 
 such convincing proof of discretion must make a useful partner to 
 one who, like Phelim, has that virtue yet to learn. I have no 
 doubt, however, but in a short time he will be as discreet as his 
 teacher." 
 
 " Blood alive ! Isn't that fine language ? " 
 
 " You may say that ! Begad, it's himself catt discoorse ! What's 
 the Protestants to that ? " 
 
 " The next upon the list is one who, though a poor man's daughter, 
 will certainly bring property to Phelim, There is also an aptness in 
 this selection which does credit to the ' Patriarch.' Phelim is a great 
 dancer, an accomplishment with which we do not read that the 
 patriarchs themselves were possessed ; although we certainly do read 
 that a light heel was of little service to Jacob. Well, Phelim carries a 
 light heel, and the second female of his choice on this list carries a 
 * light hand ; ' ' it is, therefore, but natural to suppose that, if ever they 
 are driven to extremities, they will make light of many things 
 which other people would consider of weighty moment. Whether 
 Phelim and she may long remain stationary in this country is a 
 problem more likely to be solved at the county assizes than here. 
 It is not improbable that his Majesty may recommend the * Patriarch' 
 and one of his wives to try the benefit of a voyage to New South 
 Wales, he himself graciously vouchsafing to bear their expenses." 
 
 " Divil a lie in that, anyhow ! If ever anyone crossed the wather, 
 f helim will. Can't his reverence be funny when he plases ? " 
 
 ' [ntimating theft. 
 
PiJELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 207 
 
 " Many a time il was prophecized for him ; an' his reverence knows 
 best." 
 
 " Begad, Phelim's gettin' over the coals. But sure it's all the way 
 the father an' mother reared him." 
 
 " Tundher-an'-turf, is he goin' to be called to a pair o'them !" 
 
 " Faix, so it seems." 
 
 "Oh, the divil's clip ! Is he mad? But let us hear it out." 
 
 " The third damsel is by no means so well adapted for Phelim as 
 either of the other two. What she could have seen in him is another 
 problem much more difficult than the one I have mentioned. I would 
 advise her to reconsider the subject, and let Phelim have the full 
 benefit of the attention she may bestow upon it. If she finds the 
 ' Patriarch ' possessed of but om virtue, except necessity, I will admit 
 that it is pretty certain that she will soon discover the longitude, and 
 that has puzzled the most learned men of the world. If she marries 
 this ' Patriarch,' I think the angels who may visit him will come in 
 shape of policemen ; and that Phelim, so long as he can find a cudgel, 
 will give them anything but a patriarchal reception is another thing 
 of which we may rest pretty certain. 
 
 " I now publish the banns of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole 
 of Tcernarogarah and Bridget Doranof Dernascobe. If any person 
 knows of any impediment why these two should not be joined in wed- 
 lock, they are bound to declare it. 
 
 " This Bridget Doran, my friends, is no other than my old house- 
 keeper ; but when, where, or how Phelim could have won upon her 
 juvenile affections is one of those mysteries which is never to be ex- 
 plained. I dare say the match was brought about by despair on her 
 side, and necessity on his. She despaired of getting a husband, and 
 he had a necessity for the money. In point of age I admit she would 
 make a very fit wife for any ' Patriarch.' " 
 
 Language could not describe the effect which this disclosure pro- 
 duced upon the congregation. The fancy of everyone present was 
 tickled at the idea of a union between Phelim and the old woman. It 
 was followed by roars of laughter, which lasted several minutes. 
 
 " Oh, thin, the curse o' the crows upon him, was he only able to 
 butther up the ould woman ! Oh, Che dhiven ! that flogs. Why, it's 
 a wondher he didn't stale the ould slip, an' make a runaway match of 
 it ! — ha, ha, ha ! Musha, bad scran to her, but she had young notions 
 of her own ! A purty bird she picked up in Phelim ! — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 " 1 also publish the banns of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole of 
 Teernarogarah and Sally Flattery of the same place. If any of you 
 know of any impediment why they should not be joined in wedlock, 
 you are bound to declare it." 
 
 The mirth rose again loud and general. Foodie Flattery, wnose 
 character was so well known, appeared so proper a father-in-law for 
 Phelim that his selection in tfiis instance delighted them highly. 
 
 " Betther an' betther, Phelim ! More power to you ! You're fixed 
 at last. Foodie Flattery's daughter — a known thief! Well, what 
 hann ? Phelim himself has pitch on his fingers — or had, anyhow, 
 
2oS pheum o'TOor.E's courtship. 
 
 when he was ^owin' up — for many a thing stuck to them. Oh,bedad, 
 now we know what his reverence was at when he talked about the 
 'Sizes, bad luck to them ! Betune her an' the ould woman, Phelim ud 
 be in Paradise ! Foodie Flattery's daughter ! Begad, she'll ' bring 
 him property ' sure enough, as his reverence says." 
 
 " I also publish the banns of matrimony between Phelim O'Toole — 
 whom we must in future call the ' Patriarch ' — of Teernarogarah, and 
 Peggy Donovan of the same place. If any of you know any impedi- 
 ment in the way of their marriage, ycu are bound to declare it." 
 
 " Bravo ! Phelim acushla. 'Tis you that's the blessed youth. Tun- 
 dher-an'-whisky, did ever anybody hear of such desate? To do three 
 o' them. Be sure the Bouncer has some schame in this. Well, one 
 would suppose Paddy Donovan an' his dau^hther had more sinse nor 
 to think of sich a runnagate as Bouncin' Phelim." 
 
 " No, but the Pathriark! Sure his reverence sez that we mustn't 
 call him anything agin but the Pathriark ! Oh, be gorra, that's the 
 name ! — ha, ha, ha ! " 
 
 When the mirth of the congregation had subsided, and their com- 
 ments ended, the priest concluded in the following words : 
 
 " Now, my friends, here is such a piece of profligacy as I have never, 
 in the whole course of my pastoral duties, witnessed. It is the act of 
 Phelim O'Toole, be it known, who did not scruple to engage himself 
 for marriage to three females — that is, to two girls and an old woman 
 — and who, in addition, had the effrontery to send me his name and 
 theirs, to be given out all on the same Sunday ; thus making 7?ze an 
 instrument in his hands to hoax those who trusted in his word. That 
 he can marry but one of them is quite clear ; but that he would not 
 scruple to marry' the three, and three more to complete the half-dozen, 
 is a fact which no one who knows him will doubt. For my part, I 
 know not how this business may terminate. Of a truth he has con- 
 trived to leave the claims of the three females in a state of excellent 
 confusion; Whether it raise or lessen him in their opinion I cannot 
 pretend to determine. I am sorry for Donovan's daughter, for I know 
 not what greater calamity could befall any honest family than a matri- 
 monial union with Phelim O'Toole. I trust that this day's proceedings 
 will operate as a caution to the females of the parish against such an 
 unscrupulous reprobate. It is for this purpose only that I publish the 
 names given in to me. His character was pretty well known before ; 
 it is now estabHshed ; and having established it, I dismiss the subject 
 altogether." 
 
 Phelim's fame was now nearly at its height. Never before had such 
 a case been known ; yet the people somehow were not so much as- 
 tonished as might be supposed. On the contrary, had Phelim's court- 
 ship gone off like that of another man they would have felt more 
 surprised. We need scarcely say that the " giving out " or " calling" 
 of Phelim and the three damsels was spread over the whole parish 
 before the close of that Sunday. Everyone had it — man, woman, 
 and child. It was told, repeated, and improved as it went along. New 
 circumstances were added, fresh points made out, and other dramatii 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 209 
 
 iersonce brought in — all wiih great felicity, and quite suitable to Phe- 
 lim's character. 
 
 Strongly contrasted with the amusement of the parishioners in 
 general was the indignation felt by the three damsels and their friends. 
 The old housekeeper was perfectly furious : so much so, indeed, that 
 the priest gave some dark hints at the necessity of sending for a strait 
 waistcoat. Her fellow-servants took the liberty of breaking some 
 strong jests upon her, in return for which she took the liberty of break- 
 ing two strong churn-staves upon them. Being a remarkably strong 
 woman for her years, she put forth her strength to such purpose that 
 few of them went to bed without sore bones. The priest was seriously 
 annoyed at it, for he found that his house was a scene of battle during 
 the remainder of the day. 
 
 Sally Flattery's uncle, in the absence of her father, indignantly 
 espoused the cause of his niece. He and Donovan each went among 
 their friends to excite in them a proper resentment, and to form a 
 faction for the purpose of chastising Phelim. Their chagrin was 
 bitter on finding that their most wrathful representations of the insult 
 sustained by their families were received with no other spirit than one 
 of the most extravagant mirth. In vain did they rage, and fume, and 
 swear ; they could get no one to take a serious view of it. Phelim 
 O'Toole was the author of all, and from him it was precisely what 
 they had expected. 
 
 Phelim himself, and the father, on hearing of the occurrence after 
 mass, were as merry as any other two in the parish. At first the 
 father was disposed to lose his temper ; but on Phelim telling him he 
 would hear no " gosther '' on the subject, he thought proper to take it 
 in good humour. About this time they had not more than a week's 
 provision in the house, and only three shillings of capital. The joke 
 of the three calls was too good a one to pass off as an ordinary affair ; 
 they had three shillings, and although it was their last, neither of them 
 could permit the matter to escape as a dry joke. They accordingly 
 repaired to the little public house of the village, where they laughed 
 at the world, got drunk, hugged each other, despised all mankind^ and 
 staggered home, ragged and merry, poor and hearty, their arms about 
 each other's necks, perfect models of filial duty and paternal affection. 
 
 The reader is aware that the history of Phelim's abrupt engagement 
 with the housekeeper was conveyed by Fool Art to Sally Flattery. 
 Her thievish character rendered marriage as hopeless to her as length 
 of days did to Bridget Doran. No one knew the plan she had laid 
 for Phelim, but this fool ; and in order to secure his silence she had 
 promised him a shirt on the Monday after the first call. Now Art, 
 as was evident by his endless habit of shrugging, felt the necessity of 
 a shirt very strongly. 
 
 About ten o'clock on Monday he presented himself to Sally, and 
 claimed his recompense. 
 
 " Art," said Sally, " the shirt I intended for you is upon Squire 
 Nugent's hedge beside their garden. You know the family's goin' up 
 to Dublin on Thursday, Art, an' they're gettin' their washin' done in 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 time to be off. Go down, but don't let anyone see you ; take the 
 third shirt on the row, an' bring it up to me till I smooth it for you." 
 
 Art sallied down to the hedge on which the linen had been put out 
 to dry, and having reconnoitred the premises, shrugged himself, and 
 cast a longing eye on the third shirt. With that knavish penetration 
 however, peculiar to such persons, he began to reflect that Sally might 
 have some other object in view besides his accommodation. He deter- 
 mined, therefore, to proceed upon new principles — sufficiently safe, he 
 thought, to protect him from the consequences of theft. 
 
 " Good morrow, Bush," said Art, addressing that on which the third 
 shirt was spread. " Isn't it a burnin' shame an' a sin for you," he con- 
 tinued, " to have sich a fine white shirt an you, an' me widout a stitch 
 to my back. Will you swap } " 
 
 Having waited until the bush had due time to reply, 
 
 " Sorra fairer," he observed ; " silence gives consint." 
 
 In less than two minutes he stripped, put on one of the Squire's 
 best shirts, and spread out his own dusky fragment in its place. 
 
 "It's a good thing," said Art, "to have a clear conscience ; a fair 
 exchange is no robbery." 
 
 Now, it so happened that the Squire himself, who was a humourist, 
 and also a justice of the peace, saw Art putting his morality in prac- 
 tice at the hedge. He immediately walked out with an intention of 
 playing off a trick upon the fool for his dishonesty ; and he felt the 
 greater inclination to do this in consequence of an opinion long cur- 
 rent, that Art, though he had outwitted several, had never been out- 
 witted himself. 
 
 Art had been always a welcome guest in the Squire's kitchen, and 
 never passed the " Big House," as an Irish country gentleman's resi- 
 dence is termed, without calling. On this occasion, however, he was 
 too cunning to go near it — a fact which the Squire observed. By taking 
 a short cut across one of his own fields he got before Art, and turning 
 the angle of a hedge, met him trotting along at his usual pace. 
 
 " Well, Art, where now ? " 
 
 "To the crass roads, your honour." 
 
 " Art, is not this a fine place of mine ? Look at these groves, and the 
 lawn, and the river there, and the mountains behind all. Is it not equal 
 to Sir William R 's ? " Sir William was Art's favourite patron. 
 
 " Sir William, your honour, has all this at his place." 
 
 " But I think my views are finer." 
 
 " They're fine enough," replied Art ; " but Where's the lake before 
 ihe aoor f " 
 
 The Squire said no m.ore about his prospects. 
 
 " Art," he continued, " would you carry a letter for me to M ? " 
 
 " I'll be wantin' somethin' to dhrink on the way," said Art. 
 
 " You shall get something t» eat and drink before you go," said the 
 Squire, " and half a crown for your trouble." 
 
 " Augh," exclaimed Art, " be dodda, sir, you're nosed like Sir Wil- 
 liam, and chinned like Captam Taylor." This was always Art's com- 
 pliment when pleased. 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 The Squire brought him up to the house, ordered him refreshment, and 
 while Art partook of it, wrote a letter or mittimus to the county gaoler, 
 authorizing him to detain the bearer in prison until he should hear 
 further from him. 
 
 Art, having received the half-crown and the letter, appeared de- 
 lighted ; but on hearmg the name of the person to whom it was 
 addressed he smelt a trick. He promised faithfully, however, to 
 deliver it, and betrayed no symptoms whatever of suspicion. After 
 getting some distance from the big house, he set his wits to work, 
 and ran over in his mind the names of those who had been most in 
 the habit of annoying him. At the head of this list stood Phelim 
 O'Toole, and on Phelim's head did he resolve to transfer the revenge 
 which the Squire, he had no doubt, intended to take on himself. 
 
 With considerable speed he made way to Larry O'Toole's, where 
 such a scene presented itself as made him for a moment forget the 
 immediate purport of his visit. 
 
 Opposite Phelim, dressed out in her best finery, stood the house- 
 keeper, zealously insisting on either money or marriage. On one side 
 of him stood old Donovan and his daughter, whom he had forced to 
 come, in the charactei of a witness, to support his charges against the 
 gay deceiver. On the other were ranged Sally Flattery in tears, and 
 her uncle in wrath, each ready to pounce upon Phelim. 
 
 Phelim stood the very emblem of patience and good-humour. When 
 one of them attacked him he winked at the other two ; when either of 
 the other two came on he winked still at those who took breath. 
 Sometimes he trod on his father's toe, lest the old fellow might lose the 
 joke, and not unfrequently proposed their going to a public-house, and 
 composing their differences over a bottle, if any of them would pay 
 the expenses. 
 
 "What do you mane to do?" said the housekeeper ; "but it's asy 
 known I'm an unprotected woman, or I wouldn't be thrated as I am. 
 If I had relations livin' or near me, we'd pay you on the bones for 
 bringin' me to shame and scandal as you have done." 
 
 " Upon my sanies, Mrs. Doran, I feel for your situation, so I do," 
 said Phelim. " You've outlived all your friends, an' if it was in my 
 power to bring any o' them back to you I'd do it." 
 
 " Oh, you desaver, is that the feelin' you have for me, when I thought 
 you'd be a guard an' projection to me ? You know 1 have the money, 
 you sconce, an' how comfortable it ud keep us, if you'd only see what's 
 good for you. You blarnied an' palavered me, you villain, till you got 
 my infections, an' thin you tuck the colic as an excuse to lave me in 
 a state of dissolution an' disparagement. You promised to marry me, 
 an' you had no notion of it." 
 
 " You're not the only one he has disgraced, Mrs. Doran," said Dono- 
 van. "A purty way he came down, himself an' his father, undher 
 pretence of coortin' my daughter. He should lay down his ten guineas, 
 too, to show us what he had to begin the world wid, the villain ! — an* 
 him had no notion of it aither." 
 
 " An' he should send this girl to make me go to the priest to have 
 
P//ELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 him and her called, the reprobate," said Nick Flattery ; " an' him had 
 no notion of it aither." 
 
 "Sure he sent us all there," exclaimed Donovan. 
 
 "He did," said the old woman. 
 
 " Not a doubt of it," observed Flattery. 
 
 " Ten guineas ! " said the housekeeper, " An' so you brought my ten 
 guineas in your pocket to coort another girl 1 Aren't you a right profli- 
 gate } " 
 
 " Yes," said Donovan, " aren't you a right profligate ? " 
 
 "Answer the dacent people," said Flattery; "aren't you a right 
 profligate ?" 
 
 " Take the world asy, all of yees," replied Phelim. " Mrs. Doran, 
 there was three of you called, sure enough ; but, be the vestments, I 
 intinded — do you hear me, Mrs. Doran .'' Now have rason — I say, do 
 you hear me? Be the vestments, I intinded to marry only o?ie of you ; 
 an' that FIl do still, except Fm vexed — [a wink at the old woman]. 
 Yet you're all flyin' at me, as if I had three heads upon me." 
 
 " ^laybe the poor boy's not so much to blame," said Mrs. Doran. 
 " There's hussies in this world," and here she threw an angry eye upon 
 the other two, " that ud give a man no pace till he'd promised to marrv 
 them." 
 
 " Why did he promise to them that didn't want him thin ? " exclaimed 
 Donovan. " Fm not angry that he didn't marry my daughther — for I 
 wouldn't give her to him now — but I am at the slight he put an her." 
 
 "Paddy Donovan, did you hear what I said jist now?" replied 
 Phelim. " I wish to Jamini some people ud have sinse ! Be them 
 five Grasses, I know thim I intinded to marry, as well as I do where 
 Fm standin'. That's plain talk, Paddy. Fm sure the world's not past 
 yet, I hope" — [a wink at Paddy Donovan]. 
 
 " An' wasn't he a big rascal to make little of my brother's daughther 
 as he did ? " said Flattery ; " but he'll rub his heels together for the 
 same act." 
 
 " Nick Flatthery, do you think I could marry three wives? Be that 
 horseshoe over the door, Sally Flatthery, you didn't thrate me dacent. 
 She did not, Nick ; an' you ought to know that it was wrong of her to 
 come here to-day." 
 
 "Well, but what do you intind to do Phelim, avourn — you profli- 
 gate ? " said the half- angry, half-pacified housekeeper, who, being the 
 veteran, always led on the charge. 
 
 " Why, I intind to marry one of you," said Phelim. " I say, Mrs. 
 Doran, do you see thim ten fingers acrass — be thim five Grasses I'll do 
 what I said, if nothing happens to put it aside." 
 
 " Then be an honest man," said Flattery, " an' tell us which o' them 
 you "cvi// marry." 
 
 " Nick, don't you know I always regarded j^z/r family? If I didn't 
 that I may never do an ill turn ! Now ! But some people can't see 
 anything. Arra, tundher-an'-whisky, man, would you expect me to tell 
 out, before all that's here, who Fll marry — to be hurtin' the feelins of 
 the rest. Faith, Fll never do a shabby thing." 
 
PHELTM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " What rekimpinse will you make my daughther for bringin' d-wn htf 
 name afore the whole parish, along wid them she oughtn't to be named 
 in the one day wid ? " said Donovan. 
 
 "An" who is that, Paddy Donovan?" said the hoisekeeper, with a 
 face of flame. 
 
 " None of your broad hints, Paddy," ^aid Nick. " If it's a collusion 
 to Sally Flattery you mane, take care I don't make you ate your 
 words." 
 
 " Paddy," exclaimed Phelim, "you oughtn't to be hurtin' their 
 feelins I" — [a friendly wink to Paddy]. 
 
 "If you mane me," said the housekeeper, " by the crook on the fire, 
 I'd lave you a mark." 
 
 " I mane you for one, thin, since you provoke me," replied Donovan. 
 
 '' For o^ie is it ? " said Nick ; " an' who's the other, i' you plase ? " 
 
 " Your brother's daughther," he replied. " Do you think Vd even'* 
 my daughther to a thief?" 
 
 "Be gorra," observed Phelim, "that's too provokin', an' what I 
 wouldn't bear. Will yees keep the pace, I say, till I spake a word tc 
 Mrs. Doran ? Mrs. Doran, can I have a word or two wid you outside 
 the house?" 
 
 " To be sure you can," she replied ; " I'd give you fair play, if the 
 diotiol was in you." 
 
 Phelim, accordingly, brought her out, and thus accosted her : 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Doran, you think I thrated you ondacent; but do you 
 see that book ? " said he, producing a book of ballads, on which he 
 had sworn many a similar oath before. " Be the contints o' that book, 
 as sure as you're beside me, its you I intind to marry ! These other 
 two — the curse o' the crows upon them ! I wish we could get them 
 from about the place — is both dyin' for love o' me, an' I surely did 
 promise to get myself called X-o them. They wanted it to be a promise 
 of marriage ; but, says I, ' Sure if we're called together it's the same, 
 for whin it comes to that, all's right ' — an' so I tould both o' them, 
 unknownst to one another. Arra, be my sowl, you'd make two like 
 them, so you would ; an' if you hadn't a penny, I'd marry you afore 
 aithcr o' them to-morrow. Noav, there's the whole sacret, an' don't be 
 onaisy about it. Tell Father O'Hara how it is, whin you go home, an' 
 that he must call the three o' you to me agin, on next Sunday, and the 
 Sunday afther, plase goodness ; jist that I may keep my promise to 
 them. You know I couldn't have luck or grace if I marrid you wid 
 the sin of two broken promises on me." 
 
 " My goodness, Phelim, but you tuck a burdyeen off o' me 1 Faix, 
 you'll see how ha] py we'll be." 
 
 " To be sure we v;ill ! But I'm tould you're sometimes crass, Mrs. 
 Doran. Now, you must promise to be kind an' lovin' to the childhre, 
 or, be the vestment, I'll brake off the match yet." 
 
 " Och, an' why wouldn't I, Phelim acushla? Sure that's but rason.'^ 
 
 " VV'ell, take this book an' swear it. Be gorra, your word won't do, 
 
 ' Compare. 
 
PHELIM 0* TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 for it's a thing my mind's m..de up on. It's I that'll be fond o' the 
 childhre." 
 
 " An' how am I to swear it, Phelim ? for I never tuck an oath my- 
 self yet." 
 
 " Take the book in your hand, shut one eye, and say the words afther 
 me. Be the contints o' this book — " 
 
 " Be the contints o' this book — " 
 
 " I'll be kind, an' motherly, an' boistherous — " 
 
 " I'll be kind, an' motherly, an' boistherous—'' 
 
 " To my own childhre — " 
 
 "To my own childhre — " 
 
 "An' never bate or abuse thim— " 
 
 "An' never bate or abuse thim — " 
 
 " Barrin' whin they desarve it." 
 
 " Barrin' whin they desarve it." 
 
 " An' this I swear — " 
 
 " An' this I swear — " 
 
 "In the presence of St. Phelim." 
 
 "In the preseace of St. PJieli7n." 
 
 "Amin!" 
 
 " Amin ! " 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Doran, acushla, if you could jist know how aisy my 
 conscience is about the childhre, poor crathurs, you'd be in mighty fine 
 spirits. There won't be sich a lovin' husband, begad, in Europe. It's 
 I that'll coax you, an' butther you up like a new pair o' brogues ; but, 
 begad, you must be sweeter than liquorice or sugar-candy to me. Won't 
 you, darlin' ? " 
 
 " Be the crass, Phelim, darlin', jewel. 111 be as kind a wife as evei 
 breathed ! Arrah, Phelim, won't you come down to-morrow evenin' r 
 There'll be no one at home but myself, an' — ha, ha, ha I — Oh, you 
 coaxin' rogue ! I see you laughin' ! Will you come, darlin' ? " 
 
 " Surely. But, death alive ! I was near forgettin' ; sure, bad hick to 
 the penny o' the ten guineas but I paid away." 
 
 " Paid away ! Is it my ten guineas ?" 
 
 " Your ten guineas, darlin' ; an' right well I managed it. Didn't I 
 secure Pat Hanratty's farm by it ? Sam Appleton's uncle had it as 
 good as taken : so, begad, I came dow^n wid the ten guineas, by svay 
 of airles, an' now we have it. I knew you'd be plased to hear it, an' 
 that you'd be proud to give me ten more for clo'es an' the weddin' 
 expenses. Isn't that good news, avourneen ? Eh, you duck o' 
 diamonds ? Faith, let Phelim alone ! An' another thing — I must call 
 you Bridget for the future : it's sweeter an' more lovin'," 
 
 " Phelim, I wish you had consulted wid me afore you done it : but 
 it caa't be helped. Come down to-morrow evenin', an' we'll see what's 
 to be done." 
 
 " The grace o' heaven upon you, but you at'e the winnin'est woman 
 alive this day ! Now take my advice, an' go home widout comin' in. 
 I'm wantin' to get this other pair off o' my hands as well as I can ; 
 an' our best way is to do all widout noise. Isn't it, darlin? " 
 
P/IELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP, 215 
 
 " It is, Phelim, jewel ; an' I'll go." 
 
 " Faiih, Bridget, you've dealt in thracle afore now, you're iO sweet. 
 Now, acushla, farewell ; an' take care of yourself till to-morrow 
 
 evenin' 
 
 Phelim, on re-entering his father's cabin, found Larry and Peggy 
 Donovan placed between her father and Flattery, each struggling to 
 keep them asunder. Phelim at first had been an.xious to set them by 
 the ears, but his interview with the old woman changed his plan of 
 operations altogether. With some difficulty he succeeded in represi- 
 ing their tendency to single combat, which having effected, he brought 
 out Flattery and his niece, both of whom he thus addressed : 
 
 " Be the vestment, Sally, only that my regard an' love for you is 
 uncommon, I'd brake off the affair altogether, so I would." 
 
 " An' why would you do so, Phelim O'Toole .'' " inquired the uncle. 
 
 " Bekase," replied Phelim, " you came here an' made a show of 
 me, when I wished to have no bruhagh, at all at all. In regard of 
 Peggy Donovan, I never spoke a word to the girl about marriage 
 since I was christened. Saize the syllable ! My father brought me 
 down there to gosther awhile, the other night, an' Paddy sent away for 
 whisky. An' the curse o' Cromwell on myself ! I should get tossi- 
 cated. So while I was half-saes over, the two ould rips set to making 
 the match — planned to have us called — an' me knew nothin' about it, 
 good, bad, or indifferent. That's the thruth, be the sky above us ! " 
 
 " An' what have you to say about the housekeeper, Phelim ? " 
 
 " Why, I don't know yet who dotie me there. I was about takin' a 
 farm, an' my father borried ten guineas from her. Somebody heard 
 it — I suspect Sam Appleton — an' gave in our names to the priest, to 
 be called, makin' a good joke of it. All sorts o' luck to them, barrin' 
 good luck, that did it ; but they put me in a purty state ! But nev^er 
 heed ! I'll find them out yet. Now go home, both o' you, an' I'll 
 slip down in half an hour, wid a bottle o' whisky in my pocket. We'll 
 talk over what's to be done. Sure Sally here knows that it's my own 
 intherest to marry her, and no one else." 
 
 " If my father thought you would, Phelim, he'd not stag, even if he 
 was to crass the wather ! " 
 
 "Go home, Sally darlin', till I get this mad Donovan an' his 
 daughther away. Be all that's beautiful, I'll be apt to give him a 
 taste o' my shillely, if he doesn't behave himself ! Half an hour I'll 
 be down in — wid the bottle ; an' don't you go, Nick, till you see me." 
 
 " Phelim," said the uncle, "you know how the case is. You must 
 aither marry the girl, or take a long voyage, abouchal. We'll have no 
 bouncin' or palaver." 
 
 " Bedad, Nick, I've great patience wid you," said Phelim, smiling : 
 " go off, I say, both of you." 
 
 They then proceeded homewards, and Phelim returned to appease 
 the anger of Donovan, as he had that of the others. Fresh fiction 
 was again drawn forth, ever\- word of which the worthy father corro- 
 borated. They promised to go down that night and drink another 
 bottle together ; a promise which they knew by the state of theii 
 
2i6 PHELIM O' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 finances it was impossible to fulfil. The prospect of the " booze." 
 however, tranquillized Donovan, who in his heart relished a glass c' 
 liquor as well as either Phclim or the father. Shaking of hands and 
 ■ professions of friendship were again beginning to multiply with greai 
 rapidity, when Peggy thought proper to make a few observations on 
 the merits of her admirer. 
 
 "In regard to me," she observed, " you may save yourselves the 
 throuble o' comin'. I wouldn't marry Phelim, afther what the priest 
 said yistherday, if he had the riches o' the townland we're spakin' in. 
 I never cared for him, nor liked him ; an' it was only to plase my 
 father an' mother that I consinted to be called to him at all. I'll 
 never join myself to the likes of him. If I do, may I be a corpse the 
 next minute ! " 
 
 Having thus expressed herself, she left her father, Phelim, and 
 Larry to digest her sentiments, and immediately went home. 
 
 Donovan, who was outrageous at this contempt of his authority, 
 got his hat, with the intention of compelling her to return and retract 
 in their presence what she had said ; but the daughter, being the more 
 light-footed of the two, reached home before he could overtake her ; 
 where, backed by her mother, she maintained her resolution, and suc- 
 ceeded, ere long, in bringing, the father over to her opinion. 
 
 During this whole scene in Larry's, Fool Art sat in that wild ab- 
 straction which characterises the unhappy class to which he belonged. 
 He muttered to himself, laughed— or rather chuckled — shrugged his 
 shoulders, and appeared to be as unconscious of what had taken 
 place as an automaton. When the coast was clear he rose up, and 
 plucking Phelim's skirt, beckoned him towards the door. 
 
 " Phelim," said he, when they had got out, " would you like to earn 
 a crown ? " 
 
 " Tell me how, Art," said Phelim. 
 
 " A letther from the Square to the goaler of M goal. If you 
 
 bring back an answer you'll get a crown, your dinner, an' a quart o' 
 sthrong beer." 
 
 " But why don't you bring it yourself, Art ? " 
 
 "Why, I'm afeard. Sure they'd keep me in gaol, I'm tould, if 
 they'd catch me in it. Aha ! Bedad, I won't go near them : sure 
 they'd hang me for shootin' Bouypart — Aha !" 
 " Must the answer be brought back to-day, Art?" 
 " Oh, it wouldn't do to-morrow at all. Be dodda, no ! Five shillins' 
 your dinner, an' a quart o' sthrong beer ! — Aha ! But you must give 
 me a shillin' or two to buy a sword ; for the Square's goin' to make 
 me a captain : thin I'll be grand ! an' I'll make you a sargin'." 
 
 This seemed a windfall to Phelim. The unpleasant dilemma in 
 which Sally Flattery had placed him, by the fabricated accouat of her 
 father's imprisonment, made him extremely anxious to see Foodie 
 himself, and to ascertain the precise outrage for which he had been 
 secured. Here, then, was an opportunity of an interview with him, 
 and of earning five shillings, a good dinner, and a quart of stronot 
 beer, as already specified. 
 
PHELIM ' TOOLE 'S COUR TSHIP. 2 \ 7 
 
 " Art," said he, " give me the letther, an I'm the boy that'll soon do 
 the job. Long life to you, Art ! Be the contints o' the book, Art, 
 I'll never pelt you or vex you agin, my worthy ; an' I'li always call 
 you captain ! " 
 
 Phelim immediately commenced his journey to M , which <vas 
 
 only five miles distant, and in a very short time reached the gaol, saw 
 the gaoler, and presented his letter. 
 
 The latter, on perusing it, surveyed him with the scrutiny of a man 
 whose eye was practised in scanning offenders. 
 
 Phelim, whilst the gaoler examined him, surveyed the strong and 
 massy bolts with which every door and hatchway was secured. Their 
 appearance produced rather an uncomfortable sensation in him ; so 
 much so, that when the gaoler asked him his name he thought it 
 more prudent, in consequence of a touch of conscience he had, to 
 personate Art for the present, inasmuch as he felt it impossible 
 to assume any name more safe than that of an idiot. 
 
 " Aly name is Art Maguire," said he, in reply to the gaoler. " I'm 
 
 messenger to Square S , the one he had was discharged on Friday 
 
 last. I expect soon to be made groom, too." 
 
 " Come this way," said the gaoler, " and you shall have an answer." 
 
 He brought Phelim into the prison-y^rd, where he remained for 
 about twenty minutes, labouring under impressions which he felt be- 
 coming gradually more unpleasant. His anxiety was not lessened on 
 perceiving twenty or thirty culprits, under the management of the turn- 
 keys, enter the yard, where they were drawn up in a line, like a file of 
 soldiers. 
 
 " What's your name ? " said one of the turnkeys. 
 
 " Art Maguire," replied Phelim. 
 
 " Stand here," said the other, shoving him amongst the prisoners. 
 " Keep your head up, you villain, an' don't be ashamed to look your 
 friends in the face. It won't be hard to identify you, at any rate, you 
 scoundrel. A glimpse of that phiz, even by starlight, would do you, 
 you dog. Jack, tell Mr. S. to bring in the gintlemen — they're all 
 ready." 
 
 Phelim's dismay on finding himself under drill with such a villainous 
 crew was indescribable. He attempted to parley with the turnkey, but 
 was near feeling the weight of his heavy keys for daring to approach 
 a man placed in authority. 
 
 While thus chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, three gentle- 
 men, accompanied by the gaoler, entered the yard, and walked back- 
 ward and forward in front of the prisoners, whose faces and persons 
 they examined with great care. For a considerable time they could 
 not recognise any of them ; but just as they were about to give up 
 the scrutiny, one of the gentlemen approached Phelim, and looking 
 narrowly into his countenance, exclaimed : 
 
 " Here, gaoler, this man I identify. I cannot be mistaken in his 
 face ; the rough visage and drooping eye of that fellow put all donbl 
 as to his identity out of question. What's his name .'' " 
 
 " He gives his name, sir, as Arthur Maguire." 
 
 (4) H 
 
21 8 PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " Arthur what, sir?" said another of the turnkeys, looking earnestly 
 at I'helim. " Why, sir, this is the fellow that swoie the alibis for the 
 Kellys — ay, an' for the Delanys, an' for the O'Briens. His name is 
 I'helim O'Toole ; an' a purty boy he is, by all report." 
 
 Phelini, though his heart sank within him, attempted to banter 
 them out of their bad opinion of him ; but there was something 
 peculiarly dismal and melancholy in his mirth. 
 
 " Why, gintleman — ha, ha ! — be gorra, I'd take it as a convanience 
 — I mane as a favour — if you'd believe me that there's a small taste of 
 
 mistake here. I was sent by Square S. wid a letter to Mr. S 1, an' 
 
 he gave me fifty ordhers to bring him back an answer this day. As 
 for Phelim O'Toole, if you mane the rascal that swears the alibis, 
 faith, I can't deny but I'm as like him, the villain, as one egg is to 
 another. Bad luck to his 'dhroop,' anyhow ; Uttle I thought that it 
 
 would ever bring me into throuble — ha, ha, ha ! Mr. S 1, what 
 
 answer have you for the Square, sir ? Bedad, I'm afeard I'll be late." 
 
 "That letter, Master Maguire, or Toole, or whatever your name is, 
 authorizes me to detain you as a prisoner until I hear further from 
 Mr. S." 
 
 " I identify him distinctly," said the gentleman once more. " I 
 neither doubt nor waver on the subject; so you will do right to detain 
 him. I shall lodge informations against him immediately." 
 
 " Sir," said Phelim to the gaolor, " the Square couldn't mane me at 
 all, in regard that it was another person he gave the letter to, for to 
 bring to you ; the other person gave it to me. I can make my oath 
 of that. Be gorra, you're playin' your thricks upon sthrangers now, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Why, you lying rascal," said the gaoler, " have you not a few 
 minutes ago asserted to the contrary ? Did you not tell me that 
 your name was Arthur, or Art Maguire? That you are Mr. S.'s 
 messenger, and expect to be made his groom. And now you deny all 
 this." 
 
 " He's Phelim O'Toole," said the turnkey, " I'll swear to him ; but 
 if you wait for a minute I'll soon prove it." 
 
 He immediately retired to the cell of a convict whom he knew to 
 be from the townland of Teernarogarah, and ordering its inmate to 
 look through the bars of his window, which commanded the yard, he 
 asked him if there was anyone among them whom he knew. 
 
 The fellow in a few minutes replied, " Whethen, divil a one, barrin' 
 Bouncin' Phelim O'Toole." 
 
 The turnkey brought him down to the yard, where he immediately 
 recognised Phelim as an old friend, shook hands with him, and 
 addressed him by his name. 
 
 "Had luck to you," said Phelim, in Irish, "is this a place to welcome 
 your friends to?" 
 
 " There is some mystery here," said the gaoler. " I suppose the 
 fact is that this fellow returned a wrong name to Mr. S., and that 
 accounts for the name of Arthur Maguire being in the letter." 
 
 AD Phc!im'=; attempts to extricate himself were useless. He gave 
 
PHEUM O'TOOLES COURTSHJP. 219 
 
 them the proper version of the letter affair with Fool Art, but with- 
 out making the slightest impression : the gaoler desired him *i be 
 locked up. 
 
 " Divil fire you all, you villains ! " exclaimed Phelim, " is it goin' to 
 put me in crib yees are for no rason in life ? Doesn't the whole parish 
 know that I was never off o' my bed for the last three months, wid a 
 complaint I had, antil widin two or three days agone ! " 
 
 " There are two excellent motives for putting you in crib," said the 
 gaoler ; " but if you can prove that you have been confined to your 
 bed so long as you say, why it will be all the better for yourself. Go 
 with the turnkey." 
 " No, tarenation to the fut I'll go," said Phelim, "till I'm carrid." 
 " Doesn't the gintleman identify you, you villain," replied one of the 
 turnkeys ; " an' isn't the Square's letther in your favour ? " 
 
 " Villain is id ! " exclaimed Phelim. " An' from a hangman's cousin, 
 too, we're to bear this ! — eh ? Take that, anyhow, an' maybe you'll 
 get more when you don't expect it. Whoo ! Success, Phelim ! There's 
 blood in you still, abouchal ! " 
 
 He accompanied the words by a spring of triumph from the ground, 
 and surveyed the already senseless turnkey with exultation. In a 
 moment, however, he was secured for the purpose of being put into 
 strong irons. 
 
 " To the devil's warmin' pan wid ye all," he continued, " you may 
 do your worst. I defy yecs. Ha! be the heavens above me, you'' II 
 suffer for this, my fine gintleman. What can yees do but hang or 
 thransport me, you villain!; } I tell yees, if a man's sowl had a crust 
 of sin on it a foot thick, the best way to get it off ud be jist to shoot a 
 dozen like you. Sin ! Oh, the divil saize the sin at all in it. But 
 wait ! Did yees ever hear of a man they call Dan O'Connell } Be 
 my sowl, he'll make yees rub your heels together, for keepin' an inno- 
 cent boy in gaol, that there's no law or no warrant out for. This is 
 the way we're thrated by thim that's ridin' rough shod over us. But 
 have a taste o' patience, ye scoundrels ! It won't last, I can tell yees. 
 Our day will soon come, an' then I'd recommend yees to thravel for 
 your health. Hell saize the day's pace or happiness ever will be seen 
 in the country till laws, an' judges, an' juries, an' gaols, an' gaolers, 
 an' turnkeys, an' hangmen is all swep out of it. Saize the day ! An' 
 along wid them goes the parsons, an' procthors, tithes an' taxes, all to 
 
 the divil together. That day's not far off, ye d d villains. An' now 
 
 I tell yees, that if a hair o' my head's touched — ay, if I was hanged 
 to-morrow — I'd lave thein behnid me tnat ud put a bullet, wid the 
 help an' blessin' o' God, through anyone that'll injure me ! So lay 
 that to your conscience, an' do your best. Be the crass, O'Connell 
 'ill make you look nine ways at wanst for this ! He's the boy can put 
 the pin in your noses ! He's the boy can make yees thrimble, one an' 
 all o' yees — like a dog in a wet sack ! An', wid the blessin' o' God, 
 he'll help us to put our feet on your necks afore long ! " 
 
 " I liat's a prudent speech," observed the gaoler ; "it will serve you 
 very much." 
 
PHELIM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 Phelim consigned him to a very warm settlement in reply. 
 
 " Bring the ruffian off," added the gaoler ; " put him in solitary con- 
 finement." 
 
 '' Put mewid Foodie Flattery," said Phelim ; " you've got him here, 
 an' I'll go nowhere else. Faith, you'll suffer for givin' me false imprison- 
 ment. Doesn't O'Connell's name make you shake ? Put me wid 
 Foodie Flattery, I say." 
 
 " Foodie Flattery ! There is no such man here. Have you got 
 such a person here?" inquired the gaoler of the turnkey. 
 
 "Not at present," said the turnkey; "but I know Foodie well. 
 We've had him here twice. Come away, Phelim ; follow me, you're 
 goin' to be put where you'll have an opportunity of sayin' your prayers." 
 
 He then ushered Phelim to a cell, where the reader may easily 
 imagine what he felt. His patriotism rose to a high pitch ; he deplored 
 the wrongs of his country bitterly, and was clearly convinced that 
 until goals, judges, and assizes, together with a long train of similar 
 grievances, were utterly abolished, Ireland could never be right, nor 
 persecuted " boys" like himself at full liberty to burn or murder the 
 enemies of their country with impunity. Notwithstanding these 
 heroic sentiments, an indifferent round oath more than once escaped 
 him against Ribbonism in whole and in part. He cursed the system, 
 and the day and the hour on which he was inveigled into it. He 
 cursed those who had initiated him ; nor did his father and mother 
 escape for their neglect of his habits, his morals, and his education. 
 This occurred when he had time for reflection. Whilst thus dis- 
 pensing his execrations, the gaoler and the three gentlemen, having 
 been struck with his allusion to Foodie Flattery, and remembering 
 that Foodie was of indifferent morals, came to the unanimous opinion 
 that it would be a good plan to secure him ; and by informing linn 
 that Phelim was in prison upon a capital charge, endeavour to work 
 upon his fears, by representing his companion as disposed to tnin 
 approver. The state of the country, and Foodie's character, justified 
 his apprehension on suspicion. He was accordingly taken, and when 
 certified of Phelim's situation, acted precisely as had been expecteii. 
 With very little hesitation he made a full disclosure of the names of 
 several persons concerned in burnings, waylayings, and robbery of 
 arms. The first two names on the list were those of Phelim and 
 Appleton, with several besides, some of whom bore an excellent, and 
 others an execrable, character in the country. 
 
 The ne.xt day Fool Art went to Larry's, where he understood that 
 Phelim was on the missing list. This justified his suspicions of the 
 Squire ; but by no means lessened his bitterness against him for the 
 prank he had intended to play upon him. With great simplicity he 
 presented himself at the big house, and met its owner on the lawn, 
 accompanied by two other gentlemen. The magistrate was somewhat 
 surprised on seeing Art at large, when he imagined him to be under 
 the gaoler's lock and key. 
 
 "Well, Art," said he, concealing his amazement,* did you delivej 
 my letter?" 
 
PHELIM O'TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 " II went safe, your honour," replied Art. 
 
 ** Did you yourself give it into his hands, as I oi-dered you ?" 
 
 "Whoo! Be dodda, would your honour think Art ud tell a lie? 
 Sure he read it. Aha ! " 
 
 " An' what did he say, Art ? " 
 
 "Whoo! Why, that he didn't know which of us had the least 
 sense. You for sendin' a fool on a message, or me for deliverin' it." 
 
 " Was that all that happened .? " 
 
 " No, sir. He said," added the fool, with bitter sarcasm, alluding to 
 a duel in which the Squire's character had not come off with flying 
 colours — " he said, sir, that whin you have another challenge to fight, 
 you may get sick agin for threepence." 
 
 This having been the manner in which the Squire was said to have 
 evaded the duel, it is unnecessary to say that Art's readiness to refresh 
 his memory on the subject prevented him from being received a*; the 
 big house in future. 
 
 Reader, remember that we only intended to give you a sketch of 
 Phelim O'Toole's courtship ; we will, however, go so far beyond our 
 original plan as to apprise you of his fate. 
 
 When it became known in the parish that he was in gaol, under a 
 charge of felony, Sally Flattery abandoned all hopes of securing him 
 as a husband. The housekeeper felt suitable distress, and hoped, 
 should the poor boy be acquitted, that " he might hould up his head 
 wid any o'them." Phelim, through the agency of his father, succeeded 
 in getting ten guineas from her, to pay the lawyers for defending him, 
 not one penny of which he applied to the purpose for which he obtained 
 it. The expenses of his defence were drawn from the Ribbon-boy 
 fund, and the Irish reader cannot forget the elegant and pathetic 
 appeal made by his counsel to the jury on his behalf, and the strength 
 with which the fact of his being the whole support of a helpless father 
 and mother was stated. The appeal, however, was ineffectual ; worthy 
 Phelim was convicted, and sentenced to transportation for life. Wheii 
 his old acquaintances heard the nature of his destiny, they remembered 
 the two prophecies that had been so often uttered concerning him 
 One of them was certainly fulfilled to the letter, we mean that ir. 
 which it was stated " that the greatest swaggerer among the girls 
 generally comes to the wall at last." The other, though not literally 
 accomplished, was touched at least upon the spirit ; transportation for 
 life ranks next to hanging. 
 
 We cannot avoid mentioning a fact connected with Phelim which 
 came to light while he remained in prison. By incessant trouble he 
 was prevailed upon, or rather compelled, to attend the prison school, 
 and on examining him touching his religious knowledge, it appeared 
 that he was ignorant of the plainest truths of Christianity : that he 
 knew not how or by whom the Christian religion had been promul- 
 gated ; nor, indeed, any other moral truth connected with revelation. 
 
 Immediately after his transportation Larry took to drink, and his 
 mother to begging, for she had no other means of Hving In this 
 mode of life the husband was soon compelled to jom her. They are 
 
FHEI.IM 0' TOOLE'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 both mendicants, and Sheelah now appears sensible of the error in 
 their manner of bringing Phelini up. 
 
 " Ah ! Larry," she is sometimes heard to say, " I doubt that we woi 
 wrong for flyin' in the face o' God, because he didn't give us childhre. 
 An' when it plased him to grant us a son, we oughtn't to've spoiled him 
 by over-indulgence, an' by Ictlin' him have his own head in everything, 
 as we did. If we had sint him to school, an' larned him to work, an' 
 corrected him when he desarved it, instead of laughin' at his lies, an' 
 misbehaviour, and his oaths, as if they wor sport — ay, an' abusin' the 
 nabours when they'd complain of him, or tell us what he was — ay! 
 if we had, it's a credit an' a comfort he'd be to us now, an' not a 
 shame an' a disgrace, an' an afthction. We made our own bed, Larry, 
 an' now we must he down an it. An' God help us ! we made his bed 
 too, poor boy, an' a bad one it is. God forgive us ! but, anyhow, my 
 heart's brcakin', for bad as he was, sure we haven't him to look upon ! " 
 
 " Thrue," replied Larry. " Still he was game an' cute to the last. 
 Biddy Doran's ten guineas will sarve him beyant, poor fellow. But 
 sure the 'boys' kep' their word to him, anyhow, in regard of 
 shootin' Foodie Flattery. Myself was never betther plased in my 
 hfe than to hear that he got the slugs into his heart, the villain ! " 
 
 We have attempted to draw Phelim O'Toole as closely as possible to the 
 character of that class whose ignc ranee, want of education, and absence of all 
 moral principle constitute them the sliame and reproach of the country. By such 
 men the peace of Ireland is destroyed, illef^al combinations formed, bloodshed and 
 nightly outrages comraiutd. There is nothing more certain than this plain truth, 
 that if proper religious and moral knowledge were impresstd upon the early 
 principles of persons like F jelim, a conscience would be created capable of revolting 
 from crime. Whatever the grievances of a people may be, whether refJ or 
 imaginary, one thing is clear, that neither murder nor illegal violence of any de- 
 scription can be the ()roper mode of removing or rtdressing them. We have kept 
 I'lielim's Kibboiiism in ihe background, t)ecause its details could e.xcite only 
 aversion, and preferred exhibiting his utter ignorance of morality upon a less 
 offensive subject, in order that the reader might be enabled to infer, rather than to 
 wilness with his mind's eye, the deeper crimes of which he was capable. 
 
 ^ Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE END. >S^LIFQR!i^ 
 
 Printed by the Motley Press. 
 
RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 TO— ^ 202 Main Library 
 
 LOAN PERIOD 1 
 HOME USE 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. 
 
 Books may be Renewed by calling 642-3405. 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 E3 1 7 1995 
 
 JODISCURI 
 
 -flSr- 
 
 -6=^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 r\^i%m 
 
 ^ 
 
 it: J 
 
 AUG 2.8 1988 
 
 ^4 
 
 ^% 
 
 RECEIVED 
 
 UG 3 1 1996 
 
 \-:^r\\\ ATiONOFPT 
 
 MJT0 0ISajM24 '89 
 
 J UN191992 
 
 REC, ^^\^0.M\§^ 
 
 4r 
 
 JUN ^ - 19S2 
 
 c^ROULAT^o^ 
 
 FORM NO. DD6, 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIf 
 BERKELEY, Cm 
 
GENERAL LIBRARY - U.C. BERKELEY 
 
 BQQ0S325a2 
 
 / 
 
 Cav-le^b-vi 
 
 '~f\<