{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_35891/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_35891","id":"gutenberg_35891","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35891","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Irish wit and humor"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Marius Masi, Chris Curnow and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  HUMOURS OF\n  IRISH LIFE\n\n[Illustration: Frank Webber wins the wager\n\n  _Drawn by Geo. Morrow_]\n\n\n\n\n           HUMOURS\n        OF IRISH LIFE\n\n    WITH AN INTRODUCTION\n  BY CHARLES L. GRAVES, M.A.\n\n  [Illustration: Fiat Lux]\n\n\n           NEW YORK:\n  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY\n          PUBLISHERS\n\n\n    PRINTED BY THE\n  EDUCATIONAL COMPANY\n  OF IRELAND LIMITED\n  AT THE TALBOT PRESS\n        DUBLIN\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction.\n\n\nThe first of the notable humorists of Irish life was William Maginn, one\nof the most versatile, as well as brilliant of Irish men of letters.\n\nHe was born in Cork in 1793, and was a classical schoolmaster there in\nearly manhood, having secured the degree of LL.D. at Trinity College,\nDublin, when only 23 years of age. The success in \"Blackwood's Magazine\"\nof some of his translations of English verse into the Classics induced\nhim, however, to give up teaching and to seek his fortunes as a magazine\nwriter and journalist in London, at a time when Lamb, De Quincey,\nLockhart and Wilson gave most of their writings to magazines.\n\nPossessed of remarkable sparkle and finish as a writer, considering with\nwhat little effort and with what rapidity he poured out his political\nsatires in prose and verse, and his rollicking magazine sketches, it was\nno wonder that he leaped into popularity at a bound. He was the original\nof the Captain Shandon of Pendennis and though Thackeray undoubtedly\nattributed to him a political venality of which he was never guilty,\nwhilst describing him during what was undoubtedly the latter and least\nreputable period in his career, it is evident that he considered Maginn\nto be, as he undoubtedly was, a literary figure of conspicuous\naccomplishment and mark in the contemporary world of letters.\n\nAmongst his satiric writings, his panegyric of Colonel Pride may stand\ncomparison even with Swift's most notable philippics; whilst his Sir\nMorgan O'Doherty was the undoubted ancestor of Maxwell's and Lever's\nhard drinking, practical joking Irish military heroes, and frequently\nappears as one of the speakers in Professor Wilson's \"Noctes\nAmbrosianae,\" of which the doctor was one of the mainstays.\n\nBesides his convivial song of \"St. Patrick,\" his \"Gathering of the\nMahonys,\" and his \"Cork is an Eden for you, Love, and me,\" written by\nhim as genuine \"Irish Melodies,\" to serve as an antidote to what he\ncalled the finicking Bacchanalianism of Moore, he contributed, as Mr. D.\nJ. O'Donoghue conclusively proves, several stories, including \"Daniel\nO'Rourke,\" printed in this volume, to Crofton Croker's \"Fairy Legends\nand Traditions of Ireland,\" first published anonymously in 1825--a set\nof Folk Tales full of a literary charm which still makes them delightful\nreading. For just as Moore took Irish airs, touched them up and\npartnered them with lyrics to suit upper class British and Irish taste,\nso Croker gathered his Folk Tales from the Munster peasantry with whom\nhe was familiar and, assisted by Maginn and others, gave them exactly\nthat form and finish needful to provide the reading public of his day\nwith an inviting volume of fairy lore.\n\nCarleton and the brothers John and Michael Banim, besides Samuel Lover,\nwhose gifts are treated of elsewhere in this introduction, followed with\nwhat Dr. Douglas Hyde rightly describes as Folk Lore of \"an incidental\nand highly manipulated type.\"\n\nA more genuine Irish storyteller was Patrick Kennedy, twice represented\nin this volume, whose \"Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celt\" and\n\"Fireside Stories of Ireland\" were put down by him much as he heard\nthem as a boy in his native county of Wexford, where they had already\npassed with little change in the telling from the Gaelic into the\npeculiar Anglo-Irish local dialect which is markedly West Saxon in its\ncharacter.\n\nHis lineal successor as a Wexford Folklorist is Mr. P. J. McCall, one of\nwhose stories, \"Fionn MacCumhail and the Princess\" we reproduce, and a\nwoman Folk tale teller, Miss B. Hunt, adds to our indebtedness to such\nwriters by her recently published and delightful _Folk Tales of Breffny_\nfrom which \"McCarthy of Connacht\" has been taken for these pages.\n\nWe have also the advantage of using Dr. Hyde's \"The Piper and the Puca,\"\na foretaste, we believe, of the pleasure in store for our readers in the\nvolume of Folk Tales he is contributing to \"Every Irishman's Library\"\nunder the engaging title of \"Irish Saints and Sinners.\"\n\nIn a survey of the Anglo-Irish humorous novel of recent times, the works\nof Charles Lever form a convenient point of departure, for with all his\nlimitations he was the first to write about Irish life in such a way as\nto appeal widely and effectively to an English audience. We have no\nintention of dwelling upon him at any length--he belongs to an earlier\ngeneration--but between him and his successors there are points both of\nresemblance and of dissimilarity sufficient to make an interesting\ncomparison. The politics and social conditions of Lever's time are not\nthose of the present, but the spirit of Lever's Irishman, though with\nmodifications, is still alive to-day.\n\nLever had not the intensity of Carleton, or the fine humanity of\nKickham, but he was less uncompromising in his use of local colour, and\nhe was, as a rule, far more cheerful. He had not the tender grace or\nsimplicity of Gerald Griffin, and never wrote anything so moving or\nbeautiful as \"The Collegians,\" which will form a special volume of this\nLibrary, but he surpassed him in vitality, gusto, exuberance and\nknowledge of the world.\n\nOverrated in the early stages of his career, Lever paid the penalty of\nhis too facile triumphs in his lifetime, and his undoubted talents have\nlatterly been depreciated on political as well as artistic grounds. His\nheroes were drawn, with few exceptions, from the landlord class or their\nfaithful retainers. The gallant Irish officers, whose Homeric exploits\nhe loved to celebrate, held commissions in the British army. Lever has\nnever been popular with Nationalist politicians, though, as a matter of\nfact no one ever exhibited the extravagance and recklessness of the\nlanded gentry in more glaring colours. And he is anathema to the\nhierophants of the Neo-Celtic Renascence on account of his jocularity.\nThere is nothing crepuscular about Lever; you might as well expect to\nfind a fairy in a railway station.\n\nAgain, Lever never was and never could be the novelist of literary men.\nHe was neither a scholar nor an artist; he wrote largely in instalments;\nand in his earlier novels was wont to end a chapter in a manner that\nrendered something like a miracle necessary to continue the existence of\nthe hero: \"He fell lifeless to the ground, the same instant I was felled\nto the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.\" In technique and\ncharacterisation his later novels show a great advance, but if he lives,\nit will be by the spirited loosely-knit romances of love and war\ncomposed in the first ten years of his literary career. His heroes had\nno scruples in proclaiming their physical advantages and athletic\nprowess; Charles O'Malley, that typical Galway _miles gloriosus_,\nintroduces himself with ingenuous egotism in the following passage:\n\n  \"I rode boldly with fox-hounds; I was about the best shot within\n  twenty miles of us; I could swim the Shannon at Holy Island; I drove\n  four-in-hand better than the coachman himself; and from finding a hare\n  to cooking a salmon, my equal could not be found from Killaloe to\n  Banagher.\"\n\nThe life led by the Playboys of the West (old style) as depicted in\nLever's pages was one incessant round of reckless hospitality, tempered\nby duels and practical joking, but it had its justification in the\nfamily annals of the fire-eating Blakes and Bodkins and the records of\nthe Connaught Circuit. The intrepidity of Lever's heroes was only\nequalled by their indiscretion, their good luck in escaping from the\nconsequences of their folly, and their susceptibility. His womenfolk may\nbe roughly divided into three classes; sentimental heroines, who sighed,\nand blushed and fainted on the slightest provocation; buxom Amazons,\nlike Baby Blake; and campaigners or adventuresses. But the gentle,\nsentimental, angelic type predominates, and finds a perfect\nrepresentative in Lucy Dashwood.\n\nWhen Charles O'Malley was recovering from an accident in the hunting\nfield, he fell asleep in an easy-chair in the drawing-room and was\nawakened by the \"thrilling chords of a harp\":\n\n  \"I turned gently round in my chair and beheld Miss Dashwood. She was\n  seated in a recess of an old-fashioned window; the pale yellow glow of\n  a wintry sun at evening fell upon her beautiful hair, and tinged it\n  with such a light as I have often since then seen in Rembrandt's\n  pictures; her head leaned upon the harp, and, as she struck its chords\n  at random, I saw that her mind was far away from all around her. As I\n  looked, she suddenly started from her leaning attitude, and, parting\n  back her curls from her brow, she preluded a few chords, and then\n  sighed forth, rather than sang, that most beautiful of Moore's\n  melodies--\n\n    'She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.'\n\n  Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling, met my\n  astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell one by one\n  down my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and when she ceased, I hid my\n  head between my hands and sobbed aloud.\"\n\nLever's serious heroines, apart from the fact that they could ride, did\nnot differ in essentials from those of Dickens, and a sense of humour\nwas no part of their mental equipment. The hated rival, the dark-browed\nCaptain Hammersly, was distinguished by his \"cold air and repelling\n_hauteur_,\" and is a familiar figure in mid-Victorian romance. Lever's\nsentiment, in short, is old-fashioned, and cannot be expected to appeal\nto a Feminist age which has given us the public school girl and the\nsuffragist. There is no psychological interest in the relations of his\nheroes and heroines; Charles's farewell to Lucy is on a par with the\nlove speeches in \"The Lyons Mail.\" There is seldom any doubt as to the\nultimate reunion of his lovers; we are only concerned with the ingenuity\nof the author in surmounting the obstacles of his own invention. He was\nfertile in the devising of exciting incident; he was always able to eke\nout the narrative with a good story or song--as a writer of convivial,\nthrasonic or mock-sentimental verse he was quite in the first class--and\nin his earlier novels his high spirits and sense of fun never failed.\n\nIn his easy-going methods he may have been influenced by the example of\nDickens--the Dickens of the \"Pickwick Papers\"--but there is no ground\nfor any charge of conscious imitation, and where he challenged direct\ncomparison--in the character of Mickey Free--he succeeded in drawing an\nIrish Sam Weller who falls little short of his more famous Cockney\ncounterpart. For Lever was a genuine humorist, or perhaps we should say\na genuine comedian, since the element of theatricality was seldom\nabsent. The choicest exploits of that grotesque Admirable Crichton,\nFrank Webber, were carried out by hoaxing, disguise, or trickery of some\nsort. But the scene in which Frank wins his wager by impersonating Miss\nJudy Macan and sings \"The Widow Malone\" is an admirable piece of\nsustained fooling: admirable, too, in its way is the rescue of the\nimaginary captive in the Dublin drain. As a delineator of the humours of\nUniversity life, Lever combined the atmosphere of \"Verdant Green\" with\nthe sumptuous upholstery of Ouida. Here, again, in his portraits of dons\nand undergraduates Lever undoubtedly drew in part from life, but fell\ninto his characteristic vice of exaggeration in his embroidery. Frank\nWebber's antics are amusing, but it is hard to swallow his amazing\nliterary gifts or the contrast between his effeminate appearance and his\ndare-devil energy.\n\nWhile \"Lord Kilgobbin\"--which ran as a serial in the \"Cornhill Magazine\"\nfrom October, 1870, to March, 1872--was not wholly free from Lever's\nbesetting sin, it is interesting not only as the most thoughtful and\ncarefully written of his novels, but on account of its political\nattitude. Here Lever proved himself no champion _a outrance_ of the\nlandlords, but was ready to admit that their joyous conviviality was too\noften attended by gross mismanagement of their estates. The methods of\nPeter Gill, the land steward, are shown to be all centred in craft and\nsubtlety--\"outwitting this man, forestalling that, doing everything by\nhalves, so that no boon came unassociated with some contingency or other\nby which he secured to himself unlimited power and uncontrolled\ntyranny.\" The sympathy extended to the rebels of '98 is remarkable and\nfinds expression in the spirited lines:--\n\n  \"Is there anything more we can fight or can hate for?\n     The 'drop' and the famine have made our ranks thin.\n   In the name of endurance, then, what do we wait for?\n     Will nobody give us the word to begin?\"\n\nThese must have been almost the last lines Lever ever wrote, unless we\naccept the bitter epitaph on himself:\n\n  \"For sixty odd years he lived in the thick of it,\n   And now he is gone, not so much very sick of it,\n   As because he believed he heard somebody say,\n   'Harry Lorrequer's hearse is stopping the way.'\"\n\nThe bitterness of the epitaph lies in the fact that it was largely true;\nhe had exhausted the vein of rollicking romance on which his fame and\npopularity rested. For the rest the charge of misrepresenting Irish life\nis met by so judicious a critic as the late Dr. Garnett with a direct\nnegative:--\n\n  \"He has not actually misrepresented anything, and cannot be censured\n  for confining himself to the society which he knew; nor was his talent\n  adapted for the treatment of such life in its melancholy and poetic\n  aspects, even if these had been more familiar to him.\"\n\nOf the humorous Irish novelists who entered into competition with Lever\nfor the favour of the English-speaking public in his lifetime, two claim\nspecial notice--Samuel Lover and Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. Lover has\nalways been bracketed with Lever, whom he resembled in many ways, but he\nwas overshadowed by his more brilliant and versatile contemporary. Yet\nwithin his limited sphere he was a true humorist, and the careless,\nwhimsical, illogical aspects of Irish character have seldom been more\neffectively illustrated than by the author of 'Handy Andy,' and 'The\nGridiron.' Paddy, as drawn by Lover, succeeds in spite of his\ndrawbacks, much as Brer Rabbit does in the tales of Uncle Remus. His\nmental processes remind one of the story of the Hungarian baron who, on\npaying a visit to a friend after a railway journey, complained of a bad\nheadache, the result of sitting with his back to the engine. When his\nfriend asked, \"Why did not you change places with your _vis-a-vis_?\" the\nbaron replied, \"How could I? I had no _vis-a-vis_.\" Lover's heroes\n\"liked action, but they hated work\": the philosophy of thriftlessness is\nsummed up to perfection in \"Paddy's Pastoral\":--\n\n  \"Here's a health to you, my darlin',\n   Though I'm not worth a farthin';\n   For when I'm drunk I think I'm rich,\n   I've a featherbed in every ditch!\"\n\nFor all his kindliness Lover laid too much stress on this happy-go-lucky\nfecklessness to minister to Irish self-respect. His pictures of Irish\nlife were based on limited experience; in so far as they are true, they\nrecall and emphasise traits which many patriotic Irishmen wish to forget\nor eliminate. An age which has witnessed the growth of Irish\nAgricultural Co-operation is intolerant of a novelist who for the most\npart represents his countrymen as diverting idiots, and therefore we\nprefer to represent him in this volume by \"The Little Weaver,\" one of\nthose mock heroic tales in which Irishmen have excelled from his day to\nthat of Edmund Downey. No better example could be given of his easy flow\nof humour in genuine Hiberno-English or of his shrewd portraiture of\nsuch simple types of Irish peasant character.\n\nThe case of Le Fanu is peculiar. His best-known novels had no specially\ncharacteristic Irish flavour. But his sombre talent was lit by\nintermittent flashes of the wildest hilarity, and it was in this mood\nthat the author of \"Uncle Silas\" and \"Carmilla\" wrote \"The Quare\nGandher\" and \"Billy Malowney's Taste of Love and Glory,\" two of the most\nbrilliantly comic extravaganzas which were ever written by an Irishman,\nand which no one but an Irishman could ever have written.\n\nThere is no Salic Law in letters, and since the deaths of Lever and Le\nFanu the sceptre of the realm of Irish fiction has passed to women. But\nthe years between 1870 and 1890 were not propitious for humorists, and\nthe admirable work of the late Miss Emily Lawless, who had already made\nher mark in \"Hurrish\" before the latter date, does not fall within the\npresent survey. The same remark applies to Mrs. Hartley, but there is a\nfine sense of humour in the delicate idylls of Miss Jane Barlow, twice\nrepresented in this volume.\n\nBy far the most widely read Irish novelist between 1880 and 1900 was the\nlate Mrs. Hungerford, the author of \"Molly Bawn\" and a score of other\nblameless romances which almost rivalled \"The Rosary\" in luscious\nsentimentality. The scenes of her stories were generally laid in\nIreland, and the stories themselves were almost invariably concerned\nwith the courtship of lovely but impecunious maidens by eligible and\naffluent youths. No one in Mrs. Hungerford's novels ever seemed to have\nany work to do. The characters lived in a paradise of unemployment, and\nthis possibly accounts for Mrs. Hungerford's immense popularity in\nAmerica, where even the most indolent immigrants become infected with a\npassion for hard work. In the quality of gush she was unsurpassed, but\nher good nature and her frank delight in her characters made her\nabsurdity engaging. Sentiment was her ruling passion; she did no more\nthan scrape the surface of Irish social life; and she had no humour but\ngood humour. But she had not enough of literary quality to entitle her\nwork to rank beside that of the other women writers represented in this\nvolume.\n\nThe literary partnership of Miss Edith Somerville and Miss Violet\nMartin--the most brilliantly successful example of creative\ncollaboration in our times--began with \"An Irish Cousin\" in 1889.\nPublished over the pseudonyms of \"Geilles Herring\" and \"Martin Ross,\"\nthis delightful story is remarkable not only for its promise, afterwards\nrichly fulfilled, but for its achievement. The writers proved themselves\nthe possessors of a strange faculty of detachment which enabled them to\nview the humours of Irish life through the unfamiliar eyes of a stranger\nwithout losing their own sympathy. They were at once of the life they\ndescribed and outside it. They showed a laudable freedom from political\npartisanship; a minute familiarity with the manners and customs of all\nstrata of Irish Society; an unerring instinct for the \"sovran word;\" a\nperfect mastery of the Anglo-Irish dialect; and an acute yet\nwell-controlled sense of the ludicrous. The heroine accurately describes\nthe concourse on the platform of a small country station as having \"all\nthe appearance of a large social gathering or _conversazione_, the\ncarriages being filled, not by those who were starting, but by their\nfriends who had come to see them off.\" When she went to a county ball in\nCork she discovered to her dismay that all her partners were named\neither Beamish or Barrett:--\n\n  \"Had it not been for Willy's elucidation of its mysteries, I should\n  have thrown away my card in despair. 'No; not _him_. That's _Long_ Tom\n  Beamish! It's _English_ Tommy you've to dance with next. They call him\n  English Tommy because, when his Militia regiment was ordered to\n  Aldershot, he said he was 'the first of his ancestors that was ever\n  sent on foreign service.'... I carried for several days the bruises\n  which I received during my waltz with English Tommy. It consisted\n  chiefly of a series of short rushes, of so shattering a character that\n  I at last ventured to suggest a less aggressive mode of progression.\n  'Well,' said English Tommy confidentially, 'ye see, I'm trying to bump\n  Katie,' pointing to a fat girl in blue. 'She's my cousin, and we're\n  for ever fighting.'\"\n\nAs a set-off to this picture of the hilarious informality of high life\nin Cork twenty-five years ago, there is a wonderful study of a cottage\ninterior, occupied by a very old man, his daughter-in-law, three\nchildren, two terriers, a cat, and a half-plucked goose. The\nconversation between Willy Sarsfield--who foreshadows Flurry Knox in\n\"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.\" by his mingled shrewdness and\n_naivete_--and Mrs. Sweeny is a perfect piece of realism.\n\n  \"Mrs. Sweeny was sitting on a kind of rough settle, between the other\n  window and the door of an inner room. She was a stout, comfortable\n  woman of about forty, with red hair and quick blue eyes, that roved\n  round the cabin, and silenced with a glance the occasional whisperings\n  that rose from the children. 'And how's the one that had the bad\n  cough?' asked Willy, pursuing his conversation with her with his\n  invariable ease and dexterity. 'Honor her name is, isn't it?'--'See,\n  now, how well he remembers!' replied Mrs. Sweeny. 'Indeed, she's there\n  back in the room, lyin' these three days. Faith, I think 'tis like the\n  decline she have, Masther Willy.'--'Did you get the Doctor to her?'\n  said Willy. 'I'll give you a ticket, if you haven't one.'--'Oh,\n  indeed, Docthor Kelly's afther givin' her a bottle, but shure I\n  wouldn't let her put it into her mouth at all. God-knows what'd be in\n  it. Wasn't I afther throwin' a taste of it on the fire to thry what'd\n  it do, and Phitz! says it, and up with it up the chimbley! Faith, I'd\n  be in dread to give it to the child. Shure, if it done that in the\n  fire, what'd it do in her inside?--'Well, you're a greater fool than I\n  thought you were,' said Willy, politely.--'Maybe I am, faith,' replied\n  Mrs. Sweeny, with a loud laugh of enjoyment. 'But, if she's for dyin',\n  the crayture, she'll die aisier without thim thrash of medicines; and\n  if she's for livin', 'tisn't thrusting to them she'll be. Shure, God\n  is good, God is good----'--'Divil a betther!' interjected old Sweeny,\n  unexpectedly. It was the first time he had spoken, and having\n  delivered himself of this trenchant observation, he relapsed into\n  silence and the smackings at his pipe.\"\n\nBut the tragic note is sounded in the close of \"An Irish Cousin\"--Miss\nMartin and Miss Somerville have never lost sight of the abiding dualism\nenshrined in Moore's verse \"Erin, the tear and the smile in thine\neyes\"--and it dominates their next novel, \"Naboth's Vineyard,\" published\nin 1891, a sombre romance of the Land League days. Three years later\nthey reached the summit of their achievement in \"The Real Charlotte,\"\nwhich still remains their masterpiece, though easily eclipsed in\npopularity by the irresistible drollery of \"Some Experiences of an Irish\nR.M.\" To begin with, it does not rely on the appeal to hunting people\nwhich in their later work won the heart of the English sportsman. It is\na ruthlessly candid study of Irish provincial and suburban life; of the\nsqualors of middle-class households; of garrison hacks and \"underbred,\nfinespoken,\" florid squireens. But secondly and chiefly it repels the\nlarger half of the novel-reading public by the fact that two women have\nhere dissected the heart of one of their sex in a mood of unrelenting\nrealism. While pointing out the pathos and humiliation of the thought\nthat a soul can be stunted by the trivialities of personal appearance,\nthey own to having set down Charlotte Mullen's many evil qualities\n\"without pity.\" They approach their task in the spirit of Balzac. The\nbook, as we shall see, is extraordinarily rich in both wit and humour,\nbut Charlotte, who cannot control her ruling passion of avarice even in\na death chamber, might have come straight out of the pages of the\n_Comedie Humaine_. Masking her greed, her jealousy and her cruelty under\na cloak of loud affability and ponderous persiflage, she was a perfect\nspecimen of the _fausse bonne femme_. Only her cats could divine the\nstrange workings of her mind:\n\n  \"The movements of Charlotte's character, for it cannot be said to\n  possess the power of development, were akin to those of some\n  amphibious thing whose strong darting course under the water is only\n  marked by a bubble or two, and it required almost an animal instinct\n  to note them. Every bubble betrayed the creature below, as well as the\n  limitations of its power of hiding itself, but people never thought of\n  looking out for these indications in Charlotte, or even suspected that\n  she had anything to conceal. There was an almost blatant simplicity\n  about her, a humorous rough-and-readiness which, joined to her\n  literary culture, proved business capacity, and her dreaded temper,\n  seemed to leave no room for any further aspect, least of all of a\n  romantic kind.\"\n\nYet romance of a sort was at the root of Charlotte's character. She had\nbeen in love with Roddy Lambert, a showy, handsome, selfish squireen,\nbefore he married for money. She had disguised her tenderness under a\nbluff _camaraderie_ during his first wife's lifetime, and hastened Mrs.\nLambert's death by inflaming her suspicions of Roddy's fidelity. It was\nonly when Charlotte was again foiled by Lambert's second marriage to her\nown niece that her love was turned to gall, and she plotted to compass\nhis ruin.\n\nThe authors deal faithfully with Francie FitzPatrick, Charlotte's niece,\nbut an element of compassion mingles with their portraiture. Charlotte\nhad robbed Francie of a legacy, and compounded with her conscience by\ninviting the girl to stay with her at Lismoyle. Any change was a\ngod-send to poor Francie, who, being an orphan, lived in Dublin with\nanother aunt, a kindly but feckless creature whose eyes were not formed\nto perceive dirt nor her nose to apprehend smells, and whose ideas of\neconomy was \"to indulge in no extras of soap or scrubbing brushes, and\nto feed her family on strong tea and indifferent bread and butter, in\norder that Ida's and Mabel's hats might be no whit less ornate than\nthose of their neighbours.\" In this dingy household Francie had grown\nup, lovely as a Dryad, brilliantly indifferent to the serious things of\nlife, with a deplorable Dublin accent, ingenuous, unaffected and\ninexpressibly vulgar. She captivates men of all sorts: Roddy Lambert,\nwho lunched on hot beefsteak pie and sherry; Mr. Hawkins, an amorous\nyoung soldier, who treated her with a bullying tenderness and jilted her\nfor an English heiress; and Christopher Dysart, a scholar, a gentleman,\nand the heir to a baronetcy, who was ruined by self-criticism and\ndiffidence. Francie respected Christopher and rejected him; was thrown\nover by Hawkins, whom she loved; and married Roddy Lambert, her motives\nbeing \"poverty, aimlessness, bitterness of soul and instinctive leniency\ntowards any man who liked her.\" Francie had already exasperated\nCharlotte by refusing Christopher Dysart: by marrying Lambert she dealt\na death-blow to her hopes and drove her into the path of vengeance.\n\nBut the story is not only engrossing as a study of vulgarity that is\ntouched with pathos, of the vindictive jealousy of unsunned natures, of\nthe cowardice of the selfish and the futility of the intellectually\neffete. It is a treasure-house of good sayings, happy comments,\nludicrous incidents. When Francie returned to Dublin we read how one of\nher cousins, \"Dottie, unfailing purveyor of diseases to the family, had\nimported German measles from her school.\" When Charlotte, nursing her\nwrath, went to inform the servant at Lambert's house of the return of\nher master with his new wife, the servant inquired \"with cold\nresignation\" whether it was the day after to-morrow:--\n\n  \"'It is, me poor woman, it is,' replied Charlotte, in the tone of\n  facetious intimacy that she reserved for other people's servants.\n  'You'll have to stir your stumps to get the house ready for\n  them.'--'The house is cleaned down and ready for them as soon as they\n  like to walk into it,' replied Eliza Hackett, with dignity, 'and if\n  the new lady faults the drawing-room chimbley for not being swep, the\n  master will know it's not me that's to blame for it, but the sweep\n  that's gone dhrilling with the Mileetia.'\"\n\nEach of the members of the Dysart family is hit off in some memorable\nphrase; Sir Benjamin, the old and irascible paralytic, \"who had been\nstruck down on his son's coming of age by a paroxysm of apoplectic\njealousy \"; the admirable and unselfish Pamela with her \"pleasant\nanxious voice\"; Christopher, who believed that if only he could \"read\nthe 'Field,' and had a more spontaneous habit of cursing,\" he would be\nan ideal country gentleman; and Lady Dysart, who was \"a clever woman, a\nrenowned solver of acrostics in her society paper, and a holder of\nstrong opinions as to the prophetic meaning of the Pyramids.\" With her\n\"a large yet refined bonhomie\" took the place of tact, but being an\nEnglishwoman she was \"constitutionally unable to discern perfectly the\nsubtle grades of Irish vulgarity.\" Sometimes the authors throw away the\n_scenario_ for a whole novel in a single paragraph, as in this\ncompressed summary of the antecedents of Captain Cursiter:\n\n  \"Captain Cursiter was 'getting on' as captains go, and he was the less\n  disposed to regard his junior's love affairs with an indulgent eye, in\n  that he had himself served a long and difficult apprenticeship in such\n  matters, and did not feel that he had profited much by his\n  experiences. It had happened to him at an early age to enter\n  ecstatically into the house of bondage, and in it he had remained with\n  eyes gradually opening to its drawbacks until, a few years before, the\n  death of the only apparent obstacle to his happiness had brought him\n  face to face with its realisation. Strange to say, when this supreme\n  moment arrived, Captain Cursiter was disposed for further delay; but\n  it shows the contrariety of human nature, that when he found himself\n  superseded by his own subaltern, an habitually inebriated viscount, he\n  committed the imbecility of horsewhipping him; and finding it\n  subsequently advisable to leave his regiment, he exchanged into the\n  infantry with the settled conviction that all women were liars.\"\n\nNouns and verbs are the bones and sinews of style; it is in the use of\nepithets and adjectives that the artist is shown; and Miss Martin and\nMiss Somerville never make a mistake. An episode in the life of one of\nCharlotte's pets--a cockatoo--is described as occurring when the bird\nwas \"a sprightly creature of some twenty shrieking summers.\" We read of\ncats who stared \"with the expressionless but wholly alert scrutiny of\ntheir race\"; of the \"difficult revelry\" of Lady Dysart's garden party\nwhen the men were in a hopeless minority and the more honourable women\nsat on a long bench in \"midge-bitten dulness.\" Such epithets are not\ndecorative, they heighten the effect of the picture. Where adjectives\nare not really needed, Miss Martin and Miss Somerville can dispense with\nthem altogether and yet attain a deadly precision, as when they describe\nan Irish beggar as \"a bundle of rags with a cough in it,\" or note a\ncharacteristic trait of Roddy Lambert by observing that \"he was a man in\nwhom jealousy took the form of reviling the object of his affections, if\nby so doing he could detach his rivals\"--a modern instance of\n\"displiceas aliis, sic ego tutus ero.\" When Roddy Lambert went away\nafter his first wife's funeral we learn that he \"honeymooned with his\ngrief in the approved fashion.\" These felicities abound on every page;\nwhile the turn of phrase of the peasant speech is caught with a fidelity\nwhich no other Irish writer has ever surpassed. When Judy Lee, a poor\nold woman who had taken an unconscionable time in dying was called by\none of the gossips who had attended her wake \"as nice a woman as ever\nthrew a tub of clothes on the hills,\" and complimented for having\n\"battled it out well,\" Norry the Boat replied sardonically:--\n\n  \"Faith, thin, an' if she did die itself she was in the want of it;\n  sure, there isn't a winther since her daughther wint to America that\n  she wasn't anointed a couple of times. I'm thinking the people th'\n  other side o' death will be throuncin' her for keepin' them waitin' on\n  her this way.\"\n\nHumour is never more effective than when it emerges from a serious\nsituation. Tragedy jostles comedy in life, and the greatest dramatists\nand romancers have made wonderful use of this abrupt alternation. There\nare many painful and diverting scenes in \"The Real Charlotte,\" but none\nin which both elements are blended so effectively as the story of Julia\nDuffy's last pilgrimage. Threatened with eviction from her farm by the\ncovetous intrigues of Charlotte, she leaves her sick bed to appeal to\nher landlord, and when half dead with fatigue falls in with the insane\nSir Benjamin, to be driven away with grotesque insults. On her way home\nshe calls in at Charlotte's house, only to find Christopher Dysart\nreading Rossetti's poems to Francie FitzPatrick, who has just timidly\nobserved, in reply to her instructor's remark that the hero is a\npilgrim, \"I know a lovely song called 'The Pilgrim of Love'; of course,\nit wasn't the same thing as what you were reading, but it was awfully\nnice, too.\" This interlude is intensely ludicrous, but its cruel\nincongruity only heightens the misery of what has gone before and what\nfollows.\n\n\"The Silver Fox,\" which appeared in 1897, need not detain us long,\nthough it is a little masterpiece in its way, vividly contrasting the\nlimitations of the sport-loving temperament with the ineradicable\nsuperstitions of the Irish peasantry. Impartial as ever, the authors\nhave here achieved a felicity of phrase to which no other writers of\nhunting novels have ever approached. Imagination's widest stretch cannot\npicture Surtees or Mr. Nat Gould describing an answer being given \"with\nthat level politeness of voice which is the distilled essence of a\nperfected anger,\" or comparing a fashionable Amazon with the landscape\nin such words as these:--\n\n  \"Behind her the empty window framed a gaunt mountain peak, a lake that\n  frittered a myriad of sparkles from its wealth of restless silver, and\n  the gray and faint purple of the naked wood beyond it. It seemed too\n  great a background for her powdered cheek and her upward glances at\n  her host.\"\n\nBut the atmosphere of \"The Silver Fox\" is sombre, and a sporting novel\nwhich is at once serious and of a fine literary quality must necessarily\nappeal to a limited audience. The problem is solved to perfection in\n\"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.,\" a series of loosely-knit episodes\nwhich, after running a serial course in the \"Badminton Magazine,\" were\nrepublished in book form towards the close of 1899. There is only one\nchapter to cloud the otherwise unintermittent hilarity of the whole\nrecital. The authors have dispensed with comment, and rely chiefly on\ndialogue, incident, and their intimate and precise knowledge of horses,\nand horse-copers of both sexes. An interested devotion to the noble\nanimal is here shown to be the last infirmity of noble minds, for old\nMrs. Knox, with the culture of a _grande dame_ and the appearance of a\nrefined scarecrow, went cub-hunting in a bath chair. In such a company a\nyoung sailor whose enthusiasm for the chase had been nourished by the\nhirelings of Malta, and his eye for points probably formed on circus\nposters, had little chance of making a good bargain at Drumcurran horse\nfair:--\n\n  \"'The fellow's asking forty-five pounds for her,' said Bernard Shute\n  to Miss Sally; 'she's a nailer to gallop. I don't think it's too\n  much.'--'Her grandsire was the Mountain Hare,' said the owner of the\n  mare, hurrying up to continue her family history, 'and he was the\n  grandest horse in the four baronies. He was forty-two years of age\n  when he died, and they waked him the same as ye'd wake a Christian.\n  They had whisky and porther--and bread--and a piper in it.'--'Thim\n  Mountain Hare colts is no great things,' interrupted Mr. Shute's\n  groom, contemptuously. 'I seen a colt once that was one of his stock,\n  and if there was forty men and their wives, and they after him with\n  sticks, he wouldn't lep a sod of turf.'--'Lep, is it!' ejaculated the\n  owner in a voice shrill with outrage. 'You may lead that mare out\n  through the counthry, and there isn't a fence in it that she wouldn't\n  go up to it as indepindent as if she was going to her bed, and your\n  honour's ladyship knows that dam well, Miss Knox.'--'You want too much\n  money for her, McCarthy,' returned Miss Sally, with her air of\n  preternatural wisdom. 'God pardon you, Miss Knox! Sure a lady like you\n  knows well that forty-five pounds is no money for that mare.\n  Forty-five pounds!' He laughed. 'It'd be as good for me to make her a\n  present to the gentleman all out as take three farthings less for her!\n  She's too grand entirely for a poor farmer like me, and if it wasn't\n  for the long, weak family I have, I wouldn't part with her under twice\n  the money.'--'Three fine lumps of daughters in America paying his rent\n  for him,' commented Flurry in the background. 'That's the long, weak\n  family.'\"\n\nThe turn of phrase in Irish conversation has never been reproduced in\nprint with greater fidelity, and there is hardly a page in the book\nwithout some characteristic Hibernianism such as \"Whisky as pliable as\nnew milk,\" or the description of a horse who was a \"nice, flippant\njumper,\" or a bandmaster who was \"a thrifle fulsome after his luncheon,\"\nor a sweep who \"raised tallywack and tandem all night round the house to\nget at the chimbleys.\" The narrative reaches its climax in the chapter\nwhich relates the exciting incidents of Lisheen races at second-hand.\nMajor Yeates and his egregious English visitor Mr. Leigh Kelway, an\nearnest Radical publicist, having failed to reach the scene, are\nsheltering from the rain in a wayside public-house where they are\nregaled with an account of the races by Slipper, the dissipated but\nengaging huntsman of the local pack of hounds. The close of the meeting\nwas a steeplechase in which \"Bocock's owld mare,\" ridden by one\nDriscoll, was matched against a horse ridden by another local sportsman\nnamed Clancy, and Slipper, who favoured Driscoll, and had taken up his\nposition at a convenient spot on the course, thus describes his mode of\nencouraging the mare:\n\n  \"'Skelp her, ye big brute!' says I. 'What good's in ye that ye aren't\n  able to skelp her?'... Well, Mr. Flurry, and gintlemen,... I declare\n  to ye when owld Bocock's mare heard thim roars she stretched out her\n  neck like a gandher, and when she passed me out she give a couple of\n  grunts and looked at me as ugly as a Christian. 'Hah!' says I, givin'\n  her a couple o' dhraws o' th' ash plant across the butt o' the tail,\n  the way I wouldn't blind her, 'I'll make ye grunt!' says I, 'I'll\n  nourish ye!' I knew well she was very frightful of th' ash plant since\n  the winter Tommeen Sullivan had her under a sidecar. But now, in place\n  of havin' any obligations to me, ye'd be surprised if ye heard the\n  blaspheemious expressions of that young boy that was riding her; and\n  whether it was over-anxious he was, turning around the way I'd hear\n  him cursin', or whether it was some slither or slide came to owld\n  Bocock's mare, I dunno, but she was bet up against the last obstackle\n  but two, and before you could say 'Shnipes,' she was standin' on her\n  two ears beyant in th' other field. I declare to ye, on the vartue of\n  me oath, she stood that way till she reconnoithered what side Driscoll\n  would fall, an' she turned about then and rolled on him as cosy as if\n  he was meadow grass!' Slipper stopped short; the people in the doorway\n  groaned appreciatively; Mary Kate murmured 'The Lord save us'--'The\n  blood was druv out through his nose and ears,' continued Slipper, with\n  a voice that indicated the cream of the narration, 'and you'd hear his\n  bones crackin' on the ground! You'd have pitied the poor boy.'--'Good\n  heavens!' said Leigh Kelway, sitting up very straight in his chair.\n  'Was he hurt, Slipper?' asked Flurry, casually. 'Hurt is it?' echoed\n  Slipper, in high scorn, 'killed on the spot!' He paused to relish the\n  effect of the _denouement_ on Leigh Kelway. 'Oh, divil so pleasant an\n  afthernoon ever you seen; and, indeed, Mr. Flurry, it's what we were\n  all sayin', it was a great pity your honour was not there for the\n  likin' you had for Driscoll.'\"\n\nLeigh Kelway, it may be noted, is the lineal descendant of the pragmatic\nEnglish under-secretary in \"Charles O'Malley,\" who, having observed that\nhe had never seen an Irish wake, was horrified by the prompt offer of\nhis Galway host, a notorious practical joker, to provide a corpse on the\nspot. But this is only one of the instances of parallelism in which the\nlater writers though showing far greater restraint and fidelity to\ntype, have illustrated the continuance of temperamental qualities which\nLever and his forerunner Maxwell--the author of \"Wild Sports of the\nWest\"--portrayed in a more extravagant form. On the other hand it would\nbe impossible to imagine a greater contrast than that between Lever's\nthrasonical narrator heroes and Major Yeates, R.M., whose fondness for\nsport is allied to a thorough consciousness of his own infirmities as a\nsportsman. There is no heroic figure in \"Some Experiences of an Irish\nR.M.,\" but the characters are all lifelike, and at least\nhalf-a-dozen--\"Flurry\" Knox, his cousin Sally, and his old grandmother,\nMrs. Knox, of Aussolas, Slipper, Mrs. Cadogan, and the incomparable\nMaria--form as integral a part of our circle of acquaintance as if we\nhad known them in real life. \"The Real Charlotte\" is a greater\nachievement, but the R.M. is a surer passport to immortality.\n\nThe further instalment of \"Experiences,\" published a few years later did\nnot escape the common lot of sequels. They were brilliantly written, but\none was more conscious of the excellence of the manner than in any of\ntheir other works. The two volumes of short stories and sketches\npublished in 1903 and 1906 under the titles of \"All on the Irish Shore\"\nand some \"Irish Yesterdays\" respectively show some new and engaging\naspects of the genius of the collaborators. There is a chapter called\n\"Children of the Captivity,\" in which the would-be English humorist's\nconception of Irish humour is dealt with faithfully--as it deserves to\nbe. The essay is also remarkable for the passage in which they set down\nonce and for all the true canons for the treatment of dialect.\nPronunciation and spelling, as they point out, are, after all, of small\naccount in its presentment:--\n\n  \"The vitalising power is in the rhythm of the sentence, the turn of\n  phrase, the knowledge of idiom, and of, beyond all, the attitude of\n  mind.... The shortcoming is, of course, trivial to those who do not\n  suffer because of it, but want of perception of word and phrase and\n  turn of thought means more than mere artistic failure, it means want\n  of knowledge of the wayward and shrewd and sensitive minds that are at\n  the back of the dialect. The very wind that blows softly over brown\n  acres of bog carries perfumes and sounds that England does not know;\n  the women digging the potato-land are talking of things that England\n  does not understand. The question that remains is whether England will\n  ever understand.\"\n\nThe hunting sketches in these volumes include the wonderful \"Patrick\nDay's Hunt,\" which is a masterpiece in the high _bravura_ of the brogue.\nAnother is noticeable for a passage on the affection inspired by horses.\nWhen Johnny Connolly heard that his mistress was driven to sell the\nfilly he had trained and nursed so carefully, he did not disguise his\ndisappointment:\n\n  \"'Well, indeed, that's too bad, miss,' said Johnny comprehendingly.\n  'There was a mare I had one time, and I sold her before I went to\n  America. God knows, afther she went from me, whenever I'd look at her\n  winkers hanging on the wall I'd have to cry. I never seen a sight of\n  her till three years afther that, afther I coming home. I was coming\n  out o' the fair at Enniscar, an' I was talking to a man an' we coming\n  down Dangan Hill, and what was in it but herself coming up in a cart!\n  An' I didn't look at her, good nor bad, nor know her, but sorra bit\n  but she knew me talking, an' she turned into me with the cart. 'Ho,\n  ho, ho!' says she, and she stuck her nose into me like she'd be\n  kissing me. Be dam, but I had to cry. An' the world wouldn't stir her\n  out o' that till I'd lead her on meself. As for cow nor dog nor any\n  other thing, there's nothing would rise your heart like a horse!'\"\n\nAnd if horses are irresistible, so are Centaurs. That is the moral to be\ndrawn from \"Dan Russel the Fox,\" the latest work from the pen of Miss\nSomerville and Miss Martin, in which the rival claims of culture and\nfoxhunting are subjected to a masterly analysis.\n\nThe joint authors of the \"R.M.\" have paid forfeit for achieving\npopularity by being expected to repeat their first resounding success.\nHappily the pressure of popular demand has not impaired the artistic\nexcellence of their work, though we cannot help thinking that if they\nhad been left to themselves they might have given us at least one other\nnovel on the lines of \"The Real Charlotte.\" Their later work, again, has\nbeen subjected to the ordeal, we do not say of conscious imitation, but\nof comparison with books which would probably have never been written or\nwould have been written on another plan, but for the success of the\n\"R.M.\" To regard this rivalry as serious would be, in the opinion of the\npresent writer, an abnegation of the critical faculty. But we have not\nyet done with Irish women humorists. Miss Eleanor Alexander, the\ndaughter of the Poet Archbishop of Armagh and his poet wife has given us\nin her \"Lady Anne's Walk,\" a volume of a _genre_ as hard to define as it\nhas been easy to welcome, at times delicately allusive, now daringly\nfunny--an interblending of tender reminiscences and lively fancy,\nreminding us perhaps most of old Irish music itself with its sweet,\nstrange and sudden changes of mood. Humorous contrasts of the kind will\nbe found in the chapter entitled \"Old Tummus and the Battle of Scarva,\"\nprinted in these pages.\n\nAnother woman contestant for humorous literary honours was the late Miss\nCharlotte O'Conor Eccles, represented in this volume by the moving story\nof \"King William.\" Her \"Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore\" and \"A\nMatrimonial Lottery\" achieved popularity by their droll situations and\nexuberant fun, but her \"Aliens of the West\" contained work of much\nfiner quality. She lets us behind the shutters of Irish country shop\nlife in a most convincing manner, and the characters drawn from her\nToomevara are as true to type as those of Miss Barlow. The\ndisillusionment of Molly Devine \"The Voteen,\" with her commonplace, not\nto say vulgar surroundings, on her return from the convent school with\nits superior refinements, her refusal to marry so-called eligible, but\nto her, repulsive suitors, encouraged by her mother and stepfather and\nher final resolve to become a nun in order to escape further persecution\nof the kind, is told with convincing poignancy. A variant of this theme\nis treated with even more power and pathos in \"Tom Connolly's Daughter,\"\na story which we should like to see reprinted in separate form as it\nsets one thinking furiously, and its general circulation might do much\nto correct the love and marriage relations between young people in\nprovincial Ireland.\n\nAnd yet a final name has to be added to the long roll of Irishwomen who\nhave won distinction as writers of fiction, beginning with Miss\nEdgeworth whose Irish writings will receive separate treatment in a\nvolume in \"Every Irishman's Library\" at the hands of Mr. Malcolm Cotter\nSeton. Championed by Canon Hannay himself, who furnishes a genial,\nwhimsical, provocative introduction to her \"The Folk of Furry Farm,\"\nMiss Purdon there describes what, from the point of view of romance, is\na new part of Ireland, for West Leinster is a land more familiar to\nfox-hunters than to poets. Miss Purdon has plenty of independence, but\nit is not the frigid impartiality of the student who contemplates the\nvagaries and sufferings of human nature like a connoisseur or collector.\nShe shows her detachment by giving us a faithful picture of Irish\npeasant society without ever once breathing a syllable of politics, or\nremotely alluding to the equipment and machinery of modern life. The\n_dramatis personae_ are all simple folk, most of them poor; the entire\naction passes within a radius of a few miles from a country village; and\nonly on one occasion, and at second hand do we catch so much as a\nglimpse of \"the quality.\" Throughout, Miss Purdon relies on the turn of\nthe phrase to give the spirit of the dialect, and uses only a minimum of\nphonetic spelling.\n\nThat is the true and artistic method. But Miss Purdon is much more than\na collector or coiner of picturesque and humorous phrases. She has a\nkeen eye for character, a genuine gift of description and a vein of pure\nand unaffected sentiment; indeed, her whole volume is strangely\ncompounded of mirth and melancholy, though the dominant impression left\nby its perusal is one of confidence in the essential kindliness of Irish\nnature, and the goodness and gentleness of Irish women.\n\nBut so far, the only formidable competitor Miss Martin and Miss\nSomerville have encountered is the genial writer who chooses to veil his\nidentity under the freakish pseudonym of \"George A. Birmingham.\" Canon\nHannay--for there can be no longer any breach of literary etiquette in\nalluding to him by his real name--had already made his mark as a serious\nor semi-serious observer of the conflicting tendencies, social and\npolitical, of the Ireland of to-day before he diverged into the paths of\nfantastic and frivolous comedy. \"The Seething Pot,\" \"Hyacinth,\" and\n\"Benedict Kavanagh\" are extremely suggestive and dispassionate studies\nof various aspects of the Irish temperament, but it is enough for our\npresent purpose to note the consequences of a request addressed to\nCanon Hannay by two young ladies somewhere about the year 1907 that he\nwould \"write a story about treasure buried on an island.\" The fact is\nrecorded in the dedication of \"Spanish Gold,\" his response to the\nappeal, and the first of that series of jocund extravaganzas which have\nearned for him the gratitude of all who regard amusement as the prime\nobject of fiction.\n\nThe contrast between his methods and those of the joint authors\ndiscussed above is apparent at every turn. He maintains the impartiality\nwhich marked his serious novels in his treatment of all classes of the\ncommunity, but it is the impartiality not of a detached and\nself-effacing observer, but of a genial satirist. His knowledge of the\nIreland that he knows is intimate and precise, and is shown by a\nmultiplicity of illuminating details and an effective use of local\ncolour. But the co-operation of non-Irish characters is far more\nessential to the development of his plots than in the case of the novels\nof Miss Somerville and Miss Martin. The mainspring of their stories is\nIrish right through. Canon Hannay depends on a situation which might\nhave occurred just as well in England or America, while employing the\nconditions of Irish life to give it a characteristic twist or series of\ntwists. Even his most notable creation, the Reverend Joseph John Meldon,\nis too restlessly energetic to be an altogether typical Irishman, to say\nnothing of his unusual attitude in politics: \"Nothing on earth would\ninduce me to mix myself up with any party.\" An Irishman of immense\nmental activity, living in Ireland, and yet wholly unpolitical is\nsomething of a freak. Again, while the tone of his books is admirably\nclean and wholesome, and while his frankly avowed distaste for the\nsqualors of the problem novel will meet with general sympathy, there is\nno denying that his treatment of the \"love interest\" is for the most\npart perfunctory or even farcical. Again, in regard to style, he differs\nwidely from the authors of the \"R.M.\" Their note is a vivid conciseness;\nhis the easy charm of a flowing pen, always unaffected, often\npicturesque and even eloquent, never offending, but seldom practising\nthe art of omission.\n\nBut it is ungrateful to subject to necessarily damaging comparisons an\nauthor to whom we owe the swift passage of so many pleasant hours. It\nmight be hard to find the exact counterpart of \"J.J.\" in the flesh, but\nhe is none the less an unforgettable person, this athletic, exuberant,\nunkempt curate, unscrupulous but not unprincipled, who lied fluently,\nnot for any mean purpose, but for the joy of mystification, or in order\nto carry out his plans, or justify his arguments. His strange friendship\nwith Major Kent, a retired English officer, a natty martinet, presents\nno difficulties on the principle of extremes meeting, and thus from the\nstart we are presented with the spectacle of the reluctant but helpless\nMajor, hypnotised by the persuasive tongue of the curate, and dragged at\nhis heels into all sorts of grotesque and humiliating adventures, and\nall for the sake of a quiet life. For \"J.J.'s\" methods, based, according\nto his own account, on careful observation and a proper use of the\nscientific imagination, involve the assumption by his reluctant\nconfederate of a succession of entirely imaginary roles.\n\nBut if \"J.J.\" was a trying ally, he was a still more perplexing\nantagonist, one of his favourite methods of \"scoring off\" an opponent\nbeing to represent him to be something other than he really was to third\npersons. When the process brings the curate and the Major into abrupt\nconflict with two disreputable adventurers, he defends resort to extreme\nmethods on grounds of high morality. Burglary, theft and abduction\nbecome the simple duty of every well-disposed person when viewed as a\nnecessary means of preventing selfish, depraved and fundamentally\nimmoral people from acquiring wealth which the well-disposed might\notherwise secure.\n\n\"J.J.'s\" crowning achievement is his conquest of Mr. Willoughby, the\nChief Secretary, by a masterly vindication of his conduct on the lines\nof Pragmatism: \"a statement isn't a lie if it proves itself in actual\npractice to be useful--it's true.\" \"J.J.\" only once meets his match--in\nFather Mulcrone, the parish priest of Inishmore, who sums up the\nphilosophy of government in his criticism of Mr. Willoughby's successor:\n\"A fellow that starts off by thinking himself clever enough to know\nwhat's true and what isn't will do no good for Ireland. A simple-hearted\ninnocent kind of man has a better chance.\"\n\nNeedless to say, the rival treasure-hunters, both of them rogues, are\nbested at all points by the two padres, while poetic justice is\nsatisfied by the fact that the treasure falls into the adhesive hands of\nthe poor islanders, and \"J.J.'s\" general integrity is fully\nre-established in the epilogue, where, transplanted to an English\ncolliery village, he devotes his energies to the conversion of\nagnostics, blasphemers and wife-beaters.\n\nThe extravagance of the plot is redeemed by the realism of the details;\nby acute sidelights on the tortuous workings of the native mind, with\nits strange blending of shrewdness and innocence; by faithful\nreproductions of the talk of those \"qui amant omnia dubitantius loqui\"\nand habitually say \"it might\" instead of \"yes.\" And there are\ndelightful digressions on the subject of relief works, hits at the\nIrish-speaking movement, pungent classifications of the visitors to the\nwild West of Ireland, and now, and again, in the rare moments when the\nauthor chooses to be serious, passages marked by fine insight and\nsympathy. Such is the picture of Thomas O'Flaherty Pat, the patriarch of\nthe treasure island:\n\n  \"An elderly man and five out of the nine children resident on the\n  island stood on the end of the pier when Meldon and the Major landed.\n  The man was clad in a very dirty white flannel jacket and a pair of\n  yellowish flannel trousers, which hung in a tattered fringe round his\n  naked feet and ankles. He had a long white beard and grey hair, long\n  as a woman's, drawn straight back from his forehead. The hair and\n  beard were both unkempt and matted. But the man held himself erect and\n  looked straight at the strangers through great dark eyes. His hands,\n  though battered and scarred with toil were long and shapely. His face\n  had a look of dignity, of a certain calm and satisfied superiority.\n  Men of this kind are to be met with here and there among the Connacht\n  peasantry. They are in reality children of a vanishing race, of a lost\n  civilisation, a bygone culture. They watch the encroachments of\n  another race and new ideas with a sort of sorrowful contempt. It is as\n  if understanding and despising what they see around them, they do not\n  consider it worth while to try to explain themselves; as if,\n  possessing a wisdom of their own, an aesthetic joy of which the modern\n  world knows nothing, they are content to let both die with them rather\n  than attempt to teach them to men of a wholly different outlook upon\n  life.\"\n\nThe element of extravaganza is more strongly marked in the plot of \"The\nSearch Party,\" which deals with the kidnapping of a number of innocent\npeople by an anti-militant anarchist who has set up a factory of\nexplosives in the neighbourhood of Ballymoy. \"J.J.\" does not appear _in\npropria persona_, but most of his traits are to be found in Dr. O'Grady,\nan intelligent but happy-go-lucky young doctor. The most attractive\nperson in the story, however, is Lord Manton, a genially cynical peer\nwith highly original views on local government and the advantages of\nunpopularity. Thus, when he did not want Patsy Devlin, the drunken\nsmith, to be elected inspector of sheep-dipping, he strongly supported\nhis candidature for the following reasons:--\n\n  \"There's a lot of stupid talk nowadays about the landlords having lost\n  all their power in the country. It's not a bit true. They have plenty\n  of power, more than they ever had, if they only knew how to use it.\n  All I have to do if I want a particular man not to be appointed to\n  anything is to write a strong letter in his favour to the Board of\n  Guardians or the County Council, or whatever body is doing the\n  particular job that happens to be on hand at the time. The League\n  comes down on my man at once, and he hasn't the ghost of a chance.\"\n\nExcellent, too, is the digression on the comparative commonness of earls\nin Ireland, where untitled people tend to disappear while earls survive,\nthough they are regarded much as ordinary people. Canon Hannay makes\ngreat play as usual with the humours of Irish officialdom, and his\n_obiter dicta_ on the mental outlook of police officers are shrewd as\nwell as entertaining. District-Inspector Goddard had undoubted social\ngifts, but he was an inefficient officer, being handicapped by indolence\nand a great sense of humour. There is something attractive, again, about\nMiss Blow, the handsome, resolute, prosaic young Englishwoman whose\nheroic efforts to trace her vanished lover are baffled at every turn.\nEverybody in Ballymoy told her lies, with the result that they seemed to\nher heartless and cruel when in reality they wished to spare her\nfeelings. Others of the _dramatis personae_ verge on caricature, but the\nstory has many exhilarating moments.\n\nExhilarating, too, is \"The Major's Niece,\" which is founded on an\nextremely improbable _imbroglio_. So precise and business-like a man as\nMajor Kent was not likely to make a mistake of seven or eight years in\nthe age of a visitor especially when the visitor happened to be his own\nsister's child. However, the initial improbability may be readily\ncondoned in view of the entertaining sequel. \"J.J.\" reappears in his\nbest form, Marjorie is a most engaging tomboy, and the fun never flags\nfor an instant. But much as we love \"J.J.,\" we reluctantly recognise in\n\"The Simpkins Plot\" that you can have too much of a good thing, and that\na man who would be a nuisance as a neighbour in real life is in danger\nof becoming a bore in a novel. At the same time the digressions and\nirrelevancies are as good as ever. It is pleasant to be reminded of such\nfacts as that wedding cake is invariably eaten by the Irish post office\nofficials, or to listen to Doctor O'Donoghue on the nutrition of\ninfants:\n\n  \"You can rear a child, whether it has the whooping cough or not, on\n  pretty near anything, so long as you give it enough of whatever it is\n  you do give it.\"\n\nCanon Hannay excels in the conduct of an absurd or paradoxical\nproposition, but he needs a word of friendly caution against undue\nreliance on the mechanism of the practical joke. Perhaps his English\ncure has demoralized \"J.J.,\" but we certainly prefer him as he was in\nInishgowlan, convinced by practical experience that he would rather do\nany mortal thing than try to mind a baby and make butter at the same\ntime.\n\nOf Canon Hannay's later novels, two demand special attention and for\nwidely different reasons. In \"The Red Hand of Ulster,\" reverting to\npolitics--politics, moreover, of the most explosive kind--he achieved\nthe well-nigh impossible in at once doing full justice to the dour\nsincerity of the Orange North, and yet conciliating Nationalist\nsusceptibilities. In \"The Inviolable Sanctuary,\" he has shown that a\nfirst-rate public-school athlete, whose skill in pastime is confined to\nball games cuts a sorry figure alongside of a chit of a girl who can\nhandle a boat. This salutary if humiliating truth is enforced not from\nany desire to further Feminist principles--Canon Hannay's attitude\ntowards women betrays no belief in the equality of the sexes--but\nbecause he cannot be bothered with the sentimentality of conventional\nlove-making. It may be on this account that he more than once assigns a\nleading role to an ingenuous young Amazon into whose ken the planet of\nlove will not swim for another four or five years.\n\nDuring the last thirty years the alleged decadence of Irish humour has\nbeen a frequent theme of pessimistic critics. Various causes have been\ninvoked to account for the phenomenon, which, when dispassionately\nconsidered, amounted to this, that the rollicking novel of incident and\nadventure had died with Lever. So, for the matter of that, had novels of\nthe \"Frank Fairleigh\" type, with their authors. The ascendancy of\nParnell and the regime of the Land League did not make for gaiety, yet\neven these influences were powerless to eradicate the inherent\nabsurdities of Irish life, and the authors of the \"R.M.\" entered on a\ncareer which has been a triumphal disproval of this allegation as far\nback as 1889. At their best they have interpreted normal Irishmen and\nIrishwomen, gentle and simple, with unsurpassed fidelity and sympathy.\nBut to award them the supremacy in this _genre_ both as realists and as\nwriters does not detract from the success won in a different sphere by\nCanon Hannay. His goal is less ambitious and aim is less unfaltering,\nbut as an improvisor of whimsical situations and an ironic commentator\non the actualities of Irish life he has invented a new form of literary\nentertainment which has the double merit of being at once diverting and\ninstructive.\n\nBut as we believe this volume will sufficiently show, though these three\nnovelists have so far transcended the achievements of contemporary\nwriters on Irish life, they are being followed at no long distance by\nyounger writers, for whom they have helped to find a public and in whose\nmore mature achievements they may have to acknowledge a serious literary\nrivalry. We have dealt with the women writers to be found in this new\ngroup. It remains for us to criticise the work of the men who belong to\nit.\n\nMr. John Stevenson, otherwise Pat Carty, whose Rhymes have been so\ncharmingly set to music by Sir Charles Stanford, and so delightfully\nsung by Mr. Plunket-Greene, possesses a whimsical gift, both in prose\nand verse, which gives fresh evidence of the awakening of an Ulster\nschool of humorists. His \"Boy in the Country\" is descriptive of a\nchild's companionship in the country with farmers and their wives and\nservants, his falling under the spell of a beautiful lady whose romance\nhe assists like a true young cavalier, and his association with that\nformidable open-air imp, Jim, a little dare-devil poacher and hard\nswearer, who sailed his boats with strips cut from his shirt tails and\ncould give a canting minister as good as he got, instead of cowering\nunder his preachment. The manners and customs of the farming class in\nthe \"Nine Glens of Antrim\" could not be more simply and humorously told,\nand when the author divagates into such sketches as \"The Wise Woman and\nthe Wise Man,\" and breaks into occasional verse faithfully descriptive\nof his natural surroundings, he is equally delightful.\n\nOf course, he is not as old a craftsman as Mr. Shan Bullock, whose dry\ndrollery has given the readers of his novels and stories so much\npleasure, and whose serious purpose and close observation of Northern\nIrish character are so well recognised by all serious students of Irish\nlife. He is represented in the volume by \"The Wee Tea-Table,\" a\nlife-like sketch taken from his \"Irish Pastorals.\"\n\nMr. Frank Mathew, whose first literary work was his biography of his\nillustrious grand-uncle Father Mathew, has also written some admirable\nstories of Irish life, which appeared in \"The Idler,\" and have been\ncollected in a volume called \"At the Rising of the Moon.\" \"The Last\nRace,\" by which he is represented in this volume, will give our readers\na good taste of his graphic quality.\n\nMr. Padric Colum will speak for himself on Irish fiction in his\nintroduction to an edition of Gerald Griffin's \"Collegians,\" which is to\nform part of this series of Irish volumes. His finely distinctive\nliterary style and intimate knowledge of Irish peasant life so clearly\nexhibited in his poems, plays and stories, is shown in these pages by\nthat remarkable sketch of \"Maelshaughlinn at the Fair,\" written with the\nelemental abandon of Synge himself.\n\nFinally, in absolute contrast with Mr. Colum's idealistic work, comes\nthe humorous realism of Lynn Doyle's pictures of the Ulster Peasantry.\nBut their efforts to over-reach one another, their love of poaching, and\ntheir marriage operations, afford the author of \"Ballygullion\" a\ncongenial field for the display of his observation, his high spirits,\nand his genuine sense of the ridiculous. His comedy of \"The Ballygullion\nCreamery Society\" which fitly concludes this volume, is good, hearty,\nwholesome fun, and we only trust, in Ireland's best interests, that its\nofficial stamp, a wreath of shamrocks and orange lilies--is not merely\nan unlikely if amiable suggestion, but is yet to have its counterpart in\nreality.\n\n\n\n\nPreface.\n\n\nThe fiction of which this volume consists is in part fabulous in\ncharacter, in part descriptive of actual Irish life upon its lighter\nside.\n\nThe Heroic stories and Folk-tales are, on chronological grounds, printed\nearly in the book and are then followed by extracts from the writings of\nthe Irish novelists of the first half and third quarter of the 19th\nCentury--Maginn, Lever, Lover, and LeFanu.\n\nThen come the writers who have made their mark in recent times, such as\nMiss Jane Barlow, the authors of \"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.,\"\nand Canon Hannay, and lastly those of a new school amongst whom may be\nnamed Mr. Padraic Colum, \"Lynn Doyle,\" and Miss K. Purdon.\n\nThis may be said to be the general order of the contents of \"Humours of\nIrish Life.\" But where artistic propriety, suggesting contrasts of local\ncolour and changes of subject, has called for it, a strict chronological\nsequence has been departed from; yet enough of it remains to enable the\ncritic to observe what we believe to be a change for the better, both in\nthe taste and technique of these Irish stories and sketches, as time has\ngone by.\n\nIt remains for us to express our cordial obligations to the following\nauthors and publishers for the use of copyright material. To Messrs.\nMacmillan and Miss B. Hunt for the story of \"McCarthy of Connacht,\" from\n\"Folk Tales of Breffny\"; to Canon Hannay and Messrs. Methuen for\nchapters from \"Spanish Gold\" and \"The Adventures of Dr. Whitty,\"\nentitled \"J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary,\" and \"The Interpreters\";\nto Mr. H. de Vere Stacpoole and Mr. Fisher Unwin for \"The Meet of the\nBeagles,\" from the novel of \"Patsy\"; to Miss O'Conor Eccles and Messrs.\nCassell for \"King William,\" a story in the late Miss Charlotte O'Conor\nEccles's \"Aliens of the West\"; to Miss Eleanor Alexander and Mr. Edward\nArnold for \"Old Tummus and the Battle of Scarva,\" from \"Lady Anne's\nWalk,\" and to the same publisher and to Mr. John Stevenson for a chapter\nentitled \"The Wise Woman\" from \"A Boy in the Country\"; to Messrs. James\nDuffy and Sons for Kickham's Story of \"The Thrush and the Blackbird\"; to\nMr. William Percy French for \"The First Lord Liftenant\"; to Mr. Frank\nMathew for \"Their Last Race,\" from his volume \"At the rising of the\nMoon\"; to Miss K. Purdon for a chapter entitled \"The Game Leg,\" from her\nnovel \"The Folk of Furry Farm,\" and to its publishers, Messrs. James\nNisbet and Co. Ltd.; to Dr. Douglas Hyde for his Folk-tale of \"The Piper\nand the Puca\"; to Martin Ross and Miss E. [OE]. Somerville and Messrs.\nLongmans, Green & Co., for the use of two chapters--\"Trinket's Colt\" and\n\"The Boat's Share\"--from \"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.\" and\n\"Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.\" respectively; to Mr. Shan Bullock\nfor \"The Wee Tea Table,\" from his \"Irish Pastorals\"; to Miss Jane Barlow\nand Messrs. Hutchinson for \"Quin's Rick,\" from \"Doings and Dealings,\"\nand for \"A Test of Truth,\" from \"Irish Neighbours\"; to Mr. Padraic Colum\nfor his sketch \"Maelshaughlinn at the Fair,\" from his \"A Year of Irish\nLife,\" and to the publishers of the book, Messrs. Mills and Boon, Ltd.;\nto its author, \"Lynn Doyle,\" and its publishers, Maunsel & Co., for \"The\nBallygullion Creamery,\" from \"Ballygullion\"; and to Mr. P. J. McCall and\nthe proprietors of \"The Shamrock\" for the story \"Fionn MacCumhail and\nthe Princess.\"\n\nFinally, acknowledgment is due to the courtesy of the Proprietors and\nEditor of \"The Quarterly Review\" for leave to incorporate in the\nIntroduction an article which appeared in the issue of that periodical\nfor June, 1913.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n  DANIEL O'ROURKE                                       _Dr. Maginn_   1\n\n  ADVENTURES OF GILLA NA CHRECK AN GOUR            _Patrick Kennedy_   9\n\n  THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE                    _Samuel Lover_  18\n\n  FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS              _Patrick J. McCall_  30\n\n  THE KILDARE POOKA                                _Patrick Kennedy_  38\n\n  THE PIPER AND THE PUCA                              _Douglas Hyde_  42\n\n  MCCARTHY OF CONNACHT                                     _B. Hunt_  46\n\n  THE MAD PUDDING OF BALLYBOULTEEN                _William Carleton_  58\n\n  FRANK WEBBER'S WAGER                               _Charles Lever_  72\n\n  SAM WHAM AND THE SAWMONT                     _Sir Samuel Ferguson_  82\n\n  DARBY DOYLE'S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC                 _Thomas Ettingsall_  84\n\n  BOB BURKE'S DUEL                                      _Dr. Maginn_  92\n\n  BILLY MALONEY'S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY  _Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu_ 105\n\n  A PLEASANT JOURNEY                                 _Charles Lever_ 123\n\n  THE BATTLE OF AUGHRIM                           _William Carleton_ 131\n\n  THE QUARE GANDER                         _Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu_ 139\n\n  THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD                  _Charles J. Kickham_ 148\n\n  THEIR LAST RACE                                     _Frank Mathew_ 154\n\n  THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT                    _William Percy French_ 159\n\n  THE BOAT'S SHARE               _E. OE. Somerville and Martin Ross_ 167\n\n  \"KING WILLIAM\"                          _Charlotte O'Conor Eccles_ 179\n\n  QUIN'S RICK                                          _Jane Barlow_ 200\n\n  MAELSHAUGHLINN AT THE FAIR                         _Padraic Colum_ 213\n\n  THE REV. J. J. MELDON AND THE CHIEF SECRETARY\n                                              _George A. Birmingham_ 220\n\n  OLD TUMMUS AND THE BATTLE OF SCARVA            _Eleanor Alexander_ 235\n\n  THE GAME LEG                                        _K. F. Purdon_ 244\n\n  TRINKET'S COLT                 _E. OE. Somerville and Martin Ross_ 258\n\n  THE WEE TEA TABLE                                   _Shan Bullock_ 276\n\n  THE INTERPRETERS                            _George A. Birmingham_ 290\n\n  A TEST OF TRUTH                                      _Jane Barlow_ 307\n\n  THE WISE WOMAN                                    _John Stevenson_ 314\n\n  THE MEET OF THE BEAGLES                     _H. de Vere Stacpoole_ 324\n\n  THE BALLYGULLION CREAMERY SOCIETY, LIMITED            _Lynn Doyle_ 336\n\n\n\n\nAUTHORS REPRESENTED\n\n\n                                           PAGE\n  ALEXANDER, ELEANOR                        235\n\n  BARLOW, JANE                         200, 307\n\n  BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A.                220, 290\n\n  BULLOCK, SHAN                             276\n\n  CARLETON, WILLIAM                     58, 131\n\n  COLUM, PADRAIC                            213\n\n  DOYLE, LYNN                               336\n\n  ECCLES, CHARLOTTE O'CONOR                 179\n\n  ETTINGSALL, THOMAS                         84\n\n  FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL                       82\n\n  FRENCH, WILLIAM PERCY                     159\n\n  HUNT, B.                                   46\n\n  HYDE, DOUGLAS                              42\n\n  KENNEDY, PATRICK                        9, 38\n\n  KICKHAM, CHARLES JOSEPH                   148\n\n  LE FANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN             105, 139\n\n  LEVER, CHARLES                        72, 123\n\n  LOVER, SAMUEL                              18\n\n  MAGINN, DR.                             1, 92\n\n  MATHEW, FRANK                             154\n\n  MCCALL, PATRICK J.                         30\n\n  PURDON, K. F.                             244\n\n  SOMERVILLE, E. OE. AND ROSS, MARTIN  167, 258\n\n  STACPOOLE, H. DE VERE                     324\n\n  STEVENSON, JOHN                           314\n\n\n\n\nHUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE\n\nDaniel O'Rourke.\n\n_From Crofton Croker's \"Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of\nIreland.\"_\n\nBY DR. MAGINN (1793-1842).\n\n\nPeople may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but\nhow few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and\nbelow, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls\nof the Phooka's tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the bottom of\nHungry Hill. He told me his story thus:--\n\n\"I am often axed to tell it, sir, so that this is not the first time.\nThe master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts; and sure\nenough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle\nand simple, high and low, rich and poor. Well, we had everything of the\nbest, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drunk, and we danced. To make\na long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy\nalmost. And so, as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of\nBallyasheenogh, I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water.\n'Death alive!' thought I, 'I'll be drowned now!' However, I began\nswimming, swimming, swimming away for dear life, till at last I got\nashore, somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a\ndissolute island.\n\n\"I wandered, and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered,\nuntil at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as\nday, or your lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning her), and\nI looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing\ndid I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch me head, and sing the\nUllagone--when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and\nsaw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and\nit, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and\nlooked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? So he\nlooked at me in the face, and says he to me, 'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he,\n'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you sir,' says I; 'I hope you're\nwell'; wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to\nspeak like a Christian. 'What brings you here, Dan?' says he. 'Nothing\nat all, sir,' says I: 'only I wish I was safe home again.' 'Is it out of\nthe island you want to go, Dan?' says he. ''Tis, sir,' says I. 'Dan,'\nsays he, 'though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day,\nyet, as you are a decent, sober man, who 'tends Mass well, and never\nflings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my\nlife for yours,' says he, 'so get on my back and grip me well for fear\nyou'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog.' 'I am afraid,' says I,\n'your honour's making game of me; for who ever heard of riding horseback\non an eagle before?' ''Pon the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting\nhis right foot on his breast, 'I am quite in earnest: and so now either\ntake my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see that your weight is\nsinking the stone.'\n\n\"It was true enough, as he said, for I found the stone every minute\ngoing from under me. 'I thank your honour,' says I, 'for the loan of\nyour civility; and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted upon\nthe back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up\nhe flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to\nserve me. Up--up--up, dear knows how far he flew. 'Why, then,' said I to\nhim--thinking he did not know the right road home--very civilly, because\nwhy? I was in his power entirely: 'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's\nglory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly\ndown a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down\nthere, and many thanks to your worship.'\n\n\"'Arrah, Dan,' said he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next\nfield, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no\njoke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked\noff a cowld stone in a bog.' Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and\nI asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. 'Where in the\nworld are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your tongue, Dan,' says\nhe: 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business\nof other people.'\n\n\"At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now, you can't\nsee it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook\nsticking out of the side of the moon, this way' (drawing the figure thus\non the ground with the end of his stick).\n\n\"'Dan,' said the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion\n'twas so far.' 'And, my lord, sir,' said I, 'who in the world axed you\nto fly so far--was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to\nstop half-an-hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' says he; 'I'm\ntired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I\nrest myself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that\nlittle round thing, then? why, sure, I'd fall off in a minute, and be\nkilt and split, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver, so you\nare.' 'Not at all, Dan,' said he; 'you can catch fast hold of the\nreaping hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill\nkeep you up.' 'I won't, then,' said I. 'May be not,' said he, quite\nquiet. 'But if you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one\nslap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in\nyour body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in\nthe morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to\nhave come along with the likes of you'; and so, giving him a hearty\ncurse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back, with\na heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the\nmoon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.\n\n\"When he had me fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, 'Good\nmorning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked you\nfairly now. You robbed me nest last year' ('twas true enough for him,\nbut how he found it out is hard to say), 'and in return you are freely\nwelcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.'\n\n\"'Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?' says\nI. 'You ugly, unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at\nlast?' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out his great, big\nwings, burst out laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after\nhim to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his\nminding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to\nthis--sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate\ncondition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a\ndoor opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as\nif it had not been opened for a month before--I suppose they never\nthought of greasing 'em, and out there walks--who do you think, but the\nman in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush.\n\n\"'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' says he; 'how do you do?' 'Very\nwell, thank your honour,' said I. 'I hope your honour's well.' 'What\nbrought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how it was.\n\n\"'Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff, when I was\ndone, 'you must not stay here.'\n\n\"'Indeed, sir,' says I, ''tis much against my will I'm here at all; but\nhow am I to go back?' 'That's your business,' said he; 'Dan, mine is to\ntell you that you must not stay, so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm\ndoing no harm,' says I, 'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest\nI fall off.' 'That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,'\nsays I, 'may I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a\npoor traveller lodging; I'm sure 'tis not so often you're troubled with\nstrangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself, Dan,'\nsays he; 'but you'd better let go the reaping hook.' 'And with your\nleave,' says I, 'I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the\nmore I won't let go;--so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,' says he again.\n'Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole weight of him\nwith my eye from head to foot, 'there are two words to that bargain; and\nI'll not budge, but you may if you like.' 'We'll see how that is to be,'\nsays he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him\n(for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would\nfall down with it.\n\n\"Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again\nhe comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a\nword he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping hook that was\nkeeping me up, and whap! it came in two. 'Good morning to you, Dan,'\nsays the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling\ndown with a bit of the handle in my hand; 'I thank you for your visit,\nand fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had not time to make any answer\nto him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling, and rolling, at\nthe rate of a fox-hunt. 'This is a pretty pickle,' says I, 'for a decent\nman to be seen at this time of night: I am now sold fairly.' The word\nwas not out of my mouth when, whizz! what should fly by close to my ear\nbut a flock of wild geese; all the way from my own bog of\nBallyasheenogh, or else, how should they know me? The ould gander, who\nwas their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, 'Is that\nyou, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said,\nfor I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevilment, and, besides, I\nknew him of ould. 'Good morrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel O'Rourke; how\nare you in health this morning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I, 'I thank you\nkindly,' drawing my breath, for I was mighty in want of some. 'I hope\nyour honour's the same.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says\nhe. 'You may say that, sir,' says I. 'And where are you going all the\nway so fast?' said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop,\nand how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how\nthe thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the\nmoon turned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you: put out your hand\nand catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.'\n\n\"'Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though\nall the time I thought within myself that I don't much trust you; but\nthere was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the\nother geese flew after him as fast as hops.\n\n\"We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide\nocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking\nup out of the water. 'Ah! my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought\nit best to keep a civil tongue in my head, any way, 'fly to land if you\nplease.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a while,\nbecause, you see, we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia!' said I; 'that's\nsurely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose: why, then,\nto be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' 'Whist, whist, you fool,'\nsaid he, 'hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent sort of\nplace, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only there is a\nlittle more sand there.'\n\n\"Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful\nbefore the wind; 'Ah! then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the ship\nif you please?' 'We are not fair over her,' said he. 'We are,' said I.\n'We are not,' said he; 'If I dropped you now you would go splash into\nthe sea.' 'I would not,' says I; 'I know better than that, for it is\njust clean under us, so let me drop now, at once.' 'If you must, you\nmust,' said he; 'there, take your own way,' and he opened his claw, and,\n'deed, he was right--sure enough, I came down plump into the very bottom\nof the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up\nthen for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after\nhis night's sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word\ndid he say, but, lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with\nthe cold, salt water till there wasn't a dry stitch on my whole carcase;\nand I heard somebody saying--'twas a voice I knew, too--'Get up, you\ndrunken brute, off o' that'; and with that I woke up, and there was Judy\nwith a tub full of water which she was splashing all over me--for, rest\nher soul! though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in\ndrink, and had a bitter hand of her own. 'Get up,' said she again: 'and\nof all places in the parish would no place sarve your turn to lie down\nupon but under the ould walls of Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am\nsure you had of it.' And sure enough I had: for I was fairly bothered\nout of my senses with eagles, and men of the moons, and flying ganders,\nand whales driving me through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the\nbottom of the green ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would\nit be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that.\"\n\n\n\n\nAdventures of Gilla na Chreck an Gour.\n\n(THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT SKIN).\n\n_From \"Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.\"_\n\nBY PATRICK KENNEDY (1801-1873).\n\n(Told in the Wexford Peasant Dialect.)\n\n\nLong ago a poor widow woman lived down by the iron forge near\nEnniscorthy, and she was so poor, she had no clothes to put on her son;\nso she used to fix him in the ash-hole, near the fire, and pile the warm\nashes about him; and, accordingly, as he grew up, she sunk the pit\ndeeper. At last, by hook or by crook, she got a goat-skin and fastened\nit round his waist, and he felt quite grand, and took a walk down the\nstreet. So, says she to him next morning, \"Tom, you thief, you never\ndone any good yet, and you six-foot high, and past nineteen; take that\nrope and bring me a _bresna_ from the wood.\" \"Never say't twice,\nmother,\" says Tom; \"here goes.\"\n\nWhen he had it gathered and tied, what should come up but a big\n_joiant_, nine-foot high, and made a lick of a club at him. Well become\nTom, he jumped a-one side and picked up a ram-pike; and the first crack\nhe gave the big fellow he made him kiss the clod. \"If you have e'er a\nprayer,\" says Tom, \"now's the time to say it, before I make _brishe_ of\nyou.\" \"I have no prayers,\" says the giant, \"but if you spare my life\nI'll give you that club; and as long as you keep from sin you'll win\nevery battle you ever fight with it.\"\n\nTom made no bones about letting him off; and as soon as he got the club\nin his hands he sat down on the bresna and gave it a tap with the\nkippeen, and says, \"Bresna, I had a great trouble gathering you, and run\nthe risk of my life for you; the least you can do is to carry me home.\"\nAnd, sure enough, the wind of the word was all it wanted. It went off\nthrough the wood, groaning and cracking till it came to the widow's\ndoor.\n\nWell, when the sticks were all burned Tom was sent off again to pick\nmore; and this time he had to fight with a giant with two heads on him.\nTom had a little more trouble with him--that's all; and the prayers _he_\nsaid was to give Tom a fife that nobody could help dancing to when he\nwas playing it. _Begonies_, he made the big faggot dance home, with\nhimself sitting on it. Well, if you were to count all the steps from\nthis to Dublin, dickens a bit you'd ever arrive there. The next giant\nwas a beautiful boy with three heads on him. He had neither prayers nor\ncatechism no more nor the others; and so he gave Tom a bottle of green\nointment that wouldn't let you be burned, nor scalded, nor wounded. \"And\nnow,\" says he, \"there's no more of us. You may come and gather sticks\nhere till little Lunacy Day in harvest without giant or fairy man to\ndisturb you.\"\n\nWell, now, Tom was prouder nor ten paycocks, and used to take a walk\ndown the street in the heel of the evening; but some of the little boys\nhad no more manners nor if they were Dublin jackeens, and put out their\ntongues at Tom's club and Tom's goat-skin. He didn't like that at all,\nand it would be mean to give one of them a clout. At last, what should\ncome through the town but a kind of bellman, only it's a big bugle he\nhad, and a huntsman's cap on his head, and a kind of painted shirt. So\nthis--he wasn't a bellman, and I don't know what to call him--bugleman,\nmaybe--proclaimed that the King of Dublin's daughter was so melancholy\nthat she didn't give a laugh for seven years, and that her father would\ngrant her in marriage to whoever would make her laugh three times.\n\"That's the very thing for me to try,\" says Tom; and so, without burning\nany more daylight, he kissed his mother, curled his club at the little\nboys, and set off along the yalla highroad to the town of Dublin.\n\nAt last Tom came to one of the City gates and the guards laughed and\ncursed at him instead of letting him through. Tom stood it all for a\nlittle time, but at last one of them--out of fun, as he said--drove his\n_bagnet_ half an inch or so into his side. Tom did nothing but take the\nfellow by the scruff of his neck and the waistband of his corduroys and\nfling him into the canal. Some ran to pull the fellow out, and others to\nlet manners into the vulgarian with their swords and daggers; but a tap\nfrom his club sent them headlong into the moat or down on the stones,\nand they were soon begging him to stay his hands.\n\nSo at last one of them was glad enough to show Tom the way to the Palace\nyard; and there was the King and the Queen, and the princess in a\ngallery, looking at all sorts of wrestling and sword-playing, and\n_rinka-fadhas_ (long dances) and mumming, all to please the princess;\nbut not a smile came over her handsome face.\n\nWell, they all stopped when they seen the young giant, with his boy's\nface and long, black hair, and his short, curly beard--for his poor\nmother couldn't afford to buy razhurs--and his great, strong arms and\nbare legs, and no covering but the goat-skin that reached from his waist\nto his knees. But an envious, wizened _basthard_ of a fellow, with a red\nhead, that wished to be married to the princess, and didn't like how she\nopened her eyes at Tom, came forward, and asked his business very\nsnappishly. \"My business,\" says Tom, says he, \"is to make the beautiful\nprincess, God bless her, laugh three times.\" \"Do you see all them merry\nfellows and skilful swordsmen,\" says the other, \"that could eat you up\nwithout a grain of salt, and not a mother's soul of 'em ever got a laugh\nfrom her these seven years?\" So the fellows gathered round Tom, and the\nbad man aggravated him till he told them he didn't care a pinch of snuff\nfor the whole bilin' of 'em; let 'em come on, six at a time, and try\nwhat they could do. The King, that was too far off to hear what they\nwere saying, asked what did the stranger want. \"He wants,\" says the\nred-headed fellow, \"to make hares of your best men.\" \"Oh!\" says the\nKing, \"if that's the way, let one of 'em turn out and try his mettle.\"\nSo one stood forward, with sword and pot-lid, and made a cut at Tom. He\nstruck the fellow's elbow with the club, and up over their heads flew\nthe sword, and down went the owner of it on the gravel from a thump he\ngot on the helmet. Another took his place, and another and another, and\nthen half-a-dozen at once, and Tom sent swords, helmets, shields, and\nbodies rolling over and over, and themselves bawling out that they were\nkilt, and disabled, and damaged, and rubbing their poor elbows and hips,\nand limping away. Tom contrived not to kill anyone; and the princess was\nso amused that she let a great, sweet laugh out of her that was heard\nall over the yard. \"King of Dublin,\" says Tom, \"I've the quarter of\nyour daughter.\" And the King didn't know whether he was glad or sorry,\nand all the blood in the princess's heart run into her cheeks.\n\nSo there was no more fighting that day, and Tom was invited to dine with\nthe royal family. Next day Redhead told Tom of a wolf, the size of a\nyearling heifer, that used to be _serenading_ (sauntering) about the\nwalls, and eating people and cattle; and said what a pleasure it would\ngive the King to have it killed. \"With all my heart,\" says Tom. \"Send a\njackeen to show me where he lives, and we'll see how he behaves to a\nstranger.\"\n\nThe princess was not well pleased, for Tom looked a different person\nwith fine clothes and a nice green _birredh_ over his long, curly hair;\nand besides, he'd got one laugh out of her. However, the King gave his\nconsent, and in an hour and a half the horrible wolf was walking in the\npalace yard, and Tom a step or two behind, with his club on his\nshoulder, just as a shepherd would be walking after a pet lamb. The King\nand Queen and princess were safe up in their gallery, but the officers\nand people of the court that were _padrowling_ about the great bawn,\nwhen they saw the big baste coming in gave themselves up, and began to\nmake for doors and gates; and the wolf licked his chops, as if he was\nsaying, \"Wouldn't I enjoy a breakfast off a couple of yez!\" The King\nshouted out, \"O Gilla na Chreck an Gour, take away that terrible wolf\nand you must have all my daughter.\" But Tom didn't mind him a bit. He\npulled out his flute and began to play like vengeance; and dickens a man\nor boy in the yard but began shovelling away heel and toe, and the wolf\nhimself was obliged to get on his hind legs and dance _Tatther Jack\nWalsh_ along with the rest. A good deal of the people got inside and\nshut the doors, the way the hairy fellow wouldn't pin them; but Tom kept\nplaying, and the outsiders kept shouting and dancing, and the wolf kept\ndancing and roaring with the pain his legs were giving him; and all the\ntime he had his eyes on Redhead, who was shut out along with the rest.\nWherever Redhead went the wolf followed, and kept one eye on him and the\nother on Tom, to see if he would give him leave to eat him. But Tom\nshook his head, and never stopped the tune, and Redhead never stopped\ndancing and bawling and the wolf dancing and roaring, one leg up and the\nother down, and he ready to drop out of his standing from fair\ntiresomeness.\n\nWhen the princess seen that there was no fear of anyone being kilt, she\nwas so divarted by the stew that Redhead was in that she gave another\ngreat laugh; and well become Tom, out he cried, \"King of Dublin, I have\ntwo quarters of your daughter.\" \"Oh, quarters or alls,\" says the King,\n\"put away that divel of a wolf and we'll see about it.\" So Gilla put his\nflute in his pocket, and, says he, to the baste that was sittin' on his\ncurrabingo ready to faint, \"Walk off to your mountains, my fine fellow,\nand live like a respectable baste; and if ever I find you come within\nseven miles of any town--.\" He said no more, but spit in his fist, and\ngave a flourish of his club. It was all the poor divel wanted: he put\nhis tail between his legs and took to his pumps without looking at man\nor mortial, and neither sun, moon, nor stars ever saw him in sight of\nDublin again.\n\nAt dinner everyone laughed except the foxy fellow; and, sure enough, he\nwas laying out how he'd settle poor Tom next day. \"Well, to be sure!\"\nsays he, \"King of Dublin, you are in luck. There's the Danes moidhering\nus to no end. D---- run to Lusk wid 'em and if anyone can save us from\n'em it is this gentleman with the goat-skin. There is a flail hangin' on\nthe collar-beam in Hell, and neither Dane nor Devil can stand before\nit.\" \"So,\" says Tom to the King, \"will you let me have the other half of\nthe princess if I bring you the flail?\" \"No, no,\" says the princess,\n\"I'd rather never be your wife than see you in that danger.\"\n\nBut Redhead whispered and nudged Tom about how shabby it would look to\nreneague the adventure. So he asked him which way he was to go, and\nRedhead directed him through a street where a great many bad women\nlived, and a great many shibbeen houses were open, and away he set.\n\nWell, he travelled and travelled till he came in sight of the walls of\nHell; and, bedad, before he knocked at the gates, he rubbed himself over\nwith the greenish ointment. When he knocked, a hundred little imps\npopped their heads out through the bars, and axed him what he wanted. \"I\nwant to speak to the big divel of all,\" says Tom; \"open the gate.\"\n\nIt wasn't long till the gate was _thrune_ open, and the Ould Boy\nreceived Tom with bows and scrapes, and axed his business. \"My business\nisn't much,\" says Tom. \"I only came for the loan of that flail that I\nsee hanging on the collar-beam for the King of Dublin to give a\nthrashing to the Danes.\" \"Well,\" says the other, \"the Danes is much\nbetter customers to me; but, since you walked so far, I won't refuse.\nHand that flail,\" says he to a young imp; and he winked the far-off eye\nat the same time. So, while some were barring the gates, the young\ndevil climbed up and took down the iron flail that had the handstaff and\nbooltheen both made out of red-hot iron. The little vagabond was\ngrinning to think how it would burn the hands off of Tom, but the\ndickens a burn it made on him, no more nor if it was a good oak sapling.\n\"Thankee,\" says Tom; \"now, would you open the gate for a body and I'll\ngive you no more trouble.\" \"Oh, tramp!\" says Ould Nick, \"is that the\nway? It is easier getting inside them gates than getting out again. Take\nthat tool from him, and give him a dose of the oil of stirrup.\" So one\nfellow put out his claws to seize on the flail, but Tom gave him such a\nwelt of it on the side of his head that he broke off one of his horns,\nand made him roar like a divil as he was. Well, they rushed at Tom, but\nhe gave them, little and big, such a thrashing as they didn't forget for\na while. At last says the ould thief of all, rubbing his elbows, \"Let\nthe fool out; and woe to whoever lets him in again, great or small.\"\n\nSo out marched Tom and away with him without minding the shouting and\ncursing they kept up at him from the tops of the walls. And when he got\nhome to the big bawn of the palace, there never was such running and\nracing as to see himself and the flail. When he had his story told, he\nlaid down the flail on the stone steps, and bid no one for their lives\nto touch it. If the King and Queen and princess made much of him before\nthey made ten times as much of him now; but Redhead, the mean\nscruff-hound, stole over, and thought to catch hold of the flail to make\nan end of him. His fingers hardly touched it, when he let a roar out of\nhim as if heaven and earth were coming together, and kept flinging his\narms about and dancing that it was pitiful to look at him. Tom run at\nhim as soon as he could rise, caught his hands in his own two, and\nrubbed them this way and that, and the burning pain left them before you\ncould reckon one. Well, the poor fellow, between the pain that was only\njust gone, and the comfort he was in, had the comicalest face that ever\nyou see; it was such a mixerumgatherum of laughing and crying. Everyone\nburst out a-laughing--the princess could not stop no more than the\nrest--and then says Gilla, or Tom, \"Now, ma'am, if there were fifty\nhalves of you I hope you will give me them all.\" Well, the princess had\nno mock modesty about her. She looked at her father, and, by my word,\nshe came over to Gilla, and put her two delicate hands into his two\nrough ones, and I wish it was myself was in his shoes that day!\n\nTom would not bring the flail into the palace. You may be sure no other\nbody went near it; and when the early risers were passing next morning\nthey found two long clefts in the stone where it was, after burning\nitself an opening downwards, nobody could tell how far.\n\nBut a messenger came in at noon and said that the Danes were so\nfrightened when they heard of the flail coming into Dublin that they got\ninto their ships and sailed away.\n\nWell, I suppose before they were married Gilla got some man like Pat\nMara of Tomenine to larn him the \"principles of politeness,\" fluxions,\ngunnery, and fortifications, decimal fractions, practice, and the\nrule-of-three direct, the way he'd be able to keep up a conversation\nwith the royal family. Whether he ever lost his time larning them\nsciences, I'm not sure, but it's as sure as fate that his mother never\nmore saw any want till the end of her days.\n\n\n\n\nThe Little Weaver of Duleek Gate.\n\n_From \"Legends and Stories of Ireland.\"_\n\nBY SAMUEL LOVER (1791-1868.)\n\n\nThere was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by the\ngate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife, an' av\ncoorse, they had childre, and small blame to them, so that the poor\nlittle waiver was obleeged to work his fingers to the bone a'most to get\nthem the bit and the sup, and the loom never standin' still.\n\nWell, it was one mornin' that his wife called to him, \"Come here,\" says\nshe, \"jewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it's ready.\" But he never\nminded her, but wint an workin'. \"Arrah, lave off slavin' yourself, my\ndarlin', and ate your bit o' brekquest while it is hot.\"\n\n\"Lave me alone,\" says he, \"I'm busy with a pattern here that is brakin'\nmy heart,\" says the waiver; \"and antil I complate it and masther it\nintirely I won't quit.\"\n\n\"You're as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,\" says the\npoor wife; \"and it's a heavy handful I have of you when you are cruked\nin your temper; but, stay there if you like, and let your stirabout grow\ncowld, and not a one o' me 'ill ax you agin;\" and with that off she\nwint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed, and the more the\nwife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know, is only nath'ral.\nWell, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the stirabout and what\nwould you think, but whin he looked at it, it was as black as a\ncrow--for, you see, it was in the heighth o' summer, and the flies lit\nupon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered with them.\n\n\"Why, thin,\" says the waiver, \"would no place sarve you but that? and is\nit spyling my brekquest yiz are, you dirty bastes?\" And with that, he\nlifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o' stirabout,\nand killed no less than three score and tin flies at the one blow, for\nhe counted the carcases one by one, and laid them out an a clane plate\nfor to view them.\n\nWell, he felt a powerful sperit risin' in him, when he seen the\nslaughter he done, at one blow; and not a sthroke more work he'd do that\nday, but out he wint and was fractious and impident to every one he met,\nand was squarin' up into their faces and sayin', \"Look at that fist!\nthat's the fist that killed three score and tin at one blow--Whoo!\"\n\nWith that all the neighbours thought he was crack'd, and the poor wife\nherself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin', afther\nspendin' every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin' about the place, and\nlookin' at his hand every minit.\n\n\"Indeed, an' your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,\" says\nthe poor wife. \"You had betther wash it, darlin'.\"\n\n\"How dar' you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?\" says he, going\nto bate her.\n\n\"Well, it's nat dirty,\" says she.\n\n\"It is throwin away my time I have been all my life,\" says he, \"livin'\nwith you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin' but a poor waiver, when it\nis Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two of the siven\nchampions of Christendom.\"\n\n\"Well, suppose they christened him twice as much,\" says the wife, \"sure,\nwhat's that to uz?\"\n\n\"Don't put in your prate,\" says he, \"you ignorant sthrap,\" says he.\n\"You're vulgar, woman--you're vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I'll have\nnothin' more to say to any dirty, snakin' thrade again--sorra more\nwaivin' I'll do.\"\n\n\"Oh, Thady, dear, and what'll the children do then?\"\n\n\"Let them go play marvels,\" says he.\n\n\"That would be but poor feedin' for them, Thady.\"\n\n\"They shan't want feedin'?\" says he, \"for it's a rich man I'll be soon,\nand a great man, too.\"\n\n\"Usha, but I'm glad to hear it, darlin'--though I dunno how it's to be,\nbut I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.\"\n\n\"Don't talk to me of any bed, but the bed o' glory, woman,\" says he,\nlookin' mortial grand. \"I'll sleep with the brave yit,\" says he.\n\n\"Indeed, an' a brave sleep will do you a power o' good, my darlin,\" says\nshe.\n\n\"And it's I that will be a knight!\" says he.\n\n\"All night, if you plaze, Thady,\" says she.\n\n\"None o' your coaxin',\" says he. \"I'm detarmined on it, and I'll set off\nimmediately, and be a knight arriant.\"\n\n\"A what?\" says she.\n\n\"A knight arriant, woman.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" says she.\n\n\"A knight arriant is a rale gintleman,\" says he; \"going round the world\nfor sport, with a soord by his side, takin' whatever he plazes for\nhimself; and that's a knight arriant,\" says he.\n\nWell, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and\nhe got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he\ntook them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o' tin clothes like\nany knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and that he was very\nparticular about, bekase it was his shield, and he went to a friend o'\nhis, a painter and glazier, and made him paint an his shield in big\nletthers:--\n\n    \"I'M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,\n  THAT KILL'D THREE SCORE AND TIN\n            AT A BLOW.\"\n\n\"When the people sees that,\" says the waiver to himself, \"the sorra one\nwill dar for to come near me.\"\n\nAnd with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for him,\n\"for,\" says he, \"it will make an illegent helmet;\" and when it was done,\nhe put it an his head, and his wife said, \"Oh, murther, Thady, jewel; is\nit puttin' a great, heavy, iron pot an your head you are, by way iv a\nhat?\"\n\n\"Sartinly,\" says he, \"for a knight arriant should always have a weight\non his brain.\"\n\n\"But, Thady, dear,\" says the wife, \"there's a hole in it, and it can't\nkeep out the weather.\"\n\n\"It will be the cooler,\" says he, puttin' it an him; \"besides, if I\ndon't like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o' sthraw, or the like\no' that.\"\n\n\"The three legs of it look mighty quare, stickin' up,\" says she.\n\n\"Every helmet has a spike stickin' out o' the top of it,\" says the\nwaiver, \"and if mine has three, it's only the grandher it is.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says the wife, getting bitter at last, \"all I can say is, it\nisn't the first sheep's head was dhress'd in it.\"\n\n\"Your sarvint, ma'am,\" says he; and off he set.\n\nWell, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,\nwhere the miller's horse was grazin', that used to carry the ground corn\nround the counthry. \"This is the identical horse for me,\" says the\nwaiver; \"he's used to carryin' flour and male, and what am I but the\nflower o' shovelry in a coat o' mail; so that the horse won't be put out\niv his way in the laste.\"\n\nSo away galloped the waiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought\nthe best thing he could do was to go to the King o' Dublin (for Dublin\nwas a great place thin, and had a King iv its own). When he got to the\npalace courtyard he let his horse graze about the place, for the grass\nwas growin' out betune the stones; everything was flourishin' thin in\nDublin, you see. Well, the King was lookin' out of his dhrawin'-room\nwindy, for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but the waiver pretended\nnot to see him, and he wint over to the stone sate, undher the\nwindy--for, you see, there was stone sates all round about the place,\nfor the accommodation o' the people--for the King was a dacent obleeging\nman; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay down an one o' the\nseats, just undher the King's windy, and purtended to go asleep; but he\ntook care to turn out the front of his shield that had the letthers an\nit. Well, my dear, with that the King calls out to one of the lords of\nhis coort that was standin' behind him, howldin' up the skirt of his\ncoat, accordin' to rayson, and, says he: \"Look here,\" says he, \"what do\nyou think of a vagabone like that, comin' undher my very nose to sleep?\nIt is thrue I'm a good king,\" says he, \"and I 'commodate the people by\nhavin' sates for them to sit down and enjoy the raycreation and\ncontimplation of seein' me here, lookin' out a' my dhrawin'-room windy,\nfor divarsion; but that is no rayson they are to make a hotel o' the\nplace, and come and sleep here. Who is it, at all?\" says the King.\n\n\"Not a one o' me knows, plaze your majesty.\"\n\n\"I think he must be a furriner,\" says the King, \"because his dhress is\noutlandish.\"\n\n\"And doesn't know manners, more betoken,\" says the lord.\n\n\"I'll go down and circumspect him myself,\" says the King; \"folly me,\"\nsays he to the lord, wavin' his hand at the same time in the most\ndignacious manner.\n\nDown he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over to\nwhere the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his shield\nwith the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord, \"This\nis the very man I want.\"\n\n\"For what, plaze your majesty?\" says the lord.\n\n\"To kill the vagabone dhraggin', to be sure,\" says the King.\n\n\"Sure, do you think he could kill him,\" says the lord, \"when all the\nstoutest knights in the land wasn't aiquil to it, but never kem back,\nand was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?\"\n\n\"Sure, don't you see there,\" says the king, pointin' at the shield,\n\"that he killed three score and tin at one blow; and the man that done\nthat, I think, is a match for anything.\"\n\nSo, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shouldher\nfor to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and\nthe King says to him, \"God save you,\" said he.\n\n\"God save you kindly,\" says the waiver, purtendin' he was quite\nunknownst who he was spakin' to.\n\n\"Do you know who I am,\" says the king, \"that you make so free, good\nman?\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" says the waiver, \"you have the advantage o' me.\"\n\n\"To be sure, I have,\" says the king, moighty high; \"sure, ain't I the\nKing o' Dublin?\" says he.\n\nThe waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the King, and, says\nhe, \"I beg your pardon for the liberty I tuk; plaze your holiness, I\nhope you'll excuse it.\"\n\n\"No offince,\" says the King; \"get up, good man. And what brings you\nhere?\" says he.\n\n\"I'm in want of work, plaze your riverence,\" says the waiver.\n\n\"Well, suppose I give you work?\" says the king.\n\n\"I'll be proud to sarve you, my lord,\" says the waiver.\n\n\"Very well,\" says the King. \"You killed three score and tin at one blow,\nI understan',\" says the King.\n\n\"Yis,\" says the waiver; \"that was the last thrifle o' work I done, and\nI'm afraid my hand 'ill go out o' practice if I don't get some job to do\nat wanst.\"\n\n\"You shall have a job immediately,\" says the King. \"It is not three\nscore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard\ndhraggin that is disturbin' the counthry and ruinatin' my tinanthry wid\naitin' their powlthry, and I'm lost for want of eggs,\" said the King.\n\n\"Och, thin, plaze your worship,\" says the waiver, \"you look as yellow as\nif you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.\"\n\n\"Well, I want this dhraggin to be killed,\" says the King. \"It will be\nno trouble in life to you; and I am sorry that it isn't betther worth\nyour while, for he isn't worth fearin' at all; only I must tell you that\nhe lives in the County Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he has an\nadvantage in that.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't value it in the laste,\" says the waiver, \"for the last\nthree score and tin I killed was in a soft place.\"\n\n\"When will you undhertake the job, thin?\" says the King.\n\n\"Let me at him at wanst,\" says the waiver.\n\n\"That's what I like,\" says the King, \"you're the very man for my money,\"\nsays he.\n\n\"Talkin' of money,\" says the waiver, \"by the same token, I'll want a\nthrifle o' change from you for my thravellin' charges.\"\n\n\"As much as you plaze,\" says the King; and with the word he brought him\ninto his closet, where there was an owld stockin' in an oak chest,\nbursting wid goolden guineas.\n\n\"Take as many as you plaze,\" says the King; and sure enough, my dear,\nthe little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld\nwith them.\n\n\"Now I'm ready for the road,\" says the waiver.\n\n\"Very well,\" says the King; \"but you must have a fresh horse,\" says he.\n\n\"With all my heart,\" says the waiver, who thought he might as well\nexchange the miller's owld garron for a betther.\n\nAnd maybe it's wondherin' you are that the waiver would think of goin'\nto fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was\npurtendin' to be asleep, but he had no sich notion, all he intended\nwas--to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and\na good horse. But, you see, cute as the waiver was, the King was cuter\nstill, for these high quality, you see, is great desaivers; and so the\nhorse the waiver was an was learned on purpose; and sure, the minit he\nwas mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the sorra toe he'd go but\nright down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin' evermore, until\nat last the waiver seen a crowd o' people runnin' as if owld Nick was at\ntheir heels, and they shoutin' a thousand murdhers, and cryin'--\"The\ndhraggin, the dhraggin!\" and he couldn't stop the horse nor make him\nturn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that was\ncomin' up to him; and there was the most nefaarious smell o' sulphur,\nsavin' your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith, the waiver\nseen he had no time to lose; and so threwn himself off the horse and\nmade to a three that was growin' nigh-hand, and away he clambered up\ninto it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to spare, for the\ndhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured the horse body and\nbones, in less than no time; and then began to sniffle and scent about\nfor the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye on him, where he was, up in\nthe three, and, says he, \"You might as well come down out o' that,\" says\nhe, \"for I'll have you as sure as eggs is mate.\"\n\n\"Sorra fut I'll go down,\" says the waiver.\n\n\"Sorra care I care,\" says the dhraggin; \"for you're as good as ready\nmoney in my pocket this minit, for I'll lie undher this three,\" says he,\n\"and sooner or later you must fall to my share;\" and sure enough he sot\ndown, and began to pick his teeth with his tail afther a heavy brekquest\nhe made that mornin' (for he ate a whole village, let alone the horse),\nand he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but before he wint to sleep\nhe wound himself all round about the three, all as one as a lady windin'\nribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not escape.\n\nWell, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin' of\nhim--and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o' thunder--that\nminit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox;\nand he was very nigh hand the bottom when a thievin' branch he was\ndipindin' an bruck, and down he fell right a top o' the dhraggin; but,\nif he did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with\nhis two legs right acrass the dhraggin's neck, and my jew'l, he laid\nhowlt o' the baste's ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin\nwakened and endayvoured for to bite him, but, you see, by rayson the\nwaiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that, he\nendayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could he stir the\nwaiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not turn\nthe scale agin the waiver.\n\n\"Och, this is too bad, intirely,\" says the dhraggin; \"but if you won't\nlet go,\" says he, \"by the powers o' wildfire, I'll give you a ride\nthat'll astonish your siven small senses, my boy\"; and, with that, away\nhe flew like mad; and where do you think he did fly?--he flew sthraight\nfor Dublin. But the waiver, bein' an his neck, was a great disthress to\nhim, and he would rather have had him an inside passenger; but, anyway,\nhe flew till he kem slap up agin the palace o' the king; for, bein'\nblind with the rage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains\nout--that is, the small trifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An'\nyou see, good luck would have it, that the King o' Dublin was looking\nout iv his dhrawin'-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin\nhe seen the waiver ridin' an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin' like\na tar barrel) he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show.\n\n\"Here comes the knight arriant,\" says the King, \"ridin' the dhraggin\nthat's all a-fire, and if he gets into the palace, yiz must be ready wid\nthe fire ingines,\" says he, \"for to put him out.\"\n\nBut when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run downstairs\nand scampered into the palace yard for to circumspect the curiosity; and\nby the time they got down, the waiver had got off o' the dhraggin's\nneck; and runnin' up to the King, says he--\n\n\"Plaze, your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin' this\nfacetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour\nof decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first,\nbefore I allowed him the liberty for to dar' to appear in your royal\nprisince, and you'll oblige me if you'll just make your mark with your\nown hand upon the onruly baste's neck.\" And with that, the King, sure\nenough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the dirty brute, as\nclane as a new pin.\n\nWell, there was great rejoicin' in the coort that the dhraggin was\nkilled; and says the King to the little waiver, says he--\n\n\"You are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to\nknight you over agin; but I will make you a lord,\" says he \"and as you\nare the first man I ever heer'd tell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall\nbe called Lord Mount Dhraggin',\" says he.\n\n\"And where's my estates, plaze your holiness?\" says the waiver, who\nalways had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.\n\n\"Oh, I didn't forget that,\" says the King. \"It is my royal pleasure to\nprovide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of all\nthe dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this out,\"\nsays he.\n\n\"Is that all?\" says the waiver.\n\n\"All!\" says the king. \"Why, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the like\never given to any man before?\"\n\n\"I believe not, indeed,\" says the waiver; \"many thanks to your majesty.\"\n\n\"But that is not all I'll do for you,\" says the king, \"I'll give you my\ndaughter, too, in marriage,\" says he.\n\nNow, you see, that was nothin' more than what was promised the waiver in\nhis first promise; for, by all accounts, the King's daughter was the\ngreatest dhraggin ever was seen.\n\n\n\n\nFionn MacCumhail and the Princess.\n\n_From \"The Shamrock.\"_\n\nBY PATRICK J. MCCALL (1861--).\n\n(In Wexford Folk Speech.)\n\n\nWance upon a time, when things was a great'le betther in Ireland than\nthey are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four\nothers undher him to look afther the craps an' other indhustries, there\nlived a young chief called Fan MaCool.\n\nNow, this was long afore we gev up bowin' and scrapin' to the sun an'\nmoon an' sich like raumash (nonsense); an' signs an it, there was a\npowerful lot ov witches an' Druids, an' enchanted min an' wimen goin'\nabout, that med things quare enough betimes for iverywan.\n\nWell, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command,\nan' a purty likely lookin' boy, too--there was nothin' too hot or too\nheavy for him; an' so ye needn't be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was\nthe mischief entirely wid the colleens. Nothin' delighted him more than\nto disguise himself wid an ould coatamore (overcoat) threwn over his\nshowlder, a lump ov a kippeen (stick) in his fist and he mayanderin'\nabout unknownst, rings around the counthry, lookin' for fun an' foosther\n(diversion) ov all kinds.\n\nWell, one fine mornin', whin he was on the shaughraun, he was waumasin'\n(strolling) about through Leinster, an' near the royal palace ov\nGlendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords and ladies, an', my\ndear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their jewels shinin' like\ndewdrops ov a May mornin', and laughin' like the tinkle ov a deeshy\n(small) mountain strame over the white rocks. So he cocked his beaver,\nan' stole over to see what was the matther.\n\nLo an' behould ye, what were they at but houldin' a race-meetin' or\nfaysh (festival)--somethin' like what the quality calls ataleticks now!\nThere they were, jumpin', and runnin', and coorsin', an' all soorts ov\nfun, enough to make the trouts--an' they're mighty fine leppers\nenough--die wid envy in the river benaith them.\n\nThe fun wint on fast an' furious, an' Fan, consaled betune the trumauns\nan' brushna (elder bushes and furze) could hardly keep himself quiet,\nseein' the thricks they wor at. Peepin' out, he seen, jist forninst him\non the other bank, the prencess herself, betune the high-up ladies ov\nthe coort. She was a fine, bouncin' geersha (girl) with gold hair like\nthe furze an' cheeks like an apple blossom, an' she brakin' her heart\nlaughin' an' clappin' her hands an' turnin her head this a-way an' that\na-way, jokin' wid this wan an' that wan, an' commiseratin', moryah!\n(forsooth) the poor gossoons that failed in their leps. Fan liked the\nlooks ov her well, an' whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to\ntheir knees an' jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the\ngreat trial ov all kem on. Maybe you'd guess what that was? But I'm\nafeerd you won't if I gev you a hundhred guesses! It was to lep the\nstrame, forty foot wide!\n\nList'nin' to them whisperin' to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin' that\nwhichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he\nwud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an' ov coorse, would be med\nking ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his toes\nan' looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the shky. Well, whin\nFan h'ard this, he was put to a nonplush to know what to do! With his\nould duds on him, he was ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to\nhave the eyes ov the whole wurruld on him, an' his heart wint down to\nhis big toe as he watched the boys makin' their offers at the lep. But\nno one of them was soople enough for the job, an' they kep on tumblin',\nwan afther the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began\nto look sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a colyeen (curls) a\nyard long--an' more betoken he was a boy o' the Byrnes from Imayle--jist\ntipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an' then twistin', like\na crow in the air scratchin' her head with her claw, he spraddled wide\nopen in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a mudbank! Well,\nme dear, Fan forgot himself, an' gev a screech like an aigle; an' wid\nthat, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed, an' Fan was\nsurrounded. In less than a minnit an' a half they dragged me bould Fan\nbe the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king himself.\n\n\"What ould geochagh (beggar) have we now?\" sez the king, lookin' very\nhard at Fan.\n\n\"I'm Fan MaCool!\" sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.\n\n\"Well, Fan MaCool or not,\" sez the king, mockin' him, \"ye'll have to\njump the sthrame yander for freckenin' the lives clane out ov me\nladies,\" sez he, \"an' for disturbin' our spoort ginerally,\" sez he.\n\n\"An' what'll I get for that same?\" sez Fan, lettin' on (pretending) he\nwas afeered.\n\n\"Me daughter, Maynish,\" sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye\nsee, Fan would be drowned.\n\n\"Me hand on the bargain,\" sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on\nthe knuckles wid his specktre (sceptre) an' towld him to hurry up, or\nhe'd get the ollaves (judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres'n or the\nMarshals--I forgets which--it's so long gone by!\n\nWell, Fan peeled off his coatamore, an' threw away his bottheen ov a\nstick, an' the prencess seein' his big body an' his long arums an' legs\nlike an oak tree, couldn't help remarkin' to her comrade, the craythur--\n\n\"Bedad, Cauth (Kate),\" sez she, \"but this beggarman is a fine bit of a\nbouchal (boy),\" sez she; \"it's in the arumy (army) he ought to be,\" sez\nshe, lookin' at him agen, an' admirin' him, like.\n\nSo, Fan, purtendin' to be fixin' his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two\nlusmores (fox-gloves) an' put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the\nfairies' own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an' he, ov\ncoorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an ould lenaun\n(fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little\nstand-a-loney.\n\nWell, me dear, ye'd think it was on'y over a little creepie\n(three-legged) stool he was leppin' whin he landed like a thrish jist at\nthe fut ov the prencess; an' his father's son he was, that put his two\narums around her, an' gev her a kiss--haith, ye'd hear the smack ov it\nat the Castle o' Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an'\npulled out his hair in hatfuls, an' at last he ordhered the bowld\nbeggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuck off weskit an'\nseen the collar ov goold around Fan's neck the ould chap became\ndelighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun (Erin) for a\nson-in-law.\n\n\"Hello!\" sez the king, \"who have we now?\" sez he, seein' the collar.\n\"Begonny's,\" sez he, \"you're no boccagh (beggar) anyways!\"\n\n\"I'm Fan MaCool,\" sez the other, as impident as a cocksparra'; \"have you\nanything to say agen me?\" for his name wasn't up, at that time, like\nafther.\n\n\"Ay lots to say agen you. How dar' you be comin' round this a-way,\ndressed like a playacthor, takin' us in?\" sez the king, lettin' on to be\nvexed; \"an' now,\" sez he, \"to annoy you, you'll have to go an' jump back\nagen afore you gets me daughter for puttin' on (deceiving) us in such a\nmanner.\"\n\n\"Your will is my pleasure,\" sez Fan; \"but I must have a word or two with\nthe girl first,\" sez he, an' up he goes an' commences talkin' soft to\nher, an' the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were\ncroosheenin' an' colloguin' (whispering and talking), an' not mindin'\nhim no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but\nthe Prence of Imayle, afther dryin' himself, to put his pike in the hay\ntoo.\n\n\"Well, avochal (my boy),\" sez Fan, \"are you dry yet?\" an' the Prencess\nlaughed like a bell round a cat's neck.\n\n\"You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,\" sez the other; \"but there's\none thing you can't do wid all your prate!\"\n\n\"What's that?\" sez Fan. \"Maybe not\" sez he.\n\n\"You couldn't whistle and chaw oatenmale,\" sez the Prence ov Imayle, in\na pucker. \"Are you any good at throwin' a stone?\" sez he, then.\n\n\"The best!\" sez Fan, an' all the coort gother round like to a\ncock-fight. \"Where'll we throw to?\" sez he.\n\n\"In to'ards Dublin,\" sez the Prence ov Imayle; an' be all accounts he\nwas a great hand at cruistin (throwing).\n\n\"Here goes pink,\" sez he, an' he ups with a stone, as big as a castle,\nan' sends it flyin' in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped\ntill it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.\n\n\"I'm your masther!\" sez Fan, pickin' up another clochaun (stone) an'\nsendin' it a few perch beyant the first.\n\n\"That you're not,\" sez the Prence ov Imayle, an' he done his best, an'\nmanaged to send another finger stone beyant Fan's throw; an' sure, the\nthree stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.\n\n\"Well, me lad,\" says Fan, stoopin' for another as big as a hill, \"I'm\nsorry I have to bate you; but I can't help it,\" sez he, lookin' over at\nthe Prencess Maynish, an' she as mute as a mouse watchin' the two big\nmen, an' the ould king showin' fair play, as delighted as a child.\n\"Watch this,\" sez he, whirlin' his arm like a windmill, \"and now put on\nyour spectacles,\" sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin' through\nthe air like a peggin'-top, over the other three clochauns, and then\nacross Dublin Bay, an' scrapin' the nose off ov Howth, it landed with a\nswish in the say beyant it. That's the rock they calls Ireland's Eye\nnow!\n\n\"Be the so an' so!\" sez the king, \"I don't know where that went to, at\nall, at all! what direct did you send it?\" sez he to Fan. \"I had it in\nview, till it went over the say,\" sez he.\n\n\"I'm bet!\" sez the Prence ov Imayle. \"I couldn't pass that, for I can't\nsee where you put it, even--good-bye to yous,\" sez he, turnin' on his\nheel an' makin' off; \"an' may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!\"\nAn' back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an' took to fret, an I\nunderstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an' they put a\nturtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but I\nthink he overstrained himself, throwin', though that's nayther here nor\nthere with me story!\n\n\"Are you goin' to lep back agen?\" sez ould King Garry, wantin' to see\nmore sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein' the like as if he was a\nlad ov twenty.\n\n\"To be shure I will!\" sez Fan, ready enough, \"but I'll have to take the\ngirl over with me this time!\" sez he.\n\n\"Oh, no, Fan!\" sez Maynish, afeered ov her life he might stumble an'\nthat he'd fall in with her; an' then she'd have to fall out with\nhim--\"take me father with you,\" sez she; an' egonnys, the ould king\nthought more about himself than any ov them, an' sed he'd take the will\nfor the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin' went on; an' maybe that\nwasn't the grand blow-out. But I can't stay to tell yous all the fun\nthey had for a fortnit; on'y, me dear, they all went into kinks ov\nlaughin', when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood\nup to drink Fan's health, an' forgot himself.\n\n\"Here's to'ards your good health, Fan MaCool!\" sez he, as grand as you\nlike--\"an' a long life to you, an' a happy wife to you--an' a great many\nov them!\" sez he, like he'd forgot somethin'.\n\nWell, me dear, every one was splittin' their sides like the p'yates,\nunless the prencess, an' she got as red in the face as if she was\nchurnin' in the winther an' the frost keepin' the crame from crackin';\nbut she got over it like the maisles.\n\nBut I suppose you can guess the remainder, an' as the evenin's gettin'\nforrard I'll stop; so put down the kittle an' make tay, an' if Fan and\nthe Prencess Maynish didn't live happy together--that we may!\n\n\n\n\nThe Kildare Pooka.\n\n_From \"Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts.\"_\n\nBY PATRICK KENNEDY..\n\n\nMr. H---- H----, when he was alive, used to live a good deal in Dublin,\nand he was once a great while out of the country on account of the\n\"ninety-eight\" business. But the servants kept on in the big house at\nRath--all the same as if the family was at home. Well, they used to be\nfrightened out of their lives, after going to their beds, with the\nbanging of the kitchen door and the clattering of fire-irons and the\npots and plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so long keeping\none another in heart with stories about ghosts and that, when--what\nwould have it?--the little scullery boy that used to be sleeping over\nthe horses, and could not get room at the fire, crept into the hot\nhearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, sorra fear him,\nbut he fell dead asleep.\n\nWell and good. After they were all gone, and the kitchen raked up, he\nwas woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the tramping of\nan ass in the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see but a\nbig ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and yawning before the\nfire. After a little he looked about him, and began scratching his ears\nas if he was quite tired, an', says he, \"I may as well begin first as\nlast.\" The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for, says he,\n\"Now he's going to ate me\"; but the fellow with the long ears and tail\non him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then brought\nin a pail of water from the pump, and filled a big pot that he put on\nthe fire before he went out. He then put in his hand--foot, I mean--into\nthe hot hearth, and pulled out the little boy. He let a roar out of him\nwith fright. But the pooka only looked at him, and thrust out his lower\nlip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched him into his\npew again.\n\nWell, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the boil coming on\nthe water, and maybe there wasn't a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on the\ndresser, that he didn't fetch and put into the pot, and wash and dry the\nwhole bilin' of 'em as well as e'er a kitchen maid from that to Dublin\ntown. He then put all of them up on their places on the shelves; and if\nhe didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then\nhe comes and sits fornent the boy, let down one of his ears, and cocked\nup the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but\nnot a _dheeg_ (sound) ud come out of his throat. The last thing the\npooka done was to rake up the fire and walk out, giving such a slap o'\nthe door, that the boy thought the house couldn't help tumbling down.\n\nWell, to be sure, if there wasn't a hullabuloo next morning when the\npoor fellow told his story! They could talk of nothing else the whole\nday. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy scullery\ngirl said the wittiest thing of all. \"Musha,\" says she, \"if the pooka\ndoes be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what should\nwe be slaving ourselves for doing his work?\" \"_Sha gu dheine_\" (yes,\nindeed), says another, \"them's the wisest words you ever said, Kauth;\nit's meeself won't contradict you.\"\n\nSo said, so done, not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop of water that\nevening, and not a besom was laid on the floor, and everyone went to bed\nafter sundown. Next morning everything was as fine as fine in the\nkitchen, and the Lord Mayor might eat his dinner off the flags. It was\ngreat ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and everything went on\nwell till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he would stay up one night and\nhave a chat with the pooka. He was a little daunted when the door was\nthrown open and the ass marched up to the fire.\n\n\"And then, sir,\" says he, at last, picking up courage, \"if it isn't\ntaking a liberty, might I ax you who you are, and why you are so kind as\nto do a half a day's work for the girls every night?\" \"No liberty at\nall,\" says the pooka, says he: \"I'll tell you and welcome. I was a\nservant in the time of Squire H----'s father, and was the laziest rogue\nthat was ever clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my time\ncame for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me to come\nhere and do all this labour every night, and then go out in the cold. It\nisn't so bad in the fine weather; but if you only knew what it was to\nstand with your head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight\nto sunrise on a bleak winter night.\" \"And could we do anything for your\ncomfort, my poor fellow?\" says the boy. \"Musha, I don't know,\" says the\npooka: \"but I think a good quilted frieze coat would help me to keep the\nlife in me them long nights.\" \"Why, then, in truth, we'd be the\nungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you.\"\n\nTo make a long story short, the next night the boy was there again; and\nif he didn't delight the poor pooka, holding a fine, warm coat before\nhim, it's no matther! Betune the pooka and the man, his legs was got\ninto the four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and\nbelly, and he was so pleased he walked up to the glass to see how he\nlooked. \"Well,\" says he, \"it's a long lane that has no turning. I am\nmuch obliged to you and your fellow servants. You have made me happy at\nlast. Good night to you.\"\n\nSo he was walking out, but the other cried, \"Och! sure you're going too\nsoon. What about the washing and sweeping?\" \"Ah, you may tell the girls\nthat they must now get their turn. My punishment was to last till I was\nthought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty. You'll see me no\nmore.\" And no more they did, and right sorry they were for having been\nin such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka.\n\n\n\n\nThe Piper and the Puca.\n\n_From \"An Sgeuluidhe Gaodhalach.\"_\n\nBY DOUGLAS HYDE (1860--).\n\n\nIn the old times there was a half-fool living in Dunmore, in the County\nGalway, and though he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to\nlearn more than one tune, and that was the \"Black Rogue.\" He used to get\na deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of\nhim. One night the Piper was coming home from a house where there had\nbeen a dance, and he half-drunk. When he came up to a little bridge that\nwas by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing\nthe \"Black Rogue.\" The Puca came behind him, and flung him on his own\nback. There were long horns on the Puca, and the Piper got a good grip\nof them, and then he said:--\n\n\"Destruction on you, you nasty beast; let me home I have a tenpenny\npiece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.\"\n\n\"Never mind your mother,\" said the puca, \"but keep your hold. If you\nfall you will break your neck and your pipes.\" Then the Puca said to\nhim, \"Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht.'\"\n\n\"I don't know it,\" said the Piper.\n\n\"Never mind whether you do or you don't,\" said the Puca. \"Play up, and\nI'll make you know.\"\n\nThe Piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself\nwonder.\n\n\"Upon my word, you're a fine music-master,\" says the Piper, then; \"but\ntell me where you're bringing me.\"\n\n\"There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh\nPatric to-night,\" says the Puca, \"and I'm for bringing you there to play\nmusic, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your trouble.\"\n\n\"By my word, you'll save me a journey, then,\" says the Piper, \"for\nFather William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me because I stole the\nwhite gander from him last Martinmas.\"\n\nThe Puca rushed him across hills and bog and rough places, till he\nbrought him to the top of Croagh Patric.\n\nThen the Puca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened,\nand they passed in together into a fine room.\n\nThe Piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of\nold women sitting round about it.\n\nThe old woman rose up and said, \"A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you\nPuca of November. Who is this you have with you?\"\n\n\"The best Piper in Ireland,\" says the Puca.\n\nOne of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in\nthe side of the wall, and what should the Piper see coming out but the\nwhite gander which he had stolen from Father William.\n\n\"By my conscience, then,\" says the Piper, \"myself and my mother ate\nevery taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Red Mary,\nand it's she told the priest I stole his gander.\"\n\nThe gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Puca said,\n\"Play up music for these ladies.\"\n\nThe Piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they danced\ntill they tired. Then the Puca said to pay the Piper, and every old\nwoman drew out a gold piece and gave it to him.\n\n\"By the tooth of Patric,\" says he, \"I'm as rich as the son of a lord.\"\n\n\"Come with me,\" says the Puca, \"and I'll bring you home.\"\n\nThey went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Puca, the\ngander came up to him and gave him a new set of pipes.\n\nThe Puca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the\nPiper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and\nsays to him, \"You have two things now that you never had before--you\nhave sense and music.\" The Piper went home, and he knocked at his\nmother's door, saying, \"Let me in, I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the\nbest Piper in Ireland.\"\n\n\"You're drunk,\" says the mother.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" says the Piper, \"I haven't drunk a drop.\"\n\nThe mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, \"Wait,\nnow,\" says he, \"till you hear the music I play.\"\n\nHe buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there came a sound as if\nall the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He\nwakened all the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put\non the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after\nthat he told them all he had gone through that night.\n\nThe next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there\nwas nothing there but the leaves of a plant.\n\nThe Piper went to the priest and told him his story, but the priest\nwould not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and\nthen the screeching of the ganders and the geese began.\n\n\"Leave my sight, you thief,\" says the priest.\n\nBut nothing would do the Piper till he put the old pipes on him to show\nthe priest that his story was true.\n\nHe buckled on his old pipes, and played melodious music, and from that\nday till the day of his death there was never a Piper in the County\nGalway was as good as he was.\n\n\n\n\nM'Carthy of Connacht.\n\n_From \"Folk Tales of Breffny.\"_\n\nBY B. HUNT.\n\n\nThere was a fine young gentleman the name of M'Carthy. He had a most\nbeautiful countenance, and for strength and prowess there was none to\nequal him in the baronies of Connacht. But he began to dwine away, and\nno person knew what ailed him. He used no food at all and he became\ngreatly reduced, the way he was not able to rise from his bed and he\nletting horrid groans and lamentations out of him. His father sent for\nthree skilled doctors to come and find out what sort of disease it might\nbe, and a big reward was promised for the cure.\n\nThree noted doctors came on the one day and they searched every vein in\nyoung M'Carthy's body, but they could put no name on the sickness nor\nthink of a remedy to relieve it. They came down from the room and\nreported that the disease had them baffled entirely.\n\n\"Am I to be at the loss of a son who is the finest boy in all Ireland?\"\nsays the father.\n\nNow one of the doctors had a man with him who was a very soft-spoken\nperson, and he up and says:\n\n\"Maybe your honours would be giving me permission to visit the young\ngentleman. I have a tongue on me is that sweet I do be drawing the\nsecrets of the world out of men and women and little children.\"\n\nWell, they brought him up to the room and they left him alone with\nM'Carthy. He sat down beside the bed and began for to flatter him. The\nlike of such conversation was never heard before.\n\nAt long last he says, \"Let your Lordship's honour be telling--What is it\nails you at all?\"\n\n\"You will never let on to a living soul?\" asks M'Carthy.\n\n\"Is it that I'd be lodging an information against a noble person like\nyourself?\" says the man.\n\nWith that, the young gentleman began telling the secrets of his heart.\n\n\"It is no disease is on me,\" says he, \"but a terrible misfortune.\"\n\n\"'Tis heart scalded I am that you have either a sorrow or a sickness,\nand you grand to look on and better to listen to,\" says the other.\n\n\"It is in love I am,\" says M'Carthy.\n\n\"And how would that be a misfortune to a fine lad like yourself?\" asks\nthe man.\n\n\"Let you never let on!\" says M'Carthy. \"The way of it is this: I am\nlamenting for no lady who is walking the world, nor for one who is dead\nthat I could be following to the grave. I have a little statue which has\nthe most beautiful countenance on it that was ever seen, and it is\ndestroyed with grief I am that it will never be speaking to me at all.\"\n\nWith that he brought the image out from under his pillow, and the\nloveliness of it made the man lep off the chair.\n\n\"I'd be stealing the wee statue from your honour if I stopped in this\nplace,\" says he. \"But let you take valour into your heart, for that is\nthe likeness of a lady who is living in the world, and you will be\nfinding her surely.\"\n\nWith that he went down to the three doctors and the old man who were\nwaiting below. For all his promises to young M'Carthy, he told the lot\nof them all he was after hearing. The doctors allowed that if the\ngentleman's life was to be saved he must be got out of his bed and sent\naway on his travels.\n\n\"For a time he will be hopeful of finding her,\" says the oldest doctor.\n\"Then the whole notion will pass off him, and he seeing strange lands\nand great wonders to divert him.\"\n\nThe father was that anxious for the son's recovery that he agreed to\nsell the place and give him a big handful of money for the journey.\n\n\"It is little I'll be needing for myself from this out, and I an old man\nnear ripe for the grave,\" says he.\n\nSo they all went up to the room and told young M'Carthy to rise from his\nbed and eat a good dinner, for the grandest arrangements out were made\nfor his future and he'd surely meet the lady. When he seen that no\nperson was mocking him he got into the best of humour, and he came down\nand feasted with them.\n\nNot a long time afterwards he took the big handful of money and set out\non his travels, bringing the statue with him. He went over the provinces\nof Ireland, then he took sea to England, and wandered it entirely, away\nto France with him next, and from that to every art and part of the\nworld. He had the strangest adventures, and he seen more wonders than\ncould ever be told or remembered. At the latter end he came back to the\nold country again, with no more nor a coin or two left of the whole\ngreat fortune of money. The whole time he never seen a lady who was the\nleast like the wee statue; and the words of the old doctor were only a\ndeceit for he didn't quit thinking of her at all. M'Carthy was a\nhandsome young gentleman, and if it was small heed he had for any\nperson he met it was great notice was taken of him. Sure it was a queen,\nno less, and five or six princesses were thinking long thoughts on\nhimself.\n\nThe hope was near dead in his heart, and the sickness of grief was on\nhim again when he came home to Ireland. Soon after he landed from the\nship he chanced to come on a gentleman's place, and it a fine, big house\nhe never had seen before. He went up and inquired of the servants if he\nwould get leave to rest there. He was given a most honourable reception,\nand the master of the house was well pleased to be entertaining such an\nagreeable guest. Now himself happened to be a Jew, and that is the why\nhe did not ask M'Carthy to eat at his table, but had his dinner set out\nfor him in a separate room. The servants remarked on the small share of\nfood he was using, it was scarcely what would keep the life in a young\nchild; but he asked them not to make any observation of the sort. At\nfirst they obeyed him, yet when he used no meat at all on the third day,\ndidn't they speak with their master.\n\n\"What is the cause of it at all?\" he says to M'Carthy. \"Is the food in\nthis place not to your liking? Let you name any dish you have a craving\nfor, and the cook will prepare it.\"\n\n\"There was never better refreshment set before an emperor,\" says\nM'Carthy.\n\n\"It is civility makes you that flattering,\" answers the Jew. \"How would\nyou be satisfied with the meat which is set before you when you are not\nable to use any portion of it at all?\"\n\n\"I doubt I have a sickness on me will be the means of my death,\" says\nM'Carthy. \"I had best be moving on from this place, the way I'll not be\nrewarding your kindness with the botheration of a corpse.\"\n\nWith that the master of the house began for to speak in praise of a\ndoctor who was in those parts.\n\n\"I see I must be telling you what is in it,\" says M'Carthy. \"Doctors\nhave no relief for the sort of tribulation is destroying me.\"\n\nHe brought out the statue, and he went over the whole story from start\nto finish. How he set off on his travels and was hopeful for a while;\nand how despair got hold of him again.\n\n\"Let you be rejoicing now,\" says the Jew, \"for it is near that lady you\nare this day. She comes down to a stream which is convenient to this\nplace, and six waiting maids along with her, bringing a rod and line for\nto fish. And it is always at the one hour she is in it.\"\n\nWell, M'Carthy was lepping wild with delight to hear tell of the lady.\n\n\"Let you do all I'm saying,\" the Jew advises him. \"I'll provide you with\nthe best of fishing tackle, and do you go down to the stream for to fish\nin it, too. Whatever comes to your line let you give to the lady. But\nsay nothing which might scare her at all, and don't follow after her if\nshe turns to go home.\"\n\nThe next day M'Carthy went out for to fish; not a long time was he at\nthe stream before the lady came down and the six waiting maids along\nwith her. Sure enough she was the picture of the statue, and she had the\nloveliest golden hair ever seen.\n\nM'Carthy had the luck to catch a noble trout, and he took it off the\nhook, rolled it in leaves, and brought it to the lady, according to the\nadvice of the Jew. She was pleased to accept the gift of it, but didn't\nshe turn home at once and the six waiting maids along with her. When\nshe went into her own house she took the fish to her father.\n\n\"There was a noble person at the stream this day,\" she says, \"and he\nmade me a present of the trout.\"\n\nNext morning M'Carthy went to fish again, and he seen the lady coming\nand her six waiting maids walking behind her. He caught a splendid fine\ntrout and brought it over to her; with that she turned home at once.\n\n\"Father,\" says she, when she went in, \"the gentleman is after giving me\na fish which is bigger and better nor the one I brought back yesterday.\nIf the like happens at the next time I go to the stream I will be\ninviting the noble person to partake of refreshment in this place.\"\n\n\"Let you do as best pleases yourself,\" says her father.\n\nWell, sure enough, M'Carthy got the biggest trout of all the third time.\nThe lady was in the height of humour, and she asked would he go up to\nthe house with her that day. She walked with M'Carthy beside her, and\nthe six waiting maids behind them. They conversed very pleasantly\ntogether, and at last he found courage for to tell her of how he\ntravelled the world to seek no person less than herself.\n\n\"I'm fearing you'll need to set out on a second journey, the way you\nwill be coming in with some other one,\" says she. \"I have an old father\nwho is after refusing two score of suitors who were asking me off him. I\ndo be thinking I'll not be joining the world at all, unless a king would\nbe persuading himself of the advancement there is in having a son-in-law\nwearing a golden crown upon his head. The whole time it is great freedom\nI have, and I walking where it pleases me with six waiting maids along\nwith me. The old man has a notion they'd inform him if I was up to any\ndiversion, but that is not the way of it at all.\"\n\n\"It is funning you are, surely,\" says M'Carthy. \"If himself is that\nuneasy about you how would it be possible you'd bring me to the house to\nbe speaking with him?\"\n\n\"He is a kindly man and reasonable,\" says she, \"and it is a good\nreception you'll be getting. Only let you not be speaking of marriage\nwith me, for he cannot endure to hear tell of the like.\"\n\nWell, the old man made M'Carthy welcome, and he had no suspicion the two\nwere in notion of each other. But didn't they arrange all unbeknownt to\nhim, and plan out an elopement.\n\nM'Carthy went back to the Jew, and he told him all. \"But,\" says he, \"I\nam after spending my whole great fortune of money travelling the\nterritory of the world. I must be finding a good situation the way I'll\nmake suitable provision for herself.\"\n\n\"Don't be in the least distress,\" says the Jew. \"I did not befriend you\nthis far to be leaving you in a bad case at the latter end. I'll oblige\nyou with the loan of what money will start you in a fine place. You will\nbe making repayment at the end of three years when you have made your\nprofit on the business.\"\n\nThe young gentleman accepted the offer, and he fair wild with delight.\nMoreover, the Jew gave himself and the lady grand assistance at the\nelopement, the way they got safe out of it and escaped from her father,\nwho was raging in pursuit.\n\nM'Carthy was rejoicing surely, and he married to a wife who was the\npicture of the statue. Herself was in the best of humour, too, for it\nwas small delight she had in her own place, roaming the fields or\nstopping within and six waiting maids along with her. A fine, handsome\nhusband was the right company for her like. They bought a lovely house\nand farm of land with the money which was lent by the Jew; and they\nfixed all the grandest ever was seen. After a while M'Carthy got a good\ncommission to be an officer, the way nothing more in the world was\nneedful to their happiness.\n\nM'Carthy and his lady had a fine life of it, they lacking for no comfort\nor splendour at all. The officer's commission he had brought himself\nover to England from time to time, and the lady M'Carthy would mind all\nuntil he was home. He saved up what money was superfluous, and all was\ngathered to repay the loan to the Jew only for a few pounds.\n\nWell, it happened that M'Carthy went to England, and there he fell in\nwith a droll sort of a man, who was the best company. They played cards\ntogether and they drank a great power of wine. In the latter end a\ndispute came about between them, for they both claimed to have the best\nwoman.\n\n\"I have a lady beyond in Ireland,\" says M'Carthy, \"and she is an\nornament to the roads when she is passing alone. But no person gets\nseeing her these times, and that is a big misfortune to the world.\"\n\n\"What's the cause?\" asks the Englishman.\n\n\"I'd have a grief on me to think another man might be looking on her and\nI not standing by,\" says M'Carthy. \"So she gives me that satisfaction on\nher promised word: all the time I do be away she never quits the house,\nand no man body is allowed within.\"\n\nThe Englishman let a great laugh out of him at the words.\n\n\"You are simple enough!\" says he. \"Don't you know rightly when you are\nnot in it, herself will be feasting and entertaining and going on with\nevery diversion?\"\n\nM'Carthy was raging at the impertinence of him, and he offered for to\nfight.\n\n\"What would that be proving?\" says the Englishman. \"Let you make a\npowerful big bet with myself that I will not be able for to bring you a\ntoken from your lady and a full description of her appearance.\"\n\n\"I'll be winning the money off you, surely!\" says M'Carthy.\n\n\"Not at all,\" says the Englishman. \"I'm not in the least uneasy about\nit, for I'm full sure it's the truth I'm after speaking of how she does\nbe playing herself in your absence.\"\n\n\"You'll find me in this place and you coming back.\" says M'Carthy. \"Let\nyou be prepared with the money to have along with you.\"\n\nThe Englishman took ship to Ireland, and he came to the house of the\nlady M'Carthy. Herself was in the kitchen making a cake, and she seen\nthe man walking up to the door. Away she run to the parlour, and in the\nhurry she forgot the lovely pearl ring she took off her finger when she\nbegan at the cooking. Well, he found the door standing open, and he seen\nthe ring on the kitchen table. It was easy knowing it was no common\narticle would be in the possession of any one but the mistress of the\nhouse. What did the lad do, only slip in and put it in his pocket. With\nthat the waiting maid came and asked his business, the lady M'Carthy was\nafter sending her down.\n\n\"Oh, no business at all,\" says he. \"But I am weary travelling and I\nthought I might rest at this place.\"\n\nHe began for to flatter the girl and to offer her bribes, and in the\nlatter end he got her to speak. She told him all what the mistress of\nthe house was like; how she had a mole under her right arm, and one on\nher left knee. Moreover she gave him a few long golden hairs she got out\nof the lady's comb.\n\nThe Englishman went back to M'Carthy, brought him the tokens, and\ndemanded the payment of the bet. And that is the way the poor gentleman\nspent the money he had saved up for the Jew.\n\nM'Carthy sent word to his wife that he was coming home, and for her to\nmeet him on the ship. She put her grandest raiment upon her and started\naway at once. She went out to the ship and got up on the deck where she\nseen her husband standing. When she went over to him he never said a\nword at all, but he swept her aside with his arm the way she fell into\nthe water. Then he went on shore full sure he had her drowned.\n\nBut there was another ship coming in, and a miller that was on her seen\nthe lady struggling in the sea. He was an aged man, yet he ventured in\nafter her and he saved the poor creature's life.\n\nWell, the miller was a good sort of a man and he had great compassion\nfor herself when she told him her story. She had no knowledge of the\ncause of her husband being vexed with her, and she thought it hard to\nbelieve the evidence of her senses that he was after striving to make\naway with her. The miller advised the lady M'Carthy to go on with the\nship, which was sailing to another port, for maybe if she went home\nafter the man he would be destroying her.\n\nWhen the ship came into the harbour the news was going of a great\nlawsuit.\n\nThe miller heard all, and he brought word to the lady that M'Carthy was\nin danger of death.\n\n\"There are three charges against him,\" says the miller. \"Your father has\nhim impeached for stealing you away, and you not wishful to be with him:\nthat is the first crime.\"\n\n\"That is a false charge,\" says she, \"for I helped for to plan the whole\nelopement. My father is surely saying all in good faith, but it is a lie\nthe whole time.\"\n\n\"A Jew has him accused for a sum of money he borrowed, and it was due\nfor repayment: that is the second crime,\" says the miller.\n\n\"The money was all gathered up for to pay the debt,\" says the lady.\n\"Where can it be if M'Carthy will not produce it?\"\n\n\"The law has him committed for the murder of yourself: and that is the\nthird crime,\" says the miller.\n\n\"And a false charge, too, seeing you saved me in that ill hour. I am\nthinking I'd do well to be giving evidence in a court of law, for it's\nmaybe an inglorious death they'll be giving him,\" says she.\n\n\"Isn't that what he laid out for yourself?\" asks the miller.\n\n\"It is surely, whatever madness came on him. But I have a good wish for\nhim the whole time.\"\n\n\"If that is the way of it we had best be setting out,\" says he.\n\nThe lady and the miller travelled overland, it being a shorter journey\nnor the one they were after coming by sea. When they got to the court of\nlaw wasn't the judge after condemning M'Carthy; and it was little the\npoor gentleman cared for the sentence of death was passed on him.\n\n\"My life is bitter and poisoned on me,\" says he; \"maybe the grave is the\nbest place.\"\n\nWith that the lady M'Carthy stood up in the court and gave out that she\nhad not been destroyed at all, for the miller saved her from the sea.\n\nThey began the whole trial over again, and herself told how she planned\nthe elopement, and her father had no case at all. She could not tell why\nM'Carthy was wishful to destroy her, and he had kept all to himself at\nthe first trial. But by degrees all was brought to light: the villainy\nof the Englishman and the deceit was practised on them by him and the\nservant girl.\n\nIt was decreed that the money was to be restored by that villain, and\nthe Jew was to get his payment out of it.\n\nThe lady M'Carthy's father was in such rejoicement to see his daughter,\nand she alive, that he forgave herself and the husband for the\nelopement. Didn't the three of them go away home together and they the\nhappiest people who were ever heard tell of in the world.\n\n\n\n\nThe Mad Pudding of Ballyboulteen.\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON (1794-1869).\n\n\n\"Moll Roe Rafferty, the daughter of ould Jack Rafferty, was a fine,\nyoung bouncin' girl, large an' lavish, wid a purty head of hair on\nher--scarlet--that bein' one of the raisons why she was called Roe, or\nred; her arms and cheeks were much the colour of her hair, an' her\nsaddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face.\n\n\"Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was the dilsy. It happened that\nthere was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much\noverburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie.\nGusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn't keep\nChristmas Day, except what they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather\ngood-lookin', when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow,\nthey got attached to each other, and in the end everything was arranged\nfor their marriage.\n\n\"Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in\nthe neighbourhood between a Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there\nwas of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who could\ncure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't wish to see\nhis niece married to sich a fellow, he fought bitterly against the\nmatch. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin'\nhim, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were\nto be dove-tailed together.\n\n\"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to Mass, and Gusty\nto meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack\nRafferty's, where the priest, Father McSorley was to slip up afther Mass\nto take his dinner wid them, and to keep Mister McShuttle, who was to\nmarry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an'\nhis wife, who stopped to dress for dinner, for, to tell the truth, it\nwas to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe if all was known, too, Father\nMcSorley was to give them a cast of his office over and above the\nministher, in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether satisfied\nat the kind of marriage which McShuttle could give them. The sorrow may\ncare about that--splice here, splice there--all I can say is that when\nMrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry\nConnolly, the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts, 'Blood and\nblunder-bushes, what are yez here for?'\n\n\"'Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?'\n\n\"'Why, the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the high Horricks; there's\na clip-stick comin' on, and there you're both as unconsarned as if it\nwas about to rain mether. Go out an' cross yourselves three times in the\nname o' the four Mandromarvins, for, as the prophecy says:--'Fill the\npot, Eddy, supernaculum--a blazin' star's a rare spectaculum.' Go out,\nboth of you, an' look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition\nhe's in--off!'\n\n\"Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped\nlike a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the\nhouse to see what was wrong in the sky.\n\n\"'Arrah, what is it, Jack?' says she, 'can you see anything?'\n\n\"'No,' says he, 'sorra the full of my eye of anything I can spy, barrin'\nthe sun himself, that's not visible, in regard of the clouds. God guard\nus! I doubt there's something to happen.'\n\n\"'If there wasn't, Jack, what'd put Harry, that knows so much, in that\nstate he's in?'\n\n\"'I doubt it's this marriage,' says Jack. 'Betune ourselves, it's not\nover an' above religious of Moll to marry a black-mouth, an' only for--;\nbut, it can't be helped now, though you see it's not a taste o' the sun\nis willing to show his face upon it.'\n\n\"'As to that,' says his wife, winkin' with both eyes, 'if Gusty's\nsatisfied with Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry the whip hand,\nanyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?'\n\n\"Well, they accordingly went in, and put this question to him, 'Harry,\nwhat's wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows 'tis\nyourself?'\n\n\"'Ah,' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a dry smile, 'The\nsun has a hard twist o' the colic; but never mind that, I tell you,\nyou'll have a merrier weddin' than you think, that's all'; and havin'\nsaid this, he put on his hat and left the house.\n\n\"Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, afther callin' to\nhim to be back for dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o' the pipe,\nand the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin' it in the\npot to be boiled.\n\n\"In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin' away\nan' the wife cookin' an' dressin' at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack,\nwhile sittin', I said, contently at the fire, thought he could persave\nan odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal.\n\n\"'Katty,' says he, 'what in the dickens is in this pot on the fire?'\n\n\"'Nerra a thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she.\n\n\"'Why,' says he, 'if ever a pot tuk it into its head to dance a jig,\nthis did. Thunder and sparbles, look at it!'\n\n\"Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down,\nand from side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was\nquite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside it,\nthat brought about the hornpipe.\n\n\"'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's somethin' alive in it,\nor it would niver cut sich capers!'\n\n\"'Begorra, there is, Jack; something sthrange entirely has got into it.\nWirra, man alive, what's to be done?'\n\n\"Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and\nafther a spring that'd shame a dancin' masther, off flew the lid, and\nout bounced the pudden itself, hoppin' as nimble as a pea on a drum-head\nabout the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack\nshouted and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness, keep your\ndistance; no one here injured you!'\n\n\"The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a\nchair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced\ntowards Katty, who was repatin' her prayers at the top of her voice,\nwhile the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' an' jiggin' it around\nher as if it was amused at her distress.\n\n\"'If I could get a pitchfork,' says Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty,\nI'd thry its mettle.'\n\n\"'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinkin' there was a fairy in it; 'let us\nspake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,' says she to\nthe pudden; 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to\noffend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that\nbewitched you; pursue him, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!'\n\n\"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from\nher towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy in it,\nan' that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a\nsoft word as well as her.\n\n\"'Plase your honour,' said Jack, 'she only spakes the truth, an' upon my\nvoracity, we both feels much obliged to you for your quietness. Faith,\nit's quite clear that if you weren't a gentleman pudden, all out, you'd\nact otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he's jist down the\nroad there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be my song, your\ndancin'-masther did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God speed you,\nand may you niver meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels.'\n\n\"Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it\nquietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside,\nturned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It\nwas very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go and see how\nit intended to thravel, and as the day was Sunday, it was but natural\ntoo, that a greater number of people than usual were passin' the road.\nThis was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin' the\npudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and after it.\n\n\"'Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it\nmanes?'\n\n\"'Why,' replied Katty, 'it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's\nout hot pursuin'--here she stopped, not wishin' to mention her brother's\nname--'someone or other that surely put pishrogues (a fairy spell) an\nit.'\n\n\"This was enough; Jack, now seein' he had assistance, found his courage\ncomin' back to him; so says he to Katty, 'Go home,' says he, 'an' lose\nno time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy Scanlan's\nwife Bridget says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you'll want our\nown to dress for dinner; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork, for\npursuin' to the morsel of that same pudden will escape, till I let the\nwind out of it, now that I've the neighbours to back an' support me,'\nsays Jack.\n\n\"This was agreed to, an' Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden,\nwhile Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips,\npitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of\ninstruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish\nmiles an hour, an' sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, Prodestants,\nand Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, as I said, an' bad end to\nthe thing but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, there\na prod was made at it, but off it went, and someone, as eager to get a\nslice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big\nFrank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that\nbrought a hullabulloo out of him that you might hear at the other end of\nthe parish. One got a slice of the scythe, another a whack of a flail, a\nthird a rap of the spade, that made him look nine ways at wanst.\n\n\"'Where is it goin'?' asked one. 'My life for you, it's on its way to\nmeeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to Carntaul!' 'Prod the sowl\nout of it if it's a Prodestan,' shouted the others; 'if it turns to the\nleft, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens here.'\n\n\"Begad, by this time the people were on the point of begginnin' to have\na regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn\ndown a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praychin'-house,\nan' in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a\nMethodist pudden. 'It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices; 'an' by\nthis an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day, or\nwe'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where's your\npitchforks?'\n\n\"The divil pursuin' to the one of them, however, ever could touch the\npudden, and jist when they thought they had it up against the gravel of\nthe Methodist chapel, begad, it gave them the slip, and hops over to the\nleft, clane into the river, and sails away before their eyes as light as\nan egg-shell.\n\n\"Now, it so happened that a little below this place the demesne wall of\nColonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side\nof its banks; and so, findin' there was a stop put to their pursuit of\nit, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled\nto think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where it was\ngoin'. Had Jack Rafferty an' his wife been willin' to let out the\nopinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin' it, there is no doubt\nof it but poor Harry might be badly trated by the crowd, when their\nblood was up. They had sense enough, howaniver, to keep that to\nthemselves, for Harry, bein' an ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the\nRaffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it--some\nguessin' this, an' some guessin' that--one party sayin' the pudden was\nof their side, and another denyin' it, an' insisting it belonged to\nthem, an' so on.\n\n\"In the meantime, Katty Rafferty for 'fraid the dinner might come short,\nwent home and made another pudden much about the same size as the one\nthat had escaped, an' bringing it over to their next neighbour, Paddy\nScanlan's, it was put into a pot, and placed on the fire to boil, hopin'\nthat it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the\nministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well as e'er a\ngentleman in Europe.\n\n\"Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an' wife, an' no\ntwo could be more lovin'. Their friends that had been asked to the\nweddin' were saunterin' about in the pleasant little groups till\ndinner-time, chattin' an' laughin'; but, above all things, sthrivin' to\naccount for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its\nadventures had now gone through the whole parish.\n\n\"Well, at any rate, dinner-time was drawin' near, and Paddy Scanlan was\nsittin' comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilin' before\ntheir eyes when in walks Harry Connolly in a flutter, shoutin' 'Blood\nand blunder-bushes, what are yez here for?'\n\n\"'Arrah, why, Harry--why, avick?' said Mrs. Scanlan.\n\n\"'Why,' said Harry, 'the sun's in the suds, an' the moon in the high\nHorricks! Here's a clipstick comin' on, an' there you sit as\nunconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out, both of you, an'\nlook at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition he's in--off!'\n\n\"'Ay, but, Harry, what's that rowled up in the tail of your cothamore\n(big coat)?'\n\n\"'Out wid yez,' says Harry, 'an' pray against the clipstick--the sky's\nfallin'!'\n\n\"Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they\nwere so much alarmed by Harry's wild, thin face and piercin' eyes; so\nout they went to see what was wonderful in the sky, an' kep lookin' in\nevery direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin' the sun shinin'\ndown wid great good-humour, an' not a single cloud in the sky.\n\n\"Paddy an' the wife now came in laughin' to scould Harry, who, no doubt,\nwas a great wag in his way when he wished. 'Musha, bad scran to you,\nHarry--' and they had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were\ngoin' into the door, they met him comin' out of it, wid a reek of smoke\nout of his tail like a limekiln.\n\n\"'Harry,' shouted Bridget, 'my sowl to glory, but the tail of your\ncothamore's afire--you'll be burned. Don't you see the smoke that's out\nof it?'\n\n\"'Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, without stoppin' or even\nlookin' behind him, 'for as the prophecy says, Fill the pot, Eddy--'\nThey could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that\ncarried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might\nsee by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced\nto make as he went along.\n\n\"'What the dickens is he carryin' in the skirts of his big coat?' asked\nPaddy.\n\n\"'My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stolen the pudden,' said\nBridget, 'for it's known that many a sthrange thing he does.'\n\n\"They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there,\nas safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them the more to think what it was\nhe could be carryin' about with him in the manner he did. But little\nthey knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin'!\n\n\"Well, anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was ready an' no doubt but\na fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher\nmet the Methodist praycher--a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had,\nin throth--on his way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as he knew he could take\nthe liberty, why, he insisted on his dining wid him; for, afther all, in\nthim days the clergy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin'\namong one another not all at one as now--but no matther. Well, they had\nnearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for\nthe pudden; but jist as he spoke, in it came, as big as a mess-pot.\n\n\"'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I hope none of you will refuse tastin' a bit of\nKatty's pudden; I don't mane the dancin' one that took to its thravels\nto-day, but a good, solid fellow that she med since.'\n\n\"'To be sure we won't,' replied the priest. 'So, Jack, put a thrifle on\nthem three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to the\nclargy, an' maybe,' he said, laughin'--for he was a droll, good-humoured\nman--'maybe, Jack, we won't set you a proper example.'\n\n\"'Wid a heart an' a half, your riverence an' gintlemen; in throth, it's\nnot a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set\nus, I'll go bail. An' sure, I only wish it was betther fare I had for\nyou; but we're humble people, gintlemen, an' so you can't expect to meet\nhere what you would in higher places.'\n\n\"'Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praycher, 'where pace\nis--' He had time to go no further, however; for, much to his amazement,\nthe priest an' the ministher started up from the table, jist as he was\ngoing to swallow the first mouthful of the pudden, and, before you could\nsay Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor.\n\n\"At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, and tould them that\nthe parson was comin' to see the new-married couple, an' wish them all\nhappiness; an' the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his\nappearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the ministher footin'\nit away at the rate of a weddin'. He had very little time, however, to\nthink; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praycher,\nan', clappin' his fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid\nhim.\n\n\"'Jack Rafferty,' says he, and, by the way, Jack was his tenant, 'what\nthe dickens does all this mane?' says he; 'I'm amazed!'\n\n\"'Then not a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack; 'but will your\nreverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that the young couple\nmay boast that you ait at their weddin'; 'for sure, if you wouldn't, who\nwould?'\n\n\"'Well,' says he, to gratify them, I will; so, just a morsel. But, Jack,\nthis bates Banagher,' says he again, puttin' the spoonful of pudden into\nhis mouth; 'has there been drink here?'\n\n\"'Oh, the divil a spudh,' says Jack, 'for although there's plenty in\nthe house, faith, it appears the gentlemen wouldn't wait for it. Unless\nthey tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin' o' this.'\n\n\"He had scarcely spoken when the parson, who was an active man, cut a\ncaper a yard high, an' before you could bless yourself, the three clargy\nwere hard at work dancin', as if for a wager. Begad, it would be\nunpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin' was in when\nthey see this. Some were hoarse wid laughin'; some turned up their eyes\nwid wondher; many thought them mad; and others thought they had turned\nup their little fingers a thrifle too often.\n\n\"'Be Goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, 'to see three black-mouth\nclargy in sich a state at this early hour!'\" 'Thunder an' ounze, what's\nover them all?' says others; 'why, one would think they were bewitched.\nHoly Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! An' as for the\nRecthor, who would think he could handle his feet at sich a rate! Be\nthis, an' be that, he cuts the buckle, an' does the threblin' step\naiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'-masther himself! An' see! Bad cess\nto the morsel of the parson that's not too hard at \"Pease upon a\nTrancher,\" and it upon a Sunday, too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in\nyez, afther all--whish! more power to yez!'\n\n\"The sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher; but judge of what they\nfelt when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin' in\namong them, an' footin' it away like the best of them. Bedad, no play\ncould come up to it, an' nothin' could be heard but laughin', shouts of\nencouragement, an' clappin' of hands like mad. Now, the minute Jack\nRafferty left the chair, where he had been carvin' the pudden, ould\nHarry Connolly come over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher\nto send it round, of coorse; an' he was scarcely sated when who should\nmake his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way,\nhad been sent for early in the day, but, bein' from home when the\nmessage for him came, he couldn't come any sooner.\n\n\"'Begorra' says Barney, 'you're airly at the work, gintlemen! But what\ndoes this mane? But divel may care, yez shan't want the music, while\nthere's a blast in the pipes, anyhow!' So sayin' he gave them \"Jig\nPolthogue,\" and afther that, \"Kiss my Lady\" in his best style.\n\n\"In the manetime the fun went on thick and threefold, for it must be\nremembered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an' maybe, he\ndidn't sarve it about in double-quick time, too! The first he helped was\nthe bride, and before you could say chopstick she was at it hard and\nfast, before the Methodist praycher, who gave a jolly spring before her\nthat threw them all into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his\nmind soon to find partners for the rest; an', to make a long story\nshort, barrin' the piper an' himself, there wasn't a pair of heels in\nthe house but was busy at the dancin' as if their lives depended on it.\n\n\"'Barney,' says Harry, 'jist taste a morsel o' this pudden; divil the\nsich a bully of a pudden ever you ett. Here, your sowl! thry a snig of\nit--it's beautiful!'\n\n\"'To be sure I will,' says Barney. 'I'm not the boy to refuse a good\nthing. But, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an' it\nwould be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an' they so well\ninclined. Thank you, Harry. Begad, that is a fine pudden. But, blood an'\nturnips! what's this for?'\n\n\"The words was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an'\nall, and dashed into the middle of the party. 'Hurroo! your sowls, let\nus make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your\nreverence!--turn your partner--heel and toe, ministher. Good! Well done,\nagain! Whish! Hurroo! Here's for Ballyboulteen, an' the sky over it!'\n\n\"Bad luck to sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or will\nagain, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't come yet, for jist as they\nwere in the very heat' an' fury of the dance, what do you think comes\nhoppin' in among them but another pudden, as nimble an' merry as the\nfirst! That was enough; they had all heard of it--the ministhers among\nthe rest--an' most of them had seen the other pudden, an' knew that\nthere must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes,\nto the thick o' them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the\nthree clergymen danced, and off the whole weddiners danced, afther them,\neveryone makin' the best of their way home, but not a sowl of them able\nto break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Troth, it\nwouldn't lave a laff in you to see the parson dancin' down the road on\nhis way home, and the ministher and Methodist praycher cuttin' the\nbuckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work\nof it, they all danced home at last wid scarce a puff of wind in them;\nand the bride an' bridegroom danced away to bed.\"\n\n\n\n\nFrank Webber's Wager.\n\n_From \"Charles O'Malley.\"_\n\nBY CHARLES LEVER (1806-1872).\n\n\nI was sitting at breakfast with Webber, when Power came in hastily.\n\n\"Ha, the very man!\" said he. \"I say, O'Malley, here's an invitation for\nyou from Sir George to dine on Friday. He desired me to say a thousand\ncivil things about his not having made you out, regrets that he was not\nat home when you called yesterday, and all that.\"\n\n\"By the way,\" said Webber, \"wasn't Sir George Dashwood down in the West\nlately? Do you know what took him there?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Power, \"I can enlighten you. He got his wife west of the\nShannon--a vulgar woman. She is now dead, and the only vestige of his\nunfortunate matrimonial connexion is a correspondence kept up with him\nby a maiden sister of his late wife's. She insists upon claiming the\nties of kindred upon about twenty family eras during the year, when she\nregularly writes a most loving and ill-spelled epistle, containing the\nlatest information from Mayo, with all particulars of the Macan family,\nof which she is a worthy member. To her constant hints of the acceptable\nnature of certain small remittances the poor General is never\ninattentive; but to the pleasing prospects of a visit in the flesh from\nMiss Judy Macan, the good man is dead.\"\n\n\"Then, he has never yet seen her?\"\n\n\"Never, and he hopes to leave Ireland without that blessing?\"\n\n\"I say, Power, and has your worthy General sent me a card for his ball?\"\n\n\"Not through me, Master Frank. Sir George must really be excused in this\nmatter. He has a most attractive, lovely daughter, just at that budding,\nunsuspecting age when the heart is most susceptible of impressions; and\nwhere, let me ask, could she run such a risk as in the chance of a\ncasual meeting with the redoubted lady-killer, Master Frank Webber?\"\n\n\"A very strong case, certainly,\" said Frank; \"but still, had he confided\nhis critical position to my honour and secrecy, he might have depended\non me; now, having taken the other line, he must abide the consequences.\nI'll make fierce love to Lucy.\"\n\n\"But how, may I ask, and when?\"\n\n\"I'll begin at the ball, man.\"\n\n\"Why, I thought you said you were not going?\"\n\n\"There you mistake seriously. I merely said that I had not been\ninvited.\"\n\n\"Then, of course,\" said I, \"Webber, you can't think of going, in any\ncase, on my account.\"\n\n\"My very dear friend, I go entirely upon my own. I not only shall go,\nbut I intend to have most particular notice and attention paid me. I\nshall be prime favourite with Sir George--kiss Lucy--\"\n\n\"Come, come! this is too strong.\"\n\n\"What do you bet I don't? There, now, I'll give you a pony a-piece, I\ndo. Do you say done?\"\n\n\"That you kiss Miss Dashwood, and are not kicked downstairs for your\npains; are those the terms of your wager?\" inquired Power.\n\n\"With all my heart. That I kiss Miss Dashwood, and am not kicked\ndownstairs for my pains.\"\n\n\"Then I say, done!\"\n\n\"And with you, too, O'Malley?\"\n\n\"I thank you,\" said I, coldly; \"I'm not disposed to make such a return\nfor Sir George Dashwood's hospitality as to make an insult to his family\nthe subject of a bet.\"\n\n\"Why, man, what are you dreaming of? Miss Dashwood will not refuse my\nchaste salute. Come, Power, I will give you the other pony.\"\n\n\"Agreed,\" said he. \"At the same time, understand me distinctly--that I\nhold myself perfectly eligible to winning the wager by my own\ninterference; for, if you do kiss her, I'll perform the remainder of the\ncompact.\"\n\n\"So I understand the agreement,\" said Webber, and off he went.\n\nI have often dressed for a storming party with less of trepidation than\nI felt on the evening of Sir George Dashwood's ball. It was long since I\nhad seen Miss Dashwood; therefore, as to what precise position I might\noccupy in her favour was a matter of great doubt in my mind, and great\nimport to my happiness.\n\nOur quadrille over, I was about to conduct her to a seat, when Sir\nGeorge came hurriedly up, his face greatly flushed, and betraying every\nsemblance of high excitement.\n\n\"Read this,\" said he, presenting a very dirty-looking note.\n\nMiss Dashwood unfolded the billet, and after a moment's silence, burst\nout a-laughing, while she said, \"Why, really, papa, I do not see why\nthis should put you out much, after all. Aunt may be somewhat of a\ncharacter, as her note evinces; but after a few days----',\n\n\"Nonsense, child; there's nothing in this world I have such a dread of\nas this--and to come at such a time! O'Malley, my boy, read this note,\nand you will not feel surprised if I appear in the humour you see me.\"\n\nI read as follows:--\n\n  \"Dear brother,--When this reaches your hand I'll not be far off. I'm\n  on my way up to town, to be under Dr. Dease for the ould complaint.\n  Expect me to tea; and, with love to Lucy, believe me, yours in haste,\n\n    \"Judith Macan.\n\n\"Let the sheets be well aired in my room; and if you have a spare bed,\nperhaps you could prevail upon Father Magrath to stop, too.\"\n\nI scarcely could contain my laughter till I got to the end of this very\nfree-and-easy epistle, when at last I burst forth in a hearty fit, in\nwhich I was joined by Miss Dashwood.\n\n\"I say, Lucy,\" said Sir George, \"there's only one thing to be done. If\nthis horrid woman does arrive, let her be shown to her room, and for the\nfew days of her stay in town, we'll neither see nor be seen by anyone.\"\n\nWithout waiting for a reply he was turning away, when the servant\nannounced, in his loudest voice, \"Miss Macan.\"\n\nNo sooner had the servant pronounced the magical name than all the\ncompany present seemed to stand still. About two steps in advance of the\nservant was a tall, elderly lady, dressed in an antique brocade silk,\nwith enormous flowers gaudily embroidered upon it. Her hair was powdered\nand turned back, in the fashion of fifty years before. Her short, skinny\narms were bare, while on her hands she wore black silk mittens; a pair\nof green spectacles scarcely dimmed the lustre of a most piercing pair\nof eyes, to whose effect a very palpable touch of rouge on the cheeks\ncertainly added brilliancy. There she stood, holding before her a fan\nabout the size of a modern tea-tray, while at each repetition of her\nname by the servant she curtseyed deeply.\n\nSir George, armed with the courage of despair, forced his way through\nthe crowd, and taking her hand affectionately, bid her welcome to\nDublin. The fair Judy, at this, threw her arms about his neck, and\nsaluted him with a hearty smack, that was heard all over the room.\n\n\"Where's Lucy, brother? Let me see my little darling,\" said the lady, in\na decided accent. \"There she is, I'm sure; kiss me, my honey.\"\n\nThis office Miss Dashwood performed with an effort at courtesy really\nadmirable; while, taking her aunt's arm, she led her to a sofa.\n\nPower made his way towards Miss Dashwood, and succeeded in obtaining a\nformal introduction to Miss Macan.\n\n\"I hope you will do me the favour to dance next set with me, Miss\nMacan?\"\n\n\"Really, Captain, it's very polite of you, but you must excuse me. I was\nnever anything great in quadrilles: but if a reel or a jig----\"\n\n\"Oh, dear aunt, don't think of it, I beg of you!\"\n\n\"Or even Sir Roger de Coverley,\" resumed Miss Macan.\n\n\"I assure you, quite equally impossible.\"\n\n\"Then I'm certain you waltz,\" said Power.\n\n\"What do you take me for, young man? I hope I know better. I wish Father\nMagrath heard you ask me that question; and for all your laced\njacket----\"\n\n\"Dearest aunt, Captain Power didn't mean to offend you; I'm certain\nhe----\"\n\n\"Well, why did he dare to--(sob, sob)--did he see anything light about\nme, that he--(sob, sob, sob)--oh, dear! oh, dear! is it for this I came\nup from my little peaceful place in the West?--(sob, sob, sob)--General,\nGeorge, dear; Lucy, my love, I'm taken bad. Oh, dear! oh, dear! is there\nany whiskey negus?\"\n\nAfter a time she was comforted.\n\nAt supper later on in the evening, I was deep in thought when a dialogue\nquite near me aroused me from my reverie.\n\n\"Don't, now! don't, I tell ye; it's little ye know Galway, or ye\nwouldn't think to make up to me, squeezing my foot.\"\n\n\"You're an angel, a regular angel. I never saw a woman suit my fancy\nbefore.\"\n\n\"Oh, behave now. Father Magrath says----\"\n\n\"Who's he?\"\n\n\"The priest; no less.\"\n\n\"Oh! bother him.\"\n\n\"Bother Father Magrath, young man?\"\n\n\"Well, then, Judy, don't be angry; I only means that a dragoon knows\nrather more of these matters than a priest.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I'm not so sure of that. But, anyhow, I'd have you to\nremember it ain't a Widow Malone you have beside you.\"\n\n\"Never heard of the lady,\" said Power.\n\n\"Sure, it's a song--poor creature--it's a song they made about her in\nthe North Cork when they were quartered down in our county.\"\n\n\"I wish you'd sing it.\"\n\n\"What will you give me, then, if I do?\"\n\n\"Anything--everything--my heart--my life.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't give a trauneen for all of them. Give me that old green ring\non your finger, then.\"\n\n\"It's yours,\" said Power, placing it gracefully upon Miss Macan's\nfinger; \"and now for your promise.\"\n\n\"Well, mind you get up a good chorus, for the song has one, and here it\nis.\"\n\n\"Miss Macan's song!\" said Power, tapping the table with his knife.\n\n\"Miss Macan's song!\" was re-echoed on all sides; and before the luckless\nGeneral could interfere, she had begun:--\n\n  \"Did ye hear of the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  Who lived in the town of Athlone,\n                        Alone?\n  Oh! she melted the hearts\n  Of the swains in them parts,\n  So lovely the widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  So lovely the Widow Malone.\n\n  \"Of lovers she had a full score,\n                        Or more;\n  And fortunes they all had galore,\n                        In store;\n  From the Minister down\n  To the Clerk of the Crown,\n  All were courting the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  All were courting the Widow Malone.\n\n  \"But so modest was Mrs. Malone,\n                        'Twas known\n  No one ever could see her alone,\n                        Ohone!\n  Let them ogle and sigh,\n  They could ne'er catch her eye,\n  So bashful the Widow Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  So bashful the Widow Malone.\n\n  \"Till one Mr. O'Brien from Clare,--\n                        How quare,\n  It's little for blushing they care,\n                        Down there,\n  Put his arm round her waist,\n  Gave ten kisses, at laste,--\n  'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone,'\n                        My own;\n  'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone.'\n\n  \"And the widow they all thought so shy,\n                        My eye!\n  Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh;\n                        For why?\n  But 'Lucius,' says she,\n  'Since you've now made so free,\n  You may marry your Mary Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  You may marry your Mary Malone.'\n\n  \"There's a moral contained in my song,\n                        Not wrong;\n  And, one comfort, it's not very long,\n                        But strong;\n  If for widows you die,\n  Larn to kiss, not to sigh,\n  For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,\n                        Ohone!\n  Oh! they're very like Mistress Malone.\"\n\nNever did song create such a sensation as Miss Macan's.\n\n\"I insist upon a copy of 'The Widow,' Miss Macan,\" said Power.\n\n\"To be sure; give me a call to-morrow--let me see--about two. Father\nMagrath won't be at home,\" said she, with a coquettish look.\n\n\"Where pray, may I pay my respects?\"\n\nPower produced a card and pencil, while Miss Macan wrote a few lines,\nsaying, as she handed it--\n\n\"There, now, don't read it here before all the people; they'll think it\nmighty indelicate in me to make an appointment.\"\n\nPower pocketed the card, and the next minute Miss Macan's carriage was\nannounced.\n\nWhen she had taken her departure, \"Doubt it who will,\" said Power, \"she\nhas invited me to call on her to-morrow--written her address on my\ncard--told me the hour she is certain of being alone. See here!\" At\nthese words he pulled forth the card, and handed it to a friend.\n\nScarcely were the eyes of the latter thrown upon the writing, when he\nsaid, \"So, this isn't it, Power!\"\n\n\"To be sure it is, man. Read it out. Proclaim aloud my victory.\"\n\nThus urged, his friend read:--\n\n  \"Dear P.,--Please pay to my credit--and soon, mark ye--the two ponies\n  lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your\n  ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa and walked into the cunning\n  Fred Power.--Yours,\n\n    \"FRANK WEBBER.\n\n\"'The Widow Malone, Ohone!' is at your service.\"\n\n\n\n\nSam Wham and the Sawmont.\n\nBY SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1886).\n\n\n\"Knieving trouts\" (they call it tickling in England) is good sport. You\ngo to a stony shallow at night, a companion bearing a torch; then,\nstripping to the thighs and shoulders, wade in, grope with your hands\nunder the stones, sods, and other harbourage, till you find your game,\nthen grip him in your \"knieve\" and toss him ashore.\n\nI remember, when a boy, carrying the splits for a servant of the family,\ncalled Sam Wham. Now, Sam was an able young fellow, well-boned and\nwilling, a hard headed cudgel player, and a marvellous tough wrestler,\nfor he had a backbone like a sea serpent--this gained him the name of\nthe Twister and Twiner. He had got into the river, and with his back to\nme was stooping over a broad stone, when something bolted from under the\nbank on which I stood, right through his legs. Sam fell with a great\nsplash on his face, but in falling jammed whatever it was against the\nstone. \"Let go, Twister!\" shouted I; \"'Tis an otter, he will nip a\nfinger off you.\" \"Whist!\" sputtered he, as he slid his hand under the\nwater. \"May I never read a text again if he isna a sawmont wi' a\nshoulther like a hog!\" \"Grip him by the gills, Twister,\" cried I. \"Saul\nwill I!\" cried the Twiner; but just then there was a heave, a roll, a\nsplash, a slap like a pistol-shot: down went Sam, and up went the\nsalmon, spun like a shilling at a pitch-and-toss, six feet into the air.\nI leaped in just as he came to the water, but my foot caught between\ntwo stones, and the more I pulled the firmer it stuck. The fish fell\ninto the spot shallower than that from which he had leaped. Sam saw the\nchance, and tackled to again; while I, sitting down in the stream as\nbest I might, held up my torch, and cried, \"Fair play!\" as, shoulder to\nshoulder, through, out, and about, up and down, roll and tumble, to it\nthey went, Sam and the salmon. The Twister was never so twined before.\nYet, through cross-buttocks and capsizes innumerable, he still held on;\nnow haled through a pool; now haling up a bank; now heels over head; now\nhead over heels; now, head over heels together, doubled up in a corner;\nbut at last stretched fairly on his back, and foaming for rage and\ndisappointment; while the victorious salmon, slapping the stones with\nits tail, and whirling the spray from its shoulders at every roll, came\nboring and snoring up the ford. I tugged and strained to no purpose; he\nflashed by me with a snort, and slid into deep water. Sam now staggered\nforward with battered bones and pilled elbows, blowing like a grampus,\nand cursing like nothing but himself. He extricated me, and we limped\nhome. Neither rose for a week; for I had a dislocated ankle, and the\nTwister was troubled with a broken rib. Poor Sam! He had his brains\ndiscovered at last by a poker in a row, and was worm's meat within three\nmonths; yet, ere he died, he had the satisfaction of feasting on his old\nantagonist, who was man's meat next morning. They caught him in a net.\nSam knew him by the twist in his tail.\n\n\n\n\nDarby Doyle's Voyage to Quebec.\n\n_From \"The Dublin Penny Journal,\" 1832._\n\nBY THOMAS ETTINGSALL (17----1850).\n\n\nI tuck the road one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an' got up to\nthe Cove safe an' sound. There I saw many ships with big broad boords\nfastened to ropes, every one ov them saying \"The first vessel for\nQuebec.\" Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this one\nsiz she'll be first, and that one siz she'll be first. I pitched on one\nthat was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax the fare, who shou'd\ncome up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould townsman ov my own.\n\n\"Och, is it yoorself that's there, Ned?\" siz I; \"are ye goin' to\nAmerrykey?\"\n\n\"Why, an' to be shure,\" sez he; \"I'm _mate_ ov the ship.\"\n\n\"Meat! that's yer sort, Ned,\" siz I; \"then we'll only want bread. Hadn't\nI betther go and pay my way?\"\n\n\"You're time enough,\" siz Ned; \"I'll tell you when we're ready for\nsea--leave the rest to me, Darby.\"\n\n\"Och, tip us your fist,\" siz I; \"you were always the broath of a boy;\nfor the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a\nbite to ate.\"\n\nMany's the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to him,\nand how comfortable he'd make me on the voyage. Day afther day we spint\ntogether, waitin' for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to grow\nvery light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner:--\n\n\"Darby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow--you'd betther go\non boord an' pay your way.\"\n\n\"Is it jokin' you are, Ned?\" siz I; \"shure you tould me to leave it all\nto you.\"\n\n\"Ah! Darby,\" siz he, \"you're for takin' a rise out o' me. But I'll stick\nto my promise; only, Darby, you must pay your way.\"\n\n\"O, Ned,\" says I, \"is this the way you're goin' to threat me after all?\nI'm a rooin'd man; all I cou'd scrape together I spint on you. If you\ndon't do something for me, I'm lost. Is there no place where you cou'd\nhide me from the captin?\"\n\n\"Not a place,\" siz Ned.\n\n\"An' where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin' up out ov?\"\n\n\"O, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo's stow'd.\"\n\n\"An' is there no other place?\" siz I.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" siz he, \"where we keep the wather casks.\"\n\n\"An' Ned,\" siz I, \"does anyone live down there?\"\n\n\"Not a mother's soul,\" siz he.\n\n\"An' Ned,\" siz I, \"can't you cram me down there, and give me a lock ov\nstraw an' a bit?\"\n\n\"Why, Darby,\" siz he (an' he look'd mighty pittyfull), \"I must thry. But\nmind, Darby, you'll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and when it\ncomes to my watch, I'll bring you down some prog; but if you're\ndiskiver'd, it's all over with me, an' you'll be put on a dissilute\nisland to starve.\"\n\n\"O Ned,\" siz I, \"leave it all to me.\"\n\nWhen night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels;\nand poor Ned every night brought me down hard black cakes an' salt meat.\nThere I lay snug for a whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me:--\n\n\"Now, Darby, what's to be done? we're within three days' sail ov Quebec;\nthe ship will be overhauled, and all the passengers' names call'd over.\"\n\n\"An' is that all that frets you, my jewel,\" siz I; \"just get me an empty\nmeal-bag, a bottle, an' a bare ham bone, and that's all I'll ax.\"\n\nSo Ned got them for me, anyhow.\n\n\"Well, Ned,\" siz I, \"you know I'm a great shwimmer; your watch will be\nearly in the morning; I'll just slip down into the sea; do you cry out\n'There's a man in the wather,' as loud as you can, and leave all the\nrest to me.\"\n\nWell, to be sure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash.\nNed roared out with the hoarseness of a brayin' ass--\n\n\"A man in the sea, a man in the sea!\"\n\nEvery man, woman, and child came running up out of the holes, and the\ncaptain among the rest, who put a long red barrel, like a gun, to his\neye--I thought he was for shootin' me! Down I dived. When I got my head\nover the wather agen, what shou'd I see but a boat rowin' to me. When it\ncame up close, I roared out--\n\n\"Did ye hear me at last?\"\n\nThe boat now run 'pon the top ov me; I was gript by the scruff ov the\nneck, and dragg'd into it.\n\n\"What hard look I had to follow yees, at all at all--which ov ye is the\nmasther?\" says I.\n\n\"There he is,\" siz they, pointin' to a little yellow man in a corner of\nthe boat.\n\n\"You yallow-lookin' monkey, but it's a'most time for you to think ov\nlettin' me into your ship--I'm here plowin' and plungin' this month\nafther you; shure I didn't care a thrawneen was it not that you have my\nbest Sunday clothes in your ship, and my name in your books.\"\n\n\"An' pray, what is your name, my lad?\" siz the captain.\n\n\"What's my name! What i'd you give to know?\" siz I, \"ye unmannerly\nspalpeen, it might be what's your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your\nmouth--ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at\nhome or abroad!\"\n\n\"An', Mr. Darby Doyle,\" siz he, \"do you mean to persuade us that you\nswam from Cork to this afther us?\"\n\n\"This is more ov your ignorance,\" siz I--\"ay, an' if you sted three days\nlonger and not take me up, I'd be in Quebec before ye, only my\npurvisions were out, and the few rags of bank notes I had all melted\ninto paste in my pocket, for I hadn't time to get them changed. But\nstay, wait till I get my foot on shore; there's ne'er a cottoner in Cork\niv you don't pay for leavin' me to the marcy ov the waves.\"\n\nAt last we came close to the ship. Everyone on board saw me at Cove but\ndidn't see me on the voyage; to be sure, everyone's mouth was wide open,\ncrying out, \"Darby Doyle!\"\n\n\"It's now you call me loud enough,\" siz I, \"ye wouldn't shout that way\nwhen ye saw me rowlin' like a tub in a mill-race the other day fornenst\nyour faces.\" When they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a\nsheet. Nothin' was tawked ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle's\ngreat shwim from Cove to Quebec.\n\nAt last we got to Ammerykey. I was now in a quare way; the captain\nwouldn't let me go till a friend of his would see me. By this time, my\njewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms, starin' at\npoor Darby. At last I called Ned.\n\n\"Ned, avic,\" siz I, \"what's the meanin' ov the boords acrass the stick\nthe people walk on, and the big white boord up there?\"\n\n\"Why, come over and read,\" siz Ned. I saw in great big black letters:--\n\n  THE GREATEST WONDHER IN THE WORLD!!!\n            TO BE SEEN HERE,\n\n         A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!\n           He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!\n  Proved on oath by ten of the crew and twenty passengers.\n                Admittance Half a Dollar.\n\n\"Ned,\" siz I, \"does this mean your humble sarvint?\"\n\n\"Not another,\" siz he.\n\nSo I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and jump, gets over to\nthe captain, who was now talkin' to a yallow fellow that was afther\nstarin' me out ov countenance.\n\n\"Ye are doin' it well,\" said I. \"How much money have ye gother for my\nshwimmin'?\"\n\n\"Be quiet, Darby,\" siz the captain, and he looked very much frickened.\n\"I have plenty, an' I'll have more for ye iv ye do what I want ye to\ndo.\"\n\n\"An' what is it, avic?\" siz I.\n\n\"Why, Darby,\" siz he, \"I'm afther houldin a wager last night with this\ngintleman for all the worth ov my ship, that you'll shwim against any\nshwimmer in the world; an', Darby, if ye don't do that, I'm a gone man.\"\n\n\"Augh, give us your fist,\" siz I; \"did ye ever hear ov Paddies dishaving\nany man in the European world yet--barrin' themselves?\"\n\n\"Well, Darby,\" siz he, \"I'll give you a hundred dollars; but, Darby, you\nmust be to your word, and you shall have another hundred.\"\n\nSo sayin', he brought me down to the cellar.\n\n\"Now, Darby,\" siz he, \"here's the dollars for ye.\"\n\nBut it was only a bit of paper he was handin' me.\n\n\"Arrah, none ov yer tricks upon thravellers,\" siz I; \"I had betther nor\nthat, and many more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won't wash\nout of my pocket.\"\n\n\"Well, Darby,\" siz he, \"you must have the real thing.\"\n\nSo he reckoned me out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like\nsince the stockin' fell out ov the chimly on my aunt and cut her forred.\n\n\"Now, Darby,\" siz he, \"ye are a rich man, and ye are worthy of it all.\"\n\nAt last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captain\nlookin' very often at me. At last--\n\n\"Darby,\" siz he, \"are you any way cow'd? The fellow you have to shwim\nagenst can shwim down watherfalls an' catharacts.\"\n\n\"Can he, avic?\" siz I; \"but can he shwim up agenst them?\"\n\nAn' who shou'd come up while I was tawkin' to the captain but the chap I\nwas to shwim with, and heard all I sed. He was so tall that he could eat\nbread an' butther over my head--with a face as yallow as a kite's foot.\n\n\"Tip us the mitten,\" siz I, \"mabouchal,\" siz I; \"Where are we going to\nshwim to? What id ye think if we swum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good\nHope?\"\n\n\"I reckon neither,\" siz he.\n\nOff we set through the crowds ov ladies an' gintlemen to the shwimmin'\nplace. And as I was goin' I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron struck\nfast in the ground with a big ring to it.\n\n\"What d'ye call that?\" siz I to the captain, who was at my elbow.\n\n\"Why, Darby,\" siz he, \"that's half an anchor.\"\n\n\"Have ye any use for it?\" siz I.\n\n\"Not in the least,\" siz he; \"it's only to fasten boats to.\"\n\n\"Maybee you'd give it to a body,\" siz I.\n\n\"An' welkim, Darby,\" siz he; \"it's yours.\"\n\n\"God bless your honour, sir,\" siz I, \"it's my poor father that will pray\nfor you. When I left home the creather hadn't as much as an anvil but\nwhat was sthreeled away by the agint--bad end to them. This will be jist\nthe thing that'll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring while he\nforges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin' a couple ov\nchaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather, and I won't\nhave to be comin' back for it afther I shake hands with this fellow.\"\n\nOh, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this. An'\nsiz he to the gintleman that was walkin' by _his_ side--\n\n\"I reckon I'm not fit for the shwimmin' to-day--I don't feel _myself_.\"\n\n\"An', murdher an' Irish, if you're yer brother, can't you send him for\nyerself, an' I'll wait here till he comes. An' when will ye be able for\nthe shwim, avic?\" siz I, mighty complisant.\n\n\"I reckon in another week,\" siz he.\n\nSo we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the fever,\nthen began to rave. \"Shwim up catharacts!--shwim to the Keep ov Good\nHope!--shwim to St. Helena!--shwim to Keep Clear!--shwim with an anchor\non his back!--oh! oh! oh!\"\n\nI now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and\nhere I sit undher my own hickory threes, as independent as anny Yankee.\n\n\n\n\nBob Burke's Duel.\n\n_From \"Tales from Blackwood.\"_\n\nBY DR. MAGINN.\n\n\n  HOW BOB BURKE, AFTER CONSULTATION WITH WOODEN-LEG WADDY, FOUGHT THE\n  DUEL WITH ENSIGN BRADY FOR THE SAKE OF MISS THEODOSIA MACNAMARA,\n  SUPPOSED HEIRESS TO HER OLD BACHELOR UNCLE, MICK MACNAMARA OF\n  KAWLEASH.\n\n\"At night I had fallen asleep fierce in the determination of\nexterminating Brady; but with the morrow, cool reflection came--made\nprobably cooler by the aspersion I had suffered. How could I fight him,\nwhen he had never given me the slightest affront? To be sure, picking a\nquarrel is not hard, thank God, in any part of Ireland; but unless I was\nquick about it, he might get so deep into the good graces of Dosy, who\nwas as flammable as tinder, that even my shooting him might not be of\nany practical advantage to myself. Then, besides, he might shoot me;\nand, in fact, I was not by any means so determined in the affair at\nseven o'clock in the morning as I was at twelve o'clock at night. I got\nhome, however, dressed, shaved, etc., and turned out. 'I think,' said I\nto myself, 'the best thing I can do, is to go and consult Wooden-Leg\nWaddy; and, as he is an early man, I shall catch him now.' The thought\nwas no sooner formed than executed; and in less than five minutes I was\nwalking with Wooden-Leg Waddy in his garden, at the back of his house,\nby the banks of the Blackwater.\n\n\"Waddy had been in the Hundred-and-First, and had seen much service in\nthat distinguished corps.\n\n\"Waddy had served a good deal, and lost his leg somehow, for which he\nhad a pension besides his half-pay, and he lived in ease and affluence\namong the Bucks of Mallow. He was a great hand at settling and arranging\nduels, being what we generally call in Ireland a judgmatical sort of\nman--a word which, I think, might be introduced with advantage into the\nEnglish vocabulary. When I called on him, he was smoking his meerschaum,\nas he walked up and down his garden in an old undressed coat, and a fur\ncap on his head. I bade him good morning; to which salutation he\nanswered by a nod, and a more prolonged whiff.\n\n\"'I want to speak to you, Wooden-Leg,' said I, 'on a matter which nearly\nconcerns me,' to which I received another nod, and another whiff in\nreply.\n\n\"'The fact is,' said I, 'that there is an Ensign Brady of the 48th\nQuartered here, with whom I have some reason to be angry, and I am\nthinking of calling him out. I have come to ask your advice whether I\nshould do so or not. He has deeply injured me, by interfering between me\nand the girl of my affection. What ought I to do in such a case?'\n\n\"'Fight him, by all means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'But the difficulty is this--he has offered me no affront, direct or\nindirect--we have no quarrel whatever--and he has not paid any addresses\nto the lady. He and I have scarcely been in contact at all. I do not see\nhow I can manage it immediately with any propriety. What then can I do\nnow?'\n\n\"'Do not fight him, by any means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'Still, these are the facts of the case. He, whether intentionally or\nnot, is coming between me and my mistress, which is doing me an injury\nperfectly equal to the grossest insult. How should I act?'\n\n\"'Fight him by all means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'But then, I fear if I were to call him out on a groundless quarrel, or\none which would appear to be such, that I should lose the good graces of\nthe lady, and be laughed at by my friends, or set down as a dangerous\nand quarrelsome companion.'\n\n\"'Do not fight him, by any means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'Yet, as he is a military man, he must know enough of the etiquette of\nthese affairs to feel perfectly confident that he has affronted me; and\nthe opinion of the military man, standing, as of course, he does, in the\nrank and position of a gentleman, could not, I think, be overlooked\nwithout disgrace.'\n\n\"'Fight him, by all means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'But then, talking of gentlemen, I own he is an officer of the 48th,\nbut his father is a fish-tackle seller in John Street, Kilkenny, who\nkeeps a three-halfpenny shop, where you may buy everything from a cheese\nto a cheese-toaster, from a felt hat to a pair of brogues, from a pound\nof brown soap to a yard of huckaback towels. He got his commission by\nhis father's retiring from the Ormonde Interest, and acting as\nwhipper-in to the sham freeholders from Castlecomer; and I am, as you\nknow, of the best blood of the Burkes--straight from the De Burgos\nthemselves--and when I think of that I really do not like to meet this\nMr. Brady.'\n\n\"'Do not fight him, by all means,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy.\n\n\"'Why,' said I, 'Wooden-Leg, my friend, this is like playing battledore\nand shuttlecock; what is knocked forward with one hand is knocked back\nwith the other. Come, tell me what I ought to do.'\n\n\"'Well,' said Wooden-Leg, taking the meerschaum out of his mouth, 'in\ndubiis auspice, etc. Let us decide by tossing a halfpenny. If it comes\ndown 'head,' you fight--if 'harp' you do not. Nothing can be fairer.'\n\n\"I assented.\n\n\"'Which,' said he, 'is it to be--two out of three, as at Newmarket, or\nthe first toss to decide?'\n\n\"'Sudden death,' said I, 'and there will soon be an end of it.'\n\n\"Up went the halfpenny, and we looked with anxious eyes for its descent,\nwhen, unluckily, it stuck in a gooseberry bush.\n\n\"'I don't like that,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy, 'for it's a token of bad\nluck. But here goes again.'\n\n\"Again the copper soared to the sky, and down it came--Head.\n\n\"'I wish you joy, my friend' said Waddy; 'you are to fight. That was my\nopinion all along; though I did not like to commit myself. I can lend\nyou a pair of the most beautiful duelling-pistols ever put into a man's\nhand--Wogden's, I swear. The last time they were out, they shot Joe\nBrown, of Mount Badger, as dead as Harry the Eight.'\n\n\"'Will you be my second?' said I.\n\n\"'Why, no,' replied Wooden-leg, 'I cannot; for I am bound over by a\nrascally magistrate to keep the peace, because I nearly broke the head\nof a blackguard bailiff, who came here to serve a writ on a friend of\nmine, with one of my spare legs. But I can get you a second at once. My\nnephew, Major Mug, has just come to me on a few days' visit, and, as he\nis quite idle it will give him some amusement to be your second. Look up\nat his bedroom--you see he is shaving himself.'\n\n\"In a short time the Major made his appearance, dressed with a most\nmilitary accuracy of costume. There was not a speck of dust on his\nwell-brushed blue surtout--not a vestige of hair, except the regulation\nwhiskers, on his closely-shaven countenance. His hat was brushed to the\nmost glossy perfection--his boots shone in the jetty glow of Day and\nMartin. There was scarcely an ounce of flesh on his hard and\nweather-beaten face, and as he stood rigidly upright, you would have\nsworn that every sinew and muscle of his body was as stiff as whipcord.\nHe saluted us in military style, and was soon put in possession of the\ncase. Wooden-Leg Waddy insinuated that there were hardly, as yet,\ngrounds for a duel.\n\n\"'I differ,' said Major Mug, 'decidedly--the grounds are ample. I never\nsaw a clearer case in my life, and I have been principal or second in\nseven-and-twenty. If I collect your story rightly, Mr. Burke, he gave\nyou an abrupt answer in the field, which was highly derogatory to the\nlady in question, and impertinently rude to yourself?'\n\n\"'He certainly,' said I, 'gave me what we call a short answer; but I did\nnot notice it at the time, and he has since made friends with the young\nlady.'\n\n\"'It matters nothing,' observed Major Mug, 'what you may think, or she\nmay think. The business is now in my hands, and I must see you through\nit. The first thing to be done is to write him a letter. Send out for\npaper--let it be gilt-edged, Waddy,--that we may do the thing genteelly.\nI'll dictate, Mr. Burke, if you please.'\n\n\"And so he did. As well as I can recollect, the note was as follows:--\n\n  \"'Spa-Walk, Mallow, June 3, 18--\n\n    \"'Eight o'clock in the morning.\n\n  \"'Sir,--A desire for harmony and peace, which has at all times\n  actuated my conduct, prevented me, yesterday, from asking you the\n  meaning of the short and contemptuous message which you commissioned\n  me to deliver to a certain young lady of our acquaintance whose name I\n  do not choose to drag into a correspondence. But, now that there is no\n  danger of its disturbing anyone, I must say that in your desiring me\n  to tell that young lady she might consider herself as d----d, when she\n  asked you to tea after inadvertently riding over you in the hunting\n  field, you were guilty of conduct highly unbecoming of an officer and\n  a gentleman, and subversive of the discipline of the hunt. I have the\n  honour to be, sir,\n\n  \"'Your most obedient humble servant,\n\n    \"'ROBERT BURKE.\n\n  \"'P.S.--This note will be delivered to you by my friend, Major Mug, of\n  the 3rd West Indian; and you will, I trust, see the propriety of\n  referring him to another gentleman without further delay.'\n\n\"'That, I think, is neat,' said the Major. 'Now, seal it with wax, Mr.\nBurke, with wax--and let the seal be your arms. That's right. Now direct\nit.'\n\n\"'Ensign Brady?'\n\n\"'No--no--the right thing would be, 'Mr. Brady, Ensign, 48th Foot,' but\ncustom allows 'Esquire,' that will do.--'Thady Brady, Esquire, Ensign,\n48th Foot, Barracks, Mallow.' He shall have it in less than a quarter of\nan hour.'\n\n\"The Major was as good as his word, and in about half-an-hour he brought\nback the result of his mission. The Ensign, he told us, was extremely\nreluctant to fight, and wanted to be off on the ground that he meant no\noffence, did not even remember having used the expression, and offered\nto ask the lady if she conceived for a moment he had any idea of saying\nanything but what was complimentary to her.\n\n\"'In fact,' said the Major, 'he at first plumply refused to fight; but I\nsoon brought him to reason. 'Sir,' said I, 'you either consent to fight\nor refuse to fight. In the first case, the thing is settled to hand, and\nwe are not called upon to inquire if there was an affront or not--in the\nsecond case, your refusal to comply with a gentleman's request is, of\nitself, an offence for which he has a right to call you out. Put it,\nthen, on the grounds, you must fight him, it is perfectly indifferent to\nme what the grounds may be; and I have only to request the name of your\nfriend, as I too much respect the coat you wear to think that there can\nbe any other alternative.' This brought the chap to his senses, and he\nreferred me to Captain Codd, of his own regiment, at which I felt much\npleased, because Codd is an intimate friend of my own, he and I having\nfought a duel three years ago in Falmouth, in which I lost the top of\nthis little finger, and he his left whisker. It was a near touch, he is\nas honourable a man as ever paced a ground; and I am sure that he will\nno more let his man off the field until business is done than I would\nmyself.'\n\n\"I own,\" continued Burke, \"I did not half relish this announcement of\nthe firm purpose to our seconds; but I was in for it, and could not get\nback. I sometimes thought Dosy a dear purchase at such an expense; but\nit was no use to grumble. Major Mug was sorry to say that there was a\nreview to take place immediately at which the Ensign must attend, and it\nwas impossible for him to meet me until the evening; 'but,' he added,\n'at this time of the year it can be of no great consequence. There will\nbe plenty of light till nine, but I have fixed seven. In the meantime\nyou may as well divert yourself with a little pistol practice, but do it\non the sly, as, if they were shabby enough to have a trial it would not\ntell well before the jury.'\n\n\"Promising to take a quiet chop with me at five, the Major retired,\nleaving me not quite contented with the state of affairs. I sat down and\nwrote a letter to my cousin, Phil Burdon, of Kanturk, telling him what I\nwas about and giving directions what was to be done in the case of any\nfatal event. I communicated to him the whole story--deplored my unhappy\nfate in being thus cut off in the flower of my youth--left him three\npairs of buckskin breeches--and repented my sins. This letter I\nimmediately packed off by a special messenger, and then began a\nhalf-a-dozen others, of various styles of tenderness and sentimentality,\nto be delivered after my melancholy decease. The day went off fast\nenough, I assure you; and at five the Major, and Wooden-Leg Waddy,\narrived in high spirits.\n\n\"'Here, my boy,' said Waddy, handing me the pistols, 'here are the\nflutes; and pretty music, I can tell you, they make.'\n\n\"'As for dinner,' said Major Mug, 'I do not much care; but, Mr. Burke,\nI hope it is ready, as I am rather hungry. We must dine lightly,\nhowever, and drink not much. If we come off with flying colours, we may\ncrack a bottle together by-and-by; in case you shoot Brady, I have\neverything arranged for our keeping out of the way until the thing blows\nover--if he shoots you, I'll see you buried. Of course, you would not\nrecommend anything so ungenteel as a prosecution? No. I'll take care it\nshall appear in the papers, and announced that Robert Burke, Esq., met\nhis death with becoming fortitude, assuring the unhappy survivor that he\nheartily forgave him, and wished him health and happiness.'\n\n\"'I must tell you,' said Wooden-Leg Waddy, 'it's all over Mallow and the\nwhole town will be on the ground to see it. Miss Dosy knows of it, and\nshe is quite delighted--she says she will certainly marry the survivor.\nI spoke to the magistrate to keep out of the way, and he promised that,\nthough it deprived him of a great pleasure he would go and dine five\nmiles off--and know nothing about it. But here comes dinner, let us be\njolly.'\n\n\"I cannot say that I played on that day as brilliant a part with the\nknife and fork as I usually do, and did not sympathise much in the\nspeculations of my guests, who pushed the bottle about with great\nenergy, recommending me, however, to refrain. At last the Major looked\nat his watch, which he had kept lying on the table before him from the\nbeginning of dinner--started up--clapped me on the shoulder, and\ndeclaring it only wanted six minutes and thirty-five seconds of the\ntime, hurried me off to the scene of action--a field close by the\ncastle.\n\n\"There certainly was a miscellaneous assemblage of the inhabitants of\nMallow, all anxious to see the duel. They had pitted us like game-cocks,\nand bets were freely taken as to the chances of our killing one another,\nand the particular spots. One betted on my being hit in the jaw, another\nwas so kind as to lay the odds on my knee. The tolerably general opinion\nappeared to prevail that one or other of us was to be killed; and much\ngood-humoured joking took place among them while they were deciding\nwhich. As I was double the thickness of my antagonist, I was clearly the\nfavourite for being shot, and I heard one fellow near me say, 'Three to\ntwo on Burke, that he's shot first--I bet in tenpennies.'\n\n\"Brady and Codd soon appeared, and the preliminaries were arranged with\nmuch punctilio between our seconds, who mutually and loudly extolled\neach other's gentleman-like mood of doing business. Brady could scarcely\nstand with fright, and I confess that I did not feel quite as Hector of\nTroy, or the Seven Champions of Christendom are reported to have done on\nsimilar occasions. At last the ground was measured--the pistols handed\nto the principals--the handkerchief dropped--whiz! went the bullet\nwithin an inch of my ear--and crack! went mine exactly on Ensign Brady's\nwaistcoat pocket. By an unaccountable accident, there was a five\nshilling piece in that very pocket, and the ball glanced away, while\nBrady doubled himself down, uttering a loud howl that might be heard\nhalf-a-mile off. The crowd was so attentive as to give a huzza for my\nsuccess.\n\n\"Codd ran up to his principal, who was writhing as if he had ten\nthousand colics, and soon ascertained that no harm was done.\n\n\"'What do you propose,' said he to my second--'What do you propose to\ndo, Major?'\n\n\"'As there is neither blood drawn nor bone broken,' said the Major, 'I\nthink that shot goes for nothing.'\n\n\"'I agree with you,' said Captain Codd.\n\n\"'If your party will apologise,' said Major Mug, 'I'll take my man off\nthe ground.'\n\n\"'Certainly,' said Captain Codd, 'you are quite right, Major, in asking\nthe apology, but you know that it is my duty to refuse it.'\n\n\"'You are correct, Captain,' said the Major; 'I then formally require\nthat Ensign Brady apologise to Mr. Burke.'\n\n\"'I, as formally, refuse it,' said Captain Codd.\n\n\"'We must have another shot then,' said the Major.\n\n\"'Another shot, by all means,' said the Captain.\n\n\"'Captain Codd,' said the Major, 'you have shown yourself in this, as in\nevery transaction of your life, a perfect gentleman.'\n\n\"'He who would dare to say,' replied the Captain, 'that Major Mug is not\namong the most gentleman-like men in the service, would speak what is\nuntrue.'\n\n\"Our seconds bowed, took a pinch of snuff together, and proceeded to\nload the pistols. Neither Brady nor I were particularly pleased at these\ncomplimentary speeches of the gentlemen, and, I am sure, had we been\nleft to ourselves, would have declined the second shot. As it was, it\nappeared inevitable.\n\n\"Just, however, as the process of loading was completing, there appeared\non the ground my cousin Phil Purdon, rattling in on his black mare as\nhard as he could lick--\n\n\"'I want to speak to the plaintiff in this action--I mean, to one of\nthe parties in this duel. I want to speak to you, Bob Burke.'\n\n\"'The thing is impossible, sir,' said Major Mug.\n\n\"'Perfectly impossible, sir,' said Codd.\n\n\"'Possible or impossible is nothing to the question,' shouted Purdon;\n'Bob, I must speak to you.'\n\n\"'It is contrary to all regulation,' said the Major.\n\n\"'Quite contrary,' said the Captain.\n\n\"Phil, however, persisted, and approached me: 'Are you fighting about\nDosy Mac?' said he to me, in a whisper.\n\n\"'Yes,' I replied.\n\n\"'And she is to marry the survivor, I understand?'\n\n\"'So I am told,' said I.\n\n\"'Back out, Bob, then; back out, at the rate of a hunt. Old Mick\nMacNamara is married.'\n\n\"'Married!' I exclaimed.\n\n\"'Poz,' said he. 'I drew the articles myself. He married his housemaid,\na girl of eighteen; and,' here he whispered.\n\n\"'What,' I cried, 'six months!'\n\n\"'Six months,' said he, 'an' no mistake.'\n\n\"'Ensign Brady,' said I, immediately coming forward, 'there has been a\nstrange misconception in this business. I here declare, in presence of\nthis honourable company, that you have acted throughout like a man of\nhonour, and a gentleman; and you leave the ground without a stain on\nyour character.'\n\n\"Brady hopped three feet off the ground with joy at the unexpected\ndeliverance. He forgot all etiquette, and came forward to shake me by\nthe hand.\n\n\"'My dear Burke,' said he, 'it must have been a mistake: let us swear\neternal friendship.'\n\n\"'For ever,' said I. 'I resign you Miss Theodosia.'\n\n\"'You are too generous,' he said, 'but I cannot abuse your generosity.'\n\n\"'It is unprecedented conduct,' growled Major Mug. 'I'll never be second\nto a Pekin again.'\n\n\"'My principal leaves the ground with honour,' said Captain Codd,\nlooking melancholy, nevertheless.\n\n\"'Humph!' grunted Wooden-Leg Waddy, lighting his meerschaum.\n\n\"The crowd dispersed much displeased, and I fear my reputation for\nvalour did not rise among them. I went off with Purdon to finish a jug\nat Carmichael's, and Brady swaggered off to Miss Dosy's. His renown for\nvalour won her heart. It cannot be denied that I sunk deeply in her\nopinion. On that very evening Brady broke his love, and was accepted.\nMrs. Mac. opposed, but the red-coat prevailed.\n\n\"'He may rise to be a general,' said Dosy, 'and be a knight, and then I\nwill be Lady Brady.'\n\n\"'Or, if my father should be made an earl, angelic Theodosia, you would\nbe Lady Thady Brady,' said the Ensign.\n\n\"'Beautiful prospect!' cried Dosy, 'Lady Thady Brady! What a harmonious\nsound!'\n\n\"But why dally over the detail of my unfortunate loves? Dosy and the\nEnsign were married before the accident which had befallen her uncle was\ndiscovered; and if they were not happy, why, then, you and I may. They\nhave had eleven children, and, I understand, he now keeps a comfortable\neating-house close by Cumberland Basin, in Bristol. Such was my duel\nwith Ensign Brady of the 48th.\"\n\n\n\n\nBilly Malowney's Taste of Love and Glory.\n\n_From \"The Purcell Papers.\"_\n\nBY JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU (1814-1873).\n\n\nLet the reader fancy a soft summer evening, the fresh dews falling on\nbush and flower. The sun has just gone down, and the thrilling vespers\nof thrushes and blackbirds ring with a wild joy through the saddened\nair; the west is piled with fantastic clouds, and clothed in tints of\ncrimson and amber, melting away into a wan green, and so eastward into\nthe deepest blue, through which soon the stars will begin to peep.\n\nLet him fancy himself seated upon the low mossy wall of an ancient\nchurchyard, where hundreds of grey stones rise above the sward, under\nthe fantastic branches of two or three half-withered ash-trees,\nspreading their arms in everlasting love and sorrow over the dead.\n\nThe narrow road upon which I and my companion await the tax-cart that is\nto carry me and my basket, with its rich fruitage of speckled trout,\naway, lies at his feet, and far below spreads an undulating plain,\nrising westward into soft hills, and traversed (every here and there\nvisibly) by a winding stream which, even through the mists of evening,\ncatches and returns the funeral glories of the skies.\n\nAs the eye traces its wayward wanderings, it loses them for a moment in\nthe heaving verdure of white-thorns and ash, from among which floats\nfrom some dozen rude chimneys, mostly unseen, the transparent blue film\nof turf smoke. There we know, although we cannot see it, the steep old\nbridge of Carrickdrum spans the river; and stretching away far to the\nright the valley of Lisnamoe; its steeps and hollows, its straggling\nhedges, its fair-green, its tall scattered trees, and old grey tower,\nare disappearing fast among the discoloured tints and blaze of evening.\n\nThose landmarks, as we sit listlessly expecting the arrival of our\nmodest conveyance, suggest to our companion--a bare-legged Celtic\nbrother of the gentle craft, somewhat at the wrong side of forty, with a\nturf-coloured caubeen, patched frieze, a clear brown complexion,\ndark-grey eyes and a right pleasant dash of roguery in his features--the\ntale, which, if the reader pleases, he is welcome to hear along with me\njust as it falls from the lips of our humble comrade.\n\nHis words I can give, but your own fancy must supply the advantages of\nan intelligent, expressive countenance, and what is, perhaps, harder\nstill, the harmony of his glorious brogue, that, like the melodies of\nour own dear country, will leave a burden of mirth or of sorrow with\nnearly equal propriety, tickling the diaphragm as easily as it plays\nwith the heart-strings, and is in itself a national music that, I trust,\nmay never, never--scouted and despised though it be--never cease, like\nthe lost tones of our harp, to be heard in the fields of my country, in\nwelcome or endearment, in fun or in sorrow, stirring the hearts of\nIrishmen and Irish women.\n\nMy friend of the caubeen and naked shanks, then, commenced, and\ncontinued his relation, as nearly as possible, in the following words:--\n\nAv coorse ye often heerd talk of Billy Malowney, that lived by the\nbridge of Carrickadrum. \"Leumarinka\" was the name they put on him, he\nwas sich a beautiful dancer. An' faix, it's he was the rale sportin'\nboy, every way--killin' the hares, and gaffin' the salmons, an' fightin'\nthe men, an' funnin' the women, and coortin' the girls; an', be the same\ntoken, there was not a colleen inside iv his jurisdiction but was\nbreakin' her heart wid the fair love iv him.\n\nWell, this was all pleasand enough, to be sure, while it lasted; but\ninhuman beings is born to misfortune, an' Bill's divarshin was not to\nlast always. A young boy can't be continually coortin' and kissin' the\ngirls (an' more's the pity) without exposin' himself to the most eminent\nparril; an' so signs an' what should happen Billy Malowney himself, but\nto fall in love at last wid little Molly Donovan, in Coolamoe.\n\nI never could ondherstand why in the world it was Bill fell in love wid\nher, above all the girls in the country. She was not within four stone\nweight iv being as fat as Peg Brallaghan; and as for redness in the\nface, she could not hould a candle to Judy Flaherty. (Poor Judy! she was\nmy sweetheart, the darlin', an' coorted me constant, ever entil she\nmarried a boy of the Butlers; an' it's twenty years now since she was\nburied under the ould white-thorn in Garbally. But that's no matther!).\n\nWell, at any rate, Molly Donovan tuck his fancy an' that's everything!\nShe had smooth brown hair--as smooth as silk--an' a pair iv soft coaxin'\neyes--an' the whitest little teeth you ever seen; an', bedad, she was\nevery taste as much in love wid himself as he was.\n\nWell, now, he was raly stupid wid love: there was not a bit of fun left\nin him. He was good for nothin' an airth bud sittin' under bushes,\nsmokin' tobacky, and sighin' till you'd wonder how in the world he got\nwind for it all.\n\nAn', bedad, he was an illigant scholar, moreover an', so signs by, it's\nmany's the song he made about her; an' if you'd be walkin' in the\nevening, a mile away from Carrickadrum, begorra you'd hear him singing\nout like a bull, all across the country, in her praises.\n\nWell, ye may be sure, ould Tim Donovan and the wife was not a bit too\nwell plased to see Bill Malowney coortin' their daughter Molly; for, do\nye mind, she was the only child they had, and her fortune was\nthirty-five pounds, two cows, and five illigant pigs, three iron pots, a\nskillet, an' a trifle iv poultry in hand; and no one knew how much\nbesides, whenever the Lord id be plased to call the ould people out of\nthe way into glory!\n\nSo, it was not likely ould Tim Donovan id be fallin' in love wid poor\nBill Malowney as aisy as the girls did; for, barrin' his beauty, an' his\ngun, an' his dhudheen, an' his janious, the divil a taste of property iv\nany sort or description he had in the wide world!\n\nWell, as bad as that was, Billy would not give in that her father and\nmother had the smallest taste iv a right to intherfare, good or bad.\n\n\"An' you're welcome to rafuse me,\" says he, \"whin' I ax your lave,\" says\nhe; \"an' I'll ax your lave,\" says he, \"whenever I want to coort\nyourselves,\" says he; \"but it's your daughter I'm coortin' at the\npresent,\" says he, \"an' that's all I'll say,\" says he; \"for I'd a soon\ntake a doase of salts as be discoursin' ye,\" says he.\n\nSo it was a rale blazin' battle betune himself and the ould people; an',\nbegorra, there was no soart iv blaguardin' that did not pass betune\nthem; an' they put a solemn injection on Molly again seein' him or\nmeetin' him for the future.\n\nBut it was all iv no use. You might as well be pursuadin' the birds agin\nflying, or sthrivin' to coax the stars out of the sky into your hat, as\nbe talking common sinse to them that's fairly bothered and burstin' wid\nlove. There's nothin' like it. The toothache and colic together id\ncompose you betther for an argyment than itself. It leaves you fit for\nnothin' bud nansinse.\n\nIt's stronger than whisky, for one good drop iv it will make you drunk\nfor one year, and sick, begorra, for a dozen.\n\nIt's stronger than the say, for it'll carry you round the world an'\nnever let you sink, in sunshine or storm; an', begorra, it's stronger\nthan Death himself, for it is not afeard iv him, bedad, but dares him in\nevery shape.\n\nBud lovers has quarrels sometimes, and, begorra, when they do, you'd\na'most imagine they hated one another like man and wife. An' so, signs\nan', Billy Malowney and Molly Donovan fell out one evening at ould Tom\nDundon's wake; an' whatever came betune them, she made no more about it\nbut just draws her cloak round her, and away wid herself and the\nsarvant-girl home again, as if there was not a corpse, or a fiddle, or a\ntaste of divarsion in it.\n\nWell, Billy Malowney follied her down the boreen, to try could he\ndeludher her back again; but, if she was bitther before, she gave it to\nhim in airnest when she got him alone to herself, and to that degree\nthat he wished her safe home, short and sulky enough, an' walked back\nagain, as mad as the devil himself, to the wake, to pay respect to poor\nTom Dundon.\n\nWell, my dear, it was aisy seen there was something wrong wid Billy\nMalowney, for he paid no attintion for the rest of the evening to any\nsoart of divarsion but the whisky alone; an' every glass he'd drink it's\nwhat he'd be wishing the divil had the woman, an' the worst iv bad luck\nto all soarts iv courting, until, at last, wid the goodness iv the\nsperits, an' the badness iv his temper, an' the constant flusthration iv\ncursin', he grew all as one as you might say almost, saving your\npresince, bastely drunk!\n\nWell, who should he fall in wid, in that childish condition, as he was\ndeploying along the road almost as straight as the letter S, an' cursin'\nthe girls, an' roarin' for more whisky, but the recruiting-sargent iv\nthe Welsh Confusileers.\n\nSo, cute enough, the sargent begins to convarse him, an' it was not long\nuntil he had him sitting in Murphy's public-house, wid an elegant dandy\niv punch before him, an' the king's money safe an' snug in the lowest\nwrinkle of his breeches pocket.\n\nSo away wid him, and the dhrums and fifes playing, an' a dozen more\nunforthunate bliggards just listed along with him, an' he shakin' hands\nwid the sargent, and swearin' agin the women every minute, until, be the\ntime he kem to himself, begorra, he was a good ten miles on the road to\nDublin, an' Molly and all behind him.\n\nIt id be no good tellin' you iv the letters he wrote to her from the\nbarracks there, nor how she was breaking her heart to go and see him\njust wanst before he'd go; but the father and mother would not allow iv\nit be no manes.\n\nAn' so in less time than you'd be thinkin' about it, the colonel had him\npolished off into a rale elegant soger, wid his gun exercise, and his\nbagnet exercise, and his small sword, and broad sword, and pistol and\ndagger, an' all the rest, an' then away wid him on board a man-a-war to\nfurrin parts, to fight for King George agin Bonypart, that was great in\nthem times.\n\nWell, it was very soon in everyone's mouth how Billy Malowney was batin'\nall before him, astonishin' the ginerals, and frightenin' the inimy to\nthat degree, there was not a Frinchman dare say parley voo outside of\nthe rounds iv his camp.\n\nYou may be sure Molly was proud iv that same, though she never spoke a\nword about it; until at last news kem home that Billy Malowney was\nsurrounded an' murdered be the Frinch army, under Napoleon Bonypart\nhimself. The news was brought by Jack Bryan Dhas, the pedlar, that said\nhe met the corporal iv the regiment on the quay iv Limerick, an' how he\nbrought him into a public-house and thrated him to a naggin, and got all\nthe news about poor Billy Malowney out iv him while they war dhrinkin'\nit; an' a sorrowful story it was.\n\nThe way it happened, accordin' as the corporal tould him, was jist how\nthe Dook iv Wellington detarmined to fight a rale tarin' battle wid the\nFrinch, and Bonypart at the same time was aiqually detarmined to fight\nthe divil's own scrimmidge wid the British foorces.\n\nWell, as soon as the business was pretty near ready at both sides,\nBonypart and the general next undher himself gets up behind a bush, to\nlook at their inimies through spy-glasses, and thry would they know any\niv them at the distance.\n\n\"Bedad!\" says the gineral, afther a divil iv a long spy, \"I'd bet half a\npint,\" says he, \"that's Billy Malowney himself,\" says he, \"down there,\"\nsays he.\n\n\"Och!\" says Bonypart, \"do you tell me so?\" says he--\"I'm fairly\nheart-scalded with that same Billy Malowney,\" says he; \"an' I think if I\nwanst got shut iv him, I'd bate the rest of them aisy,\" says he.\n\n\"I'm thinking so myself,\" says the general, says he; \"but he's a tough\nbye,\" says he.\n\n\"Tough!\" says Bonypart, \"he's the divil,\" says he.\n\n\"Begorra, I'd be better plased,\" says the gineral, says he, \"to take\nhimself than the Duke iv Willinton,\" says he, \"an' Sir Edward Blakeney\ninto the bargain,\" says he.\n\n\"The Duke of Wellinton and Gineral Blakeney,\" says Bonypart, \"is great\nfor planning, no doubt,\" says he; \"but Billy Malowney's the boy for\naction,\" says he--\"an' action's everything, just now,\" says he.\n\nSo with that Bonypart pushes up his cocked hat, and begins scratching\nhis head, and thinking and considherin' for the bare life, and at last\nsays he to the gineral:\n\n\"Gineral Commandher iv all the Foorces,\" says he, \"I've hot it,\" says\nhe: \"ordher out the forlorn hope,\" says he, \"an' give them as much\npowdher, both glazed and blasting,\" says he, \"an' as much bullets, do ye\nmind, an' swan-dhrops an' chainshot,\" says he, \"an' all soorts iv\nwaipons an' combustables as they can carry; an' let them surround Bill\nMalowney,\" says he, \"an' if they can get any soort iv an advantage,\"\nsays he, \"let them knock him to smithereens,\" says he, \"an' then take\nhim presner,\" says he; \"an' tell all the bandmen iv the Frinch army,\"\nsays he, \"to play up 'Garryowen,' to keep up their sperits,\" says he,\n\"all the time they're advancin'. And you may promise them anything you\nlike in my name,\" says he; \"for, by my sowl, I don't think it's many iv\nthem 'ill come back to throuble us,\" says he, winkin' at him.\n\nSo away with the gineral, an' he ordhers out the forlorn hope, an' tells\nthe band to play, an' everything else, just as Bonypart desired him. An'\nsure enough whin Billy Malowney heerd the music where he was standin'\ntaking a blast of the dhudheen to compose his mind for murdherin' the\nFrinchmen as usual, being mighty partial to that tune intirely, he cocks\nhis ear a one side, an' down he stoops to listen to the music; but,\nbegorra, who should be in his rare all the time but a Frinch grannideer\nbehind a bush, and seeing him stooped in a convenient forum, bedad he\nlet flies at him straight, and fired him right forward between the legs\nan' the small iv the back, glory be to God! with what they call (saving\nyour presence) a bum-shell.\n\nWell, Bill Malowney let one roar out iv him, an' away he rolled over the\nfield iv battle like a slitther (as Bonypart and the Duke iv Wellington,\nthat was watching the manoeuvres from a distance, both consayved) into\nglory.\n\nAn' sure enough the Frinch was overjoyed beyant all bounds, an' small\nblame to them--an' the Duke of Wellington, I'm toult, was never all out\nthe same man sinst.\n\nAt any rate, the news kem home how Billy Malowney was murdhered by the\nFrinch in furrin parts.\n\nWell, all this time, you may be sure, there was no want iv boys comin'\nto coort purty Molly Donovan; but one way ar another, she always kept\nputtin' them off constant. An' though her father and mother was\nnathurally anxious to get rid of her respickably, they did not like to\nmarry her off in spite iv her teeth.\n\nAn' this way, promising one while and puttin' it off another, she\nconthrived to get on from one Shrove to another, until near seven years\nwas over and gone from the time when Billy Malowney listed for furrin\nsarvice.\n\nIt was nigh hand a year from the time whin the news iv Leum-a-rinka\nbein' killed by the Frinch came home, an' in place iv forgettin' him, as\nthe saisins wint over, it's what Molly was growin' paler and more\nlonesome every day, antil the neighbours thought she was fallin' into a\ndecline; and this is the way it was with her whin the fair of Lisnamoe\nkem round.\n\nIt was a beautiful evenin', just at the time iv the reapin' iv the oats,\nand the sun was shinin' through the red clouds far away over the hills\niv Cahirmore.\n\nHer father an' mother, an' the biys an' girls, was all away down in the\nfair, and Molly sittin' all alone on the step of the stile, listenin' to\nthe foolish little birds whistlin' among the leaves--and the sound of\nthe mountain-river flowin' through the stones an' bushes--an' the crows\nflyin' home high overhead to the woods iv Glinvarlogh--an' down in the\nglen, far away, she could see the fair-green iv Lisnamoe in the mist,\nan' sunshine among the grey rocks and threes--an' the cows an' horses,\nan' the blue frieze, an' the red cloaks, an' the tents, an' the smoke,\nan' the ould round tower--all as soft an' as sorrowful as a dhrame iv\nould times.\n\nAn' while she was looking this way, an' thinking iv Leum-a-rinka--poor\nBill iv the dance, that was sleepin' in his lonesome glory in the fields\nof Spain--she began to sing the song he used to like so well in the ould\ntimes:\n\n  \"Shule, shule, shule a-roon;\"\n\nan' when she ended the verse, what do you think but she heard a manly\nvoice just at the other side iv the hedge, singing the last words over\nagain!\n\nWell she knew it; her heart fluttered up like a little bird that id be\nwounded, and then dhropped still in her breast. It was himself. In a\nminute he was through the hedge and standing before her.\n\n\"Leum!\" says she.\n\n\"Mavourneen cuishla machree!\" says he; and without another word they\nwere locked in one another's arms.\n\nWell, it id only be nansinse for me thryin' to tell ye all the foolish\nthings they said, and how they looked in one another's faces, an'\nlaughed, an' cried, an' laughed again; and how, when they came to\nthemselves' and she was able at last to believe it was raly Billy\nhimself that was there, actially holdin' her hand, and lookin' in her\neyes the same way as ever, barrin' he was browner and boulder, an' did\nnot, maybe, look quite as merry in himself as he used to do in former\ntimes--an' fondher for all, an' more lovin' than ever--how he tould her\nall about the wars wid the Frinchmen--an' how he was wounded, and left\nfor dead in the field of battle, bein' shot through the breast, and how\nhe was discharged, an' got a pinsion iv a full shillin' a day--and how\nhe was come back to live the rest iv his days in the sweet glen iv\nLisnamoe, an' (if only she'd consint) to marry herself in spite iv them\nall.\n\nWell, ye may aisily think they had plinty to talk about, afther seven\nyears without seeing one another; and so signs on, the time flew by as\nswift an' as pleasant as a bird on the wing, an' the sun wint down, an'\nthe moon shone sweet, yet they didn't mind a ha'port about it, but kept\ntalkin an' whisperin', an' whisperin' an' talkin'; for it's wondherful\nhow often a tinder-hearted girl will bear to hear a purty boy tellin'\nher the same story constant over an' over; ontil at last, sure enough,\nthey heerd the ould man himself comin' up the boreen, singin' the\n\"Colleen Rue\"--a thing he never done barrin' whin he had a dhrop in; an'\nthe misthress walkin' in front iv him an' two illigant Kerry cows he\njust bought in the fair, an' the sarvint biys dhriving them behind.\n\n\"Oh, blessed hour!\" says Molly, \"here's my father.\"\n\n\"I'll spake to him this minute,\" says Bill.\n\n\"Oh, not for the world,\" says she; \"he's singin' the 'Colleen Rue,'\"\nsays she, \"and no one dar raison with him,\" says she.\n\n\"An' where'll I go?\" says he, \"for they're into the haggard an top iv\nus,\" says he, \"an' they'll see me iv I lep through the hedge,\" says he.\n\n\"Thry the pig-sty,\" says she, \"mavourneen,\" says she, \"in the name iv\nGod,\" says she.\n\n\"Well, darlint,\" says he, \"for your sake,\" says he, \"I'll condescend to\nthem animals,\" says he.\n\nAn' wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, it was too\nlate--the pigs was all gone home, and the pig-sty was as full as the\nBirr coach wid six inside.\n\n\"Och! blur-an'-agers,\" says he, \"there is not room for a suckin'-pig,\"\nsays he, \"let alone a Christian,\" says he.\n\n\"Well, run into the house, Billy,\" says she, \"this minute,\" says she,\n\"an' hide yourself antil they're quiet,\" says she, \"an' thin you can\nsteal out,\" says she, \"anknownst to them all,\" says she.\n\n\"I'll do your biddin',\" says he, \"Molly asthore,\" says he.\n\n\"Run in thin,\" says she, \"an' I'll go an' meet them,\" says she.\n\nSo wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an' where did he hide\nhimself bud in a little closet that was off iv the room where the ould\nman and woman slep'. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould\nchair he found there convanient.\n\nWell, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them comes into the\nkitchen, an' ould Tim Donovan singin' the \"Colleen Rue\" for the bare\nlife, an' the rest i' them sthrivin' to humour him, an doin' exactly\neverything he bid them, because they seen he was foolish be the manes of\nthe liquor.\n\nWell, to be sure all this kep' them long enough, you may be sure, from\ngoin' to bed, so that Billy could get no manner iv an advantage to get\nout iv the house, and so he sted sittin' in the dark closet in state,\ncursin' the \"Colleen Rue,\" and wondhering to the divil whin they'd get\nthe ould man into his bed. An', as if that was not delay enough, who\nshould come in to stop for the night but Father O'Flaherty, of\nCahirmore, that was buyin' a horse at the fair! An' av course, there was\na bed to be med down for his Raverance, an' some other attintions; an' a\nlong discoorse himself an' ould Mrs. Donovan had about the slaughter iv\nBilly Malowney, an' how he was buried on the field of battle; an' his\nRaverance hoped he got a dacent funeral, an' all the other convaniences\niv religion. An' so you may suppose it was pretty late in the night\nbefore all iv them got to their beds.\n\nWell, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all at all, an' he kep'\ndiscoorsin' the wife about the new cows he bought, an' the strippers he\nsould, an' so on for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to\nanother he kem to talk about the pigs, an' the poulthry, and at last,\nhaving nothing betther to discoorse about, he begun at his daughter\nMolly, an' all the heartscald she was to him be raisin iv refusin' the\nmen. An' at last says he:\n\n\"I onderstand,\" says he, \"very well how it is,\" says he. \"It's how she\nwas in love,\" says he, \"wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney,\" says he,\n\"bad luck to him!\" says he; for by this time he was coming to his\nraison.\n\n\"Ah!\" says the wife, says she, \"Tim darlint, don't be cursin' them\nthat's dead an' buried,\" says she.\n\n\"An' why would not I,\" says he, \"if they desarve it?\" says he.\n\n\"Whisht,\" says she, \"an' listen to that,\" says she. \"In the name of the\nBlessed Vargin,\" says she, \"what is it?\" says she.\n\nAn' sure enough what was it bud Bill Malowney that was dhroppin' asleep\nin the closet, an' snorin' like a church organ.\n\n\"Is it a pig,\" says he, \"or is it a Christian?\"\n\n\"Arra! listen to the tune iv it,\" says she; \"sure a pig never done the\nlike iv that,\" says she.\n\n\"Whatever it is,\" says he, \"it's in the room wid us,\" says he. \"The Lord\nbe marciful to us!\" says he.\n\n\"I tould you not to be cursin',\" says she; \"bad luck to you,\" says she,\n\"for an ommadhaun!\" for she was a very religious woman in herself.\n\n\"Sure, he's buried in Spain,\" says he; \"an' it is not for one little\ninnocent expression,\" says he, \"he'd be comin' all that way to annoy the\nhouse,\" says he.\n\nWell, while they war talkin,' Bill turns in the way he was sleepin' into\nan aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin' ould Tim\nDonovan's courage riz agin, and says he.\n\n\"I'll go to the kitchen,\" says he, \"an' light a rish,\" says he.\n\nAn' with that away wid him, an' the wife kep' workin' the beads all the\ntime, an' before they kem back Bill was snorin' as loud as ever.\n\n\"Oh! bloody wars--I mane the blessed saints above us!--that deadly\nsound,\" says he; \"it's going on as lively as ever,\" says he.\n\n\"I'm as wake as a rag,\" says his wife, says she, \"wid the fair\nanasiness,\" says she. \"It's out iv the little closet it's comin',\" says\nshe.\n\n\"Say your prayers,\" says he, \"an' hould your tongue,\" says he, \"while I\ndiscoorse it,\" says he. \"An' who are ye,\" says he, \"in the name iv all\nthe holy saints?\" says he, givin' the door a dab iv a crusheen that\nwakened Bill inside.\n\n\"I ax,\" says he, \"who you are?\" says he.\n\nWell, Bill did not rightly remember where in the world he was, but he\npushed open the door, an' says he:\n\n\"Billy Malowney's my name,\" says he, \"an' I'll thank ye to tell me a\nbetther,\" says he.\n\nWell, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an' actially seen that it was Bill\nhimself that was in it, he had not strength enough to let a bawl out iv\nhim, but he dhropt the candle out iv his hand, an' down wid himself on\nhis back in the dark.\n\nWell, the wife let a screech you'd hear at the mill iv Killraghlin,\nan'--\n\n\"Oh,\" says she, \"the spirit has him, body an' bones!\" says she. \"Oh,\nholy St. Bridget--oh Mother iv Marcy--oh, Father O'Flaherty!\" says she,\nscreechin' murdher from out iv her bed.\n\nWell, Bill Malowney was not a minute rememberin' himself, an' so out wid\nhim quite an' aisy, an' through the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv\nthe house, it's what he kem to the door iv Father O'Flaherty's little\nroom, where he was jist wakenin' wid the noise iv the screechin' an'\nbattherin'; an', bedad, Bill makes no more about it, but he jumps, wid\none boult, clever an' clane into his Raverance's bed.\n\n\"What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard?\" says his Raverance. \"Is\nthat a venerable way,\" says he, \"to approach your clargy?\" says he.\n\n\"Hould your tongue,\" says Bill, \"an' I'll do ye no harum,\" says he.\n\n\"Who are you, ye schoundhrel iv the world?\" says his Raverance.\n\n\"Whisht!\" says he, \"I'm Bill Malowney,\" says he.\n\n\"You lie!\" says his Raverance--for he was frightened beyont all\nbearin'--an' he makes bud one jump out iv the bed at the wrong side,\nwhere there was only jist a little place in the wall for a press, an'\nhis Raverance could not as much as turn in it for the wealth iv\nkingdoms. \"You lie,\" says he; \"but for fear it's the thruth you're\ntellin',\" says he, \"here's at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints\ntogether!\" says he.\n\nAn' wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid a Latin prayer iv the\nstrongest description, an', as he said to himself afterwards, that was\niv a nature that id dhrive the divil himself up the chimley like a puff\niv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.\n\n\"Arra, what are ye sthrivin' to say,\" says Bill, says he; \"if ye don't\nhould your tongue,\" says he, \"wid your parly voo,\" says he, \"it's what\nI'll put my thumb on your windpipe,\" says he, \"an' Billy Malowney never\nwint back iv his word yet,\" says he.\n\n\"Thunder-an-owns,\" says his Raverance, says he--seein' the Latin took no\ninfect on him, at all at all, an' screechin' that you'd think he'd rise\nthe thatch up iv the house wid the fair fright--\"an' thundher and\nblazes, boys, will none of yes come here wid a candle, but lave your\nclargy to be choked by a spirit in the dark?\" says he.\n\nWell, be this time the sarvint boys and the rest iv them wor up an' half\ndressed, an' in they all run, one on top iv another, wid pitchforks and\nspades, thinkin' it was only what his Raverance slep' a dhrame iv the\nlike, by means of the punch he was afther takin' just before he rowl'd\nhimself into the bed. But, begorra, whin they seen it was raly Billy\nMalowney himself that was in it, it was only who'd be foremost out agin,\ntumblin' backways, one over another, and his Raverance roarin' an'\ncursin' them like mad for not waitin' for him.\n\nWell, my dear, it was betther than half an hour before Billy Malowney\ncould explain to them all how it raly was himself, for begorra they were\nall iv them persuadin' him that he was a spirit to that degree it's a\nwondher he did not give in to it, if it was only to put a stop to the\nargiment.\n\nWell, his Raverance tould the ould people then there was no use in\nsthrivin' agin the will iv Providence an' the vagaries iv love united;\nan' whin they kem to undherstand to a sartinty how Billy had a shillin'\na day for the rest iv his days, begorra they took rather a likin' to\nhim, and considhered at wanst how he must hav riz out of all his\nnansinse entirely, or His gracious Majesty id never have condescinded to\nshow him his countenance every day of his life on a silver shillin'.\n\nAn' so, begorra, they never stopt till it was all settled--an' there was\nnot sich a weddin' as that in the counthry sinst. It's more than forty\nyears ago, an' though I was no more nor a gossoon meself, I remimber it\nlike yesterday. Molly never looked so purty before, an' Billy Malowney\nwas plisant beyont all hearin', to that degree that half the girls in it\nwas fairly tarin' mad--only they would not let on--they had not him to\nthemselves in place iv her. An' begorra, I'd be afeared to tell ye,\nbecause you would not believe me, since that blessid man Father Mathew\nput an ent to all soorts of sociality, the Lord reward him, how many\ngallons iv pottieen whisky was dhrank upon that most solemn and tindher\noccaison.\n\nPat Hanlon, the piper, had a faver out iv it; an' Neddy Shawn Heigue,\nmountin' his horse the wrong way, broke his collar-bone, by the manes iv\nfallin' over his tail while he was feelin' for his head; an' Payther\nBrian, the horse-docther, I am tould, was never quite right in the head\never afther; an' ould Tim Donovan was singin' the \"Colleen Rue\" night\nand day for a full week; an', begorra the weddin' was only the\nfoundation iv fun, and the beginning iv divarsion, for there was not a\nyear for ten years afther, an' more, but brought round a christenin' as\nregular as the sasins revarted.\n\n\n\n\nA Pleasant Journey.\n\n_From the Confessions of Harry Lorrequer._\n\nBY CHARLES LEVER.\n\n\nI, Harry Lorrequer, was awaiting the mail coach anxiously in the Inn at\nNaas, when at last there was the sound of wheels, and the driver came\ninto the room, a spectacle of condensed moisture.\n\n\"Going on to-night, sir,\" said he, addressing me; \"severe weather, and\nno chance of its clearing--but, of course, you're inside.\"\n\n\"Why, there is very little doubt of that,\" said I. \"Are you nearly full\ninside?\"\n\n\"Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at\nthe office if he could not have the whole inside for himself, and when\nhe heard that one place had been taken--yours, I believe, sir,--he\nseemed like a scalded bear.\"\n\n\"You don't know his name, then?\"\n\n\"No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is\ntwo brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside:\nindeed, he never lets them from him, even for a second.\"\n\nHere the guard's horn sounded.\n\nAs I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated myself that\nI was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that\nraged without.\n\n\"Here's the step, sir,\" said the guard; \"get in, sir, two minutes late\nalready.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" said I, as I half fell over the legs of my\nunseen companion. \"May I request leave to pass you?\" While he made way\nfor me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down and said\nsomething to the guard, who, from his answer, had evidently been\nquestioned as to who I was.\n\n\"And how did he get here if he took his place in Dublin?\" asked the\nunknown.\n\n\"Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four,\" said the guard, as\nhe banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.\n\n\"A severe night, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"Mighty severe,\" briefly and half-crustily replied the unknown, in a\nstrong Cork accent.\n\n\"And a bad road, too, sir,\" said I.\n\n\"That's the reason I always go armed,\" said the unknown, clinking at the\nsame moment something like the barrel of a pistol.\n\nWondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt\ndisposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to\naddress myself to sleep as comfortably as I could.\n\n\"I'll just trouble ye to lean off that little parcel there, sir,\" said\nhe, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow one of the paper\npackages the guard had already alluded to.\n\nIn complying with this rather gruff demand one of my pocket pistols,\nwhich I carried in my breast-pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which\nhe immediately started, and asked, hurriedly: \"And are you armed, too?\"\n\n\"Why yes,\" said I laughingly; \"men of my trade seldom go without\nsomething of this kind.\"\n\n\"I was just thinking that same,\" said the traveller with a half sigh to\nhimself.\n\nI was just settling myself in my corner when I was startled by a very\nmelancholy groan.\n\n\"Are you ill, sir?\" said I, in a voice of some anxiety.\n\n\"You may say that,\" replied he, \"if you knew who you were talking to;\nalthough, maybe, you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till\nnow.\"\n\n\"Without having that pleasure even yet,\" said I, \"it would grieve me to\nthink you should be ill in the coach.\"\n\n\"Maybe it might. Did ye ever hear tell of Barney Doyle?\" said he.\n\n\"Not to my recollection.\"\n\n\"Then I'm Barney,\" said he, \"that's in all the newspapers in the\nmetropolis. I'm seventeen weeks in Jervis Street Hospital, and four in\nthe Lunatic, and the sorra bit better, after all. You must be a\nstranger, I'm thinking, or you'd know me now.\"\n\n\"Why, I do confess I've only been a few hours in Ireland for the last\nsix months.\"\n\n\"Aye, that's the reason; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with\nme if you knew who it was.\"\n\n\"Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you.\"\n\n\"It's pleasure ye call it; then there's no accountin' for tastes, as Dr.\nColles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney's thumb off.\"\n\n\"Bite a man's thumb off!\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said he, with a kind of fiendish animation, \"in one chop, I wish\nyou'd see how I scattered the consultation;--they didn't wait to ax for\na fee.\"\n\n\"A very pleasant vicinity,\" thought I. \"And may I ask, sir,\" said I, in\na very mild and soothing tone of voice--\"may I ask the reason for this\nsingular propensity of yours?\"\n\n\"There it is now, my dear,\" said he, laying his hand upon my knee\nfamiliarly, \"that's just the very thing they can't make out. Colles says\nit's all the cerebellum, ye see, that's inflamed and combusted, and some\nof the others think it's the spine; and more the muscles; but my real\nimpression is, not a bit they know about it at all.\"\n\n\"And have they no name for the malady?\" said I.\n\n\"Oh, sure enough they have a name for it.\"\n\n\"And may I ask----\"\n\n\"Why, I think you'd better not, because, ye see, maybe I might be\ntroublesome to ye in the night, though I'll not, if I can help it; and\nit might be uncomfortable to you to be here if I was to get one of the\nfits.\"\n\n\"One of the fits! Why, it's not possible, sir,\" said I, \"you would\ntravel in a public conveyance in the state you mention; your friends\nsurely would not permit it?\"\n\n\"Why, if they knew, perhaps,\" slily responded the interesting\ninvalid--\"if they knew, they might not exactly like it; but ye see, I\nescaped only last night, and there'll be a fine hubbub in the morning\nwhen they find I'm off; though I'm thinking Rooney's barking away by\nthis time.\"\n\n\"Rooney barking!--why, what does that mean?\"\n\n\"They always bark for a day or two after they're bit, if the infection\ncomes first from the dog.\"\n\n\"You are surely not speaking of _hydrophobia_?\" said I, my hair actually\nbristling with horror and consternation.\n\n\"Ain't I?\" replied he; \"maybe you've guessed it, though.\"\n\n\"And you have the malady on you at present?\" said I trembling for the\nanswer.\n\n\"This is the ninth day since I took to biting,\" said he, gravely.\n\n\"And with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in\ntravelling in a public coach, exposing others----\"\n\n\"You'd better not raise your voice that way. If I'm roused it'll be\nworse for ye, that's all.\"\n\n\"Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present delicate state, to\nundertake a journey?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said he, with a sigh, \"I've been longing to see the fox-hounds\nthrow off near Kilkenny; these three weeks I've been thinking of nothing\nelse; but I'm not sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I might be\ntroublesome.\"\n\n\"Well,\" thought I, \"I shall not select that morning for my debut in the\nfield.\"\n\n\"I hope, sir, there's no river or watercourse in this road; anything\nelse I can, I hope, control myself against; but water--running water\nparticularly--makes me troublesome.\"\n\nWell knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold\nperspiration settling on my forehead as I remembered that we must be\nwithin about ten or twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to\npass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from him,\nhowever. He now sank into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally\nby a low, muttering noise, as if speaking to himself.\n\nHow comfortable my present condition was I need scarcely remark, sitting\nvis-a-vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his possession, who\nhad already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief,\nand his inability to master it--all this in the dark, and in the narrow\nlimits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for defence, and\nno possibility of escape. If I could only reach the outside of the coach\nI would be happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and lightning\ncompared with the chance that awaited me here?--wet through I should\ninevitably be: but, then, I had not yet contracted the horror of\nmoisture my friend opposite laboured under. Ha! what is that?--is it\npossible he can be asleep;--is it really a snore? Ah, there it is\nagain;--he must be asleep, surely;--now, then, is my time, or never. I\nslowly let down the window of the coach, and, stretching forth my hand,\nturned the handle cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged my legs, and\nby a long, continuous effort of creeping, I withdrew myself from the\nseat, reached the step, when I muttered something very like thanksgiving\nto Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I now climbed up\nbeside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance was indeed\nconsiderable.\n\nWell, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than alive, I sat a mass of\nwet clothes, like a morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom\nof a schoolboy's ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my\ncoat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring matter, and\nseveral long, black streaks coursed down my \"wrinkled front,\" giving me\nvery much the air of an Indian warrior who had got the first priming of\nhis war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, were I only\nto judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the\ncoach drew up at Rice and Walsh's Hotel.\n\nCold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn more of my late\nagreeable companion was strong as ever within me. I could catch a\nglimpse of his back, and hurried after the great unknown into the coffee\nroom. By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, _a\nl'Anglais_, before the fire, and displayed to my wandering and stupefied\ngaze the pleasant features of Dr. Finucane.\n\n\"Why, Doctor--Doctor Finucane,\" cried I, \"is it possible? Were you,\nthen, really the inside in the mail last night?\"\n\n\"Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make bould to ask were you\nthe outside?\"\n\n\"Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your story about Barney\nDoyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Rooney's thumb--eh?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Finucane, \"this will be the death of me. And it was you that\nI drove outside in all the rain last night? Oh, it will kill Father\nMalachi outright with laughing when I tell him.\" And he burst out into a\nfit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his head with a poker.\n\n\"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of\nyours was contrived for my benefit and for the purpose of holding me up\nto the ridicule of your acquaintances?\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind,\" said Fin., drying his eyes, and endeavouring to\nlook sorry and sentimental. \"If I had only the least suspicion in life\nthat it was you, I'd not have had the hydrophobia at all--and, to tell\nyou the truth, you were not the only one frightened--you alarmed me,\ntoo.\"\n\n\"I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?\"\n\n\"Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these two packages of\nnotes down to my cousin Callaghan's bank in Cork--fifteen thousand\npounds, and when you came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all\nup with me. The guard just whispered in my ear that he saw you look at\nthe priming of your pistols before getting in. Well, when you got\nseated, the thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you\nwere, you would not like dying an unnatural death, more particularly if\nyou were an Irishman; and so I trumped up that long story about the\nhydrophobia, and the gentleman's thumb, and dear knows what besides;\nand, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my\nhead and face, for every time you stirred I said to myself--Now he'll do\nit. Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten\nshillings in the pound, to spare my life; and once, God forgive me, I\nthought it would not be a bad plan to shoot you by 'mistake,' do you\nperceive?\"\n\n\"Why, I'm very much obliged to you for your excessively kind intentions;\nbut, really, I feel you have done quite enough for me on the present\noccasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before I go,\npromise me two things--to dine with us to-day at the mess, and not to\nmention a syllable of what occurred last night: it tells, believe me,\nvery badly for both. So keep the secret; for if these fellows of ours\never get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army;--I'll never hear\nthe end of it!\"\n\n\"Never fear, my boy; trust me. I'll dine with you, and you're as safe as\na church mouse for anything I'll tell them; so now, you'd better change\nyour clothes, for I'm thinking it rained last night.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Battle of Aughrim.\n\n_From \"Anna Cosgrave,\" an unpublished Novel._\n\nBY WILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nMany of our readers will be surprised at what we are about to relate.\nNay, what is more, we fear they will not yield us credence, but impute\nit probably to our own invention; whereas we beg to assure them that it\nis strictly and literally true. The period of the scene we are about to\ndescribe may be placed in the year 1806. At the time neither party\nfeeling nor religious animosity had yet subsided after the ferment of\nthe '98 insurrection and the division between the Catholic and\nProtestant population was very strong and bitter. The rebellion, which\ncommenced in its first principles among the northern Presbyterians and\nother Protestant classes in a spirit of independence and a love of\nliberty, soon, in consequence of the influence of some bigots, assumed\nthe character of a civil war between the two religions,--the most\ninternecine description of war that ever devastated a country or\ndrenched it in blood.\n\nA usual amusement at the time was to reproduce the \"Battle of Aughrim,\"\nin some spacious barn, with a winnowing-cloth for the curtain. This\nplay, bound up with \"The Siege of Londonderry,\" was one of the\nreading-books in the hedge schools of that day, and circulated largely\namong the people of all religions: it had, indeed, a most extraordinary\ninfluence among the lower classes. \"The Battle of Aughrim,\" however,\nbecause it was written in heroic verse, became so popular that it was\nrehearsed at almost every Irish hearth, both Catholic and Protestant,\nin the north. The spirit it evoked was irresistible. The whole country\nbecame dramatic. To repeat it at the fireside in winter nights was\nnothing: the Orangemen should act it, and show to the whole world how\nthe field of Aughrim was so gloriously won. The consequence was that\nfrequent rehearsals took place. The largest and most spacious barns and\nkilns were fitted up, the night of representation was given out, and\ncrowds, even to suffocation, as they say, assembled to witness the\ncelebrated \"Battle of Aughrim.\"\n\nAt first, it was true, the Orangemen had it all to themselves. This,\nhowever, could not last. The Catholics felt that they were as capable of\npatronising the drama as the victors of Aughrim. A strong historic\nspirit awoke among them. They requested of the Orangemen to be allowed\nthe favour of representing the Catholic warriors of the disastrous\nfield, and, somewhat to their surprise, the request was immediately\ngranted. The Orangemen felt that there was something awkward and not\nunlike political apostasy in acting the part of Catholics in the play,\nunder any circumstances, no matter how dramatic. It was consequently\nagreed that the Orangemen should represent the officers of the great man\non whose name and title their system had been founded, and the Catholics\nshould represent their own generals and officers under the name of St.\nRuth, Sarsfield, and Colonel O'Neill. The first representation of this\nwell-known play took place in the town of Au----. During the few weeks\nbefore the great night nothing was heard but incessant repetitions and\nrehearsals of the play.\n\nThe fact of this enactment of the play by individuals so strongly\nopposed to each other both in religion and politics excited not only an\nunusual degree of curiosity, but some apprehension as to the result,\nespecially when such language as this was heard:--\n\n\"We licked them before,\" said the Orangemen, \"an' by japers, we'll lick\nthem again. Jack Tait acts General Jingle, an' he's the boy will show\nthem what chance a Papist has against a Prodestan!\"\n\n\"Well, they bate us at Aughrim,\" said the Catholics, \"but with Tam\nWhiskey at our head, we'll turn the tebles and lick them now.\"\n\nBoth parties on that night were armed with swords for the battle scene,\nwhich represented the result of the engagement. Unfortunately, when the\nscene came on, instead of the bloodless fiction of the drama they began\nto slash each other in reality, and had it not been for the interference\nof the audience there is no doubt that lives would have been lost. After\nthis, swords were interdicted and staves substituted. The consequence,\nas might have been expected, was that heads were broken on both sides,\nand a general fight between Protestant and Catholic portions of the\nactors and the audience ensued.\n\nIn the meanwhile the dramatic mania had become an epidemic. Its\nfascination carried overt opposition before it. A new system was\nadopted. The Orange party was to be represented by staunch Catholics,\nall probably Ribbonmen, and the Catholics by the rankest and most\nviolent Orangemen in the parish. This course was resorted to in order to\nprevent the serious quarrels with which the play generally closed. Such\nwas the state which the dramatic affairs of the parish had reached when\nthe occasion, a summer evening, arrived that had been appointed by the\nherculean manager, John Tait, for the exhibition of \"The Battle of\nAughrim,\" in a large and roomy barn of a wealthy farmer named Jack\nStuart, in the townland of Rark.\n\nHis house stood on a little swelling eminence beside which an old road\nran, and into which the little green before the door sloped. The road,\nbeing somewhat lower, passed close to his outhouses, which faced the\nroad, but in consequence of their positions a loft was necessary to\nconstitute the barn, so that it might be level with the haggard on the\nelevation. The entrance to the barn was by a door in one of the gables,\nwhilst the stable and cow-house, or byre as it was called, were beneath\nthe loft, and had their door open to the road. This accurate description\nwill be found necessary in order to understand what followed.\n\nIn preparing the barn for the entertainment, the principal embarrassment\nconsisted in want of seats.\n\nNecessity, however, is well-known to be the mother of invention; and in\nthis case that fact was established at the expense of honest Jack\nStuart. Five or six sacks of barley were stretched length-wise on that\nside of the wall which faced the road. Now, barley, although the juice\nof it makes many a head light, is admitted to be the heaviest of all\ngrain. On the opposite side, next the haggard, the seats consisted of\nchairs and forms, some of them borrowed from the neighbours. The curtain\n(i.e., the winnowing-cloth) was hung up at the south end, and\neverything, so far as preparation went, was very well managed. Of\ncourse, it was unnecessary to say that the entertainment was free to\nsuch as could find room, for which there was many an angry struggle.\n\nWe have said that from an apprehension that the heroes on both sides\nmight forget the fiction and resort to reality by actual fighting, it\nhad generally been arranged that the Catholic party should be\nrepresented by the Orangemen, and _vice versa_; and so it was in this\ninstance. The caste of the piece was as follows:--\n\n  Baron de Ginckel (General of the English forces)      Tom Whiskey.\n    (A perfect devil at the cudgels when sober, especially against an\n      Orangeman.)\n\n  Marquis de Ruvigny      Denis Shevlin.\n    (Ditto with Tom Whiskey as to fighting.)\n\n  General Talmash      Barney Broghan.\n    (A fighting Blacksmith.)\n\n  General Mackay      Dandy Delaney.\n    (At present on his keeping--but place of birth unknown.)\n\n  Colonels Herbert and Earles      Tom M'Roarkin, of Springstown, and\n                                     Paddy Rafferty, of Dernascrobe.\n    (Both awfully bellicose, and never properly at peace unless when in\n      a fight.)\n\nThe cast of the Catholic leaders was this:--\n\n  Monsieur St. Ruth (General of the Irish Forces)      Jacky Vengeance.\n    (An Orangeman who had lost a brother at the battle of Vinegar Hill,\n      hence the nickname of Vengeance.)\n\n  Sarsfield      Big Jack Tait.\n    (Master of an Orange Lodge.)\n\n    (We know not how far the belief in Sarsfield's immense size is true\n      to fact; but be this as it may, we have it from the tradition that\n      he was a man of prodigious stature, and Jack was six feet four in\n      height, and strong in proportion.)\n\n  General Dorrington       George Twin.\n    (Of Mallybarry, another man of prowess in party fights, and an\n      Orangeman.)\n\n  Colonel Talbot      Lick-Papish Nelson.\n\n  Colonel Gordon O'Neill      Fighting Grimes.\n\n  Sir Charles Godfrey (a young English gentleman of fortune, in love with\n    Colonel Talbot's Daughter, and volunteer in the Irish army)\n            Jemmy Lynch, the fighting tailor.\n    (He fought for his customers, whether Orange or Green, according as\n      they came in his way.)\n\n  Jemima (Colonel Talbot's daughter)      Grasey (Grace) Stuart.\n    (A bouncing virago, at least twelve stone weight.)\n\n  Lucinda (wife of Colonel Herbert)      Dolly Stuart.\n    (Her sister, much of the same proportions.)\n\n  Ghost      Cooney Mullowney.\n    (Of the Bohlies, a townland adjoining.)\n\nOn the chairs and forms, being the seats of honour, were placed the\nProtestant portion of the audience, because they were the most wealthy\nand consequently the most respectable, at least in the eyes of the\nworld--by which we mean the parish. On the barley-sacks were deposited\nthe \"Papishes,\" because they were then the poor and the downtrodden\npeople, so that they and \"the Prodestants\" sat on opposite sides of the\nbarn. There were no political watch-words, no \"three cheers\" for either\nthis man or that, owing to the simple reason that no individual present\nhad ever seen a theatre in his life. The only exception was that of an\nunfortunate flunkey, who had seen a play in Dublin, and shouted \"up\nwith the rag,\" for which, as it was supposed that he meant to turn the\nwhole thing into ridicule, he was kicked out by the Ghost, who, by the\nway, was one of the stoutest fellows among them, and would have been\nallotted to a higher part were it not for the vileness of his memory.\n\nAt length the play commenced, and went on with remarkable success. The\ntwo batches of heroes were in high feather--King William's party (to\nwit, Tom Whiskey and his friends) standing accidentally on that side of\nthe barn which was occupied by the barley-sacks and the Papishes, and\nthe Catholic generals ranged with the Orange audience on the opposite\nside. It was now the Ghost's cue to enter from behind the\nwinnowing-cloth, but before the apparition had time to appear, the\nprompter's attention was struck by a sudden sinking of the party on the\nsacks, which seemed rather unaccountable. Yet, as it did not appear to\nhave been felt by the parties themselves, who were too much wrapped up\nin the play, it excited neither notice nor alarm. At length the Ghost\ncame out, dressed in a white sheet his face rendered quite spectral by\nflour. Sir Charles Godfrey, alias Jemmy Lynch, the tailor, had just\nconcluded the following words, addressed to the Ghost himself, who in\nlife it appeared had been his father:--\n\n                        \"Oh, I'll sacrifice\n    A thousand Romish sowls who, shocked with woe,\n    Shall, bound in shackles, fill the shades below.\"\n  Ghost.--\"Be not so rash, wild youth----\"\n\nHe had scarcely uttered the words when a noise like the \"crack of doom\"\nwas heard: one-half of the barn-floor had disappeared! The Ghost made a\nstep to approach Sir Charles, his son, when the last object we saw was\nhis heels--his legs dressed in blue woollen stockings and his sturdy\nhinder parts cased in strong corduroys, in the act of disappearing in\nthe abyss beneath. Down he and the others went, and were lodged in the\ncow-house below amid the warm manure.\n\nThe consternation, the alarm, the fright and terror among the safe and\nProtestant side of the audience, could not be described. But the\ndisaster proved to be one of the most harmless for its nature that ever\noccurred, for it was only destructive to property. Not a single injury\nwas sustained with the exception of that which befell the Ghost, who had\nhis arm dislocated at the elbow. The accident now resumed a religious\nhue. The Catholics charged the others with the concoction of a\nProtestant plot, by putting them together on what they called the rotten\nside of the house. The wrangle became high and abusive, and was fast\nhastening into polemical theology, when the _dramatis personae_ offered\nto settle it in a peaceable way, by fighting out the battle on the\ngreen. It was the scene of terrible and strong confusion, so much so\nthat all we can glean from our recollection is the image of a desperate\npersonal conflict between the actors whose orange and green ribbons were\nsoon flung off as false emblems of the principles which they had adopted\nonly for the sake of ending the play in a peaceable manner.\n\n\n\n\nThe Quare Gander.\n\n_From \"The Purcell Papers.\"_\n\nBY JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU\n\n\nTerence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do--an' he rinted the\nbiggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an' bein' mighty cute an' a\nsevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest;\nbut, unluckily, he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv\ndaughters, an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin' to make\nup fortunes for the whole of them--an' there wasn't a conthrivance iv\nany sort of description for makin' money out iv the farm but he was up\nto. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world, he\nalways kep' a power iv turkies, and all soarts iv poultry; an' he was\nout iv all raison partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that\nsame--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a\nfine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizeable eggs--an' when\nthey are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to\nthe gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see,--let alone that a goose is the\nmost manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse iv time,\nthat one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin' to Terence, an' sorra a\nplace he could go serenadin' about the farm, or lookin' afther the men,\nbut the gandher id be at his heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs,\nand lookin' up in his face just like any other Christian id do; and the\nlikes iv it was never seen, Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.\nAn' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it to\nbe plucked any more; an' kept it from that time out for love an'\naffection; just all as one like one iv his children. But happiness in\nperfection never lasts long; an' the neighbours begin'd to suspect the\nnathur and intentions iv the gandher; an' some iv them said it was the\ndivil, and more iv them that it was a fairy. Well Terence could not but\nhear something of what was sayin', and you may be sure he was not\naltogether aisy in his mind about it, an' from one day to another he was\ngettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for\nJer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an' it's he was the ilegant\nhand at the business, and sorra a sperit id say a crass word to him, no\nmore nor a priest; an' moreover, he was very great wid ould Terence\nMooney, this man's father that was. So without more about it, he was\nsent for; an' sure enough, not long he was about it, for he kem back\nthat very evening along wid the boy that was sint for him; an' as soon\nas he was there, an' tuk his supper, an' was done talkin' for a while,\nhe bigined, of coorse, to look into the gandher. Well, he turned it this\nway an' that way, to the right and to the left, an' straight-ways, an'\nupside down, an' when he was tired handlin' it, says he to Terence\nMooney:\n\n\"Terence,\" says he, \"you must remove the bird into the next room,\" says\nhe, \"an' put a petticoat,\" says he, \"or any other convaynience round his\nhead,\" says he.\n\n\"An' why so?\" says Terence.\n\n\"Becase,\" says Jer, says he.\n\n\"Becase what?\" says Terence.\n\n\"Becase,\" says Jer, \"if it isn't done--you'll never be aisy agin,\" says\nhe, \"or pusilanimous in your mind,\" says he; \"so ax no more questions,\nbut do my biddin,\" says he.\n\n\"Well,\" says Terence, \"have your own way,\" says he.\n\nAn' wid that he tuk the ould gandher, and giv' it to one iv the\ngossoons.\n\n\"An' take care,\" says he, \"don't smother the crathur,\" says he.\n\nWell, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, \"Do you\nknow what that ould gandher is, Terence Mooney?\"\n\n\"Sorra a taste,\" says Terence.\n\n\"Well, then,\" says Jer, \"the gandher is your own father,\" says he.\n\n\"It's jokin' you are,\" says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; \"how can an\nould gandher be my father?\" says he.\n\n\"I'm not funnin' you at all,\" says Jer, \"it's thrue what I tell\nyou--it's your father's wandherin' sowl,\" says he, \"that's naturally tuk\npissession iv the ould gandher's body,\" says he; \"I know him many ways,\nand I wondher,\" says he, \"you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,\"\nsays he.\n\n\"Oh!\" says Terence, \"what will I ever do, at all, at all,\" says he;\n\"it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,\"\nsays he.\n\n\"That can't be helped now,\" says Jer, \"it was a sevare act, surely,\"\nsays he, \"but it's too late to lamint for it now,\" says he; \"the only\nway to prevint what's past,\" says he, \"is to put a stop to it before it\nhappens,\" says he.\n\n\"Thrue for you,\" says Terence, \"but how did you come to the knowledge iv\nmy father's sowl,\" says he, \"bein' in the ould gandher?\" says he.\n\n\"If I tould you,\" says Jer, \"you would not understand me,\" says he,\n\"without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy,\" says he; \"so ax me no\nquestions,\" says he, \"an I'll tell you no lies; but b'lieve me in this\nmuch,\" says he, \"it's your father that's in it,\" says he, \"an' if I\ndon't make him spake to-morrow mornin',\" says he, \"I'll give you lave to\ncall me a fool,\" says he.\n\n\"Say no more,\" says Terence, \"that settles the business,\" says he; \"an'\noh! is it not a quare thing,\" says he, \"for a dacent, respictable man,\"\nsays he, \"to be walkin' about the counthry in the shape iv an ould\ngandher,\" says he; \"and, oh, murdher, murdher! is it not often I plucked\nhim,\" says he, \"an' tundher and turf, might not I have ate him,\" says\nhe; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin' your\nprisince, an' was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare notions iv it.\n\nWell, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry, to him, quite an\naisy--\"Terence,\" says he, \"don't be aggravatin' yourself,\" says he, \"for\nI have a plan composed that'll make him spake out,\" says he, \"an' tell\nwhat it is in the world he's wantin',\" says he; \"an' mind an' don't be\ncomin' in wid your gosther an' to say agin anything I tell you,\" says\nhe, \"but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,\" says he,\n\"how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market,\" says he;\n\"an' if he don't spake to-night,\" says he, \"or gother himself out iv the\nplace,\" says he, \"put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the\ncart,\" says he, \"straight to Tipperary, to be sould for aitin',\" says\nhe, \"along wid the two gossoons,\" says he; \"an' my name isn't Jer\nGarvan,\" says he, \"if he doesn't spake out before he's half way,\" says\nhe; \"an' mind,\" says he, \"as soon as ever he says the first word,\" says\nhe, \"that very minute bring him off to Father Crotty,\" says he, \"an' if\nhis Raverance doesn't make him ratire,\" says he, \"into the flames of\nPurgathory,\" says he, \"there's no vartue in my charms,\" says he.\n\nWell, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they all\nbegined to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for roastin'\nin Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled; but not a\nnotice the gandher tuk, no more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord\nLiftenant; an' Terence desired the boy to get ready the _kish_ for the\npoulthry \"an' to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,\" says he, \"for\nit's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this world,\"\nsays he.\n\nWell, as the night was getting late, Terence was growin' mighty\nsorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what\nwas going to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs war fairly\nin bed, he brought out some illigant potteen, an' himself and Jer Garvan\nsot down to it, an' the more anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and\nhimself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them: it wasn't an\nimparial though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted antil\nshort since; but sorra a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint\ncould hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father Mathew\nbegin'd to give the pledge, an' wid the blessin' iv timperance to\ndeginerate Ireland. An' sure I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I\nam iv that same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's\nmighty dhry.\n\nWell, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop,\n\"for enough is as good as a faste,\" says he, \"an' I pity the vagabone,\"\nsays he, \"that is not able to conthroul his liquor,\" says he, \"an' to\nkeep constantly inside iv a pint measure,\" says he, an' wid that he\nwished Jer Garvan a good night, an' walked out iv the room. But he wint\nout the wrong door, being a trifle hearty in himself, an' not rightly\nknowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or both iv\nthem at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where did he\nthrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had settled\nout ready for the gandher in the mornin'; an', sure enough, he sunk down\nsnug an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid the turnin' an'\nroulin' about in the night, not a bit iv him but was covered up as snug\nas a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.\n\nSo wid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the\nsperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould\ngandher, an' put him in the hamper and clapped a good whisp iv hay on\nthe top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, an med\nthe sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the\nhamper up on the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was\nmakin' the ould burd so surprisin' heavy.\n\nWell, they wint along on the road towards Tipperary, wishin' every\nminute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall\nin with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company\nbut the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same. But,\nalthough they wor shakin' in their skins in dhread iv the ould bird\nbeginin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let on to one\nanother, bud kep' singin' and whistlin', like mad to keep the dhread out\niv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the road betther nor half an\nhour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was\none rut three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful\nchuck goin' through it, that wakened Terence within the basket.\n\n\"Oh!\" says he, \"my bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what are ye doin' wid\nme?\"\n\n\"Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?\" says the boy that was next to the\ncar, turnin' as white as the top iv a musharoon; \"did ye hear anything\nquare soundin' out iv the hamper?\" says he.\n\n\"No, nor you,\" says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself, \"it's the ould\ngandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin',\" says he.\n\n\"Where have ye put me into,\" says Terence, inside; \"let me out,\" says\nhe, \"or I'll be smothered this minute,\" says he.\n\n\"There's no use in purtending,\" says the boy; \"the gandher's spakin',\nglory be to God!\" says he.\n\n\"Let me out, you murdherers,\" says Terence.\n\n\"In the name iv all the holy saints,\" says Thady, \"hould yer tongue, you\nunnatheral gandher,\" says he.\n\n\"Who's that, that dar call me nicknames,\" says Terence inside, roaring\nwid the fair passion; \"let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,\" says he,\n\"or by this crass, I'll stretch ye,\" says he.\n\n\"Who are ye?\" says Thady.\n\n\"Who would I be but Terence Mooney,\" says he, \"It's myself that's in it,\nyou unmerciful bliggards,\" says he; \"let me out, or I'll get out in\nspite iv yez,\" says he, \"an' I'll wallop yez in arnest,\" says he.\n\n\"It's ould Terence, sure enough,\" says Thady; \"isn't it cute the fairy\ndocthor found him out,\" says he.\n\n\"I'm on the p'int iv suffication,\" says Terence; \"let me out, I tell\nye, an' wait till I get at ye,\" says he, \"for sorra a bone in your body\nbut I'll powdher,\" says he; an' wid that he bigined kickin' and flingin'\nin the hamper, and drivin' his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a\nwondher he did not knock it to pieces. Well, as the boys seen that, they\nskelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the\npriest's house, through the ruts, an' over the stones; an' you'd see the\nhamper fairly flyin' three feet in the air with the joultin'; so it was\nsmall wondher, by the time they got to his Raverance's door, the breath\nwas fairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin' speechless\nin the bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his Raverance kem down, they up\nan' they tould him all that happened, an' how they put the gandher into\nthe hamper, an' how he begined to spake, an' how he confissed that he\nwas ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how to\nget rid iv the sperit for good an' all. So says his Raverance, says he:\n\n\"I'll take my booke,\" says he, \"an' I'll read some rale sthrong holy\nbits out iv it,\" says he, \"an' do you get a rope and put it round the\nhamper,\" says he, \"an' let it swing over the runnin' wather at the\nbridge,\" says he, \"an' it's no matther if I don't make the sperit come\nout iv it,\" says he.\n\nWell, wid that, the priest got his horse, an' tuk his booke in undher\nhis arum, an' the boys follied his Raverance, ladin' the horse, and\nTerence houldin' his whisht, for he seen it was no use spakin', an' he\nwas afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to another gallop\nan' finish him intirely. Well, as soon as they wur all come to the\nbridge the boys tuk the rope they had with them, an' med it fast to the\ntop iv the hamper an' swung it fairly over the bridge; lettin' it hang\nin the air about twelve feet out iv the wather; and his Raverance rode\ndown to the bank iv the river, close by, an' begined to read mighty loud\nand bould intirely.\n\nAn' when he was goin' on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv\nthe hamper kem out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the\nwather, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both wint to the\nbottom wid a souse you'd hear half-a-mile off; an' before they had time\nto rise agin, his Raverance, wid a fair astonishment, giv his horse one\ndig iv the spurs, an' before he knew where he was, in he went, horse and\nall, a-top iv them, an' down to the bottom. Up they all kem agin\ntogether, gaspin' an puffin', an' off down the current with them like\nshot, in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the shallow\nwather. The ould gandher was the first out, an' the priest and Terence\nkem next, pantin' an' blowin' an' more than half dhrounded: an' his\nRaverance was so freckened wid the dhroundin' he got, and wid the sight\niv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn't the better iv it for a\nmonth. An' as soon as Terence could spake, he said he'd have the life iv\nthe two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will; an' as\nsoon as he got quieter they all endeavoured to explain it, but Terence\nconsayved he went raly to bed the night before, an' his Raverance said\nit was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched anyone laughin' at the\naccident, he'd lay the horsewhip across their shoulders; an' Terence\ngrew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died\nin a wondherful ould age, lavin' the gandher afther him an' a large\nfamily iv childer; an' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence\nMooney's lineal legitimate postariors.\n\n\n\n\nThe Thrush and the Blackbird.\n\nBY CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM (1828-1882).\n\n\nA stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh, as she tripped along the mountain\nroad, would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might\nbe inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held her\nhead rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with a toss\nwhich had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up a short\nboreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith's wife, who\nhad been very useful to her for some time before. The smith's habits\nwere so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the pawn\noffice in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself of\nNancy Ryan's experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she\npossessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer's wife might feel\nproud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was\nonly worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.\n\nLoud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped\nfor a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the\nsmith's house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn\nGow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such\nforce upon the part of Shawn Gow's person which happened to be the most\nelevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an\nexclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and,\nstriking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the\ncorner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and saw\nSally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the ludicrous\novercame him, and, turning his face to the wall, he relieved his\nfeelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent,\ninward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any\nnotion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to\nbe \"kilt\" occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful\ngroan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the\nbroad of his back.\n\nSally's sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented her from giving a\nthought to her husband. Great was her astonishment then when Nancy flew\nat her like a wild cat. \"You kilt my husband,\" she screamed. Sally\nretreated backwards, defending herself as best she could with the stool.\n\"For God's sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn't he have destroyed you on'y\nfor me?\" But Nancy followed up the attack like a fury. \"There's nothing\nthe matter with him,\" Sally cried out, on finding herself literally\ndriven to the wall. \"What harm could a little touch of a stool on the\nback do the big brute?\"\n\nNancy's feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for she\nturned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up his\nhead. \"_Och! Shawn, avourneen, machree_,\" she exclaimed, \"won't you\nspake to me?\" Shawn condescended to open his eyes. \"Sally,\" she\ncontinued, \"he's comin' to--glory be to God! Hurry over and hould up his\nhead while I'm runnin' for somethin' to rewive him. Or stay, bring me\nthe boulster.\"\n\nThe bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient's head;\nthen, snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared.\nShe was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with\nhalf-a-pint of whiskey in a bottle.\n\n\"Take a taste av this, Shawn, an' 'twill warm your heart.\"\n\nShawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.\n\n\"Nancy,\" says he, \"I believe, afther all, you're fond o' me.\"\n\n\"Wisha, Shawn, achora, what else'd I be but fond av you?\"\n\n\"I thought, Nancy, you couldn't care for a divil that thrated you so\nbad.\"\n\n\"Och, Shawn, Shawn, don't talk that way to me. Sure, I thought my heart\nwas broke when I see you sthretched there 'idout a stir in you.\"\n\n\"An' you left your shawl in pledge again to get this for me?\"\n\n\"To be sure I did; an' a good right I had; an' sorry I'd be to see you\nin want of a dhrop of nourishment.\"\n\n\"I was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.\"\n\nAnd Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which hatred\nand fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his wife.\n\n\"Will you give in it was a blackbird?\" he said.\n\n\"A blackbird,\" she repeated, irresolutely.\n\n\"Yes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?\"\n\nShawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.\n\n\"Well,\" said his wife, after some hesitation, \"'twas a blackbird. Will\nthat plase you?\"\n\n\"An' you'll never say 'twas a thrish agin?\"\n\n\"Never. An' sure, on'y for the speckles on the breast, I'd never say\n'twas a thrish; but sure, you ought to know betther than\nme--an'--an'--'twas a blackbird,\" she exclaimed, with a desperate\neffort.\n\nShawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his\nstrength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one blaze\nof light.\n\n\"The Divil was in id,\" says the smith, smiling grimly; \"an' there he's\noff in a flash of fire. I'm done wid him, any way.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,\" said Sally.\n\n\"I wish you the same, Sally, an' a great many av 'em. I suppose you're\ngoin' to first Mass? Shawn and me'll wait for second.\"\n\nSally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her way\nto the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were also\ngoing to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty surveyed\nSally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.\n\n\"Look at her, Tim,\" she exclaimed, \"an' isn't she as young an' as hearty\nas ever? Bad cess to me but you're the same Sally that danced wid the\nmaster at my weddin', next Thursday fortnight'll be eleven years.\"\n\n\"Begob, you're a great woman,\" says Tim.\n\nSally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had\nwitnessed at the blacksmith's.\n\n\"But, Tim,\" said she, after finishing the story, \"how did the dispute\nabout the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I forget\nit.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you that, then,\" said Tim. \"Begob, ay,\" he exclaimed\nabruptly, after thinking for a moment; \"'twas this day seven years, for\nall the world--the year o' the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his\nhaggard the evenin' afore, and when he went out in the mornin' he had a\nhen blackbird. He put the _goulogue_[1] on her nick, and tuk her in his\nhand; and wud' one _smulluck_ av his finger knocked the life out av her;\nhe walked in an' threw the blackbird on the table.\n\n\"'Oh, Shawn,' siz Nancy, 'you're afther ketchin' a fine thrish.' Nancy\ntuk the bird in her hand an' began rubbin' the feathers on her breast.\n'A fine thrish,' siz Nancy.\n\n\"''Tisn't a thrish, but a blackbird,' siz Shawn.\n\n\"'Wisha, in throth, Shawn,' siz Nancy, ''tis a thrish; do you want to\ntake the sight o' my eyes from me?'\n\n\"'I tell you 'tis a blackbird,\" siz he.\n\n\"'Indeed, then, it isn't, but a thrish,' siz she.\n\n\"Anyway, one word borrowed another, an' the end av it was, Shawn flailed\nat her an' gev her the father av a batin'.\n\n\"The Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an' looked out.\n\n\"'God be wud this day twelve months,' siz she, 'do you remimber the fine\nthrish you caught in the crib?'\n\n\"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.\n\n\"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was a quare blackbird.'\n\n\"'Whisht, now, Nancy, 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.\n\n\"'Och,' siz Nancy, beginnin' to laugh, 'that was the quare blackbird.'\n\n\"Wud that, one word borrowed another, an' Shawn stood up an' gev her the\nfather av a batin'.\n\n\"The third Christmas Day kem, an' they wor in the best o' good humour\nafther the tay, an' Shawn, puttin' on his ridin'-coat to go to Mass.\n\n\"'Well, Shawn,' siz Nancy, I'm thinkin' av what an unhappy Christmas\nmornin' we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you\ncaught in the crib, bad cess to her.'\n\n\"''Twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.\n\n\"'Wisha, good luck to you, an' don't be talkin' foolish,' siz Nancy;\n'an' you're betther not get into a passion agin, on account av an ould\nthrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,' siz Nancy.\n\n\"'I tell you 'twas a blackbird,' siz Shawn.\n\n\"'An' I tell you 'twas a thrish,' siz Nancy.\n\n\"'Wud that, Shawn took a _bunnaun_ he had _saisonin'_ in the chimley,\nand whaled at Nancy, an' gev her the father av a batin'. An' every\nChristmas morning from that day to this 'twas the same story, for as\nsure as the sun, Nancy'd draw down the thrish. But do you tell me,\nSally, she's afther givin' in it was a blackbird?\"\n\n\"She is,\" replied Sally.\n\n\"Begob,\" said Tim Croak, after a minute's serious reflection, \"it ought\nto be put in the papers. I never h'ard afore av a wrong notion bein' got\nout av a woman's head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it took\nhim seven years to do id.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n  [1] A forked stick\n\n\n\n\nTheir Last Race.\n\n_From \"At the Rising of the Moon.\"_\n\nBY FRANK MATHEW (1865--).\n\nI.--THE FACTION FIGHT.\n\n\nIn the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a\ntriangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the corner of it towards\nLoch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a\nwreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster of\nwalls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before\nthe Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no\nplace more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to\nbe at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took his\nkippeen--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and went out to do\nbattle with a good heart.\n\nLong Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight\nthan Mat smashing his way through a forest of kippeens, with his enemies\nstaggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound\nthan his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting,\n\"Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!\" Where his kippeen flickered in the\nair his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for\nit was an honour to take a broken head from him.\n\nBut Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed\nwith men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the\nblack lakes, or in tiny, ragged villages under the shadow of the\nmountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles,\nby river or sea-shore or mountain built, was emptied. The fame of the\nAughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that\nevery one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black\nMichael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the valley, just where\nthe road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it)\nmeets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black\nMichael, \"Meehul Dhu,\" was long Mat's rival; though smaller, he was near\nas deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was\nsaid he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his\nheels in doing it.\n\nThe business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time\nfor pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the\nbattle. Why, you could scarcely have moved in Callanan's Field out\nbeyond the churchyard at the end of the village, it was so packed with\nmen--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard\nyourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their\ncaubeens, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--\"Hurroo for Carrala!\"\n\"Whoop for Aughavanna!\"\n\nAround them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on\nbreathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half way down\nthe dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.\n\nAs the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down\nthe village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last\nhouses, past the churchyard and into Callanan's Field; he looked every\ninch a king; his kippeen was ready, his frieze coat was off, with his\nleft hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with\na great voice he shouted--in Irish--\"Where's the Carrala man that dare\ntouch my coat? Where's the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at\nit?\"\n\nIn a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him,\nand rushed forward, with a mighty cry \"Where's the face of a trembling\nAughavanna man?\" In a moment their kippeens clashed; in another,\nhundreds of kippeens crashed together, and the grandest fight ever\nfought in Connemara raged over Callanan's Field. After the first roar of\ndefiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout\nof triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the\nmusic of the kippeens clashing and clicking on one another, or striking\nhome with a thud.\n\nNever was Long Mat nobler; he rushed ravaging through the enemy,\nshattering their ranks and their heads; no man could withstand him; Red\nCallanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out\nof Dan O'Shaughran, of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy\nbanks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy,\nthat lived on the Devil's Mother Mountain--never again did Larry set the\ntwo eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael\nJoyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head--who would\nhave dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull.\n\nFor near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.\nAt first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for\ngranted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men\nfound themselves outnumbered and driven back to the village, a great\nfear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not outnumber\nthem if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they\nwere forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly\na man of them could stand.\n\nAnd when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking\nthemselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was\nprone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the\nmud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as\nhe would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under\nthe hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or\npolitics) revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his\ndeath from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will,\nbut only gentle regret for the mishap.\n\n\nII. THEIR LAST RACE.\n\nWhen the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying\nday came. All the morning long Mat Murnane's coffin lay on four chairs\nby his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women keening round\nit. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do\nhim honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the valley from the\nchapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough\nhearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of peasants\nbehind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly towards\nCarrala. The women were crying bitterly, keening like an Atlantic gale;\nthe men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke\nsadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see\nhis funeral.\n\nThe Joyces, too, had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell,\nand now Black Michael's funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along\nthe other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the\nkeening of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they\nconverge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the\nother would be there first.\n\nThere is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go\nquicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to\nbreak into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were\ngalloping, and till everyone raced at full speed, and the rival parties\nbroke into a wild shout of \"Aughavanna abu!\" \"Meehul Dhu for ever!\"\n\nFor the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were\nrivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was\nthere such whooping and shouting. Where the roads met in Callanan's\nField the horses were abreast; neck and neck they dashed across the\ntrampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the\ntwo dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck\nthey reached the churchyard, and the horses jammed in the gate. Behind\nthem the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if\nthey were mad.\n\nBut the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their\nlong coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race.\nThe shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that\nit has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another's hands;\nthey hugged one another.\n\n\"Himself would be proud,\" they cried, \"if he hadn't been dead!\"\n\n\n\n\nThe First Lord Liftinant.\n\nBY WILLIAM PERCY FRENCH (1854--).\n\n(AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)\n\n\n\"Essex,\" said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in\nthe back parlour of Buckingham Palace, \"Essex, me haro, I've got a job\nthat I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?\"\n\n\"I'm no great fist at jografy,\" says his lordship, \"but I know the place\nyou mane. Population, three millions; exports, emigrants.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says the Queen, \"I've been reading the Dublin Evening Mail and\nthe Telegraft for some time back, and sorra one o' me can get at the\ntrooth o' how things is goin', for the leadin' articles is as\nconthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.\"\n\n\"That's the way wid papers all the world over,\" says Essex; \"Columbus\ntold me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin' and\nconthradictin' each other at every turn--it's the way they make their\nlivin'. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.\"\n\n\"It's addled they have me betune them,\" says the Queen. \"Not a know I\nknow what's goin' on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to\nIreland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.\"\n\n\"Is it me?\" says Essex, leppin' up off his chair. \"It's not in airnest\nye are, ould lady. Sure it's the hoight of the London saison. Every\none's in town, and Shake's new fairy piece, 'The Midsummer's Night\nMare,' billed for next week.\"\n\n\"You'll go when ye're tould,\" says the Queen, fixin' him with her eye,\n\"if you know which side yer bread's buttered on. See here, now,\" says\nshe, seein' him chokin' wid vexation and a slice o' corned beef, \"you\nought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you'll be at the top o'\nthe walk over there as vice-regent representin' me.\"\n\n\"I ought to have a title or two,\" says Essex, pluckin' up a bit. \"His\nGloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o' that.\"\n\n\"How would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?\"\nsays Elizabeth.\n\n\"First class,\" cries Essex. \"Couldn't be betther; it doesn't mean much,\nbut it's allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall\ndoor.\"\n\nWell, boys, it didn't take him long to pack his clothes and start away\nfor the Island o' Saints. It took him a good while to get there, though,\nthrough not knowin' the road; but by means of a pocket compass and a tip\nto the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey Island. Going\nup to an ould man who was sittin' on a rock, he took off his hat, and,\nsays he--\n\n\"That's great weather we're havin'?\"\n\n\"Good enough for the times that's in it,\" says the ould man, cockin' one\neye at him.\n\n\"Any divarshun' goin on?\" says Essex.\n\n\"You're a sthranger in these parts, I'm thinkin',\" says the ould man,\n\"or you'd know this was a 'band night' in Dalkey.\"\n\n\"I wasn't aware of it,\" says Essex; \"the fact is,\" says he, \"I only\nlanded from England just this minute.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" says the ould man, bitterly, \"it's little they know about us over\nthere. I'll hould you,\" says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice,\n\"that the Queen herself doesn't know there is to be fireworks in the\nSorrento Gardens this night.\" Well, when Essex heard that, he\ndisrembered entirely he was sent over to Ireland to put down rows and\nructions, and away wid him to see the fun and flirt wid all the pretty\ngirls he could find. And he found plenty of them--thick as bees they\nwor, and each one as beautiful as the day and the morra. He wrote two\nletters home next day--one to Queen Elizabeth and the other to Lord\nMountaigle, a playboy like himself. I'll read you the one to the Queen\nfirst:--\n\n    \"Dame Sthreet, April 16th, 1599.\n\n  \"Fair Enchantress,--I wish I was back in London, baskin' in your sweet\n  smiles and listenin' to your melodious voice once more. I got the\n  consignment of men and the post-office order all right. I was out all\n  the mornin' lookin' for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O'Neill\n  or his men can I find. A policeman at the corner o' Nassau Street told\n  me they wor hidin' in Wicklow. So I am makin' up a party to explore\n  the Dargle on Easter Monda'. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and\n  every minute o' the day I do be wishin' it was your good-lookin' self\n  I was gazin' at instead o' these ignorant scarecrows.\n\n  \"Hopin' soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin' subject\n\n    Essex.\"\n\n  \"P.S.--I hear Hugh O'Neill was seen on the top o' the Donnybrook tram\n  yesterday mornin'. If I have any luck the head'll be off him before\n  you get this.\n\n    E.\"\n\nThe other letter read this way:--\n\n  \"Dear Monty--This is a great place, all out. Come over here if you\n  want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and the girls--oh! don't\n  be talkin'--'pon me secret honour you'll see more loveliness at a tay\n  and a supper ball in Rathmines than there is in the whole of England.\n  Tell Ned Spenser to send me a love-song to sing to a young girl who\n  seems to be taken wid my appearance. Her name's Mary, and she lives in\n  Dunlary, so he oughtn't to find it hard. I hear Hugh O'Neill's a\n  terror, and hits a powerful welt, especially when you're not lookin'.\n  If he tries any of his games on wid me, I'll give him in charge. No\n  brawlin' for your's truly\n\n    Essex.\"\n\nWell, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin,\npurtendin' to be very busy subjugatin' the country, but all the time\nonly losin' his time and money widout doin' a hand's turn, and doin' his\nbest to avoid a ruction with \"Fighting Hugh.\" If a messenger came to\ntell him that O'Neill was camping out on the North Bull, Essex would up\nstick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin' the forty-foot hole,\nhe'd write off to Elizabeth, saying that, \"owing to their suparior\nknowledge of the country the dastard foe had once more eluded him.\"\n\nThe Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always\nended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish\nup his business and not be makin' a fool of himself.\n\n\"Oh, that's the talk, is it,\" says Essex; \"very well, me ould sauce-box\"\n(that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him the clip on the\near for turnin' his back on her), \"very well me ould sauce-box,\" says\nhe, \"I'll write off to O'Neill this very minute, and tell him to send in\nhis lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.\"\n\nWell, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one--the terms being--\n\n  1. Hugh O'Neill to be King of Great Britain.\n\n  2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of\n  England.\n\n  3. The O'Neill family to be supported by Government, with free passes\n  to all theatres and places of entertainment.\n\n  4. The London Markets to buy only from Irish dealers.\n\n  5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelopes, directed to H. O'Neill,\n  and marked \"private.\" Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O'Neill.\n  Terms cash.\n\nWell, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he'd have\nseen it was of too graspin' a nature to pass with any sort of a\nrespectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in\nthe pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for\nEngland.\n\n\"Is the Queen widin?\" says he to the butler, when he opened the door o'\nthe palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin'\nall night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was not for littin'\nhim in at the first go off, so says he, very grand; \"Her Majesty is\nabove stairs and can't be seen till she's had her breakwhist.\"\n\n\"Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an interview,\" says\nEssex.\n\n\"Oh, beg pardon, me lord,\" says the butler, steppin' to one side, \"I\ndidn't know 'twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen's in\nthe dhrawin'-room.\"\n\nWell, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin'-room wid him, muddy\nboots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.\n\n\"Where's your misses?\" says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was\ndustin' the chimbley-piece.\n\n\"She's not out of her bed yet,\" said the maid, with a toss of her head;\n\"but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I'll see\"--but\nbefore she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin' at\nthe Queen's bedroom door.\n\n\"Is that the hot wather?\" says the Queen.\n\n\"No, it's me,--Essex. Can you see me?\"\n\n\"Faith, I can't,\" says the Queen. \"Hould on till I draw the\nbed-curtains. Come in now,\" says she, \"and say your say, for I can't\nhave you stoppin' long--you young Lutharian.\"\n\n\"Bedad, yer Majesty,\" says Essex, droppin' on his knees before her (the\ndelutherer he was), \"small blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you have\na face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.\"\n\n\"Hould your tongue, you young reprobate,\" says the Queen, blushin' up to\nher curl-papers wid delight, \"and tell me what improvements you med in\nIreland.\"\n\n\"Faith, I taught manners to O'Neill,\" cries Essex.\n\n\"He had a bad masther then,\" says Elizabeth, lookin' at his dirty boots;\n\"couldn't you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets, young man?\"\n\n\"Oh, now,\" says Essex, \"is it wastin' me time shufflin' about on a mat\nyou'd have me, when I might be gazin' on the loveliest faymale the world\never saw.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says the Queen, \"I'll forgive you this time, as you've been so\nlong away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster ain't oilcloth.\nTell me,\" says she, \"is Westland Row Station finished yet?\"\n\n\"There's a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,\" says Essex.\n\n\"What about the Loop Line?\" says she.\n\n\"Oh, they're gettin' on with that,\" says he, \"only some people think the\ngirders a disfigurement to the city.\"\n\n\"Is there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?\"\n\n\"There's talk about it, but that's all,\" says Essex; \"'twould be an\nodious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they'll see to it\nsoon.\"\n\n\"Sorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin' me men and me money.\nLet's have a look at that treaty I see stickin' out o' your pocket.\"\n\nWell, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O'Neill she just gev him one\nlook, an' jumpin' from off the bed, she put her head out of the window,\nand called out to the policeman on duty--\n\n\"Is the Head below?\"\n\n\"I'll tell him you want him, ma'am,\" says the policeman.\n\n\"Do,\" says the Queen. \"Hello,\" says she, as a slip of paper dhropped out\no' the dispatches. \"What's this? 'Lines to Mary.' Ho! ho! me gay fella,\nthat's what you've been up to, is it?\"\n\n                        \"Mrs. Brady\n                        Is a widow lady,\n  And she has a charmin' daughter I adore;\n                        I went to court her\n                        Across the water,\n      And her mother keeps a little candy-store.\n                        She's such a darlin',\n                        She's like a starlin',\n    And in love with her I'm gettin' more and more,\n                        Her name is Mary,\n                        She's from Dunlary;\n    And her mother keeps a little candy-store.\"\n\n\"That settles it,\" says the Queen. \"It's the gaoler you'll serenade\nnext.\"\n\nWhen Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his\ncuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin'-table.\n\n\"Arrest that man,\" says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the\ndoor; \"arrest that thrayter,\" says she, \"and never let me set eyes on\nhim again.\"\n\nAnd, indeed, she never did, and soon after that he met with his death\nfrom the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin' on Tower Hill.\n\n\n\n\nThe Boat's Share.\n\n_From \"Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.\"_\n\nBY E. OE. SOMERVILLE AND MARTIN ROSS.\n\n\nThe affair on the strand at Hare Island ripened, with complexity of\nsummonses and cross-summonses, into an imposing Petty Sessions case. Two\nseparate deputations presented themselves at Shreelane, equipped with\nblack eyes and other conventional injuries, one of them armed with a\ncreelful of live lobsters to underline the argument. To decline the\nbribe was of no avail: the deputation decanted them upon the floor of\nthe hall and retired, and the lobsters spread themselves at large over\nthe house, and to this hour remain the nightmare of the nursery.\n\nThe next Petty Sessions day was wet; the tall windows of the Court House\nwere grey and streaming, and the reek of wet humanity ascended to the\nceiling. As I took my seat on the bench I perceived with an inward groan\nthat the services of the two most eloquent solicitors in Skebawn had\nbeen engaged. This meant that Justice would not have run its course till\nheaven knew that dim hour of the afternoon, and that that course would\nbe devious and difficult.\n\nAll the pews and galleries (any Irish court-house might, with the\naddition of a harmonium, pass presentably as a dissenting chapel) were\nfull, and a line of flat-capped policemen stood like church-wardens near\nthe door. Under the galleries, behind what might have answered to\nchoir-stalls, the witnesses and their friends hid in darkness, which\ncould, however, but partially conceal two resplendent young ladies,\nbarmaids, who were to appear in a subsequent Sunday drinking case. I was\na little late, and when I arrived Flurry Knox, supported by a couple of\nother magistrates, was in the chair, imperturbable of countenance as was\nhis wont, his fair and delusive youthfulness of aspect unimpaired by his\nvaried experiences during the war, his roving, subtle eye untamed by\nfour years of matrimony.\n\nA woman was being examined, a square and ugly country-woman, with wispy\nfair hair, a slow, dignified manner, and a slight and impressive\nstammer. I recognised her as one of the bodyguard of the lobsters. Mr.\nMooney, solicitor for the Brickleys, widely known, and respected as\n\"Roaring Jack,\" was in possession of that much-enduring organ, the ear\nof the Court.\n\n\"Now, Kate Keohane!\" he thundered, \"tell me what time it was when all\nthis was going on?\"\n\n\"About duskish, sir. Con Brickley was slashing the f-fish at me mother\nthe same time. He never said a word but to take the shtick and fire me\ndead with it on the sthrand. He gave me plenty of blood to dhrink, too,\"\nsaid the witness, with acid decorum. She paused to permit this agreeable\nfact to sink in, and added, \"his wife wanted to f-fashten on me the same\ntime, an' she havin' the steer of the boat to sthrike me.\"\n\nThese were not precisely the facts that Mr. Murphy, as solicitor for the\ndefence, wished to elicit.\n\n\"Would you kindly explain what you mean by the steer of the boat?\" he\ndemanded, sparring for wind in as intimidating a manner as possible. The\nwitness stared at him.\n\n\"Sure, 'tis the shtick, like, that they pulls here and there to go in\ntheir choice place.\"\n\n\"We may presume that the lady is referring to the tiller,\" said Mr.\nMooney, with a facetious eye at the Bench. \"Maybe now, ma'am, you can\nexplain to us what sort of a boat is she?\"\n\n\"She's that owld that if it wasn't for the weeds that's holding her\ntogether she'd bursht up in the deep.\"\n\n\"And who owns this valuable property?\" pursued Mr. Mooney.\n\n\"She's between Con Brickley and me brother, an the saine[1] is between\nfour, an' whatever crew does be in it should get their share, and the\nboat has a man's share.\"\n\nI made no attempt to comprehend this, relying with well-founded\nconfidence on Flurry Knox's grasp of such enigmas.\n\n\"Was Con Brickley fishing the same day?\"\n\n\"He was not, sir. He was at Lisheen Fair; for as clever as he is, he\ncouldn't kill two birds under one slat!\"\n\nKate Keohane's voice moved unhurried from sentence to sentence, and her\nslow, pale eyes turned for an instant to the lair of the witnesses under\nthe gallery.\n\n\"And you're asking the Bench to believe that this decent man left his\nbusiness in Lisheen in order to slash fish at your mother?\" said Mr.\nMooney, truculently.\n\n\"B'lieve me, sorra much business he laves afther him wherever he'll go!\"\nreturned the witness. \"Himself and his wife had business enough on the\nsthrand when the fish was dividing, and it is then themselves put every\nname on me.\"\n\n\"Ah, what harm are names!\" said Mr. Mooney, dallying elegantly with a\nmassive watch-chain.\n\n\"Come, now, ma'am! will you swear you got any ill-usage from Con\nBrickley or his wife?\" He leaned over the front of his pew, and waited\nfor the answer with his massive red head on one side.\n\n\"I was givin' blood like a c-cow that ye'd shtab with a knife!\" said\nKate Keohane, with unshaken dignity. \"If it was yourself that was in it\nye'd feel the smart as well as me. My hand and word on it, ye would! The\nmarks is on me head still, like the prints of dog-bites!\"\n\nShe lifted a lock of hair from her forehead, and exhibited a\nsufficiently repellent injury. Flurry Knox leaned forward.\n\n\"Are you sure you haven't that since the time there was that business\nbetween yourself and the post-mistress at Munig? I'm told you had the\nname of the post-office on your forehead where she struck you with the\noffice stamp! Try, now, sergeant, can you read Munig on her forehead?\"\n\nThe Court, not excepting its line of church-wardens, dissolved into\nlaughter; Kate Keohane preserved an offended silence.\n\n\"I suppose you want us to believe,\" resumed Mr. Mooney, sarcastically,\n\"that a fine, hearty woman like you wasn't defending yourself!\" Then,\nwith a turkey-cock burst of fury, \"On your oath, now! What did you\nstrike Honora Brickley with? Answer me that now! What had you in your\nhand?\"\n\n\"I had nothing only the little rod I had after the ass,\" answered Miss\nKeohane, with a child-like candour. \"I done nothing to them; but as for\nCon Brickley, he put his back to the cliff and he took the flannel wrop\nthat he had on him, and he threw it on the sthrand, and he said he would\nhave blood, murdher, or f-fish!\"\n\nShe folded her shawl across her breast, a picture of virtue assailed,\nyet unassailed.\n\n\"You may go down now,\" said \"Roaring Jack,\" rather hastily, \"I want to\nhave a few words with your brother.\"\n\nMiss Keohane retired, without having moulted a feather of her dignity,\nand her brother Jer came heavily up the steps and on to the platform,\nhis hot, wary, blue eyes gathering in the Bench and the attorneys in one\nbold, comprehensive glance. He was a tall, dark man of about five and\nforty, clean-shaved, save for two clerical inches of black whiskers, and\nin feature of the type of a London clergyman who would probably preach\non Browning.\n\n\"Well, sir!\" began Mr. Mooney, stimulatingly, \"and are you the biggest\nblackguard from here to America?\"\n\n\"I am not,\" said Jer Keohane, tranquilly.\n\n\"We had you here before us not so very long ago about kicking a goat,\nwasn't it? You got a little touch of a pound, I think?\"\n\nThis delicate allusion to a fine that the Bench had thought fit to\nimpose did not distress the witness.\n\n\"I did, sir.\"\n\n\"And how's our friend the goat?\" went on Mr. Mooney, with the furious\nfacetiousness reserved for hustling tough witnesses.\n\n\"Well, I suppose she's something west of the Skelligs by now,\" replied\nJer Keohane with great composure.\n\nAn appreciative grin ran round the Court. The fact that the goat had\ndied of the kick and been \"given the cliff\" being regarded as an\nexcellent jest.\n\nMr. Mooney consulted his notes:\n\n\"Well, now, about this fight,\" he said, pleasantly, \"did you see your\nsister catch Mrs. Brickley and pull her hair down to the ground and drag\nher shawl off of her?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the witness, airily, \"they had a bit of a scratch on\naccount o' the fish. Con Brickley had the shteer o' the boat in his\nhand, and says he, 'is there any man here that'll take the shteer from\nme?' The man was dhrunk, of course,\" added Jer charitably.\n\n\"Did you have any talk with his wife about the fish?\"\n\n\"I couldn't tell the words that she said to me!\" replied the witness,\nwith a reverential glance at the Bench, \"and she over-right three crowds\no' men that was on the sthrand.\"\n\nMr. Mooney put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the witness.\n\n\"You're a very refined gentleman, upon my word! Were you ever in\nEngland?\"\n\n\"I was, part of three years.\"\n\n\"Oh, that accounts for it, I suppose!\" said Mr. Mooney, accepting this\nlucid statement without a stagger, and passing lightly on. \"You're a\nwidower, I understand, with no objection to consoling yourself?\"\n\nNo answer.\n\n\"Now, sir! Can you deny that you made proposals of marriage to Con\nBrickley's daughter last Shraft?\"\n\nThe plot thickened. Con Brickley's daughter was my kitchen maid.\n\nJer Keohane smiled tolerantly. \"Ah! that was a thing o' nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" said Mr. Mooney, with a roar of a tornado. \"Do you call an\nimpudent proposal of marriage to a respectable man's daughter nothing!\nThat's English manners, I suppose!\"\n\n\"I was goin' home one Sunday,\" said Jer Keohane, conversationally, to\nthe Bench, \"and I met the gerr'l and her mother. I spoke to the gerr'l\nin a friendly way, and asked her why wasn't she gettin' marrid, and she\ncommenced to peg stones at me and dhrew several blows of an umbrella on\nme. I had only three bottles of porther taken. There now was the whole\nof it.\"\n\nMrs. Brickley, from the gallery, groaned heavily and ironically.\n\nI found it difficult to connect these coquetries with my impressions of\nmy late kitchenmaid, a furtive and touzled being, who, in conjunction\nwith a pail and scrubbing brush, had been wont to melt round corners and\ninto doorways at my approach.\n\n\"Are we trying a breach of promise?\" interpolated Flurry; \"if so, we\nought to have the plaintiff in.\"\n\n\"My purpose, sir,\" said Mr. Mooney, in a manner discouraging to levity,\n\"is to show that my clients have received annoyance and contempt from\nthis man and his sister such as no parents would submit to.\"\n\nA hand came forth from under the gallery and plucked at Mr. Mooney's\ncoat. A red monkey face appeared out of the darkness, and there was a\nhoarse whisper, whose purport I could not gather. Con Brickley, the\ndefendant, was giving instructions to his lawyer.\n\nIt was perhaps as a result of these that Jer Keohane's evidence closed\nhere. There was a brief interval enlivened by coughs, grinding of heavy\nboots on the floor, and some mumbling and groaning under the gallery.\n\n\"There's great duck-shooting out on a lake on this island,\" commented\nFlurry to me, in a whisper. \"My grand-uncle went there one time with an\nold duck-gun he had, that he fired with a fuse. He was three hours\nstalking the ducks before he got the gun laid. He lit the fuse then, and\nit set to work spluttering and hissing like a goods-engine till there\nwasn't a duck within ten miles. The gun went off then.\"\n\nThis useful side-light on the matter in hand was interrupted by the\ncumbrous ascent of the one-legged Con Brickley to the witness-table. He\nsat down heavily, with his slouch hat on his sound knee, and his wooden\nstump stuck out before him. His large monkey face was immovably serious;\nhis eye was small, light grey, and very quick.\n\nMcCaffery, the opposition attorney, a thin, restless youth, with ears\nlike the handles of an urn, took him in hand. To the pelting\ncross-examination that beset him Con Brickley replied with sombre\ndeliberation, and with a manner of uninterested honesty, emphasising\nwhat he said with slight, very effective gestures of his big, supple\nhands. His voice was deep and pleasant; it betrayed no hint of so\ntrivial a thing as satisfaction when, in the teeth of Mr. McCaffery's\nleading questions, he established the fact that the \"little rod\" with\nwhich Miss Kate Keohane had beaten his wife was the handle of a\npitch-fork.\n\n\"I was counting the fish the same time,\" went on Con Brickley, in his\nrolling basso profundissimo, \"and she said, 'Let the divil clear me out\nof the sthrand, for there's no one else will put me out!' says she.\"\n\n\"It was then she got the blow, I suppose!\" said McCaffery, venomously;\n\"you had a stick yourself, I daresay?\"\n\n\"Yes. I had a stick. I must have a stick,\" (deep and mellow pathos was\nhinted at in the voice), \"I am sorry to say. What could I do to her? A\nman with a wooden leg on a sthrand could do nothing!\"\n\nSomething like a laugh ran at the back of the court. Mr. McCaffery's\nears turned scarlet and became quite decorative. On or off a strand Con\nBrickley was not a person to be scored off easily.\n\nHis clumsy, yet impressive, descent from the witness stand followed\nalmost immediately, and was not the least telling feature of his\nevidence. Mr. Mooney surveyed his exit with the admiration of one artist\nfor another, and, rising, asked the Bench's permission to call Mrs.\nBrickley.\n\nMrs. Brickley, as she mounted to the platform, in the dark and nun-like\nseverity of her long cloak, the stately blue cloth cloak that is the\nprivilege of the Munster peasant woman, was an example of the\nrarely-blended qualities of picturesqueness and respectability. As she\ntook her seat in the chair, she flung the deep hood back on her\nshoulders, and met the gaze of the court with her grey head erect; she\nwas a witness to be proud of.\n\n\"Now, Mrs. Brickley,\" said \"Roaring Jack,\" urbanely, \"will you describe\nthis interview between your daughter and Keohane.\"\n\n\"It was last Sunday in Shrove, your Worship, Mr. Flurry Knox, and\ngentlemen,\" began Mrs. Brickley nimbly, \"meself and me little gerr'l was\ncomin' from mass, and Mr. Jer Keohane came up to us and got on in a most\nunmannerable way. He asked me daughter would she marry him. Me daughter\ntold him she would not, quite friendly like. I'll tell you no lie,\ngentlemen, she was teasing him with the umbrella the same time; an' he\nraised his shtick and dhrew a sthroke on her in the back, an' the little\ngerr'l took up a small pebble of a stone and fired it at him. She put\nthe umbrella up to his mouth, but she called him no names. But as for\nhim, the names he put on her was to call her 'a nasty, long, slopeen of\na proud thing, and a slopeen of a proud tinker.'\"\n\n\"Very lover-like expressions!\" commented Mr. Mooney, doubtless\nstimulated by the lady-like titters from the barmaids; \"and had this\nromantic gentleman made any previous proposals for your daughter?\"\n\n\"Himself had two friends over from across the water one night to make\nthe match, a Sathurday it was, and they should land the lee side o' the\nisland, for the wind was a fright,\" replied Mrs. Brickley, launching her\ntale with the power of easy narration that is bestowed with such amazing\nliberality on her class. \"The three o' them had dhrink taken, an' I went\nto shlap out the door agin them. Me husband said then we should let them\nin, if it was a Turk itself, with the rain that was in it. They were\ntalking in it then till near the dawning, and in the latther end all\nthat was between them was the boat's share.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'the boat's share'?\" said I.\n\n\"'Tis the same as a man's share, me worshipful gintleman,\" returned Mrs.\nBrickley, splendidly; \"it goes with the boat always, afther the crew and\nthe saine has their share got.\"\n\nI possibly looked as enlightened as I felt by this exposition.\n\n\"You mean that Jer wouldn't have her unless he got the boat's share with\nher?\" suggested Flurry.\n\n\"He said it over-right all that was in the house, and he reddening his\npipe at the fire,\" replied Mrs. Brickley, in full-sailed response to the\nhelm. \"'D'ye think,' says I to him, 'that me daughter would leave a\nlovely situation, with a kind and tendher masther, for a mean, hungry\nblagyard like yerself,' says I, 'that's livin' always in this backwards\nplace!' says I.\"\n\nThis touching expression of preference for myself, as opposed to Mr.\nKeohane, was received with expressionless respect by the Court. Flurry,\nwith an impassive countenance, kicked me heavily under cover of the\ndesk. I said that we had better get on to the assault on the strand.\nNothing could have been more to Mrs. Brickley's taste. We were minutely\ninstructed as to how Katie Keohane drew the shawleen forward on Mrs.\nBrickley's head to stifle her; and how Norrie Keohane was fast in her\nhair. Of how Mrs. Brickley had then given a stroke upwards between\nherself and her face (whatever that might mean) and loosed Norrie from\nher hair. Of how she then sat down and commenced to cry from the use\nthey had for her.\n\n\"'Twas all I done,\" she concluded, looking like a sacred picture, \"I\ngave her a stroke of a pollock on them.\"\n\n\"As for language,\" replied Mrs. Brickley, with clear eyes, a little\nuplifted in the direction of the ceiling, \"there was no name from heaven\nor hell but she had it on me, and wishin' the divil might burn the two\nheels off me, and the like of me wasn't in sivin parishes! And that was\nthe clane part of the discoorse, yer Worships!\"\n\nMrs. Brickley here drew her cloak more closely about her, as though to\nenshroud herself in her own refinement, and presented to the Bench a\nsilence as elaborate as a drop scene. It implied, amongst other things,\na generous confidence in the imaginative powers of her audience.\n\nWhether or no this was misplaced, Mrs. Brickley was not invited further\nto enlighten the Court. After her departure the case droned on in\ninexhaustible rancour, and trackless complications as to the shares of\nthe fish. Its ethics and its arithmetic would have defied the allied\nintellects of Solomon and Bishop Colenso. It was somewhere in that dead\nafternoon, when it was too late for lunch and too early for tea, that\nthe Bench, wan with hunger, wound up the affair, by impartially binding\nboth parties in sheaves \"to the Peace.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n  [1] A large net.\n\n\n\n\n\"King William.\"\n\n_From \"Aliens of the West.\"_\n\nBY CHARLOTTE O'CONOR ECCLES.\n\n\nMrs. Macfarlane was a tall, thin, and eminently respectable woman of\nfifty, possessed of many rigid virtues. She was a native of the north of\nIreland, and had come originally to Toomevara as maid to the Dowager\nLady Dunanway. On the death of her mistress, whom she served faithfully\nfor many years, Lord Dunanway offered to set her up in business, and at\nthe time our story opens she had been for two years proprietress of the\nbuffet, and made a decent living by it; for as Toomevara is situated on\nthe Great Southern and Western Railway, a fair amount of traffic passes\nthrough it.\n\nThe stationmaster, familiarly known as \"Jim\" O'Brien, was Toomevara\nborn, and had once been a porter on that very line. He was an\nintelligent, easy-going, yet quick-tempered man of pronounced Celtic\ntype, with a round, good-natured face, a humorous mouth, shrewd,\ntwinkling eyes, and immense volubility.\n\nBetween him and Mrs. Macfarlane the deadliest warfare raged. She was\ncold and superior, and implacably in the right. She pointed out Jim's\ndeficiencies whenever she saw them, and she saw them very often. All day\nlong she sat in her refreshment room, spectacles on nose, her Bible open\nbefore her, knitting, and rising only at the entrance of a customer. Jim\nhad an uneasy consciousness that nothing escaped her eye, and her\ncritical remarks had more than once been reported to him.\n\n\"The bitther ould pill!\" he said to his wife. \"Why, the very look ov her\n'ud sour a crock o' crame. She's as cross as a bag ov weasels.\"\n\nJim was a Catholic and a Nationalist. He belonged to the \"Laygue,\" and\nspoke at public meetings as often as his duties allowed. He objected to\nbeing referred to by Mrs. Macfarlane as a \"Papish\" and a \"Rebel.\"\n\n\"Papish, indeed!\" said he. \"Ribbil, indeed! Tell the woman to keep a\ncivil tongue in her head, or 'twill be worse for her.\"\n\n\"How did the likes ov her iver get a husban'?\" he would ask,\ndistractedly, after a sparring match. \"Troth, an' 'tis no wondher the\npoor man died.\"\n\nMrs. Macfarlane was full of fight and courage. Her proudest boast was of\nbeing the granddaughter, daughter, sister, and widow of Orangemen.\n\nShe looked on herself in Toomevara as a child of Israel among the\nBabylonians, and felt that it behoved her to uphold the standard of her\nfaith. To this end she sang the praises of the Battle of the Boyne with\na triumph that aggravated O'Brien to madness.\n\n\"God Almighty help the woman! Is it Irish at all she is--or what? To see\nher makin' merry because a parcel o' rascally Dutchmen----! Sure,\ndoesn't she know 'twas Irish blood they spilt at the Boyne? An' to see\nher takin' pride in it turns me sick, so it does. If she was English,\nnow, I could stand it, but she callin' herself an Irishwoman--faith, she\nhas the bad dhrop in her, so she has, to be glad at her counthry's\nmisforchins.\"\n\nJim's rage was the greater because Mrs. Macfarlane, whatever she said,\nsaid little or nothing to him. She passed him by with lofty scorn and\nindifference affecting not to see him; and while she did many things\nthat O'Brien found supremely annoying, they were things strictly within\nher rights.\n\nMatters had not arrived at this pass all at once. The feud dated from\nMrs. Macfarlane's having adopted a little black dog--a mongrel--on which\nshe lavished a wealth of affection, and which, as the most endearing\ntitle she knew, she named \"King William.\" This, of course, was nobody's\nconcern save Mrs. Macfarlane's own, and in a world of philosophers she\nwould have been allowed to amuse herself unheeded, but Jim O'Brien was\nnot a philosopher.\n\nUnlike most Irishmen, he had a great love for flowers. His garden was\nbeautifully kept, and he was prouder of his roses than of anything on\nearth save his eldest daughter, Kitty, who was nearly sixteen. Picture,\nthen, his rage and dismay when he one day found his beds scratched into\nholes and his roses uprooted by \"King William,\" who had developed a\nmania for hiding away bones under Jim's flowers. O'Brien made loud and\nangry complaints to the dog's owner, which she received with unconcern\nand disbelief.\n\n\"Please, Mr. O'Brien,\" she said, with dignity, \"don't try to put it on\nthe puir wee dog. Even if yu _du_ dislike his name, that's no reason for\nsaying he was in your garden. He knows betther, so he does, than to go\nwhere he's not wanted.\"\n\nAfter this it was open war between the stationmaster and the widow.\n\nUnder the windows of the refreshment room were two narrow flower-beds.\nThese Jim took care never to touch, affecting to consider them the\nexclusive property of Mrs. Macfarlane. They were long left\nuncultivated, an eyesore to the stationmaster; but one day Kelly, the\nporter, came to him with an air of mystery, to say that \"th ould\nwan\"--for by this term was Mrs. Macfarlane generally indicated--\"was\nsettin' somethin' in the beds beyant.\"\n\nJim came out of his office and walked up and down the platform with an\nair of elaborate unconsciousness. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Macfarlane\ngardening. She had donned old gloves and a clean checked apron, and,\ntrowel in hand, was breaking up the caked earth, preparatory, it would\nseem, to setting plants.\n\n\"What the dickens is she doin'?\" asked Jim, when he got back.\n\n\"Not a wan ov me knows,\" said Kelly. \"She's been grubbin' there since\nnine o'clock.\"\n\nFrom this time Mrs. Macfarlane was assiduous in the care of her two\nflower-beds. Every day she might be seen weeding or watering, and though\nJim steadily averted his gaze, he was devoured by curiosity as to the\nprobable results. What on earth did she want to grow? The weeks passed.\nTiny green seedlings at last pushed their way through the soil, and in\ndue course the nature of the plants became evident. Jim was highly\nexcited, and rushed home to tell his wife.\n\n\"Be the hokey, Mary,\" he said, \"'tis lilies she has there, an may I\nnever sin, but it's my belief they're orange lilies, an' if they are,\nI'll root ev'ry wan ov thim out, if I die for it.\"\n\n\"Be quiet, now,\" said Mary. \"How d'ye know they're lilies at all? For\nthe love o' God keep her tongue off ov ye, an' don't be puttin' yersel'\nin her way.\"\n\n\"Whist, woman, d'ye think I'm a fool? 'Tis lilies th' are annyways, an'\ntime'll tell if they're orange or not, but faith, if th'are, I won't\nshtand it.' I'll complain to the Boord.\"\n\n\"Sure the Boord'll be on her side, man. Don't yeh know the backin' she\nhas? They'll say 'Why shouldn't she have orange lilies if she likes?'\"\n\n\"Ah, Mary, 'tis too sinsible y'are inthirely. Have ye no sperrit, woman\nalive, to let her ride rough-shod over uz this way? 'Make a mouse o'\nyerself an' the cat'll ate ye,' 's a thrue saying. Sure, Saint Pether\nhimself cuddn't shtand it, an' be the piper that played before Moses, I\nwon't!\"\n\n\"Ye misfortunit man, don't be dhrawin' down ructions on yer head.\nHaven't yeh childer to think about? An' don't be throublin' yerself over\nwhat she does. 'Tis plazin' her y'are whin she sees y're mad. Take no\nnotice, man, an' p'raps she'll shtop.\"\n\n\"The divil fly away wid her for a bitther ould sarpint. The vinom's in\nher, sure enough. Why should I put up wid her, I'd like to know?\"\n\n\"Ah, keep yer tongue between yer teeth, Jim. 'Tis too onprudent y'are.\nNot a worrd ye dhrop but is brought back to her be some wan. Have sinse,\nman. You'll go sayin' that to Joe Kelly, an' he'll have it over the town\nin no time, an' some wan'll carry it to her.\"\n\n\"An' do ye think I care a thrawneen[1] for the likes ov her? Faith, not\na pin. If you got yer way, Mary, ye'd have me like the man that was\nhanged for sayin' nothin'. Sure, I never did a hand's turn agin her, an'\n'tis a low, mane thrick ov her to go settin' orange lilies over\nforeninst me, an' she knowin' me opinions.\"\n\n\"Faith, I'll not say it wasn't, Jim, if they _are_ orange lilies; but\nsure, ye don't know rightly yet what th'are, an' in God's name keep\nquite till you do.\"\n\nThe days went by. The lilies grew taller and taller. They budded, they\nbloomed, and, sure enough, Jim had been in the right--orange lilies they\nproved to be.\n\n\"They'll mek a fine show for the twelfth of July, I'm thinkin',\" said\nMrs. Macfarlane, complacently, as she walked by her beds, swinging a\ndripping watering-pot.\n\nAt the time of the blossoming of the orange lilies, James O'Brien was\nnot at home, having had to go some twenty miles down the line on\nofficial business. The obnoxious flowers took advantage of his absence\nto make a gay show. When he returned, as luck would have it Mrs.\nMacfarlane was away, and had shut up the refreshment room, but had not\nlocked it. No one locks doors in Toomevara unless their absence is to be\nlengthy. She had left \"King William\" behind, and told Joe Kelly to take\ncare of the dog, in case he should be lonely, for she had been invited\nto the wedding of an old fellow servant, the late butler at Lord\nDunanway's, who was to be married that day to the steward's daughter.\n\nAll this Joe Kelly told the stationmaster on his return, but he did not\nsay a word about the orange lilies, being afraid of an explosion, and,\nas he said, \"detarmined not to meddle or make, but just to let him find\nit out himself.\"\n\nFor quite a time Jim was occupied over way-bills in his little office;\nbut at last his attention was distracted by the long continued howling\nand yelping of a dog.\n\n\"Let the baste out, can't ye?\" he at length said to Kelly. \"I can't\nstand listening to um anny longer.\"\n\n\"I was afeared 'twas run over he might be, agin' she came back,\" said\nKelly, \"'an so I shut um up.\"\n\n\"Sure, there's no danger. There won't be a thrain in for the next two\nhours, an' if he was run over itself, God knows he'd be no loss. 'Tisn't\nmeself 'ud grieve for um, th' ill-favoured cur.\"\n\n\"King William\" was accordingly released.\n\nWhen O'Brien had finished his task, he stood for a time at the office\ndoor, his hands crossed behind him, supporting his coat tails, his eyes\nfixed abstractedly on the sky. Presently he started for his usual walk\nup and down the platform, when his eye was at once caught by the flare\nof the stately rows of orange lilies.\n\n\"Be the Holy Poker!\" he exclaimed. \"But I was right. 'Tis orange th'\nare, sure enough. What'll Mary say now? Faith, 'tis lies they do be\ntellin' whin they say there's no riptiles in Ireland. That ould woman\nbangs Banagher, an' Banagher bangs the divil.\"\n\nHe stopped in front of the obnoxious flowers.\n\n\"Isn't it the murthering pity there's nothing I can plant to spite her.\nShe has the pull over me entirely. Shamerogues makes no show at\nall--ye'd pass them unbeknownst--while orange lilies yeh can see a mile\noff. Now, who but herself 'ud be up to the likes o' this?\"\n\nAt the moment he became aware of an extraordinary commotion among the\nlilies, and, looking closer, perceived \"King William\" in their midst,\nscratching as if for bare life, scattering mould, leaves, and bulbs to\nthe four winds, and with every stroke of his hind legs dealing\ndestruction to the carefully-tended flowers.\n\nThe sight filled Jim with sudden gladness.\n\n\"More power to the dog!\" he cried, with irrepressible glee. \"More power\nto um! Sure, he has more sinse than his missus. 'King William,' indeed,\nan' he rootin' up orange lilies! Ho, ho! Tare an' ouns! but 'tis the\nbiggest joke that iver I hard in me life. More power to ye! Good dog!\"\n\nRubbing his hands in an ecstasy of delight, he watched \"King William\" at\nhis work of devastation, and, regretfully be it confessed, when the dog\npaused, animated him to fresh efforts by thrilling cries of \"Rats!\"\n\n\"King William\" sprang wildly hither and thither, running from end to end\nof the beds, snapping the brittle lily stems, scattering the blossoms.\n\n\"Be gum, but it's great! Look at um now. Cruel wars to the Queen o'\nSpain if iver I seen such shport! Go it, 'King William!' Smash thim, me\nboy! Good dog! Out wid them!\" roared Jim, tears of mirth streaming down\nhis cheeks. \"Faith, 'tis mad she'll be. I'd give sixpence to see her\nface. O Lord! O Lord! sure, it's the biggest joke that iver was.\"\n\nAt last \"King William\" tired of the game, but only when every lily lay\nlow, and Mrs. Macfarlane's carefully tended flower beds were a chaos of\nbroken stalks and trampled blossoms.\n\nAs O'Brien, in high good humour, having communicated the side-splitting\njoke to Mary and Finnerty, was busy over his account books, Kelly came\nin.\n\n\"She's back,\" he whispered, \"an she's neither to hold nor to bind. I was\nwatchin' out, an' sure, 'twas shtruck all of a hape she was whin she\nseen thim lilies; an' now I'll take me oath she's goin' to come here,\nfor, begob, she looks as cross as nine highways.\"\n\n\"Letter come,\" chuckled O'Brien; \"I'm ready forrer.\"\n\nAt this moment the office door was burst open with violence, and Mrs.\nMacfarlane, in her best Sunday costume, bonnet, black gloves, and\numbrella included, her face very pale save the cheek bones, where two\nbright pink spots burned, entered the room.\n\n\"Misther O'Brien,\" she said in a high, stilted voice that trembled with\nrage, \"will yu please to inform me the meanin' o' this dasthardly\noutrage?\"\n\n\"Arrah, what outrage are ye talkin' ov ma'am?\" asked O'Brien,\ninnocently. \"Sure, be the looks ov ye I think somethin' has upset ye\nentirely. Faith, ye're lookin' as angry as if you were vexed, as the\nsayin' is.\"\n\n\"Oh, to be sure. A great wonder, indeed, that I should be vexed.\n'Crabbit was that cause had!'\" interrupted Mrs Macfarlane with a sneer.\n\"You're not decavin' me, sir. I'm not takin in by yur pretinces, but if\nthere's law in the land, or justice, I'll have it of yu.\"\n\n\"Would ye mind, ma'am,\" said O'Brien, imperturbably, for his\nsuperabounding delight made him feel quite calm and superior to the\nangry woman--\"would ye mind statin' in plain English what y're talkin'\nabout for not a wan ov me knows?\"\n\n\"Oh, yu son of Judas! Oh, yu deceivin' wretch! As if it wasn't yu that\nis afther desthroyin' my flower-beds!\"\n\n\"Ah, thin, it is y'r ould flower-beds y're makin' all this row about?\nY'r dirty orange lilies'. Sure, 'tis clared out o' the place they ought\nt've been long ago for weeds. 'Tis mesel' that's glad they're gone, an'\nso I tell ye plump an' plain; bud as for me desthroyin' them, sorra\nfinger iver I laid on thim; I wouldn't demane mesel'.\"\n\n\"An' if yu please, Misther O'Brien,\" said Mrs. Macfarlane with\nferocious politeness, \"will yu kindly mintion, if yu did not do the job,\nwho did?\"\n\n\"Faith, that's where the joke comes in,\" said O'Brien, pleasantly.\n\"'Twas the very same baste that ruinated me roses, bad cess to him, y'r\nprecious pet, 'King William'!\"\n\n\"Oh! is it lavin' it on the dog y'are, yu traitorous Jesuit! The puir\nwee dog that never harmed yu? Sure, 'tis only a Papist would think of a\nmane thrick like that to shift the blame.\"\n\nThe colour rose to O'Brien's face.\n\n\"Mrs. Macfarlane, ma'am,\" he said, with laboured civility, \"wid yer\npermission we'll lave me religion out o' this. Maybe, if ye say much\nmore, I might be losin' me timper wid ye.\"\n\n\"Much I mind what yu lose,\" cried Mrs. Macfarlane. \"It's thransported\nthe likes o' yu should be for a set o' robbin', murderin', desthroyin',\nthraytors.\"\n\n\"Have a care, ma'am, how yer spake to yer betthers. Robbin', deceivin',\nmurdherin', desthroyin', thraytors, indeed! I like that! What brought\nover the lot ov yez, Williamites an' Cromwaylians an' English an'\nScotch, but to rob, an' desave, an' desthroy, an' murdher uz, an' stale\nour land, an' bid uz go to hell or to Connaught, an' grow fat on what\nwas ours before iver yez came, an' thin jibe uz for bein' poor?\nThraytors! Thraytor yerself, for that's what the lot ov yez is. Who\nwants yez here at all?\"\n\nExasperated beyond endurance, Mrs. Macfarlane struck at the\nstationmaster with her neat black umbrella, and had given him a nasty\ncut across the brow, when Kelly interfered, as well as Finnerty and Mrs.\nO'Brien, who rushed in, attracted by the noise. Between them O'Brien\nwas held back under a shower of blows, and the angry woman hustled\noutside, whence she retreated to her own quarters, muttering threats all\nthe way.\n\n\"Oh, Jim, avourneen! 'tis bleedin' y'are,\" shrieked poor anxious Mary,\nwildly. \"Oh, wirra, why did ye dhraw her on ye? Sure, I tould ye how\n'twould be. As sure as God made little apples she'll process ye, an' she\nhas the quality on her side.\"\n\n\"Letter,\" said Jim; \"much good she'll get by it. Is it makin' a liar ov\nme she'd be whin I tould her I didn't touch her ould lilies? Sure, I'll\nprocess her back for assaultin' an' battherin me. Ye all saw her, an' me\nnot touchin' her, the calliagh!\"[2]\n\n\"Begorra, 'tis thrue for him,\" said Kelly. \"She flagellated him wid her\numbrelly, an' sorra blow missed bud the wan that didn't hit, and on'y I\nwas here, an' lit on her suddent, like a bee on a posy, she'd have had\nhis life, so she would.\"\n\nNot for an instant did Mrs. Macfarlane forget her cause of offence, or\nbelieve O'Brien's story that it was the dog that had destroyed her\norange lilies. After some consideration she hit on an ingenious device\nthat satisfied her as being at once supremely annoying to her enemy and\nwell within the law. Her lilies, emblems of the religious and political\nfaith that were in her, were gone; but she still had means to testify to\nher beliefs, and protest against O'Brien and all that he represented to\nher mind.\n\nNext day, when the midday train had just steamed into the station, Jim\nwas startled by hearing a wild cheer--\n\n\"Hi, 'King William'! Hi, 'King William'! Come back, 'King William'!\n'King William,' my darlin', 'King William'!\"\n\nThe air rang with the shrill party cry, and when Jim rushed out he found\nthat Mrs. Macfarlane had allowed her dog to run down the platform just\nas the passengers were alighting, and was now following him, under the\npretence of calling him back. There was nothing to be done. The dog's\nname certainly was \"King William,\" and Mrs. Macfarlane was at liberty to\nrecall him if he strayed.\n\nJim stood for a moment like one transfixed.\n\n\"Faith, I b'leeve 'tis the divil's grandmother she is,\" he exclaimed.\n\nMrs. Macfarlane passed him with a deliberately unseeing eye. Had he been\nthe gate-post, she could not have taken less notice of his presence, as,\nhaving made her way to the extreme end of the platform, cheering her\n\"King William,\" she picked up her dog, and marched back in triumph.\n\nSpeedily did it become evident that Mrs. Macfarlane was pursuing a\nregular plan of campaign, for at the arrival of every train that entered\nthe station that day, she went through the same performance of letting\nloose the dog and then pursuing him down the platform, waving her arms\nand yelling for \"King William.\"\n\nBy the second challenge Jim had risen to the situation and formed his\ncounterplot. He saw and heard her in stony silence, apparently as\nindifferent to her tactics as she to his presence, but he was only\nbiding his time. No sooner did passengers alight and enter the\nrefreshment room, than, having just given them time to be seated, he\nrushed up, threw open the door of his enemy's headquarters, and, putting\nin his cried, cried:--\n\n\"Take yer places, gintlemin immaydiately. The thrain's just off. Hurry\nup, will yez? She's away!\"\n\nThe hungry and discomfited passengers hurried out, pell mell, and Mrs.\nMacfarlane was left speechless with indignation.\n\n\"I bet I've got the whip hand ov her this time,\" chuckled Jim, as he\ngave the signal to start.\n\nMrs. Macfarlane's spirit, however, was not broken. From morning until\nnight, whether the day was wet or fine, she greeted the arrival of each\ntrain with loud cries for \"King William,\" and on each occasion Jim\nretorted by bundling out all her customers before they could touch bite\nor sup.\n\nThe feud continued.\n\nEach day Mrs. Macfarlane, gaunter, fiercer, paler, and more resolute in\nignoring the stationmaster's presence, flaunted her principles up and\ndown the platform. Each day did Jim hurry the departure of the trains\nand sweep off her customers. Never before had there been such\npunctuality known at Toomevara, which is situated on an easy-going line,\nwhere usually the guard, when indignant tourists point out that the\nexpress is some twenty minutes' late, is accustomed to reply,\n\n\"Why, so she is. 'Tis thrue for ye.\"\n\nOne day, however, Mrs. Macfarlane did not appear. She had come out for\nthe first train, walking a trifle feebly, and uttering her war cry in a\nsomewhat quavering voice. When the next came, no Mrs. Macfarlane greeted\nit.\n\nJim himself was perplexed, and a little aggrieved. He had grown used to\nthe daily strife, and missed the excitement of retorting on his foe.\n\n\"Maybe 'tis tired of it she is,\" he speculated. \"Time forrer. She knows\nnow she won't have things all her own way. She's too domineerin' by\nhalf.\"\n\n\"What's wrong with the ould wan, sir?\" asked Joe Kelly, when he met\nO'Brien. \"She didn't shtir out whin she hard the thrain.\"\n\n\"Faith, I dunno,\" said Jim. \"Hatchin' more disturbance, I'll bet. Faith,\nshe's like Conaty's goose, nivir well but whin she's doin' mischief.\nJoe,\" he said, \"maybe y'ought to look in an' see if anythin' is wrong\nwid th' ould wan.\"\n\nA moment more, and Jim heard him shouting, \"Misther O'Brien, Misther\nO'Brien!\" He ran at the sound. There, a tumbled heap, lay Mrs.\nMacfarlane, no longer a defiant virago, but a weak, sickly, elderly\nwoman, partly supported on Joe Kelly's knee, her face ghastly pale, her\narms hanging limp.\n\n\"Be me sowl, but I think she's dyin',\" cried Kelly. \"She just raised her\nhead whin she saw me, an' wint off in a faint.\"\n\n\"Lay her flat, Joe; lay her flat.\"\n\n\"Lave her to me,\" he said, \"an' do you run an' tell the missus to come\nhere at wanst. Maybe she'll know what to do.\"\n\nMary came in to find her husband gazing in a bewildered fashion at his\nprostrate enemy, and took command in a way that excited his admiration.\n\n\"Here,\" said she, \"give uz a hand to move her on to the seat. Jim, run\nhome an' get Biddy to fill two or three jars wid boilin' wather, an'\nbring thim along wid a blanket. She's as cowld as death. Joe, fly off\nwid yeh for the docther.\"\n\n\"What docther will I go for, ma'am?\"\n\n\"The first ye can git,\" said Mary, promptly beginning to chafe the\ninanimate woman's hands and loosen her clothes.\n\nWhen the doctor came he found Mrs. Macfarlane laid on an impromptu couch\ncomposed of two of the cushioned benches placed side by side. She was\nwrapped in blankets, had hot bottles to her feet and sides, and a\nmustard plaster over her heart.\n\n\"Bravo! Mrs. O'Brien,\" he said, \"I couldn't have done better myself. I\nbelieve you have saved her life by being so quick--at least, saved it\nfor the moment, for I think she is in for a severe illness. She will\nwant careful nursing to pull her through.\"\n\n\"She looks rale bad,\" assented Mary.\n\n\"What are we to do with her?\" said the doctor. \"Is there no place where\nthey would take her in?\"\n\nMary glanced at Jim, but he did not speak.\n\n\"Sure, there's a room in our house,\" she ventured, after an awkward\npause.\n\n\"The very thing,\" said the doctor, \"if you don't mind the trouble, and\nif Mr. O'Brien does not object.\"\n\nJim made no answer, but walked out.\n\n\"He doesn't, docther,\" cried Mary. \"Sure, he has the rale good heart.\nI'll run off now, an' get the bed ready.\"\n\nAs they passed Jim, who stood sulkily at the door, she contrived to\nsqueeze his hand. \"God bless yeh, me own Jim. You'll be none the worse\nforrit. 'Tis no time for bearin' malice, an' our Blessed Lady'll pray\nfor yeh this day.\"\n\nJim was silent.\n\n\"'Tis a cruel shame she should fall on uz,\" he said, when his wife had\ndisappeared; but he offered no further resistance.\n\nBorne on an impromptu stretcher by Jim, Joe, Finnerty, and doctor, Mrs.\nMacfarlane was carried to the stationmaster's house, undressed by Mary,\nand put to bed in the spotlessly clean, whitewashed upper room.\n\nThe cold and shivering had now passed off, and she was burning. Nervous\nfever, the doctor anticipated. She raved about her dog, about Jim, about\nthe passengers, her rent, and fifty other things that made it evident\nher circumstances had preyed upon her mind.\n\nPoor Mary was afraid of her at times; but there are no trained nurses at\nToomevara, and, guided by Doctor Doherty's directions, she tried to do\nher best, and managed wonderfully well.\n\nThere could be no doubt Jim did not like having the invalid in the\nhouse. But this did not prevent him from feeling very miserable. He\nbecame desperately anxious that Mrs. Macfarlane should not die, and\nastonished Mary by bringing home various jellies and meat extracts, that\nhe fancied might be good for the patient; but he did this with a shy and\nhang-dog air by no means natural to him, and always made some ungracious\nspeech as to the trouble, to prevent Mary thinking he was sorry for the\npart he had played. He replied with a downcast expression to all\nenquiries from outsiders as to Mrs. Macfarlane's health, but he brought\nher dog into the house and fed it well.\n\n\"Not for her sake, God knows,\" he explained; \"but bekase the poor baste\nwas frettin' an' I cudn't see him there wid no wan to look to him.\"\n\nHe refused, however, to style the animal \"King William,\" and called it\n\"Billy\" instead, a name which it soon learned to answer.\n\nOne evening, when the whitewashed room was all aglow with crimson light\nthat flooded through the western window, Mrs. Macfarlane returned to\nconsciousness. Mary was sitting by the bedside, sewing, having sent out\nthe children in charge of Kitty to secure quiet in the house. For a long\ntime, unobserved by her nurse, the sick woman lay feebly trying to\nunderstand. Suddenly she spoke--\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\nMary jumped.\n\n\"To be sure,\" she said, laying down her needlework, \"'tis very bad you\nwere intirely, ma'am; but, thanks be to God, you're betther now.\"\n\n\"Where am I?\" asked Mrs. Macfarlane, after a considerable pause.\n\n\"In the station house, ma'am. Sure, don't ye know me? I'm Mary O'Brien.\"\n\n\"Mary O'Brien--O'Brien?\"\n\n\"Yis, faith! Jim O'Brien's wife.\"\n\n\"An' this is Jim O'Brien's house?\"\n\n\"Whose else id it be? But there now, don't talk anny more. Sure, we'll\ntell, ye all about it whin y're betther. The docthor sez y're to be kep'\nquiet.\"\n\n\"But who brought me here?\"\n\n\"Troth, 'twas carried in ye were, an' you near dyin'. Hush up now, will\nye? Take a dhrop o' this, an' thry to go to shleep.\"\n\nWhen Jim came into his supper his wife said to him, \"That craythure\nupstairs is mad to get away. She thinks we begrudge her the bit she\nates.\"\n\nJim was silent. Then he said, \"Sure, annythin' that's bad she'll b'leeve\nov uz.\"\n\n\"But ye've nivir been up to see her. Shlip into the room now, an' ax her\nhow she's goin' on. Let bygones be bygones, in the name of God.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" said Jim.\n\n\"Oh, yes, ye will. Sure, afther all, though ye didn't mane it, ye're the\ncause ov it. Go to her now.\"\n\n\"I don't like.\"\n\n\"Ah, go. 'Tis yer place, an' you sinsibler than she is. Go an' tell her\nto shtay till she's well. Faith, I think that undher all that way of\nhers she's softher than she looks. I tell ye, Jim, I seen her cryin'\nover the dog, bekase she thought 'twas th' only thing that loved her.\"\n\nHalf pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the steep stair, and knocked at\nthe door of Mrs. Macfarlane's attic.\n\n\"Come in,\" said a feeble voice, and he stumbled into the room.\n\nWhen Mrs. Macfarlane saw who it was, a flame lit in her hollow eyes.\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" she said, with grim politeness, \"that yu find me here,\nMisther O'Brien; but it isn't my fault. I wanted tu go a while ago, an'\nyour wife wouldn't let me.\"\n\n\"An' very right she was; you're not fit for it. Sure, don't be talkin'\nov goin' till ye're better, ma'am,\" said Jim, awkwardly. \"Y're heartily\nwelcome for me. I come up to say--to say, I hope y'll be in no hurry to\nmove.\"\n\n\"Yu're very good, but it's not to be expected I'd find myself easy under\nthis roof, where, I can assure yu, I'd never have come of my own free\nwill; an' I apologise to yu, Misther O'Brien, for givin' so much\ntrouble--not that I could help myself.\"\n\n\"Sure, 'tis I that should apologise,\" blurted out Jim; \"an' rale sorry I\nam--though, maybe, ye won't b'lieve me--that I ever dhruv the customers\nout.\"\n\nFor a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak.\n\n\"I could forgive that easier than your rootin' up my lilies,\" she said,\nin a strained voice.\n\n\"But that I never did. God knows an' sees me this night, an' He knows\nthat I never laid a finger on thim. I kem out, an' foun' the dog there\nscrattin' at thim, an' if this was me last dyin' worrd, 'tis thrue.\"\n\n\"An' 'twas really the wee dog?\"\n\n\"It was, though I done wrong in laughin' at him, an' cheerin' him on;\nbut, sure, ye wouldn't mind me whin I told ye he was at me roses, an' I\nthought it sarved ye right, an' that ye called him 'King William' to\nspite me.\"\n\n\"So I did,\" said Mrs. Macfarlane, and, she added, more gently, \"I'm\nsorry now.\"\n\n\"Are ye so?\" said Jim, brightening. \"Faith, I'm glad to hear ye say it.\nWe was both in the wrong, ye see, an' if you bear no malice, I don't.\"\n\n\"Yu have been very good to me, seein' how I misjudged you,\" said Mrs.\nMacfarlane.\n\n\"Not a bit ov it; an' 'twas the wife anyhow, for, begorra, I was\nhardened against ye, so I was.\"\n\n\"An' yu've spent yer money on me, an' I----\"\n\n\"Sure, don't say a worrd about id. I owed it to you, so I did, but,\nbegorra, ye won't have to complain ov wantin' custom wanst yer well.\"\n\nMrs. Macfarlane smiled wanly.\n\n\"No chance o' that, I'm afraid. What with my illness an' all that went\nbefore it, business is gone. Look at the place shut up this three weeks\nan' more.\"\n\n\"Not it,\" said Jim. \"Sure, sence y've been sick I put our little Kitty,\nthe shlip, in charge of the place, an' she's made a power o' money for\nye, an' she on'y risin' sixteen, an' havin' to help her mother an' all.\nShe's a clever girl, so she is, though I sez it, an' she ruz the prices\nall round. She couldn't manage with the cakes, not knowin' how to bake\nthim like yerself; but sure I bought her plenty ov biscuits at\nConnolly's; and her mother cut her sandwidges, an' made tay, an' the\ndhrinks was all there as you left them, an' Kitty kep' count ov all she\nsould.\"\n\nMrs. Macfarlane looked at him for a moment queerly then she drew the\nsheet over her face, and began to sob.\n\nJim, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, crept downstairs.\n\n\"Go to the craythure, Mary,\" he said. \"Sure, she's cryin'. We've made it\nup--an' see here, let her want for nothin'.\"\n\nMary ran upstairs, took grim Mrs. Macfarlane in her arms, and actually\nkissed her; and Mrs. Macfarlane's grimness melted away, and the two\nwomen cried together for sympathy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow, as the trains come into Toomevara station, Jim goes from carriage\nto carriage making himself a perfect nuisance to passengers with\nwell-filled luncheon baskets. \"Won't ye have a cup o' tay, me lady?\nThere's plinty ov time, an' sure, we've the finest tay here that you'll\nget on the line. There's nothin' like it this side o' Dublin; A glass o'\nwhiskey, sir? 'Tis on'y the best John Jameson that's kep', or sherry\nwine? Ye won't be shtoppin' agin annywheres that you'll like it as well.\nSure, if ye don't want to get out--though there's plinty o' time--I'll\ngive the ordher an' have it sent over to yez. Cakes, ma'am, for the\nlittle ladies? 'Tis a long journey, an' maybe they'll be hungry--an\napples? Apples is mighty good for childher. She keeps fine apples if ye\nlike thim.\"\n\nMrs. Macfarlane has grown quite fat, is at peace with all mankind, takes\nthe deepest interest in the O'Brien family, and calls her dog \"Billy.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [1] A blade of grass.\n\n  [2] Hag\n\n\n\n\nQuin's Rick.\n\n_From \"Doings and Dealings.\"_\n\nBY JANE BARLOW.\n\n\nClear skies and gentle breezes had so favoured Hugh Lennon's harvesting\nthat his threshing was all safely done by the first week in October, and\nas the fine weather still continued, he took his wife, according to\npromise, for a ten days' stay at the seaside. Mrs. Hugh was rather young\nand rather pretty, and much more than rather short-tempered. The\nneighbours often remarked that they would not be in Hugh Lennon's coat\nfor a great deal--at times specifying very considerable sums.\n\nFrom her visit to Warrenpoint, however, she returned home in high good\nhumour, and ran gaily upstairs to remove her flowery hat, announcing\nthat she would do some fried eggs, Hugh's favourite dish, for their tea.\nHence, he was all the more disconcerted when, as he followed her along\nthe little passage, she suddenly wheeled round upon him, and confronted\nhim with a countenance full of wrath. She had merely been looking for a\nmoment out of the small end window, and why, in the name of fortune,\nmarvelled Hugh, should that have put her in one of her tantrums? But it\nevidently had done so. \"Saw you ever the like of that?\" she demanded\nfuriously, pointing through the window.\n\n\"The like of what at all?\" said Hugh.\n\n\"Look at it,\" said Mrs. Hugh, and drummed with the point of her umbrella\non a pane.\n\nHugh looked, and saw, conspicuous at a short distance beyond their\nbackyard, a portly rick of straw, which their neighbour, Peter Quin, had\nnearly finished building. A youth was tumbling himself about on top of\nit with much agility, and shouting \"Pull!\" at each floundering fall.\n\"Sure,\" said Hugh, \"it's nothing, only young Jim Quin leppin' their\nrick.\"\n\n\"I wisht he'd break every bone in his ugly body, then, while he's at\nit,\" declared Mrs. Hugh.\n\n\"It's a quare wish to be wishin' agin the poor, decent lad,\" said her\nhusband, \"and he lepping plenty of ricks for ourselves before now.\"\n\n\"And what call have they to be cocking up e'er a one there,\" said Mrs.\nHugh, \"where there was never such a thing seen till this day?\"\n\n\"Why wouldn't they?\" said Hugh. \"It's a handy place enough for a one, I\nshould say, there on the bit of a headland.\"\n\n\"How handy it is!\" said his wife, \"and it shutting out the gap in the\nfence on me that was the only glimpse I had into our lane.\"\n\n\"Well, supposing it does, where's the odds?\" said Hugh. \"There's ne'er a\nmuch in the lane for anybody to be glimpsing at.\"\n\n\"The greatest convenience in the world it was,\" declared Mrs. Hugh, \"to\nbe able to see you crossing it of a morning, and you coming in from the\nlower field, the way I could put the bit of bacon down ready for the\nbreakfast.\"\n\n\"Musha, good gracious, woman alive, if that's all's ailing you, where's\nthe need to be so exact?\" said Hugh.\n\n\"Exact, is it?\" said Mrs. Hugh. \"Maybe you'd like to have the whole of\nit melted away into grease with being set on the fire half an hour too\nsoon. Or else you to be standing about open-mouthed under me feet, like\na starving terrier, waiting till it's fit to eat. That's how it'll be,\nanyway, like it or lump it. And I used to be watching for old Matty\nFlanaghan going by with the post-bag, and the Keoghs coming back from\nearly Mass--'twas as good as an extra clock for telling the time. But\nnow, with that big lump of a thing stuck there, I might as well be shut\nup inside of any old prison. Them Quins done it a-purpose to annoy me,\nso they did. Sorra another raison had they, for what else 'ud make them\ntake and build it behind our backs? But put up with it is what I won't\ndo. Stepping over to them I'll be this night, and letting them know how\nlittle I think of themselves and their mean tricks. And if I see old\nPeter, I'll tell him you'll have the law of him unless he gets it\ncleared away out of that to-morrow. Bedad will I; and yourself 'ud say\nthe same, if you had as much spirit in you as a moulting chicken.\"\n\n\"Have sense, Julia,\" Hugh remonstrated, wedging in a protest with\ndifficulty. \"Stop where you are, now, quiet and peaceable. It's only\nmaking a show of yourself you'd be, running out that way raging about\nnothing What foolish talk have you about the man moving his rick, that\nhe's just after building? You might as well be bidding him move\nKnockrinkin over yonder; and he more betoken with his haggart bursting\nfull this minyit. What annoyance is there in the matter, Julia woman?\nSure in any case it won't be any great while standing there, you may\ndepend, and they bedding cattle with it, let alone very belike sending\nin cartloads of it every week to the market. Just content yourself and\nbe aisy.\"\n\nBut, as he had more than half expected, Hugh spoke to no purpose. His\nwife would not be said by him, and his expostulations, in fact, merely\nhastened her impetuous departure on her visit to the Quins. She returned\neven more exasperated than she had set out, and from her report of the\ninterview Hugh gathered that she had stormed with much violence, giving\neverybody \"the height of abuse.\" He was fain to console himself with the\nrather mortifying reflection that \"the Quins knew well enough she did be\napt to take up with quare nonsensical fantigues, that nobody minded.\"\n\nA hope that the morrow might find her more reasonable proved entirely\nvain, as many additional grievances, resented with increasing\nbitterness, had been evolved during the night. When Hugh went out to his\nwork, he left her asserting, and believing, that the noise of the wind\nwhistling round the rick hadn't let her get a wink of sleep, and when he\ncame in again he found her on the point of setting off to the police\nbarracks that she might charge the Quins with having \"littered her yard\nall over with wisps of straw blown off their hijjis old rick, till the\nunfortunate hens couldn't see the ground under their feet.\" This\noutrage, it appeared, had been aggravated by Micky Quinn, who remarked\ntauntingly, that \"she had a right to feel herself obligated to them for\ndoing her a fine piece of thatching\"; and an interchange of similar\nrejoinders had taken place. On the present occasion Hugh was indeed able\nforcibly to stop her wild expedition by locking both the house doors.\nBut as he knew that these strong measures could not be more than a\ntemporary expedient, and as arguments were very bootless, he was at a\nloss to determine what he should do next. She had begun to drop such\nmenacing hints about lighted matches and rags soaked in paraffin, that\nhe felt loth to leave her at large within reach of those dangerous\nmaterials. Already it had come to his knowledge that rumours were afloat\nin the village about how Mrs. Lennon was threatening to burn down the\nQuin's rick. The truth was that she had said as much to several calling\nneighbours in the course of that day.\n\nHugh's perplexity was therefore not a little relieved when, early on the\nfollowing morning, his wife's eldest married sister, Mrs. Mackay, from\nbeyond Kilcraig, looked in on her way to market. Mrs. Mackay, an\nenergetic person with a strong will regulated by abundant common sense,\nwas one among the few people of whom her flighty sister Julia stood in\nawe. In this emergency her own observations, together with her\nbrother-in-law's statements, soon showed her how matters stood, and she\npromptly decided what steps to take. \"Our best plan,\" she said to Hugh\napart, \"is for Julia to come along home with me. She'll be out of the\nway there of aught to stir up her mind, and she can stop till she gets\npacified again. 'Twill be no great while before she's glad enough to\ncome back here, rick or no rick, you may depend; for we're all\nthrough-other up at our place the now, with one of the childer sick, and\nne'er a girl kept. I'll give her plenty to do helping me, and it's much\nif she won't be very soon wishing she was at home in her own comfortable\nhouse. She doesn't know when she's well off, bedad,\" Mrs. Mackay added,\nglancing half enviously round the tidy little kitchen.\n\nHugh fell in with her views at once. The Mackays lived a couple of miles\nat the other side of Kilcraig, so that Julia would be safely out of\nharm's way, and he could trust her sister to keep her from doing\nanything disastrously foolish. So he cheerfully saw his wife depart, and\nthough her last words were a vehement asseveration that she would\n\"never set foot next or nigh the place again, as long as there did be\ntwo straws slanting together in Quin's dirty old rick,\" he confidently\nexpected to see her there once more without much delay.\n\nUp at the Mackay's struggling farmstead on the side of Knockrinkin, Mrs.\nHugh found things dull enough. Internally the house was incommodious and\ncrowded to uncomfortable excess, and its surroundings externally were\ndesolate and lonesome. Mrs. Hugh remarked discontentedly that if the\ninside and outside of it were mixed together, they'd be better off,\nanyway, for room to turn round in, and quiet to hear themselves speak;\nbut the operation appeared impracticable. Nor were the domestic tasks\nwith which Mrs. Mackay provided her by any means to her taste, and her\ndiscontent continued. One evening, shortly after her arrival, she grew\nso tired of hearing the children squabble and squawl, that as soon as\nsupper was over she slipped out at the back door into the soft-aired\ntwilight. She proposed to wile away some time by searching the furzy,\nmany-bouldered field for mushrooms and blackberries, but neither could\nshe find, and in her quest she wandered a long way down the swarded\nslope, until she came to a low boundary wall. There she stopped, and\nstood looking across the valley towards a wooden patch beyond the\nvillage, which contained her own dwelling, as well as that of the\nhateful Quins. Her wrath against them burned more fiercely than ever at\nthe reflection that they were clearly to blame for her present tedious\nexile. The thought of going home, she said to herself, she couldn't\nabide, by reason of their old rick.\n\nThrough the dusk, the darker mass of those trees loomed indistinctly\nlike a stain on the dimness, and Mrs. Hugh fancied that she could make\nout just the site of the Quin's rick--the best of bad luck to it. Why\ndidn't some decent tramp take and sling a spark of a lighted match into\nit, and he passing by with his pipe? As she strained her eyes towards\nit, she suddenly saw on the very spot the glimmer of a golden-red light,\nglancing out among the shadowy trees. For a moment she was startled and\nhalf scared, but then she remembered that it would be nothing more than\nthe harvest moon rising up big through the mist. Hadn't she seen it the\nnight before looking the size of ten? This explanation, at least, half\ndisappointed her, and she said to herself with dissatisfaction, watching\nthe gleam waver and brighten, that it looked as red as fire, and she\nwished to goodness it was the same as it looked. \"There'd be nothing\naisier than setting the whole concern in a blaze standing so convanient\nto the road,\" she thought, while she gazed and gazed with tantalised\nvindictiveness over the low, tumble-down wall.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMore than two hours later Mrs. Hugh Lennon came hurrying in at the\nMackay's back-door. By this time it was dark night outside, and she\nfound only Mrs. Mackay in the kitchen, for himself and the children had\ngone to bed.\n\n\"Where in the world have you been all the evening?\" Mrs. Mackay\ninquired, with some indignation. \"Leaving me with nobody to give me a\nhand with the childer or anything, and keeping me now waiting up till\nevery hour of the night.\"\n\n\"Quin's rick's burnt down,\" burst out Mrs. Hugh, who evidently had not\nheard a word of her sister's remonstrance. She looked excited and\nexultant; her hair was roughened by the wind, and her skirts were\nbedraggled with a heavy dew brushed off tussocks and furze bushes. Mrs.\nMackay eyed her with a start of vague suspicion.\n\n\"And who did you get that news from,\" she said, \"supposing it's true?\"\n\n\"Amn't I after seeing it with me own eyes?\" triumphed Mrs. Hugh.\n\"Watching it blazing this long while down below there by Connolly's\nfence. First of all I thought it was only the old moon rising, that\nwould do us no good; but sure not at all, glory be! Burnt down to the\nground it is, every grain of it; and serve them very right.\"\n\n\"What took you trapesing off down there, might I ask?\" inquired Mrs.\nMackay, her scrutiny of her sister growing more mistrustful.\n\n\"Is it what took me?\" said Mrs. Hugh. \"I dunno rightly. Och, let me see;\nabout getting some mushrooms I was, I believe, and blackberries.\"\n\n\"A likely time of night it was to be looking for such things,\" said Mrs.\nMackay, \"and a dale of them you got.\"\n\n\"There isn't a one in it; all of them's as red as coals of fire yet, or\nelse as green as grass--sure, what matter?\" said Mrs. Hugh. \"Anyway, I\nwas took up with watching the baste of an old rick flaring itself into\nflitters; and a rale good job.\"\n\n\"A job it is that you're very apt to have raison to repent of,\" Mrs.\nMackay said severely, \"if so be you had act or part in it.\"\n\n\"Is it me?\" Mrs. Hugh said, and laughed derisively. \"Raving you are, if\nthat's your notion. A great chance I'd have to be meddling or making\nwith it, and I stuck up here out of reach of everything. I only wisht\nI'd been at our own place to get a better sight.\"\n\n\"How can I tell what chances you have or haven't, and you after running\nwild through the country for better than a couple of hours?\" Mrs. Mackay\nsaid. \"Plenty of time had you for the matter, to be skyting there and\nback twice over, if you was up to any sort of mischief; let alone going\nabout talking and threatening, and carrying on, till everybody in the\nparish is safe to be of the opinion yourself was contriving it with\nwhoever done it, supposing you didn't do it all out. And it's the quare\ntrouble you might very aisy get yourself into for that same, let me tell\nyou. There was a man at Joe's place that got three years for being\nconcerned in setting a light to a bit of an old shed, no size to speak\nof; so, if the next thing we see of you is walking off between a pair of\npolice constables, yourself you'll have to thank for it. I only hope\npoor Hugh won't be blaming me for letting you out of me sight this\nevening.\"\n\n\"Och, good luck to yourself and your polis!\" Mrs. Hugh said, defiantly.\n\"It's little I care who lit the old rick, and its little I care what any\npeople's troubling theirselves to think about it. I'd liefer be after\ndoing it than not--so there's for you. But what I won't do is stop here\nlistening to your fool's romancing. So good-night to you kindly.\"\n\nWith that Mrs. Hugh flounced clattering up the little steep stairs, and\nhurled herself like a compressed earthquake-wave into her bedroom. Mrs.\nMackay, following her, stumped along more slowly. \"Goodness forgive me\nfor saying so,\" she reflected, \"but Julia's a terrific woman to have any\ndoings or dealings with. She's not to hold or bind when she takes the\nnotion, and the dear knows what she's been up to now; something\noutrageous most likely. The Lord Chief Justice himself couldn't control\nher. Beyond me she is entirely.\"\n\nNevertheless, her warnings were not without effect, and at their next\ninterview, she found her sister in a meeker mood.\n\nIt was when Mrs. Mackay was in the cowhouse milking, before breakfast,\nthat Julia appeared to her, hurrying in with a demeanour full of dismay.\n\"Och, Bridgie, what will I do?\" she said.\n\n\"What's happint you now?\" Bridgie replied, with a studied want of\nsympathy.\n\n\"I'm just after looking out of me window,\" Julia said, \"and there's two\nof the polis out of the barracks below standing at the roadgate, having\ngreat discoursing with Dan Molloy, and about coming into this place they\nare. Ne'er a bit of me knows what's bringing them so outlandish early;\nbut I'll take me oath, Bridgie darlint, I'd nought to do, good or bad,\nwith burning the rick. It might ha' went on fire of itself. Hand nor\npart I hadn't in it. So you might be telling them that to your certain\nknowledge I was up here the whole time, and sending them about their\nbusiness--there's a good woman.\"\n\nOn further reflection Mrs. Mackay had already concluded that Julia\nprobably was not guilty of incendiarism; still, she considered her\nsister's alarmed state a favourable opportunity for a lesson on the\nexpediency of behaving herself. Therefore she was careful to give no\nreassuring response.\n\n\"'Deed, now, I dunno what to say to it all,\" she declared, \"and I\ncouldn't take it on me conscience to go swear in a court of justice\nthat I knew where you might be yesterday late. More betoken there was\nthe bad talk you had out of you about the Quins before you come here,\nthat they'll be bringing up agin you now, you may depend. An ugly\nappearance it has, sure enough, the two of them coming over at this\nhour. As headstrong you are as a cross-tempered jennet; but if you'll\ntake my advice you'll keep yourself out of their sight the best way you\ncan, till I see what they want with you, and then if it's a warrant\nthey've got, I might try persuade them to go look for you somewheres\nelse. That's the best I can do, and, of course, I can't say whether they\nwill or no, but maybe--\"\n\nFor a wonder Mrs. Hugh did take this advice, and most promptly, rushing\nwith a suppressed wail out of the cowhouse and into a shed close by,\nwhere she crouched behind a heap of hay, the first hiding-place that\npresented itself to her in her panic. She had spent a great part of the\npast night in meditation on her sister's alarming statements; and now\nthe ominous arrival of the police put a finishing touch to her fright.\nHow was she to escape from them, or to exculpate herself? Bridgie\nevidently either could or would do little or nothing. At this dreadful\ncrisis in her affairs her thoughts turned longingly towards her own\nhouse down below, where there was Hugh, poor man, who would certainly\nhave, somehow, prevented her from being dragged off to Athmoran gaol,\neven if he did believe her to have burnt the rick. Through the dusty\nshed window she saw two dark, flat-capped, short-caped figures\nsauntering up to the front door, whereupon with a sudden desperate\nimpulse, she stole out, and fled down the cart-track along which they\nhad just come. Getting a good start of them, she said to herself, she\nmight be at home again with Hugh before they could overtake her--and one\nof them, she added, as fat as a prize pig.\n\nAs Mrs. Hugh ran most of the road's two long miles, she was considerably\nout of breath when she came round a turn which brought into view an\nexpected and an unexpected object. The one was Hugh walking out of his\nown gate, the other Quin's rick, still rearing its glistening yellow\nridge into the sunshine.\n\n\"Well, now, Julia woman, and is it yourself?\" Hugh said, as she darted\nacross the road to him. \"What's took you to be tearing along at that\nrate, and without so much as a shawl over your head?\"\n\n\"Thinking I was to meet you before this--kilt I am, running all the\nway,\" she said, panting. \"And I do declare there's the big rick in it\nyet.\"\n\nHugh's face fell. \"Whethen now, if it's with the same old blathers\nyou're come back,\" he said, in a disgusted tone, \"there was no need for\nyou to be in any such great hurry.\"\n\n\"Ne'er a word was I going to say agin it at all,\" said his wife, \"and I\nmaking sure the constables would be after me every minyit for burning it\ndown.\"\n\n\"What the mischief put that notion in your head?\" said Hugh.\n\n\"I seen the blaze of a great fire down here last night,\" she said, \"and\nI thought it would be Quin's rick, and they knowing I had some talk\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Sure 'twas just the big heap of dead branches and old trunks,\" said\nHugh, \"that's lying at the end of the cow-lane ever since the big wind.\nIt took and went on fire yesterday evening; raison good, there was a\ncartful of Wexford tinkers went by in the afternoon, and stopped to\nboil their kettle close under it. A fine flare-up it made, and it as dry\nas tinder; but I'd scarce ha' thought you'd see it that far. Lucky it is\nthe old sticks was fit for nothing much, unless some poor bodies may be\nat a loss for firewood this next winter. Come along in, Julia, and wet\nyourself a cup of tay. You'd a right to be tired trotting about that\nway. And as for the polis, bedad, they'd have their own work cut out for\nthem, if they was to be taking up everybody they heard talking foolish.\"\n\nNot long after Mrs. Hugh had finished her cup, Mrs. Mackay arrived,\nalighting flurriedly from a borrowed seat on a neighbour's car.\n\n\"So it's home you ran, Julia,\" she said, sternly. \"Well, now, I wonder\nyou had that much sense itself. Looking for you high and low we were,\nafter the polis had gone, that only come to get the number of our\nchickens--counting the feathers on them next, I suppose they'll be--and\nall romancing it was about anything happening the rick. But frightened I\nwas out of me wits, till little Joey said he seen you quitting out at\nthe gate. So then I come along to see what foolish thing you might be\nabout doing next.\"\n\n\"She's likely to be doing nothing foolisher than giving you a cup of\ntay, Bridgie,\" Hugh interposed, soothingly. \"And mightn't you be frying\nus a few eggs in the pan, Julia? Old Nan Byrne's just after bringing in\ntwo or three fresh ones she got back of the Quins' rick, where our hins\ndo be laying.\"\n\n\"'Twill be a handy place for finding them in,\" Mrs. Hugh said, blandly.\nAnd both her experienced hearers accepted the remark as a sign that\nthese hostilities were over.\n\n\n\n\nMaelshaughlinn at the Fair.\n\n_From \"My Irish Year.\"_\n\nBY PADRAIC COLUM.\n\n\nIt was about horses, women, and music, and, in the mouth of\nMaelshaughlinn, the narrative had the exuberance of the fair and the\ncolour of a unique exploit. I found Maelshaughlinn alone in the house in\nthe grey dawn succeeding his adventure. \"This morning,\" he said, \"I'm\nthe lonesome poor fellow without father or mother, a girl's promise, nor\nmy own little horse.\" He closed the door against a reproachful sunrise,\nand, sitting on a little three-legged stool, he told me the story.\n\nPenitentially he began it, but he expanded with the swelling narrative.\n\"This time last week,\" said Maelshaughlinn, \"I had no thought of parting\nwith my own little horse. The English wanted beasts for a war, and the\nfarmers about here were coining money out of horseflesh. It seemed that\nthe buyers were under a pledge not to refuse anything in the shape of a\nhorse, and so the farmers made horses out of the sweepings of the\nknackers' yards, and took horses out of ha'penny lucky-bags and sold\nthem to the English. Yesterday morning I took out my own little beast\nand faced for Arvach Fair. I met the dealer on the road. He was an\nEnglishman, and above all nations on the face of the earth, the English\nare the easiest to deal with in regard of horses. I tendered him the\nprice--it was an honest price, but none of our own people would have\ntaken the offer in any reasonable way. An Irishman would have cursed\ninto his hat, so that he might shake the curses out over my head. The\nEnglishman took on to consider it, and my heart went threshing my ribs.\nThen he gave me my price, paid me in hard weighty, golden sovereigns and\nwent away, taking the little horse with him.\n\n\"I sat down on the side of a ditch to take a breath. Now you'll say that\nI ought to have gone back to the work, and I'll say that I agree with\nyou. But no man can be wise at all times. Anyway, I was sitting on a\nditch, with a lark singing over every foot of ground, and nothing before\nme but the glory of the day. A girl came along the road, and, on my\nsoul, I never saw a girl walking so finely. 'She'll be a head above\nevery girl in the fair,' said I, 'and may God keep the brightness on her\nhead.' 'God save you, Maelshaughlinn,' said the girl. 'God save you, my\njewel,' said I. I stood up to look after her, for a fine woman, walking\nfinely, is above all the sights that man ever saw. Then a few lads\npassed, whistling and swinging their sticks. 'God give you a good day,'\nsaid the lads. 'God give you luck boys,' said I. And there was I,\nswinging my stick after the lads, and heading for the fair.\n\n\"'Never go into a fair where you've no business.' That's an oul' saying\nand a wise saying, but never forget that neither man nor immortal can be\nwise at all times. Satan fell from heaven, Adam was cast out of\nParadise, and even your Uncle broke his pledge.\n\n\"When I came into the fair there was a fiddler playing behind a tinker's\ncart. I had a shilling to spend in the town, and so I went into Flynn's\nand asked for a cordial. A few most respectable men came in then, and I\nasked them to take a treat from me. Well, one drank, and another drank,\nand then Rose Heffernan came into the shop with her brother. Young\nHeffernan sent the glasses round, and then I asked Rose to take a glass\nof wine, and I put down a sovereign on the counter. The fiddler was\ncoming down the street, and I sent a young lad out to him with silver. I\nstood for a while talking with Rose, and I heard the word go round the\nshop concerning myself. It was soon settled that I had got a legacy. The\npeople there never heard of any legacies except American legacies, and\nso they put my fortune down to an uncle who had died, they thought, in\nthe States. Now, I didn't want Rose to think that my money was a common\nlegacy out of the States, so by half-words I gave them to understand\nthat I had got my fortune out of Mexico. Mind you, I wasn't far out when\nI spoke of Mexico, for I had a grand-uncle who went out there, and his\npicture is in the house this present minute.\n\n\"Well, after the talk of a Mexican legacy went round, I couldn't take\nany treats from the people, and I asked everyone to drink again. I think\nthe crowds of the world stood before Flynn's counter. A big Connachtman\nheld up a Mexican dollar, and I took it out of his hand and gave it to\nRose Heffernan. I paid him for it, too, and it comes into my mind now,\nthat I paid him for it twice.\n\n\"There's not, on the track of the sun, a place to come near Arvach on\nthe day of a fair. A man came along leading a black horse, and the size\nof the horse and the eyes of the horse would terrify you. There was a\ndrift of sheep going by, and the fleece of each was worth gold. There\nwere tinkers with their carts of shining tins, as ugly and quarrelsome\nfellows as ever beat each other to death in a ditch, and there were the\npowerful men, with the tight mouths, and the eyes that could judge a\nbeast, and the dark, handsome women from the mountains. To crown all, a\npiper came into the town by the other end, and his music was enough to\nput the blood like a mill-race through your heart. The music of the\npiper, I think, would have made the beasts walk out of the fair on their\nhind legs, if the music of the fiddler didn't charm them to be still.\nGrace Kennedy and Sheela Molloy were on the road, and Rose Heffernan was\ntalking to them. Grace Kennedy has the best wit and the best discourse\nof any woman within the four seas, and she said to the other girls as I\ncame up, 'Faith, girls, the good of the Mission will be gone from us\nsince Maelshaughlinn came into the fair, for the young women must be\ntalking about his coming home from the sermon.' Sheela Molloy has the\nsoftest hair and the softest eyes of anything you ever saw. She's a\ngrowing girl, with the spice of the devil in her. 'It's not the best\nmanners,' said I, 'to treat girls to a glass across the counter, but\ncome into a shop,' said I, 'and let me pay for your fancy.' Well, I\npersuaded them to come into a shop, and I got the girls to make Sheela\nask for a net for her hair. They don't sell these nets less than by the\ndozen, so I bought a dozen nets for Sheela's hair. I bought ear-rings\nand brooches, dream-books and fortune books, buckles, and combs, and I\nthought I had spent no more money than I'd thank you for picking up off\nthe floor. A tinker woman came in and offered to tell the girls their\nfortunes, and I had to cross her hand with silver.\n\n\"I came out on the street after that, and took a few turns through the\nfair. The noise and the crowd were getting on my mind, and I couldn't\nthink, with any satisfaction, so I went into Mrs. Molloy's, and sat for\na while in the snug. I had peace and quiet there, and I began to plan\nout what I would do with my money. I had a notion of going into Clooney\non Tuesday, and buying a few sheep to put on my little fields, and of\ntaking a good craftsman home from the fair, a man who could put the fine\nthatch on my little house. I made up my mind to have the doors and\nwindows shining with paint, to plant a few trees before the door, and to\nhave a growing calf going before the house. In a while, I thought, I\ncould have another little horse to be my comfort and consolation. I\nwasn't drinking anything heavier than ginger ale, so I thought the whole\nthing out quietly. After a while I got up, bid good-bye to Mrs. Molloy,\nand stood at the door to watch the fair.\n\n\"There was a man just before me with a pea and thimble, and I never saw\na trick-of-the-loop with less sense of the game. He was winning money\nright and left, but that was because the young fellows were before him\nlike motherless calves. Just to expose the man I put down a few pence on\nthe board. In a short time I had fleeced my showman. He took up his\nboard and went away, leaving me shillings the winner.\n\n\"I stood on the edge of the pavement wondering what I could do that\nwould be the beating of the things I had done already. By this time the\nfiddler and the piper were drawing nigh to each other, and there was a\nmusician to the right of me and a musician to the left of me. I sent\nsilver to each, and told them to cease playing as I had something to\nsay. I got up on a cart and shook my hat to get silence. I said, 'I'm\ngoing to bid the musicians play in the market square, and the man who\ngets the best worth out of his instrument will get a prize from me.'\nThe words were no sooner out of my mouth than men, women and children\nmade for the market square like two-year-olds let loose.\n\n\"You'd like the looks of the fiddler, but the piper was a black-avis'd\nfellow that kept a troop of tinkers about him. It was the piper who\nsaid, 'Master, what's the prize to be?' Before I had time to think, the\nfiddler was up and talking. 'He's of the oul' ancient race,' said the\nfiddler, 'and he'll give the prizes that the Irish nobility gave to the\nmusicians--a calf, the finest calf in the fair, a white calf, with skin\nas soft as the fine mist on the ground, a calf that gentle that the\nsmoothest field under him would look as rough as a bog.' And the fiddler\nwas that lifted out of himself that he nearly lept over a cart. Somebody\npushed in a young calf, and then I sat down on a stone, for there was no\nuse in saying anything or trying to hear anything after that. The\nfiddler played first, and I was nearly taken out of my trouble when I\nheard him, for he was a real man of art, and he played as if he were\nplaying before a king, with the light of heaven on his face. The piper\nwas spending his silver on the tinkers, and they were all deep in drink\nwhen he began to play. At the first sound of the pipes an old\ntinker-woman fell into a trance. It was powerful, but the men had to tie\nhim up with a straw rope, else the horses would have kicked the slates\noff the market-house roof. Nobody was quiet after that. There were a\nthousand men before me offering to sell me ten thousand calves, each\ncalf whiter than the one before. There was one party round the fiddler\nand another party round the piper. I think it was the fiddler that won;\nanyway, he had the strongest backing, for they hoisted the calf on to a\ncart, and they put the fiddler beside it, and the two of them would\nhave got out of the crowd, only the tinkers cut the traces of the yoke.\nI was saved by a few hardy men, who carried me through the market-house\nand into Flynn's by a back way, and there I paid for the calf.\n\n\"When I came out of Flynn's the people were going home quiet enough. I\ngot a lift on Fardorrougha's yoke, and everybody, I think, wanted me to\ncome to Clooney on Tuesday next. I think I'd have got out of Arvach with\nsafety, only a dead-drunk tinker wakened up and knew me, and he gave a\nyell that brought the piper hot-foot after me. First of all, the piper\ncursed me. He had a bad tongue, and he put on me the blackest, bitterest\ncurses you ever heard in your life. Then he lifted up the pipes, and he\ngave a blast that went through me like a spear of ice.\n\n\"The man that sold me the calf gave me a luck-penny back, and that's all\nthe money I brought out of Arvach fair.\n\n\"Never go into the fair where you have no business.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Rev. J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary.\n\n_From \"Spanish Gold.\"_\n\nBY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM (1865--).\n\n\nThe Chief Secretary lay back in Higginbotham's hammock-chair. There was\na frown on his face. His sense of personal dignity was outraged by the\nstory he had just heard. He had not been very long Chief Secretary of\nIreland, and, though not without a sense of humour, he took himself and\nhis office very seriously. He came to Ireland intending to do justice\nand show mercy. He looked forward to a career of real usefulness. He was\nprepared to be opposed, maligned, misunderstood, declared capable of\nevery kind of iniquity. He did not expect to be treated as a fool. He\ndid not expect that an official in the pay of one of the Government\nBoards would assume as a matter of course that he was a fool and believe\nany story about him, however intrinsically absurd. He failed to imagine\nany motive for the telling of such a story. There must, he assumed, have\nbeen a motive, but what it was he could not even guess.\n\nMeldon entered the hut without knocking at the door.\n\n\"Mr. Willoughby, I believe,\" he said, cheerily. \"You must allow me to\nintroduce myself since Higginbotham isn't here to do it for me. My name\nis Meldon, the Rev. J. J. Meldon, B.A., of T.C.D.\"\n\nThe Chief Secretary intended to rise with dignity and walk out of the\nhut. He failed because no one can rise otherwise than awkwardly out of\nthe depths of a hammock-chair.\n\n\"Don't stir,\" said Meldon, watching his struggles. \"Please don't stir. I\nshouldn't dream of taking your chair. I'll sit on the corner of the\ntable. I'll be quite comfortable, I assure you. How do you like\nInishgowlan, now you are here? It's a nice little island, isn't it?\"\n\nMr. Willoughby succeeded in getting out of his chair. He walked across\nthe hut, turned his back on Meldon, and stared out of the window.\n\n\"I came up here to have a chat with you,\" said Meldon. \"Perhaps you\nwouldn't mind turning round; I always find it more convenient to talk to\na man who isn't looking the other way. I don't make a point of it, of\ncourse. If you've got into the habit of keeping your back turned to\npeople, I don't want you to alter it on my account.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby turned round. He seemed to be on the point of making an\nangry remark. Meldon faced him with a bland smile. The look of\nirritation faded in Mr. Willoughby's face. He appeared puzzled.\n\n\"It's about Higginbotham's bed,\" said Meldon, \"that I want to speak.\nIt's an excellent bed, I believe, though I never slept in it myself.\nBut,----\"\n\n\"If there's anything the matter with the bed,\" said Mr. Willoughby\nseverely, \"Mr. Higginbotham should himself represent the facts to the\nproper authorities.\"\n\n\"You quite misunderstand me. And, in any case, Higginbotham can't move\nin the matter because he doesn't, at present, know that there's anything\nwrong about the bed. By the time he finds out, it will be too late to\ndo anything. I simply want to give you a word of advice. Don't sleep in\nHigginbotham's bed to-night.\"\n\n\"I haven't the slightest intention of sleeping in it.\"\n\n\"That's all right. I'm glad you haven't. The fact is\"--Meldon's voice\nsank almost to a whisper--\"there happens to be a quantity of broken\nglass in that bed. I need scarcely tell a man with your experience of\nlife that broken glass in a bed isn't a thing which suits everybody.\nIt's all right, of course, if you're used to it, but I don't suppose you\nare.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby turned, this time towards the door. There was something\nin the ingenuous friendliness of Meldon's face which tempted him to\nsmile. He caught sight of Higginbotham standing white and miserable on\nthe threshold. He made a snatch at the dignity which had nearly escaped\nhim and frowned severely.\n\n\"I think, Mr. Higginbotham,\" he said, \"that I should like to take a\nstroll round the island.\"\n\n\"Come along,\" said Meldon. \"I'll show the sights. You don't mind\nclimbing walls, I hope. You'll find the place most interesting. Do you\ncare about babies? There's a nice little beggar called Michael Pat. Any\none with a taste for babies would take to him at once. And there's a\nlittle girl called Mary Kate, a great friend of Higginbotham's. She's\nthe granddaughter of old Thomas O'Flaherty Pat. By the way, how are you\ngoing to manage about Thomas O'Flaherty's bit of land? There's been a\nlot of trouble over that?\"\n\nMr. Willoughby sat down again in the hammock-chair and stared at Meldon.\n\n\"Of course, it's your affair, not mine,\" said Meldon. \"Still, if I can\nbe of any help to you, you've only got to say so. I know old O'Flaherty\npretty well, and I may say without boasting that I have as much\ninfluence with him as any man on the island.\"\n\n\"If I want your assistance I shall ask for it,\" said Mr. Willoughby,\ncoldly.\n\n\"That's right,\" said Meldon. \"I'll do anything I can. The great\ndifficulty, of course, is the language. You don't talk Irish yourself, I\nsuppose. Higginbotham tells me he's learning. It's a very difficult\nlanguage, highly inflected. I'm not very good at it myself. I can't\ncarry on a regular business conversation in it. By the way, what is your\nopinion of the Gaelic League?\"\n\nA silence followed. Mr. Willoughby gave no opinion of the Gaelic League.\nMeldon sat down again on the corner of the table and began to swing his\nlegs. Higginbotham still stood in the doorway. Mr. Willoughby, with a\nbewildered look on his face, lay back in the hammock-chair.\n\n\"I see,\" said Meldon, \"that you've sent your yacht away. That was what\nmade me think you were going to sleep in Higginbotham's bed. I suppose\nshe'll be back before night.\"\n\n\"Really----\" began Mr. Willoughby.\n\nMeldon replied at once to the tone in which the word was spoken.\n\n\"I don't want to be asking questions. If there's any secret about the\nmatter you're quite right to keep it to yourself. I quite understand\nthat you Cabinet Ministers can't always say out everything that's in\nyour mind. I only mentioned the steamer because the conversation seemed\nto be languishing. You wouldn't talk about Thomas O'Flaherty Pat's\nfield, and you wouldn't talk about the Gaelic League, though I thought\nthat would be sure to interest you. Now you won't talk about the\nsteamer. However, it's quite easy to get on some other subject. Do you\nthink the weather will hold up? The glass has been dropping the last two\ndays.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby struggled out of the hammock-chair again. He drew himself\nup to his full height and squared his shoulders. His face assumed an\nexpression of rigid determination. He addressed Higginbotham:\n\n\"Will you be so good as to go up to the old man you spoke of----\"\n\n\"Thomas O'Flaherty Pat,\" said Meldon. \"That's the man he means, you\nknow, Higginbotham.\"\n\n\"And tell him----\" went on Mr. Willoughby.\n\n\"If you're to tell him anything,\" said Meldon, \"don't forget to take\nsomeone with you who understands Irish.\"\n\n\"And tell him,\" repeated Mr. Willoughby, \"that I shall expect him here\nin about an hour to meet Father Mulcrone.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Meldon. \"So that's where the yacht's gone. You've sent for\nthe priest to talk sense to the old boy. Well, I dare say you're right,\nthough I think we could have managed with the help of Mary Kate. She\nknows both languages well, and she'd do anything for me, though she is\nrather down on Higginbotham. It's a pity you didn't consult me before\nsending the steamer off all the way to Inishmore. However, it can't be\nhelped now.\"\n\nHigginbotham departed on his errand and shut the door of the hut after\nhim. The Chief Secretary turned to Meldon.\n\n\"You've chosen to force your company on me this afternoon in a most\nunwarrantable manner.\"\n\n\"I'll go at once if you like,\" said Meldon. \"I only came up here for\nyour own good, to warn you about the state of Higginbotham's bed. You\nought to be more grateful to me than you are. It isn't every man who'd\nhave taken the trouble to come all this way to save a total stranger\nfrom getting his legs cut with broken glass. However, if you hunt me\naway, of course, I'll go. Only, I think, you'll be sorry afterwards if I\ndo. I may say without vanity that I'm far and away the most amusing\nperson on this island at present.\"\n\n\"As you are here,\" said Mr. Willoughby, \"I take the opportunity of\nasking you what you mean by telling that outrageous story to Mr.\nHigginbotham. I'm not accustomed to having my name used in that way,\nand, to speak plainly, I regard it as insolence.\"\n\n\"You are probably referring to the geological survey of this island.\"\n\n\"Yes. To your assertion that I employed a man called Kent to survey this\nisland. That is precisely what I refer to.\"\n\n\"Then you ought to have said so plainly at first, and not have left me\nto guess at what you were talking about. Many men couldn't have guessed,\nand then we should have been rambling at cross purposes for the next\nhour or so without getting any further. Always try and say plainly what\nyou mean, Mr. Willoughby. I know it's difficult, but I think you'll find\nit pays in the end. Now that I know what's in your mind, I'll be very\nglad to thrash it out with you. You know Higginbotham, of course?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Intimately?\"\n\n\"I met him this afternoon for the first time.\"\n\n\"Then you can't be said really to know Higginbotham. That's a pity,\nbecause without a close and intimate knowledge of Higginbotham, you're\nnot in a position to understand that geological survey story. Take my\nadvice and drop the whole subject until you know Higginbotham better.\nAfter spending a few days on the island in constant intercourse with\nHigginbotham you'll be able to understand the whole thing. Then you'll\nappreciate it. In the meanwhile, I'm sure you won't mind my adding,\nsince we are on the subject,--and it was you who introduced it--that you\nought not to go leaping to conclusions without a proper knowledge of the\nfacts. I said the same thing this morning to Major Kent, when he\ninsisted that you had come here to search for buried treasure.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby pulled himself together with an effort. He felt a sense\nof bewilderment and hopeless confusion. The sensation was familiar. He\nhad experienced it before in the House of Commons when the Irish members\nof both parties asked questions on the same subject. He knew that his\nonly chance was to ignore side-issues, however fascinating, and get back\nat once to the original point.\n\n\"I'm willing,\" he said, \"to listen to any explanation you have to offer;\nbut I do not see how Mr. Higginbotham's character alters, or can alter,\nthe fact that you told him what I can only describe as an outrageous\nlie.\"\n\n\"The worst thing about you Englishmen is that you have such blunt minds.\nYou don't appreciate the lights and shades, the finer nuances, what I\nmay perhaps describe as the chiaroscuro of things. It's just the same\nwith my friend Major Kent. By the way, I ought to apologise for him. He\nought to have come ashore and called upon you this afternoon. It isn't a\nwant of loyalty which prevented him. He's a strong Unionist and on\nprinciple he respects His Majesty's Ministers, whatever party they\nbelong to. The fact is, he was a bit nervous about this geological\nsurvey business. He didn't know exactly how you'd take it. I told him\nthat you were a reasonable man, and that you'd see the thing in a proper\nlight, but he wouldn't come.\"\n\n\"Will you kindly tell me what is the proper light in which to view this\nextraordinary performance of yours?\"\n\n\"Certainly. It will be a little difficult, of course, when you don't\nknow Higginbotham, but I'll try.\"\n\n\"Leave Mr. Higginbotham out,\" said the Chief Secretary, irritably. \"Tell\nme simply this: Were you justified in making a statement which you knew\nto be a baseless invention? How do you explain the fact that you told a\ndeliberate--that you didn't tell the truth?\"\n\n\"I've always heard of you as an educated man. I may assume that you know\nall about pragmatism.\"\n\n\"I don't.\"\n\n\"Well, you ought to. It's a most interesting system of philosophy quite\nworth your while to study. I'm sure you'd like it if you understand it.\nIn fact, I expect you're a pragmatist already without knowing it. Most\nof us practical men are.\"\n\n\"I'm waiting for an explanation of the story you told Mr. Higginbotham.\"\n\n\"Quite right. I'm coming to that in a minute. Don't be impatient. If\nyou'd been familiar with the pragmatist philosophy it would have saved\ntime. As you're not--though as Chief Secretary for Ireland I think you\nought to be--I'll have to explain. Pragmatism may be described as the\nsecularising of the Ritschlian system of theological thought. You\nunderstand the Ritschlian theory of value judgments, of course?\"\n\n\"No, I don't.\" Mr. Willoughby began to feel very helpless. It seemed\neasier to let the tide of this strange lecture sweep over him than to\nmake any effort to assert himself.\n\n\"Do you mind if I smoke?\" he said. \"I think I could listen to your\nexplanation better if I smoked.\"\n\nHe took from his pocket a silver cigar-case.\n\n\"Smoke away,\" said Meldon. \"I don't mind in the least. In fact, I'll\ntake a cigar from you and smoke, too. I can't afford cigars myself, but\nI enjoy them when they're good. I suppose a Chief Secretary is pretty\nwell bound to keep decent cigars on account of his position.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby handed over the case. Meldon selected a cigar and lit it.\nThen he went on--\n\n\"The central position of the pragmatist philosophy and the Ritschlian\ntheology is that truth and usefulness are identical.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"What that means is this. A thing is true if it turns out in actual\npractice to be useful, and false if it turns out in actual practice to\nbe useless. I daresay that sounds startling to you at first, but if you\nthink it over quietly for a while you'll get to see that there's a good\ndeal in it.\"\n\nMeldon puffed at his cigar without speaking. He wished to give Mr.\nWilloughby an opportunity for meditation. Then he went on--\n\n\"The usual illustration--the one you'll find in all the text-books--is\nthe old puzzle of the monkey on the tree. A man sees a monkey clinging\nto the far side of a trunk of a tree--I never could make out how he did\nsee it, but that doesn't matter for the purposes of the illustration. He\n(the man) determines to go round the tree and get a better look at the\nmonkey. But the monkey creeps round the tree so as always to keep the\ntrunk between him and the man. The question is, whether, when he has\ngone round the tree, the man has or has not gone round the monkey. The\nolder philosophers simply gave that problem up. They couldn't solve it,\nbut the pragmatist--\"\n\n\"Either you or I,\" said Mr. Willoughby, feebly, \"must be going mad.\"\n\n\"Your cigar has gone out,\" said Meldon. \"Don't light it again. There's\nnothing tastes worse than a relighted cigar. Take a fresh one. There are\nstill two in the case and I shall be able to manage along with one\nmore.\"\n\n\"Would you mind leaving out the monkey on the tree and getting back to\nthe geological survey story?\"\n\n\"Not a bit. If it bores you to hear an explanation of the pragmatist\ntheory of truth, I won't go on with it. It was only for your sake I went\ninto it. You can just take it from me that the test of truth is\nusefulness. That's the general theory. Now apply it to this particular\ncase. The story I told Higginbotham turned out to be extremely\nuseful--quite as useful as I had any reason to expect. In fact, I don't\nsee that we could very well have got on without it. I can't explain to\nyou just how it was useful. If I did, I should be giving away Major\nKent, Sir Charles Buckley, Euseby Langton, and perhaps old Thomas\nO'Flaherty Pat; but you may take it that the utility of the story has\nbeen demonstrated.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby made an effort to rally. He reminded himself that he was\nCabinet Minister and a great man, that he had withstood the fieriest\neloquence of Members for Munster constituencies, and survived the most\nsearching catechisms of the men from Antrim and Down. He called to mind\nthe fact that he had resolutely said \"No\" to at least twenty-five per\ncent. of the people who came to him in Dublin Castle seeking to have\njobs perpetrated. He tried to realise the impossibility of a mere\ncountry curate talking him down. He hardened his heart with the\nrecollection that he was in the right and the curate utterly in the\nwrong. He sat up as well as he could in the hammock-chair and said\nsternly--\n\n\"Am I to understand that you regard any lie as justifiable if it serves\nits purpose?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Meldon; \"you are missing the whole point. I was\nafraid you would when you prevented me from explaining the theory of\ntruth to you. I never justify lies under any circumstances whatever. The\nthing I'm trying to help you grasp is this: A statement isn't a lie if\nit proves itself in actual practice to be useful--it's true. There, now,\nyou've let that second cigar go out. You'd better light that one again.\nI hate to see a man wasting cigar after cigar, especially when they're\ngood ones.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby fumbled with the matches and made more than one attempt\nto relight the cigar.\n\n\"The reason,\" Meldon went on, \"why I think you're almost certain to be a\npragmatist is that you're a politician. You're constantly having to make\nspeeches, of course; and in every speech you must, more or less, say\nsomething about Ireland. When you are Chief Secretary the other fellow,\nthe man in opposition who wants to be Chief Secretary but isn't, gets up\nand says you are telling a pack of lies. That's not the way he expresses\nhimself, but it's exactly what he means. When his turn comes round to be\nChief Secretary, and you are in opposition, you very naturally say that\nhe's telling lies. Now, that's a very crude way of talking. You are,\nboth of you, as patriotic and loyal men, doing your best to say what is\nreally useful. If the things you say turn out in the end to be useful,\nwhy, then, if you happen to be a pragmatist, they aren't lies.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby stuck doggedly to his point. Just so his countrymen,\nthough beaten by all the rules of war, have from time to time clung to\npositions which they ought to have evacuated.\n\n\"A lie,\" he said, \"is a lie. I don't see that you've made your case at\nall.\"\n\n\"I know I haven't, but that's because you insist on stopping me. If\nyou'll allow me to go back to the man who went round the tree with the\nmonkey on it----\"\n\n\"Don't do that, I can't bear it.\"\n\n\"Very well. I won't. I suppose we may consider the matter closed now,\nand go on to talk of something else.\"\n\n\"No. It's not closed,\" said Mr. Willoughby, with a fine show of spirited\nindignation. \"I still want to know why you told Mr. Higginbotham that I\nsent Major Kent to make a geological survey of this island. It's all\nvery well to talk as you've been doing, but a man is bound to tell the\ntruth and not to deceive innocent people.\"\n\n\"Look here, Mr. Willoughby,\" said Meldon, \"I've sat and listened to you\ncalling me a liar half-a-dozen times, and I havn't turned a hair. I'm\nnot a man with remarkable self-control, and I appreciate your point of\nview. You are irritated because you think you are not being treated with\nproper respect. You assert what you are pleased to call your dignity, by\ntrying to prove that I am a liar. I've stood it from you so far, but I'm\nnot bound to stand it any longer, and I won't. It doesn't suit you one\nbit to take up that high and mighty moral tone, and I may tell you it\ndoesn't impress me. I'm not the British Public, and that bluff honesty\npose isn't one I admire. All these platitudes about lies being lies\nsimply run off my skin. I know that your own game of politics couldn't\nbe played for a single hour without what you choose to describe as\ndeceiving innocent people. Mind you, I'm not blaming you in the least. I\nquite give in that you can't always be blabbing out the exact literal\ntruth about everything. Things couldn't go on if you did. All I say is,\nthat, being in the line of life you are, you ought not to set yourself\nup as a model of every kind of integrity and come out here to an island,\nwhich, so far as I know, nobody ever invited you to visit, and talk\nideal morality to me in the way you've been doing. Hullo! here's\nHigginbotham back again. I wonder if he has brought Thomas O'Flaherty\nPat with him. You'll be interested in seeing that old man, even if you\ncan't speak to him.\"\n\nHigginbotham started as he entered the hut. He did not expect to find\nMeldon there. He was surprised to see Mr. Willoughby crumpled up,\ncrushed, cowed in the depths of the hammock-chair, while Meldon,\ncheerful and triumphant, sat on the edge of the table swinging his legs\nand smoking a cigar.\n\n\"You'd better get that oil stove of yours lit, Higginbotham,\" said\nMeldon. \"The Chief Secretary is dying for a cup of tea. You'd like some\ntea, wouldn't you, Mr Willoughby?\"\n\n\"I would. I feel as if I wanted some tea. You won't say that I'm posing\nfor the British Public if I drink tea, will you?\"\n\nIt was Meldon who lit the stove, and busied himself with the cups and\nsaucers. Higginbotham was too much astonished to assist.\n\n\"There's no water in your kettle,\" said Meldon. \"I'd better run across\nto the well and get some. Or I'll go to Michael Pat's mother and get\nsome hot. That will save time. When I'm there I'll collar a loaf of\nsoda-bread and some butter if I can. I happen to know that she has some\nfresh butter because I helped her to make it.\"\n\nMr. Willoughby rallied a little when the door closed behind Meldon.\n\n\"Your friend,\" he said to Higginbotham, \"seems to me to be a most\nremarkable man.\"\n\n\"He is. In college we always believed that if only he'd give his mind to\nit and taken some interest in his work, he could have done anything.\"\n\n\"I haven't the slightest doubt of it. He has given me a talking to this\nafternoon such as I haven't had since I left school--not since I left\nthe nursery. Did you ever read a book on pragmatism?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You don't happen to know the name of the best book on the subject?\"\n\n\"No, but I'm sure that Meldon--\"\n\n\"Don't,\" said Mr. Willoughby. \"I'd rather not start him on the subject\nagain. Have you any cigars? I want one badly. I got no good of the two I\nhalf smoked while he was here.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. But your own cigar-case has one in it. It's on the\ntable.\"\n\n\"I can't smoke that one. To put it plainly, I daren't. Your friend\nMeldon said he might want it. I'd be afraid to face him if it was gone.\"\n\n\"But it's your own cigar! Why should Meldon----\"\n\n\"It's not my cigar. Nothing in the world is mine any more, not even my\nmind, or my morality, or my self-respect is my own. Mr. Meldon has taken\nthem from me, and torn them in pieces before my eyes. He has left me a\nnervous wreck of a man I once was. Did you say he was a parson?\"\n\n\"Yes. He's curate of Ballymoy.\"\n\n\"Thank God, I don't live in that parish! I should be hypnotised into\ngoing to church every time he preached, and then----. Hush! Can he be\ncoming back already? I believe he is. No other man would whistle as loud\nas that. If he begins to illtreat me again, Mr Higginbotham, I hope\nyou'll try and drag him off. I can't stand much more.\"\n\n\n\n\nOld Tummus and the Battle of Scarva.\n\n_From \"Lady Anne's Walk.\"_\n\nBY ELEANOR ALEXANDER.\n\n\nI found old Tummus scuffling Lady Anne's walk; that is to say, he was\nbusy looking pensively at the weeds as he leaned on his hoe. He never\nsuddenly pretends to be at work when he is not at work, but always\nretains the same calm dignity of carriage. He too frankly despises his\nemployers to admit that either his occasional lapses into action, or his\nmore frequent attitude of storing his reserve force are any concern of\ntheirs.\n\nGathering that he was graciously inclined for conversation by a not\nunfriendly glance which he cast in my direction after he had spat on the\nground, I settled myself to listen.\n\n\"Do ye know what I'm goin' te tell ye?\"\n\nWith this he generally prefaces his remarks. It is, however, merely\nrhetorical. He does not expect an answer; unless one were at least a\nminor prophet it would be impossible to give one, except in the\nnegative. \"Do ye know what I'm goin' te tell ye?\" he repeated, gently,\nraising a weed with his hoe into what looked like a sitting position,\nwhere he held it as if he were supporting it in bed to receive its last\ncommunion. \"There's not a hair's differ betwixt onny two weemen.\" I was\nspeechless, and he continued: \"There is thon boy o' mine, and though I\nsay it that shouldn't, he's a fine boy, so he is, and no ways blate, and\nas brave a boy as you'd wish for te see. From the time he was six year\nold he was that old-fashioned he wouldn't go to church without his boots\nwas right jergers (creakers) that ye'd hear all over the church when he\ncum in a wee bit late: and he cud say off all the responses as bowld as\nbrass. Did I no' learn him his releegion mesel, and bid him foller after\nhim that has gone before?\"\n\nA solemn pause seemed only appropriate here, though I had my doubts.\n\n\"But whiles he tuk te colloque-in' with the wee fellers round the corner\nthere in Irish street. That's so. But I soon quet him o' that. Says I te\nhim: 'Do ye know what I'm goin' te tell ye? Me heart's broke with ye, so\nit is. I'll have no colloque-in' from onny boy o' mine, so I won't.\nYe'll have no traffickin', no, nor passin' o' the time o' day with them\nthat's not yer own sort, and that differs from the Reverend Crampsey;\nhim and me and Johnston of Ballykilbeg, and the Great Example. What's\nthat ye say? Who is the Great Example? Now! Now! Who wud it be, but him\non the white horse?'\"\n\nThis is not, as might be supposed, from the vision of the Apocalypse,\nbut is easily recognised by those who are in the know, as an allusion to\nWilliam of Orange, of \"Glorious, pious, and immortal memory,\" who is\nalways represented on a white horse.\n\n\"But,\" I argued, \"he did traffic with those who disagreed with him; it\nis even said, you know, that when he came to England he subsidised the\nPope.\"\n\nTummus appeared not to have heard this remark.\n\n\"As I was sayin', thon boy o' mine, he has a mind to get hisself\nmarriet. So says I te him, 'There's not a hair's differ between onny\ntwo o' them.' Ye see, it's this way. He has the two o' them courted down\nto the askin', and he's afeard that if he asks the wan he'll think long\nfor the other, or maybe he'll think he'd sooner have had the other.\"\n\n\"He is not behaving well. He can't, of course, marry them both, and yet\nhe has raised hopes which _must_ in one case be disappointed; he might\nbreak the poor girl's heart.\"\n\n\"Break her heart! Hoot. Blethers. Heart is it?\"\n\n\"But,\" I interjected again, merely, of course, to make conversation, for\nI have many times and oft heard his opinion on the subject, and it is\nnot favourable, \"Don't you believe in love?\"\n\nTummus had been twice married. His first wife was called Peggy-Anne, and\nonly lived a year after her marriage. I try to persuade myself and him\nthat this was the romance of his life, but it is up-hill work. The\npresent Mrs. Thomas, who has been his wife for five-and-twenty-years, he\nalways speaks of as \"Thon widdy wumman.\" She was the relict of one John\nM'Adam, whose simple annal in this world seems to be, that he was the\nfirst husband of Tummus's second wife; for the other world, his\nsuccessor considers that, owing to his theological views, he is\ncertainly--well--not in heaven.\n\n\"Do I no believe in love? Why, wumman, dear, have I no seen it mesel?\nSure, and I had an uncle o' me own, me own mother's brother, that was\ntuk that way, and what did he do? but went and got the whole o' Paul's\nwickedest Epistle off, so he did, and offered for te tell it till her,\nall at the wan sitting. Boys, oh! but he was the quare poet! And she got\nmarriet on a boy out o' Ballinahone on him, and do ye know what I'm\ngoin' te tell ye? he tuk to the hills and never did a hand's turn\nafter.\"\n\n\"Surely, Thomas, you have been in love yourself, too, now, with\nPeggy-Anne, and your present wife? When you asked them to marry you, you\nhad to pretend it anyhow. What did you say to them?\"\n\n\"Is it me? Well it was this way; me and Peggy-Anne, we went the pair of\nus to Scarva on the twelfth. Did ever ye hear tell of the battle o'\nScarva? I mind it well. I had a wheen o' cloves in me pocket, and\nPeggy-Anne she had a wee screw o' pepperment sweeties. Says I te her:\n\n\"'Peggy-Anne, wud ye conceit a clove?'\n\n\"And says she te me:\n\n\"'Tak a sweetie, Tummus!'\n\n\"And I went in the mornin' and giv in the names till the Reverend\nCrampsey; so I did.\"\n\nAfter all, there are many worse ways of concluding the business, and few\nthat would be more full of symbol. There is the mutual help; the\ninevitable \"give and take\" of married life; the strength and pungency of\nthe manly clove; the melting sweetness of the maidenly peppermint; two\nsouls united in the savour of both scents combined rising to heaven on\nthe summer air.\n\nI could not recall in the tale or history, or the varied reminiscences\nof married friends on this interesting topic, any manner of \"proposal\"\nmore delicate and less ostentatious. Tummus graciously accepted my\ncongratulations on his elegant good taste, but when I inquired about the\npreliminaries of his second alliance, he only shook his head and\nmuttered, \"Them widdies! Them widdies!\"\n\nIn this there is almost a suggestion that, like Captain Cuttle, he was\ntaken at a disadvantage, but one can scarcely credit it. It seems\nimpossible that he would not have extricated himself with the inspired\ndexterity of a Sherlock Holmes, or the happy resource of a Stanley\nWeyman hero, from whatever dilemma.\n\n\"As I was sayin',\" he resumed, \"Did ever ye hear tell o' the battle o'\nScarva?\"\n\nOf course I had heard of it. Who has not heard of the Oberammergau of\nthe North? There, in a gentleman's prettily wooded park, on a large open\nmeadow sloping down to a clear running brook, is yearly enacted a\nveritable Passion Play of the Battle of the Boyne.\n\n\"I suppose you have often seen it, Thomas.\"\n\n\"I have that; many and many's a time. But there was wan battle that bate\nall--do ye know what I'm goin' te tell ye? I would give a hundred pounds\nte see thon agin--so I wud. Boys, oh! it was gran'. There was me own\naunt's nephew was King William, and him on the top of the beautifullest\nwhite horse ever ye seen, with the mane o' him tied with wee loops o'\nbraid, or'nge and bleue. Himself had an or'nge scarfe on him and bleue\nfeathers te his hat, just like one o' them for'n Princes, and his\nField-marshal and Ginerals just the same, only not so gran'. And King\nJames, they had a fine young horse for him that Dan Cooke bought off the\nReverend Captain Jack in Moy Fair. But he set his ears back, and let a\nsqueal out o' him, and got on with quare maneuvers whenever Andy Wilson\ncame near him, and Andy--that was King James--he says:\n\n\"'I am no used with horse exercise, and I misdoubt thon baste.'\n\n\"'But,' says Dan Cooke, 'up with ye sonny, and no more about it.'\n\n\"Well, with that Andy turned about, and, says he, 'I'll ride no blooded\nhorse out of Moy. I'd sooner travel. I'll ride none, without I have me\nown mare that drawed me and hersel' and the childer out of\nPoyntzpass--so I won't.'\n\n\"With that the Field-marshals and the Ginerals and the Aiden-scampses\naway with them, and they found Andy's mare takin' her piece by the\nroadside, and not agreeable to comin' forbye. Howsumever she was coaxed\nalong with an Aiden-scamp sootherin' her and complimentin' her: 'There's\na daughter, and a wee jooel,' and a Field-marshal holdin' a bite o'\ngrass in the front o' her, and a Gineral persuadin' her in the rare; and\nthey got King James ontil her, and the two armies was drawed up on the\nbanks o' the wee burn that stood for the Boyne Watter. Then they began,\nquite friendly and agreeable-ike, temptin' other.\n\n\"'Come on, ye thirsty tyrant ye,' says William.\n\n\"'Come on, ye low, mane usurper,' says James.\n\n\"'Come on ye heedious enemy to ceevil and releegious liberty, ye,' says\nWilliam.\n\n\"'Come on, ye glorious, pious, and immortal humbug, ye,' says James.\n\n\"'Come on ye Glad-stone ye, and Parnell, and Judas, and Koran--and\nDathan--and Abiram,' says William.\n\n\"'Come on ye onnatural parasite ye, and Crumwell, and Shadrach--and\nMesech--and Abednego,' says James.\n\n\"'Come on ye auld Puseyite, and no more about it,' says William. With\nthat he joined to go forrard, and James he should have come forrard\nfornenst him, but Andy's mare, she just planted the fore-feet o' her\nand stud there the same as she was growed in the ground. With that there\nwas two of the Aiden-scampses come on, and of all the pullin' and\nhaulin'! But de'il a toe would she budge, and all the boys began\nlarfin', so they did, and William says, says he:\n\n\"'Come on till I pull the neck out o' ye.... Come on, me brave boy....\nFetch her a clip on the lug. Hit her a skelp behint. Jab her with yer\nknee, man alive. Och, come on, ye Bap, ye.'\n\n\"Well, the skin o' a pig couldn't stand that, and Andy, he was middlin'\nsmart at a repartee, so 'Bap yersel',' says he, and with that he let a\ngrowl out o' him ye might have heared te Portadown. Ye never heared the\nlike, nor what's more, Andy Wilson's mare, she never heared the like,\nand she just made the wan lep and landed in the strame fornenst William;\nthen James he tuk a howlt o' William, and 'Bap yersel', says he; and\nwith that he coped him off his gran' white horse, and he drooked him in\nthe watter.\n\n\"Then there was the fine play, and the best divarsion ever ye seen. Some\nthey were for William, and some they were for James, and every wan he up\nwith his fut or his fist, or onny other weepon that come convenient, and\nthe boys they were all bloodin' other, and murder and all sorts.\"\n\n\"I thought you were all friends at Scarva?\"\n\n\"And so we were--just friends fightin' through other.\"\n\n\"Was any one hurt?\"\n\n\"Was anyone hurted? Sure, they were just trailin' theirselves off the\nground. Ye wud have died larfin'. There's Jimmy Hanlon was never his own\nman since, and I had me nose broke on me--I find it yet--and some says\nthere was a wee girl from Tanderagee got herself killed.\"\n\n\"What became of William?\"\n\n\"He was clean drowned.\"\n\n\"And King James?\"\n\n\"He's in hell with Johnny M'Adam.\"\n\nI tried to explain that I had not meant the King himself, but the actor\nin whom nature had been stronger than dramatic instinct, but Tummus\neither could not or would not dissociate the two. He really was not\nattending to me: I had perceived for some time that his thoughts were\nwandering far from our conversation. Suddenly a spasm convulsed his\nfeatures. With one hand he raised his hoe in the air like a tomahawk,\ndisregarding the weed of his afternoon's toil, which was left limp and\nhelpless on the gravel; with the other he grasped his side. I feared the\nold man was going to have a fit, but it was only uncontrollable laughter\nat some joke as yet hidden from me.\n\n\"Well, do ye know what I'm goin' te tell ye? I wud just allow William\nwas a middlin' polished boy, so he was. He subsidised the Pope o' Rome,\ndid he? Man, oh! Do ye tell me that? That bates all, and him goin' to\ntake just twiste what he let on.\"\n\nOld Tummus unquestionably was absolutely sober at the beginning of our\ninterview, and had remained \"dry\" during it, but he now became gradually\nintoxicated with what had appeared to him to be his hero's splendid\ncunning. The thought of a genius which could overreach someone else in a\nbargain rose to his brain like champagne. He swayed on his feet; he ran\nhis words into each other; he assumed a gaiety of manner and expression\nquite unusual to him.\n\nI watched him lurch down the walk, and then pause on the bridge. He\nsupported himself by the wooden railing, which creaked as he swayed to\nand fro, and addressed the stream and the trees--\n\n\"Do ye know what I'm goin' to tell ye? I wud just allow he was a\nmiddlin' polished boy--so he was.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Game Leg.\n\n_From \"The Furry Farm.\"_\n\nBY K. F. PURDON.\n\n\nHeffernan's house at the Furry Farm stood very backwards from the\nroadside, hiding itself, you'd really think, from anyone that might be\nhappening by. As if it need do that! Why, there was no more snug,\nwell-looked-after place in the whole of Ardenoo than Heffernan's always\nwas, with full and plenty in it for man and beast, though it wasn't to\nsay too tasty-looking.\n\nAnd it was terrible lonesome. There wasn't a neighbour within the bawl\nof an ass of it. Heffernan, of course, had always been used to it, so\nthat he didn't so much mind; still, he missed Art, after he going off\nwith little Rosy Rafferty. That was nigh hand as bad upon him as losing\nthe girl herself. He had got to depend on Art for every hand's turn, a\nthing that left him worse, when he was without him. And he was very\nslow-going. As long as Julia was there, she did all, and Heffernan might\nstand to one side and look at her. And so he missed her now, more than\never; and still he had no wish to see her back, though even to milk the\ncows came awkward to him.\n\nHe was contending with the work one evening, and the calves in\nparticular were leaving him distracted; above all, a small little white\none that he designed for Rosy, when he'd have her Woman of the House at\nthe Furry Farm. That calf, I needn't say, was not the pick of the bunch,\nbut as Mickey thought to himself, a girl wouldn't know any better than\nchoose a calf by the colour, and there would be no good wasting\nanything of value on her. At all events, it would be \"child's pig and\nDaddy's bacon\" most likely with that calf. But sure, what matter! Rosy\nwas never to have any call to it, or anything else at the Furry Farm.\n\nThose calves were a very sweet lot, so that Mickey might have been\nfeeling all the pleasure in life, just watching them, with their soft,\nlittle muzzles down in the warm, sweet milk, snorting with the pure\nenjoyment. But Mickey was only grousing to get done, and vexed at the\nway the big calves were shoving the little ones away, and still he\ncouldn't hinder them. Art used to regulate them very simple by means of\na little ash quick he kept, to slap the forward calves across the face\nwhen they'd get too impudent. But as often as Mickey had seen him do\nthat, he couldn't do the same. The ash quick was so close to him that if\nit had been any nearer it would have bitten him. Stuck up in a corner of\nthe bit of ruin that had once been Castle Heffernan it was. But it might\nas well have been in America for all the good it was to Mickey.\n\n\"I wish to God I was rid of the whole of yous, this minute!\" says he to\nhimself, and he with his face all red and steamy, and the milk\nslobbering out of the pail down upon the ground, the way the calves were\nbutting him about the legs.\n\nThat very minute, he heard a sound behind him. He turned about, and, my\ndear! the heart jumped into his mouth, as he saw a great, immense red\nface, just peeping over the wall that shut in his yard from the boreen.\nThat wall was no more than four feet high. Wouldn't anyone think it\nstrange to see such a face, only that far from the ground! and it with a\nbushy, black beard around it, and big rolling eyes, and a wide, old hat\ncocked back upon it? You'd have to think it was something \"not right\";\nan Appearance or Witchery work of some kind.\n\nBut, let alone that, isn't there something very terrifying and frightful\nin finding yourself being watched, when you think you're alone; and of\nall things, by a man? The worst of a wild beast wouldn't put the same\nbad fear in your heart.\n\n\"Good evening, Mr. Heffernan,\" says the newcomer, with a grin upon him,\nfree and pleasant; \"that's a fine lot of calves you have there!\"\n\nHeffernan was so put about that he made no answer, and the man went on\nto say, \"Is it that you don't know me? Sure, you couldn't forget poor\nold Hopping Hughie as simple as that!\"\n\nAnd he gave himself a shove, so that he raised his shoulders above the\nwall. A brave, big pair they were, too, but they were only just held up\non crutches. Hughie could balance himself upon them, and get about, as\nhandy as you please. But he was dead of his two legs.\n\n\"Oh, Hughie...!\" says Heffernan, pretty stiff; \"well, and what do you\nwant here?\"\n\n\"Och, nothing in life....\"\n\n\"Take it, then, and let you be off about your business!\" says Mickey, as\nquick as a flash, for once; and he that was proud when he had it said!\n\nHughie had a most notorious tongue himself, but he knew when to keep it\nquiet, and he thought it as good to appear very mild and down in himself\nnow, so he said, \"My business! sure, what word is that to say to a poor\nold fellah on chrutches! Not like you, Mr. Heffernan, that'll be off to\nthe fair of Balloch to-morrow morning, bright and early, with them grand\nfine calves of yours. The price they'll go! There isn't the peel of them\nin Ardenoo!\"\n\n\"Do you tell me that?\" says Heffernan, that a child could cheat.\n\n\"That's what they do be telling me,\" says Hughie. He could build a nest\nin your ear, he was that cunning. He thought he saw a chance of getting\nto the fair himself, and a night's lodging as well, if he managed right.\n\n\"I wish to goodness I could get them there, so,\" says Mickey, \"and\nhasn't one to drive them for me!\"\n\n\"Would I do?\" says Hughie.\n\nHeffernan looked at him up and down.\n\n\"Sure you'd not be able!\"\n\n\"Whoo! me not able? Maybe I'm like the singed cat, better than I look!\nI'm slow, but fair and easy goes far in a day! Never you fear but I'll\nget your calves to Balloch the same way the boy ate the cake, very\nhandy....\"\n\nThe simplest thing would have been for Heffernan to take and drive the\ncalves himself. But he never had the fashion of doing such things.\nAnyway, it wouldn't answer for the people to see a man with a good means\nof his own, like Mickey, turning drover that way.\n\nSo he thought again, while Hughie watched him, and then says he, \"You'll\nhave to be off out of this before the stars have left the sky!\"\n\n\"And why wouldn't I?\" says Hughie; \"only give me a bit of supper and a\nshakedown for the night, the way I'll be fresh for the road to-morrow.\"\n\nHughie was looking to be put sitting down in the kitchen alongside\nHeffernan himself, and to have the settle-bed foreninst the fire to\nsleep in. But he had to content himself with the straw in the barn and a\nplateful carried out to him. Queer and slow-going Heffernan might be,\nbut he wasn't thinking of having the likes of Hopping Hughie in his\nchimney-corner, where he had often thought to see little Rosy Rafferty\nand she smiling at him.\n\nHughie took it all very contented. Gay and happy he was after his\nsupper, and soon fell asleep on the straw, with his ragged pockets that\nempty that the divil could dance a hornpipe in them and not strike a\ncopper there; while Mickey above in bed in his own house, with his fine\nfarm and all his stock about him, calves and cows and pigs, not to speak\nof the money in the old stocking under the thatch ... Mickey couldn't\nsleep, only worrying, thinking was he right to go to sell the calves at\nall; and to be letting Hughie drive them!\n\n\"I had little to do,\" he thought, \"to be letting him in about the place\nat all, and couldn't tell what divilment he might be up to, as soon as\nhe gets me asleep! Hughie's terrible wicked, and as strong as a ditch! I\ndone well to speak him civil, anyway. But I'll not let them calves stir\none peg out of this with him! I'd sooner risk keeping them longer....\"\n\nThere's the way he was going on, tossing and tumbling and tormenting\nhimself, as if bed wasn't a place to rest yourself in and not be raking\nup annoyances.\n\nSo it wasn't till near morning that Mickey dozed off, and never wakened\ntill it was more than time to be off to the fair.\n\nUp he jumped and out to stop Hughie. But the yard was silent and empty.\nHughie and the calves were gone.\n\nMickey was more uneasy than ever.\n\n\"A nice bosthoon I must be,\" he thought, \"to go trust my good-looking\ncalves to a k'nat like Hughie! And he to go off without any breakfast,\ntoo...!\"\n\nHeffernan was a good warrant to feed man or beast. But he mightn't have\nminded about Hughie, that had plenty of little ways of providing for\nhimself. His pockets would be like sideboards, the way he would have\nthem stuck out with meat and eggs, and so on, that he would be given\nalong the road. Hughie was better fed than plenty that bestowed food\nupon him.\n\nBalloch, where the fair is held, is the wildest and most lonesome place\nin Ardenoo, with a steep, rough bit of road leading up to it, very\nawkward to drive along. Up this comes Heffernan, on his sidecar, driving\nhis best, and in a great hurry to know where he would come on Hughie. He\nhad it laid out in his own mind that sight nor light of his calves he\nnever would get in this world again. So it was a great surprise to him\nto find them there before him, safe and sound. His heart lightened at\nthat as if a mill-stone was lifted off it.\n\nAnd the fine appearance there was upon them. Not a better spot in the\nfair-green than where Hughie had them, opposite a drink-tent where the\npeople would be thronging most! And it was a choice spot for Hughie too.\nHappy and contented he was, his back against a tree, leaning his weight\non one crutch and the other convenient to his hand.\n\n\"So there's where you are,\" says Hughie, a bit scornful. Sure it was a\nfoolish remark to pass and the man there before him, as plain as the\nnose on your face. But Hughie was puzzled too by the look of relief he\nsaw on Mickey's face. He understood nothing of what Heffernan was\npassing through. It's an old saying and a true one, \"Them that has the\nworld has care!\" but them that hasn't it, what do they know about it?\n\nWhile Hughie was turning this over in his mind, Mickey was throwing an\neye upon the calves, and then, seeing they were all right, he was\nbandying off with himself, when Hughie said, \"Terrible dry work it is,\ndriving stock along them dusty roads since the early morning,\" and he\nrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth with a grin.\n\nAt that, Mickey put his hand into his pocket and felt round about, and\nthen pulled it out empty.\n\n\"I'll see you later, Hughie,\" says he, \"I'll not forget you, never fear!\nJust let you wait here till I have the poor mare attended to that drew\nme here....\"\n\nSo he went off to do this, and then into the drink-tent with him, the\nway he could be getting a sup himself. But no sign of he to give\nanything to Hughie. And there now is where Mickey made a big mistake.\n\nHe met up with a couple or three that he was acquainted with in the\ntent, and they began to talk of this thing and that thing, so that it\nwas a gay little while before Mickey came out again.\n\nWhen he did: \"What sort is the drink in there, Mr. Heffernan?\" says\nHughie.\n\nNow what Mickey had taken at that time was no more than would warm the\ncockles of his heart. So he looked quite pleasant and said, \"Go in\nyourself, Hughie, and here's what will enable you to judge it!\"\n\nAnd he held out a shilling to Hughie.\n\n\"A bird never yet flew upon the one wing, Mr. Heffernan!\" said Hughie,\nthat was looking to get another shilling, and that would be only his due\nfor driving the calves.\n\nMickey said nothing one way or the other, only went off, and left Hughie\nstanding there, holding out his hand in front of him with the shilling\nin it, lonesome.\n\nHe that was vexed! He got redder in the face than ever, and gave out a\nfew curses, till he remembered there wasn't one to hear him. So he\nstopped and went into the tent and I needn't say he got the best value\nhe could there.\n\nBut all the time he was thinking how badly Heffernan was after treating\nhim, putting him off without enough to see him through the fair even,\nlet alone with a trifle in his pockets to help him on his rounds. He\nbegan planning how he could pay out Mickey.\n\nHe got himself back to the same spot, near the calves, to see what would\nhappen. After a time, he saw Heffernan coming back, and little Barney\nMaguire with him. A very decent boy Barney was, quiet and agreeable;\nnever too anxious for work, but very knowledgable about how things\nshould be done, from a wake to a sheep-shearing. Heffernan always liked\nto have Barney with him at a fair.\n\nThe two of them stood near the calves, careless-like, as if they took no\ninterest in them at all.\n\nA dealer came up.\n\n\"How much for them calves? Not that I'm in need of the like,\" says he.\n\n\"Nobody wants you to take them, so,\" says Barney, \"but the price is\nthree pounds ... or was it guineas you're after saying, Mr. Heffernan?\"\n\nHeffernan said nothing, and the dealer spoke up very fierce; \"Three\npounds! Put thirty shillings on them, and I'll be talking to ye!\"\n\nMickey again only looked at his adviser, and says Barney, \"Thirty\nshillings! 'Tis you that's bidding wide, this day! May the Lord forgive\nyou! Is it wanting a present you are of the finest calves in Ardenoo?\"\n\nHeffernan swelled out with delight at that; as if Barney's word could\nmake his calves either better or worse.\n\n\"Wasn't it fifty-seven and sixpence you're after telling me you were\noffered only yesterday, Mr. Heffernan,\" says Barney, \"just for the small\nones of the lot?\"\n\n\"Och! I dare say! don't you?\" says the dealer; \"the woman that owns you\nit was that made you that bid, to save your word!\"\n\nPoor Mickey! and he hadn't a woman at all! The dealer of course being\nstrange couldn't know that, nor why Hughie gave a laugh out of him.\n\nBut that didn't matter. Mickey took no notice. A man that's a bit\n\"thick\" escapes many a prod that another would feel sharp. So in all\nthings you can see how them that are afflicted are looked after in some\nlittle way we don't know.\n\nThe dealer looked at the calves again.\n\n\"Troth, I'm thinking it's the wrong ones yous have here! Yous must have\nforgotten them fine three-pound calves at home!\"\n\nAnd Mickey began looking very anxiously at them, as he thought maybe he\nhad made some mistake.\n\n\"Them calves,\" says the dealer, slowly, \"isn't like a pretty girl, that\neveryone will be looking to get! And, besides, they're no size! A\nterrible small calf they are!\"\n\n\"Small!\" said Barney, \"It's too big they are! And if they're little\nitself, what harm! Isn't a mouse the prettiest animal you might ask to\nsee?\"\n\n\"Ay, it is,\" says the dealer, \"but it'll take a power of mice to stock a\nfarm!\" and off with him in a real passion--by the way of.\n\nBut Barney knew better than to mind. The dealer came back, and at long\nlast the calves were sold and paid for. Then the lucky-penny had to be\ngiven. Hard-set Barney was to get Heffernan to do that. In the end\nMickey was so bothered over it that he dropped a shilling just where\nHughie was standing leaning his weight on the one crutch as usual.\n\nAs quick as a flash, he had the other up, and made a kind of a lurch\nforward, as if to look for the money. But he managed to get the second\ncrutch down upon the shilling, to hide it; and then he looked round\nabout the ground as innocent as a child, as if he was striving his best\nto find the money for Mickey.\n\n\"Where should it be, at all, at all?\" says Mickey; \"bewitched it should\nbe, to say it's gone like that!\"\n\nAnd Heffernan, standing there with his mouth open, looked as if he had\nlost all belonging to him. Then he began searching about a good piece\noff from where the shilling fell.\n\n\"It's not there you'll get it!\" said Barney, \"sure you ought always look\nfor a thing where you lost it!\"\n\nHe went over to Hughie.\n\n\"None of your tricks, now! It's you has Mr. Heffernan's money, and let\nyou give it up to him!\"\n\n\"Is it me have it? Sure if I had, what would I do, only hand it over to\nthe man that owns it!\" says Hughie.\n\nOn the word, he let himself down upon the ground, and slithered over on\ntop of the shilling.\n\nBut, quick and all as he was, Barney was quicker.\n\n\"Sure, you have it there, you vagabone, you! Give it up, and get off out\nof this with yourself!\"\n\nAnd he caught Hughie a clip on the side of the head that sent him\nsprawling on the broad of his back. And there, right enough, under him,\nwas the shilling.\n\nSo Barney picked it up, and for fear of any other mistake, he handed it\nto the dealer.\n\n\"It's an ugly turn whatever, to be knocking a poor cripple about\nthat-a-way!\" said the dealer, dropping the lucky-penny into his pocket.\n\n\"Ach, how poor he is, and let him be crippled, itself!\" says Barney;\n\"it's easy seeing you're strange to Ardenoo, or you'd not be\ncompassionating Hughie so tender!\"\n\nNo more was said then, only in the tent with them again to wet the\nbargain. Hughie gathered himself up. He was in the divil's own temper.\nSmall blame to him, too! Let alone the disappointment about the\nshilling, and the knock Barney gave him, the people all had a laugh at\nhim. And he liked that as little as the next one. You'd think he'd curse\ndown the stars out of the skies this time, the way he went on.\n\nAnd it wasn't Barney's clout he cared about, half as much as Mickey's\nmeanness. It was that had him so mad. He felt he must pay Heffernan out.\n\nHe considered a bit; then he gave his leg a slap.\n\n\"I have it now!\" he said to himself.\n\nHe beckoned two young boys up to him, that were striving to sell a load\nof cabbage plants they had there upon the donkey's back, and getting bad\ncall for them.\n\n\"It's a poor trade yous are doing to-day,\" said Hughie; \"and I was\nthinking in meself yous should be very dry. You wouldn't care to earn\nthe price of a pint?\"\n\n\"How could we?\" says the boys.\n\n\"I'll tell you! Do you see that car?\" and Hughie pointed to where\nHeffernan had left his yoke drawn up, and the old mare cropping a bit as\nwell as she could, being tied by the head; \"well, anyone that will pull\nthe linch-pin out of the wheel, on the far side of the car, needn't be\nwithout tuppence to wet his whistle....\" and Hughie gave a rattle to a\nfew coppers he had left in his pocket.\n\n\"Yous'll have to be smart about it, too,\" said he, \"or maybe whoever\nowns that car will have gone off upon it, afore yous have time to do the\nprimest bit of fun that ever was seen upon this fair green!\"\n\n\"Whose is the car?\"\n\n\"Och, if I know!\" says Hughie; \"but what matter for that? One man is as\ngood as another at the bottom of a ditch! ay, and better. It will be the\nheight of divarshin to see the roll-off they'll get below there at the\nfoot of the hill....\"\n\n\"Maybe they'd get hurted!\" said the boys.\n\n\"Hurted, how-are-ye!\" says Hughie; \"how could anyone get hurted so\nsimple as that? I'd be the last in the world to speak of such a thing in\nthat case! But if yous are afraid of doing it....\"\n\n\"Afraid! that's queer talk to be having!\" says one of them, very stiff,\nfor like all boys, he thought nothing so bad as to have \"afraid\" said to\nhim; \"no, but we're ready to do as much as the next one!\"\n\n\"I wouldn't doubt yiz!\" said Hughie; \"h-away with the two of you, now!\nOnly mind! don't let on a word of this to any sons of man....\"\n\nOff they went, and Hughie turned his back on them and the car, and\nstared at whatever was going on the other end of the fair. He hadn't\nlong to wait, before Heffernan and Barney and the dealer came out of the\ndrink-tent. Hughie took a look at them out of the corner of his eye.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said to himself, \"all 'purty-well-I-thank-ye!' after what they\ndrank inside! But, wait a bit, Mickey Heffernan....\"\n\nThe three men went over to where Heffernan's car was waiting. The boys\nwere gone. The other two men helped Mickey to get his yoke ready. Then\nhe got up, and they shook hands a good many times. Heffernan chucked at\nthe reins and started off.\n\nHughie was watching, and when he saw how steadily the old mare picked\nher way down the steep boreen, he began to be afraid he hadn't hit on\nsuch a very fine plan at all. And if Mickey had only had the wit to\nleave it all to the poor dumb beast, she might have brought him home\nsafe enough.\n\nBut nothing would to him, only give a shout and a flourish of the whip,\nhalf-way down the hill. The mare started and gave a jump. She was big\nand awk'ard, much like Mickey himself. Still it was no fault of her\nthat, when she got to the turn, the wheel came off, and rolled away to\none side. Down came the car, Mickey fell off, and there he lay, till\nsome people that saw what was going on ran down the hill after him, and\ngot the mare on to her feet, and not a scratch on her.\n\nBut poor Mickey! It was easy to see with half an eye that he was badly\nhurt.\n\n\"Someone will have to drive him home, whatever,\" said Barney, coming up\nthe hill to look for more help, after doing his best to get Mickey to\nstand up; and sure, how was he to do that, upon a broken leg? \"A poor\nthing it is, too, to see how a thing of the kind could occur so simple!\nand a decent man like Heffernan to be nigh hand killed....\"\n\n\"'Deed, and he is a decent man!\" said Hughie; \"and why wouldn't he? I'd\nbe a decent man meself if I had the Furry Farm and it stocked....\"\n\n\"He's in a poor way now, in any case,\" said Barney. \"I doubt will he\never get over this rightly! That's apt to be a leg to him all his life!\"\n\n\"Well, and so, itself!\" said Hughie; \"haven't I two of them lame legs?\nand who thinks to pity Hughie?\"\n\n\"It's another matter altogether, with a man like Mr. Heffernan,\" said\nBarney; \"what does the like of you miss, by not being able to get about,\ncompared with a man that might spend his time walking a-through his\ncattle, and looking at his crops growing, every day in the week?\"\n\n\"To be sure, he could be doing all that!\" said Hughie, \"but when a thing\nof this kind happens out so awkward, it's the will of God, and the will\nof man can't abate that!\"\n\n\n\n\nTrinket's Colt.\n\n_From \"Some Experiences of an Irish R.M.\"_\n\nBY E. OE. SOMERVILLE AND MARTIN ROSS.\n\n\nIt was petty sessions day in Skebawn, a cold, grey day in February. A\ncase of trespass had dragged its burden of cross-summonses and\ncross-swearing far into the afternoon, and when I left the bench my head\nwas singing from the bellowings of the attorneys, and the smell of their\nclients was heavy upon my palate.\n\nThe streets still testified to the fact that it was market day, and I\nevaded with difficulty the sinuous course of carts full of soddenly\nscrewed people, and steered an equally devious one for myself among the\ngroups anchored round the doors of the public-houses. Skebawn possesses,\namong its legion of public-houses, one establishment which timorously,\nand almost imperceptibly, proffers tea to the thirsty. I turned in\nthere, as was my custom on court days, and found the little dingy den,\nknown as the Ladies' Coffee Room, in the occupancy of my friend Mr.\nFlorence McCarthy Knox, who was drinking strong tea and eating buns with\nserious simplicity. It was a first and quite unexpected glimpse of that\ndomesticity that has now become a marked feature in his character.\n\n\"You're the very man I wanted to see,\" I said, as I sat down beside him\nat the oilcloth covered table; \"a man I know in England who is not much\nof a judge of character has asked me to buy him a four-year-old down\nhere, and as I should rather be stuck by a friend than a dealer, I wish\nyou'd take over the job.\"\n\nFlurry poured himself out another cup of tea, and dropped three lumps of\nsugar into it in silence.\n\nFinally he said, \"There isn't a four-year-old in this country that I'd\nbe seen dead with at a pig fair.\"\n\nThis was discouraging, from the premier authority on horseflesh in the\ndistrict.\n\n\"But it isn't six weeks since you told me you had the finest filly in\nyour stables that was ever foaled in the County Cork,\" I protested;\n\"what's wrong with her?\"\n\n\"Oh, is it that filly?\" said Mr. Knox, with a lenient smile; \"she's gone\nthese three weeks from me. I swapped her and L6 for a three-year-old\nIronmonger colt, and after that I swapped the colt and L19 for that\nBandon horse I rode last week at your place, and after that again I sold\nthe Bandon horse for L75 to old Welply, and I had to give him back a\ncouple of sovereigns luck-money. You see, I did pretty well with the\nfilly after all.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes--oh, rather,\" I assented, as one dizzily accepts the\npropositions of a bimetallist; \"and you don't know of anything\nelse----?\"\n\nThe room in which we were seated was closed from the shop by a door with\na muslin-curtained window in it; several of the panes were broken, and\nat this juncture two voices, that had for some time carried on a\ndiscussion, forced themselves upon our attention.\n\n\"Begging your pardon for contradicting you, ma'am,\" said the voice of\nMrs. McDonald, proprietress of the tea-shop, and a leading light in\nSkebawn Dissenting circles, shrilly tremulous with indignation, \"if the\nservants I recommend you won't stop with you, it's no fault of mine. If\nrespectable young girls are set picking grass out of your gravel, in\nplace of their proper work, certainly they will give warning!\"\n\nThe voice that replied struck me as being a notable one, well-bred and\nimperious.\n\n\"When I take a bare-footed slut out of a cabin, I don't expect her to\ndictate to me what her duties are!\"\n\nFlurry jerked up his chin in a noiseless laugh. \"It's my grandmother!\"\nhe whispered. \"I bet you Mrs. McDonald don't get much change out of\nher!\"\n\n\"If I set her to clean the pig-sty I expect her to obey me,\" continued\nthe voice in accents that would have made me clean forty pig-stys had\nshe desired me to do so.\n\n\"Very well, ma'am,\" retorted Mrs. McDonald, \"if that's the way you treat\nyour servants, you needn't come here again looking for them. I consider\nyour conduct is neither that of a lady nor a Christian!\"\n\n\"Don't you, indeed?\" replied Flurry's grandmother. \"Well, your opinion\ndoesn't greatly distress me, for, to tell you the truth, I don't think\nyou're much of a judge.\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you she'd score?\" murmured Flurry, who was by this time\napplying his eye to the hole in the muslin curtain. \"She's off,\" he went\non, returning to his tea. \"She's a great character! She's eighty-three,\nif she's a day, and she's as sound on her legs as a three-year-old! Did\nyou see that old shandrydan of hers in the street a while ago, and a\nfellow on the box with a red beard on him like Robinson Crusoe? That old\nmare that was on the near side, Trinket her name is--is mighty near\nclean bred. I can tell you her foals are worth a bit of money.\"\n\nI had heard of old Mrs. Knox of Aussolas; indeed, I had seldom dined out\nin the neighbourhood without hearing some new story of her and her\nremarkable menage, but it had not yet been my privilege to meet her.\n\n\"Well, now,\" went on Flurry, in his low voice, \"I'll tell you a thing\nthat's just come into my head. My grandmother promised me a foal of\nTrinket's the day I was one-and-twenty, and that's five years ago, and\ndeuce a one I've got from her yet. You never were at Aussolas? No, you\nwere not. Well, I tell you the place there is like a circus with horses.\nShe has a couple of score of them running wild in the woods, like deer.\"\n\n\"Oh, come,\" I said, \"I'm a bit of a liar myself----\"\n\n\"Well, she has a dozen of them, anyhow, rattling good colts, too, some\nof them, but they might as well be donkeys for all the good they are to\nme or any one. It's not once in three years she sells one, and there she\nhas them walking after her for bits of sugar, like a lot of dirty\nlapdogs,\" ended Flurry with disgust.\n\n\"Well, what's your plan? Do you want me to make her a bid for one of the\nlapdogs?\"\n\n\"I was thinking,\" replied Flurry, with great deliberation, \"that my\nbirthday's this week, and maybe I could work a four-year-old colt of\nTrinket's she has out of her in honour of the occasion.\"\n\n\"And sell your grandmother's birthday present to me?\"\n\n\"Just that, I suppose,\" answered Flurry, with a slow wink.\n\nA few days afterwards a letter from Mr. Knox informed me that he had\n\"squared the old lady, and it would be all right about the colt!\" He\nfurther told me that Mrs. Knox had been good enough to offer me, with\nhim, a day's snipe shooting on the celebrated Aussolas bogs, and he\nproposed to drive me there the following Monday, if convenient, to\nshoot the Aussolas snipe bog when they got the chance. Eight o'clock on\nthe following Monday morning saw Flurry, myself, and a groom packed into\na dog-cart, with portmanteaus, gun-cases, and two rampant red setters.\n\nIt was a long drive, twelve miles at least, and a very cold one. We\npassed through long tracts of pasture country, filled for Flurry, with\nmemories of runs, which were recorded for me, fence by fence, in every\none of which the biggest dog-fox in the country had gone to ground, with\nnot two feet--measured accurately on the handle of the whip--between him\nand the leading hound; through bogs that imperceptibly melted into\nlakes, and finally down and down into a valley, where the fir-trees of\nAussolas clustered darkly round a glittering lake, and all but hid the\ngrey roofs and pointed gables of Aussolas Castle.\n\n\"There's a nice stretch of a demesne for you,\" remarked Flurry, pointing\ndownwards with the whip, \"and one little old woman holding it all in the\nheel of her fist. Well able to hold it she is, too, and always was, and\nshe'll live twenty years yet, if it's only to spite the whole lot of us,\nand when all's said and done, goodness knows how she'll leave it!\"\n\n\"It strikes me you were lucky to keep her up to her promise about the\ncolt,\" said I.\n\nFlurry administered a composing kick to the ceaseless strivings of the\nred setters under the seat.\n\n\"I used to be rather a pet with her,\" he said, after a pause; \"but mind\nyou, I haven't got him yet, and if she gets any notion I want to sell\nhim I'll never get him, so say nothing about the business to her.\"\n\nThe tall gates of Aussolas shrieked on their hinges as they admitted\nus, and shut with a clang behind us, in the faces of an old mare and a\ncouple of young horses, who, foiled in their break for the excitements\nof the outer world, turned and galloped defiantly on either side of us.\nFlurry's admirable cob hammered on, regardless of all things save his\nduty.\n\n\"He's the only one I have that I'd trust myself here with,\" said his\nmaster, flicking him approvingly with the whip; \"there are plenty of\npeople afraid to come here at all, and when my grandmother goes out\ndriving, she has a boy on the box with a basket full of stones to peg at\nthem. Talk of the dickens, here she is herself!\"\n\nA short, upright old woman was approaching, preceded by a white woolly\ndog with sore eyes and a bark like a tin trumpet; we both got out of the\ntrap and advanced to meet the Lady of the Manor.\n\nI may summarise her attire by saying that she looked as if she had\nrobbed a scarecrow; her face was small and incongruously refined, the\nskinny hand that she extended to me had the grubby tan that bespoke the\nprofessional gardener, and was decorated with a magnificent diamond\nring. On her head was a massive purple velvet bonnet.\n\n\"I am very glad to meet you, Major Yeates,\" she said, with an\nold-fashioned precision of utterance; \"your grandfather was a dancing\npartner of mine in old days at the Castle, when he was a handsome young\naide-de-camp there, and I was--you may judge for yourself what I was.\"\n\nShe ended with a startling little hoot of laughter, and I was aware that\nshe quite realised the world's opinion of her, and was indifferent to\nit.\n\nOur way to the bogs took us across Mrs. Knox's home farm, and through a\nlarge field in which several young horses were grazing.\n\n\"There, now, that's my fellow,\" said Flurry, pointing to a fine-looking\ncolt, \"the chestnut with the white diamond on his forehead. He'll run\ninto three figures before he's done, but we'll not tell that to the ould\nlady!\"\n\nThe famous Aussolas bogs were as full of snipe as usual, and a good deal\nfuller of water than any bogs I had ever shot before. I was on my day,\nand Flurry was not, and as he is ordinarily an infinitely better snipe\nshot than I, I felt at peace with the world and all men as we walked\nback, wet through, at five o'clock.\n\nThe sunset had waned and a big white moon was making the eastern tower\nof Aussolas look like a thing in a fairy tale or a play when we arrived\nat the hall door. An individual, whom I recognised as the Robinson\nCrusoe coachman, admitted us to a hall, the like of which one does not\noften see. The walls were panelled with dark oak up to the gallery that\nran round three sides of it, the balusters of the wide staircase were\nheavily carved, and blackened portraits of Flurry's ancestors on the\nspindle side, stared sourly down on their descendant as he tramped\nupstairs with the bog mould on his hobnailed boots.\n\nWe had just changed into dry clothes when Robinson Crusoe shoved his red\nbeard round the corner of the door, with the information that the\nmistress said we were to stay for dinner. My heart sank. It was then\nbarely half-past five. I said something about having no evening clothes,\nand having to get home early.\n\n\"Sure, the dinner'll be in another half-hour,\" said Robinson Crusoe,\njoining hospitably in the conversation; \"and as for evening clothes--God\nbless ye!\"\n\nThe door closed behind him.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Flurry, \"I dare say you'll be glad enough to eat\nanother dinner by the time you get home,\" he laughed. \"Poor Slipper!\" he\nadded, inconsequently, and only laughed again when I asked for an\nexplanation.\n\nOld Mrs. Knox received us in the library, where she was seated by a\nroaring turf fire, which lit the room a good deal more effectively than\nthe pair of candles that stood beside her in tall silver candlesticks.\nCeaseless and implacable growls from under her chair indicated the\npresence of the woolly dog. She talked with confounding culture of the\nbooks that rose all round her to the ceiling; her evening dress was\naccomplished by means of an additional white shawl, rather dirtier than\nits congeners; as I took her in to dinner she quoted Virgil to me, and\nin the same breath screeched an objurgation at a being whose matted head\nrose suddenly into view from behind an ancient Chinese screen, as I have\nseen the head of a Zulu woman peer over a bush.\n\nDinner was as incongruous as everything else. Detestable soup in a\nsplendid old silver tureen that was nearly as dark in hue as Robinson\nCrusoe's thumb; a perfect salmon, perfectly cooked, on a chipped kitchen\ndish; such cut glass as is not easy to find nowadays; sherry that, as\nFlurry subsequently remarked, would burn the shell off an egg; and a\nbottle of port, draped in immemorial cobwebs, wan with age, and probably\npriceless. Throughout the vicissitudes of the meal Mrs. Knox's\nconversation flowed on undismayed, directed sometimes at me--she had\ninstalled me in the position of friend of her youth, and talked to me as\nif I were my own grandfather--sometimes at Crusoe, with whom she had\nseveral heated arguments, and sometimes she would make a statement of\nremarkable frankness on the subject of her horse-farming affairs to\nFlurry, who, very much on his best behaviour, agreed with all she said,\nand risked no original remark. As I listened to them both, I remembered\nwith infinite amusement how he had told me once that \"a pet name she had\nfor him was 'Tony Lumpkin,' and no one but herself knew what she meant\nby it.\" It seemed strange that she made no allusion to Trinket's colt or\nto Flurry's birthday, but, mindful of my instructions, I held my peace.\n\nAs, at about half-past eight, we drove away in the moonlight, Flurry\ncongratulated me solemnly on my success with his grandmother. He was\ngood enough to tell me that she would marry me to-morrow if I asked her,\nand he wished I would, even if it was only to see what a nice grandson\nhe'd be for me. A sympathetic giggle behind me told me that Michael, on\nthe back seat, had heard and relished the jest.\n\nWe had left the gates of Aussolas about half-a-mile behind, when, at the\ncorner of a by-road, Flurry pulled up. A short, squat figure arose from\nthe black shadow of a furze bush and came out into the moonlight,\nswinging its arms like a cabman, and cursing audibly.\n\n\"Oh, murdher, oh, murdher, Misther Flurry! What kept ye at all? 'Twould\nperish the crows to be waiting here the way I am these two hours--\"\n\n\"Ah, shut your mouth, Slipper!\" said Flurry, who, to my surprise, had\nturned back the rug and was taking off his driving coat, \"I couldn't\nhelp it. Come on, Yeates, we've got to get out here.\"\n\n\"What for?\" I asked, in not unnatural bewilderment.\n\n\"It's all right. I'll tell you as we go along,\" replied my companion,\nwho was already turning to follow Slipper up the by-road. \"Take the trap\non, Michael, and wait at the River's Cross.\" He waited for me to come up\nwith him, and then put his hand on my arm. \"You see, Major, this is the\nway it is. My grandmother's given me that colt right enough, but if I\nwaited for her to send him over to me I'd never see a hair of his tail.\nSo I just thought that as we were over here we might as well take him\nback with us, and maybe you'll give us a help with him; he'll not be\naltogether too handy for a first go off.\"\n\nI was staggered. An infant in arms could scarcely have failed to discern\nthe fishiness of the transaction, and I begged Mr. Knox not to put\nhimself to this trouble on my account, as I had no doubt I could find a\nhorse for my friend elsewhere. Mr. Knox assured me that it was no\ntrouble at all, quite the contrary, and that, since his grandmother had\ngiven him the colt, he saw no reason why he should not take him when he\nwanted him; also, that if I didn't want him he'd be glad enough to keep\nhim himself; and, finally, that I wasn't the chap to go back on a\nfriend, but I was welcome to drive back to Shreelane with Michael this\nminute, if I liked.\n\nOf course, I yielded in the end. I told Flurry I should lose my job over\nthe business, and he said I could then marry his grandmother, and the\ndiscussion was abruptly closed by the necessity of following Slipper\nover a locked five-barred gate.\n\nOur pioneer took us over about half-a-mile of country, knocking down\nstone gaps where practicable, and scrambling over tall banks in the\ndeceptive moonlight. We found ourselves at length in a field with a\nshed in one corner of it; in a dim group of farm buildings; a little way\noff a light was shining.\n\n\"Wait here,\" said Flurry to me in a whisper; \"the less noise the better.\nIt's an open shed, and we'll just slip in and coax him out.\"\n\nSlipper unwound from his waist a halter, and my colleagues glided like\nspectres into the shadow of the shed, leaving me to meditate on my\nduties as Resident Magistrate, and on the questions that would be asked\nin the House by our local member when Slipper had given away the\nadventure in his cups.\n\nIn less than a minute three shadows emerged from the shed, where two had\ngone in. They had got the colt.\n\n\"He came out as quiet as a calf when he winded the sugar,\" said Flurry;\n\"it was well for me I filled my pockets from grandmamma's sugar basin.\"\n\nHe and Slipper had a rope from each side of the colt's head; they took\nhim quickly across a field towards a gate. The colt stepped daintily\nbetween them over the moonlit grass; he snorted occasionally, but\nappeared on the whole amenable.\n\nThe trouble began later, and was due, as trouble often is, to the\nbeguilements of a short cut. Against the maturer judgment of Slipper,\nFlurry insisted on following a route that he assured us he knew as well\nas his own pocket, and the consequence was, that in about five minutes I\nfound myself standing on top of a bank hanging on to a rope, on the\nother end of which the colt dangled and danced, while Flurry, with the\nother rope, lay prone in the ditch, and Slipper administered to the\nbewildered colt's hindquarters such chastisement as could be ventured\non.\n\nI have no space to narrate in detail the atrocious difficulties and\ndisasters of the short cut. How the colt set to work to buck, and went\naway across a field, dragging the faithful Slipper, literally\n_ventre-a-terre_, after him, while I picked myself in ignominy out of a\nbriar patch, and Flurry cursed himself black in the face. How we were\nattacked by ferocious cur dogs and I lost my eyeglass; and how, as we\nneared the river's Cross, Flurry espied the police patrol on the road,\nand we all hid behind a rick of turf, while I realised in fulness what\nan exceptional ass I was, to have been beguiled into an enterprise that\ninvolved hiding with Slipper from the Royal Irish Constabulary.\n\nLet it suffice to say that Trinket's infernal offspring was finally\nhanded over on the highroad to Michael and Slipper, and Flurry drove me\nhome in a state of mental and physical overthrow.\n\nI saw nothing of my friend Mr. Knox for the next couple of days, by the\nend of which time I had worked up a high polish on my misgivings, and\nhad determined to tell him that under no circumstances would I have\nanything to say to his grandmother's birthday present. It was like my\nusual luck that, instead of writing a note to this effect, I thought it\nwould be good for my liver to walk across the hills to Tory Cottage and\ntell Flurry so in person.\n\nIt was a bright, blustery morning, after a muggy day. The feeling of\nspring was in the air, the daffodils were already in bud, and crocuses\nshowed purple in the grass on either side of the avenue. It was only a\ncouple of miles to Tory Cottage, by the way across the hills; I walked\nfast, and it was barely twelve o'clock when I saw its pink walls and\nclumps of evergreens below me. As I looked down at it, the chiming of\nFlurry's hounds in the kennels came to me on the wind; I stood still to\nlisten, and could almost have sworn that I was hearing the clash of\nMagdalen bells, hard at work on May morning.\n\nThe path that I was following led downwards through a larch plantation\nto Flurry's back gate. Hot wafts from some hideous cauldron at the other\nside of a wall apprised me of the vicinity of the kennels and their\n_cuisine_, and the fir-trees round were hung with gruesome and unknown\njoints. I thanked heaven that I was not a master of hounds, and passed\non as quickly as might be to the hall door.\n\nI rang two or three times without response; then the door opened a\ncouple of inches, and was instantly slammed in my face. I heard the\nhurried paddling of bare feet on oilcloth, and a voice, \"Hurry, Bridgie,\nhurry! There's quality at the door!\"\n\nBridgie, holding a dirty cap on with one hand, presently arrived and\ninformed me that she believed that Mr. Knox was out about the place. She\nseemed perturbed, and she cast scared glances down the drive while\nspeaking to me.\n\nI knew enough of Flurry's habits to shape a tolerably direct course for\nhis whereabouts. He was, as I had expected, in the training paddock, a\nfield behind the stable-yard, in which he had put up practice jumps for\nhis horses. It was a good-sized field with clumps of furze in it, and\nFlurry was standing near one of these with his hands in his pockets,\nsingularly unoccupied. I supposed that he was prospecting for a place to\nput up another jump. He did not see me coming, and turned with a start\nas I spoke to him. There was a queer expression of mingled guilt and\nwhat I can only describe as divilment in his grey eyes as he greeted me.\nIn my dealings with Flurry Knox, I have since formed the habit of\nsitting tight, in a general way, when I see that expression.\n\n\"Well, who's coming next, I wonder!\" he said, as he shook hands with me;\n\"it's not ten minutes since I had two of your d----d peelers here\nsearching the whole place for my grandmother's colt!\"\n\n\"What!\" I exclaimed, feeling cold all down my back; \"do you mean the\npolice have got hold of it?\"\n\n\"They haven't got hold of the colt, anyway,\" said Flurry, looking\nsideways at me from under the peak of his cap, with the glint of the sun\nin his eye. \"I got word in time before they came.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I demanded; \"where is he? For Heaven's sake don't\ntell me you've sent the brute over to my place!\"\n\n\"It's a good job for you I didn't,\" replied Flurry, \"as the police are\non their way to Shreelane this minute to consult you about it. You!\" He\ngave utterance to one of his short, diabolical fits of laughter. \"He's\nwhere they'll not find him, anyhow. Ho! ho! It's the funniest hand I\never played!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, it's devilish funny, I've no doubt,\" I retorted, beginning to\nlose my temper, as is the manner of many people when they are\nfrightened; \"but, I give you fair warning that if Mrs. Knox asks me any\nquestions about it, I shall tell her the whole story.\"\n\n\"All right,\" responded Flurry; \"and when you do, don't forget to tell\nher how you flogged the colt out on to the road over her own bound's\nditch.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" I said, hotly, \"I may as well go home and send in my\npapers. They'll break me over this--\"\n\n\"Ah, hold on, Major,\" said Flurry, soothingly, \"it'll be all right. No\none knows anything. It's only on spec' the old lady sent the Bobbies\nhere. If you'll keep quiet it'll all blow over.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" I said, struggling hopelessly in the toils; \"if I meet\nyour grandmother, and she asks me about it, I shall tell her all I\nknow.\"\n\n\"Please God you'll not meet her! After all, it's not once in a blue moon\nthat she----\" began Flurry. Even as he said the words his face changed.\n\"Holy fly!\" he ejaculated, \"isn't that her dog coming into the field?\nLook at her bonnet over the wall! Hide, hide, for your life!\" He caught\nme by the shoulder and shoved me down among the furze bushes before I\nrealised what had happened.\n\n\"Get in there! I'll talk to her.\"\n\nI may as well confess that at the mere sight of Mrs. Knox's purple\nbonnet my heart had turned to water. In that moment I knew what it would\nbe like to tell her how I, having eaten her salmon, and capped her\nquotations, and drunk her best port, had gone forth and helped to steal\nher horse. I abandoned my dignity, my sense of honour; I took the furze\nprickles to my breast and wallowed in them.\n\nMrs. Knox had advanced with vengeful speed; already she was in high\naltercation with Flurry at no great distance from where I lay; varying\nsounds of battle reached me, and I gathered that Flurry was not--to put\nit mildly--shrinking from that economy of truth that the situation\nrequired.\n\n\"Is it that curby, long-backed brute? You promised him to me long ago,\nbut I wouldn't be bothered with him.\"\n\nThe old lady uttered a laugh of shrill derision. \"Is it likely I'd\npromise you my best colt? And still more, is it likely that you'd refuse\nhim if I did?\"\n\n\"Very well, ma'am,\" Flurry's voice was admirably indignant. \"Then I\nsuppose I'm a liar and a thief.\"\n\n\"I'd be more obliged to you for the information if I hadn't known it\nbefore,\" responded his grandmother with lightning speed; \"if you swore\nto me on a stack of Bibles you knew nothing about my colt I wouldn't\nbelieve you! I shall go straight to Major Yeates and ask his advice. I\nbelieve him to be a gentleman, in spite of the company he keeps!\"\n\nI writhed deeper into the furze bushes, and thereby discovered a sandy\nrabbit run, along which I crawled, with my cap well over my eyes, and\nthe furze needles stabbing me through my stockings. The ground shelved a\nlittle, promising profounder concealment, but the bushes were very\nthick, and I had hold of the bare stem of one to help my progress. It\nlifted out of the ground in my hand, revealing a freshly-cut stump.\nSomething snorted, not a yard away; I glared through the opening, and\nwas confronted by the long, horrified face of Mrs. Knox's colt,\nmysteriously on a level with my own.\n\nEven without the white diamond on his forehead I should have divined the\ntruth; but how in the name of wonder had Flurry persuaded him to couch\nlike a woodcock in the heart of a furze brake? For a minute I lay as\nstill as death for fear of frightening him, while the voices of Flurry\nand his grandmother raged on alarmingly close to me. The colt snorted,\nand blew long breaths through his wide nostrils, but he did not move. I\ncrawled an inch or two nearer, and after a few seconds of cautious\npeering I grasped the position. They had buried him!\n\nA small sandpit among the furze had been utilised as a grave; they had\nfilled him in up to his withers with sand, and a few furze bushes,\nartistically disposed round the pit had done the rest. As the depth of\nFlurry's guile was revealed, laughter came upon me like a flood; I\ngurgled and shook apoplectically, and the colt gazed at me with serious\nsurprise, until a sudden outburst of barking close to my elbow\nadministered a fresh shock to my tottering nerves.\n\nMrs. Knox's woolly dog had tracked me into the furze, and was now baying\nthe colt and me with mingled terror and indignation. I addressed him in\na whisper, with perfidious endearments, advancing a crafty hand towards\nhim the while, made a snatch for the back of his neck, missed it badly,\nand got him by the ragged fleece of his hind-quarters as he tried to\nflee. If I had flayed him alive he could hardly have uttered a more\ndeafening series of yells, but, like a fool, instead of letting him go,\nI dragged him towards me, and tried to stifle the noise by holding his\nmuzzle. The tussle lasted engrossingly for a few seconds, and then the\nclimax of the nightmare arrived.\n\nMrs. Knox's voice, close behind me, said, \"Let go my dog this instant,\nsir! Who are you----\"\n\nHer voice faded away, and I knew that she also had seen the colt's head.\n\nI positively felt sorry for her. At her age there was no knowing what\neffect the shock might have on her. I scrambled to my feet and\nconfronted her.\n\n\"Major Yeates!\" she said. There was a deathly pause. \"Will you kindly\ntell me,\" said Mrs. Knox, slowly, \"am I in Bedlam, or are you? And what\nis that?\"\n\nShe pointed to the colt, and the unfortunate animal, recognising the\nvoice of his mistress, uttered a hoarse and lamentable whinny. Mrs. Knox\nfelt around her for support, found only furze prickles, gazed\nspeechlessly at me, and then, to her eternal honour, fell into wild\ncackles of laughter.\n\nSo, I may say, did Flurry and I. I embarked on my explanation and broke\ndown. Flurry followed suit and broke down, too. Overwhelming laughter\nheld us all three, disintegrating our very souls. Mrs. Knox pulled\nherself together first.\n\n\"I acquit you, Major Yeates, I acquit you, though appearances are\nagainst you. It's clear enough to me you've fallen among thieves.\" She\nstopped and glowered at Flurry. Her purple bonnet was over one eye.\n\"I'll thank you, sir,\" she said, \"to dig out that horse before I leave\nthis place. And when you've dug him out you may keep him. I'll be no\nreceiver of stolen goods!\"\n\nShe broke off and shook her fist at him. \"Upon my conscience, Tony, I'd\ngive a guinea to have thought of it myself!\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Wee Tea Table.\n\n_From \"Irish Pastorals.\"_\n\nBY SHAN BULLOCK (1865--).\n\n\nSomewhere near the hill-hedge, with their arms bare, skirts tucked up,\nand faces peering from the depths of big sunbonnets, Anne Daly and Judy\nBrady were gathering the hay into long, narrow rows; one raking this\nside of a row, the other that, and both sweetening toil with laughter\nand talk. Sometimes Anne leaned on her rake and chattered for a while;\nnow Judy said a word or two and ended with a titter; again, both bobbed\nheads and broke into merriment. I came nearer to them, got ready my\nrake, and began on a fresh row.\n\nThe talk was of a woman, of her and her absurdities.\n\n\"I've come to help you to laugh, Anne,\" said I. \"What friend is this of\nyours and Judy's that you're stripping of her character?\"\n\n\"The lassie,\" said Anne, \"we were talkin' about is a marrit woman--one\nHannah Breen be name--an' she lives in a big house on the side of a hill\nover there towards the mountain. The husband's a farmer--an easy-goin',\nbull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, wi' a good word for ould Satan\nhimself, an' a laugh always ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah,\nisn't that kind. Aw, 'deed she isn't. 'Tisn't much good-speakin' or\nlaughin' Hannah'll be doin'; 'tisn't herself'd get many cars to follow\nher funeral in these parts. Aw, no. 'Tisn't milkin' the cows, an' makin'\nthe butter, an' washin' John's shirts, an' darnin' his socks, an'\nmendin' her own tatters, an' huntin' the chickens from the porridge-pot,\nHannah was made for. Aw, no. It's a lady Hannah must be, a real live\nlady. It's step out o' bed at eight o'clock in the mornin', Hannah must\ndo, an' slither down to her tay an' have it all in grandeur in the\nparlour; it's sittin' half the day she must be, readin' about the doin's\no' the quality, an' the goin's on o' the world, an' squintin' at\nfashion-pictures, an' fillin' her mind wi' the height o' nonsense an'\nfoolery; it's rise from the table in a tantrum she must do because John\nsmacks his lips, an' ates his cabbage wi' his knife; it's worry the poor\nman out o' his mind she'd be after because he lies and snores on the\nkitchen table, an' smokes up to bed, an' won't shave more'n once a week,\nan' says he'd rather be hanged at once nor be choked up in a white shirt\nan' collar o' Sundays. An' for herself--aw, now, it'd take me from this\ntill sunset to tell ye about all her fooleries. If you'd only see her,\nMr. John, stalkin' in through the chapel gates, wi' her skirts tucked up\nhigh enough to show the frillin' on her white petticoat, an' low enough\nto hide the big tear in it; an' black kid gloves on her fists; an' a\nbonnet on her wi'out a string to it; an' light shoes on her; an' a big\nhole in the heel o' her stockin'; and her nose in the air; an' her\nsniffin' at us all just as if we were the tenants at the butter-show an'\nherself My Lady come to prance before us all an' make herself agreeable\nfor five minutes or so.... Aw, Lord, Lord,\" laughed Anne, \"if ye could\nonly see her, Mr. John.\"\n\n\"An' to see her steppin' down Bunn Street,\" Anne went on, as we turned\nat the hedge, and set our faces once more towards the river, \"as if the\ntown belonged to her--a ribbon flutterin' here, an' a buckle shinin'\nthere, an' a feather danglin' another place--steppin' along wi' her\nbutter-basket on her arm, an' big John draggin' at her heels, an' that\nlook on her face you'd expect to see on the face o' the Queen o' France\nwalkin' on a gold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! An' to\nsee the airs of her when someone'd spake; an' to see the murderin' look\non her when someone'd hint at a drop o'whiskey for the good of her\nhealth; an' to hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers--that\nsoft an' po-lite; an' to see her sittin' in the ould ramshackle of a\ncart goin' home, as straight in the back an' as stiff as a ramrod, an'\nher face set like a plaster image, an' her niver lettin' her eye fall on\nJohn sittin' beside her, an' him as drunk an' merry as a houseful o'\nfiddlers! Aw, sure,\" cried Anne, flinging up a hand, \"aw, sure, it's\npast the power o' mortial tongue to tell about her.\"\n\n\"Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, for all that,\" said\nI.\n\n\"Ach, I'm only bleatherin',\" said Anne. \"If ye only knew her--only did.\"\n\n\"Well, tell me all about her,\" said I, \"before your tongue gets tired.\"\n\n\"Ah, sure, an' I will,\" replied she; \"sure, an' I'll try me hand at it.\"\n\n\"One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah--beggin' her ladyship's\npardon,\" said Anne, a sudden note of scorn rasping in her voice, \"but I\nmeant Mrs. Breen--decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on her\nkid gloves, an' steps out through the hall door. Down she goes, over the\nruts an' the stones, along the lane, turns down the main road; after a\nwhile comes to the house o' Mrs. Flaherty--herself that told\nme--crosses the street, an' knocks po-lite on the door.\n\n\"'Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day?' axes Hannah when the\ndoor opens, an' wee Nancy put her tattered head between it an' the post.\n'Is Mrs. Flaherty at home?' says she.\n\n\"'She is so,' answers Nancy; 'but she'd be out at the well,' says the\nwee crature.\n\n\"'I see,' says Hannah, 'I see. Then, if you please, when she comes\nback,' says she, 'would you be kindly handin' her that, wi' Mrs. Breen's\ncompliments'--an' out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to\nNancy, says good evenin' to the wee mortial, gathers up her skirt, an'\nsteps off in her grandeur through the hens an' ducks back to the road.\nWell, on she goes another piece, an' comes to the house of Mary Dolan;\nan' there, too, faith, she does the genteel an' leaves another letter\nan' turns her feet for the house of Mrs. Hogan; an' at Sally's she\nsmiles, an' bobs her head, an' pulls another letter from her pocket, an'\nleaves it at the door; then twists on her heel, turns back home an'\nbegins dustin' the parlours, an' arrangin' her trumpery an' readin'\nbleather from the fashion papers.\n\n\"Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the well, an' there's Nancy\nwi' the letter in her fist. 'What the divil's this?' says Jane, an'\ntears it open; an' there, lo an' behold ye, is a bit of a card--Jane\nswears 'twas a piece of a bandbox, but I'd be disbelievin' her--an' on\nit an invite to come an' have tay with me bould Hannah, on the next\nWednesday evenin' at five o'clock p.m.--whativer in glory p.m. may be\nafter meanin'; when Mary Dolan opens hers, there's the same invite; an'\nwhen Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same bit of a card on the\nfloor; an' Sally laughs, an' Mary laughs, an' Jane laughs, an' the three\no' them, what wi' the quareness o' the business, an' the curiosity of\nthem to see Hannah at her capers, put their heads together, an' laughs\nagain, an' settles it that sorrow take them, but go they'll go. An' go\nthey did. Aw, yis ... Aw, Lord, Lord,\" laughed Anne, turning up her\neyes. \"Lord, Lord!\"\n\n\"Aw, childer, dear,\" giggled Judy, with a heaving of her narrow\nshoulders. \"Aw, go they did!\"\n\n\"Good girl, Anne,\" said I, and slapped my leg \"my roarin' girl! Aw, an'\ngo they did, Judy--go they did.\"\n\n\"Well, hearts alive,\" Anne went on, \"Wednesday evenin' comes at last;\nan' sharp at five o'clock up me brave Jane Flaherty steps along the\nlane, crosses the yard, an' mindin' her manners, knocks twice on\nHannah's back door--then turns, an' wi' the dog yelpin' at her, an' the\ngander hissin' like a wet stick on a fire, waits like a beggarwoman on\nthe step. But divil a one comes to the door; aw, not a one. An' sorrow a\nsoul budged inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns Jane, lifts her fist\nagain, hits the door three thundering bangs, an' looks another while at\nthe gander. Not a budge in the door, not a move inside; so Jane, not to\nbe done out of her tay, lifts the latch,--an', sure as the sun was\nshinin', but the bolt was shot inside. 'Well, dang me,' says Jane, an'\nhits the door a kick, 'but this is a fine way to treat company,' says\nshe, an' rattles the latch, an' shakes it. At last, in the divil of a\ntemper, spits on the step, whips up her skirts, an' cursin' Hannah high\nup an' low down, starts for home.\n\n\"She got as far as the bend in the lane, an' there meets Mary Dolan.\n\n\"'What's up?' axes Mary. 'What's floostered ye, Jane Flaherty? Aren't ye\ngoin' to have your tay, me dear?' says Mary.\n\n\"'Aw, may the first sup she swallows choke the breath in her,' shouts\nJane, an' goes on to tell her story; an' before she'd said ten words, up\ncomes Sally Hogan.\n\n\"'Am I too late?' says Sally, 'or am I too early?' says she, 'or what in\nglory ails the two o' ye?'\n\n\"'Ails?' shouts Jane. 'Ye may well say that, Sally Hogan. Ye may turn on\nyour heel,' says she, an' begins her story again; an' before she was\nhalf through it Sally laughs out, and takes Jane by the arm, an' starts\nback to the house.\n\n\"'Come away,' says she; 'come away an' have your tay, Jane; sure, ye\ndon't know Hannah yet.'\n\n\"So back the three goes--but not through the yard. Aw, no. 'Twas through\nthe wee green gate, an' down the walk, an' slap up to the hall door\nSally takes them; an' sure enough the first dab on the knocker brings a\nfut on the flags inside, an' there's Kitty, the servant girl, in her\nboots an' her stockin's, an' her Sunday dress an' a white apron on her,\nstandin' before them.\n\n\"'Aw, an' is that you, Kitty Malone,' says Sally. 'An' how's yourself,\nKitty, me dear? An' wid Mrs. Breen be inside?' says she.\n\n\"'She is so, Mrs. Hogan,' answers Kitty, an' bobs a kind of curtsy. 'Wid\nye all be steppin' in, please?'\n\n\"'Aw, the Lord's sake,' gasps Sally on the door step, at all this\ngrandeur; 'the Lord's sake,' says she, an' steps into the hall; an' in\nsteps Mary Dolan, an' in steps Jane Flaherty, an' away the three o' them\ngoes at Kitty's heels up to the parlour.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried\nAnne, and turned up her eyes.\n\n\"Well, dears,\" Anne went on, \"in the three walks, bonnets an' all, an'\nsits them down along the wall on three chairs, an' watches Kitty close\nthe door; then looks at each other in a puzzled kind o' way, an', after\nthat, without openin' a lip, casts their eyes about the room. 'Twas the\nfunniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver she dropped eyes on.\nThere was a sheep-skin, lyin' woolly side up, in front o' the fireplace,\nan' a calf-skin near the windy, an' a dog's skin over be the table, an'\nthe floor was painted brown about three fut all round the walls. There\nwas pieces of windy-curtain over the backs o' the chairs; there was a\nbig fern growin' in an ould drain-pipe in the corner; there was an ould\nstraw hat o' John's stuffed full o' flowers an' it hangin' on the wall,\nan' here an' there, all round it an' beside it were picters cut from the\npapers an' then tacked on the plaster. Ye could hardly see the\nmantelshelf, Jane allowed, for all the trumpery was piled on it,\ndinglum-danglums of glass an' chaney, an' shells from the say, an' a\nsampler stuck in a frame, an' in the middle of all a picter of Hannah\nherself got up in all her finery. An' there was books, an' papers, an'\nfal-lals, an' the sorrow knows what, lyin' about; an' standin' against\nthe wall, facin' the windy, was a wee table, wi' a cloth on it about the\nsize of an apron, an' it wi' a fringe on it, no less, an' it spread\nskew-wise an' lookin' for all the world like a white ace o' diamonds;\nan' on the cloth was a tray wi' cups an' saucers, an' sugar an' milk,\nan' as much bread an' butter, cut as thin as glass, as you'd give a sick\nchild for its supper.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried Anne, 'heavenly\nhour!'\n\n\"Aw, childer, dear,\" cried Judy.\n\n\"Aw, woman alive,\" said I. \"Aw, Judy, dear.\"\n\n\"Well, childer, the three looks at all, an' looks at each other, an'\nshifts on their chairs, an' looks at each other again, an' says Mary\nDolan at last:--\n\n\"'We're in clover, me dears,' says she, 'judgin' be the spread\nbeyont'--and she nods at the wee table.\n\n\"'Ah that'il do for a start,' says Sally Hogan; 'but where in glory are\nwe all to put our legs under that wee table? Sure it'l be an ojus\nsqueeze.'\n\n\"'It will so,' says Jane Flaherty, 'it will so. But isn't it powerful\nquare o' Hannah to keep us sittin' here so long in our bonnets an'\nshawls, an' us dreepin' wi' the heat?'\n\n\"'It's the quarest hole I iver was put in,' says Mary Dolan, 'an' if\nthis is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen at home wi' me feet on the\nhearth an' me tay on a chair.... Phew,' says Mary, an' squints round at\nthe windy, 'phew, but it's flamin' hot! Aw,' says she, an' makes a dart\nfrom her chair, 'dang me, but I'll burst if I don't get a mouthful o'\nfresh air.' An' just as she had her hand on the sash to lift it, the\ndoor opens an' in steps me darlin' Hannah.\n\n\"'Good evenin', ladies all,\" says Hannah, marchin' in wi' some kind of a\ncalico affair, made like a shroud wi' frills on it, hangin' on her,\n'Good evenin', ladies,' says she, an' wi' her elbow cocked up in the air\nas if she was strivin' to scrape it against the ceilin', goes from one\nto another an' shakes hands. 'It's a very pleasant afternoon' (them was\nthe words), says she, makin' for a chair beside the wee table; 'an' I'm\nvery pleased to see ye all,' says she.\n\n\"'Aw, an' the same here,' says Mary Dolan, in her free way, 'the same\nhere; an' ojus nice ye look in that sack of a calico dress, so ye do,'\nsays Mary, wi' a wink at Jane Flaherty. 'But it's meself'd feel obliged\nto ye if so be ye'd open the windy an' give us a mouthful o' fresh air,'\nsays Mary.\n\n\"An' Hannah sits down in her shroud wi' the frills on it, an' smiles,\nan' says she, 'I'm rather delicate' (them were the words) 'this\nafternoon, Mrs. Dolan, an' afeered o' catchin' cold; an', forby that,'\nsays she, 'the dust is so injurious for the parlour.'\n\n\"'Aw, just so,' answers Mary, 'just so. Sure, I wouldn't for worlds have\nye spoil your parlour for the likes of us. But I'll ax your leave, Mrs.\nBreen, seein' ye don't ax me yourself, to give me own health a chance,'\nsays she, 'be throwin' this big shawl off me shoulders.'\n\n\"'But it's afternoon tay, Mrs. Dolan,' answers Hannah, in her cool way;\n'an' it's not fashionable at afternoon tay for ladies to remove--'\n\n\"'Then afternoon tay be danged,' says Mary, an' throws the shawl off her\nacross the back of her chair; 'an' it's meself'll not swelter for all\nthe fashions in the world,' says she, an' pushes her bonnet back an'\nlets it hang be the strings down her back. 'Aw, that's great,' says she,\nwi' a big sigh; an' at that off goes Jane's shawl an' bonnet, an' off\ngoes Sally's; an' there the three o' them sits, wi' Hannah lookin' at\nthem disgusted as an ass at a field of thistles over a gate.... Aw,\nglory be,\" cried Anne.\n\n\"Aw, me bould Anne,\" cried Judy; \"me brave girl.\"\n\n\"Well, dears, Hannah sits her down, puts her elbow on a corner o' the\nace o' diamonds, rests her cheek on her hand, an' goes on talking about\nthis and that. She hoped Mrs. Flaherty, an' Mrs. Dolan, an' Mrs. Hogan\nwere well an' prosperous; she hoped the crops were turnin' out well;\nshe hoped all the childer were in the best o' good health. Aw, like the\nQueen o' Connaught Hannah talked, an' smiled, an' aired herself an' her\nbeautiful English, but sorrow a move did she make to shift her elbow off\nthe wee table-cloth, an' divil a sign or smell o' tay was there to be\nseen. Aw, not a one. Ten minutes went, an' twenty, an' half an hour; an'\nat that, up Mary Dolan stretched her arms, gives a powerful big yawn,\nan', says she, 'Och, dear Lord,' says she, 'dear Lord, but the throat's\ndry in me! Och, och,' says she--an' with the hint up gets Hannah in her\nfrilled shroud, crosses the calf-skin, opens the door, an' calls for\nKitty. 'Yis, Mrs. Breen,' answers Kitty from the Kitchen. 'Serve tay,'\ncalls Hannah; then closes the door an' steps back to her chair by the\nwee table.\n\n\"In about ten minutes, here comes me darlint Kitty, boots an' stockin's\nan' all; carries the taypot on a plate over to the table, an' plants it\ndown slap in the middle o' the ace o' diamonds. Up jumps Hannah wi' a\nbounce.\n\n\"'What are you doin' Kitty?' says she, with a snap of her jaw, an' lifts\nthe taypot, an' glares at the black ring it had made on her brand new\ncloth. 'D'ye see what you've done?' says she, pointin' her finger,\n'stand back and mend your manners, ye ignorant little baggage, ye!'--\n\n\"'Yis, ma'am,' answers Kitty, an' stands back; then turns her head, when\nshe gets to the calf-skin, an' winks at the three sittin' by the wall;\nan' out Mary Dolan bursts into a splutter of a laugh.\n\n\"'Aw, Lord,' says Mary, an' holds her ribs; 'aw, dear Lord,' says she.\nBut Hannah, standin' pourin' tay into the wee cups, just kept her face\nas straight as if Mary was a dummy, an' in a minute she turns round to\nKitty.\n\n\"'Hand the cups to the ladies,' says she, an' sits her down.\n\n\"Well, childer dear, Kitty steps from the calf-skin, lifts two cups an'\nsaucers from the tray, carries them across the floor, an' offers one to\nJane Flaherty, wi' this hand, an' t'other to Sally Hogan wi' that hand.\nAn' Sally looks at the cup, an' then at Kitty; an' Jane looks at Kitty,\nan' then at the cup, an' says Sally:\n\n\"'Is it take it from ye you'd have me do, Kitty Malone?' says she.\n\n\"'It is so,' answers Kitty wi' a grin.\n\n\"'An' where in glory wid ye have me put it, Kitty Malone?' asks Sally\nan' looks here an' there. 'Sure--sure, there's no table next or near\nme,' says she.\n\n\"'It's afternoon tay, Mrs. Hogan,' says Hannah across the floor; 'an' at\nafternoon tay, tables aren't fashionable,' says she, an' grins to\nherself.\n\n\"'Well, thank God, Hannah Breen,' says Mary Dolan, 'that afternoon tay,\nas ye call it, has only come my way once in me life. Take the cup in\nyour fist, Sally Hogan,' says Mary, 'an' if ye break it, bad luck go\nwith it, an' if ye don't, you've been a lady for once in your life; an'\nwhen you're done, stick it there on the floor. I'm obliged to ye, Kitty\nMalone,' says Mary again, an' takes a cup; 'an' if so be I choke meself\nwi' the full o' this thimble wi' a handle on it,' says Mary, an' squints\nat the cup, 'you'll do me the favour to tell Pat I died a fool. An' if\nsuch things go well wi' afternoon tay, Kitty, agra, I'd trouble ye for a\nlook at a spoon.' \"... Aw, me bould Mary,\" cried Anne and laughed in her\nglee. \"Ye were the girl for Hannah, so ye were.\"\n\n\"Aw, 'deed ay,\" cried Judy, and tittered most boisterously. \"Aw, me\nbrave Hannah.\"\n\n\"Then begins the fun, me dears. First of all, Sally Hogan, in trying to\nlift a bit o' bread an' butter from a plate that Kitty held before her,\nmust spill her tay over her lap an' start screechin' that she was kilt.\nThen Mary Dolan must finish her cup at a gulp, an' forgettin' it was in\nHannah's parlour she was at afternoon tay, an' not at home in the\nkitchen, must give the dregs a swirl an' sling them over her shoulder\nagainst the wall. Then Sally Hogan again, in tryin' to keep back a laugh\nat the tay leaves on the wall, an' the glare of Hannah across at them,\nmust get a crumb in her throat an' bring the whole room to thump her on\nthe back.\n\n\"Then Jane Flaherty gets a second cup wi' no sugar in it, an' makes a\nface like a monkey's, an' gives a big splutter, an' sets Kitty Malone\noff into a fit o' laughin'; an' Kitty sets Jane off, an' Jane sets Mary\noff, an' Mary sets Sally off; an' there sits Hannah in her calico\nshroud, beside the ace of diamonds, wi' a face on her like a child\ncuttin' its teeth, an' her arm out, an' her shoutin' for Kitty to take\nherself out o' the room. An' in the middle o' the whole hubbub the door\nopens, an' in tramps big John in his dirty boots, wi' his shirt-sleeves\nturned up, an' hay ropes round his legs, an' his hat on the back o' his\nhead, an' his pipe in his mouth--in steps John, an' stands lookin' at\nthem all.\n\n\"'Ho, ho,' roars John, an' marches across the calf-skin. 'What have we\nhere? A tay party,' says he, 'as I'm a livin' sinner--an' me not to know\na thing about it! Well, better late nor niver,' says he, then turns an'\nlooks at Hannah. 'Aw, how d'ye do, Mrs. Breen? says he, wi' a laugh. 'I\nhope I see ye well in your regimentals. An' how the blazes are the rest\no' ye, me girls?' says he to the three along the wall. 'I'm glad to see\nye all so hearty an' merry, so I am. But what in glory are ye all doin'\nover there, away from the table? Why don't ye sit an' have your tay like\nChristians?' says he. 'Come over, girls--come over this mortial minute,'\nsays John,'an' I'll have a cup wi' ye meself, so I will.'\n\n\"Then Hannah rises in her calico shroud.\n\n\"'John,' says she, 'it's afternoon tay it'll be, an tables--'\n\n\"'Aw, sit ye down, Hannah,' shouts John, 'sit ye down, woman, an' be\nlike another for once in a way.'\n\n\"'John,' says Hannah, again, an' looks knives an' forks at him, 'where's\nyour manners the day?'\n\n\"'Aw, manners be danged,' roars John, an' throws his hat into the\ncorner; 'give us a cup o' tay an' quit your nonsense. Come on, girls,'\nsays he to the women, 'come over, an' have a cup in comfort wi' me here\nat the table.'\n\n\"'John!' says Hannah again, 'ye can't sit at this table; it's--it's too\nsmall,' says she.\n\n\"'Then pull it out from the wall,' roars John, 'pull it out and let us\nget round it. Come on,' says he, an' grips an end o' the table, 'give it\na lift across the floor!'\n\n\"'No, no, John,' shouts Hannah, an' grips t'other end to keep it from\ngoin'; 'ye mustn't, John!'\n\n\"'Out wi' it,' roars John again.\n\n\"'No, no,' shouts Hannah, 'ye can't--aw, ye can't--aw, ye mustn'--no,\nno, John!'\n\n\"'Aw, to glory wi' you an' it,' shouts John. 'Here let me at it\nmeself!...'\n\n\"An' the next minute Hannah was screechin' in her shroud; an' there was\na clatter o' crockery, like as if a bull had gone slap at a dresser; an'\nJohn was standin' like as if he was shot, in the middle of the floor;\nan' lyin' at his feet was the wee table, an' the ace of diamonds, an'\nthe whole o' Hannah's cups an' saucers, an' the taypot, an' all, in a\nthousand pieces.... Aw, heart alive ... heart alive!...\"\n\nAnne leant upon her rake and bowed her head in laughter. Two minutes\ngrace she had; then said I:\n\n\"What had happened, Anne?\"\n\nShe looked at me. \"Happened? Sure, the table was only an ould\ndressin'-table, an' had only three legs, an' was propped wi' the lame\nside against the wall; an' when John put it down in the middle of the\nfloor--Aw, now,\" cried Anne, \"that's enough, that's enough.... Aw, me\nsides--me sides.\"\n\n\"Aw, me sides--me sides,\" cried Judy, shaking below her big sun-bonnet.\n\"Te-he!\"\n\n\"Aw, women alive,\" cried I, sinking back on the hay. \"Haw, haw!\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Interpreters.\n\n_From \"The Adventures of Dr. Whitty.\"_\n\nBY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.\n\n\nAt the end of January, after three weeks of violently stormy weather,\nthe American barque, \"Kentucky,\" went ashore at Carrigwee, the headland\nwhich guards the northern end of Ballintra. She struck first on some\nrocks a mile from the shore, drifted over them and among them, and was\nwashed up, frightfully shattered, on the mainland. The captain and the\ncrew were saved, and made their way into the town of Ballintra. They\nwere dispatched thence to Liverpool, all of them, except one sailor, a\nforecastle hand, whose right leg had been broken by a falling spar. This\nman was brought into Ballintra in a cart by Michael Geraghty, and taken\nto the workhouse hospital. He arrived in a state of complete collapse,\nand Dr. Whitty was sent for at once.\n\nThe sailor turned out to be a man of great strength and vigour. He\nrecovered from the effects of the long exposure rapidly, had his leg\nset, and was made as comfortable as the combined efforts of the whole\nworkhouse hospital staff could make him. Then it was noticed that he did\nnot speak a word to anyone, and was apparently unable to understand a\nword that was said to him. The master of the workhouse, after a\nconsultation with the matron and the nurse, came to the conclusion that\nhe must be a foreigner. Dr. Whitty was sent for again and the fact\nreported to him.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" said the master, \"that you might be able to speak to\nhim, doctor, so as he'd be able to understand what you said.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't,\" said the doctor. \"I'm not a professional interpreter,\nbut I don't see that it much matters whether you're able to talk to him\nor not. Give him his food. He'll understand the meaning of a cup of tea\nwhen it's offered him, whatever language he's accustomed to speak.\nThat's all you need care about. As a matter of fact, he'll be just as\nwell off without having you and the nurse and the matron sitting on the\nend of his bed and gossiping with him all day long.\"\n\n\"What's troubling me,\" said the master, \"is that I've no way of finding\nout what religion he is.\"\n\n\"I don't see,\" said the doctor, \"that his religion matters in the least\nto us. He's not going to die.\"\n\n\"I know that. But I have to enter his religion in the book. It's the\nrule that the religion of every inmate of the house or the hospital must\nbe entered, and I'll get into trouble after if I don't do it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, \"there's no use asking me about it. I can't\ntalk to him any better than you can, and there isn't any way of telling\nby the feel of a man's leg whether he's a Catholic or a Protestant.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" said the master, who disliked this sort of flippant\nmaterialism, \"but if I was to enter him down as a Catholic, and it\nturned out after that he was a Protestant, there'd be a row I'd never\nhear the end of; and if I was to have him down as a Protestant, and him\nbeing a Catholic all the time, there'd be a worse row.\"\n\nDr. Whitty was a good-natured man, and was always ready to help anyone\nwho was in a difficulty. He felt for the master of the workhouse. He\nalso had a natural taste for solving difficult problems, and the\nquestion of the sailor's religion attracted him.\n\n\"Tell me this, now,\" he said. \"Had he any kind of a Prayer Book or a\nreligious emblem of any sort on him when you were taking the clothes off\nhim?\"\n\n\"Not one. I looked myself, and the nurse went through his pockets after.\nBarring a lump of ship's tobacco and an old knife, there wasn't a thing\non him.\"\n\n\"That's not much use to us,\" said the doctor. \"I never heard of a\nreligion yet that forbid the use of tobacco or objected to people\ncarrying penknifes. If you'd found a bottle of whiskey on him, now, it\nmight have helped us. We'd have known then that he wasn't a Mohammedan.\"\n\n\"What'll I do at all?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what it is,\" said the doctor. \"I'll go round the town and\nI'll collect all the people in it that can speak any language besides\nEnglish. I'll bring them up here and let them try him one by one. It'll\nbe a queer thing if we can't find somebody that will be able to make him\nunderstand a simple question.\"\n\nDr. Whitty called first at the Imperial Hotel, and had an interview with\nLizzie Glynn.\n\n\"Lizzie,\" he said, \"you've had a good education at one of the most\nexpensive convents in Ireland. Isn't that a fact?\"\n\n\"It is,\" she said. \"And I took a prize one time for playing the piano.\"\n\n\"It's not piano-playing that I expect from you now,\" said the doctor,\n\"but languages. You speak French, of course?\"\n\n\"I learned it,\" said Lizzie, \"but I wouldn't say I could talk it very\nfast.\"\n\n\"Never mind how slow you go,\" said the doctor, \"so long as you get it\nout in the end. Are you good at German?\"\n\n\"I didn't learn German.\"\n\n\"Italian?\"\n\n\"There was one of the sisters that knew Italian,\" said Lizzie, \"but it\nwasn't taught regular.\"\n\n\"Russian? Spanish? Dutch?\"\n\nLizzie shook her head.\n\n\"That's a pity. Never mind. I'll put you down for French, anyway. I'll\ntake you up with me to the workhouse hospital at six o'clock this\nevening. I want you to speak French to a man that's there, one of the\nsailors out of the ship that was wrecked.\"\n\n\"I mightn't be fit,\" said Lizzie, doubtfully.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you will. Just look up the French for religion before you\nstart, and get off the names of the principal kinds of religion in that\nlanguage. All you have to do is to ask the man, 'What is your religion?'\nand then understand whatever it is he says to you by the way of an\nanswer.\"\n\nDr. Whitty next called on Mr. Jackson and explained the situation to\nhim. The rector, rather unwillingly, offered French, and seemed relieved\nwhen he was told that that language was already provided for.\n\n\"I thought,\" said the doctor, \"that you'd be sure to know Greek.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said the Rector, \"but not modern Greek.\"\n\n\"Is there much difference?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I fancy there is.\"\n\n\"Well, look here, come up and try the poor fellow with ancient Greek. I\nexpect he'll understand it if you talk slowly. All we want to get out\nof him is whether he's a Protestant or a Catholic.\"\n\n\"If he's a Greek at all,\" said the rector, \"he'll probably not be either\nthe one or the other.\"\n\n\"He's got to be one or the other while he's here. He can choose\nwhichever happens to be the nearest thing to his own religion, whatever\nthat is. Does Mrs. Jackson know Italian or Spanish?\"\n\n\"No. I rather think she learned German at school, but I expect----\"\n\n\"Capital. I'll put her down for German.\"\n\n\"I'm sure she's forgotten it now.\"\n\n\"Never mind. She can brush it up. There's not much wanted and she has\ntill six o'clock this evening. I shall count on you both. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"By the way, doctor,\" said Mr. Jackson on the doorstep, \"now I come to\nthink of it, I don't believe there's a word in ancient Greek for\nProtestant.\"\n\n\"There must be. It's one of the most important and useful words in any\nlanguage. How could the ancient Greeks possibly have got on without it?\"\n\n\"There _isn't_. I'm perfectly sure there isn't.\"\n\n\"That's awkward. But never mind, you'll be able to get round it with\nsome kind of paraphrase. After all, we can't leave the poor fellow\nwithout the consolations of religion in some form. Good-bye.\"\n\n\"And--and--Catholic in ancient Greek will mean something quite\ndifferent, not in the least what it means now.\"\n\nThe doctor was gone. Mr. Jackson went back to his study and spent two\nhours wrestling with the contents of a lexicon. He arrived at the\nworkhouse in the evening with a number of cryptic notes, the words\nlavishly accented, written down on small slips of paper.\n\nFather Henaghan was the next person whom Dr. Whitty visited. At first he\nabsolutely declined to help.\n\n\"The only language I could make any shift at speaking,\" he said \"is\nLatin. And that would be no use to you. There isn't one sailor out of\nevery thousand, outside of the officers of the Royal Navy, that would\nknow six words of Latin.\"\n\n\"They tell me,\" said the doctor, \"that there's no great difference\nbetween Latin and Spanish or Italian. Anyone that knows the one will\nmake a pretty good push at understanding the others.\"\n\n\"Whoever told you that told you a lie,\" said the priest; \"and, anyway,\nI'm not going near that man until I'm sure he's a Catholic.\"\n\n\"Don't be hard-hearted, Father. Think of the poor fellow lying there and\nnot being able to tell any of us what religion he belongs to.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you why I won't go,\" said the priest. \"There was one time\nwhen I was a curate in Dublin, I used to be attending one of the\nhospitals. People would be brought in suffering from accidents and\ndying, and you wouldn't know what they were, Catholic and Protestant. I\ngot into the way of anointing them all while they were unconcious,\nfeeling it could do them no harm, even if they were Protestants. Well,\none day I anointed a poor fellow that they told me was dying. What did\nhe do but recover. It turned out then that he was a Protestant, and,\nwhat's more, an Orangeman, and when he heard what was done he gave me\nall sorts of abuse. He said his mother wouldn't rest easy in her grave\nwhen she heard of it, and more talk of the same kind.\"\n\n\"This is quite a different sort of case,\" said the doctor. \"This man's\nnot dying or the least likely to die.\"\n\n\"I'll not go near him,\" said the priest.\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Father. The Rev. Mr. Jackson is coming\nup, and he's prepared to ask the man what religion he is in ancient\nGreek--ancient Greek, mind you, no less. It wouldn't be a nice thing to\nhave it said about the town that the Protestant minister could talk\nancient Greek and that you weren't fit to say a few words in Latin.\nCome, now, Father Henaghan, for the credit of the Church say you'll do\nit.\"\n\nThis last argument weighed greatly with the priest. Dr. Whitty saw his\nadvantage and pressed the matter home.\n\n\"I'll put you down,\" he said, \"for Spanish and Italian.\"\n\n\"You may put me down if you like, but I tell you he won't know a word I\nspeak to him.\"\n\n\"Try him,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"I'll not be making a public fool of myself to please you,\" said the\npriest. \"If I do it at all I'll have no one with me in the room at the\ntime, mind that now.\"\n\n\"Not a soul. You shall have him all to yourself. To tell you the truth,\nI expect everybody will feel the same as you do about that. The Rev. Mr.\nJackson didn't seem very keen on showing off his ancient Greek.\"\n\nColonel Beresford, when Dr. Whitty called on him, confessed to a slight,\na very slight, acquaintance with the Russian language.\n\n\"I took it up,\" he said, \"a long time ago when I was stationed in\nEdinburgh. There was a Russian scare on at the time and everybody\nthought there was going to be a war. I happened to hear that there were\na couple of Russian medical students in the University, and I thought if\nI picked up a little of the language I might fall in for a staff\nappointment. I've nearly forgotten it all now, and I didn't make any\nspecial study of religious terms at the time, but I'll do the best I can\nfor you. You've got all the other languages you say.\"\n\n\"I think so. I have\"--the doctor took a list from his pocket--\"French,\nMiss Lizzie Glynn. She was educated at a first-rate convent, and speaks\nFrench fluently. Greek (ancient and modern), the Rev. Mr. Jackson.\nGerman and allied tongues, Mrs. Jackson. Italian, Spanish and\nPortuguese, Father Henaghan. That, with your Russian, makes a tolerably\ncomplete list.\"\n\n\"I'd no idea,\" said the colonel, \"that we were such a polyglot in\nBallintra. By the way, you haven't got Norwegian.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the doctor, \"I haven't and when you come to think of it, a\nsailor is more likely to be that, or a Swede, than any thing else. Can\nyou speak it?\"\n\n\"Not a word.\"\n\n\"Do you happen to have a dictionary, Norwegian or Swedish, in the\nhouse?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That's a pity. I'd have tried to work it up a little myself if you\nhad.\"\n\n\"All I have,\" said the Colonel, \"is a volume of Ibsen's plays.\"\n\n\"Give me that,\" said the Doctor, \"and I'll do my best.\"\n\n\"It's only a translation.\"\n\n\"Never mind. I'll pick up something out of it that may be useful. I have\ntwo hours before me. Do you mind lending it to me?\"\n\nDr. Whitty went home with a copy of a translation of \"Rosmersholm,\"\n\"Ghosts,\" and \"An Enemy of Society.\"\n\nAt six o'clock the whole party of linguists assembled in the private\nsitting-room of the master of the workhouse. Dr. Whitty gave them a\nshort address of an encouraging kind, pointing out that, in performing\nan act of charity they were making the best possible use of the\neducation they had received. He then politely asked Mrs. Jackson if she\nwould like to visit the foreigner first. She did not seem anxious to\npush herself forward. Her German, she confessed, was weak; and she hoped\nthat if she was reserved until the last he might possibly recognise one\nof the other languages before her turn came. Everybody else, it turned\nout, felt very much as Mrs. Jackson did. In the end Dr. Whitty decided\nthe order of precedence by drawing lots. The colonel, accepting loyally\nthe decision of destiny, went first and returned with the news that the\nsailor showed no signs of being able to understand Russian. Lizzie Glynn\nwent next, and was no more fortunate with her French.\n\n\"I'm not sure,\" she said, \"did I speak it right. But, right or wrong, he\ndidn't know a word I said to him.\"\n\nMr. Jackson arranged his notes carefully and was conducted by the doctor\nto the ward. He, too, returned without having made himself intelligible.\n\n\"I knew I should be no use,\" he said. \"I expect modern Greek is quite\ndifferent from the language I know.\"\n\nFather Henaghan's Latin was a complete failure. He seemed irritated and\nreported very unfavourably of the intelligence of the patient.\n\n\"It's my belief,\" he said, \"that the man's mind's gone. He must have got\na crack on the head somehow, as well as breaking his leg, and had the\nsense knocked out of him. He looks to me like a man who'd understand\nwell enough when you talked to him if he had his right mind.\"\n\nThis view of the sailor's condition made Mrs. Jackson nervous. She said\nshe had no experience of lunatics, and disliked being brought into\ncontact with them. She wanted to back out of her promise to ask the\nnecessary question in German. In the end she consented to go, but only\nif her husband was allowed to accompany her. She was back again in five\nminutes, and said definitely that the man knew no German whatever.\n\n\"Now,\" said the colonel, \"it's your turn, doctor. Go at him with your\nNorwegian.\"\n\n\"The fact is,\" said the doctor, \"that, owing to the three plays you lent\nme being merely translations, I've only been able to get a hold of one\nNorwegian word. However, as it happens, it is an extremely useful word\nin this particular case. The Norwegian for a clergyman,\" he said,\ntriumphantly, \"is 'Pastor.' What's more, I've got a hold of the name of\none of their clergy. If this man is a Norwegian, and has been in the\nhabit of going to the theatre, I expect he'll know all about Pastor\nManders.\"\n\n\"It's clever of you to have fished that out of the book I lent you,\"\nsaid the colonel. \"But I don't quite see how it will help you to find\nout whether our friend with the broken leg is a Protestant or a Roman\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"It will help if it's worked properly, if it's worked the way I mean to\nwork it, that is to say, if the man is a Norwegian, and I don't see what\nelse he can be.\"\n\n\"He might be a Turk,\" said Father Henaghan.\n\n\"No he couldn't. I tried him with half a glass of whiskey this morn, and\nhe simply lapped it up. If he had been a Turk the smell of it would have\nturned him sick. We may fairly assume that he is, as I say, a Norwegian,\nand if he is I'll get at him. I shall want you, Father Henaghan, and\nyou, Mr. Jackson, to come with me.\"\n\n\"I've been twice already,\" said Mr. Jackson. \"Do you really think it\nnecessary for me----\"\n\n\"I shan't ask you to speak another word of ancient Greek,\" said the\ndoctor. \"You needn't do anything except stand where I put you and look\npleasant.\"\n\nHe took the priest and the rector, seizing each by the arm, and swept\nthem with him along the corridor to the ward in which the injured sailor\nlay. He set them one on each side of the bed, and stood at the foot of\nit himself. The sailor stared first at the priest and next at the\nrector. Then he looked the doctor straight in the face and his left\neyelid twitched slightly. Dr. Whitty felt almost certain that he winked;\nbut there was clearly no reason why he should wink with any malicious\nintent, so he put the motion down to some nervous affection.\n\n\"Pastor,\" said the doctor, in a loud, clear tone, pointing to Father\nHenaghan.\n\nThe sailor looked vacantly at the priest.\n\n\"Pastor,\" said the doctor again, indicating Mr. Jackson, with his\nfinger.\n\nThe sailor turned his face and looked at Mr. Jackson, but there was no\nsign of intelligence on his face.\n\n\"Take your choice,\" said the doctor; \"you can have either one or the\nother. We don't want to influence you in the slightest, but you've got\nto profess a religion of some sort while you're here, and these\nclergymen represent the only two kinds we have. One or other of them you\nmust choose, otherwise the unfortunate master of this workhouse will get\ninto trouble for not registering you. Hang it all! I don't believe the\nfool knows a single word I'm saying to him.\"\n\nAgain, the man's eyelid, this time his right, eyelid, twitched.\n\n\"Don't do that,\" said the doctor; \"it distracts your attention from what\nI'm saying. Listen to me now. Pastor Manders!\" He pointed to the priest.\n\"Pastor Manders!\" He indicated the rector.\n\nNeither Father Henaghan nor Mr. Jackson had ever read \"Ghosts,\" which\nwas fortunate. If they had they might have resented the name which the\ndoctor imposed on them. Apparently, the sailor did not know the play\neither. \"Manders\" seemed to mean no more to him than \"Pastor\" did.\n\n\"There's no use our standing here all evening,\" said Father Henaghan.\n\"You told me to look pleasant, and I have--I haven't looked so pleasant\nfor a long time--but I don't see that any good is likely to come of it.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" said the doctor. \"I've done my best, and I can do no more.\nI'm inclined to think now that the man must be either a Laplander or an\nEsquimaux. He'd have understood me if he'd been a Dane, a Swede, a\nNorwegian, or even a Finn.\"\n\n\"I told you, as soon as ever I set eyes on him,\" said the priest, \"that\nhe was out of his mind. My own belief is, doctor, that if you give him\nsome sort of a soothing draught, and get him back into his right senses,\nhe'll turn out to be an Irishman. It's what he looks like.\"\n\nMichael Geraghty, who had carted the injured sailor from the shipwreck,\ncalled on Dr. Whitty next day at breakfast-time.\n\n\"I hear,\" he said, \"that you had half the town up yesterday trying could\nthey get a word out of that fellow that's in the hospital with the\nbroken leg.\"\n\n\"I had. We spoke to him in every language in Europe, and I'm bothered if\nI know what country he belongs to at all. There wasn't one of us he'd\nanswer.\"\n\n\"Did you think of trying him with the Irish?\"\n\n\"I did not. Where would be the good? If he could speak Irish he'd be\nsure to be able to speak English.\"\n\n\"Would you have any objection to my saying a few words to him, doctor?\"\n\n\"Not the least in the world. If you've nothing particular to do, go up\nthere and tell the master I sent you.\"\n\nAn hour later Michael Geraghty re-appeared at the doctor's door. He was\ngrinning broadly and seemed pleased with himself.\n\n\"Well, Michael, did you make him speak?\"\n\n\"I didn't like to say a word to you, doctor, till I made sure for fear\nof what I might be bringing some kind of trouble on the wrong man; but\nas soon as ever I seen that fellow put into my cart beyond at Carrigwee,\nI said to myself: 'You're mighty like poor Affy Hynes that's gone, only\na bit older. I took another look at him as we were coming along the\nroad, and, says I, 'If Affy Hynes is alive this minute you're him.\nYou'll recollect, doctor, that the poor fellow couldn't speak at the\ntime, by reason of the cold that was on him and the broken leg and all\nthe hardships he'd been through. Well, looking at him off and on, till I\ngot to the workhouse I came to be pretty near certain that it was either\nAffy Hynes or a twin brother of his; and Mrs. Hynes, the mother, that's\ndead this ten years, never had but the one son.\"\n\n\"And who was Affy Hynes?\"\n\n\"It was before your time, of course, and before Father Henaghan was\nparish priest; but the colonel would know who I mean.\" Michael sank his\nvoice to an impressive whisper. \"Affy Hynes was the boy that the police\nwas out after in the bad times, wanting to have him hanged on account of\nthe way that the bailiff was shot. But he made off, and none of us ever\nknew where he went to, though they did say that it might be to an uncle\nof his that was in America.\"\n\n\"Did he murder the bailiff?\"\n\n\"He did not; nor I don't believe he knew who did, though he might.\"\n\n\"Then what did he run away for?\"\n\n\"For fear they'd hang him,\" said Michael Geraghty. \"Amn't I just after\ntelling you?\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"Well, when Affy came to himself after all the hardship he had it wasn't\nlong before he found out the place he was in. 'It's Ballintra,' says he\nto himself, 'or it's mighty like it.' There did be a great dread on him\nthen that the police would be out after him again, and have him took;\nand, says he, into himself like, so as no one would hear him, 'I'll let\non I can't understand a word they say to me, so as they won't know my\nvoice, anyway.' And so he did; but he went very near laughing one time\nwhen you had the priest and the minister, one on each side of him, and\n'Pastor,' says you----\"\n\n\"Never mind that part,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"If it's displeasing to you to hear about it, I'll not say another word.\nOnly, I'd be thankful if you'd tell me why you called the both of them\nManders. It's what Affy was saying to me this minute: 'Michael,' says\nhe, 'is Manders the name that's on the priest that's in the parish\npresently?' 'It is not,' says I, 'but Henaghan.' 'That's queer,' said\nhe. 'Is it Manders they call the minister?' 'It is not,' I says; 'it's\nJackson. There never was one in the place of the name of Manders, priest\nor minister.' 'That's queer,' says he 'for the doctor called both the\ntwo of them Manders.'\"\n\n\"So he understood every word we said to him all the time?\" said the\ndoctor.\n\n\"Not the whole of it, nor near the whole,\" said Michael Geraghty. \"He's\nbeen about the world a deal, being a sailor and he said he could make\nout what Miss Glynn was saying pretty well, and knew the minister's lady\nwas talking Dutch, though he couldn't tell what she was saying, for it\nwasn't just the same Dutch as he'd been accustomed to hearing. The\ncolonel made a middling good offer at the Russian. Affy was a year one\ntime in them parts, and he knows; but he said he'd be damned if he could\nmake any kind of a guess at what either the priest or the minister was\nat, and he told me to be sure and ask you what they were talking because\nhe'd like to know.\"\n\n\"I'll go up and see him myself,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"If you speak the Irish to him he'll answer you,\" said Michael.\n\n\"I will, if he likes,\" said the doctor. \"But why won't he speak\nEnglish?\"\n\n\"There's a sort of dread on him,\" said Michael Geraghty. \"I think he'd\nbe more willing to trust you if you'd speak to him in the Irish, it\nbeing all one to you. He bid me say to you, and it's a good job I didn't\nforget it, that if so be he's dying, you might tell Father Henaghan he's\na Catholic, the way he'd attend on him; but if he's to live, he'd as\nsoon no one but yourself and me knew he was in the place.\"\n\nDr. Whitty went up to the workhouse, turned the nurse out of the ward,\nand sat down beside Affy Hynes.\n\n\"Tell me this now,\" he said, \"why didn't you let me know who you were? I\nwouldn't have told on you.\"\n\n\"I was sorry after that I didn't,\" said Affy, \"when I seen all the\ntrouble that I put you to. It was too much altogether fetching the\nladies and gentlemen up here to be speaking to the like of me. It's what\nnever happened to me before, and I'm sorry you were bothered.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you tell me then?\"\n\n\"Sure, I did my best. Did you not see me winking at you once, when you\nhad the priest and the minister in with me, as much as to say: 'Doctor,\nif I thought I could trust you I'd tell you the truth this minute.' I\nmade full sure you'd understand what it was I was meaning the second\ntime, even if you didn't at the first go-off.\"\n\n\"That's not what I gathered from your wink at all,\" said the doctor. \"I\nthought you'd got some kind of a nervous affection of the eye.\"\n\n\"It's a queer thing, now,\" said Affy, \"that the two of them reverend\ngentlemen should have the same name, and that Manders.\"\n\n\"We'll drop that subject,\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"We will, of course, if it's pleasing to you. But it is queer all the\nsame, and I'd be glad if I knew the reason of it, for it must be mighty\nconfusing for the people of this place, both Catholic and Protestant.\nTell me now, doctor, is there any fear that I might be took by the\npolice?\"\n\n\"Not a bit. That affair of yours, whatever it was, is blown over long\nago.\"\n\n\"Are you certain of that?\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Then as soon as I'm fit I'll take a bit of a stroll out and look at the\nold place. I'd like to see it again. Many's the time I've said to\nmyself, me being, may be, in some far-away country at the time, 'I'd\nlike to see Ballintra again, and the house where my mother lived, and\nthe bohireen that the asses does be going along into the bog when the\nturf's brought home.' Is it there yet?\"\n\n\"I expect it is,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"God is good,\" said Affy. \"It's little ever I expected to set eyes on\nit.\"\n\n\n\n\nA Test of Truth.\n\n_From \"Irish Neighbours.\"_\n\nBY JANE BARLOW.\n\n\nJim Hanlon, the cobbler, was said by his neighbours to have had his own\nshare of trouble, and they often added, \"And himself a very dacint man,\ngoodness may pity him!\" His misfortunes began when poor Mary Anne, his\nwife, died, leaving him forlorn with one rather sickly little girl, and\nthey seemed to culminate when one frosty morning a few years later he\nbroke his leg with a fall on his way to visit Minnie in hospital. The\nneighbours, who were so much impressed by her father's good qualities\nand bad luck, did not hold an equally favourable opinion about this\nMinnie, inclining to consider her a \"cross-tempered, spoilt little\nshrimp of a thing.\" But Jim himself thought that the width of the world\ncontained nothing like her, which was more or less true. So when she\nfell ill of a low fever, and the doctor said that the skilled nursing in\na Dublin hospital would be by far her best chance, it was only after a\nsore struggle that Jim could make up his mind to let her go. And then\nhis visit to her at the first moment possible had brought about the\nunwary walking and slip on a slide, which resulted so disastrously.\n\nIt was indeed a most deplorable accident. If it had happened somewhere\nnear Minnie's hospital, he said to himself, it might have been less\nunlucky, but, alas, the whole city spread between them and the\ninstitution whither he was brought. The sense of his helplessness\nalmost drove him frantic, as he lay in the long ward fretting over the\nthought that he was tied by the leg, unable to come next or nigh her,\nwhatever might befall, or even to get a word of news about her. But on\nthis latter point his forebodings were not fulfilled, his neighbours\nproved themselves to be friends in need. At the tidings of his mishap\nthey made their way in to see him from unhandy little Ballyhoy,\nundeterred by what was often to them no very trivial expense and\ninconvenience. Nor were they slow to discover that they could do him no\ngreater service than find out for him \"what way herself was at all over\nat the other place.\" Everybody helped him readily in this matter, more\nespecially three or four good-natured Ballyhoy matrons. On days when\nthey came into town to do their bits of marketing they would augment\ntheir toils by long trudges on foot, or costly drives on tramcars, that\nthey might convey to Jim Hanlon the report for which he pined. They\nconsidered neither their heavy baskets, nor the circumstance that they\nwere folk to whom time was time, and a penny a penny indeed.\n\nYet, sad to say, great as was Jim's relief and his gratitude, their very\nzeal did in some degree diminish the value of their kindness. For their\nevident desire to please and pacify him awakened in his mind doubts\nabout the means which they might adopt; and it must be admitted that his\nmistrust was not altogether ungrounded. The tales which they carried to\nhim from \"the other place\" were not seldom intrinsically improbable, and\nsounded all the more so to him because of his intimate acquaintance with\ntheir subject. When Mrs. Jack Doyle averred that Minnie was devouring\nall before her, and that the nurse said a strong man would scarce eat\nas much as she did, Jim remembered Minnie's tomtit-like meals at home,\nand found the statement hard to accept. It was still worse when they\ngave him effusively affectionate messages, purporting to come from\nMinnie, who had always been anything in the world but demonstrative and\nsentimental. His heart sank as Mrs. Doran assured him that Minnie had\nsent her love to her own darling treasure of a precious old daddy, for\nhe knew full well that no such greeting had ever emanated from Minnie,\nand how could he tell, Jim reflected, but that they might be as apt to\ndeceive him about one thing as another? Perhaps there was little or no\ntruth in what they told him about the child being so much better, and\nable to sit up, and so forth. Like enough one couldn't believe a word\nthey said. On this terribly baffling question he pondered continually\nwith a troubled mind.\n\nSaturday mornings were always the most likely to bring him visitors, and\non a certain Saturday he rejoiced to hear that somebody was asking for\nhim. He was all the more pleased because the lateness of the hour had\nmade him despair of seeing any friends, and because this portly,\ngood-humoured Mrs. Connolly was just the person he had been wishing to\ncome. She explained that she would have paid him a visit sooner, had not\nall her children been laid up with colds, and then, as he had hoped, she\nwent on to say that she was going over to see after little Minnie. \"And\nthe Sister here's promised me,\" said Mrs. Connolly, \"she'll let me in to\nbring you word on me way back, even if I'm a trifle beyond the right\nvisitin' time itself.\"\n\nThereupon Jim produced a sixpence from under his pillow, where he had\nkept it ready all the long morning. \"If it wouldn't be throublin' you\ntoo much, ma'am,\" he said, \"I was wonderin' is there e'er a place you\nwould be passin' by where you could get some sort of a little doll wid\nthis for Minnie.\"\n\n\"Is it a doll?\" said Mrs. Connolly. \"Why to be sure I will, and welcome.\nI know a shop in O'Connell Street where they've grand sixpenny dolls,\ndressed real delightful. I'll get her a one of them as aisy as\nanythin'.\" Mrs. Connolly knew that the price of the dolls she had in her\neye was actually sixpence-halfpenny, but she at once resolved to pay the\nhalfpenny herself and not let on.\n\n\"And you might maybe be gettin' her an orange wid this,\" Jim said,\nhanding her a penny.\n\n\"Well, now, it's the lucky child poor Minnie is,\" Mrs. Connolly\ndeclared, \"to have such a good daddy. Finely set up she will be wid a\ndoll and an orange. I'll bring her the best in Dublin, Jim, no fear.\"\n\n\"She might fancy the orange, anyway,\" Jim said, half to himself, with a\nqueer remorseful sort of look.\n\nMrs. Connolly having gone, he began to expect her back again with an\nunreasonable promptitude which lengthened the afternoon prodigiously. He\nhad suffered innumerable apprehensions, and fidgetted himself into a\nfever of anxiety before she could possibly have returned. At last,\nhowever, when her broad, cheerful countenance did reappear to him,\nlooming through the misty March dusk, he felt that he would almost have\nchosen a further delay. For he had staked so much upon this venture that\nthe crisis of learning, whether it had failed or succeeded could not but\nbe rather terrible.\n\nThere was nothing apparently alarming in Mrs. Connolly's report. She\nhad found Minnie doing finely. Her nurse said she would be out of bed\nnext week, and was very apt to get her health better than before she\ntook bad. The orange had pleased her highly, and she had bid Mrs.\nConnolly tell her daddy that he might be sending her another one next\nSaturday if he liked. All this was good as far as it went, but about the\ndoll, Mrs. Connolly kept silence, and it struck Jim that she shrank away\nfrom anything which seemed leading towards a reference to the subject.\nJim, who at first had half dreaded and half longed every moment to hear\nher speak of it, began to think that she might go away without\nmentioning it, which would not do at all. In the end he had to introduce\nit himself.\n\n\"And how about the bit of a doll, ma'am?\" he inquired as unconcernedly\nas he could. \"Was you able to get her e'er a one?\"\n\nUnmistakably Mrs. Connolly was much disconcerted by the question. Her\nface fell, and she hesitated for a while before she replied, with\nevident reluctance--\n\n\"Sure, now, man alive, you never can tell what quare notions childer'll\ntake up wid when they're sick, and more especially when they do be about\ngettin' well agin, the way Minnie is now. Quiet enough the crathurs do\nbe as long as they're rale bad. But, tellin' you the truth, Jim, not a\nbit of her would look at the doll. Some fantigue she had agin it,\nwhatever ailed her, an' it a great beauty, wid a pink sash on it and all\nmanner. Slingin' it into the middle of the floor she was, only the nurse\ncaught a hould of it, an' biddin' me to take it away out of that. So\nsays I to her, 'What at all should I do wid the lovely doll, after your\npoor daddy sendin' it to yourself?' And, says she to me, 'Give the ugly\nbig lump of a thing to the ould divil,' says she, 'an' let him give it\nto the little young black-leggy divils to play wid if they like.' I\ndeclare to you, Jim, thim was the very words of her, sittin' up in her\nbed, not lookin' the size of anythin'. 'Deed, now, she's the comical\nchild. But sure who'd be mindin' her? And the nurse says she'll keep the\ndoll till to-morrow, an' if Minnie doesn't fancy it then, she'll give it\nto the little girl in the next cot that does be frettin' after her\nmother, so it won't go to loss. An' besides--\"\n\nShe stopped short in surprise, for Jim, who had been laughing silently\nto himself, now broke out in tones of positive rapture--\n\n\"'The little young black-leggy divils'--that's Minnie herself, and no\nmistake this time, glory be to God! Sorra the fantigue it was, but just\nthe nathur of her, for the thoughts of a doll she never could abide all\nthe days of her life. She'd as lief be playin' wid a snake or a toad. So\nif you'd let on to me that she liked it, ma'am, well I'd know 'twas only\nromancin' to me you were. But the truth you tould me, right enough, and\nthank you kindly. The little villin'll be runnin' about before I am,\nplaze goodness. Och, bedad, I can see her slingin' it neck an' crop out\nof the bed.\"\n\nAs Jim fell to laughing again, Mrs. Connolly looked at him puzzled, and\nwith some disapproval, though she would not express the latter sentiment\nto him in his invalided condition. But she soon afterwards took leave,\nand on her homeward way she said to herself, \"Musha, good gracious,\nmightn't one suppose Jim Hanlon 'ud have more since than to go sind the\npoor imp of a child a prisint only for the sake of annoyin' her? 'Twas\nthe quare, foolish way to be spendin' a sixpence, in my opinion. But\nsure, 'twas be way of a joke, an' the poor man hasn't much chance of\ne'er a one lyin' there. It's wonderful the store men set by nonsense.\nSometimes you'd think they were all born fools, they do be that aisy\namused. You'll hear thim guffawin' like a jackass bewitched over silly\nould blathers that an infant child 'ud have more wit than to be\nmindin'.\"\n\nCertainly, Jim was so well satisfied with his joke, if joke it were,\nthat when he grew drowsy towards evening, his last thoughts made him\nchuckle contentedly. \"The little black-leggy divils,\" he said to\nhimself. \"Glory be to God! she's finely.\" And he fell asleep with a glad\nand grateful heart.\n\n\n\n\nThe Wise Woman.\n\n_From \"A Boy in the Country.\"_\n\nBY JOHN STEVENSON.\n\n\nThat she knew far more than all the doctors put together was commonly\nconsidered, in the territory of her operations, as truth beyond\nquestion. Sometimes a man body, with a pain for which he could not\naccount, fearing the inquisition and expense of the qualified\npractitioner, would make believe to doubt the potency of her medicines,\nthe reality of her cures. But even the discernment of a boy was\nsufficient to detect the insincerity of his contemptuous talk about\n\"auld wife's doctorin',\" and to find lurking behind his brave words the\nstrong desire to consult the wise woman. With much show of impatience,\nand pretence of anger, at the over-persuasion of his womankind, he would\ngive a seemingly reluctant consent to see Mrs. Moloney, \"if she should\nhappen to look in.\" He knew as well as that he lived that her coming\nwould be by invitation.\n\nSuch a one, receiving in the field the message that \"Mrs. Moloney's in,\"\nwould probably say, \"Hoots, nonsense,\" and add that he had his work to\nlook after. But, very soon, he would find that he needed a spade or a\nhook, a pot of paint, or a bit of rope, from home, and he must needs go\nhome for it himself. He believed in a man's doing a thing for himself if\nhe wanted it well done; as like as not a messenger would spend half a\nday in looking for what he wanted, and bring the wrong thing in the end.\nAt home he would make a fine show of searching out-houses and lofts,\npassing and repassing, with some noise, the kitchen windows, finally\nlooking in to see if the thing is in the kitchen; and there, of course,\nquite accidentally, he would see Mrs. Moloney and would not be rude\nenough to leave without passing the time o' day. Then the womankind took\nhold of the case, drew out the man's story of distress, took notes of\nthe remedy, and saw to it that the medicine was taken according to\ndirection.\n\n\"The innards o' man is tough, and need to be dealt with accordin',\" said\nMrs. Moloney, and for man she prescribed a dose which gave him some pain\nand, usually, cured him. It may be that Nature, provoked by the irritant\nremedy, got rid of it, and the ailment at once; or it may be that the\nman body, after the racket in \"his innards,\" found his ailment, by\ncomparison, easy to live with, and imagined himself cured. In either\ncase, the result was counted as cure to the credit of Mrs. Moloney.\n\nBy profession a seller of needles, pins, buttons, and such small wares,\nshe owed her livelihood, in reality, to payment for her medical skill.\nNot that she took money for her prescription or advice--\"Thanks be to\nGod,\" she said, \"I never took wan penny for curin' man, woman, or\nchild\"; but then, no one ever asked her advice without buying something,\nand if her charges were just a little more than shop prices, she was\nentitled to something extra for bringing the shop to the customer. Then\nshe got her meals from grateful and believing patients, and her basket\nhad an uncommercial end, covered with a fair, white cloth, into which\nthe good wife, with some show of doing good by stealth, introduced the\nuseful wreck of a boiled fowl, or a ham-bone with broth possibilities.\n\nShe did not meddle with diseases of children, except in cases of\nmeasles, for which she prescribed whisky and sulphur, and a diet of\nsweet milk warm from the cow. Decline, she considered to be due to \"a\nsappin' o' the constitution,\" and she shared the old-time belief in the\nnoxious effect of night air on consumptives, and would have them warm in\ncurtained four-posters, in rooms into which little light and no fresh\nair could enter. Beyond a recommendation of port wine, she had no\nmessage for healing for these poor sufferers. Her strength lay in the\ntreatment of adults' ailments which do not necessarily kill. Her list of\ndiseases was a short one. For the numerous forms of hepatic trouble\nknown to the professional, she had one comprehensive title--\n\n  Liver Complent,\n\nand for it one remedy, varied only in magnitude of dose. She recognised\nalso as a common ailment--\n\n  Stomach Complent,\n\ndifferentiating under this heading, Andygestion, Waterbrash, and\nShuperfluity o' phlegm on the stomach. She knew, too--\n\n  Bowel Complent,\n    Rheumatism,\n Gineral Wakeness,\n        and\n  Harry Siplars.[1]\n\nThe foundation of her great reputation was, indeed, largely built on her\ncelebrated cure of this last, in the case of Peggy Mulligan. She shall\ntell of it herself:--\n\n\"She come to me, an' she ses, 'Mary,' ses she, 'can ye cure me, for I'm\nheart-sick o' them doctors at the dispinsary, an' they're not doin' me\nwan pick o' good.' Ses I to her, ses I, 'What did they give ye?' ses I.\n'O the dear knows,' ses she. 'I haven't tuk anythin' they said, for I\ndidn't believe they would do me no good.' An' I had pity on the cratur,\nfor her face was the size o' a muckle pot, an' lek nothin' under the\nsun. Ses I to her, ses I, 'I can cure you, my good woman, but ye'll hev\nto do what you're tould,' ses I, 'an' I'll make no saycret about it,'\nses I--'it's cow-dung and flour mixed, an' ye'll put it on your face,\nan' lave it there for a fortnight,' ses I, 'an' when ye'll wash it off,\nye'll have no Harry Siplars.' An' nether she had.\"\n\nShe had a fine professional manner, and she knew how to set at ease the\nanxious patient. The concerned man body, wishful to appear unconcerned,\nshe took at his own valuation; appearing more interested in a bit of\nchat or gossip of the country than in particulars of pains and aches.\nAnd while she talked with him of crops and kine, and the good and\nill-doings of men's sons, the wife would urge John to tell Mrs. Moloney\nabout that bit of pain of his and how he could not sleep for it o'\nnights. Then the wise woman would mention something which the good wife\n\"might\" get for the good man--it would cure him in no time, but--turning\nto the man,--\"'deed, an' there's not much the matter with ye. It's\nyerself that's gettin' younger lookin' every year--shows the good care\nthe mistress takes o' ye.\" And the gratified creature would retire,\nproud to think that he had acted so well the part of the unconcerned,\nand filled with respect for Mrs. Moloney as a woman of \"great sinse and\nonderstandin'.\"\n\nOf new-fangled diseases she had a perfect horror, speaking of them more\nin anger than in sorrow, as of things which never should have been\nintroduced. Even the New Ralgy she declined to entertain, dismissing the\nmention of it, contemptuously, in the formula, \"New Ralgy or Ould Ralgy,\nI'll have nothing to do with it.\" To it, however, as Tic Doloro,[2] she\ngave a qualified recognition, allowing its right to existence, but\ncondemning it as outlandish, and a gentry's ailment, which the gentry\nshould keep to themselves. And while she did not refuse to treat it\n(with \"Lodelum\" in \"sperrits,\" hot milk, and a black stocking tied round\nthe jaws), the patient was made to feel a certain degree of culpability\nin touching a thing with which she should not have meddled, and that\nMrs. Moloney had reason for feeling displeased.\n\nVery different was her attitude to one suffering from Gineral Wakeness.\nThis was her pet diagnosis, and one much craved by overworked and ailing\nfarmers' wives, for it meant for them justification of rest, and\nindulgence in food and drink which they would have been afraid or\nashamed to ask or take, unfortified by an authoritative command. No man\never suffered from Gineral Wakeness--it was a woman's trouble, and never\nfailed to draw from Mrs. Moloney a flood of understanding sympathy,\nwhich was to the despairing one like cool water on the hot and thirsty\nground, making hope and health revive ere yet medicament had been\nprescribed. Seated before the patient, she would sway slowly back and\nforward, gently patting the while the afflicted's hand, and listening,\nwith rapt attention, to the longest and dreariest tale of woe.\n\nThe Patient.--O, but it's the weary woman I am, waitin' and hopin' that\nyou would come roun'. 'Deed, and if it hadn't been for the hope o'\nseein' ye I would have give up altogether.\n\nMrs. M.--Puir dear; tell me all aboot it.\n\nThe Patient.--It's a cough and a wakeness and a drappin'-down feelin',\nas if my legs were goin' from under me; and I could no more lift that\ngirdle o' bread there than I could fly--not if ye were to pay me a\nthousand pound.\n\nMrs. M.--I know, dear; if it were writ out I cudn't see it plainer.\n\nThe Patient.--And when I get up in the mornin', I declare to ye, I have\nto sit on the edge o' the bed for five minutes before puttin' fut to\ngroun', and if I didn't take a sup of cold water I couldn't put on my\nclothes.\n\nMrs. M.--That's it, dear; that's just the way it goes.\n\nThe Patient.--And as for breakfast, I declare to ye, ye couldn't see\nwhat I ate.\n\nMrs. M.--That's a sure sign, a sure sign.\n\nThe Patient.--And all through the day it's just the same thing. I'm just\nin a state of collops the whole time. Niver a moment's aise the day\nthrough, especially in the afternoon. It's just hingin' on I am; that's\nwhat it raly is.\n\nAfter an hour of alternating symptomatic description and sympathetic\nresponse, interrupted only by the making and drinking of tea, the wise\nwoman is prepared to utter, and the patient to hear, the words of\nhealing.\n\n\"Now, dearie, listen to me, that's a good woman. It's Gineral Wakeness\nthat ails ye. I knew it the minute I set fut inside the dure. Ses I to\nmyself, ses I, 'There's Gineral Wakeness writ on the mistress's face;\nit's prented on her face like a book,' ses I, 'before ever she says a\nword to me.' Now listen, dearie, and do what I tell ye. Ye'll get a\nbottle o' sherry wine, and ye'll take a bate-up egg in milk every day,\nwith a sup o' sherry in it, at eleven o'clock. And ye'll fill that pot\nthere with dandelion leaves and roots, and a handful o' mint on the top\no' it, and ye'll put as much water on it as'll cover it, and ye'll let\nit sit at the side o' the fire all day until all the vartue is out o'\nit. And ye'll take a tablespoonful o' it three times a day, immajintly\nbefore your meals. And every day, whin it comes to three o'clock, ye'll\ngo to your bed and lie down for an hour, and when ye get up ye'll take a\ncup o' tay. Do that now, an' ye'll not know yerself whin I come back.\"\n\nAs Mrs. Moloney's list of legitimate and proper country diseases was a\nshort one, so was her pharmacop[oe]ia a small book. Besides such common\nremedies as Epsom salts, senna, ginger, and powdered rhubarb, it took\naccount of--\n\n  Lodelum            which is Laudanum,\n  Hickery pickery      \"      Hiera picra,\n  Gum Go Whackem       \"      Gum guaiacum,\n  Assy Fettidy         \"      Asafoetida,\n\nas chemist's stuff fit for her practice, and of various herbs\n(pronounced yarbs), alterative or curative, such as dandelion, camomile,\npeppermint, and apple-balm. As she said herself, she made no \"saycret\"\nof many of her remedies, but she was wise enough to carry and dispense\ncertain agents; for, to the benefit of the wise woman, these free gifts\nconstituted a claim for the liberal purchase of small wares, and the use\nof one of these gave a certain cachet to an ailment which, with a\nprescription of hot milk and pepper, or of ginger tea, would have been\nsufficiently commonplace. These secret remedies were kept in little\nbottles, each of which had its own sewed compartment in a large linen\npocket hanging at the mistress's waist, between the gown and the\nuppermost petticoat. A certain solemnity attached to their\nproduction--three, four, or five being invariably drawn and set out on\nthe table, even when, as in most cases, the contents of one only was\nneeded. Mrs. Moloney would contemplate the range, attentively and\nsilently, for a few minutes; lifting one after another, wrinkling her\nbrows the while, and, finally, selecting and uncorking one, while she\nrequested \"a clane bottle and a good cork.\" The selected drug was\ngenerally a crystal; the bottle, by request, was half-filled with hot\nwater, in which, through vigorous shaking, the crystal rapidly\ndisappeared. Handing the bottle to the patient, the instruction would be\ngiven to take a tablespoonful immediately after eating. Silly young\nfolks, who had no need of the good woman's services, were known to say\nthat Mrs. Moloney knew perfectly well what she was going to use, that\nthe consideration was simulated, and that the oft-used crystal was\ncommon washing-soda and nothing else. But these flighty children took\ncare not to say such things in the hearing of their mothers, who had\nbeen treated for Gineral Wakeness.\n\nDoubtless the prescriptions of Mrs. Moloney lacked precision on the\nquantitative side. A cure of rheumatism was threepence-worth of \"Hickery\nPickery in a naggin o' the best sperrits.\" To be well shaken and taken\nby the teaspoonful, alternative mornings, on a fasting stomach.\n\"Sixpence worth o' Gum Go Wackem,\" also made up in the \"best sperrits,\"\nwas a remedy supposed to acquire special potency from a prodigious\namount of shaking. \"Show me how ye'll shake it,\" the medicine-woman\nwould say, and when the patient made a great show of half-a-minute's\nshaking, she--it was oftenest she--would be surprised to hear that\n_that_ was no shaking, and an exhibition of what was good and sufficient\nshaking would be made by Mrs. Moloney. In the case of her sovran remedy\nfor sore eyes, to be used very sparingly--a pennorth o' Red\nPerspitherate,[3] in a tablespoonful of fresh butter--the quantity for\nan application was always indicated in special and dramatic fashion. She\nasked, \"And how much will ye be puttin' in your eye, now?--jist show\nme.\" The patient, desiring to avoid a mean or niggardly use of the\nremedy, would probably indicate on the finger a lump as large as an eye\nof liberal measurements could be supposed to accommodate. Then the good\nwoman would lean back and sigh. A pin would be withdrawn from some part\nof her clothing, and held between the thumb and finger so that only the\nhead appeared.\n\n\"Do ye see that pin-head?\"\n\nThe afflicted nods in acquiescence.\n\n\"Do ye see that pin-head? Now take a good look at it.\"\n\nAgain the sore-eyed indicates accurate observation.\n\n\"Well, not a pick more nor that, if ye want to keep your eyesight.\"\n\nOther quantitative directions were given in \"fulls\"--\"the full o' yer\nfist,\" \"the full o' an egg-cup,\" even \"the full o' yer mooth.\" Or, by\nsizes of objects, as, \"the size o' a pay,\" \"the size o' a marble.\" Or by\ncoin areas, \"what'll lie on a sixpence,\" or on a shilling, or on a\npenny. Or by money values, as in the Hickery Pickery prescription.\nFists, peas, marbles vary considerably in size, and in the case of\nmoney-values a change of chemist might mean a considerable variation in\nquantity; but, with the possible exception of \"Lodelum,\" prescribed in\ndrops, the quantities of the good woman's remedies bore variation to a\nconsiderable extent without serious difference in result. That \"the best\nsperrits\" were so frequently the medium for \"exhibition\" of her remedies\nmay account for the great popularity with adults which these remedies\nenjoyed. These were the days when hospitality was not hospitality\nwithout \"sperrits\" free from medicinal addition, and, late in the\nafternoon, Mrs. Moloney was accustomed to accept graciously \"the full o'\nan egg-cup,\" qualified by the addition of sugar and hot water. Once,\nwhile sipping her punch, she asked that a little should be given to me\nas a treat, and when the pungent spirit, in the unaccustomed throat,\nproduced a cough, she promptly diagnosed \"a wake chist.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n  [1] Erysipelas.\n\n  [2] Tic douloureux.\n\n  [3] Red Precipitate--red oxide of mercury.\n\n\n\n\nThe Meet of the Beagles.\n\n_From \"Patsy.\"_\n\nBY H. DE VERE STACPOOLE.\n\n\nDirectly Patsy had left the news that the \"quality\" were coming to the\nmeet and returned to the house the crowd in front of the Castle Knock\nInn thickened.\n\nWord of the impending event went from cabin to cabin, and Mr. Mahony,\nthe chimney sweep, put his head out of his door.\n\n\"What's the news, Rafferty?\" cried Mr. Mahony.\n\n\"Mimber of Parlymint and all the quality comin' to the meet!\" cried a\nragged-looking ruffian who was running by.\n\n\"Sure, it'll be a big day for Shan Finucane,\" said Mrs. Mahony, who was\nstanding behind her husband in the doorway with a baby in her arms.\n\nMr. Mahony said nothing for a while, but watched the crowd in front of\nthe inn.\n\n\"Look at him,\" said Mr. Mahony, breaking out at last--\"look at him in\nhis ould green coat! Look at him with the ould whip undher his arm, and\nthe boots on his feet not paid for, and him struttin' about as if he was\nthe Marqus of Waterford! Holy Mary! did yiz ever see such an objick! Mr.\nMullins!\"\n\n\"Halloo!\" replied Mr. Mullins, the cobbler across the way, who, with his\nwindow open owing to the mildness of the weather, was whaling away at a\nshoe-sole, the only busy man in the village.\n\n\"Did y' hear the news?\"\n\n\"What news?\"\n\n\"Shan's going to get a new coat.\"\n\n\"Faith, thin, I hope he'll pay first for his ould shoes.\"\n\n\"How much does he owe you?\"\n\n\"Siven and six--bad cess to him!\"\n\n\"He'll pay you to-night, if he doesn't drink the money first, for\nthere's a Mimber of Parlymint goin' to the meet, and he'll most like put\na suverin in the poor box.\"\n\nMr. Mullins made no reply, but went on whaling away at his shoe, and Bob\nMahony, having stepped into his cottage for a light for his pipe, came\nback and took up his post again at the door.\n\nThe crowd round the inn was growing bigger and bigger. Sneer as he\nmight, Mr. Mahony could not but perceive that Shan was having the centre\nof the stage, a worshipping audience, and free drinks.\n\nSuddenly he turned to his offspring, who were crowding behind him, and\nsingling out Billy, the eldest:\n\n\"Put the dunkey to,\" said Mr. Mahony.\n\n\"Sure, daddy,\" cried the boy in astonishment, \"it's only the tarriers.\"\n\n\"Put the dunkey to!\" thundered his father, \"or it's the end of me belt\nI'll be brightenin' your intellects with.\"\n\n\"There's two big bags of sut in the cart and the brushes,\" said Billy,\nas he made off to do as he was bidden.\n\n\"Lave them in,\" said Mr. Mahony; \"it's only the tarriers.\"\n\nIn a few minutes the donkey, whose harness was primitive and composed\nmainly of rope, was put to, and the vehicle was at the door.\n\n\"Bob!\" cried his wife as he took his seat.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Mr Mahony, taking the reins.\n\n\"Won't you be afther givin' your face the lick of a tow'l?\"\n\n\"It's only the tarriers,\" replied Mr. Mahony; \"sure, I'm clane enough\nfor them. Come up wid you, Norah.\"\n\nNorah, the small donkey, whose ears had been cocking this way and that,\npicked up her feet, and the vehicle, which was not much bigger than a\ncostermonger's barrow, started.\n\nAt this moment, also, Shan and the dogs and the crowd were getting into\nmotion, making down the road for Glen Druid gates.\n\n\"Hulloo! hulloo! hulloo!\" cried Mr. Mahony, as he rattled up behind in\nthe cart, \"where are yiz off to?\"\n\n\"The meet of the baygles,\" replied twenty voices; whilst Shan, who had\nheard his enemy's voice, stalked on, surrounded by his dogs, his old,\nbattered hunting horn in one hand, and his whip under his arm.\n\n\"And where are they going to meet?\" asked Mr. Mahony.\n\n\"Glen Druid gate,\" replied the camp followers. \"There's a Mimber of\nParlymint comin', and all the quality from the Big House.\"\n\n\"Faith,\" said Mr. Mahony, \"I thought there was somethin' up, for, by the\nlook of Shan, as he passed me house this mornin', I thought he'd\nswallowed the Lord Liftinant, Crown jew'ls and all. Hulloo! hulloo!\nhulloo! make way for me carridge! Who are you crowdin'? Don't you know\nthe Earl of Leinsther when y' see him? Out of the way, or I'll call me\nfutman to disparse yiz.\"\n\nShan heard it all, but marched on. He could have killed Bob Mahony, who\nwas turning his triumph into a farce, out he contented himself with\nletting fly with his whip amongst the dogs, and blowing a note on his\nhorn.\n\n\"What's that nize?\" enquired Mr. Mahony, with a wink at the delighted\ncrowd tramping beside the donkey cart.\n\n\"Shan's blowin' his harn,\" yelled the rabble.\n\n\"Faith, I thought it was Widdy Finnegan's rooster he was carryin in the\ntail pockit of his coat,\" said the humourist.\n\nThe crowd roared at this conceit, which was much more pungent and\npointed as delivered in words by Mr. Mahony; but Shan, to all\nappearances, was deaf.\n\nThe road opposite the park gates was broad and shadowed by huge elm\ntrees, which gave the spot in summer the darkness and coolness of a\ncave. Here Shan halted, the crowd halted, and the donkey-cart drew up.\n\nMr. Mahony tapped the dottle out of his pipe carefully on the rail of\nhis cart, filled the pipe, replaced the dottle on the top of the\ntobacco, and drew a whiff.\n\nThe clock of Glen Druid House struck ten, and the notes came floating\nover park and trees; not that anyone heard them, for the yelping of the\ndogs and the noise of the crowd filled the quiet country road with the\nhubbub of a fair.\n\n\"What's that you were axing me?\" cried Mr. Mahony to a supposed\ninterrogator in the crowd. \"Is the Prince o' Wales comin'? No, he ain't.\nI had a tellygrum from him this mornin' sendin' his excuzes. Will some\ngintleman poke that rat-terrier out that's got under the wheels of me\ncarridge--out, you baste!\" He leaned over and hit a rabbit-beagle that\nhad strayed under the donkey-cart a tip with his stick. The dog, though\nnot hurt, for Bob Mahony was much too good a sportsman to hurt an\nanimal, gave a yelp.\n\nShan turned at the sound, and his rage exploded.\n\n\"Who are yiz hittin'? cried Shan.\n\n\"I'm larnin' your dogs manners,\" replied Bob.\n\nThe huntsman surveyed the sweep, the cart, the soot bags, and the\ndonkey.\n\n\"I beg your pardin',\" said he, touchin his hat, \"I didn't see you at\nfirst for the sut.\"\n\nMr. Mahony took his short pipe from his mouth, put it back upside down,\nshoved his old hat further back on his head, rested his elbows on his\nknees, and contemplated Shan.\n\n\"But it's glad I am,\" went on Shan, \"you've come to the meet and brought\na mimber of the family with you.\"\n\nFate was against Bob Mahony, for at that moment Norah, scenting another\nof her species in a field near by, curled her lip, stiffened her legs,\nprojected her head, rolled her eyes, and \"let a bray out of her\" that\nalmost drowned the howls of laughter from the exulting mob.\n\nBut Shan Finucane did not stir a muscle of his face, and Bob Mahony's\nfixed sneer did not flicker or waver.\n\n\"Don't mention it, mum,\" said Shan, taking off his old cap when the last\nawful, rasping, despairing note of the bray had died down into silence.\n\nAnother howl from the onlookers, which left Mr. Mahony unmoved.\n\n\"They get on well together,\" said he, addressing an imaginary\nacquaintance in the crowd.\n\n\"Whist and hould your nize, and let's hear what else they have to say to\nwan another.\"\n\nSuddenly, and before Shan Finucane could open his lips, a boy who had\nbeen looking over the rails into the park, yelled:\n\n\"Here's the Mimber of Parlyment--here they come--Hurroo!\"\n\n\"Now, then,\" said the huntsman, dropping repartee and seizing the\nsweep's donkey by the bridle, \"sweep yourselves off, and don't be\ndisgracin' the hunt wid your sut bags and your dirty faces--away wid\nyiz!\"\n\n\"The hunt!\" yelled Mahony, with a burst of terrible laughter. \"Listen to\nhim and his ould rat-tarriers callin' thim a hunt! Lave go of the\ndunkey!\"\n\n\"Away wid yiz!\"\n\n\"Lave go of the dunkey, or I'll batter the head of you in wid me stick!\nLave go of the dunkey!\"\n\nSuddenly seizing the long flue brush beside him, and disengaging it from\nthe bundle of sticks with which it was bound, he let fly with the\nbristle end of it at Shan, and Shan, catching his heel on a stone, went\nover flat on his back in the road.\n\nIn a second he was up, whip in hand; in a second Mr. Mahony was down, a\nbag half-filled with soot--a terrible weapon of assault--in his fist.\n\n\"Harns! harns!\" yelled Mahony, mad with the spirit of battle, and\nunconsciously chanting the fighting cry of long-forgotten ancestors.\n\"Who says cruckeder than a ram's harn!\"\n\n\"Go it, Shan!\" yelled the onlookers. \"Give it him, Bob--sut him in the\nface--Butt-end the whip, y'idgit--Hurroo! Hurroo! Holy Mary! he nearly\nlanded him then--Mind the dogs--\"\n\nArmed with the soot-bag swung like a club, and the old hunting-whip\nbutt-ended, the two combatants formed the centre of a circle of yelling\nadmirers.\n\n\"Look!\" said Miss Lestrange, as the party from the house came in view of\nthe road. \"Look at the crowd and the two men!\"\n\n\"They're fighting!\" cried the general. \"I believe the ruffians dared to\nhave the impudence to start fighting!\"\n\nAt this moment came the noise of wheels from behind, and the \"tub,\"\nwhich had obtained permission to go to the meet, drew up, with Patsy\ndriving the children.\n\n\"Let the children remain here,\" said the General. \"You stay with them,\nViolet. Come along, Boxall, till we see what these ruffians mean.\"\n\nSo filled was his mind with the objects in view that he quite forgot\nDicky Fanshawe.\n\n\"You have put on the short skirt,\" said Dicky, who at that moment would\nscarcely have turned his head twice or given a second thought had the\nbattle of Austerlitz been in full blast beyond the park palings.\n\n\"And my thick boots,\" said Violet, pushing forward a delightful little\nboot to speak for itself.\n\nThe children were so engaged watching the proceedings on the road that\nthey had no eyes or ears for their elders.\n\n\"Have you ever been beagling before?\" asked Dicky.\n\n\"Never; but I've been paper-chasing.\"\n\n\"You can get through a hedge?\"\n\n\"Rather!\"\n\n\"That'll do,\" said Dicky.\n\n\"Mr. Fanshawe,\" cried Lord Gawdor from the \"tub,\" \"look at the chaps in\nthe road--aren't they going for each other!\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Mr. Fanshawe, whose back was to the road--\"Violet--\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"No one's looking--\"\n\n\"That doesn't matter--No--not here--Dicky, if you don't behave, I'll get\ninto the tub--Gracious! what's that?\"\n\n\"He's down!\" cried Patsy, who had been standing up to see better.\n\n\"Who?\" asked Mr. Fanshawe.\n\n\"The Mimber of Parlyment--Misther Boxall--Bob Mahony's grassed him--\"\n\n\"They're all fighting!\" cried Violet. \"Come, Mr. Fanshawe--Patsy--\" She\nstarted for the gates at a run.\n\nWhen the General had arrived on the scene, Shan had just got in and\nlanded his antagonist a drum-sounding blow on the ribs with the butt of\nhis whip.\n\n\"Seize the other chap, Boxall!\" cried General Grampound, making for\nMahony.\n\nHe was just half a second too late; the soot bag, swung like a club,\nmissed Shan, and, catching Mr. Boxall fair and square on the side of the\nface, sent him spinning like a tee-totum across the road, and head over\nheels into the ditch.\n\nThat was all.\n\nA dead silence took the yelling crowd.\n\n\"He's kilt!\" came a voice.\n\n\"He isn't; sure, his legs is wavin'.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\"\n\n\"He's the Mimber of Parlyment! Run for your life, and don't lave off\nrunnin' till you're out of the country.\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue!\" cried General Grampound. \"Boxall--hullo! Boxall! are\nyou hurt?\"\n\n\"I'm all right,\" replied Mr. Boxall, who, from being legs upwards, was\nnow on hands and knees in the ditch. \"I've lost something--dash it!\"\n\n\"What have you lost?\"\n\n\"Watch.\"\n\n\"Come out and I'll get some of these chaps to look.\"\n\nMr. Boxall came out of the ditch with his handkerchief held to the left\nside of his forehead.\n\n\"Why, your watch and chain are on you!\" cried the General.\n\n\"So they are,\" said Mr. Boxall, pulling the watch out with his left\nhand, and putting it back. \"I'm off to the house--I want to wash.\"\n\n\"Sure, you're not hurt?\"\n\n\"Not in the least, only my forehead scratched.\"\n\n\"What's up?\" cried Dicky Fanshawe, who had just arrived.\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied his uncle. \"Fellow hit him by mistake--no bones\nbroken. Will you take the governess cart back to the house, Boxall?\"\n\n\"No, thanks--I'll walk.\"\n\n\"His legs is all right,\" murmured the sympathetic crowd, as the injured\none departed still with his handkerchief to his face, \"and his arums.\nSure, it's the mercy and all his neck wasn't bruck.\"\n\n\"Did yiz see the skelp Bob landed him?\"\n\n\"Musha! Sure, I thought it would have sent his head flying into Athy,\nlike a gulf ball.\"\n\nPatsy, who had pulled the governess cart up, rose to his feet; his sharp\neye had caught sight of something lying on the road.\n\n\"Hould the reins a moment, Mr. Robert,\" said he, putting them into Lord\nGawdor's hands. He hopped out of the cart, picked up the object in the\nroad, whatever it was, put it in his trousers' pocket, and then stood\nholding the pony's head; whilst the Meet, from which Bob Mahony had\ndeparted as swiftly as his donkey could trot, turned its attention to\nthe business of the day, and Shan, collecting his dogs, declared his\nintention of drawing the Furzes.\n\n\"Was that a marble you picked up, Patsy?\" asked Lord Gawdor, as the\nred-headed one, hearing Shan's declaration, climbed into the \"tub\" again\nand took the reins.\n\nPatsy grinned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Fanshawe had been writing three important letters in the\nlibrary. When he had finished and carefully sealed them, he placed them\none on top of the other, and looked at his watch.\n\nThe three letters he had just written would make everything all right at\nthe other end. This was the hot end of the poker, and it had to be\ngrasped.\n\nPatsy was the person who would help him to grasp it. Patsy he felt to be\na tower of strength and 'cuteness, if such a simile is permissible. And,\nrising from the writing-table and putting the letters in his pocket, he\nwent to find Patsy. He had not far to go, for as he came into the big\nhall Patsy was crossing it with a tray in hand.\n\n\"Patsy,\" said Mr. Fanshawe, \"when does the post go out?\"\n\n\"If you stick your letters in the letter box by the hall door, sir,\"\nsaid Patsy, \"it will be cleared in half-an-hour. Jim Murphy takes the\nletter-bag to Castle Knock.\"\n\n\"Right!\" said Mr. Fanshawe. \"And, see here, Patsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir?\"\n\n\"I'm in a bit of a fix, Patsy, and you may be able to help.\"\n\n\"And what's the fix, sir?\" asked Patsy.\n\n\"You know the young lady you gave the note to this morning--by the way,\nhow did you give it?\"\n\n\"I tried to shove it undher her door, sir.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"It wouldn't go, so I give a knock. 'Who's there?' says she. 'No one,'\nsays I; 'it's only hot wather I'm bringin' you,' for, you see, sir, the\nould missis, her ladyship, was in the next room, and she's not as deaf\nas she looks, and it's afraid I was, every minnit, her door'd open, and\nshe and her ear-trumpet come out in the passidge. 'I have hot wather,'\nsays she. 'Niver mind,' says I, 'this is betther. Open the door, for the\nlove of God, for I can't get it under the door, unless I rowl it up and\nshove it through the keyhole.' Wid that she opens the door a crack and\nshoves her head out. 'Who's it from?' she says. 'I don't know,' says I;\n'it's just a letther I found on the stairs I thought might belong to\nyou.' 'Thanks,' says she, 'it does,' and wid that she shut the door, and\nI left her.\"\n\n\"Well, see here, Patsy!\"\n\n\"Yes, sir?\"\n\n\"I'm going to marry Miss Lestrange.\"\n\n\"Faith, and I guessed that,\" said Patsy; \"and it's I that'd be joyful to\ndance at your weddin', sir.\"\n\n\"There won't be any dancing in the business,\" said Mr. Fanshawe, grimly.\n\"You know Mr. Boxall, Patsy?\"\n\n\"The Mimber of Parlymint?\"\n\n\"Yes. Well, he wants to marry Miss Lestrange; and the worst of it is,\nPatsy, that my uncle, General Grampound, wants him to marry her, too.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Patsy. \"And, Mr. Fanshawe?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn't be afear'd of Mr. Boxall for the\nnext few days.\"\n\n\"How's that?\"\n\n\"When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head wid the sut bag, his eye\npopped out of his head on the road.\"\n\n\"His what?--Oh, I remember--\"\n\n\"Finders is keepers, sir,\" said Patsy, with a grin.\n\n\"Why, good heavens--you don't mean to say--\"\n\n\"I've got his eye in my pocket, sir,\" said Patsy, in a hoarse whisper.\n\"He's sint a telygram for another wan but till it comes he's tethered to\nhis bed like a horse to a--\"\n\n\"That's enough--that's enough,\" said Mr. Fanshawe. \"Here's half a crown\nfor you, Patsy, for--carrying my cartridges.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Ballygullion Creamery Society, Limited.\n\n_From \"Ballygullion.\"_\n\nBY LYNN DOYLE.\n\n\n'Twas the man from the Department of Agriculture comin' down to give a\nlecture on poultry an' dairy-farmin', that set the ball a-rollin'.\n\nThe whole farmers av the counthry gathered in to hear him, an' for days\nafther it was over, there was no talk at all barrin' about hens an'\ncrame, an' iverybody had a schame av their own to propose.\n\nOuld Miss Armitage ap at the Hall was on for encouragin'\npoultry-farmin'; an' give a prize for the best layin' hen in\nBallygullion, that riz more scunners in the counthry than the twelfth av\nJuly itself. There was a powerful stir about it, an' near iverybody\nenthered.\n\nDeaf Pether of the Bog's wife was an easy winner if her hen hadn't died,\nan' nothin' would satisfy her but it was poisoned; though divil a all\nkilled it but the gorges of Indian male the ould woman kept puttin'\nintil it.\n\nIvery time the hen laid she give it an extra dose of male, \"to encourage\nthe crather,\" as she said; an' wan day it laid a double-yolked wan, she\nput a charge intil it that stretched it out stiff in half-an-hour.\n\nAfther that there was no doubt but Larry Thomas's wife would win the\nprize; for, before the end av the month Miss Armitage had allowed for\nthe test, her hen was above a dozen ahead av iverybody else's.\n\nHowiver, when it came to the countin' there was a duck-egg or two here\nan' there among the lot that nayther Mrs. Thomas nor the hen could well\naccount for, so the both of thim was disqualified.\n\nAn' whin it came to the bit, an' Mrs. Archy Doran won the prize, she\ncounted up an' made out that between corn an' male, she had paid away\ndouble the value of it, so she wasn't very well plazed; an' thim that\nhad spent near as much on feedin'-stuff, an' had got no prize, was worse\nplazed still.\n\nThe only one that came out av it well was Miss Armitage herself; for she\nkept all the eggs, an' made above twice the prize-money out av thim. But\nthere was nobody else as well plazed about that as she was.\n\nSo all round the hen business was a failure; an' it looked as if there\nwas nothin' goin' to come of the lecture at all.\n\nHowever, iverybody thought it would be a terrible pity if Ballygullion\nshould be behind the other places; an' at last there was a move made to\nstart a cramery, an' a committee was got up to set things goin'.\n\nAt first the most av us thought they got the crame in the ould-fashioned\nway, just be skimmin'; but presently it begin to be talked that it was\nall done be machinery. Some av us was very dubious about that; for\nsorrow a bit could we see how it was to be done Thomas McGorrian\nmaintained it would be done wi' blades like the knives av a\nturnip-cutter, that it would just shave the top off the milk, an' sweep\nit intil a pan; but then he couldn't well explain how they'd avoid\nshavin' the top off the milk-dish, too.\n\nBig Billy Lenahan swore it was done with a worm like a still; but,\nalthough we all knowed Billy was well up on potheen, there was few had\niver seen him havin' much to do wi' milk; so nobody listened to him.\n\nAt last the Committee detarmined they'd have a dimonsthration; and they\ntrysted the Department man to bring down his machine an' show how it was\ndone; for all iv thim was agin spendin' money on a machine till they\nwere satisfied it would do its work.\n\nThe dimonsthration was to be held in Long Tammas McGorrian's barn, an'\non the night set above forty av us was there. We all sat round in a\nhalf-ring, on chairs an' stools, an' any other conthrivance we could\nget, for all the world like the Christy Minstrels that comes to the\nMarket House av a Christmas.\n\nThe dimonsthrator had rigged up a belt to Tammas's threshin'-machine,\nan' run it from that to the separator, as he called it.\n\nThe separator itself was a terrible disappointin' conthrivance at the\nfirst look, an' no size av a thing at all for the money they said it\ncost. But whin the dimonsthrator begin to tell us what it would do, an'\nhow by just pourin' the milk intil a metal ball an' bizzin' it round, ye\ncould make the crame come out av one hole, an' the milk out av another,\nwe began to think more av it.\n\nNobody liked to spake out wi' the man there, but there was a power av\nwhisperin'.\n\n\"It's a mighty quare conthrivance,\" sez wan.\n\n\"Did ye iver see the like av it?\" sez another.\n\n\"Boy-a-boys,\" sez James Dougherty, \"the works av man is wonderful. If my\nould grandmother could see this, it would break her heart. 'Twas herself\nwas the handy dairy-woman, too; but what'd she be till a machine?\"\n\nBut most av thim wouldn't say one thing or another till they seen it\nworkin'; an', 'deed, we were all wishin' he'd begin. We had to thole,\nthough; for the dimonsthrator was a bumptious wee man, an' very fond av\nthe sound av his own voice, an' kept talkin' away wi' big, long words\nthat nobody knowed the manin' av but himself, till we were near deaved.\n\nSo we were powerful glad whin he sez to Mrs. McGorrian: \"Now, Madam, if\nyou'll be good enough to bring in the milk, I will proceed to give an\nactual demonstration.\"\n\nBut Mrs. McGorrian is a quiet wee woman, an' wi' all the crowd there,\nan' him callin' her Madam, she was too backward to get up out av the\ncorner she was in; an' she nudges Tammas to go, tellin' him where to get\nthe milk.\n\nSo Tammas goes out, an' presently he staggers in wi' a big crock in his\narms, an' sets it down.\n\n\"Now,\" sez the demonsthrator, \"if you'll just get the horses goin', an'\npour the milk into that receptacle, I'll start the separator working.\"\n\nTammas in wi' the milk, an' the wee son whips up the horses outside, an'\naway goes the separator bizzin' like a hive av bees.\n\n\"In a few seconds, gentlemen and ladies,\" sez the dimonsthrator, \"you\nwill see the milk come out here, an' the cream here. Kindly pay\nattention, please.\"\n\nBut he needn't have spoke; for iverybody was leanin' forrard, holdin'\ntheir breath, an' there wasn't a sound to be heard but the hummin' of\nthe separator.\n\nPresently there comes a sort av a thick trickle out av the milk-hole,\nbut divil a dhrap av crame.\n\nThe dimonsthrator gathered up his brow a bit at that, an' spakes out av\nthe barn windy to Tammas's wee boy to dhrive faster. The separator hums\nharder than iver, but still no crame. Wan begin to look at the other,\nan' some av the wimmen at the back starts gigglin'.\n\nThe dimonsthrator begin to get very red an' flusthered-lookin'. \"Are ye\nsure this milk is fresh an' hasn't been skimmed?\" he sez to Tammas, very\nsharp.\n\n\"What do you say, Mary?\" sez Tammas, lookin' over at the wife. \"Sartin,\nsir,\" sez Mrs. Tammas. \"It's just fresh from the cows this very\nevenin'.\"\n\n\"Most extraordinary,\" sez the dimonsthrator, rubbin' his hair till it\nwas all on end. \"I've niver had such an experience before.\"\n\n\"It's the way Tammas feeds his cows,\" sez Big Billy Lenahan from the\nback; \"sure, iverybody knows he gives them nothin' but shavin's.\"\n\nThere was a snigger av a laugh at this; for Tammas was well known to be\nno great feeder av cattle.\n\nBut Tammas wasn't to be tuk down so aisy.\n\n\"Niver mind, Billy,\" sez he; \"av you were put on shavin's for a week or\ntwo, ye'd maybe see your boots again before you died.\"\n\nThere was another laugh at this, an' that started a bit av jokin' all\nround--a good dale av it at the dimonsthrator; till he was near beside\nhimself. For, divil a dhrop av crame had put in an appearance yet.\n\nAll at wanst he stoops down close to the milk.\n\n\"Bring me a candle here,\" sez he, very sharp.\n\nTammas reaches over a sconce off the wall. The dimonsthrator bends over\nthe can, then dips the point av his finger in it, an' puts it in his\nmouth.\n\n\"What's this?\" sez he, lookin' very mad at Tammas. \"This isn't milk at\nall.\"\n\n\"Not milk,\" sez Tammas. \"It must be milk. I got it where you tould me,\nMary.\"\n\nThe wife gets up an' pushes forward. First she takes a look at the can\nav the separator, an' thin wan at the crock.\n\n\"Ye ould fool,\" she sez to Tammas; \"ye've brought the whitewash I mixed\nfor the dairy walls!\"\n\nI'll say this for the dimonsthrator, he was a game wee fellow; for the\ndivil a wan laughed louder than he did, an' that's sayin' something; but\nsorrow a smile Tammas cracked, but stood gapin' at the wife wi' his\nmouth open; an' from the look she gave him back, there was some av us\nthought she was, maybe, more av a tarther than she looked.\n\nThough troth 'twas no wondher she was angry, for the joke wint round the\nwhole counthry, an' Tammas gets nothin' but \"Whitewash McGorrian\" iver\nsince.\n\nHowaniver, they got the machine washed out, an' the rale milk intil it,\nan' there was no doubt it worked well. The wee dimonsthrator was as\nplazed as Punch, an' ivery body wint away well satisfied, an' set on\nhavin' a cramery as soon as it could be got started.\n\nFirst av all they wint round an' got the names av all thim that was\ngoin' to join in; an' the explainin' of the schame took a dale av a\ntime. The co-operatin' bothered them intirely.\n\nThe widow Doherty she wasn't goin' to join an' put in four cows' milk,\nshe said, whin she'd only get as much out av it as Mrs. Donnelly, across\nthe field, that had only two. Thin, whin they explained to the widow\nthat she'd get twice as much, ould mother Donnelly was clane mad; for\nshe'd thought she was goin' to get the betther av the widow.\n\nThin there was tarrible bother over barrin' out wee Mrs. Morley, because\nshe had only a goat. Some was for lettin' her in; but the gineral\nopinion was that it would be makin' too little av the Society.\n\nHowiver, all was goin' brave an' paceable till ould Michael Murray, the\nould dunderhead, puts in his oar.\n\nMichael was a divil of a man for pace-makin', an' riz more rows than all\nthe county, for all that; for whin two dacent men had a word or two av a\nfair-day, maybe whin the drink was in them, an' had forgot all about it,\nthe next day ould Michael would come round to make it up, an' wi' him\nmindin' them av what had passed, the row would begin worse than iver.\n\nSo, whin all was set well agoin', an' the committee met to call a\ngineral meetin' av the Society, ould Michael he gets up an' says what a\npity it would be if the Society would be broke up wi' politics or\nreligion; an' he proposed that they should show there was no ill-feelin'\non either side by holdin' this giniral meetin' in the Orange Hall, an'\nthe nixt in the United Irish League rooms. He named the Orange Hall\nfirst, he said, because he was a Nationalist himself, an' a Home Ruler,\nan' always would be.\n\nThere was one or two Orangemen beginnin' to look mighty fiery at the\ntail-end av Michael's speech, an' there's no tellin' what would a'\nhappened if the chairman hadn't whipped in an' said that Michael's was a\nvery good idea, an' he thought they couldn't do betther than folly it\nup.\n\nSo, right enough, the first gineral meetin' was held in the Ballygullion\nOrange Hall.\n\nIverything was very quiet an' agreeable, except that some av the red-hot\nNationalists kept talkin' quare skellys at a flag in the corner wi'\nKing William on it, stickin' a man in a green coat wi' his sword.\n\nBut, as fortune would have it, little Billy av the Bog, the sthrongest\nwee Orangeman in Ulsther, comes in at half-time as dhrunk as a fiddler,\nsits down on a form an' falls fast asleep. An' there he snored for the\nmost av half an hour, till near the end av the meetin', whin the\nchairman was makin' a speech, there was a bit av applause, an' ap starts\nBilly all dazed. First he looked up an' seen King William on the flag.\nThin hearin' the chairman's voice, he gives a stamp wi' his fut on the\nflure, an' a \"hear, hear,\" wi' a mortial bad hiccup between the \"hears.\"\nThe wee man thought he was at a lodge-meetin'.\n\nAll av a sudden he sees ould Michael Murray, an', beside him, Tammas\nMcGorrian.\n\nWi' that he lepps to his feet like a shot, dhrunk as he was, an' hits\nthe table a terrible lick wi' his fist.\n\n\"Stap, brethren,\" sez he, glarin' round the room.\n\n\"Stap! There's Papishes present.\"\n\nYe niver seen a meetin' quicker broke up than that wan. Half the men was\non their feet in a minit, an' the other half pullin' thim down be the\ncoat-tails. Iverybody was talkin' at the wan time, some av thim swearin'\nthey'd been insulted, an' others thryin' to make pace.\n\nThin the wimmin begin to scrame an' hould back men from fightin' that\nhad no notion av it at the start, an' only begin to think av it whin\nthey were sure they wouldn't be let.\n\nAltogether there was the makin's of as fine a fight as iver ye seen in\nyour life.\n\nHowever, there was a lot of dacent elderly men on both sides, and wi'\narguin' an' perswadin', and houldin' back wan, an' pushin' out the\nother, the hall was redd without blows, an', bit by bit, they all went\nhome quiet enough.\n\nBut the Cramery Society was clane split. It wasn't wee Billy so much;\nfor whin people begin to think about it the next mornin', there was more\nlaughed at him than was angry; but the party feelin' was up as bitther\nas could be.\n\nThe Nationalists was mad at themselves for givin' in to go to a meetin'\nin the Orange Hall, for fear it might be taken that they were weakenin'\nabout Home Rule; an' the Orange party were just as afeard at the papers\nmakin' out that they were weakenin' about the Union. Besides, the ould\nKing William in the corner av the Hall had done no good.\n\nI'm no party man, myself; but whin I see William Robinson, that has been\nme neighbour this twinty years, goin' down the road on the Twelfth av\nJuly wi' a couple av Orange sashes on, me heart doesn't warm to him as\nit does av another day. The plain truth is, we were bate at the Boyne\nright enough; but some av us had more than a notion we didn't get fair\nplay at the fightin'; an' between that and hearin' about the batin' iver\nsince, the look of ould Billy on his white horse isn't very soothin'.\n\nAnyway, the two parties couldn't be got to join again. The red-hot wans\nav both av thim had meetin's, wee Billy leadin' wan side, and Tammas\nMcGorrian the other, an' the nixt thing was that there was to be two\nCrameries.\n\nThe moderate men seen that both parties were makin' fools av themselves,\nfor the place wasn't big enough for two; but moderate men are scarce in\nour parts, an' they could do nothin' to soothe matthers down. Whin the\nparty work is on, it's little either side thinks av the good av\nthimselves or the counthry either.\n\nIt's \"niver mind a dig yourself if ye get a slap at the other fellow.\"\n\nSo notices was sent out for a meetin' to wind up the Society, an' there\nwas a powerful musther av both sides, for fear either of them might get\nan advantage over the other wan.\n\nTo keep clear av trouble it was to be held in the Market house.\n\nThe night av the meetin' come; an' when I got into the room who should I\nsee on the platform but Major Donaldson an' Father Connolly. An' thin I\nbegin to wondher what was on.\n\nFor the Major was too aisy-goin' and kindly to mix himself up wi'\nparty-work, an' Father Connolly was well known to be terrible down on\nit, too.\n\nSo a sort av a mutther begin to run through the meetin' that there was\ngoin' to be an attempt to patch up the split.\n\nSome was glad and not afraid to say it; but the most looked sour an'\nsaid nothin'; an' wee Billy and Tammas McGorrian kept movin' in an' out\namong their friends an' swearin' them to stand firm.\n\nWhen the room was well filled, an' iverybody settled down, the Major\ngets on his feet.\n\n\"Ladies an' gentlemen,\" sez he--the Major was always polite if it was\nonly a travellin' tinker he was spakin' to--\"Ladies an' gentlemen, you\nknow why we've met here to-night--to wind up the Ballygullion Cramery\nSociety. I wish windin' up meant that it would go on all the better;\nbut, unfortunately, windin' up a Society isn't like windin' up a clock.\"\n\n\"Now, I'm not going to detain you; but before we proceed, I'd like you\nto listen to Father Connolly here for a minute or two. I may tell you\nhe's goin' to express my opinion as well as his own. I needn't ask you\nto give him an' attentive hearin'; ye all know, as well as I do, that\nwhat he says is worth listenin' to.\" An' down the Major sits.\n\nThin Father Connolly comes forward an' looks roun' a minit or so before\nspakin'. Most av his own people that catched his eye looked down mighty\nquick, for they all had an idea he wouldn't think much av what had been\ngoin' on.\n\nBut wee Billy braces himself up an' looks very fierce, as much as to say\n\"there'll no praste ordher me about,\" and Tammas looks down at his feet\nwi' his teeth set, much as if he meant the same.\n\n\"Men an' wimmin av Ballygullion,\" sez Father Connolly--he was aye a\nplain-spoken wee man--\"we're met here to end up the United Cramery\nSociety, and after that we're goin' to start two societies, I hear.\n\n\"The sinsible men av Ballygullion sees that it would be altogether\nabsurd an' ridiculous for Catholics an' Protestants, Home Rulers an'\nUnionists, to work together in anything at all. As they say, the two\nparties is altogether opposed in everything that's important.\n\n\"The wan keep St. Patrick's Day for a holiday, and the other the Twelfth\nav July; the colours of the one is green, an' the colours of the other\norange; the wan wants to send their Mimbers av Parliament to College\nGreen, and the other to Westminster; an' there are a lot more\ndifferences just as important as these.\n\n\"It's thrue,\" goes on the Father, \"that some ignorant persons says that,\nafter all, the two parties live in the same counthry, undher the same\nsky, wi' the same sun shinin' on them an' the same rain wettin' thim;\nan' that what's good for that counthry is good for both parties, an'\nwhat's bad for it is bad for both; that they live side by side as\nneighbours, an' buy and sell among wan another, an' that nobody has iver\nseen that there was twinty-one shillin's in a Catholic pound, an'\nnineteen in a Protestant pound, or the other way about; an' that,\nalthough they go about it in different ways, they worship the same God,\nthe God that made both av thim; but I needn't tell ye that these are\nonly a few silly bodies, an' don't riprisint the opinion av the\ncounthry.\"\n\nA good many people in the hall was lookin' foolish enough be this time,\nan' iverybody was waitin' to hear the Father tell them to make it up,\nan' most av them willin' enough to do it. The major was leanin' back,\nlooking well satisfied.\n\n\"Now,\" sez Father Connolly, \"after what I've said, I needn't tell ye\nthat I'm av the opinion av the sinsible men, and I think that by all\nmanes we should have a Catholic cramery and a Protestant wan.\"\n\nThe Major sits up wi' a start, an' wan looks at the other all over the\nroom.\n\n\"The only thing that bothers me,\" sez the Father, goin' on an' takin' no\nnotice, \"is the difficulty av doin' it. It's aisy enough to sort out the\nCatholic farmers from the Protestant; but what about the cattle?\" sez\nhe.\n\n\"If a man rears up a calf till it becomes a cow, there's no doubt that\ncow must be Nationalist or Orange. She couldn't help it, livin' in this\ncountry. Now, what are you going to do when a Nationalist buys an Orange\ncow? Tammas McGorrian bought a cow from wee Billy there last month that\nBilly bred an' reared himself. Do ye mane to tell me that's a\nNationalist cow? I tell ye what it is, boys,\" sez the Father, wi' his\neyes twinklin', \"wan can av that cow's milk in a Nationalist cramery\nwould turn the butther as yellow as the shutters av the Orange Hall.\"\n\nBy this time there was a smudge av a laugh on iverybody's face, an' even\nTammas an' wee Billy couldn't help crackin' a smile.\n\n\"Now,\" sez Father Connolly, \"afther all, it's aisy enough in the case of\nTammas's cow. There's no denyin' she's an Orange cow, an' either Tammas\nmay go to the Orange cramery or give the cow back to Billy.\"\n\nTammas sits up a bit at that.\n\n\"But, thin, there's a lot of mighty curious cases. There's my own wee\nKerry. Iverybody knows I bred her myself; but, thin, there's no denyin'\nthat her father--if that's the right way to spake av a bull--belonged to\nMajor Donaldson here, an' was called 'Prince of Orange.' Now, be the\nlaw, a child follows its father in these matters, an' I'm bound be it to\nsend the wee Kerry's milk to the Orange cramery, although I'll maintain\nshe's as good a Nationalist as ever stepped; didn't she thramp down\nivery Orange lily in Billy Black's garden only last Monday?\n\n\"So, boys, whin you think the matter out, ye'll see it's no aisy matther\nthis separatin' av Orange an' Green in the cramery. For, if ye do it\nright--and I'm for no half-measures--ye'll have to get the pedigree av\nivery bull, cow, and calf in the counthry, an' then ye'll be little\nfurther on, for there's a lot av bastes come in every year from Americay\nthat's little better than haythin'.\n\n\"But, if ye take my advice, those av ye that isn't sure av your cows'll\njust go on quietly together in the manetime, an' let thim that has got a\nrale thrue-blue baste av either persuasion just keep her milk to\nthemselves, and skim it in the ould-fashioned way wi' a spoon.\"\n\nThere was a good dale av sniggerin' whin the Father was spakin'; but ye\nshould have heard the roar of a laugh there was whin he sat down. An'\njust as it was dyin' away, the Major rises, wipin' his eyes--\n\n\"Boys,\" sez he, \"if it's the will av the prisint company that the\nBallygullion Cramery Society go on, will ye rise an' give three cheers\nfor Father Pether Connolly?\"\n\nIvery man, woman, an' child--Protestant and Catholic--was on their feet\nin a minit; an' if the Ballygullion Market-house roof didn't rise that\nnight, it's safe till etarnity.\n\nFrom that night on there was niver another word av windin' up or\nsplittin' either. An' if ever ye come across a print av butther wi' a\nwreath of shamrocks an' orange-lilies on it, ye'll know it come from the\nBallygullion Cramery Society, Limited.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"Humours of Irish Life","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":111255}