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Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life. Volume 2

by Samuel Lover · English · Gutenberg #7180 · 527,405 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Handy Andy: A Tale of Irish Life. Volume 2

Author: Samuel Lover


        
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7180]
                Most recently updated: March 16, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HANDY ANDY: A TALE OF IRISH LIFE. VOLUME 2 ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team








HANDY ANDY

A Tale of Irish Life

In Two Volumes--Volume Two

The Collected Writings Of Samuel Lover (V. 4)

[Illustration: Tom Organ Loftus' Coldairian System]

[Illustration: Tom Connor's Cat]




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME TWO


Tom Organ Loftus' Coldairian System

Tom Connor's Cat

Andy's Cooking Extraordinary

Tom Organ Loftus and the Duke

The Abduction

A Crack Shot

The Challenge

The Party at Killarney

_Etched by W. H. W. Bicknell from drawings by Samuel Lover_




CHAPTER XXII


The night was pitch dark, and on rounding the adjacent corner no vehicle
could be seen; but a peculiar whistle from Dick was answered by the
sound of approaching wheels and the rapid footfalls of a horse, mingled
with the light rattle of a smart gig. On the vehicle coming up, Dick
took his little mare, that was blacker than the night, by the head, the
apron of the gig was thrown down, and out jumped a smart servant-boy.

“You have the horse ready, too, Billy?”

“Yis, sir,” said Billy, touching his hat.

“Then follow, and keep up with me, remember.”

“Yis, sir.”

“Come to her head, here,” and he patted the little mare's neck as he
spoke with a caressing “whoa,” which was answered by a low neigh of
satisfaction, while the impatient pawing of her fore foot showed the
animal's desire to start. “What an impatient little devil she is,” said
Dick, as he mounted the gig; “I'll get in first, Murphy, as I'm going
to drive. Now up with you--hook on the apron--that's it--are you all
right?”

“Quite,” said Murphy.

“Then you be into your saddle and after us, Billy,” said Dick; “and now
let her go.”

Billy gave the little black mare her head, and away she went, at a
slapping pace, the fire from the road answering the rapid strokes of
her nimble feet. The servant then mounted a horse which was tied to
a neighbouring palisade, and had to gallop for it to come up with his
master, who was driving with a swiftness almost fearful, considering the
darkness of the night and the narrowness of the road he had to traverse,
for he was making the best of his course by cross-ways to an adjacent
roadside inn, where some non-resident electors were expected to arrive
that night by a coach from Dublin; for the county town had every nook
and cranny occupied, and this inn was the nearest point where they could
get any accommodation.

Now don't suppose that they were electors whom Murphy and Dick in their
zeal for their party were going over to greet with hearty welcomes and
bring up to the poll the next day. By no means. They were the friends
of the opposite party, and it was with the design of retarding their
movements that this night's excursion was undertaken. These electors
were a batch of plain citizens from Dublin, whom the Scatterbrain
interest had induced to leave the peace and quiet of the city to tempt
the wilds of the country at that wildest of times--during a contested
election; and a night coach was freighted inside and out with the worthy
cits, whose aggregate voices would be of immense importance the next
day; for the contest was close, the county nearly polled out, and
but two days more for the struggle. Now, to intercept these plain
unsuspecting men was the object of Murphy, whose well-supplied
information had discovered to him this plan of the enemy, which he set
about countermining. As they rattled over the rough by-roads, many a
laugh did the merry attorney and the untameable Dick the Devil exchange,
as the probable success of their scheme was canvassed, and fresh
expedients devised to meet the possible impediments which might
interrupt them. As they topped a hill Murphy pointed out to his
companion a moving light in the plain beneath.

“That's the coach, Dick--there are the lamps, we're just in time--spin
down the hill, my boy--let me get in as they're at supper, and 'faith
they'll want it, after coming off a coach such a night as this, to say
nothing of some of them being aldermen in expectancy perhaps, and of
course obliged to play trencher-men as often as they can, as a requisite
rehearsal for the parts they must hereafter fill.”

In fifteen minutes more Dick pulled up before a small cabin within a
quarter of a mile of the inn, and the mounted servant tapped at the
door, which was immediately opened, and a peasant, advancing to the gig,
returned the civil salutation with which Dick greeted his approach.

“I wanted to be sure you were ready, Barny.”

“Oh, do you think I'd fail you, Misther Dick, your honour?”

“I thought you might be asleep, Barny.”

“Not when you bid me wake, sir; and there's a nice fire ready for you,
and as fine a dhrop o' _potteen_ as ever tickled your tongue, sir.”

“You're the lad, Barny!--good fellow--I'll be back with you by-and-by;”
 and off whipped Dick again.

After going about a quarter of a mile further, he pulled up, alighted
with Murphy from the gig, unharnessed the little black mare, and then
overturned the gig into the ditch.

“That's as natural as life,” said Dick.

“What an escape of my neck I've had!” said Murphy.

“Are you much hurt?” said Dick.

“A trifle lame only,” said Murphy, laughing and limping.

“There was a great _boccagh_ [Footnote: Lame beggar.] lost in you,
Murphy. Wait; let me rub a handful of mud on your face--there--you have
a very upset look, 'pon my soul,” said Dick, as he flashed the light of
his lantern on him for a moment, and laughed at Murphy scooping the mud
out of his eye, where Dick had purposely planted it.

“Devil take you,” said Murtough; “that's too natural.”

“There's nothing like looking your part,” said Dick.

“Well, I may as well complete my attire,” said Murtough, so he lay down
in the road and took a roll in the mud; “that will do,” said he; “and
now, Dick, go back to Barny and the mountain dew, while I storm the
camp of the Philistines. I think in a couple of hours you may be on the
look-out for me; I'll signal you from the window, so now good bye;”
 and Murphy, leading the mare, proceeded to the inn, while Dick, with a
parting “Luck to you, my boy,” turned back to the cottage of Barny.

The coach had set down six inside and ten out passengers (all voters)
about ten minutes before Murphy marched up to the inn door, leading the
black mare, and calling “ostler” most lustily. His call being answered
for “the beast,” “the man” next demanded attention; and the landlord
wondered all the wonders he could cram into a short speech, at seeing
Misther Murphy, sure, at such a time; and the sonsy landlady, too,
was all lamentations for his illigant coat and his poor eye, sure, all
ruined with the mud:--and what was it at all? an upset, was it? oh,
wirra! and wasn't it lucky he wasn't killed, and they without a spare
bed to lay him out dacent if he was--sure, wouldn't it be horrid for his
body to be only on sthraw in the barn, instead of the best feather-bed
in the house; and, indeed, he'd be welcome to it, only the gintlemen
from town had them all engaged.

“Well, dead or alive, I must stay here to-night, Mrs. Kelly, at all
events.”

“And what will you do for a bed?”

“A shake down in the parlour, or a stretch on a sofa, will do; my gig is
stuck fast in a ditch--my mare tired--ten miles from home--cold night,
and my knee hurt.” Murphy limped as he spoke.

“Oh! your poor knee,” said Mrs. Kelly; “I'll put a dhrop o' whisky and
brown paper on it, sure--”

“And what gentlemen are these, Mrs. Kelly, who have so filled your
house?”

“Gintlemen that came by the coach a while agone, and supping in the
parlour now, sure.”

“Would you give my compliments, and ask would they allow me, under the
present peculiar circumstances, to join them? and in the meantime, send
somebody down the road to take the cushions out of my gig; for there is
no use in attempting to get the gig out till morning.”

“Sartinly, Misther Murphy, we'll send for the cushions; but as for the
gentlemen, they are all on the other side.”

“What other side?”

“The Honourable's voters, sure.”

“Pooh! is that all?” said Murphy,--“I don't mind that, I've no objection
on that account; besides, _they_ need not know who _I_ am,” and he gave
the landlord a knowing wink, to which the landlord as knowingly returned
another.

The message to the gentlemen was delivered, and Murphy was immediately
requested to join their party; this was all he wanted, and he played off
his powers of diversion on the innocent citizens so successfully, that
before supper was half over they thought themselves in luck to have
fallen in with such a chance acquaintance. Murphy fired away jokes,
repartees, anecdotes, and country gossip, to their delight; and when the
eatables were disposed of, he started them on the punch-drinking tack
afterwards so cleverly, that he hoped to see three parts of them tipsy
before they retired to rest.

“Do you feel your knee better now, sir?” asked one of the party, of
Murphy.

“Considerably, thank you; whisky punch, sir, is about the best cure for
bruises or dislocations a man can take.”

“I doubt that, sir,” said a little matter-of-fact man, who had now
interposed his reasonable doubts for the twentieth time during Murphy's
various extravagant declarations, and the interruption only made Murphy
romance the more.

“_You_ speak of your fiery _Dublin_ stuff, sir; but our country whisky
is as mild as milk, and far more wholesome; then, sir, our fine air
alone would cure half the complaints without a grain of physic.”

“I doubt that, sir!” said the little man.

“I assure you, sir, a friend of my own from town came down here last
spring on crutches, and from merely following a light whisky diet and
sleeping with his window open, he was able to dance at the race ball in
a fortnight; as for this knee of mine, it's a trifle, though it was a
bad upset too.”

“How did it happen, sir? Was it your horse--or your harness--or your
gig--or--”

“None o' them, sir; it was a _Banshee_.”

“A Banshee!” said the little man; “what's that?”

“A peculiar sort of supernatural creature that is common here, sir. She
was squatted down on one side of the road, and my mare shied at her,
and being a spirited little thing, she attempted to jump the ditch and
missed it in the dark.”

“Jump a ditch, with a gig after her, sir?” said the little man.

“Oh, common enough to do that here, sir; she'd have done it easy in the
daylight, but she could not measure her distance in the dark, and bang
she went into the ditch: but it's a trifle, after all. I am generally
run over four or five times a year.”

“And you alive to tell it!” said the little man, incredulously.

“It's hard to kill us here, sir, we are used to accidents.”

“Well, the worst accident I ever heard of,” said one of the citizens,
“happened to a friend of mine, who went to visit a friend of his on a
Sunday, and all the family happened to be at church; so on driving into
the yard there was no one to take his horse, therefore he undertook
the office of ostler himself, but being unused to the duty, he most
incautiously took off the horse's bridle before unyoking him from his
gig, and the animal, making a furious plunge forward--my friend being
before him at the time--the shaft of the gig was driven through his
body, and into the coach-house gate behind him, and stuck so fast that
the horse could not drag it out after; and in this dreadful situation
they remained until the family returned from church, and saw the awful
occurrence. A servant was despatched for a doctor, and the shaft was
disengaged, and drawn out of the man's body--just at the pit of the
stomach; he was laid on a bed, and every one thought of course he must
die at once, but he didn't; and the doctor came next day, and he wasn't
dead--did what he could for him--and, to make a long story short, sir,
the man recovered.”

“Pooh! pooh!” said the diminutive doubter.

“It's true,” said the narrator.

“I make no doubt of it, sir,” said Murphy; “I know a more extraordinary
case of recovery myself.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the cit; “I have not finished my story
yet, for the most extraordinary part of the story remains to be told;
my friend, sir, was a very sickly man before the accident happened--a
_very_ sickly man, and after that accident he became a hale healthy man.
What do you think of that, sir?”

“It does not surprise me in the least, sir,” said Murphy; “I can account
for it readily.”

“Well, sir, I never heard It accounted for, though I know it to be true;
I should like to hear how you account for it?”

“Very simply, sir,” said Murphy; “don't you perceive the man discovered
a _mine_ of health by a _shaft_ being sunk in the _pit_ of his stomach?”

Murphy's punning solution of the cause of cure was merrily received by
the company, whose critical taste was not of that affected nature
which despises _jeu de mots_, and _will not_ be satisfied under a _jeu
d'esprit_; the little doubting man alone refused to be pleased.

“I doubt the value of a pun always, sir. Dr. Johnson said, sir--”

“I know,” said Murphy; “that the man who would make a pun would pick
a pocket; that's old, sir,--but is dearly remembered by all those who
cannot make puns themselves.”

“Exactly,” said one of the party they called Wiggins. “It is the old
story of the fox and the grapes. Did you ever hear, sir, the story of
the fox and the grapes? The fox one day was--”

“Yes, yes,” said Murphy, who, fond of absurdity as he was, could _not_
stand the fox and the grapes by way of something new.

“They're sour, said the fox.”

“Yes,” said Murphy, “a capital story.”

“Oh, them fables is so good!” said Wiggins.

“All nonsense!” said the diminutive contradictor.

“Nonsense, nothing but nonsense; the ridiculous stuff of birds and
beasts speaking! As if any one could believe such stuff.”

“I do--firmly--for one,” said Murphy.

“You do?” said the little man.

“I do--and do you know why?”

“I cannot indeed conceive,” said the little man, with a bitter grin.

“It is, sir, because I myself know a case that occurred in this very
country of a similar nature.”

“Do you want to make me believe you knew a fox that spoke, sir?” said
the mannikin, almost rising into anger.

“Many, sir,” said Murphy, “many.”

“Well! after that!” said the little man.

“But the case I immediately allude to is not of a fox, but a cat,” said
Murphy.

“A cat? Oh, yes--to be sure--a cat speak, indeed!” said the little
gentleman.

“It is a fact, sir,” said Murphy; “and if the company would not object
to my relating the story, I will state the particulars.”

The proposal was received with acclamation; and Murphy, in great
enjoyment of the little man's annoyance, cleared his throat, and made
all the preparatory demonstrations of a regular _raconteur_; but, before
he began, he recommended the gentlemen to mix fresh tumblers all round
that they might have nothing to do but listen and drink silently. “For
of all things in the world,” said Murtough, “I hate a song or a story to
be interrupted by the rattle of spoons.”

They obeyed; and while they are mixing their punch, we will just turn
over a fresh page, and devote a new Chapter to the following

MARVELLOUS LEGEND




CHAPTER XXIII

MURTOUGH MURPHY'S STORY; BEING YE MARVELLOUS LEGEND OF TOM CONNOR'S CAT


“There was a man in these parts, sir, you must know, called Tom Connor,
and he had a cat that was equal to any dozen of rat-traps, and he was
proud of the baste, and with rayson; for she was worth her weight in
goold to him in saving his sacks of meal from the thievery of the rats
and mice; for Tom was an extensive dealer in corn, and influenced the
rise and fall of that article in the market, to the extent of a full
dozen of sacks at a time, which he either kept or sold, as the spirit
of free trade or monopoly came over him. Indeed, at one time, Tom had
serious thoughts of applying to the government for a military force to
protect his granary when there was a threatened famine in the county.”

“Pooh! pooh! sir,” said the matter-of-fact little man: “as if a dozen
sacks could be of the smallest consequence in a whole county--pooh!
pooh!”

“Well, sir,” said Murphy, “I can't help if you don't believe; but it's
truth what I am telling you, and pray don't interrupt me, though you
may not believe; by the time the story's done you'll have heard more
wonderful things than _that_,--and besides, remember you're a stranger
in these parts, and have no notion of the extraordinary things,
physical, metaphysical, and magical, which constitute the idiosyncrasy
of rural destiny.”

The little man did not know the meaning of Murphy's last sentence--nor
Murphy either; but, having stopped the little man's throat with big
words, he proceeded--

“This cat, sir, you must know, was a great pet, and was so up to
everything, that Tom swore she was a'most like a Christian, only she
couldn't speak, and had so sensible a look in her eyes, that he was
sartin sure the cat knew every word that was said to her. Well, she used
to sit by him at breakfast every morning, and the eloquent cock of her
tail, as she used to rub against his leg, said, 'Give me some milk, Tom
Connor,' as plain as print, and the plenitude of her purr afterwards
spoke a gratitude beyond language. Well, one morning, Tom was going to
the neighbouring town to market, and he had promised the wife to bring
home shoes to the childre' out o' the price of the corn; and sure
enough, before he sat down to breakfast, there was Tom taking the
measure of the children's feet, by cutting notches on a bit of stick;
and the wife gave him so many cautions about getting a 'nate fit' for
'Billy's purty feet,' that Tom, in his anxiety to nick the closest
possible measure, cut off the child's toe. That disturbed the harmony of
the party, and Tom was obliged to breakfast alone, while the mother was
endeavouring to cure Billy; in short, trying to make a _heal_ of his
_toe_. Well, sir, all the time Tom was taking measure for the shoes, the
cat was observing him with that luminous peculiarity of eye for which
her tribe is remarkable; and when Tom sat down to breakfast the cat
rubbed up against him more vigorously than usual; but Tom, being
bewildered between his expected gain in corn and the positive loss of
his child's toe, kept never minding her, until the cat, with a sort of
caterwauling growl, gave Tom a dab of her claws, that went clean through
his leathers, and a little further. 'Wow!' says Tom, with a jump,
clapping his hand on the part, and rubbing it, 'by this and that,
you drew the blood out o' me,' says Tom; 'you wicked divil--tish!--go
along!' says he, making a kick at her. With that the cat gave a
reproachful look at him, and her eyes glared just like a pair of
mail-coach lamps in a fog. With that, sir, the cat, with a mysterious
_'mi-ow'_ fixed a most penetrating glance on Tom, and distinctly uttered
his name.

“Tom felt every hair on his head as stiff as a pump-handle; and scarcely
crediting his ears, he returned a searching look at the cat, who very
quietly proceeded in a sort of nasal twang--

“'Tom Connor,' says she.

“'The Lord be good to me!' says Tom, 'if it isn't spakin' she is!'

“'Tom Connor,' says she again.

“'Yes, ma'am,' says Tom.

“'Come here,' says she; 'whisper--I want to talk to you, Tom,' says
she, 'the laste taste in private,' says she--rising on her hams, and
beckoning him with her paw out o' the door, with a wink and a toss o'
the head aiqual to a milliner.

“Well, as you may suppose, Tom didn't know whether he was on his head
or his heels, but he followed the cat, and off she went and squatted
herself under the edge of a little paddock at the back of Tom's house;
and as he came round the corner, she held up her paw again, and laid it
on her mouth, as much as to say, 'Be cautious, Tom.' Well, divil a word
Tom could say at all, with the fright, so up he goes to the cat, and
says she--

“'Tom,' says she, 'I have a great respect for you, and there's something
I must tell you, becase you're losing character with your neighbours,'
says she, 'by your goin's on,' says she, 'and it's out o' the respect
that I have for you, that I must tell you,' says she.

“'Thank you, ma'am,' says Tom.

“'You're goin' off to the town,' says she, 'to buy shoes for the
childre',' says she, 'and never thought o' gettin' me a pair.'

“'You!' says Tom.”

“'Yis, me, Tom Connor,' says she; 'and the neighbours wondhers that
a respectable man like you allows your cat to go about the counthry
barefutted,' says she.”

“'Is it a cat to ware shoes?' says Tom.”

“'Why not?' says she; 'doesn't horses ware shoes?--and I have a prettier
foot than a horse, I hope,' says she, with a toss of her head.”

“'Faix, she spakes like a woman; so proud of her feet,' says Tom to
himself, astonished, as you may suppose, but pretending never to think
it remarkable all the time; and so he went on discoursin'; and says he,
'It's thrue for you, ma'am,' says he, 'that horses wares shoes--but that
stands to rayson, ma'am, you see--seeing the hardship their feet has to
go through on the hard roads.'”

“'And how do you know what hardship my feet has to go through?' says the
cat, mighty sharp.”

“'But, ma'am,' says Tom, 'I don't well see how you could fasten a shoe
on you,' says he.”

“'Lave that to me,' says the cat.”

“'Did any one ever stick walnut shells on you, pussy?' says Tom, with a
grin.”

“'Don't be disrespectful, Tom Connor,' says the cat, with a frown.”

“'I ax your pard'n, ma'am,' says he, 'but as for the horses you wor
spakin' about wearin' shoes, you know their shoes is fastened on with
nails, and how would your shoes be fastened on?'”

“'Ah, you stupid thief!' says she, 'haven't I illigant nails o' my own?'
and with that she gave him a dab of her claw, that made him roar.”

“'Ow! murdher!' says he.”

“'Now, no more of your palaver, Misther Connor,' says the cat; 'just be
off and get me the shoes.'”

“'Tare an' ouns!' says Tom, 'what'll become o' me if I'm to get shoes
for my cats?' says he, 'for you increase your family four times a year,
and you have six or seven every time,' says he; 'and then you must all
have two pair a piece--wirra! wirra!--I'll be ruined in shoe-leather,'
says Tom.

“'No more o' your stuff,' says the cat; 'don't be stand in' here undher
the hedge talkin', or we'll lose our karacthers--for I've remarked your
wife is jealous, Tom.'

“'Pon my sowl, that's thrue,' says Tom, with a smirk.

“'More fool she,' says the cat, 'for, 'pon my conscience, Tom, you're as
ugly as if you wor bespoke.'

“Off ran the cat with these words, leaving Tom in amazement. He said
nothing to the family, for fear of fright'ning them, and off he went to
the _town_ as he _pretended_--for he saw the cat watching him through
a hole in the hedge; but when he came to a turn at the end of the road,
the dickings a mind he minded the market, good or bad, but went off to
Squire Botherum's, the magisthrit, to sware examinations agen the cat.”

“Pooh! pooh!--nonsense!!” broke in the little man, who had listened thus
far to Murtough with an expression of mingled wonder and contempt,
while the rest of the party willingly gave up the reins to nonsense,
and enjoyed Murtough's Legend and their companion's more absurd common
sense.

“Don't interrupt him, Goggins,” said Mister Wiggins.

“How can you listen to such nonsense?” returned Goggins. “Swear
examinations against a cat, indeed! pooh! pooh!”

“My dear sir,” said Murtough, “remember this is a fair story, and that
the country all around here is full of enchantment. As I was telling
you, Tom went off to swear examinations.”

“Ay, ay!” shouted all but Goggins; “go on with the story.”

“And when Tom was asked to relate the events of the morning, which
brought him before Squire Botherum, his brain was so bewildered between
his corn, and his cat, and his child's toe, that he made a very confused
account of it.

“'Begin your story from the beginning,' said the magistrate to Tom.

“'Well, your honour,' says Tom, 'I was goin' to market this mornin', to
sell the child's corn--I beg your pard'n--my own toes, I mane, sir.'

“'Sell your toes!' said the Squire.

“'No, sir, takin' the cat to market, I mane--'

“'Take a cat to market!' said the Squire. 'You're drunk, man.'

“'No, your honour, only confused a little; for when the toes began to
spake to me--the cat, I mane--I was bothered clane--'

“'The cat speak to you!' said the Squire. 'Phew! worse than
before--you're drunk, Tom.'

“'No, your honour; it's on the strength of the cat I come to spake to
you--'

“'I think it's on the strength of a pint of whisky, Tom--'

“'By the vartue o' my oath, your honour, it's nothin' but the cat.' And
so Tom then told him all about the affair, and the Squire was regularly
astonished. Just then the bishop of the diocese and the priest of the
parish happened to call in, and heard the story; and the bishop and the
priest had a tough argument for two hours on the subject; the former
swearing she must be a witch; but the priest denying _that_, and
maintaining she was _only_ enchanted; and that part of the argument was
afterwards referred to the primate, and subsequently to the conclave at
Rome; but the Pope declined interfering about cats, saying he had quite
enough to do minding his own bulls.

“'In the meantime, what are we to do with the cat?' says Botherum.

“'Burn her,' says the bishop, 'she's a witch.'

“_Only_ enchanted,' said the priest--'and the ecclesiastical court
maintains that--'

“'Bother the ecclesiastical court!' said the magistrate; 'I can only
proceed on the statutes;' and with that he pulled down all the law-books
in his library, and hunted the laws from Queen Elizabeth down, and he
found that they made laws against everything in Ireland, _except a cat_.
The devil a thing escaped them but a cat, which did _not_ come within
the meaning of any act of parliament:--_the cats only had escaped_.

“'There's the alien act, to be sure,' said the magistrate, 'and perhaps
she's a French spy, in disguise.'

“'She spakes like a French spy, sure enough,' says Tom; 'and she was
missin', I remember, all last Spy-Wednesday.'

“'That's suspicious,' says the squire--'but conviction might be
difficult; and I have a fresh idea,' says Botherum.

“''Faith, it won't keep fresh long, this hot weather,' says Tom; 'so
your honour had betther make use of it at wanst.'

“'Right,' says Botherum,--'we'll make her subject to the game laws;
we'll hunt her,' says he.

“'Ow!--elegant!' says Tom;--'we'll have a brave run out of her.'

“'Meet me at the cross roads,' says the Squire, 'in the morning, and
I'll have the hounds ready.'

“'Well, off Tom went home; and he was racking his brain what excuse he
could make to the cat for not bringing the shoes; and at last he hit one
off, just as he saw her cantering up to him, half-a-mile before he got
home.

“'Where's the shoes, Tom?' says she.

“'I have not got them to-day, ma'am,' says he.

“'Is that the way you keep your promise, Tom?' says she;--'I'll tell you
what it is, Tom--I'll tare the eyes out o' the childre' if you don't get
me shoes.'

“'Whisht! whisht!' says Tom, frightened out of his life for his
children's eyes. 'Don't be in a passion, pussy. The shoemaker said he
had not a shoe in his shop, nor a last that would make one to fit
you; and he says, I must bring you into the town for him to take your
measure.'

“'And when am I to go?' says the cat, looking savage.

“'To-morrow,' says Tom.

“'It's well you said that, Tom,' said the cat, 'or the devil an eye I'd
leave in your family this night'--and off she hopped.

“Tom thrimbled at the wicked look she gave.

“'Remember!' says she, over the hedge, with a bitter caterwaul.

“'Never fear,' says Tom. Well, sure enough, the next mornin' there was
the cat at cock-crow, licking herself as nate as a new pin, to go into
the town, and out came Tom with a bag undher his arm, and the cat afther
him.

“'Now git into this, and I'll carry you into the town,' says Tom,
opening the bag.

“'Sure I can walk with you,' says the cat.

“'Oh, that wouldn't do,' says Tom; 'the people in the town is curious
and slandherous people, and sure it would rise ugly remarks if I was
seen with a cat afther me:--a dog is a man's companion by nature, but
cats does not stand to rayson.'

“Well, the cat, seeing there was no use in argument, got into the bag,
and off Tom set to the cross roads with the bag over his shoulder, and
he came up, _quite innocent-like_, to the corner, where the Squire, and
his huntsman, and the hounds, and a pack o' people were waitin'. Out
came the Squire on a sudden, just as if it was all by accident.

“'God save you, Tom,' says he.

“'God save you kindly, sir,' says Tom.

“'What's that bag you have at your back?' says the Squire.

“'Oh, nothin' at all, sir,' says Tom--makin' a face all the time, as
much as to say, I have her safe.

“'Oh, there's something in that bag, I think,' says the Squire; 'and you
must let me see it.'

“'If you bethray me, Tom Connor,' says the cat in a low voice, 'by this
and that I'll never spake to you again!'

“'Pon my honour, sir,' said Tom, with a wink and a twitch of his thumb
towards the bag, 'I haven't anything in it.'

“'I have been missing my praties of late,' says the Squire; 'and I'd
just like to examine that bag,' says he.

“'Is it doubting my charackther you'd be, sir?' says Tom, pretending to
be in a passion.

“'Tom, your sowl!' says the voice in the sack, '_if you let the cat out
of the bag_, I'll murther you.'

“'An honest man would make no objection to be sarched,' said the
Squire; 'and I insist on it,' says he, laying hold o' the bag, and Tom
purtending to fight all the time; but, my jewel! before two minutes,
they shook the cat out o' the bag, sure enough, and off she went with
her tail as big as a sweeping brush, and the Squire, with a thundering
view halloo after her, clapt the dogs at her heels, and away they went
for the bare life. Never was there seen such running as that day--the
cat made for a shaking bog, the loneliest place in the whole country,
and there the riders were all thrown out, barrin' the huntsman, who had
a web-footed horse on purpose for soft places; and the priest, whose
horse could go anywhere by reason of the priest's blessing; and, sure
enough, the huntsman and his riverence stuck to the hunt like wax; and
just as the cat got on the border of the bog, they saw her give a twist
as the foremost dog closed with her, for he gave her a nip in the flank.
Still she went on, however, and headed them well, towards an old mud
cabin in the middle of the bog, and there they saw her jump in at the
window, and up came the dogs the next minit, and gathered round
the house with the most horrid howling ever was heard. The huntsman
alighted, and went into the house to turn the cat out again, when what
should he see but an old hag lying in bed in the corner?

“'Did you see a cat come in here?' says he.

“'Oh, no--o--o--o!' squealed the old hag, in a trembling voice; 'there's
no cat here,' says she.

“'Yelp, yelp, yelp!' went the dogs outside.

“'Oh, keep the dogs out o' this,' says the old hag--'oh--o--o--o!' and
the huntsman saw her eyes glare under the blanket, just like a cat's.

“'Hillo!' says the huntsman, pulling down the blanket--and what should
he see but the old hag's flank all in a gore of blood.

“'Ow, ow! you old divil--is it you? you ould cat!' says he, opening the
door.

“In rushed the dogs--up jumped the old hag, and changing into a cat
before their eyes, out she darted through the window again, and made
another run for it; but she couldn't escape, and the dogs gobbled her
while you could say 'Jack Robinson.' But the most remarkable part of
this extraordinary story, gentlemen, is, that the pack was ruined from
that day out; for after having eaten the enchanted cat, _the devil a
thing they would ever hunt afterwards but mice._”




CHAPTER XXIV


Murphy's story was received with acclamation by all but the little man.

“That is all a pack of nonsense,” said he.

“Well, you're welcome to it, sir,” said Murphy, “and if I had greater
nonsense you should have it; but seriously, sir, I again must beg you
to remember that the country all around here abounds in enchantment;
scarcely a night passes without some fairy frolic; but, however you
may doubt the wonderful fact of the cat speaking, I wonder you are not
impressed with the points of moral in which the story abounds--”

“Fiddlestick!” said the miniature snarler.

“First, the little touch about the corn monopoly [1]--then maternal
vanity chastised by the loss of the child's toe--then Tom's familiarity
with his cat, showing the danger arising from a man making too free with
his female domestics--the historical point about the penal laws--the
fatal results of letting the cat out o' the bag, with the curious final
fact in natural history.”

[1][Footnote: Handy Andy was written when the “vexed question” of the
“Corn Laws” was the all-absorbing subject of discussion.]

“It's all nonsense,” said the little man, “and I am ashamed of myself
for being such a fool as to sit--alistening to such stuff instead of
going to bed, after the fatigue of my journey and the necessity of
rising early to-morrow, to be in good time at the polling.”

“Oh! then you're going to the election, sir?” said Murphy.

“Yes, sir--there's some sense in _that_--and _you_, gentlemen, remember
we must be _all_ up early--and I recommend you to follow my example.”

The little man rang the bell--the bootjack and slippers were called for,
and, after some delay, a very sleepy-looking _gossoon_ entered with a
bootjack under his arm, but no slippers.

“Didn't I say slippers?” said the little man.

“You did, sir.”

“Where are they, sir?”

“The masther says there isn't any, if you plaze, sir.”

“No slippers! and you call this an inn? Oh!--well, 'what can't be cured
must be endured'--hold me the bootjack, sir.”

The gossoon obeyed--the little man inserted his heel in the cleft, but,
on attempting to pull his foot from the boot, he nearly went heels over
head backward. Murphy caught him and put him on his legs again. “Heads
up, soldiers,” exclaimed Murtough; “I thought you were drinking too
much.”

“Sir, I'm not intoxicated!” said the mannikin, snappishly. “It is the
fault of that vile bootjack--what sort of a thing is that you have
brought?” added he in a rage to the _gossoon_.

“It's the bootjack, sir; only one o' the horns is gone, you see,” and he
held up to view a rough piece of board with an angular slit in it, but
one of “the horns,” as he called it, had been broken off at the top,
leaving the article useless.

“How dare you bring such a thing as _that_?” said the little man, in a
great rage.

“Why, sir, you ax'd for a bootjack, sure, and I brought you the best I
had--and it's not my fault it's bruk, so it is, for it wasn't me bruk
it, but Biddy batin' the cock.”

“Beating the cock!” repeated the little man in surprise. “Bless me! beat
a cock with a bootjack!--what savages!”

“Oh, it's not the _hen_ cock I mane, sir,” said the gossoon, “but
the beer cock--she was batin' the cock into the barrel, sir, wid the
bootjack, sir.”

“That was decidedly wrong,” said Murphy; “a bootjack is better suited to
a heel-tap than a full measure.”

“She was tapping the beer, you mean?” said the little man.

“Faix, she wasn't tapping it at all, sir, but hittin' it very hard, she
was, and that's the way she bruk it.”

“Barbarians!” exclaimed the little man; “using a bootjack instead of a
hammer!”

“Sure the hammer was gone to the priest, sir; bekase he wanted it for
the crucifixion.”

“The crucifixion!” exclaimed the little man, horrified; “is it possible
they crucify people?”

“Oh no, sir!” said the gossoon, grinning, “it's the picthure I main,
sir--an illigant picthure that is hung up in the chapel, and he wanted a
hammer to dhrive the nails--”

“Oh, a _picture_ of the crucifixion,” said the little man.

“Yes, sure, sir--the alther-piece, that was althered for to fit to the
place, for it was too big when it came down from Dublin, so they cut
off the sides where the sojers was, bekase it stopt out the windows, and
wouldn't lave a bit o' light for his riverence to read mass; and sure
the sojers were no loss out o' the alther-piece, and was hung up afther
in the vesthery, and serve them right, the blackguards. But it was sore
agen our will to cut off the ladies at the bottom, that was cryin'
and roarin'; but great good luck, the head o' the Blessed Virgin was
presarved in the corner, and sure it's beautiful to see the tears
runnin' down her face, just over the hole in the wall for the holy
wather--which is remarkable.”

The gossoon was much offended by the laughter that followed his account
of the altar-piece, which he had no intention of making irreverential,
and suddenly became silent, with a muttered “More shame for yiz;” and
as his bootjack was impracticable, he was sent off with orders for the
chamber-maid to supply bed candles immediately.

The party soon separated for their various dormitories, the little man
leaving sundry charges to call them early in the morning, and to be sure
to have hot water ready for shaving, and, without fail, to have their
boots polished in time and left at their room doors;--to all which
injunctions he severally received the answer of--“Certainly, sir;” and
as the bed-room doors were slapped-to, one by one, the last sound of the
retiring party was the snappish voice of the indefatigable little man,
shouting, ere he shut his door,--“Early--early--don't forget, Mistress
Kelly--_early!_”

A shake-down for Murphy in the parlour was hastily prepared; and after
Mrs. Kelly was assured by Murtough that he was quite comfortable, and
perfectly content with his accommodation, for which she made scores
of apologies, with lamentations it was not better, &c., &c., the whole
household retired to rest, and in about a quarter of an hour the inn was
in perfect silence.

Then Murtough cautiously opened his door, and after listening for some
minutes, and being satisfied he was the only watcher under the roof,
he gently opened one of the parlour windows and gave the preconcerted
signal which he and Dick had agreed upon. Dick was under the window
immediately, and after exchanging a few words with Murtough, the latter
withdrew, and taking off his boots, and screening with his hand the
light of a candle he carried, he cautiously ascended the stairs, and
proceeded stealthily along the corridor of the dormitory, where, from
the chambers on each side, a concert of snoring began to be executed,
and at all the doors stood the boots and shoes of the inmates
awaiting the aid of Day and Martin in the morning. But, oh! innocent
calf-skins--destined to a far different fate--not Day and Martin, but
Dick the Devil and Company are in wait for you. Murphy collected as many
as he could carry under his arms and descended with them to the parlour
window, where they were transferred to Dick, who carried them directly
to the horse-pond which lay behind the inn, and there committed them to
the deep. After a few journeys up and down stairs, Murtough had left the
electors without a morsel of sole or upper leather, and was satisfied
that a considerable delay, if not a prevention of their appearance at
the poll on the morrow, would be the consequence.

“There, Dick,” said Murphy, “is the last of them,” as he handed the
little man's shoes out of the window,--“and now, to save appearances,
you must take mine too--for I must be without boots as well as the rest
in the morning. What fun I shall have when the uproar begins--don't you
envy me, Dick? There, be off now: but hark 'e, notwithstanding you take
away my boots, you need not throw them into the horse-pond.”

“'Faith, an' I will,” said Dick, dragging them out of his hands; “'t
would not be honourable, if I didn't--I'd give two pair of boots for the
fun you'll have.”

“Nonsense, Dick--Dick, I say--my boots!”

“Honour!” cried Dick, as he vanished round the corner.

“That devil will keep his word,” muttered Murphy, as he closed the
window--“I may bid good bye to that pair of boots--bad luck to him!”
 And yet the merry attorney could not help laughing at Dick making him a
sufferer by his own trick.

Dick _did_ keep his word; and after, with particular delight, sinking
Murphy's boots with the rest, he, as it was preconcerted, returned to
the cottage of Barny, and with his assistance drew the upset gig from
the ditch, and with a second set of harness, provided for the occasion,
yoked the servant's horse to the vehicle and drove home.

Murphy, meanwhile, was bent on more mischief at the inn; and lest
the loss of the boots and shoes might not be productive of sufficient
impediment to the movements of the enemy, he determined on venturing
a step further. The heavy sleeping of the weary and tipsy travellers
enabled him to enter their chambers unobserved, and over the garments
they had taken off he poured the contents of the water-jug and
water-bottle he found in each room, and then laying the empty bottle and
a tumbler on a chair beside each sleeper's bed, he made it appear as if
the drunken men had been dry in the night, and, in their endeavours
to cool their thirst, had upset the water over their own clothes. The
clothes of the little man, in particular, Murphy took especial delight
in sousing more profusely than his neighbour's, and not content with
taking his shoes, burnt his stockings, and left the ashes in the dish
of the candlestick, with just as much unconsumed as would show what
they had been. He then retired to the parlour, and with many an internal
chuckle at the thought of the morning's hubbub, threw off his clothes
and flinging himself on the shake-down Mrs. Kelly had provided for him,
was soon wrapt in the profoundest slumber, from which he never awoke
until the morning uproar of the inn aroused him. He jumped from his
lair and rushed to the scene of action, to soar in the storm of his
own raising; and to make it more apparent that he had been as great a
sufferer as the rest, he only threw a quilt over his shoulders and
did not draw on his stockings. In this plight he scaled the stairs and
joined the storming party, where the little man was leading the forlorn
hope, with his candlestick in one hand and the remnant of his burnt
stocking between the finger and thumb of the other.

“Look at that, sir!” he cried, as he held it up to the landlord.

The landlord could only stare.

“Bless me!” cried Murphy, “how drunk you must have been to mistake your
stocking for an extinguisher!”

“Drunk, sir--I wasn't drunk!”

“It looks very like it,” said Murphy, who did not wait for an answer,
but bustled off to another party who was wringing out his inexpressibles
at the door of his bed-room, and swearing at the gossoon that he _must_
have his boots.

“I never seen them, sir,” said the boy.

“I left them at my door,” said the man.

“So did I leave mine,” said Murphy, “and here I am barefooted--it is
most extraordinary.”

“Has the house been robbed?” said the innocent elector.

“Not a one o' me knows, sir!” said the boy; “but how could it be robbed
and the doors all fast this mornin'?”

The landlady now appeared, and fired at the word “robbed!”

“Robbed, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Kelly; “no, sir--no one was ever robbed
in my house--my house is respectable and responsible, sir--a vartuous
house--none o' your rantipole places, sir, I'd have you to know, but
decent and well behaved, and the house was as quiet as a lamb all
night.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Kelly,” said Murphy--“not a more respectable house in
Ireland--I'll vouch for that.”

“You're a gentleman, Misther Murphy,” said Mrs. Kelly, who turned down
the passage, uttering indignant ejaculations in a sort of snorting
manner, while her words of anger were returned by Murphy with
expressions of soothing and condolence as he followed her down-stairs.

The storm still continued above, and while there they shouted and swore
and complained, Murphy gave _his_ notion of the catastrophe to the
landlady below, inferring that the men were drunk and poured the
water over their own clothes. To repeat this idea to themselves he
re-ascended, but the men were incredulous. The little man he found
buttoning on a pair of black gaiters, the only serviceable decency
he had at his command, which only rendered his denuded state more
ludicrous. To him Murphy asserted his belief that the whole affair was
enchantment, and ventured to hope the small individual would have more
faith in fairy machinations for the future; to which the little abortion
only returned his usual “Pho! pho! nonsense!”

Through all this scene of uproar, as Murphy passed to and fro, whenever
he encountered the landlord, that worthy individual threw him a knowing
look; and the exclamation of, “Oh, Misther Murphy--by dad!” given in
a low chuckling tone, insinuated that the landlord not only smoked but
enjoyed the joke.

“You must lend me a pair of boots, Kelly!” said Murtough.

“To be sure, sir--ha! ha! ha!--but you are the quare man, Misther
Murphy--”

“Send down the road and get my gig out of the ditch.”

“To be sure, sir. Poor devils! purty hands they got into,” and off went
the landlord, with a chuckle.

The messengers sent for the gig returned, declaring there was no gig to
be seen anywhere.

Murphy affected great surprise at the intelligence--again went among
the bamboozled electors, who were all obliged to go to bed for want of
clothes; and his bitter lamentations over the loss of his gig almost
reconciled them to their minor troubles.

To the fears they expressed that they should not be able to reach the
town in time for polling that day, Murphy told them to set their minds
at rest, for they would be in time on the next.

He then borrowed a saddle as well as the pair of boots from the
landlord, and the little black mare bore Murphy triumphantly back to the
town, after he had securely impounded Scatterbrain's voters, who were
anxiously and hourly expected by their friends. Still they came not.
At last, Handy Andy, who happened to be in town with Scatterbrain, was
despatched to hurry them, and his orders were not to come back without
them.

Handy, on his arrival at the inn, found the electors in bed, and all
the fires in the house employed in drying their clothes. The little man,
wrapped in a blanket, was superintending the cooking of his own
before the kitchen grate; there hung his garments on some cross sticks
suspended by a string, after the fashion of a roasting-jack, which
the small gentleman turned before a blazing turf fire; and beside
this contrivance of his swung a goodly joint of meat, which a bouncing
kitchen wench came over to baste now and then.

Andy was answering some questions of the inquisitive little man, when
the kitchen maid, handing the basting-ladle to Andy, begged him to do
a good turn and just to baste the beef for her, for that her heart was
broke with all she had to do, cooking dinner for so many.

Andy, always ready to oblige, consented, and plied the ladle actively
between the troublesome queries of the little man; but at last, getting
confused with some very crabbed questions put to him, Andy became
completely bothered, and lifting a brimming ladle of dripping, poured it
over the little man's coat instead of the beef.

A roar from the proprietor of the clothes followed, and he implanted
a kick at such advantage upon Andy, that he upset him into the
dripping-pan; and Andy, in his fall, endeavouring to support himself,
caught at the suspended articles above him, and the clothes, and the
beef, and Andy, all swam in gravy.

[Illustration: Andy's Cooking extraordinary]




CHAPTER XXV


While disaster and hubbub were rife below, the electors up-stairs
were holding a council whether it would not be better to send back the
“Honourable's” messenger to the town and request a supply of shoes,
which they had no other means of getting. The debate was of an odd sort;
they were all in their several beds at the time, and roared at each
other through their doors, which were purposely left open that they
might enjoy each other's conversation; number seven replied to number
three, and claimed respect to his arguments on the score of seniority;
the blue room was completely controverted by the yellow; and the
double-bedded room would, of course, have had superior weight in the
argument, only that everything it said was lost by the two honourable
members speaking together. The French king used to hold a council called
a “bed of justice,” in which neither justice nor a bed had anything to
do, so that this Irish conference better deserved the title than any
council the Bourbon ever assembled. The debate having concluded, and the
question being put and carried, the usher of the black counterpane was
desired to get out of bed, and, wrapped in the robe of office whence
he derived his title, to go down-stairs and call the “Honourable's”
 messenger to the “bar of the house,” and there order him a pint of
porter, for refreshment after his ride; and forthwith to send him back
again to the town for a supply of shoes.

The house was unanimous in voting the supplies. The usher reached the
kitchen and found Andy in his shirt sleeves, scraping the dripping from
his livery with an old knife, whose hackled edge considerably assisted
Andy's own ingenuity in the tearing of his coat in many places, while
the little man made no effort towards the repair of his garment, but
held it up before him, and regarded it with a piteous look.

To the usher of the black counterpane's question, whether Andy was the
“Honourable's messenger,” Andy replied in the affirmative; but to the
desire expressed, that he would ride back to the town, Andy returned a
decided negative.

“My ordhers is not to go back without you,” said Andy.

“But we have no shoes,” said the usher; “and cannot go until we get
some.”

“My ordher is not to go back without you.”

“But if we can't go?”

“Well, then, I can't go back, that's all,” said Andy.

The usher, the landlord, and the landlady all hammered away at Andy for
a long time, in vain trying to convince him he ought to return, as he
was desired; still Andy stuck to the letter of his orders, and said he
often got into trouble for not doing _exactly_ what he was bid, and
that he was bid “not to go back without them, and he would not--so he
wouldn't--divil a fut.”

At last, however, Andy was made to understand the propriety of riding
back to the town; and was desired to go as fast as his horse could carry
him, to gallop every foot of the way; but Andy did no such thing; he had
received a good thrashing once for being caught galloping his master's
horse on the road, and he had no intention of running the risk a second
time, because “_the stranger_” told him to do so. “What does he know
about it?” said Andy to himself; “'faith, it's fair and aisy I'll go,
and not disthress the horse to plaze any one.” So he went back his
ten miles at a reasonable pace only; and when he appeared without the
electors, a storm burst on poor Andy.

“There! I knew how it would be,” said he, “and not my fault at all.”

“Weren't you told not to return without them?”

“But wait till I tell you how it was, sure;” and then Andy began an
account of the condition in which the voters lay at the inn but between
the impatience of those who heard, and the confused manner of Andy's
recital, it was some time before matters were explained; and then Andy
was desired to ride back to the inn again, to tell the electors shoes
should be forwarded after him in a post-chaise, and requesting their
utmost exertions in hastening over to the town, for that the election
was going against them. Andy returned to the inn; and this time, under
orders from head quarters, galloped in good earnest, and brought in his
horse smoking hot, and indicating lameness. The day was wearing apace,
and it was so late when the electors were enabled to start that the
polling-booths were closed before they could leave the town; and in many
of these booths the requisite number of electors had not been polled
that day to keep them open; so that the next day nearly all those
outlying electors, about whom there had been so much trouble and
expense, would be of no avail. Thus, Murphy's trick was quite
successful, and the poor pickled electors were driven back to their inn
in dudgeon.

Andy, when he went to the stable to saddle his steed, for a return to
Neck-or-Nothing Hall, found him dead lame, so that to ride him better
than twelve miles home was impossible. Andy was obliged to leave him
where he was, and trudge it to the hall; for all the horses in Kelly's
stables were knocked up with their day's work.

As it was shorter by four miles across the country than by the road,
Andy pursued the former course; and as he knew the country well, the
shades of evening, which were now closing round, did not deter him in
the least. Andy was not very fresh for the journey to be sure, for he
had ridden upwards of thirty miles that day, so the merry whistle, which
is so constantly heard from the lively Irish pedestrian, did not while
away the tedium of his walk. It was night when Andy was breasting up a
low ridge of hills, which lay between him and the end of his journey;
and when in silence and darkness he topped the ascent, he threw himself
on some heather to rest and take breath. His attention was suddenly
caught by a small blue flame, which flickered now and then on the face
of the hill, not very far from him; and Andy's fears of fairies and
goblins came crowding upon him thick and fast. He wished to rise, but
could not; his eye continued to be strained with the fascination of fear
in the direction he saw the fire, and sought to pierce the gloom through
which, at intervals, the small point of flame flashed brightly and sunk
again, making the darkness seem deeper. Andy lay in perfect stillness,
and in the silence, which was unbroken even by his own breathing, he
thought he heard voices underground. He trembled from head to foot,
for he was certain they were the voices of the fairies, whom he firmly
believed to inhabit the hills.

“Oh! murdher, what'll I do?” thought Andy to himself: “sure I heerd
often, if once you were within the sound of their voices, you could
never get out o' their power. Oh! if I could only say a _pather_ and
_ave_, but I forget my prayers with the fright. Hail, Mary! The king
o' the fairies lives in these hills, I know--and his house is undher
me this minit, and I on the roof of it--I'll never get down again--I'll
never get down again--they'll make me slater to the fairies; and sure
enough I remember me, the hill is all covered with flat stones they call
fairy slates. Oh! I am ruined--God be praised!” Here he blessed himself,
and laid his head close to the earth. “Guardian angels--I hear their
voices singin' a dhrinking song--Oh! if I had a dhrop o' water myself,
for my mouth is as dhry as a lime-burner's wig--and I on the top o'
their house--see--there's the little blaze again--I wondher is their
chimbley afire--Oh! murther, I'll die o' thirst--Oh! if I had only
one dhrop o' wather--I wish it would rain or hail--Hail, Mary, full o'
grace--whisht! what's that?” Andy crouched lower than before, as he saw
a figure rise from the earth, and attain a height which Andy computed
to be something about twenty feet; his heart shrank to the size of a
nut-shell, as he beheld the monster expand to his full dimensions; and
at the same moment, a second, equally large, emerged from the ground.

Now, as fairies are notoriously little people, Andy changed his opinion
of the parties into whose power he had fallen, and saw clearly they were
giants, not fairies, of whom he was about to become the victim. He
would have ejaculated a prayer for mercy, had not terror rendered him
speechless, as the remembrance of all the giants he had ever heard of,
from the days of Jack and the Bean-stalk down, came into his head; but
though his sense of speaking was gone, that of hearing was painfully
acute, and he heard one of the giants say--

“That pot is not big enough.”

“Oh! it howlds as much as we want,” replied the other.

“O Lord,” thought Andy; “they've got their pot ready for cooking.”

“What keeps him?” said the first giant.

“Oh! he's not far off,” said the second.

A clammy shivering came over Andy.

“I'm hungry,” said the first, and he hiccupped as he spoke.

“It's only a false appetite you have,” said the second, “you're drunk.”

This was a new light to Andy, for he thought giants were too strong to
get drunk. “I could ate a young child, without parsley and butther,”
 said the drunken giant. Andy gave a faint spasmodic kick.

“And it's as hot as ---- down there,” said the giant.

Andy trembled at the horrid word he heard.

“No wonder,” said the second giant; “for I can see the flame popping out
at the top of the chimbley; that's bad: I hope no one will see it, or
it might give them warning. Bad luck to that young divil for making the
fire so sthrong.”

What a dreadful hearing this was for Andy: young devils to make their
fires; there was no doubt what place they were dwelling in. “Thunder and
turf!” said the drunken giant; “I wish I had a slice of--”

Andy did not hear what he wished a slice of, for the night wind
swept across the heath at the moment, and carried away the monster's
disgusting words on its pure breath.

“Well, I'd rather have--” said the other giant; and again Andy lost what
his atrocious desires were--“than all the other slices in the world.
What a lovely round shoulder she has, and the nice round ankle of her--”

The word “ankle” showed at once it was a woman of whom he spoke, and
Andy shuddered. “The monsters! to eat a woman.”

“What a fool you are to be in love,” said the drunken giant with several
hiccups, showing the increase of his inebriation.

“Is that what the brutes call love,” thought Andy, “to ate a woman?”

“I wish she was bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,” said the second
giant. Of this speech Andy heard only “bone” and “flesh,” and had great
difficulty in maintaining the serenity of his diaphragm.

The conversation of the giants was now more frequently interrupted by
the wind which was rising, and only broken sentences reached Andy, whose
senses became clearer the longer he remained in a state of safety;
at last he heard the name of Squire Egan distinctly pass between the
giants.

“So they know Squire Egan,” thought Andy.

The first giant gave a drunken laugh at the mention of Squire Egan's
name, and exclaimed--

“Don't be afraid of him (_hiccup_); I have him undher my thumb
(_hiccup_). I can crush him when I plase.”

“O! my poor owld masther!” mentally ejaculated Andy.

Another break in their conversation occurred, and the next name Andy
overheard was “O'Grady.”

“The big bully!” said the second giant.

“They know the whole country,” thought Andy.

“But tell me, what was that you said to him at the election?” said the
drunken one.

The word “election” recalled Andy to the business of this earth back
again; and it struck upon his hitherto bewildered sensorium that giants
could have nothing to do with elections, and he knew he never saw
them there; and, as the thought struck him, it seemed as if the giants
diminished in size, and did not appear _quite_ so big.

“Sure you know,” said the second.

“Well, I'd like to hear it again,” said the drunken one (_hiccup_).

“The big bully says to me, 'Have you a lease?' says he; 'No,' says I;
'but I have an article!' 'What article?' says he; 'It's a fine brass
blunderbuss,' says I, 'and _I'd like to see the man would dispute the
title!_'”

The drunken listener chuckled, and the words broke the spell of
supernatural terror which had hung over Andy; he knew, by the words of
the speaker, it was the bully joker of the election was present,
who browbeat O'Grady and out-quibbled the agent about the oath of
allegiance; and the voice of the other he soon recognised for that of
Larry Hogan. So now his giants were diminished into mortal men--the pot,
which had been mentioned to the terror of his soul, was for the making
of whisky instead of human broth--and the “hell” he thought his giants
inhabited was but a private still. Andy felt as if a mountain had been
lifted from his heart when he found it was but mortals he had to deal
with; for Andy was not deficient in courage when it was but thews
and sinews like his own he had to encounter. He still lay concealed,
however, for smugglers might not wish their private haunt to be
discovered, and it was possible Andy would be voted one too many in the
company should he announce himself; and with such odds as two to one
against him he thought he had better be quiet. Besides, his curiosity
became excited when he found them speaking of his old master, Egan, and
his present one, O'Grady; and as a woman had been alluded to, and odd
words caught up here and there, he became anxious to hear more of their
conversation.

“So you're in love,” said Larry, with a hiccup, to our friend of the
blunderbuss; “ha! ha! ha! you big fool.”

“Well, you old thief, don't you like a purty girl yourself?”

“I did, when I was young and foolish.”

“'Faith, then, you're young and foolish at that rate yet, for you're a
rogue with the girls, Larry,” said the other, giving him a slap on the
back.

“Not I! not I!” said Larry, in a manner expressive of his not being
displeased with the charge of gallantry; “he! he! he!--how do you know,
eh?” (_Hiccup_.) “Sure, I know myself; but as I wos telling you, if I
could only lay howld of--” here his voice became inaudible to Andy, and
the rest of the sentence was lost.

Andy's curiosity was great. “Who could the girl be?”

“And you'd carry her off?” said Larry.

“I would,” said the other; “I'm only afraid o' Squire Egan.”

At this announcement of the intention of “carrying her off,” coupled
with the fear of “Squire Egan,” Andy's anxiety to hear the name of the
person became so intense that he crawled cautiously a little nearer to
the speakers.

“I tell you again,” said Larry, “I can settle _him_ aisy
(_hiccup_)--he's undher my thumb (_hiccup_).”

“Be aisy,” said the other, contemptuously, who thought this was a mere
drunken delusion of Larry's.

“I tell you I'm his masther!” said Larry, with a drunken flourish of his
arm; and he continued bragging of his power over the Squire in various
ejaculations, the exact meaning of which our friend of the blunderbuss
could not fathom, but Andy heard enough to show him that the discovery
of the post-office affair was what Larry alluded to.

That Larry, a close, cunning, circumventing rascal, should so far betray
the source of his power over Egan may seem strange; but be it remembered
Larry was drunk, a state of weakness which his caution generally guarded
him from falling into, but which being in, his foible was bragging of
his influence, and so running the risk of losing it.

The men continued to talk together for some time, and the tenour of the
conversation was, that Larry assured his companion he might carry off
the girl without fear of Egan, but her name Andy could not discover. His
own name he heard more than once, and voluptuous raptures poured forth
about lovely lips and hips and ankles from the herculean knight of the
blunderbuss, amidst the maudlin admiration and hiccups of Larry, who
continued to brag of his power, and profess his readiness to stand by
his friend in carrying off the girl.

“Then,” said the Hercules, with an oath, “I'll soon have you in my arms,
my lovely--”

The name was lost again.

Their colloquy was now interrupted by the approach of a man and woman,
the former being the person for whose appearance Larry made so many
inquiries when he first appeared to Andy as the hungry giant; the other
was the sister of the knight of the blunderbuss. Larry having hiccupped
his anger against the man for making them wait so long for the bacon,
the woman said he should not wait longer without his supper now,
for that she would go down and fry the rashers immediately. She then
disappeared through the ground, and the men all followed.

Andy drew his breath freely once more, and with caution raised himself
gradually from the ground with a careful circumspection, lest any of the
subterranean community might be watchers on the hill; and when he was
satisfied he was free from observation, he stole away from the spot
with stealthy steps for about twenty paces, and there, as well as the
darkness would permit, after taking such landmarks as would help him to
retrace his way to the still, if requisite, he dashed down the hill at
the top of his speed. This pace he did not moderate until he had placed
nearly a mile between him and the scene of his adventure; he then paced
slowly to regain his breath. His head was in a strange whirl; mischief
was threatened against some one of whose name he was ignorant; Squire
Egan was declared to be in the power of an old rascal; this grieved Andy
most of all, for he felt _he_ was the cause of his old master's dilemma.

“Oh! to think I should bring him into trouble,” said Andy, “the kind
and good masther he was to me ever, and I live to tell it like a
blackguard--throth I'd rather be hanged any day than the masther would
come to throuble--maybe if I gave myself up and was hanged like a man
at once, that would settle it; 'faith, if I thought it would, I'd do it
sooner than Squire Egan should come to throuble!” and poor Andy spoke
just what he felt. “Or would it do to kill that blackguard Hogan? _sure
they could do no more than hang me afther_, and that would save the
masther, and be all one to me, for they often towld me I'd be hanged.
[1] But then there's my sowl,” said Andy, and he paused at the
thought--, “if they hanged me for the letthers, it would be only for a
mistake, and sure then I'd have a chance o' glory; for sure I might go
to glory through a mistake; but if I killed a man on purpose, sure it
would be slappin' the gates of Heaven in my own face. Faix, I'll spake
to Father Blake about it.” [2]

[1][Footnote: How often has the sanguinary penal code of past years
suggested this reflection and provoked the guilt it was meant to
awe! Happily, now our laws are milder, and more protective from their
mildness.]

[2][Footnote: In the foregoing passage, Andy stumbles on uttering a
quaint pleasantry, for it is partly true as well as droll--the notion of
a man gaining Paradise through a mistake. Our intentions too seldom lead
us there, but rather tend the other way, for a certain place is said
to be paved with “good” ones, and surely “bad” ones would not lead us
upwards. Then the phrase of a man “slapping the gates of Heaven in his
own face,” is one of those wild poetic figures of speech in which
the Irish peasantry often indulge. The phrase “slapping the door” is
every-day and common; but when applied to “the gates of Heaven,” and
“in a man's own face,” the common phrase becomes fine. But how often
the commonest things become poetry by the fitness of their application,
though poetasters and people of small minds think greatness of thought
lies in big words.]




CHAPTER XXVI


The following day was that eventful one which should witness the return
of either Edward Egan, Esq., or the Honourable Sackville Scatterbrain as
member for the county. There was no doubt in any reasonable man's mind
as to the real majority of Egan, but the numbers were sufficiently close
to give the sheriff an opportunity of doing a bit of business to
oblige his friends, and therefore he declared the Honourable Sackville
Scatterbrain duly elected. Great was the uproar; the people hissed,
and hooted, and groaned, for which the Honourable Sackville very
good-naturedly returned them his thanks. Murphy snapped his fingers in
the sheriff's face, and told them his honourable friend should not long
remain member, for that he must be unseated on petition, and that he
would prove the return most corrupt, with which words he again snapped
his fingers in the sheriff's face.

The sheriff threatened to read the riot act if such conduct was
repeated.

Egan took off his hat, and thanked him for his _honourable, upright,
and impartial_ conduct, whereupon all Egan's friends took off their hats
also, and made profound bows to the functionary, and then laughed most
uproariously. Counter laughs were returned from the opposite party, who
begged to remind the Eganites of the old saying, “that they might laugh
who win.” A cross-fire of sarcasms was kept up amidst the two parties
as they were crushing forward out of the courthouse; and at the door,
before entering his carriage, Scatterbrain very politely addressed Egan,
and trusted that, though they had met as rivals on the hustings, they
nevertheless parted friends, and expressing the highest respect for the
squire, offered his hand in amity.

Egan, equally good-hearted as his opponent, shook his hand cordially;
declaring he attributed to him none of the blame which attached to other
persons. “Besides, my dear sir,” said Egan, laughing, “I should be a
very ill-natured person to grudge you so small an indulgence as being
member of parliament _for a month or so_.”

Scatterbrain returned the laugh, good-humouredly, and replied that, “at
all events, he _had_ the seat.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” said Egan, “and make the most of it _while_ you
have it. In short, I shall owe you an obligation when I go over to St.
Stephen's, for you will have just _aired my seat_ for me--good bye.”

They parted with smiles, and drove to their respective homes; but as
even doubtful possession is preferable to expectation for the time
being, it is certain that Neck-or-Nothing Hall rang with more merriment
that night on the reality of the present, than Merryvale did on the hope
of the future.

Even O'Grady, as he lay with his wounded arm on the sofa, found more
healing in the triumph of the hour than from all the medicaments of the
foregoing week, and insisted on going down-stairs and joining the party
at supper.

“Gusty, dear,” said his wife, “you know the doctor said--”

“Hang the doctor!”

“Your arm, my love.”

“I wish you'd leave off pitying my arm, and have some compassion on my
stomach.”

“The doctor said--”

“There are oysters in the house; I'll do myself more good by the use of
an oyster-knife than all the lancets in the College of Surgeons.”

“But your wound, dear?”

“Are they Carlingfords or Poldoodies?”

“So fresh, love.”

“So much the better.”

“Your wound I mean, dear?”

“Nicely opened.”

“Only dressed an hour ago?”

“With some mustard, pepper, and vinegar.”

“Indeed, Gusty, if you take my advice--”

“I'd rather have oysters any day.”

O'Grady sat up on the sofa as he spoke and requested his wife to say no
more about the matter, but put on his cravat. While she was getting it
from his wardrobe, his mind wandered from supper to the pension,
which he looked upon as secure now that Scatterbrain was returned; and
oyster-banks gave place to the Bank of Ireland, which rose in a pleasing
image before O'Grady's imagination. The wife now returned with the
cravat, still dreading the result of eating to her husband, and her mind
occupied wholly with the thought of supper, while O'Grady was wrapt in
visions of a pension.

“You won't take it, Gusty, dear,” said his wife with all the insinuation
of manner she could command.

“Won't I, 'faith?” said O'Grady. “Maybe you think I don't want it?”

“Indeed, I don't, dear.”

“Are you mad, woman? Is it taking leave of the few senses you ever had
you are?”

“'T won't agree with you.”

“Won't it? just wait till I'm tried.”

“Well, love, how much do you expect to be allowed?”

“Why I can't expect much just yet--we must begin gently--feel the pulse
first; but I should hope, by way of start, that six or seven hundred--”

“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed his wife, dropping the cravat from her
hands. “What the devil is the woman shouting at?” said O'Grady.

“Six or seven hundred!!!” exclaimed Mrs. O'Grady; “my dear, there's not
as much in the house.”

“No, nor has not been for many a long day; I know that as well as you,”
 said O'Grady; “but I hope we shall get as much for all that.”

“My dear, where could you get them?” asked the wife, timidly, who began
to think his head was a little light.

“From the treasury, to be sure.”

“The treasury, my dear?” said the wife, still at fault; “how could you
get oysters from the treasury?”

“Oysters!” exclaimed O'Grady, whose turn it was now to wonder, “who
talks of oysters?”

“My dear, I thought you said you'd eat six or seven hundred of oysters!”

“Pooh! pooh! woman; it is of the pension I'm talking--six or seven
hundred pounds--pounds--cash--per annum; now I suppose you'll put on my
cravat. I think a man may be allowed to eat his supper who expects six
hundred a year.”

A great many people besides O'Grady order suppers, and dinners too, on
the expectation of less than six hundred a year. Perhaps there is no
more active agent for sending people into the Insolvent Court than the
aforesaid “_expectation_.”

O'Grady went down-stairs, and was heartily welcomed by Scatterbrain on
his re-appearance from his sick-room; but Mrs. O'Grady suggested that,
for fear any excess would send him back there for a longer time, a
very moderate indulgence at the table should suffice. She begged the
honourable member to back her argument, which he did; and O'Grady
promised temperance, but begged the immediate appearance of the oysters,
for he experienced that eager desire which delicate health so often
prompts for some particular food.

Andy was laying the table at the time, and was ordered to expedite
matters as much as possible.

“Yis, ma'am.”

“You're sure the oysters are all good, Andy?”

“Sartin, ma'am.”

“Because the last oysters you know--”

“Oh, yis, ma'am--were bad, ma'am--bekase they had their mouths all open.
I remember, ma'am; but when I'm towld a thing once, I never forget it
again; and you towld me when they opened their mouths once they were no
good. So you see, ma'am, I'll never bring up bad oysthers again, ma'am.”

“Very good, Andy; and you have kept them in a cool place, I hope.”

“Faix, they're cowld enough where I put them, ma'am.”

“Very well; bring them up at once.”

Off went Andy, and returned with all the haste he could with a large
dish heaped up with oysters.

O'Grady rubbed his hands with the impatience of a true lover of the
crustaceous delicacy, and Scatterbrain, eager to help him, flourished
his oyster-knife; but before he had time to commence operations the
olfactory nerves of the company gave evidence that the oysters were
rather suspicious; every one began sniffing, and a universal “Oh dear!”
 ran round the table.

“Don't you smell it, Furlong?” said Scatterbrain, who was so lost in
looking at Augusta's mustachios that he did not mind anything else.

“Isn't it horrid?” said O'Grady, with a look of disgust.

Furlong thought he alluded to the mustachio, and replied with an
assurance that he “liked it of all things.”

“Like it?” said O'Grady; “you've a queer taste. What do _you_ think of
it, miss?” added he to Augusta, “it's just under your nose.” Furlong
thought this rather personal, even from a father.

“I'll try my knife on one,” said Scatterbrain, with a flourish of the
oyster-knife, which Furlong thought resembled the preliminary trial of a
barber's razor.

Furlong thought this worse than O'Grady; but he hesitated to reply to
his chief, and an _honourable_ into the bargain.

In the meantime, Scatterbrain opened an oyster, which Furlong, in his
embarrassment and annoyance, did not perceive.

“Cut off the beard,” said O'Grady, “I don't like it.”

This nearly made Furlong speak, but, considering O'Grady's temper
and ill-health, he hesitated, till he saw Augusta rubbing her eye, in
consequence of a small splinter of the oyster-shell having struck it
from Scatterbrain's mismanagement of his knife; but Furlong thought she
was crying, and then he could be silent no longer; he went over to where
she sat, and with a very affectionate demonstration in his action, said,
“Never mind them, dear Gussy--never mind--don't cwy--I love her dear
little moustachios, I do.” He gave a gentle pat on the back of the neck
as he spoke, and it was returned by an uncommonly smart box on the ear
from the young lady, and the whole party looked thunderstruck. “Dear
Gussy” cried for spite, and stamped her way out of the room, followed by
Furlong.

“Let them go,” said O'Grady; “they'll make it up outside.”

“These oysters are all bad,” said Scatterbrain.

O'Grady began to swear at his disappointment--he had set his heart on
oysters. Mrs. O'Grady rang the bell--Andy appeared.

“How dare you bring up such oysters as these?” roared O'Grady.

“The misthris ordhered them, sir.”

“I told you never to bring up bad oysters,” said she.

“Them's not bad, ma'am,” said Andy,

“Have you a nose?” says O'Grady.

“Yes, sir.”

“And can't you smell them, then?”

“Faix, I smelt them for the last three days, sir.”

“And how could you say they were good, then?” asked his mistress.

“Sure you tould me, ma'am, that if they didn't open their mouths they
were good, and I'll be on my book oath them oysters never opened their
mouths since I had them, for I laid them on a coolflag in the kitchen
and put the jack-weight over them.”

Notwithstanding O'Grady's rage, Scatterbrain could not help roaring with
laughter at Andy's novel contrivance for keeping oysters fresh. Andy
was desired to take the “ancient and fish-like smell” out of the room,
amidst jeers and abuse; and, as he fumbled his way to the kitchen in
the dark, lamenting the hard fate of servants, who can never give
satisfaction, though they do everything they are bid, he went head over
heels down-stairs, which event was reported to the whole house as soon
as it happened, by the enormous clatter of the broken dish, the oysters,
and Andy, as they all rolled one over the other to the bottom.

O'Grady, having missed the cool supper he intended, and had longed for,
was put into a rage by the disappointment; and as hunger with O'Grady
was only to be appeased by broiled bones, accordingly, against all the
endeavours of everybody, the bells rang violently through the house, and
the ogre-like cry of “broiled bones!” resounded high and low.

The reader is sufficiently well acquainted with O'Grady by this time to
know, that of course, when once he had determined to have his broiled
bone, nothing on the face of the earth could prevent it but the want
of anything to broil, or the immediate want of his teeth; and as his
masticators were in order, and something in the house which could carry
mustard and pepper, the invalid primed and loaded himself with as much
combustible matter as exploded in a fever the next day.

The supper-party, however, in the hope of getting him to bed, separated
soon; and as Scatterbrain and Furlong were to start early in the morning
for Dublin, the necessity of their retiring to rest was pleaded. The
honourable member had not been long in his room when he heard a tap at
his door, and his order to “come in” was followed by the appearance of
Handy Andy.

“I found somethin' on the road nigh the town to-day, sir, and I thought
it might be yours, maybe,” said Andy, producing a small pocket-book.

The honourable member disavowed the ownership.

“Well, there's something else I want to speak to your honour about.”

“What is it, Handy?”

“I want your honour to see the account of the money your honour gave me
that I spint at the _shebeen_ [Footnote: Low publick house.] upon the
'lecthors that couldn't be accommodated at Mrs. Fay's.”

“Oh! never mind it, Andy; if there's anything over, keep it yourself.”

“Thank your honour, but I must make the account all the same, if
you plaze, for I'm going to Father Blake, to my duty, [Footnote:
Confession.] soon, and I must have my conscience as clear as I can, and
I wouldn't like to be keeping money back.”

“But if I give you the money, what matter?”

“I'd rather you'd just look over this little bit of a count, if you
plaze,” said Andy, producing a dirty piece of paper, with some nearly
inscrutable hieroglyphics upon it. Scatterbrain commenced an examination
of this literary phenomenon from sheer curiosity, asking Andy at the
same time if _he_ wrote it.

“Yis, sir,” said Andy; “but you see the man couldn't keep the count of
the piper's dhrink at all, it was so confusin', and so I was obliged to
pay him for that every time the piper dhrunk, and keep it separate, and
the 'lecthors that got their dinner afther the bill was made out I put
down myself too, and that's it you see, sir, both ating and dhrinkin'.”

  To Dhrinkin A blind piper everry day
    wan and in Pens six dais               0  16  6
  To atein four Tin Illikthurs And Thare   1   8  8
    horses on Chewsdai                     0  14  0
                                          ---------
                        Toe til            2  19  4
             Lan lord Bil For All Be four  7  17  8-1/2
                                          ---------
                                          10  18 12-1/2

“Then I owe you money, instead of your having a balance in hand, Andy,”
 said the member.

“Oh, no matter, your honour; it's not for that I showed you the
account.”

“It's very like it, though,” said Scatterbrain, laughing; “here, Andy,
here are a couple of pounds for you, take them, Andy--take it and be
off; your bill is worth the money,” and Scatterbrain closed the door on
the great accountant.

Andy next went to Furlong's room, to know if the pocket-book belonged
to him; it did not, but Furlong, though he disclaimed the ownership, had
that small curiosity which prompts little minds to pry into what does
not belong to them, and taking the pocket-book into his hands, he opened
it, and fumbled over its leaves; in the doing of which a small piece of
folded paper fell from one of the pockets unnoticed by the impertinent
inquisitor or Andy, to whom he returned the book when he had gratified
his senseless curiosity. Andy withdrew, Furlong retired to rest; and as
it was in the grey of an autumnal morning he dressed himself, the paper
still remained unobserved: so that the housemaid, on setting the room
to rights, found it, and fancying Miss Augusta was the proper person to
confide Mr. Furlong's stray papers to, she handed that young lady the
manuscript which bore the following copy of verses:--

I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE

I

  It is the chime, the hour draws near
    When you and I must sever;
  Alas, it must be many a year,
    And it _may_ be for ever!
  How long till we shall meet again!
    How short since first I met thee!
  How brief the bliss--how long the pain--
    For I can ne'er forget thee.

II

  You said my heart was cold and stern;
    You doubted love when strongest:
  In future days you'll live to learn
    Proud hearts can love the longest.
  Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
    When flippant tongues beset thee,
  That _all_ must love thee, when thou'rt near,
    But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

III

  The changeful sand doth only know
    The shallow tide and latest;
  The rocks have mark'd its highest flow,
    The deepest and the greatest;
  And deeper still the flood-marks grow:--
    So, since the hour I met thee,
  The more the tide of time doth flow,
    The less can I forget thee!

When Augusta saw the lines, she was charmed. She discovered her Furlong
to be a poet! That the lines were his there was no doubt--they were
_found in his room,_ and of course they _must_ be his, just as partial
critics say certain Irish airs must be English, because they are to be
found in Queen Elizabeth's music-book.

Augusta was so charmed with the lines that she amused herself for a long
time in hiding them under the sofa-cushion and making her pet dog find
and fetch them. Her pleasure, however, was interrupted by her sister
Charlotte remarking, when the lines were shown to her in triumph, that
the writing was not Furlong's, but in a lady's hand.

Even as beer is suddenly soured by thunder, so the electric influence
of Charlotte's words converted all Augusta had been brewing to acidity;
jealousy stung her like a wasp, and she boxed her dog's ears as he was
barking for another run with the verses.

“A _lady's_ hand?” said Augusta, snatching the paper from her sister; “I
declare if it ain't! the wretch--so he receives lines from ladies.”

“I think I know the hand, too,” said Charlotte.

“You do?” exclaimed Augusta, with flashing eyes.

“Yes, I'm certain it is Fanny Dawson's writing.”

“So it is,” said Augusta, looking at the paper as if her eyes could have
burnt it; “to be sure--he was there before he came here.”

“Only for two days,” said Charlotte, trying to slake the flame she had
raised.

“But I've heard that girl always makes conquests at first sight,”
 returned Augusta, half crying; “and what do I see here? some words in
pencil.”

The words were so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, but Augusta
deciphered them; they were written on the margin, beside a circumflex
which embraced the last four lines of the second verse, so that it stood
thus:--

[Sidenote: Dearest, I will.]

  Oh! sometimes think, when press'd to hear,
    When flippant tongues beset thee,
  That _all_ must love thee when thou'rt near,
    But _one_ will ne'er forget thee!

“Will you, indeed?” said Augusta, crushing the paper in her hand, and
biting it; “but I must not destroy it--I must keep it to prove his
treachery to his face.” She threw herself on the sofa as she spoke, and
gave vent to an outpour of spiteful tears.




CHAPTER XXVII


How many chapters have been written about love verses--and how many
more might be written!--might, would, could, should, or ought to be
written!--I will venture to say, _will_ be written! I have a mind to
fulfil my own prophecy and write one myself; but no--my story must go
on. However, I _will_ say, that it is quite curious in how many ways the
same little bit of paper may influence different people: the poem whose
literary merit may be small becomes precious when some valued hand has
transcribed the lines; and the verses whose measure and meaning viewed
in type might win favour and yield pleasure, shoot poison from their
very sweetness, when read in some particular hand and under particular
circumstances. It was so with the copy of verses Augusta had just
read--they were Fanny Dawson's manuscript--that was certain--and found
in the room of Augusta's lover; therefore Augusta was wretched. But
these same lines had given exquisite pleasure to another person, who was
now nearly as miserable as Augusta in having lost them. It is possible
the reader guesses that person to be Edward O'Connor, for it was he who
had lost the pocket-book in which those (to him) precious lines were
contained; and if the little case had held all the bank-notes he ever
owned in his life, their loss would have been regarded less than that
bit of manuscript, which had often yielded _him_ the most exquisite
pleasure, and was now inflicting on Augusta the bitterest anguish. To
make this intelligible to the reader, it is necessary to explain under
what circumstances the lines were written. At one time, Edward, doubting
the likelihood of making his way at home, was about to go to India and
push his fortunes there; and at that period, those lines, breathing of
farewell--implying the dread of rivals during absence--and imploring
remembrance of his eternal love, were written and given to Fanny; and
she, with that delicacy of contrivance so peculiarly a woman's, hit upon
the expedient of copying his own verses and sending them to him in her
writing, as an indication that the spirit of the lines was her own.

But Edward saw that his father, who was advanced in years, looked upon a
separation from his son as an eternal one, and the thought gave so
much pain, that Edward gave up the idea of expatriation. Shortly after,
however, the misunderstanding with Major Dawson took place, and Fanny
and Edward were as much severed as if dwelling in different zones. Under
such circumstances, those lines were peculiarly precious, and many a
kiss had Edward impressed upon them, though Augusta thought them fitter
for the exercise of her teeth than her lips. In fact, Edward did little
else than think of Fanny; and it is possible his passion might have
degenerated into mere love-sickness, and enfeebled him, had not
his desire of proving himself worthy of his mistress spurred him to
exertion, in the hope of future distinction. But still the tone of
tender lament pervaded all his poems, and the same pocket-book whence
the verses which caused so much commotion fell contained the following
also, showing how entirely Fanny possessed his heart and occupied his
thoughts:--

WHEN THE SUN SINKS TO REST

I

  When the sun sinks to rest,
  And the star of the west
    Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea;
  What sweet thoughts arise,
  As the dim twilight dies--
    For then I am thinking of thee!
  Oh! then crowding fast
  Come the joys of the past,
    Through the dimness of days long gone by,
  Like the stars peeping out,
  Through the darkness about,
  From the soft silent depth of the sky.

II

  And thus, as the night
  Grows more lovely and bright
    With the clust'ring of planet and star,
  So this darkness of mine
  Wins a radiance divine
    From the light that still lingers afar.
  Then welcome the night,
  With its soft holy light!
    In its silence my heart is more free
  The rude world to forget,
  Where no pleasure I've met
    Since the hour that I parted from thee.

But we must leave love verses, and ask pardon for the few remarks which
the subject tempted, and pursue our story.

The first prompting of Augusta's anger, when she had recovered her burst
of passion, was to write “_such a letter_” to Furlong--and she spent
half a day at the work; but she could not please herself--she tore
twenty at least, and determined, at last, not to write at all, but just
wait till he returned and overwhelm him with reproaches. But, though she
could not compose a letter, she composed herself by the endeavour, which
acted as a sort of safety-valve to let off the superabundant steam;
and it is wonderful how general is this result of sitting down to
write angry letters: people vent themselves of their spleen on the
uncomplaining paper, which silently receives words a listener would not.
With a pen for our second, desperate satisfaction is obtained with only
an effusion of ink, and when once the pent-up bitterness has oozed out
in all the blackness of that fluid--most appropriately made of the best
galls--the time so spent, and the “letting of words,” if I may use the
phrase, has cooled our judgment and our passions together; and the
first letter is torn: 't is _too_ severe; we write a second; we blot and
interline till it is nearly illegible; we begin a third; till at last we
are tired out with our own angry feelings, and throw our scribbling by
with a “Pshaw! what's the use of it?” or, “It's not worth my notice;”
 or, still better, arrive at the conclusion, that we preserve our own
dignity best by writing without temper, though we may be called upon to
be severe.

Furlong at this time was on his road to Dublin in happy unconsciousness
of Augusta's rage against him, and planning what pretty little present
he should send her specially, for his head was naturally running on such
matters, as he had quantities of commissions to execute in the millinery
line for Mrs. O'Grady, who thought it high time to be getting up
Augusta's wedding-dresses, and Andy was to be despatched the following
day to Dublin to take charge of a cargo of bandboxes back from that city
to Neck-or-Nothing Hall. Furlong had received a thousand charges from
the ladies, “to be sure to lose no time” in doing his devoir in their
behalf, and he obeyed so strictly, and was so active in laying milliners
and mercers under contributions, that Andy was enabled to start the day
after his arrival, sorely against Andy's will, for he would gladly have
remained amidst the beauty and grandeur and wonders of Dublin, which
struck him dumb for the day he was amongst them, but gave him food for
conversation for many a day after. Furlong, after racking his invention
about the souvenir to his “dear Gussy,” at length fixed on a fan, as the
most suitable gift; for Gussy had been quizzed at home about “blushing,”
 and all that sort of thing, and the puerile perceptions of the _attache_
saw something very smart in sending her wherewith “to hide her blushes.”
 Then the fan was the very pink of fans; it had quivers and arrows upon
it, and bunches of hearts looped up in azure festoons, and doves perched
upon them; though Augusta's little sister, who was too young to know
what hearts and doves were, when she saw them for the first time, said
they were pretty little birds picking at apples. The fan was packed up
in a nice case, and then on scented note paper did the dear dandy
indite a bit of namby-pamby badinage to his fair one, which he thought
excessively clever:--

“DEAR DUCKY DARLING,--You know how naughty they are in quizzing you
about a little something, _I won't say what,_ you will guess, I dare
say--but I send you a little toy, _I won't say what,_ on which
Cupid might write this label after the doctor's fashion, 'To be used
occasionally, when the patient is much troubled with the symptoms.'

“Ever, ever, ever yours,

“P.S. Take care how you open it.”

“J.F.”

Such was the note that Handy Andy was given, with particular injunctions
to deliver it the first thing on his arrival at the Hall to Miss
Augusta, and to be sure to take most particular care of the little
case; all which Andy faithfully promised to do. But Andy's usual destiny
prevailed, and an unfortunate exchange of parcels quite upset all
Furlong's sweet little plan of his pretty present and his ingenious
note: for as Andy was just taking his departure, Furlong said he might
as well leave something for him at Reade's, the cutler, as he passed
through College Green, and he handed him a case of razors which wanted
setting, which Andy popped into his pocket, and as the fan case and that
of the razors were much of a size, and both folded up, Andy left the
fan at the cutler's and took the case of razors by way of present
to Augusta. Fancy the rage of a young lady with a very fine pair of
_moustachios_ getting such a souvenir from her lover, with a note, too,
every word of which applied to a beard and a razor, as patly as to a
blush and a fan--and this, too, when her jealousy was aroused and his
fidelity more than doubtful in her estimation.

Great was the row in Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and when, after three days,
Furlong came down, the nature of his reception may be better imagined
than described. It was a difficult matter, through the storm which raged
around him, to explain all the circumstances satisfactorily, but, by
dint of hard work, the verses were at length disclaimed, the razors
disavowed, and Andy at last sent for to “clear matters up.”

Andy was a hopeful subject for such a purpose, and by his blundering
answers nearly set them all by the ears again; the upshot of the affair
was, that Andy, used as he was to good scoldings, never had such a
torrent of abuse poured on him in his life, and the affair ended in
Andy being dismissed from Neck-or-Nothing Hall on the instant; so he
relinquished his greasy livery for his own rags again, and trudged
homewards to his mother's cabin.

“She'll be as mad as a hatter with me,” said Andy; “bad luck to them for
razhirs, they cut me out o' my place: but I often heard cowld steel
is unlucky, and sure I know it now. Oh! but I'm always unfort'nate in
having cruked messages. Well, it can't be helped; and one good thing
at all events is, I'll have time enough now to go and spake to Father
Blake;” and with this sorry piece of satisfaction poor Andy contented
himself.




CHAPTER XXVIII


The Father Blake, of whom Andy spoke, was more familiarly known by the
name of Father Phil, by which title Andy himself would have named
him, had he been telling how Father Phil cleared a fair, or equally
“leathered” both the belligerent parties in a faction-fight, or turned
out the contents (or malcontents) of a public-house at an improper
hour; but when he spoke of his Reverence respecting ghostly matters, the
importance of the subject begot higher consideration for the man, and
the familiar “Father Phil” was dropped for the more respectful title
of Father Blake. By either title, or in whatever capacity, the
worthy Father had great influence over his parish, and there was a
free-and-easy way with him, even in doing the most solemn duties, which
agreed wonderfully with the devil-may-care spirit of Paddy. Stiff
and starched formality in any way is repugnant to the very nature of
Irishmen; and I believe one of the surest ways of converting all Ireland
from the Romish faith would be found, if we could only manage to have
her mass celebrated with the dry coldness of the Reformation. This may
seem ridiculous at first sight, and I grant it is a grotesque way of
viewing the subject, but yet there may be truth in it; and to consider
it for a moment seriously, look at the fact, that the north of Ireland
is the stronghold of Protestantism, and that the north is the _least_
Irish portion of the island. There is a strong admixture of Scotch
there, and all who know the country will admit that there is nearly as
much difference between men from the north and south of Ireland as from
different countries. The Northerns retain much of the cold formality
and unbending hardness of the stranger-settlers from whom they are
descended, while the Southerns exhibit that warm-hearted, lively, and
poetical temperament for which the country is celebrated. The prevailing
national characteristics of Ireland are not to be found in the north,
where Protestantism flourishes; they are to be found in the south and
west, where it has never taken root. And though it has never seemed
to strike theologians, that in their very natures some people are more
adapted to receive one faith than another, yet I believe it to be true,
and perhaps not quite unworthy of consideration. There are forms, it is
true, and many in the Romish church, but they are not _cold_ forms, but
_attractive_ rather, to a sensitive people; besides, I believe those
very forms, when observed the least formally, are the most influential
on the Irish; and perhaps the splendours of a High Mass in the gorgeous
temple of the Holy City would appeal less to the affections of an Irish
peasant than the service he witnesses in some half-thatched ruin by a
lone hillside, familiarly hurried through by a priest who has sharpened
his appetite by a mountain ride of some fifteen miles, and is
saying mass (for the third time most likely) before breakfast, which
consummation of his morning's exercise he is anxious to arrive at.

It was just in such a chapel, and under such circumstances, that Father
Blake was celebrating the mass at which Andy was present, and after
which he hoped to obtain a word of advice from the worthy Father,
who was much more sought after on such occasions than his more sedate
superior who presided over the spiritual welfare of the parish--and
whose solemn celebration of the mass was by no means so agreeable as the
lighter service of Father Phil. The Rev. Dominick Dowling was
austere and long-winded; _his_ mass had an oppressive effect on his
congregation, and from the kneeling multitude might be seen eyes
fearfully looking up from under bent brows, and low breathings and
subdued groans often rose above the silence of his congregation, who
felt like sinners, and whose imaginations were filled with the thoughts
of Heaven's anger; while the good-humoured face of the light-hearted
Father Phil produced a corresponding brightness on the looks of his
hearers, who turned up their whole faces in trustfulness to the mercy of
that Heaven whose propitiatory offering their pastor was making for them
in cheerful tones, which associated well with thoughts of pardon and
salvation.

Father Dominick poured forth his spiritual influence like a strong dark
stream that swept down the hearer--hopelessly struggling to keep his
head above the torrent, and dreading to be overwhelmed at the next
word. Father Phil's religion bubbled out like a mountain rill--bright,
musical, and refreshing. Father Dominick's people had decidedly need of
cork jackets; Father Phil's might drink and be refreshed.

But with all this intrinsic worth, he was, at the same time, a strange
man in exterior manners; for, with an abundance of real piety, he had
an abruptness of delivery and a strange way of mixing up an occasional
remark to his congregation in the midst of the celebration of the mass,
which might well startle a stranger; but this very want of formality
made him beloved by the people, and they would do ten times as much for
Father Phil as for Father Dominick.

On the Sunday in question, when Andy attended the chapel, Father Phil
intended delivering an address to his flock from the altar, urging them
to the necessity of bestirring themselves in the repairs of the chapel,
which was in a very dilapidated condition, and at one end let in the
rain through its worn-out thatch. A subscription was necessary; and
to raise this among a very impoverished people was no easy matter. The
weather happened to be unfavourable, which was most favourable to Father
Phil's purpose, for the rain dropped its arguments through the roof upon
the kneeling people below in the most convincing manner; and as they
endeavoured to get out of the wet, they pressed round the altar as
much as they could, for which they were reproved very smartly by
his Reverence in the very midst of the mass, and these interruptions
occurred sometimes in the most serious places, producing a ludicrous
effect, of which the worthy Father was quite unconscious in his great
anxiety to make the people repair the chapel.

A big woman was elbowing her way towards the rails of the altar,
and Father Phil, casting a sidelong glance at her, sent her to the
right-about, while he interrupted his appeal to Heaven to address her
thus:--_“Agnus Dei_--you'd better jump over the rails of the althar, I
think. Go along out o' that, there's plenty o' room in the chapel below
there.”

Then he would turn to the altar, and proceed with the service, till
turning again to the congregation he perceived some fresh offender.

_“Orate, fratres!_--will you mind what I say to you and go along out of
that? there's room below there. Thrue for you, Mrs. Finn--it's a shame
for him to be thramplin' on you. Go along, Darby Casy, down there, and
kneel in the rain; it's a pity you haven't a dacent woman's cloak undher
you indeed!--_Orate, fratres!_”

Then would the service proceed again, and while he prayed in silence at
the altar, the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain would disturb
him, and casting a backward glance, he would say--

“I hear you there--can't you be quiet and not be disturbin' the mass,
you haythens?”

Again he proceeded in silence, till the crying of a child interrupted
him. He looked round quickly.

“You'd better kill the child, I think, thramplin' on him, Lavery. Go
out o' that--your conduct is scandalous--_Dominus vobiscum!_” Again he
turned to pray, and after some time he made an interval in the service
to address his congregation on the subject of the repairs, and produced
a paper containing the names of subscribers to that pious work who had
already contributed, by way of example to those who had not.

“Here it is,” said Father Phil, “here it is, and no denying it--down
in black and white; but if they who give are down in black, how much
blacker are those who have not given at all!--but I hope they will
be ashamed of themselves when I howld up those to honour who have
contributed to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it
ashamed o' yourselves you ought to be, to leave His house in such a
condition--and doesn't it rain a'most every Sunday, as if He wished to
remind you of your duty? aren't you wet to the skin a'most every Sunday?
Oh, God is good to you! to put you in mind of your duty, giving you such
bitther cowlds that you are coughing and sneezin' every Sunday to that
degree that you can't hear the blessed mass for a comfort and a benefit
to you; and so you'll go on sneezin' until you put a good thatch on the
place, and prevent the appearance of the evidence from Heaven against
you every Sunday, which is condemning you before your faces, and behind
your backs too, for don't I see this minit a strame o' wather that might
turn a mill running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of
his coat and his shirt?”

Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy, who certainly
_was_ under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof.

“And is it laughing you are, you haythens?” said Father Phil, reproving
the merriment which he himself had purposely created, _that he
might reprove it_. “Laughing is it you are--at your backslidings and
insensibility to the honour of God--laughing, because when you come here
to be _saved_ you are _lost_ intirely with the wet; and how, I ask you,
are my words of comfort to enter your hearts, when the rain is pouring
down your backs at the same time? Sure I have no chance of turning your
hearts while you are undher rain that might turn a mill--but once put a
good roof on the house, and I will inundate you with piety! Maybe it's
Father Dominick you would like to have coming among you, who would grind
your hearts to powdher with his heavy words.” (Here a low murmur of
dissent ran through the throng.) “Ha! ha! so you wouldn't like it, I
see. Very well, very well--take care then, for if I find you insensible
to my moderate reproofs, you hard-hearted haythens--you malefacthors and
cruel persecuthors, that won't put your hands in your pockets, because
your mild and quiet poor fool of a pasthor has no tongue in his head!--I
say your mild, quiet, poor fool of a pasthor (for I know my own faults,
partly, God forgive me!), and I can't spake to you as you deserve, you
hard-living vagabones, that are as insensible to your duties as you are
to the weather. I wish it was sugar or salt you were made of, and then
the rain might melt you if I couldn't: but no--them naked rafthers grin
in your face to no purpose--you chate the house of God; but take care,
maybe you won't chate the divil so aisy”--(here there was a sensation).
“Ha! ha! that makes you open your ears, does it? More shame for you;
you ought to despise that dirty enemy of man, and depend on something
betther--but I see I must call you to a sense of your situation with
the bottomless pit undher you, and no roof over you. Oh dear! dear!
dear!--I'm ashamed of you--troth, if I had time and sthraw enough, I'd
rather thatch the place myself than lose my time talking to you; sure
the place is more like a stable than a chapel. Oh, think of that!--the
house of God to be like a stable!--for though our Redeemer, in his
humility, was born in a stable, that is no reason why you are to keep
his house always like one.

“And now I will read you the list of subscribers, and it will make you
ashamed when you hear the names of several good and worthy Protestants
in the parish, and out of it, too, who have given more than the
Catholics.”

He then proceeded to read the following list, which he interlarded
copiously with observations of his own; making _vivâ voce_ marginal
notes as it were upon the subscribers, which were not unfrequently
answered by the persons so noticed, from the body of the chapel, and
laughter was often the consequence of these rejoinders, which Father
Phil never permitted to pass without a retort. Nor must all this be
considered in the least irreverent. A certain period is allowed between
two particular portions of the mass, when the priest may address his
congregation on any public matter: an approaching pattern, or fair, or
the like; in which, exhortations to propriety of conduct, or warnings
against faction fights, &c., are his themes. Then they only listen in
reverence. But when a subscription for such an object as that already
mentioned is under discussion, the flock consider themselves entitled to
“put in a word” in case of necessity.

This preliminary hint is given to the reader, that he may better enter
into the spirit of Father Phil's

SUBSCRIPTION LIST FOR THE REPAIRS AND ENLARGEMENT OF
BALLY-SLOUGHGUTPHERY CHAPEL

                         £  s. d.    PHILIP BLAKE, P.P.
  Micky Hicky            0  7  6     “He might as well have made ten
                                     shillings: but half a loaf is betther
                                     than no bread.”

                                     “Plase your reverence,” says
                                     Mick, from the body of the chapel,
                                     “sure seven and six-pence is more
                                     than the half of ten shillings.”
                                      (_A laugh_.)

                                     “Oh! how witty you are. 'Faith,
                                     if you knew your duty as well as
                                     your arithmetic, it would be betther
                                     for you, Micky.”

                                     Here the Father turned the laugh
                                     against Mick.

                         £  s. d.
  Bill Riley             0  3  4     “Of course he means to subscribe
                                     again.

                         £  s. d.
  John Dwyer             0  15 0     “That's something like! I'll
                                     be bound he's only keeping back
                                     the odd five shillings for a brush
                                     full o' paint for the althar; it's as
                                     black as a crow, instead o' being as
                                     white as a dove.”

                                     He then hurried over rapidly some
                                     small subscribers as follows:--

  Peter Heffernan        0  1  8
  James Murphy           0  2  6
  Mat Donovan            0  1  3
  Luke Dannely           0  3  0
  Jack Quigly            0  2  1
  Pat Finnegan           0  2  2
  Edward O'Connor, Esq.  2  0  0     “There's for you! Edward
                                     O'Connor, Esq., _a Protestant in the
                                     parish_--Two pounds!”

                                     “Long life to him,” cried a voice
                                     in the chapel.

                                     “Amen,” said Father Phil; “I'm
                                     not ashamed to be clerk to so good
                                     a prayer.

  Nicholas Fagan         0  2  6
  Young Nicholas Fagan   0  5  0    “Young Nick is better than owld
                                     Nick, you see.”

                                     The congregation honoured the
                                     Father's demand on their risibility.

                         £  s. d.
  Tim Doyle              0  7  6
  Owny Doyl              1  0  0     “Well done, Owny na Coppal--you
                                     deserve to prosper for you
                                     make good use of your thrivings.

                         £  s. d.
  Simon Leary            0  2  6
  Bridget Murphy         0  10 0     “You ought to be ashamed o'
                                     yourself, Simon: a lone widow
                                     woman gives more than you.”

                                     Simon answered, “I have a large
                                     family, sir, and she has no childhre.”

                                     “That's not her fault,” said the
                                     priest--“and maybe she'll mend o'
                                     that yet.” This excited much
                                     merriment, for the widow was buxom,
                                     and had recently buried an old
                                     husband, and, by all accounts, was
                                     cocking her cap at a handsome young
                                     fellow in the parish.

                         £  s. d.
  Judy Moylan            0  5  0     Very good, Judy; the women are
                                     behaving like gentlemen; they'll
                                     have their reward in the next world.

  Pat Finnerty           0  3  4     “I'm not sure if it is 8s. 4d. or
                                     3s. 4d., for the figure is blotted--
                                     but I believe it is 8s. 4d.”

                                     “It was three and four pince
                                     I gave your reverence,” said Pat
                                     from the crowd.

                                     “Well, Pat, as I said eight and
                                     four pence you must not let me go
                                     back o' my word, so bring me five
                                     shillings next week.”

                                     “Sure you wouldn't have me pay
                                     for a blot, sir?”

                                     “Yes, I would--that's the rule
                                     of back-mannon, you know, Pat.
                                     When I hit the blot, you pay
                                     for it.”

                                     Here his reverence turned round,
                                     as if looking for some one, and
                                     called out, “Rafferty! Rafferty!
                                     Rafferty! Where are you, Rafferty?”

                                     An old grey-headed man appeared,
                                     bearing a large plate, and Father
                                     Phil continued--

                                     “There now, be active--I'm
                                     sending him among you, good people,
                                     and such as cannot give as
                                     much as you would like to be read
                                     before your neighbours, give what
                                     little you can towards the repairs,
                                     and I will continue to read out the
                                     names by way of encouragement to
                                     you, and the next name I see is
                                     that of Squire Egan. Long life to
                                     him!
                         £  s. d.
  Squire Egan            5  0  0     “Squire Egan--five pounds--
                                     listen to that--five pounds--a
                                     Protestant in the parish--five
                                     pounds! 'Faith, the Protestants will
                                     make you ashamed of yourselves, if
                                     we don't take care.
                         £  s. d.
  Mrs. Flanagan          2  0  0     “Not her own parish, either--a
                                     kind lady.

                         £  s. d.
  James Milligan
  of Roundtown           1  0  0     “And here I must remark that
                                     the people of Roundtown have not
                                     been backward in coming forward
                                     on this occasion. I have a long list
                                     from Roundtown--I will read it
                                     separate.” He then proceeded at a
                                     great pace, jumbling the town and
                                     the pounds and the people in a most
                                     extraordinary manner: “James
                                     Milligan of Roundtown, one pound;
                                     Darby Daly of Roundtown, one
                                     pound; Sam Finnigan of Roundtown,
                                     one pound; James Casey of
                                     Roundpound, one town; Kit Dwyer
                                     of Townpound, one round--pound
                                     I mane; Pat Roundpound--Pounden,
                                     I mane--Pat Pounden a pound
                                     of Poundtown also--there's an
                                     example for you!--but what are you
                                     about, Rafferty? _I don't like the
                                     sound of that plate of yours_;--
                                     you are not a good gleaner--go up
                                     first into the gallery there, where I
                                     see so many good-looking bonnets--I
                                     suppose they will give something to
                                     keep their bonnets out of the rain,
                                     for the wet will be into the gallery
                                     next Sunday if they don't. I think
                                     that is Kitty Crow I see, getting her
                                     bit of silver ready; them ribbons of
                                     yours cost a trifle, Kitty. Well,
                                     good Christians, here is more of the
                                     subscription for you.
                         £  s. d.
  Matthew Lavery         0  2  6     “_He_ doesn't belong to
                                     Roundtown--Roundtown will be renowned
                                     in future ages for the support
                                     of the Church. Mark my
                                     words--Roundtown will prosper
                                     from this day out--Roundtown
                                     will be a rising place.

  Mark Hennessy          0  2  6
  Luke Clancy            0  2  6
  John Doolin            0  2  6     “One would think they all agreed
                                     only to give two and sixpence apiece.
                                     And they comfortable men, too!
                                     And look at their names--Matthew,
                                     Mark, Luke, and John, the
                                     names of the Blessed Evangelists,
                                     and only ten shillings among them!
                                     Oh, they are apostles not worthy of
                                     the name--we'll call them the _Poor
                                     Apostles_ from this out” (here a
                                     low laugh ran through the chapel)--
                                     “Do you hear that, Matthew, Mark,
                                     Luke, and John? 'Faith! I can tell
                                     you that name will stick to you.'”
                                      (Here the laugh was louder.)

                                     A voice, when the laugh subsided,
                                     exclaimed, “I'll make it ten
                                     shillin's, your reverence.”

                                     “Who's that?” said Father Phil.

                                     “Hennessy, your reverence.”

                                     “Very well, Mark. I suppose
                                     Matthew, Luke, and John will follow
                                     your example?”

                                     “We will, your reverence.”

                                     “Ah! I thought you made a mistake;
                                     we'll call you now the _Faithful
                                     Apostles_--and I think the change
                                     in the name is better than seven
                                     and sixpence apiece to you.

                                     “I see you in the gallery there,
                                     Rafferty. What do you pass that
                                     well-dressed woman for?--thry back
                                     --ha!--see that--she had her money
                                     ready if you only asked for it--don't
                                     go by that other woman
                                     there--oh, oh!--So you won't give
                                     anything, ma'am. You ought to be
                                     ashamed of yourself. There is a
                                     woman with an elegant sthraw bonnet,
                                     and she won't give a farthing.
                                     Well now--afther that--remember--I
                                     give it from the althar, that
                                     _from this day out sthraw bonnets
                                     pay fi'penny pieces._

                         £  s. d.
  Thomas Durfy, Esq.     1  0  0     “It's not his parish and he's a
                                     brave gentleman.

                         £  s. d.
  Miss Fanny Dawson      1  0  0     “_A Protestant out of the parish_,
                                     and a sweet young lady, God bless
                                     her! Oh, 'faith, the Protestants is
                                     shaming you!!!

                         £  s. d.
  Dennis Fannin          0  7  6     “Very good, indeed, for a working
                                     mason.”

  Jemmy Riley            0  5  0     “Not bad for a hedge-carpenther.”


“I gave you ten, plaze, your reverence,” shouted Jemmy, “and by the same
token, you may remember it was on the Nativity of the Blessed Vargin,
sir, I gave you the second five shillin's.”

“So you did, Jemmy,” cried Father Phil--“I put a little cross before it,
to remind me of it; but I was in a hurry to make a sick call when you
gave it to me, and forgot it after: and indeed myself doesn't know what
I did with that same five shillings.”

Here a pallid woman, who was kneeling near the rails of the altar,
uttered an impassioned blessing, and exclaimed, “Oh, that was the very
five shillings, I'm sure, you gave to me that very day, to buy some
little comforts for my poor husband, who was dying in the fever!”--and
the poor woman burst into loud sobs as she spoke.

A deep thrill of emotion ran through the flock as this accidental
proof of their poor pastor's beneficence burst upon them; and as an
affectionate murmur began to rise above the silence which that
emotion produced, the burly Father Philip blushed like a girl at this
publication of his charity, and even at the foot of that altar where he
stood, felt something like shame in being discovered in the commission
of that virtue so highly commended by the Holy One to whose worship the
altar was raised. He uttered a hasty “Whisht--whisht!” and waved with
his outstretched hands his flock into silence.

In an instant one of those sudden changes common to an Irish assembly,
and scarcely credible to a stranger, took place. The multitude was
hushed--the grotesque of the subscription list had passed away and was
forgotten, and that same man and that same multitude stood in altered
relations--_they_ were again a reverent flock, and _he_ once more a
solemn pastor; the natural play of his nation's mirthful sarcasm
was absorbed in a moment in the sacredness of his office; and with a
solemnity befitting the highest occasion, he placed his hands together
before his breast, and raising his eyes to Heaven he poured forth his
sweet voice, with a tone of the deepest devotion, in that reverential
call to prayer, “_Orate_, _fratres_.”

The sound of a multitude gently kneeling down followed, like the soft
breaking of a quiet sea on a sandy beach; and when Father Philip turned
to the altar to pray, his pent-up feelings found vent in tears; and
while he prayed, he wept.

I believe such scenes as this are not of unfrequent occurrence in
Ireland; that country so long-suffering, so much maligned, and so little
understood.

Suppose the foregoing scene to have been only described antecedent
to the woman in the outbreak of her gratitude revealing the priest's
charity, from which he recoiled,--suppose the mirthfulness of the
incidents arising from reading the subscription-list--a mirthfulness
bordering on the ludicrous--to have been recorded, and nothing more,
a stranger would be inclined to believe, and pardonable in the belief,
that the Irish and their priesthood were rather prone to be irreverent;
but observe, under this exterior, the deep sources of feeling that lie
hidden and wait but the wand of divination to be revealed. In a thousand
similar ways are the actions and the motives of the Irish understood by
those who are careless of them; or worse, misrepresented by those whose
interest, and too often _business_, it is to malign them.

Father Phil could proceed no further with the reading of the
subscription-list, but finished the office of the mass with unusual
solemnity. But if the incident just recorded abridged his address, and
the publication of donors' names by way of stimulus to the less active,
it produced a great effect on those who had but smaller donations to
drop into the plate; and the grey-headed collector, who could have
numbered the scanty coin before the bereaved widow had revealed the
pastor's charity, had to struggle his way afterwards through the eagerly
outstretched hands that showered their hard-earned pence upon the plate,
which was borne back to the altar heaped with contributions, heaped as
it had not been seen for many a day. The studied excitement of
their pride and their shame--and both are active agents in the Irish
nature--was less successful than the accidental appeal to their
affections.

Oh! rulers of Ireland, why have you not sooner learned to _lead_ that
people by love, whom all your severity has been unable to _drive_?
[Footnote: When this passage was written Ireland was disturbed (as she
has too often been) by special parliamentary provocation:--the vexatious
vigilance of legislative lynxes--the peevishness of paltry persecutors.]

When the mass was over, Andy waited at the door of the chapel to
catch “his riverence” coming out, and obtain his advice about what he
overheard from Larry Hogan; and Father Phil was accordingly accosted
by Andy just as he was going to get into his saddle to ride over to
breakfast with one of the neighbouring farmers, who was holding the
priest's stirrup at the moment. The extreme urgency of Andy's manner,
as he pressed up to the pastor's side, made the latter pause and inquire
what he wanted. “I want to get some advice from your riverence,” said
Andy.

“'Faith, then, the advice I give you is never to stop a hungry man
when he is going to refresh himself,” said Father Phil, who had quite
recovered his usual cheerfulness, and threw his leg over his little grey
hack as he spoke. “How could you be so unreasonable as to expect me to
stop here listening to your case, and giving you advice indeed, when
I have said three masses [Footnote: The office of the mass must be
performed fasting.] this morning, and rode three miles; how could you be
so unreasonable, I say?”

“I ax your riverence's pardon,” said Andy; “I wouldn't have taken the
liberty, only the thing is mighty particular intirely.”

“Well, I tell you again, never ask a hungry man advice; for he is likely
to cut his advice on the patthern of his stomach, and it's empty advice
you'll get. Did you never hear that a 'hungry stomach has no ears'?”

The farmer who was to have the honour of the priest's company to
breakfast exhibited rather more impatience than the good-humoured Father
Phil, and reproved Andy for his conduct.

“But it's so particular,” said Andy.

“I wondher you would dar' to stop his riverence, and he black fastin'.
Go 'long wid you!”

“Come over to my house in the course of the week, and speak to me,” said
Father Phil, riding away.

Andy still persevered, and taking advantage of the absence of the
farmer, who was mounting his own nag at the moment, said the matter of
which he wished to speak involved the interests of Squire Egan, or he
would not “make so bowld.”

This altered the matter; and Father Phil desired Andy to follow him to
the farm-house of John Dwyer, where he would speak to him after he had
breakfasted.




CHAPTER XXIX


John Dwyer's house was a scene of activity that day, for not only was
the priest to breakfast there--always an affair of honour--but a grand
dinner was also preparing on a large scale; for a wedding-feast was to
be held in the house, in honour of Matty Dwyer's nuptials, which were to
be celebrated that day with a neighbouring young farmer, rather well to
do in the world. The match had been on and off for some time, for John
Dwyer was what is commonly called a “close-fisted fellow,” and his
would-be son-in-law could not bring him to what he considered proper
terms, and though Matty liked young Casey, and he was fond of her, they
both agreed not to let old Jack Dwyer have the best of the bargain in
portioning off his daughter, who, having a spice of her father in her,
was just as fond of _number one_ as old Jack himself. And here it is
worthy of remark, that, though the Irish are so prone in general to
early and improvident marriages, no people are closer in their nuptial
barter, when they are in a condition to make marriage a profitable
contract. Repeated meetings between the elders of families take place,
and acute arguments ensue, properly to equalise the worldly goods to
be given on both sides. Pots and pans are balanced against pails and
churns, cows against horses, a slip of bog against a gravel-pit, or a
patch of meadow against a bit of a quarry; a little lime-kiln sometimes
burns stronger than the flame of Cupid--the doves of Venus herself are
but crows in comparison with a good flock of geese--and a love-sick
sigh less touching than the healthy grunt of a good pig; indeed, the
last-named gentleman is a most useful agent in this traffic, for when
matters are nearly poised, the balance is often adjusted by a grunter
or two thrown into either scale. While matters are thus in a state of
debate, quarrels sometimes occur between the lovers the gentleman's
caution sometimes takes alarm, and more frequently the lady's pride
is aroused at the too obvious preference given to worldly gain over
heavenly beauty; Cupid shies at Mammon, and Hymen is upset and left in
the mire.

I remember hearing of an instance of this nature, when the lady gave her
_ci-devant_ lover an ingenious reproof, after they had been separated
some time, when a marriage-bargain was broken off, because the lover
could not obtain from the girl's father a certain brown filly as part of
her dowry. The damsel, after the lapse of some weeks, met her swain at a
neighbouring fair, and the flame of love still smouldering in his heart
was re-illumined by the sight of his charmer, who, on the contrary,
had become quite disgusted with _him_ for his too obvious preference of
profit to true affection. He addressed her softly in a tent, and asked
her to dance, but was most astonished at her returning him a look of
vacant wonder, which tacitly implied, _“Who are you?”_ as plain as looks
could speak.

“Arrah, Mary,” exclaimed the youth.

“Sir!!!”--answered Mary, with what heroines call “ineffable disdain.”

“Why one would think you didn't know me!”

“If I ever had the honour of your acquaintance, sir,” answered Mary, “I
forget you entirely.”

“Forget me, Mary?--arrah be aisy--is it forget the man that was courtin'
and in love with you?”

“You're under a mistake, young man,” said Mary, with a curl of her rosy
lip, which displayed the pearly teeth to whose beauty her woman's nature
rejoiced that the recreant lover was not yet insensible--“You're under
a mistake, young man,” and her heightened colour made her eye flash more
brightly as she spoke--“you're quite under a mistake--no one was ever in
love with _me_;” and she laid signal emphasis on the word. “There was
a dirty mane blackguard, indeed, once _in love with my father's brown
filly,_ but I forget him intirely.”

Mary tossed her head proudly as she spoke, and her filly-fancying
admirer, reeling under the reproof she inflicted, sneaked from the tent,
while Mary stood up and danced with a more open-hearted lover, whose
earnest eye could see more charms in one lovely woman than all the
horses of Arabia.

But no such result as this was likely to take place in Matty Dwyer's
case; she and her lover agreed with one another on the settlement to
be made, and old Jack was not to be allowed an inch over what was
considered an even bargain. At length all matters were agreed upon, the
wedding-day fixed, and the guests invited; yet still both parties were
not satisfied, but young Casey thought he should be put into absolute
possession of a certain little farm and cottage, and have the lease
looked over to see all was right (for Jack Dwyer was considered rather
slippery), while old Jack thought it time enough to give him possession
and the lease and his daughter altogether.

However, matters had gone so far that, as the reader has seen, the
wedding-feast was prepared, the guests invited, and Father Phil on the
spot to help James and Matty (in the facetious parlance of Paddy) to
“tie with their tongues what they could not undo with their teeth.”

When the priest had done breakfast, the arrival of Andy was announced to
him, and Andy was admitted to a private audience with Father Phil, the
particulars of which must not be disclosed; for in short, Andy made a
regular confession before the Father, and, we know, confessions must
be held sacred; but we may say that Andy confided the whole post-office
affair to the pastor--told him how Larry Hogan had contrived to worm
that affair out of him, and by his devilish artifice had, as Andy
feared, contrived to implicate Squire Egan in the transaction, and,
by threatening a disclosure, got the worthy Squire into his villanous
power. Andy, under the solemn queries of the priest, positively denied
having said one word to Hogan to criminate the Squire, and that Hogan
could only infer the Squire's guilt; upon which Father Phil, having
perfectly satisfied himself, told Andy to make his mind easy, for that
he would secure the Squire from any harm, and he moreover praised Andy
for the fidelity he displayed to the interests of his old master, and
declared he was so pleased with him, that he would desire Jack Dwyer
to ask him to dinner. “And that will be no blind nut, let me tell you,”
 said Father Phil--“a wedding dinner, you lucky dog--'lashings [Footnote:
Overflowing abundance, and plenty left after.] and lavings,' and no end
of dancing afther!”

Andy was accordingly bidden to the bridal feast, to which the guests
began already to gather thick and fast. They strolled about the field
before the house, basked in groups in the sunshine, or lay in the shade
under the hedges, where hints of future marriages were given to many
a pretty girl, and to nudges and pinches were returned small screams
suggestive of additional assault--and inviting denials of “Indeed
I won't,” and that crowning provocative to riotous conduct, “Behave
yourself.”

In the meantime, the barn was laid out with long planks, supported on
barrels or big stones, which planks, when covered with clean cloths,
made a goodly board, that soon began to be covered with ample wooden
dishes of corned beef, roasted geese, boiled chickens and bacon, and
intermediate stacks of cabbage and huge bowls of potatoes, all sending
up their wreaths of smoke to the rafters of the barn, soon to become
hotter from the crowd of guests, who, when the word was given, rushed to
the onslaught with right good will.

The dinner was later than the hour named, and the delay arose from the
absence of one who, of all others, ought to have been present, namely,
the bridegroom. But James Casey was missing, and Jack Dwyer had
been closeted from time to time with several long-headed greybeards,
canvassing the occurrence, and wondering at the default on the
bridegroom's part. The person who might have been supposed to bear this
default the worst supported it better than any one. Matty was all life
and spirits, and helped in making the feast ready, as if nothing wrong
had happened; and she backed Father Phil's argument to sit down to
dinner at once;--“that if James Casey was not there, that was no reason
dinner should be spoiled, he'd be there soon enough; besides, if he
didn't arrive in time, it was better he should have good meat cold, than
everybody have hot meat spoiled: the ducks would be done to cindhers,
the beef boiled to rags, and the chickens be all in jommethry.”

So down they sat to dinner: its heat, its mirth, its clatter, and its
good cheer we will not attempt to describe; suffice it to say, the
viands were good, the guests hungry, and the drink unexceptionable; and
Father Phil, no bad judge of such matters, declared he never pronounced
grace over a better spread. But still, in the midst of the good cheer,
neighbours (the women particularly) would suggest to each other the
“wondher” where the bridegroom could be; and even within ear-shot of the
bride elect, the low-voiced whisper ran, of “Where in the world is James
Casey?”

Still the bride kept up her smiles, and cheerfully returned the healths
that were drunk to her; but old Jack was not unmoved; a cloud hung on
his brow, which grew darker and darker as the hour advanced, and the
bridegroom yet tarried. The board was cleared of the eatables, and the
copious jugs of punch going their round; but the usual toast of the
united healths of the happy pair could not be given, for one of them
was absent. Father Phil hardly knew what to do; for even his overflowing
cheerfulness began to forsake him, and a certain air of embarrassment
began to pervade the whole assembly, till Jack Dwyer could bear it no
longer, and, standing up, he thus addressed the company:--

“Friends and neighbours, you see the disgrace that's put on me and my
child.”

A murmur of “No, no!” ran round the board.

“I say, yis.”

“He'll come yet, sir,” said a voice.

“No, he won't,” said Jack, “I see he won't--I know he won't. He wanted
to have everything all his own way, and he thinks to disgrace me in
doing what he likes, but he shan't”; and he struck the table fiercely as
he spoke; for Jack, when once his blood was up, was a man of desperate
determination. “He's a greedy chap, the same James Casey, and he loves
his bargain betther than he loves you, Matty, so don't look glum about
what I'm saying: I say he's greedy: he's just the fellow that, if you
gave him the roof off your house, would ax you for the rails before your
door; and he goes back of his bargain now, bekase I would not let him
have it all his own way, and puts the disgrace on me, thinkin' I'll give
in to him, through that same; but I won't. And I tell you what it is,
friends and neighbours; here's the lease of the three-cornered field
below there,” and he held up a parchment as he spoke, “and a snug
cottage on it, and it's all ready for the girl to walk into with the man
that will have her; and if there's a man among you here that's willing,
let him say the word now, and I'll give her to him!”

The girl could not resist an exclamation of surprise, which her father
hushed by a word and look so peremptory, that she saw remonstrance
was in vain, and a silence of some moments ensued; for it was rather
startling, this immediate offer of a girl who had been so strangely
slighted, and the men were not quite prepared to make advances, until
they knew something more of the why and wherefore of her sweetheart's
desertion.

“Are yiz all dumb?” exclaimed Jack, in surprise. “Faix, it's not every
day a snug little field and cottage and a good-looking girl falls in a
man's way. I say again, I'll give her and the lase to the man that will
say the word.”

Still no one spoke, and Andy began to think they were using Jack Dwyer
and his daughter very ill, but what business had _he_ to think of
offering himself, “a poor devil like him”? But, the silence still
continuing, Andy took heart of grace; and as the profit and pleasure of
a snug match and a handsome wife flushed upon him, he got up and said,
“Would I do, sir?”

Every one was taken by surprise, even old Jack himself; and Matty could
not suppress a faint exclamation, which every one but Andy understood to
mean “she didn't like it at all,” but which Andy interpreted quite the
other way, and he grinned his loutish admiration of Matty, who turned
away her head from him in sheer distaste, which action Andy took for
mere coyness.

Jack was in a dilemma, for Andy was just the last man he would have
chosen as a husband for his daughter; but what could he do? he was
taken at his word, and even at the worst he was determined that some one
should marry the girl out of hand, and show Casey the “disgrace should
not be put on him”; but, anxious to have another chance, he stammered
something about the fairness of “letting the girl choose,” and that
“some one else might wish to spake”; but the end of all was, that no one
rose to rival Andy, and Father Phil bore witness to the satisfaction he
had that day in finding so much uprightness and fidelity in “the boy”;
that he had raised his character much in his estimation by his conduct
that day; and if he was a little giddy betimes, there was nothing like
a wife to steady him; and if he was rather poor, sure Jack Dwyer could
mend that.

“Then come up here,” says Jack; and Andy left his place at the very end
of the board and marched up to the head, amidst clapping of hands and
thumping of the table, and laughing and shouting.

“Silence!” cried Father Phil, “this is no laughing matther, but a
serious engagement--and, John Dwyer, I tell you--and you Andy Rooney,
that girl must not be married against her own free-will; but if she has
no objection, well and good.”

“My will is her pleasure, I know,” said Jack, resolutely.

To the surprise of every one, Matty said, “Oh, I'll take the boy with
all my heart!”

Handy Andy threw his arms round her neck and gave her a most vigorous
salute which came smacking off, and thereupon arose a hilarious shout
which made the old rafters of the barn ring again.

“There's the lase for you,” said Jack, handing the parchment to Andy,
who was now installed in the place of honour beside the bride elect at
the head of the table, and the punch circulated rapidly in filling to
the double toast of health, happiness, and prosperity to the “happy
pair”; and after some few more circuits of the enlivening liquor had
been performed, the women retired to the dwelling-house, whose sanded
parlour was put in immediate readiness for the celebration of the
nuptial knot between Matty and the adventurous Andy.

In half an hour the ceremony was performed, and the rites and blessings
of the Church dispensed between two people, who, an hour before, had
never looked on each other with thoughts of matrimony.

Under such circumstances it was wonderful with what lightness of
spirit Matty went through the honours consequent on a peasant bridal in
Ireland: these, it is needless to detail; our limits would not permit;
but suffice it to say, that a rattling country-dance was led off by Andy
and Matty in the barn, intermediate jigs were indulged in by the “picked
dancers” of the parish, while the country dancers were resting and
making love (if making love can be called rest) in the corners, and that
the pipers and punch-makers had quite enough to do until the night was
far spent, and it was considered time for the bride and bridegroom to be
escorted by a chosen party of friends to the little cottage which was to
be their future home. The pipers stood at the threshold of Jack Dwyer,
and his daughter departed from under the “roof-tree” to the tune of “Joy
be with you”; and then the lilters, heading the body-guard of the bride,
plied drone and chanter right merrily until she had entered her new
home, thanked her old friends (who did all the established civilities,
and cracked all the usual jokes attendant on the occasion); and Andy
bolted the door of the snug cottage of which he had so suddenly become
master, and placed a seat for the bride beside the fire, requesting
_“Miss Dwyer”_ to sit down--for Andy could not bring himself to call her
“Matty” yet--and found himself in an awkward position in being “lord
and master” of a girl he considered so far above him a few hours before;
Matty sat quiet, and looked at the fire.

“It's very quare, isn't it?” says Andy with a grin, looking at her
tenderly, and twiddling his thumbs.

“What's quare?” inquired Matty, very drily.

“The estate,” responded Andy.

“What estate?” asked Matty.

“Your estate and my estate,” said Andy.

“Sure you don't call the three-cornered field my father gave us an
estate, you fool?” answered Matty.

“Oh no,” said Andy. “I mane the blessed and holy estate of matrimony the
priest put us in possession of;” and Andy drew a stool near the heiress,
on the strength of the hit he thought he had made.

“Sit at the other side of the fire,” said Matty, very coldly.

“Yes, miss,” responded Andy, very respectfully; and in shoving his seat
backwards the legs of the stool caught in the earthen floor, and Andy
tumbled heels over head.

Matty laughed while Andy was picking himself up with increased
confusion at this mishap; for even amidst rustics there is nothing more
humiliating than a lover placing himself in a ridiculous position at the
moment he is doing his best to make himself agreeable.

“It is well your coat's not new,” said Matty, with a contemptuous look
at Handy's weather-beaten vestment.

“I hope I'll soon have a betther,” said Andy, a little piqued, with all
his reverence for the heiress, at this allusion to his poverty. “But
sure it wasn't the coat you married, but the man that's in it; and sure
I'll take off my clothes as soon as you please, Matty, my dear--Miss
Dwyer, I mane--I beg your pardon.”

“You had better wait till you get better,” answered Matty, very drily.
“You know the old saying, 'Don't throw out your dirty wather until you
get in fresh.'”

“Ah, darlin', don't be cruel to me!” said Andy, in a supplicating tone.
“I know I'm not desarvin' of you, but sure I did not make so bowld as to
make up to you until I seen that nobody else would have you.”

“Nobody else have me!” exclaimed Matty, as her eyes flashed with anger.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said poor Andy, who in the extremity of his
own humility had committed such an offence against Matty's pride. “I
only meant that--”

“Say no more about it,” said Matty, who recovered her equanimity.
“Didn't my father give you the lase of the field and house?”

“Yis, miss.”

“You had better let me keep it then; 'twill be safer with me than you.”

“Sartainly,” said Andy, who drew the lease from his pocket and handed it
to her, and--as he was near to her--he attempted a little familiarity,
which Matty repelled very unequivocally.

“Arrah! is it jokes you are crackin'?” said Andy, with a grin, advancing
to renew his fondling.

“I tell you what it is,” said Matty, jumping up, “I'll crack your head
if you don't behave yourself!” and she seized the stool on which she had
been sitting, and brandished it in a very amazonian fashion.

“Oh, wirra! wirra!” said Andy, in amaze--“aren't you my wife?”

“_Your_ wife!” retorted Matty, with a very devil in her eye--“_Your_
wife, indeed, you great _omadhaun_; why, then, had you the brass to
think I'd put up with _you_?”

“Arrah, then, why did you marry me?” said Andy, in a pitiful
argumentative whine.

“Why did I marry you?” retorted Matty--“Didn't I know betther than
refuse you, when my father said the word _when the divil was busy
with him_? Why did I marry you?--it's a pity I didn't refuse, and be
murthered that night, maybe, as soon as the people's backs was turned.
Oh, it's little you know of owld Jack Dwyer, or you wouldn't ask me
that; but, though I'm afraid of him, I'm not afraid of you--so stand off
I tell you.”

“Oh, Blessed Virgin!” cried Andy; “and what will be the end of it?”

There was a tapping at the door as he spoke.

“You'll soon see what will be the end of it,” said Matty, as she walked
across the cabin and opened to the knock.

James Casey entered and clasped Matty in his arms; and half a dozen
athletic fellows and one old and debauched-looking man followed, and the
door was immediately closed after their entry.

Andy stood in amazement while Casey and Matty caressed each other; and
the old man said in a voice tremulous with intoxication, “A very pretty
filly, by jingo!”

“I lost no time the minute I got your message, Matty,” said Casey, “and
here's the Father ready to join us.”

“Ay, ay,” cackled the old reprobate--“hammer and tongs!--strike while
the iron's hot!--I'm the boy for a short job”; and he pulled a greasy
book from his pocket as he spoke.

This was a degraded clergyman, known in Ireland under the title of
“Couple-Beggar,” who is ready to perform irregular marriages on such
urgent occasions as the present; and Matty had contrived to inform James
Casey of the desperate turn affairs had taken at home, and recommended
him to adopt the present plan, and so defeat the violent measure of her
father by one still more so.

A scene of uproar now ensued, for Andy did not take matters quietly, but
made a pretty considerable row, which was speedily quelled, however, by
Casey's bodyguard, who tied Andy neck and heels, and in that
helpless state he witnessed the marriage ceremony performed by the
“couple-beggar,” between Casey and the girl he had looked upon as his
own five minutes before.

In vain did he raise his voice against the proceeding; the
“couple-beggar” smothered his objections in ribald jests.

“You can't take her from me, I tell you,” cried Andy.

“No; but we can take you from her,” said the “couple-beggar”; and, at
the words, Casey's friends dragged Andy from the cottage, bidding a
rollicking adieu to their triumphant companion, who bolted the door
after them and became possessor of the wife and property poor Andy
thought he had secured.

To guard against an immediate alarm being given, Andy was warned on pain
of death to be silent as his captors bore him along, and he took them
to be too much men of their word to doubt they would keep their promise.
They bore him through a lonely by-lane for some time, and on arriving at
the stump of an old tree, bound him securely to it, and left him to pass
his wedding-night in the tight embraces of hemp.




CHAPTER XXX


The news of Andy's wedding, so strange in itself, and being celebrated
before so many, spread over the country like wildfire, and made the talk
of half the barony for the next day, and the question, “_Arrah, did
you hear of the wondherful wedding?_” was asked in high-road and
by-road,--and scarcely a _boreen_ whose hedges had not borne witness
to this startling matrimonial intelligence. The story, like all other
stories, of course got twisted into various strange shapes, and
fanciful exaggerations became grafted on the original stem, sufficiently
grotesque in itself; and one of the versions set forth how old Jack
Dwyer, the more to vex Casey, had given his daughter the greatest
fortune that ever had been heard of in the country.

Now one of the open-eared people who had caught hold of the story by
this end happened to meet Andy's mother, and, with a congratulatory
grin, began with “The top o' the mornin' to you, Mrs. Rooney, and sure I
wish you joy.”

“Och hone, and for why, dear?” answered Mrs. Rooney, “sure, it's nothin'
but trouble and care I have, poor and in want, like me.”

“But sure you'll never be in want any more.”

“Arrah, who towld you so, agra?”

“Sure the boy will take care of you now, won't he?”

“What boy?”

“Andy, sure!”

“Andy!” replied his mother, in amazement. “Andy, indeed!--out o' place,
and without a bawbee to bless himself with!--stayin' out all night, the
blackguard!”

“By this and that, I don't think you know a word about it,” cried the
friend, whose turn it was for wonder now.

“Don't I, indeed?” said Mrs. Rooney, huffed at having her word doubted,
as she thought. “I tell you he never _was_ at home last night, and
maybe it's yourself was helping him, Micky Lavery, to keep his bad
coorses--the slingein' dirty blackguard that he is.”

Micky Lavery set up a shout of laughter, which increased the ire of Mrs.
Rooney, who would have passed on in dignified silence but that Micky
held her fast, and when he recovered breath enough to speak, he
proceeded to tell her about Andy's marriage, but in such a disjointed
way, that it was some time before Mrs. Rooney could comprehend him--for
his interjectional laughter at the capital joke it was, that she should
be the last to know it, and that he should have the luck to tell
it, sometimes broke the thread of his story--and then his collateral
observations so disfigured the tale, that its incomprehensibility became
very much increased, until at last Mrs. Rooney was driven to push him by
direct questions.

“For the tendher mercy, Micky Lavery, make me sinsible, and don't
disthract me--is the boy married?”

“Yis, I tell you.”

“To Jack Dwyer's daughter?”

“Yis.”

“And gev him a fort'n'?”

“Gev him half his property, I tell you, and he'll have all when the owld
man's dead.”

“Oh, more power to you, Andy!” cried his mother in delight: “it's you
that _is_ the boy, and the best child that ever was! Half his property,
you tell me, _Misther_ Lavery?” added she, getting distant and polite
the moment she found herself mother to a rich man, and curtailing her
familiarity with a poor one like Lavery.

“Yes, _ma'am_,” said Lavery, touching his hat, “and the whole of it when
the owld man dies.”

“Then indeed I wish him a happy relase!” [Footnote: A “happy release”
 is the Irish phrase for departing this life] said Mrs. Rooney,
piously--“not that I owe the man any spite--but sure he'd be no
loss--and it's a good wish to any one, sure, to wish them in heaven.
Good mornin', Misther Lavery,” said Mrs. Rooney, with a patronising
smile, and “going the road with a dignified air.”

Mick Lavery looked after her with mingled wonder and indignation. “Bad
luck to you, you owld sthrap!” he muttered between his teeth. “How
consaited you are, all of a sudden--by Jakers, I'm sorry I
towld you--cock you up, indeed--put a beggar on horseback to be
sure--humph!--the devil cut the tongue out o' me if ever I give any one
good news again. I've a mind to turn back and tell Tim Dooling his horse
is in the pound.”

Mrs. Rooney continued her dignified pace as long as she was in sight
of Lavery, but the moment an angle of the road screened her from his
observation, off she set, running as hard as she could, to embrace her
darling Andy, and realise with her own eyes and ears all the good news
she had heard. She puffed out by the way many set phrases about the
goodness of Providence, and arranged at the same time sundry fine
speeches to make to the bride; so that the old lady's piety and flattery
ran a strange couple together along with herself; while mixed up with
her prayers and her blarney, were certain speculations about Jack
Dwyer--as to how long he could _live_--and how much he might _leave_.

It was in this frame of mind she reached the hill which commanded a view
of the three-cornered field and the snug cottage, and down she rushed to
embrace her darling Andy and his gentle bride. Puffing and blowing like
a porpoise, bang she went into the cottage, and Matty being the first
person she met, she flung herself upon her, and covered her with
embraces and blessings.

Matty, being taken by surprise, was some time before she could shake off
the old beldame's hateful caresses; but at last getting free and tucking
up her hair, which her imaginary mother-in-law had clawed about her
ears, she exclaimed in no very gentle tones--

“Arrah, good woman, who axed for _your_ company--who are you at all?”

“Your mother-in-law, jewel!” cried the Widow Rooney, making another
open-armed rush at her beloved daughter-in-law; but Matty received the
widow's protruding mouth on her clenched fist instead of her lips, and
the old woman's nose coming in for a share of Matty's knuckles, a ruby
stream spurted forth, while all the colours of the rainbow danced before
Mrs. Rooney's eyes as she reeled backward on the floor.

“Take that, you owld faggot!” cried Matty, as she shook Mrs. Rooney's
tributary claret from the knuckles which had so scientifically tapped
it, and wiped her hand in her apron.

The old woman roared “millia' murthur” on the floor, and snuffled out a
deprecatory question “if that was the proper way to be received in her
son's house.”

“_Your_ son's house, indeed!” cried Matty. “Get out o' the place, you
stack o' rags.”

“Oh, Andy! Andy!” cried the mother, gathering herself up.

“Oh--that's it, is it!” cried Matty; “so it's Andy you want?”

“To be sure: why wouldn't I want him, you hussy? My boy! my darlin'! my
beauty!”

“Well, go look for him!” cried Matty, giving her a shove towards the
door. “Well, now, do you think I'll be turned out of my son's house
so quietly as that, you unnatural baggage?” cried Mrs. Rooney, facing
round, fiercely. Upon which a bitter altercation ensued between the
women; in the course of which the widow soon learnt that Andy was not
the possessor of Matty's charms: whereupon the old woman, no longer
having the fear of damaging her daughter-in-law's beauty before her
eyes, tackled to for a fight in right earnest, in the course of which
some reprisals were made by the widow in revenge for her broken nose;
but Matty's youth and activity, joined to her Amazonian spirit, turned
the tide in her favour, though, had not the old lady been blown by her
long run, the victory would not have been so easy, for she was a tough
customer, and _left_ Matty certain marks of her favour that did not
rub out in a hurry--while she took _away_ (as a keepsake) a handful of
Matty's hair, by which she had long held on till a successful kick from
the gentle bride finally ejected Mrs. Rooney from the house.

Off she reeled, bleeding and roaring, and while on her approach she
had been blessing Heaven and inventing sweet speeches for Matty, on her
retreat she was cursing fate and heaping all sorts of hard names on the
Amazon she came to flatter. Alas, for the brevity of human exultation!

How fared it in the meantime with Andy? He, poor devil! had passed a
cold night, tied up to the old tree, and as the morning dawned, every
object appeared to him through the dim light in a distorted form; the
gaping hollow of the old trunk to which he was bound seemed like a huge
mouth, opening to swallow him, while the old knots looked like eyes,
and the gnarled branches like claws, staring at and ready to tear him in
pieces.

A raven, perched above him on a lonely branch, croaked dismally, till
Andy fancied he could hear words of reproach in the sounds, while a
little tomtit chattered and twittered on a neighbouring bough, as if
he enjoyed and approved of all the severe things the raven uttered. The
little tomtit was the worst of the two, just as the solemn reproof
of the wise can be better borne than the impertinent remark of some
chattering fool. To these imaginary evils was added the reality of some
enormous water-rats that issued from an adjacent pool and began to eat
Andy's hat and shoes, which had fallen off in his struggle with his
captors; and all Andy's warning ejaculations could not make the vermin
abstain from his shoes and his hat, which, to judge from their eager
eating, could not stay their stomachs long, so that Andy, as he looked
on at the rapid demolition, began to dread that they might transfer
their favours from his attire to himself, until the tramp of approaching
horses relieved his anxiety, and in a few minutes two horsemen stood
before him--they were Father Phil and Squire Egan.

Great was the surprise of the Father to see the fellow he had married
the night before, and whom he supposed to be in the enjoyment of his
honeymoon, tied up to a tree and looking more dead than alive; and his
indignation knew no bounds when he heard that a “couple-beggar” had
dared to celebrate the marriage ceremony, which fact came out in the
course of the explanation Andy made of the desperate misadventure which
had befallen him; but all other grievances gave way in the eyes of
Father Phil to the “couple-beggar.”

“A 'couple-beggar'!--the audacious vagabones!” he cried, while he and
the Squire were engaged in loosing Andy's bonds. “A 'couple-beggar'
in my parish! How fast they have tied him up, Squire!” he added, as he
endeavoured to undo a knot. “A 'couple-beggar,' indeed! I'll undo the
marriage!--have you a knife about you, Squire?--the blessed and holy tie
of matrimony!--it's a black knot, bad luck to it, and must be cut--take
your leg out o' that now--and wait till I lay my hands on them--a
'couple-beggar' indeed!”

“A desperate outrage this whole affair has been!” said the Squire.

“But a 'couple-beggar,' Squire.”

“His house broken into--”

“But a 'couple-beggar'--”

“His wife taken from him--”

“But a 'couple-beggar'--”

“The laws violated--”

“But _my dues_, Squire--think o' that!--what would become o' _them_, if
'couple-beggars' is allowed to show their audacious faces in the parish.
Oh, wait till next Sunday, that's all--I'll have them up before the
althar, and I'll make them beg God's pardon, and my pardon, and the
congregation's pardon, the audacious pair!” [Footnote: A man and woman
who had been united by a “couple-beggar” were called up one Sunday by
the priest in the face of the congregation, and summoned, as Father Phil
threatens above, to beg God's pardon, and the priest's pardon, and the
congregation's pardon; but the woman stoutly refused the last condition.
“I'll beg God's pardon and your Reverence's pardon,” she said, “but I
won't beg the congregation's pardon.” “You won't?” says the priest.
“I won't,” says she. “Oh you conthrairy baggage,” cried his Reverence:
“take her home out o' that,” said he to her husband who HAD humbled
himself--“take her home, and leather her well--for she wants it; and if
you don't leather her, you'll be sorry--for if you don't make her afraid
of you, she'll master YOU, too--take her home and leather her.”--FACT.]

“It's an assault on Andy,” said the Squire.

“It's a robbery on me,” said Father Phil.

“Could you identify the men?” said the Squire.

“Do you know the 'couple-beggar'?” said the priest.

“Did James Casey lay his hands on you?” said the Squire; “for he's a
good man to have a warrant against.”

“Oh, Squire, Squire!” ejaculated Father Phil; “talking of laying hands
on _him_ is it you are?--didn't that blackguard 'couple-beggar' lay
his dirty hands on a woman that my bran new benediction was upon! Sure,
they'd do anything after that!” By this time Andy was free, and having
received the Squire's directions to follow him to Merryvale, Father
Phil and the worthy Squire were once more in their saddles and proceeded
quietly to the same place, the Squire silently considering the audacity
of the _coup-de-main_ which robbed Andy of his wife, and his reverence
puffing out his rosy cheeks and muttering sundry angry sentences, the
only intelligible words of which were “couple-beggar.”




CHAPTER XXXI


Doubtless the reader has anticipated that the presence of Father Phil in
the company of the Squire at this immediate time was on account of the
communication made by Andy about the post-office affair. Father Phil had
determined to give the Squire freedom from the strategetic coil in which
Larry Hogan had ensnared him, and lost no time in setting about it; and
it was on his intended visit to Merryvale that he met its hospitable
owner, and telling him there was a matter of some private importance he
wished to communicate, suggested a quiet ride together; and this it
was which led to their traversing the lonely little lane where they
discovered Andy, whose name was so principal in the revelations of that
day.

To the Squire those revelations were of the dearest importance; for they
relieved his mind from a weight which had been oppressing it for some
time, and set his heart at rest. Egan, it must be remarked, was an odd
mixture of courage and cowardice: undaunted by personal danger, but
strangely timorous where moral courage was required. A remarkable
shyness, too, made him hesitate constantly in the utterance of a word
which might explain away any difficulty in which he chanced to find
himself; and this helped to keep his tongue tied in the matter where
Larry Hogan had continued to make himself a bugbear. He had a horror,
too, of being thought capable of doing a dishonourable thing, and the
shame he felt at having peeped into a letter was so stinging, that the
idea of asking any one's advice in the dilemma in which he was placed
made him recoil from the thought of such aid. Now, Father Phil had
relieved him from the difficulties his own weakness imposed; the subject
had been forced upon him; and once forced to speak he made a full
acknowledgment of all that had taken place; and when he found Andy had
not borne witness against him, and that Larry Hogan only _inferred_ his
participation in the transaction, he saw on Father Phil's showing that
he was not really in Larry Hogan's power; for though he admitted he had
given Larry a trifle of money from time to time when Larry asked for it,
under the influence of certain innuendoes, yet that was no proof against
him; and Father Phil's advice was to get Andy out of the way as soon as
possible, and then to set Larry quietly at defiance--that is to say, in
Father Phil's own words, “to keep never minding him.”

Now Andy not being encumbered with a wife (as fate had so ordained it)
made the matter easier, and the Squire and the Father, as they rode
towards Merryvale together to dinner, agreed to pack off Andy without
delay, and thus place him beyond Hogan's power; and as Dick Dawson was
going to London with Murphy, to push the petition against Scatterbrain's
return, it was looked upon as a lucky chance, and Andy was at once named
to bear them company.

“But you must not let Hogan know that Andy is sent away under your
patronage, Squire,” said the Father, “for that would be presumptive
evidence you had an interest in his absence; and Hogan is the very
blackguard would see it fast enough, for he is a knowing rascal.”

“He's the deepest scoundrel I ever met,” said the Squire.

“As knowing as a jailer,” said Father Phil. “A jailer, did I say--by
dad, he bates any jailer I ever heard of--for that fellow is so 'cute,
he _could keep Newgate with a book and eye.”_

“By-the-bye, there's one thing I forgot to tell you, respecting those
letters I threw into the fire; for remember, Father, I only peeped into
_one_ and destroyed the others; but one of the letters, I must tell you,
was directed to yourself.”

“'Faith, then, I forgive you that, Squire,” said Father Phil, “for I
hate letters; but if you have any scruple of conscience on the subject,
write me one yourself, and that will do as well.”

The Squire could not help thinking the Father's mode of settling the
difficulty worthy of Handy Andy himself; but he did not tell the Father
so.

They had now reached Merryvale, where the good-humoured priest was
heartily welcomed, and where Doctor Growling, Dick Dawson, and Murphy
were also guests at dinner. Great was the delight of the party at the
history they heard, when the cloth was drawn, of Andy's wedding, so
much in keeping with his former life and adventures, and Father Phil had
another opportunity of venting his rage against the “couple-beggar.”

“That was but a slip-knot you tied, Father,” said the doctor.

“Aye, aye! joke away, doctor.”

“Do you think, Father Phil,” said Murphy, “that _that_ marriage was made
in heaven, where we are told marriages _are_ made?”

“I don't suppose it was, Mr. Murphy; for if it had it would have held
upon earth.”

“Very well answered, Father,” said the Squire.

“I don't know what other people think about matches being made in
heaven,” said Growling, “but I have my suspicions they are sometimes
made in another place.”

“Oh, fie, doctor!” said Mrs. Egan.

“The doctor, ma'am, is an old bachelor,” said Father Phil, “or he
wouldn't say so.”

“Thank you, Father Phil, for so polite a speech.”

The doctor took his pencil from his pocket and began to write on a small
bit of paper, which the priest observing, asked him what he was about,
“or is it writing a prescription you are,” said he, “for compounding
better marriages than I can?”

“Something very naughty, I dare say, the doctor is doing,” said Fanny
Dawson.

“Judge for yourself, lady fair,” said the doctor, handing Fanny the slip
of paper.

Fanny looked at it for a moment and smiled, but declared it was very
wicked indeed.

“Then read it for the company, and condemn me out of your own pretty
mouth, Miss Dawson,” said the doctor.

“It is too wicked.”

“If it is ever so wicked,” said Father Phil, “the wickedness will be
neutralised by being read by an angel.”

“Well done, St. Omer's,” cried Murphy.

“Really, Father,” said Fanny, blushing, “you are desperately gallant
to-day, and just to shame you, and show how little of an angel I am, I
_will_ read the doctor's epigram:--

  'Though matches are all made in heaven, they say,
    Yet Hymen, who mischief oft hatches,
  Sometimes deals with the house _t'other side of the way_,
    And _there_ they make _Lucifer_ matches.'”

“Oh, doctor! I'm afraid you are a woman-hater,” said Mrs. Egan. “Come
away, Fanny, I am sure they want to get rid of us.”

“Yes,” said Fanny, rising and joining her sister, who was leaving the
room, “and now, after abusing poor Hymen, gentlemen, we leave you to
your favourite worship of Bacchus.”

The departure of the ladies changed the conversation, and after the
gentlemen had resumed their seats, the doctor asked Dick Dawson how soon
he intended going to London.

“I start immediately,” said Dick. “Don't forget to give me that letter
of introduction to your friend in Dublin, whom I long to know.”

“Who is he?” asked the Squire.

“One Tom Loftus--or, as his friends call him, 'Piping Tom,' from his
vocal powers; or, as some nickname him, '_Organ_ Loftus,' from his
imitation of that instrument, which is an excessively comical piece of
caricature.”

“Oh! I know him well,” said Father Phil.

“How did you manage to become acquainted with him?” inquired the doctor,
“for I did not think he lay much in your way.”

“It was _he_ became acquainted with me,” said Father Phil, “and this
was the way of it--he was down on a visit betimes in the parish I was in
before this, and his behaviour was so wild that I was obliged to make
an allusion in the chapel to his indiscretions, and threaten to make
his conduct a subject of severe public censure if he did not mind his
manners a little better. Well, my dear, who should call on me on
the Monday morning after but Misther Tom, all smiles and graces, and
protesting he was sorry he fell under my displeasure, and hoping I would
never have cause to find fault with him again. Sure, I thought he was
repenting of his misdeeds, and I said I was glad to hear such good
words from him. 'A' then, Father,' says he, 'I hear you have got a great
curiosity from Dublin--a shower-bath, I hear?' So I said I had: and
indeed, to be candid, I was as proud as a peacock of the same bath,
which tickled my fancy when I was once in town, and so I bought it.
'Would you show it to me?' says he. 'To be sure,' says I, and off I
went, like a fool, and put the wather on the top, and showed him how,
when a string was pulled, down it came--and he pretended not clearly
to understand the thing, and at last he said, 'Sure it's not into that
sentry-box you get?' says he. 'Oh yes,' said I, getting into it quite
innocent; when, my dear, he slaps the door and fastens it on me, and
pulls the string and souses me with the water, and I with my best suit
of black on me. I roared and shouted inside while Misther Tom Loftus was
screechin' laughing outside, and dancing round the room with delight. At
last, when he could speak, he said, 'Now, Father, we're even,' says he,
'for the abuse you gave me yesterday,' and off he ran.”

“That's just like him,” said old Growling, chuckling; “he's a queer
devil. I remember on one occasion a poor dandy puppy, who was in the
same office with him--for Tom is in the Ordnance department, you must
know--this puppy, sir, wanted to go to the Ashbourne races and cut a
figure in the eyes of a rich grocer's daughter he was sweet upon.”

“Being sweet upon a grocer's daughter,” said Murphy, “is like bringing
coals to Newcastle.”

“'Faith! it was coals to Newcastle with a vengeance, in the present
case, for the girl would have nothing to say to him, and Tom had great
delight whenever he could annoy this poor fool in his love-making plots.
So, when he came to Tom to ask for the loan of his horse, Tom said he
should have him _if he could make the smallest use of him_--'but I don't
think you can,' said Tom. 'Leave that to me,' said the youth. 'I don't
think you could make him go,' said Tom. 'I'll buy a new pair of spurs,'
said the puppy. 'Let them be handsome ones,' said Tom. 'I was looking at
a very handsome pair at Lamprey's, yesterday,' said the young gentleman.
'Then you can buy them on your way to my stables,' said Tom; and sure
enough, sir, the youth laid out his money on a very costly pair of
persuaders, and then proceeded homewards with Tom. 'Now, with all your
spurs,' said Tom, 'I don't think you'll be able to make him go.' 'Is he
so very vicious, then?' inquired the youth, who began to think of his
neck. 'On the contrary,' said Tom, 'he's perfectly quiet, but won't go
for _you_, I'll bet a pound.' 'Done!' said the youth. 'Well, try him,'
said Tom, as he threw open the stable door. 'He's lazy, I see,' said the
youth; 'for he's lying down.' 'Faith, he is,' said Tom, 'and hasn't got
up these two days!' 'Get up, you brute!' said the innocent youth, giving
a smart cut of his whip on the horse's flank; but the horse did not
budge. '_Why, he's dead!_' says he. 'Yes,' says Tom, 'since Monday last.
So I don't think you can make him go, and you've lost your bet!'”

“That was hardly a fair joke,” said the Squire.

“Tom never stops to think of that,” returned the doctor; “he's the
oddest fellow I ever knew. The last time I was in Dublin, I called on
Tom and found him one bitter cold and stormy morning standing at an open
window, nearly quite undressed. On asking him what he was about, he
said he was _getting up a bass voice_; that Mrs. Somebody, who gave good
dinners and bad concerts, was disappointed of her bass singer, 'and I
think,' said Tom, 'I'll be hoarse enough in the evening to take double
B flat. Systems are the fashion now,' said he; 'there is the Logierian
system and other systems, and mine is the Cold-air-ian system, and the
best in the world for getting up a bass voice.'”

“That was very original certainly,” said the Squire.

“But did you ever hear of his adventure with the Duke of Wellington?”
 said the doctor.

“The Duke!” they all exclaimed.

“Yes--that is, when he was only Sir Arthur Wellesley. Well, I'll tell
you.”

“Stop,” said the Squire, “a fresh story requires a fresh bottle. Let me
ring for some claret.”




CHAPTER XXXII


The servant who brought in the claret announced at the same time the
arrival of a fresh guest in the person of “Captain Moriarty,” who
was welcomed by most of the party by the name of Randal. The Squire
regretted he was too late for dinner, inquiring at the same time if
he would like to have something to eat at the side-table; but Randal
declined the offer, assuring the Squire he had got some refreshment
during the day while he had been out shooting; but as the sport led, him
near Merryvale, and “he had a great thirst upon him,” he did not know a
better house in the country wherein to have “that same” satisfied.

“Then you're just in time for some cool claret,” said the Squire; “so
sit down beside the doctor, for he must have the first glass and broach
the bottle, before he broaches the story he's going to tell us--that's
only fair.”

The doctor filled his glass, and tasted. “What a nice _'chateau,'
'Margaux'_ must be,” said he, as he laid down his glass. “I should like
to be a tenant-at-will there, at a small rent.”

“And no taxes,” said Dick.

“Except my duty to the claret,” replied the doctor.

  'My favourite chateau,
  Is that of Margaux.'

“By-the-bye, talking of _chateau_, there's the big brewer over at the
town, who is anxious to affect gentility, and he heard some one use the
word _chapeau_, and having found out it was the French for _hat_, he
determined to show off on the earliest possible occasion, and selected
a public meeting of some sort to display his accomplishment. Taking
some cause of objection to the proceedings, as an excuse for leaving the
meeting, he said, 'Gentlemen, the fact is I can't agree with you, so I
may as well take my _chateau_ under my arm at once, and walk.'”

[Illustration: Tom Organ Loftus and the Duke]

“Is not that an invention of your own, doctor?” said the Squire.

“I heard it for fact,” said Growling.

“And 't is true,” added Murphy, “for I was present when he said it. And
at an earlier part of the proceedings he suggested that the parish clerk
should read the resolutions, because he had a good '_laudable_ voice.'”

“A parish clerk ought to have,” said the doctor--“eh, Father
Phil?--'_Laudamus!_'”

“Leave your Latin,” said Dick, “and tell us that story you promised
about the Duke and Tom Loftus.”

“Right, Misther Dick,” said Father Phil.

“The story, doctor,” said the Squire.

“Oh, don't make such bones about it,” said Growling; “'tis but a trifle
after all; only it shows you what a queer and reckless rascal Tom is. I
told you he was called '_Organ_' Loftus by his friends, in consequence
of the imitation he makes of that instrument; and it certainly is worth
hearing and seeing, for your eyes have as much to do with the affair
as your ears. Tom plants himself on a high office-stool, before one of
those lofty desks with long rows of drawers down each side and a
hole between to put your legs under. Well, sir, Tom pulls out the
top drawers, like the stops of an organ, and the lower ones by way of
pedals: and then he begins thrashing the desk like the finger-board of
an organ with his hands, while his feet kick away at the lower drawers
as if he were the greatest pedal performer out of Germany, and he
emits a rapid succession of grunts and squeaks, producing a ludicrous
reminiscence of the instrument, which I defy any one to hear without
laughing. Several sows and an indefinite number of sucking pigs could
not make a greater noise, and Tom himself declares he studied the
instrument in a pigsty, which he maintains gave the first notion of
an organ. Well, sir, the youths in the office assist in 'doing the
service,' as they call it, that is, making an imitation of the chanting
and so forth in St. Patrick's Cathedral.”

“Oh, the haythens!” said Father Phil.

“One does Spray, and another Weyman, and another Sir John Stevenson, and
so on; and they go on responsing and singing 'Amen' till the Ordnance
Office rings again.”

“Have they nothing better to do?” asked the Squire.

“Very little but reading the papers,” said the doctor.

“Well--Tom--you must know, sir--was transferred some time ago, by the
interest of many influential friends, to the London department; and the
fame of his musical powers had gone before him from some of the English
clerks in Ireland who had been advanced to the higher posts in Dublin,
and kept up correspondence with their old friends in London; and it was
not long until Tom was requested to go through an anthem on the great
office-desk. Tom was only too glad to be asked, and he kept the
whole office in a roar for an hour with all the varieties of the
instrument--from the diapason to the flute-stop--and the devil a more
business was done in the office _that_ day, and Tom before long made the
sober English fellows as great idlers as the chaps in Dublin. Well--it
was not long until a sudden flush of business came upon the department,
in consequence of the urgent preparations making for supplies to Spain,
at the time the Duke was going there to take the command of the army,
and organ-playing was set aside for some days; but the fellows, after
a week's abstinence, began to yearn for it and Tom was requested to 'do
the service.' Tom, nothing loath, threw aside his official papers, set
up a big ledger before him, and commenced his legerdemain, as he called
it, pulled out his stops, and began to work away like a weaver, while
every now and then he swore at the bellows-blower for not giving him
wind enough, whereupon the choristers would kick the bellows-blower to
accelerate his flatulency. Well, sir, they were in the middle of the
service, and all the blackguards making the responses in due season,
when, just as Tom was quivering under a portentous grunt, which might
have shamed the principal diapason of Harlaem, and the subs were
drawing out a resplendent 'A-a-a-men,' the door opened, and in walked a
smart-looking gentleman, with rather a large nose and quick eye, which
latter glanced round the office, where a sudden endeavour was made by
everybody to get back to his place. The smart gentleman seemed rather
surprised to see a little fat man blowing at a desk instead of the
fire, and long Tom kicking, grunting, and squealing like mad. The
bellows-blower was so taken by surprise he couldn't stir, and Tom,
having his back to them, did not see what had taken place, and went on
as if nothing had happened, till the smart gentleman went up to him, and
tapping on Tom's desk with a little riding-whip, he said, 'I'm sorry to
disturb you, sir, but I wish to know what you're about.' 'We're doing
the service, sir,' said Tom, no ways abashed at the sight of the
stranger, for he did not know it was Sir Arthur Wellesley was talking to
him. 'Not the _public_ service, sir,' said Sir Arthur. 'Yes, sir,' said
Tom, 'the service as by law established in the second year of the reign
of King Edward the Sixth,' and he favoured the future hero of Waterloo
with a touch of the organ. 'Who is the head of this office?' inquired
Sir Arthur. Tom, with a very gracious bow, replied, 'I am principal
organist, sir, and allow me to introduce you to the principal
bellows-blower'--and he pointed to the poor little man who let the
bellows fall from his hand as Sir Arthur fixed his eyes on him. Tom did
not perceive till now that all the clerks were taken with a sudden fit
of industry, and were writing away for the bare life; and he cast a
look of surprise round the office while Sir Arthur was looking at the
bellows-blower. One of the clerks made a wry face at Tom, which showed
him all was not right. 'Is this the way His Majesty's service generally
goes on here?' said Sir Arthur, sharply. No one answered; but Tom saw,
by the long faces of the clerks and the short question of the visitor,
that he was _somebody_.

“'Some transports are waiting for ordnance stores, and I am referred
to this office,' said Sir Arthur; 'can any one give me a satisfactory
answer?'

“The senior clerk present (for the head of the office was absent) came
forward and said, 'I believe, sir----'

“'You _believe_, but you don't _know_,' said Sir Arthur; 'so I must wait
for stores while you are playing tomfoolery here. I'll report this.'
Then producing a little tablet and a pencil, he turned to Tom and said,
'Favour me with your name, sir?'

“'I give you my honour, sir,' said Tom.

“'I'd rather you'd give me the stores, sir,--I'll trouble you for your
name?'

“'Upon my honour, sir,' said Tom, again.

“'You seem to have a great deal of that article on your hands, sir,'
said Sir Arthur: 'you're an Irishman, I suppose?'

“'Yes, sir,' said Tom.

“'I thought so. Your name?'

“'Loftus, sir.'

“'Ely family?'

“'No, sir.'

“'Glad of it.'

“He put up his tablet after writing the name.

“'May I beg the favour to know, sir,' said Tom, 'to whom I have the
honour of addressing myself?' “'Sir Arthur Wellesley, sir.'

“'Oh! J---s!' cried Tom, 'I'm done!'

“Sir Arthur could not help laughing at the extraordinary change in Tom's
countenance; and Tom, taking advantage of this relaxation in his iron
manner, said in a most penitent tone, 'Oh, Sir Arthur Wellesley, only
forgive me this time, and 'pon my _sowl_ says he--with the richest
brogue--'I'll play a _Te Deum_ for the first licking you give the
French.' Sir Arthur smiled and left the office.”

“Did he report as he threatened?” asked the Squire.

“'Faith, he did.”

“And Tom?” inquired Dick.

“Was sent back to Ireland, sir.”

“That was hard, after the Duke smiled at him,” said Murphy.

“Well, he did not let him suffer in pocket; he was transferred at as a
good a salary to a less important department, but you know the Duke has
been celebrated all his life for never overlooking a breach of duty.”

“And who can blame him?” said Moriarty.

“One great advantage of the practice has been,” said the Squire, “that
no man has been better served. I remember hearing a striking instance of
what, perhaps, might be called severe justice, which he exercised on a
young and distinguished officer of artillery in Spain; and though one
cannot help pitying the case of the gallant young fellow who was the
sacrifice, yet the question of strict duty, _to the very word_, was
set at rest for ever under the Duke's command, and it saved much
_after_-trouble by making every officer satisfied, however fiery his
courage or tender his sense of being suspected of the white feather,
that implicit obedience was the course he _must_ pursue. The case
was this:--the army was going into action----” “What action was it?”
 inquired Father Phil, with that remarkable alacrity which men of peace
evince in hearing the fullest particulars about war, perhaps because
it is forbidden to their cloth; one of the many instances of things
acquiring a fictitious value by being interdicted--just as Father Phil
himself might have been a Protestant only for the penal laws.

“I don't know what action it was,” said the Squire, “nor the officer's
name--for I don't set up for a military chronicler; but it was, as
I have been telling you, going into action that the Duke posted an
officer, with his six guns, at a certain point, telling him to remain
there until he had orders from _him_. Away went the rest of the army,
and the officer was left doing nothing at all, which he didn't like;
for he was one of those high-blooded gentlemen who are never so happy as
when they are making other people miserable, and he was longing for the
head of a French column to be hammering away at. In half an hour or
so he heard the distant sound of action, and it approached nearer and
nearer, until he heard it close behind him; and he wondered rather that
he was not invited to take a share in it, when, pat to his thought, up
came an _aide-de-camp_ at full speed, telling him that General Somebody
ordered him to bring up his guns. The officer asked did not the order
come from Lord Wellington? The _aide-de-camp_ said no, but from the
General, whoever he was. The officer explained that he was placed there
by Lord Wellington, under command not to move, unless by _an order from
himself_. The _aide-de-camp_ stated that the General's entire brigade
was being driven in and must be annihilated without the aid of the guns,
and asked, 'would he let a whole brigade be slaughtered?' in a tone
which wounded the young soldier's pride, savouring, as he thought it
did, of an imputation on his courage. He immediately ordered his guns
to move and joined battle with the General; but while he was away, an
_aide-de-camp_ from Lord Wellington rode up to where the guns _had been
posted,_ and, of course, no gun was to be had for the service which Lord
Wellington required. Well, the French were repulsed, as it happened; but
the want of those six guns seriously marred a preconcerted movement of
the Duke's, and the officer in command of them was immediately brought
to a court-martial, and would have lost his commission but for the
universal interest made in his favour by the general officers in
consideration of his former meritorious conduct and distinguished
gallantry, and under the peculiar circumstances of the case. They did
not break him, but he was suspended, and Lord Wellington sent him home
to England. Almost every general officer in the army endeavoured to get
his sentence revoked, lamenting the fate of a gallant fellow being sent
away for a slight error in judgment while the army was in hot action but
Lord Wellington was inexorable saying he must make an example to secure
himself in the perfect obedience of officers to their orders; and it had
the effect.”

“Well, that's what I call hard!” said Dick.

“My dear Dick,” said the Squire, “war is altogether a hard thing, and a
man has no business to be a General who isn't as hard as his own round
shot.”

“And what became of the _dear_ young man?” said Father Phil, who seemed
much touched by the readiness with which the _dear_ young man set off to
mow down the French.

“I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “for I served with him afterwards
in the Peninsula. He was let back after a year or so, and became so
thorough a disciplinarian, that he swore, when once he was at his post
'They might kill _his father_ before his face and he wouldn't budge
until he had orders.'”

“A most Christian resolution,” said the doctor.

“Well, I can tell you,” said Moriarty, “of a Frenchman, who made a
greater breach of discipline, and it was treated more leniently. I heard
the story from the man's own lips, and if I could only give you his
voice and gesture and manner it would amuse you. What fellows those
Frenchmen are, to be sure, for telling a story! they make a shrug or
a wink have twenty different meanings, and their claws are most
eloquent--one might say they talk on their fingers--and their broken
English, I think, helps them.”

“Then give the story, Randal, in his manner,” said Dick. “I have heard
you imitate a Frenchman capitally.”

“Well, here goes,” said Moriarty “but let me wet my whistle with a
glass of claret before I begin--a French story should have French wine.”
 Randal tossed off one glass, and filled a second by way of reserve, and
then began the French officer's story.

“You see, sare, it vos ven in _Espagne_ de bivouac vos vairy ard indeet
'pon us, vor we coot naut get into de town at all, nevair, becos you
dam Ingelish keep all de town to yoursefs--vor we fall back at dat time
becos we get not support--no _corps de reserve_, you perceive--so ve mek
_retrograde_ movement--not _retreat_--no, no--but _retrograde_ movement.
Vell--von night I was wit my picket guart, and it was raining like de
devil, and de vind vos vinding up de valley, so cold as noting at all,
and de dark vos vot you could not see--no--not your nose bevore your
face. Vell, I hear de tramp of horse, and I look into de dark--for ve
vere vairy moche on the _qui vive_, because ve expec de Ingelish to
attaque de next day--but I see noting; but de tramp of horse come closer
and closer, and at last I ask, 'Who is dere?' and de tramp of de horse
stop. I run forward, and den I see Ingelish offisair of cavallerie. I
address him, and tell him he is in our lines, but I do not vant to mek
him prisonair--for you must know dat he _vos_ prisonair, if I like, ven
he vos vithin our line. He is very polite--he says, '_Bien obligé--bon
enfant_;' and we tek off our hat to each ozer. 'I aff lost my roat,' he
say; and I say, 'Yais'--bote I vill put him into his roat, and so I ask
for a moment pardon, and go back to my _caporal_, and tell him to be on
de _qui vive_ till I come back. De Ingelish offisair and me talk very
plaisant vile we go togezer down de leetel roat, and ven we come to de
turn, I say, '_Bon soir_, Monsieur le Capitaine--dat is your vay.' He
den tank me, vera moche like gentilman, and vish he coot mek me some
return for my générosité, as he please to say--and I say, '_Bah!_
Ingelish gentilman vood do de same to French offisair who lose his vay.'
'Den come here,' he say, '_bon enfant_, can you leave your post for 'aff
an hour?' 'Leave my post?' I say. 'Yais,' said he, 'I know your army has
not moche provision lately, and maybe you are ongrie?' '_Ma foi_, yais,'
said I; 'I aff naut slips to my eyes, nor meat to my stomach, for more
dan fife days.' 'Veil, _bon enfant_,' he say, 'come vis me, and I vill
gif you good supper, goot vine, and goot velcome.' 'Coot I leave my
post?' I say. He say, '_Bah! Caporal_ take care till you come back.' By
gar, I coot naut resist--_he_ vos so _vairy_ moche gentilman and _I_
vos so ongrie--I go vis him--not fife hunder yarts--_ah! bon Dieu_--how
nice! In de corner of a leetel ruin chapel dere is nice bit of fire, and
hang on a string before it de half of a kid--_oh ciel!_ de smell of
de _ros-bif_ was so nice--I rub my hands to de fire--I sniff de
_cuisine_--I see in anozer corner a couple bottles of wine--_sacré_! it
vos all watair in my mouts! Ve sit down to suppair--I nevair did ate so
moche in my life. Ve did finish de bones, and vosh down all mid ver good
wine--_excellent!_ Ve drink de toast--_à la gloire_--and we talk of de
campaign. Ve drink _à la Patrie_, and den _I_ tink of _la belle France_
and _ma douce amie_--and _he_ fissel, 'Got safe de king.' Ve den drink
_à l'amitié_, and shek hands over dat fire in good frainship--dem two
hands that might cross de swords in de morning. Yais, sair, dat was
fine--'t was _galliard_--'t was _la vrai chivalrie_--two sojair ennemi
to share de same kid, drink de same wine, and talk like two friends.
Vell, I got den so sleepy, dat my eyes go blink, blink, and my goot
friend says to me, 'Sleep, old fellow; I know you aff got hard fare of
late, and you are tired; sleep, all is quiet for to-night, and I will
call you before dawn.' Sair, I vos _so_ tired, I forgot my duty, and
fall down fast asleep. Veil, sair, in de night de pickets of de two
armie get so close, and mix up, dat some shot gets fired, and in one
moment all in confusion. I am shake by de shoulder--I wake like from
dream--I heard sharp _fusillade_--my friend cry, 'Fly to your post, it
is attack!' We exchange one shek of de hand, and I run off to my post.
_Oh, ciel!_--it is driven in--I see dem fly. _Oh, mon désespoir à ce
moment-là!_ I am ruin--_déshonoré_--I rush to de front--I rally _mes
braves_--ve stand!--ve advance!!--ve regain de post!!!--I am safe!!!! De
_fusillade_ cease--it is only an affair of outposts. I tink I am safe--I
tink I am very fine fellow--but Monsieur _l'Aide-Major_ send for me and
speak, 'Vere vos you last night, sair?' 'I mount guard by de mill.' 'Are
you sure?' '_Oui, monsieur._' 'Vere vos you when your post vos attack?'
I saw it vos no use to deny any longair, so I confess to him everyting.
'Sair,' said he, 'you rally your men very good, _or you should be shot!_
Young man, remember,' said he--I will never forget his vorts--'young
man, _vine is goot--slip is goot--goat is goot--but honners is
betters!'”_

“A capital story, Randal,” cried Dick; “but how much of it did you
invent?”

“'Pon my life, it is as near the original as possible.”

“Besides, that is not a fair way of using a story,” said the doctor.
“You should take a story as you get it, and not play the dissector upon
it, mangling its poor body to discover the bit of embellishment; and as
long as a _raconteur_ maintains _vraisemblance_, I contend you are bound
to receive the whole as true.”

“A most author-like creed, doctor,” said Dick; “you are a story-teller
yourself, and enter upon the defence of your craft with great spirit.”

“And justice, too,” said the Squire; “the doctor is quite right.”

“Don't suppose I can't see the little touches of the artist,” said the
doctor; “but so long as they are in keeping with the picture, I
enjoy them; for instance, my friend Randal's touch of the Englishman
'_fissling Got safe de King'_ is very happy--quite in character.”

“Well, good or bad, the story in substance is true,” said Randal, “and
puts the Englishman in a fine point of view--a generous fellow, sharing
his supper with his enemy whose sword may be through his body in the
next morning's 'affair.'”

“But the Frenchman was generous to him first,” remarked the Squire.

“Certainly--I admit it,” said Randal. “In short, they were both fine
fellows.”

“Oh, sir,” said Father Phil, “the French are not deficient in a
chivalrous spirit. I heard once a very pretty little bit of anecdote
about the way they behaved to one of our regiments on a retreat in
Spain.”

“_Your_ regiments!” said Moriarty, who was rather fond of hitting hard
at a priest when he could; “a regiment of friars is it?”

“No, captain, but of soldiers; and it's going through a river they
were, and the French, taking advantage of their helpless condition, were
peppering away at them hard and fast.”

“Very generous indeed!” said Moriarty, laughing.

“Let me finish my story, captain, before you quiz it. I say they were
peppering them sorely while they were crossing the river, until some
women--the followers of the camp--ran down (poor creatures) to the
shore, and the stream was so deep in the middle they could scarcely ford
it; so some dragoons who were galloping as hard as they could out of
the fire pulled up on seeing the condition of the women-kind, and each
horseman took up a woman behind him, though it diminished his own power
of speeding from the danger. The moment the French saw this act of manly
courtesy, they ceased firing, gave the dragoons a cheer, and as long as
the women were within gunshot, not a trigger was pulled in the French
line, but volleys of cheers instead of ball-cartridge was sent after the
brigade till all the women were over. Now wasn't that generous?”

“'T was a handsome thing!” was the universal remark.

“And 'faith I can tell you, Captain Moriarty, the army took advantage of
it; for there was a great struggle to have the pleasure of the ladies'
company over the river.”

“I dare say, Father Phil,” said the Squire, laughing.

“Throth, Squire,” said the _padre_, “fond of the girls

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