CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
THE FAWN OF SPRING-VALE; 
 THE CLARIONET, 
 
 AND OTHER TALES. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CARLETON, 
 
 Aiithor of " Fardorongha tlie Miser/' — " Traits and Btoxies of tiie 
 Irish. Peasantry," 8cc» 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. III. 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF BARNEY BRANAGAN. 
 RESURRECTIONS OF BARNEY BRADLEY. 
 
 DUBLIN 
 WILLIAM CURRY, JUN. AND COMPANY. 
 
 LONGMAN, ORME, AND CO., LONDON. 
 1841. 
 

 DUBtiN 
 
 PRINTED BY FOT.DS, SON, AND PATTON. 
 
 5, Bachelor s- Walk. 
 
 .vv' 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
MISFORTUNES 
 
 BAKNEY BRANAGAN. 
 
THE MISFORTUNES 
 
 BARNEY BRANAGAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Barney Branagan, one of the luckiest men that 
 ever was persecuted by misfortune, was the son 
 of a wealthy farmer, who, to his agricultural, or 
 we should rather say, his pastoral pursuits, added 
 the mellow business of a butter merchant. The 
 latter had been baptized Barney also, for v/hich 
 reason, his son was generally addressed and spoken 
 of as Barney Beg, or little Barney, a mode of 
 distinction rendered necessary in Ireland, where 
 so many persons of the same clan or family re- 
 ceive the same name. His father was conse- 
 quently known as Barney More, or Big Barney, 
 a term of discrimination in this instance ludi- 
 
 VOL. III. B 
 
THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 crously erroneous, and peculiarly Irish in the 
 
 inferences to be drawn from it ; the fact being, 
 
 that Barney Beg, or Little Barney, was above six 
 
 feet high, and the most powerful man in the barony, 
 
 whilst his father. Big Barney, was a low, slender 
 
 man, than whom there were not three smaller in 
 
 the parish. These distinctions, which can apply 
 
 only during the childhood and youth of the 
 
 parties, are mostly continued during after life, 
 
 when the said parties have grown altogether 
 
 out of the fitness of the application. It is the 
 
 same with respect to the term " Master," 
 
 which is often applied to persons verging into old 
 
 age. To hear men forty, fifty, or sixty years 
 
 old, addressed as " Master George," " Master 
 
 Alick," or " Master David," is by no means 
 
 unusual in Ireland. 
 
 Barney, when a boy, thought his father the 
 
 greatest man (taking him merely as an individual) 
 in the parish ; but as a butter merchant, he was 
 certainly of opinion that a person of more impor- 
 tance could not exist. To deal in this golden 
 commodity, was an office for which he felt an am- 
 bition altogether boundless. It was, in his youno- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 3 
 
 imagination, state, authority, power. Heavens ! 
 to go among the farmers' wives and their daughters, 
 with his hammer in one hand, and his auger in the 
 other, breaking off the covers of the casks, and 
 turning casks and cases about with the air of a 
 man on whose word, eye, and taste, depended the 
 character for cleanliness and industry of so many 
 good women ! The very thought was fascination. 
 What was it to wield the sceptre of a monarch or 
 the truncheon of a general, compared to the 
 dignity of wielding that imposing emblem of con- 
 sequence and skill — the butter auger ?* Could 
 George the Third (for this was in his day) bore 
 a butter-firkin ? No ; king though he was, in 
 this point the monarch stood beneath his own 
 subject. Could the Duke of Wellington tell a 
 good " Seconds" from a " First ?" No. Away, 
 then, with false distinctions. He was not fit to 
 nail down the firkin-lids after his father. Nor 
 were these things all. To have his pleasant joke 
 with this one, and his loud laugh with that ; to 
 chuck one pretty girl under the chin, and to wink 
 knowingly at another ; to be treated, too, out 
 of the butter-money ; and, heavens and earth ! 
 
4 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 to wear top-boots, a watch with big seals, and be 
 called Mister Branagan ! Oh, it was too much ! 
 
 " Visions of milkmaids spare his aching sight, 
 Te unmade firkins crowd not on his soul !" 
 
 All greatness is relative, and, of course, known 
 only by comparison. Every child, for instance, 
 thinks his own father the greatest, wisest, and 
 best man living, until he sees him compared with 
 others. For the same reason it is, that whatever 
 trade or profession, or other occupation a parent 
 follows, is looked upon as the most important and 
 dignified that can be found. Indeed, this is a 
 very general principle in life, among men, as well 
 as boys. 
 
 Be this, however, as it may, Barney, early re- 
 solved to tread in the footsteps of his father, and, 
 like him, one day to shine in all the plenitude of 
 importance which he imagined to sit on the con- 
 sequential brow of a butter merchant. Indeed, 
 this was a part for which he left nothing undone 
 to qualify himself. His first great ambition was, 
 to trot beside his father to and from fairs and mar- 
 kets, bearing the butter-auger as proudly as 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 5 
 
 conqueror would a trophy. At home, he paid 
 attention to nothing so much as the manner in 
 which his mother managed the concerns of the 
 dairy, for every thing connected with which he 
 evinced an aptitude truly astonishing. Before 
 he was ten years of age, he knew almost all that 
 could be known upon the subject. Even the very 
 legendary lore connected with it was familiar to 
 him. He could tell at a glance whether the milk 
 was fit to be churned or not ; how best " to rise 
 the cream," either in winter or summer ; whether 
 during the process of churning; the ambrosial 
 liquid was " broken" or not ; and whether it re- 
 quired hot water, or otherwise. 
 
 As to " hairing" the butter, we can state, on 
 the best authority, that he was always a steady 
 and consistent advocate for the old reaping-hook, 
 a point in which even we ourselves cordially agree 
 with him. He also insisted on its being washed 
 in cold water, until,' by frequent ablutions, the 
 water was perfectly pure, and as colourless as 
 when in the fountain. This, and the judicious 
 distribution of the salt wrought into it by the 
 clean healthy hand of the good woman, was, he 
 
6 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 asserted, a certain preventive to the pinroe, which 
 is only another name for speckled butter, a com- 
 modity known by our readers to be any thing but 
 a luxury ; and the cause of which is, that the salt 
 had not been equally distributed through it, nor the 
 water properly and thoroughly washed out of it. 
 He was a bitter enemy to witchcraft, especially to 
 that department of it which enabled old hags 
 by the aid of the devil — whom he detested more 
 for his adroitness in spoiling butter than for all his 
 other villanies put together — to mar the hopes 
 and neutralize the exertions of the farmer's honest 
 wife, on whose " liquid gold" her husband so 
 often depended for his rent. 
 
 The truth is, Barney was a genius in his way. 
 An ill-shaped miscaun was an abomination to him, 
 as much as if it had been too pale or too red, and 
 not the golden mean between them. Many a 
 time has he wished that " auld Fanny Barton" 
 might pay a visit to the cows of those who mis- 
 managed their dairies — a most wrathful and 
 vindictive wish, if the truth were known, which, 
 indeed, very few knew better than Barney himself. 
 And why ? Did he not see the white hare about 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 7 
 
 her cabin, often and often, during the very summer 
 that Ned Donnelly's cows were bewitched, and 
 could yield no milk that would produce any butter ? 
 Now not a living soul was better acquainted with 
 the charm that could bring the said Fanny to the 
 very house of the injured party " to ask for a bit 
 of fire," than Barney ; sure he knew, that when 
 Father Molloy was riding to a sick-call of a May 
 morning before sunrise, he saw Fanny pulling a 
 dozen tethers from different directions, and chant- 
 ing out in a sing-song tone of voice, " Come all 
 to me." And when the harmless priest, in the 
 simplicity of his heart, thinking, of course, that 
 she would not be apt to call for other than the 
 good things of this life, responded and said, "and 
 half to me ;" did he not find that his top-boots 
 were immediately filled with milk, and all his 
 dress, even to his very shirt, so completely satu- 
 rated with it, that by the time he reached the 
 sick-bed of the patient, owing to the rapidity with 
 which he rode, and the physical agitation re- 
 sulting from it, he was completely covered with 
 butter — a living cask ! 
 
 So much for Barney's domestic and legendary 
 
THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 knowledge of every thing connected with the 
 prose and poetry of butter-making. On this 
 subject he stuck to his father as closely, every 
 whit, as he did to his mother. From carrying the 
 auger, which was only an honorary office, he was 
 soon promoted to that of carrying the hammer, 
 and knocking the lids off the firkins. This was 
 all delightful to his heart ; but there was yet a 
 greater day for Ireland to come, and that was the 
 never-to-be-forgotten one on which he first be- 
 came butter-taster to his father. Right well was 
 he qualified for this, heaven knows ; but virtue 
 will have its reward. Many an experimental lick 
 did he give the auger, and many a furtive nibble 
 did he make at it when an opportunity occurred, 
 until, by secret practice and perseverance, he 
 gradually became, first his father's rival, and ulti- 
 mately his master. A genius, however, will be a 
 genius — that is a true axiom. In the progress of 
 time he grew distinguished — famous. A glance at 
 the auger, when drawn from the cask, was generally 
 enough for Barney. So much for the eye. But 
 the taste ! Surely it is sufficient to say, that ere 
 he reached the age of twenty years, he could de- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 9 
 
 termine the very soilupon tasting the butter, and 
 tell you at once whether the cows that produced 
 it were fed upon the rich " ramps" of Anketell's 
 grove, or occasionally browsed upon the fragrant 
 wild myrtles of Drumgau. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that with these accom- 
 plishments Barney would allow his genius to lie 
 inactive. The truth is, he loved butter in every 
 sense, and was as fond of eating it as of selling 
 it. Indeed, from his appearance, and his un- 
 questionable indications of good health, which is 
 said to be the parent of longevity, one might 
 almost imagine that the golden unguent, on which 
 he laid so hieavy a hand at meals, was nothing 
 else than the aurum patahile of the alchemystic 
 philosophers, in the efforts to discover which they 
 withered themselves off the earth, whilst it actually 
 teemed in abundance about them, just as we have 
 often seen many an old blockhead searching the 
 whole house for his pipe, and it all the time in his 
 mouth. His father, seeing that he was created 
 for no other purpose, advanced him, after a few 
 years, a small sum of money as capital, on which, 
 in addition to a windfall, to be heard of by and 
 
 B 2 
 
10 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 by, he commenced business in a spirit literally 
 exuberant with delight. 
 
 And now we must disclose to our readers an 
 untoward destiny that' followed Barney, and oc- 
 casioned him to be termed what is called in the 
 country " unlucky," — or, we should rather say, to 
 be remarkable, even from his boyhood up, for a 
 species of luck very difficult to be defined. 
 Scarcely any thing he ever put his hand to 
 prospered .with that healthy description of good 
 fortune which so frequently occurs to other men. 
 Yet, somehow, it still happened that amidst the 
 general sympathy usually expressed for his mis- 
 fortunes, he was able always to wind up the matter 
 with some happy and unexpected hit that more than 
 compensated him for all he lost or suffered. Still 
 the unfavourable character had gone abroad upon 
 him, and notwithstanding that he generally came 
 off, in the long run, as well, or perhaps better, 
 than if no disaster had befallen him, yet as the 
 ill-luck was sure to be blazoned about, whilst 
 perhaps very few were cognizant of the good, the 
 consequence was, that the idea of blunder, and 
 misfortune, and Barney Branagan, were insepa- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 11 
 
 rable. It was even with some apprehension that 
 his father advanced him the very small capital he 
 did — a circumstance which he put off from time 
 to time, until he saw that one of Barney's mis- 
 fortunes proved nearly sufficient to enable him, 
 without other assistance, to set up for himself. 
 
 Barney at this period was one and twenty 
 years of age, having served his father, as his 
 assistant, at least the term of a full apprenticeship. 
 Not that the old man ever trusted him during all 
 this time with the sale of a single cask, or suf- 
 fered him to see a seaport. He merely brought 
 him about through the neighbouring fairs and 
 markets to taste the butter, determine its quality, 
 and fix the price ; three duties which he per- 
 formed with the certainty of truth itself. Barney 
 was, therefore, not a travelled man, and had never 
 been more than about twenty miles from home in 
 his life. 
 
 But to give the reader a notion of the kind of 
 fortune which attended him, we will merely say, 
 that at cards, for instance, he was always the 
 object of ridicule, in consequence of the pro- 
 verbial ill-luck with which he was attended, until 
 
12 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 near the conclusion of the play, when fortune, 
 literally through his own blunders, enabled him to 
 carry off a greater share of the winnings than any 
 man present. He would play a card, for example, 
 which no one, at all acquainted with the game, 
 would think of playing : yet it almost always so fell 
 out, that in that instance this card was precisely 
 the only one that could win. Our readers may 
 have seen this. 
 
 But before we enter into the grand adventures 
 which befell him, during his first and only trip 
 to Dublin, we must recount the misfortunes 
 which, with his father's assistance, set him up 
 in the butter trade for himself. 
 
 It so happened that a neighbouring family, 
 named Cassidy, remarkable for a high degree of 
 integrity, and an unsullied reputation, were making 
 preparations to emigrate to America, in con- 
 sequence, principally, of repeated acts of wildness 
 and misconduct, which, in the person of one 
 of their sons, entailed upon them such shame 
 and disgrace as they did not wish to bear amono- 
 those who knew them so well. 
 
 Actuated by this motive, old Cassidy expressed 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 13 
 
 an intention, if his son's morals did not mend, 
 of going to America. This, to be sure, would 
 have been a painful step, especially to his wife, 
 who expressed and felt that singular attachment 
 to friends, and kindred, and country, which, 
 in a greater or less degree, no human being 
 is without. For a very short time, the son, on 
 hearing of this resolution, kept himself within 
 bounds, and certainly appeared to improve ; 
 in consequence of which, the emigration scheme 
 was actually abandoned ; but, alas, the re- 
 formation was only temporary — his licentious 
 conduct soon revived it, and made them determine 
 upon a step which they otherwise would not 
 have taken. 
 
 This unfortunate young man, who, by the 
 way, was well acquainted with Barney, had 
 repeatedly robbed and plundered them in so many 
 ways, that his father, in his own defence, was 
 at length compelled to prosecute him — a pro- 
 ceeding, indeed, very rare in Ireland, as is 
 also the conduct that occasioned it — which fact 
 caused it to be felt the more deeply. 
 
 The prosecution was conducted with as much 
 
14 
 
 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 lenity as possible ; notwithstanding which, the 
 son was sentenced to transportation for seven 
 years. The old man, however, who had not 
 expected this severe punishment, being struck 
 with remorse, petitioned in his favour, and by 
 the interest of his landlord and some other 
 gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who, upon his 
 solemn promises of amendment, interfered in 
 his behalf, his sentence was commuted to impri- 
 sonment, which was ultimately reduced to a period 
 comparatively short. 
 
 The society of a prison, however, had by 
 no means improved the young man's morals, for 
 he had not been long at liberty when he resumed 
 his old courses, especially his habit of gambling 
 — for this, by the way, was his great and besetting 
 sin. His parents, now despairing of his refor- 
 mation, resolved to dispose of their property, 
 and with the hope of his amendment on a 
 new scene, and at a distance from his evil com- 
 panions, to cross the broad Atlantic, in order 
 to avoid the open shame which he caused them. 
 
 Such, for some months after his liberation, 
 was their terror of his propensity to plunder 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 15 
 
 them, that his father kept no money in the 
 house, but lodged it in the hands of his landlord, 
 until he was ahout to take his departure from 
 the country. His mother, who had a private 
 purse of her own, did not follow this prudent 
 example, although it will be admitted that she 
 secreted it in a place to which no suspicion 
 could possibly attach. 
 
 One portion of their object in making this 
 journey, however, was frustrated by the firm 
 refusal of their offending son to accompany them. 
 No argument, no entreaty, no threat, could 
 prevail on him to do so. For this unwarrantable 
 conduct he assigned no motive ; but that did 
 not prevent those who heard of it from finding 
 one, the general opinion being that he was 
 too closely knit by the iniquitous bond of a 
 bad habit to his wicked and profligate associates. 
 It was in vain that the father threatened to leave 
 him behind pennyless, unless he abandoned his 
 companions and put himself imder the control 
 of his family. This he would not do ; and, 
 as his parents actually felt strong attachment 
 to him, they thought that, by allowing him to 
 
16 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 know what it was to want a home in their absence, 
 they took the most eiFectual steps to compel 
 him, from necessity, to express an anxiety, ere 
 long, to follow them. 
 
 At length the evening previous to their 
 departure arrived, and two carts were loaded 
 with trunks, beds, bedding, &c. &c. ready to 
 start by daybreak the next morning, and bid 
 adieu to the land of their birth, their living 
 kindred, and the ashes of their slumbering 
 forefathers for ever. Before matters had arrived 
 thus far, however, an act had been perpetrated 
 upon them of a character much more mitigated 
 than any in which their son had been involved 
 before. In truth,: it was less his act than that 
 of his brothers and sisters, who planned it for 
 his behoof. But be that as it may, it was the 
 cause of inflicting a, prima facie bite upon Barney, 
 and that in what he conceived to be the invul- 
 nerable part of him — his acuteness as a butter 
 buyer. 
 
 In order that our readers may understand 
 this incident the better, we feel it necessary 
 to give the following unique dialogue which took 
 
BAIINEY BRANAGAN. 17 
 
 place between our friend Little Barney and his 
 dissolute acquaintance on the day just alluded 
 
 to. The two companions were seated in a small 
 shebeen-house, about half way between their re- 
 spective residences, with a second half pint of 
 whiskey before them, having already drank a first, 
 in a spirit of cordiality, awakened into a wider 
 range of feeling by the circumstances which had 
 occasioned them to meet. The mood of mind 
 on Cassidy's part was indeed one that embraced 
 many changes of thought, and these, apparently, 
 of an opposite character. He was a young 
 man whose leading vice was, as we have said, 
 an inextinguishable love of gambling under all its 
 varieties. Naturally or constitutionally dishonest 
 he certainly was not. On the contrary, amidst 
 all his recklessness, there were flashes of honour 
 — of generosity — and evidences of feeling about 
 him, which many of his sober and prudent friends 
 were astonished at. 
 
 " Come, Barney, take your liquor, it'll be 
 the last we'll drink together for some time — 
 we may call it doch an dhurrus — for, like that, 
 
18 THE MISFORTUNES OE 
 
 it's a glass at parting — take it off, man, I want 
 to soften you at all events." 
 
 "An' is that the raison you wish me to take 
 it off. Jack?" replied Barney, not much flattered 
 by the motive which the other annexed to the 
 wish. 
 
 " Partly it is, Barney, and partly it is not 
 — you know I'd not grudge you a jorum any 
 time — and many a good one I gave you before 
 now, although I don't think it's likely I ever 
 will again — devil may care — for I don't." 
 
 "Faith an' you did. Jack; I'm not the boy 
 to deny it; an' did you ever knewn jnyself to 
 skulk from my glass ?" 
 
 " Devil a bit, Barney ; no matter who paid 
 for it," said the other, interrupting him, and 
 laughing. 
 
 " I mane," continued Barney, "to skulk from 
 pay in for it myself, no matther who dlirank it 
 either. Jack, my boy." 
 
 " There's no denying it, Barney, your heart 
 was never in it." 
 
 "Why, then, give us the hand, Jack; and 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. , 19 
 
 here's that we may moisten our clay often together 
 yet." 
 
 " I won't be clerk to that, Barney ; when 
 they go, my face will never be seen in this 
 parish or within many a mile of it. I'm not 
 the man to stay here merely to put the people 
 in mind that it was my conduct drove them from 
 their own home to seek their fortune in a strange 
 land. The people think me bad — and bad I 
 am — but not so bad as that comes to." 
 
 " Oh, Jack achora — had you thought of that 
 sooner ; 'tisn't " 
 
 " Stop," returned the other, fiercely. " I 
 refused the advice of them that— of her that's 
 going away' now with a sorrowful heart — and 
 don't think I'll sit here listening to lectures 
 from you or any one else." 
 
 " I spoke in kindness. Jack." 
 
 " I know you did ; but there's a time, Barney, 
 when such kindness is cruelty, and I wish people 
 could know as much ; ay, is there — a time 
 when advice ought to get the adviser kicked 
 for his pains — ha, ha, ha ! — I know it well." 
 
 " Well, there may be something in that, too," 
 
20 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 rejoined Barney, whose limited experience, com- 
 parative ignorance of nature, and utter want 
 of education, prevented him from understanding 
 the truth contained in Cassidy's observations. 
 " But, Jack, what do you intend to do, if it's 
 a fair question ?" 
 
 " To leave this neighbourhood, in the first 
 place — after that I don't know — and not to give 
 you an ill answer, Barney, I don't care." 
 
 " Come, come. Jack, it's distressing to me 
 to hear you speak that way — you're yet a young 
 man, an' it's not too late to mend — you may 
 be a dacent man yet; an'. Jack, I'll tell you 
 what, I'd advise you " 
 
 " Barney, I'll not hear this, so quit of it," 
 replied the other, his temper again rising. 
 
 "Hut, man alive," returned honest Barney; 
 *' to the divil wid such looks ; knit your brows at 
 some one else ; do you think they'd make me 
 afeard ? Be the vestment, when I have a friend 
 that I like, I'll advise him as I think fit ; ay, an' 
 whenever I think he stands in need of it." 
 
 " Don't look upon me as your friend, then ; 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 21 
 
 it'll be safer for you not, at least if you're bent 
 on advising me." 
 
 " I tell you, Jack, to your teeth that I loill 
 look upon you as my fHend — an' whether it's 
 agreeable to you or not I don't care a single 
 traneen — divil resave the one rap farden. If I 
 could sarve you I'd do it, but don't think to bully 
 me. When I ought to advise you I will." 
 
 " If I choose not to get angry with you, don't 
 imagine it's because I'm afraid of you — big as 
 3'ou are I believe I'm a better man — I could drub 
 you well, Barney." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you what," replied our friend, 
 *' many's the time there was wagers held about 
 us, that you wor the best man, and that 
 I was the best man — an'. Jack achora, you 
 know you haven't a truer friend alive than I 
 am ; but as you spoke of it — why before we 
 part — an' maybe it is the last time we'll ever 
 see one another more — give us your hand, man 
 alive, — bad luck to it what's wrong wid my voice 
 — many a pleasant hour we spent together. Jack" 
 — here his eyes got absolutely moist — "an' as 
 you spake of it, an' as there's nobody present to 
 
22 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 prevent us, why I'd like that we had a round or 
 two in friendship before we part— in friendship 
 an' fair play, Jack achora, if you've no ob- 
 jection." 
 
 The other smiled, and finishing off his glass 
 hastily, replied with a bitter recklessness of 
 manner which Barney understood not, 
 
 " Barney, you never knew me to spoil sport 
 yet, and by japers I will not now. Peel off, and 
 whichever knocks the other down, will help him 
 up and take no advantage." 
 
 " I thought you knew who you wor spakin to," 
 replied Barney reproachfully. " Fair play an' 
 
 hard hittin's the word — an' blood alive, aren't 
 
 we friends any how, Jack ?" 
 
 Truth to say, a battle conducted upon more 
 original or Irish principles was never recorded 
 out of our own green isle. Each fought with a 
 heartiness which proceeded neither from a sordid 
 eagerness to win money, nor from a feeling of 
 personal resentment, but purely from a love of 
 victory, or from the kindred principle of wishing 
 to ascertain before their final separation which 
 was the better man. Four rounds had already 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 23 
 
 come off, in which each received two clean knocks 
 down — Barney by the way having got the last — 
 when Cassidy, whose blows were yet ringing in 
 the ears, and dancing in brilliant stars before the 
 eyes of our friend, put out his hand, exclaiming — 
 " That is enough, Barney, it is foolish work this 
 — I will fight no more." 
 
 " Bug abounds, why ?" said Barney, at the 
 same time shaking his head with any thing but a 
 pleasant sensation, " sure we're as much in the 
 dark as ever." 
 
 " Barney, I give up that you're the best man — 
 at any rate we'll fight no more." 
 
 " Be heaventhers, but you don't give up," re- 
 plied the other ; " an' as to me bein' the best 
 man, I have strong doubts of it." 
 
 " You are," replied Cassidy, " I admit it." 
 " Be the contints o' the book, I don't think it— 
 an' I'll tell you what, Jack, here's a pound note ; 
 now I'll hould you that paper" — laying it down 
 with^a slap on the table — " that fight fair on both 
 sides — fair an' honest — I'm a beaten man ; come. 
 Jack achora, go on wid it — if you haven't the 
 money I'll lend it to you — blood ahve, come." 
 
24 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " No," said Cassidy, " I will not, and you 
 may know very well, Barney, it's not the shame 
 of being beaten that prevents me ; for, Barney, 
 many a good man might think it no disgrace to be 
 beaten by you ; but it's this— and if 1 had thought 
 of it before, I wouldn't have fought — you know I 
 must see my mother once before the family goes. 
 I have caused her sorrow enough, God knows, 
 let alone appearing before her maybe with a 
 broken face, or a black eye — the blackguard's 
 coat-of-arms. No, I'll not run the risk ; so, 
 Barney, that's what prevents me." 
 
 Barney instantly sat down, and turned upon , 
 his companion a long look, expressive at once of 
 kindness and honest sympathy. " Give us your 
 hand, Jack," said he, and he squeezed it with no 
 ordinary grip j " Jack, I honour you for that — it's 
 over ; we will fight no more. The mother !" he 
 proceeded, speaking as much to himself as to the 
 other ; " poor fellow, in spite of all his follies, 
 he loves her still, ay, an' respects her for all 
 they say and said about him. Be the powers the 
 
 heart of him's in the right place yet an' Jack I 
 
 always knewn as much. Come, let us put an us 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 25 
 
 an' have another half pint, we've both hard 
 heads, an' it can't do us any harm." 
 
 They accordingly did so, and the conversation 
 went on as follows : — 
 
 " I don't know, Barney, how I can look her 
 in the face. The money she gave me privately 
 to prevent me from want in their absence, and to 
 bring me to England, as she said, and to support 
 me there till I might get employment — that 
 money I lost — gambling !" 
 
 " Bad luck to the same gambling; it was it 
 that made you what you — that ruined you." 
 
 " Well," said Cassidy, filling his glass rapidly, 
 while his eye gleamed with a fire which was not 
 that of intoxication; "here's perdition to the son 
 that can break a mother's heart, and bring shame 
 upon a loving father and an honest family — to the 
 son that sees his follies and can't mend them! 
 Off with it, Barney, it's a fair toast. Why, are 
 you frightened ? — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Dang me," replied Barney, " but I like a 
 laugh to be natural any how." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you then," proceeded Cassidy, 
 " I must see my mother, for she wishes it; and I 
 
 VOL. III. c 
 
26 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 must still be a hypocrite and a thief that is, a 
 thief of the property of my own family. Did 
 ever any body dare to " 
 
 He looked fiercely at his companion, and his 
 eye gleamed. Barney understood him at once. 
 "Never," said he, " never ; even your worst 
 enemy never said you touched any thing that 
 didn't belong to your own." 
 
 " My worst enemy ! that is myself — well, no 
 matter, I must go on. It is a poor, miserable, 
 mean shift ; not one of them except ^my youngest 
 sister, Alice, but thinks, that is suspects, and 
 very truly too, that the money my mother gave 
 me is gone. May God bless her, but gone it is." 
 
 " Well, Jack achora, don't be cast down ; 
 it's" not goin' away wid empty pockets upon the 
 
 wide world that I'd pull round the table a 
 
 bit till I get my leg out from undher it. Bad 
 luck to you, Billy Cormick, that made these 
 breeches, for it's half a day's labour to get any 
 thing I have in the pockets of them — barrin' whin 
 I'm standin' up — no, be me sowl. Jack, if nobody 
 else stands to you, I will. Name what'll do you, 
 an' if I haven't it here I can get it — save an' 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. ' 27 
 
 except always that you'll take the five crasses 
 never to lay out a penny of it gamblin'." 
 
 " I might easily swear that, Barney, and slip 
 through it without your being the wiser ; but I 
 will take no such oath, and for this reason, that 
 the very first thing I would do would be most 
 likely to break it. If you earned it honestly, 
 that is no reason why / should spend it like a 
 villain. I will not take it. No ; but listen — my 
 brothers and sisters have joined in a little plan of 
 their own for my advantage." 
 
 He then proceeded to detail the circumstances, 
 which were these : — The country,^ as we have 
 stated, was a pastoral one, so that both the rents 
 and profits of the land arose principally from the 
 sale of butter. Cassidy's father having been an 
 extensive fai'mer, had in his possession, at the 
 period we write of, several firkins of that commo- 
 dity, which he deemed it more advantageous to 
 bring to the port from whence he was about to 
 sail, and there dispose of at a better advantage 
 than he could at home ; all which was very right 
 and proper. Cassidy's brothers and sisters, how- 
 ever, softened by their separation from him, and 
 
28 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 their suspicion that he was in fact pennyless, agreed 
 to abstract a firkin for him, or rather to connive at 
 his doing so — the proceeds of which they hoped 
 might support him until he gained, in some other 
 part of the country, that employment which he 
 could not expect to obtain where he was known. 
 For this purpose a cask, partially filled with earth 
 had been procured, exactly resembling the others, 
 and which was substituted in the place of the one 
 abstracted ; and so anxious were they that no 
 discovery of the circumstance should then take 
 place, that the fictitious cask was marked exactly 
 similar to the one taken, which had four deep 
 nicks opposite each other on the extreme edges 
 of the mouth, and just above where the lid fits 
 into it. 
 
 " Now, Barney," he proceeded, after having 
 detailed what we have written, " the thing I want 
 you to do is, to buy the cask, so that I may be 
 out of the neighbourhood as soon as they, or rather 
 before them." 
 
 " Where is it ?" said the other. 
 
 " In this house," replied Cassidy. " I brought 
 it over last night, and that was what made me 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 29 
 
 send word to you to meet me here. You must 
 take it by the eye or by a guess at the weight, for 
 we have no means of knowing what it weighs. 
 Give me whatever you think a fair price and I'll 
 be satisfied, for I l^now you're a judge," 
 
 Barney was dehghted at having his judgment 
 appealed to in a matter which he considered pro- 
 fessional, and immediately demanded to see the 
 firkin. 
 
 " I will tell you within a pound and a half o' 
 the weight," said he, " ay, by the elevens, within 
 less — blood alive, I have corrected the market- 
 crane before now, an' as to the quality of it, I 
 would know the taste of your mother's butther on 
 the point of the Tappit mountain. I never knew 
 her to make a ' second^ barrin' a bare firkin out 
 of thirteen, wanst about three years ago, an' 
 my father, sooner than break squares wid an ould 
 customer, took it as a ''first' But come, Jack, 
 shov/ it, and for ould acquaintance sake, dang me 
 but I'll take it as ' first' too." 
 
 Barney's generosity in fact was up. On cast- 
 ing a glance at the cask, he guessed its weight, 
 and scorned to look at the butter itself, or ascer- 
 
30 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 tain its flavour. Promptly and with the spirit of 
 a man who felt gratified at having it in his power 
 to oblige his friend, he immediately pulled out his 
 purse and handed over the amount, according to 
 his own calculation. Cassidy very naturally began 
 to reckon the money after him, but Barney hastily 
 gathered it up from the table, and thrust it into 
 his waistcoat pocket exclaiming — • 
 
 " There, man alive, put it up — confound 
 countin' atween friends — my hand to you, I didn't 
 chate you — here, hould your pocket. Jack achora 
 — in wid it — no, now — divil resave the reckon you'll 
 reckon it this bout, as if you mistrusted me ! 
 Hut ! faith this is not over civil." 
 
 All his eloquence, however, v/as lost; take the 
 money Cassidy would not without knowing its 
 amount. Not that he doubted him, but on the 
 contrary, suspected that Barney was literally play- 
 ing him a knave's trick on the generous side. 
 Indeed it is an unquestionable fact that when an 
 Irishman in humble life wishes, in the performance 
 of a generous act, to spare the feelings of the 
 person on whom the generosity is conferred he 
 looks very often more like a real impostor than a 
 
BAUNliY BRANAGAN. 31 
 
 real impostor would, and when detected, exhibits 
 all the confusion and apparent consciousness of 
 undeniable guilt. Cassidy, on reckoning the 
 mone}^, found that he was three pounds overpaid, 
 a circamstance which he certainly suspected, 
 although he knew not to what amount. 
 
 And now commenced a contest between the two 
 friends, which was more likely, so far as Barney 
 was concerned, to decide the undetermined point of 
 their respective superiority in personal prowess 
 than any circumstance which had taken place be- 
 tween them for years. 
 
 " If 1 would take it from any man, I would 
 from you, Barney; but I won't; I'm above that ?/eL" 
 "You, a friend," replied Barney, with some- 
 thing like disdain ; " an' you call that friendship. 
 To the divil wid such friendship ; I despise it. 
 Jack, take the money, achora ; sure if it was only 
 
 to remimber me by " 
 
 " No — no, Barney, I can't — I couldn't. You 
 don't know how I feel — nobody but myself does ; 
 don't ask me." 
 
 " Well, as a keepsake, I ask ; sure, blood alive, 
 you wouldn't refuse me that." 
 
32 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Indeed I must, Barney; and you're only dis- 
 tressing me." 
 
 "What, not as a keepsake ! nor for the sake of 
 ould times ! !" 
 
 " No, Barney — I can't easily forget you." 
 " An' you call that friendship ? To blazes wid 
 it. Be the vestment, the dacent thing I'm afeard 
 isn't in you afther all." 
 
 " Barney, don't be angry ; if you knew what I 
 feel — my state of mind — I'm sure you wouldn't be 
 angry." 
 
 " Be the heaventhers alive. Jack, I have but 
 one opinion of you, an' that's no great shakes. I 
 was desaved in you. For the robbin' of your 
 father, any honest boy might do that — I stole ten 
 tenpennies myself out of my mother's pocket once 
 to buy a hat — an' who had a betther right to steal 
 it than I had ? — an' what signifies that ? But to re- 
 fuse a friend — Jack achora, don't vex me — take 
 the money." 
 
 " Barney, pass my conduct to my father over, 
 if you're wise. Would you wish to drive me mad ? 
 You forget that after this night it's not likely 
 I'll ever see him more, or one belono-ino- to me 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. - 33 
 
 that I care about. Pass that over, Barney ; I'm 
 careless — Fm vexed — I'm nearly mad/' 
 
 " But you'll want money when they're gone, an' 
 whm you'll have no friend near you. Where's the 
 use of friendship if you desave me this way ? Is 
 this the treatment I desarve from you? If I had 
 often axed you, or lent you money before, there 
 might be raison in your refusin' it ; but you know 
 5'^ourself it's the first favour I ever axed you, an' if 
 you refuse me, I'll think the less of you the longest 
 day I have to live. Take it well or ill — the divil 
 resave the farden I care whether you do or not. 
 If it was worth refusin', you might have some ex- 
 cuse ; but only three bare pounds." 
 
 " Barney, listen " 
 
 " No — divil the word I'll listen to — if, as I said, 
 it was worth refusin' ; but stop, achora, I'll soon 
 mend that ; give me an hour — that is till I go 
 home, and I'll soon mend it — I'll double it. Will 
 that plaise you ?" 
 
 " Barney, it's not money — God knows it's not 
 money I'm thinking of." 
 
 " Answer me, would that plaise you ?" 
 
 " No — money I won't take/' 
 
 c 2 
 
34 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Why, thin, you may go to the black gate, your 
 own way. Faith I'm afeard you're no better than 
 yoxi're spoken of. I've thried you, Jack, an' 
 you're not the thing. When every tongue was 
 against you, I fought your battle ; but afther this 
 what can I say for you? You're hopeless — 
 you're hopeless. It's the divil. Jack, to see you 
 gone to the bad this way." 
 
 " Well, Barney," said Cassidy, with a smile 
 that was full of sorrow which he could barely 
 repress, "give me your hand, an' good-by — we 
 may meet again, and we may not." 
 
 " Ay," said Barney ; " but you know. Jack, 
 that this wasn't the treatment I desarved from you 
 now at any rate. Well, I'll miss you, too ; if it 
 was only hearing you take off the way Beal Cam 
 Heuston speaks, an' walkin' like Jaimsay Boc- 
 cach — divil a face in the parish but you could 
 put on you, even to Tully Eye's squint. 
 Well, well ! Throth it's a poor world afther all, 
 when people must part this way. Now, Jack 
 achora " 
 
 " Good-by, Barney,— give me your hand— I 
 know what you're worth — well I know your ster- 
 
BARNEY BRANAG.VN. 35 
 
 ling value ; but, to me, all is dark — I have 
 brought them — God bless you !" 
 
 He dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, 
 and turned away from his friend as he spoke. In 
 a moment, however, he appeared quite calm ; and 
 again approaching Barney, he shook him by the 
 hand and bid him good by. ' ' ' 
 
 " God almighty for ever bless you. Jack," said 
 Barney, and he could scarcely articulate the 
 words. " It might be cruel now to advise you." 
 The other wrung his hand, and gave him a depre- 
 cating look. " But, oh, Jack achora ! — from me 
 — take this from me, as it's all you will take — ^ 
 think of the mother's heart, an' of the father's — 
 and how they loved you — an' how all the rest, 
 brothers an' sisters, an' all — and how you wor once 
 their pride an' their hope." 
 
 Barney on looking at him was surprised at the 
 brightness of his eyes, and thought that as he was 
 now softened there could be no better opportunity to 
 press the money on him once more. How much 
 was he mistaken ! 
 
 "Jack," said he, putting his hand into his 
 
36 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 breeches' pocket,—" Jack achora, jist let me slip 
 this into your waistcoat " 
 
 " D — n yourself and your money," exclaimed 
 Cassidy, with something almost approaching to 
 fury ; " it's not you or it I'm thinking of." 
 
 Barney, however, had the drop in, and was not 
 to be bullied, as he called it, by any man. ^ 
 
 " D — n yourself, then," he retorted, " and 
 your temper, too ; who cares about you, if you 
 go to that?" 
 
 " Go home," replied the other ; " you're a 
 kind-hearted goose, and that's all." 
 
 " An' you're a blessed patthern to folly, may 
 be," rejoined Barney. 
 
 "Give me your hand," said the other; "if 
 I stop longer with you I will lose my temper in 
 spite of myself. Farewell, you great good na- 
 tured fool." 
 
 " Well," replied Barney, " if you go to that, 
 God be with you, you blackguard ! You see 1 
 can command myself and speak civil as well as 
 another." 
 
 And thus, in a mood of mind which we defy 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 37 
 
 all the metaphysicians in existence to define, did 
 one of the most original of all separations between 
 two of as queer friends as ever lived take place. 
 Barney, when he saw that Cassidy was actually 
 gone, wiped his eyes ; and having put the notes 
 once more into his pocket, could not help ex- 
 claiming, somewhat in the same key, " God Al- 
 mighty bless the unfortunate rap — any how, he 
 is no friend to himself , so he isn't, or he wouldn't 
 refuse the money. May the heavens keep him 
 from evil, 'tany rate, and that he may never live 
 to see his own funeral, the poor scamp, as was so 
 often prophesized for him, I pray Jasus, this 
 day !" 
 
 And with this purest and most unmixed of 
 apostrophes, did he put on his hat and turn his 
 steps, which were not a whit the steadier for the 
 drink, towards his father's house. 
 
38 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The next evening Barney returned for the butter 
 cask ; and never did mortal man suffer from a 
 burthen if he did not from this. The weisrht of 
 it — which, by the way, knocked up all his powers 
 of calculation completely — had, by the time he 
 reached home, nearly broken his back ; and such 
 was the state of perspiration and exhaustion in 
 which he felt himself, that he could scarcely find 
 breath to speak. He deposited it, however, in 
 his bed-room, went to bed, and slept soundly until 
 morning. After breakfast he resolved to ascertain 
 the quality of his purchase. What, however, 
 was his astonishment when, on making the experi- 
 ment, the point of the auger was met about half-way 
 down the firkin by some hard substance which re- 
 sembled a stone. His face, indeed, would have 
 been a study, but so would not have been the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 39 
 
 oaths which flew out of his lips thick and three- 
 fold agaiiist his boson friend, Cassidy. But what 
 now could he do ? The family were many miles 
 on their journey, and it was not likely that Jack, 
 to whom he imputed the trick, would ever return 
 to the neighbourhood again. 
 
 " The blackguard," he exclaimed, looking rue- 
 fully at the firkin, " to trate me this way ! but, 
 nabocklish ! maybe I may shake hands wid him 
 yet ; if I do, we'll soon decide who's the best 
 man, any way. It's not that I'd care so much 
 either ; for I'd a given him more than it all 
 comes to ; but the thruth was, I thought him 
 betther than half reformed, the hypocrite ! An' 
 that's the man I cried for when we wor partin' !" 
 
 The truth is, he felt very much ashamed at 
 the imposition which had been, as was very 
 natural for him to think, so villanously practised 
 upon him, and the butter lay there for very near 
 a month before he examined it again. At length 
 he imagined it was full time to see what could 
 be done with it, it being of no use to him as it 
 stood ; and with this purpose he washed his hands, 
 stripped himself to the elbows, and began to re- 
 
40 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 move the contents of the cask. His fears 
 were indeed justified. One half the vessel was 
 filled with what the Scotch term a round hard 
 whinstone, as weighty almost as lead, but for what 
 purpose it could have been put there, either by 
 Cassidy or any one else, he could not imagine. 
 Be this as it may, he felt that he was bit, and 
 that the bargain he had made was one of his 
 usual pieces of good fortune. As it was, how- 
 ever, he removed the stone by turning up the 
 bottom of the firkin, when, judge of his astonish- 
 ment on seeing a false bottom fall out, under 
 which was visible a layer of butter, covered with 
 yellow guineas to the amount of sixty-three. This, 
 in truth, was the cask in which the farmer's wife 
 had secreted her private purse, and which she 
 evidently intended to bring with the family to 
 America ; the butter being, we imagine, intended 
 for their use, and the stone put in to prevent its 
 being sold in mistake. 
 
 Thus once more was Barney visited by one 
 of his peculiar hits, and which, had he bought 
 any other of the casks, could not have occurred 
 to him as it did. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 41 
 
 Barney, on making this discovery, considered 
 himself bound to transmit this money to those 
 who had the proper claim upon it, as soon, at 
 least, as their residence abroad could be ascer- 
 tained; or he would have given five pounds out 
 of his pocket to have discovered Jack — vv'ho now 
 stood acquitted of fraud — to whom, as the re- 
 presentative of the family, he would gladly have 
 restored it. In the meantime, for the present 
 he might without much hesitation bring into prac- 
 tical effect a little appropriation clause of his own, 
 especially as he held himself bound in conscience 
 to return it whenever he could find an oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 Little Barney's family and friends became in 
 time so well satisfied of the successful calamities 
 which befell him, that he was sometimes requested 
 to undertake the transaction of their business 
 and the sale of their property and effects. This 
 confidence, however, was but short-lived, for they 
 soon found that however the good luck and the 
 bad might be blended in his case, it uniformly 
 turned out that whilst the latter only fell to their 
 share, fortune always enabled Barney somehow 
 
42 THE MISFOllTUNES OF 
 
 to retain the benefits of the former to' himself. 
 The history of a transaction which he undertook 
 to manage for an uncle of his at the good man's 
 earnest solicitation, about two years or three 
 after this period, will enable our readers to com- 
 prehend more clearly the nature of the antithetical 
 fortune to which we allude. 
 
 " Barney, avick," said his uncle, " I want 
 you to gp away into the market of Kilscaddaun, 
 and sell me thim two loads of whate. I know 
 you're an unlucky boy, so you are, to trust any 
 thing to, but somehow or other you get out of a 
 thing, Barney, dacently enough, if not a little 
 betther, avick, than wiser and luckier people. 
 So you see, hit or miss, I'll try you this bout." 
 
 "Why, uncle, is it beside yourself you are, 
 to go to trust your whate wid sich a misfortunate 
 brineoge as I am? Sure, my sowl to happiness, 
 don't you know that nothin' goes right wid the 
 same little Barney ?" 
 
 He here screwed his mouth, which, taken in 
 conjunction with his nose, somewhat resembled 
 the bill of a parrot, and gave a peculiarly signifi- 
 cant glance at his uncle. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 43 
 
 " Don't be foolish, uncle, but get some one 
 that's not unlucky to do what you want, Arrah ! 
 get yourself, man ; who's fitther to do it ? Sorra 
 the grain o' your whate myself 'ill be accoun- 
 table for." 
 
 " Divil a matther, Barney, I'll try you any 
 how." 
 
 " But I tell you I won't be accountable ; and 
 it's as purty a piece o' feasthalagh* as ever I see, 
 to ax me." 
 
 " I don't want you to be accountable — sell the 
 whate if you can, and, good luck or bad luck, I'll 
 take the upshot without any blame to you — bug-a- 
 bounds, sure that's fair." 
 
 Barney scratched under his hat for a moment, 
 his face exhibiting the combined expression of a 
 grin and a puzzle. 
 
 " Well, well," he replied, " since I must, I 
 must, an' sorra to the one if myself doesn't think 
 that there's pishtrogues] over you, or how the 
 puck it could come into your head to send me, 
 the onluckiest gorsoon in the barony, to sell your 
 
 * Nonsense. f An evil spell. 
 
44 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 whate, I don't know— either that, or you're takin' 
 lave o' your senses altogether. Now mind, I 
 do this at your own risk, not at mine.' 
 
 " I know that, avick— so come early in the 
 mornin' and I'll have the two carts in readiness 
 for you — an' you needn't ait your breakfast till 
 you do come. We'll give you a stretch at the 
 new male." 
 
 Barney, in pursuance of this arrangement, 
 was at an early hour on his way to the town of 
 Kilscaddaun, his carts creaking under two heavy 
 loads of his uncle's wheat. 
 
 Now it happened that the said Kilscaddaun, 
 in consequence of its distance, which was that of 
 a day's journey, was not the town to which the 
 farmers of the neighbourhood were in the habit 
 of resorting for the disposal of their property. 
 It was, however, a considerable seaport, where 
 agricultural produce could be sold to much greater 
 advantage than in the small inland towns near 
 them. 
 
 The day was fine for the season, and Barney 
 jogged on at his ease — sometimes crooning over 
 the remnant of an old song, and occasionally 
 
BVRNEY BRANAGAN. 45 
 
 treating himself to a whistle. The evening now 
 began to set in, and on inquiry he learned that 
 Kilscaddaun was not distant more than a couple 
 of miles, so that he would arrive a little before 
 the close of night, just in sufficient time to see 
 his horses and carts properly put up and secured 
 with daylight. 
 
 The truth is, that this was the first 
 attempt at a bargain he had ever made on 
 any other business than butter buying, and he 
 felt considerable anxiety that no blunder or over- 
 sight on his part should happen, especially as he 
 knew that the property he had in charge was not 
 his own. Nor can we omit hinting, that he was 
 seized by a certain degree of caution, not to say 
 timidity — for this that we relate occurred before 
 he became a butter merchant — lest one or more of 
 these swindlers or thieves with which such towns 
 as Kilscaddaun usually abound, should think 
 proper to avail themselves of his inexperience, 
 and play off some villanous prank upon him for 
 that very reason. Forewarned, however, is half 
 armed, and Little Barney resolved to keep such a 
 sharp look out on each side of him as might 
 
46 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 prevent himself from being victimized by the class 
 of gentry he dreaded. 
 
 The individual from whom he inquired his 
 distance from the town was, as far as he could 
 judge, a person in whom he might place such a 
 slight degree of confidence as amounted to merely 
 mentioning the object of his journey — which, by 
 the way, required no prophet to find out — and the 
 additional fact that, being rather a stranger in 
 the town, he knew not exactly the best carman's 
 inn at which to stop. The man was a stout, 
 unshaved, honest-looking small-farmer, dressed in 
 a gray frieze coat and breeches, the knees of the 
 latter open. He wore his neckerchief tied in a 
 loose schoolboy's knot, had a large bundle in one 
 hand, and aided himself, for he seemed fatigued, 
 by leaning on a staff which he carried in the 
 other. As their dialogue upon the occasion of 
 their meeting was brief, we may as well detail it 
 to our readers : — 
 
 "God save you, neighbour! you're for the 
 market I suppose ?" inquired Barney. 
 
 " Throth am I. God save you kindly," replied 
 the stranger. '* So are you, T think ?" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 47 
 
 "Thrue for you. Isn't this blessed weather, 
 glory be to God ?" 
 
 " A darlin' coorse o' weather as ever was seen, 
 the Lord be praised ! ^ Betther I doubt than 
 we desarve, neighbour." 
 
 "Hut, no," returned Barney; "sure God 
 knows best — and if it was, we wouldn't get it — 
 it's an ould sayin', that God rewards every man 
 according to his works." 
 
 " Ay," replied his fellow-traveller — " so they 
 say — of course it's true, too — either in this world 
 or the next — we get betther than we desarve, 
 often." 
 
 " And sometimes more than we desarve, too," 
 said our friend with a slight grin, produced by 
 some secret allusion of his own, which our readers 
 must conjecture for themselves. 
 
 During this brief and very harmless, if not 
 somewhat devout conversation between the two 
 strangers, it might have been observed that each 
 threw from time to time a glance at the other 
 so absolutely marked by an appearance of down- 
 right simplicity, that the imposition, if such they 
 intended it, was perfectly successful. 
 
48 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " This is an honest poor fellow, if one can 
 
 judge from his look«," thought our gorsoon— 
 
 " any how, I don't care if I give him share of 
 
 a dandy, when we get to the town — if I like him" 
 
 — a piece of generosity which, if we look to the 
 
 condition annexed, was by no means pledging 
 
 himself to its fulfilment. 
 
 The other glanced at him, and from the look 
 
 of subdued satisfaction which might he read 
 
 upon his features, he appeared to chuckle inwardly 
 
 at having met with him. 
 
 They again reconnoitered each other with a 
 glance that actually savoured of modesty on 
 both sides, if we may be allowed to stretch a 
 metaphor so far. 
 
 " I think we must be near Kilscaddaun by 
 this," observed the wheat-merchant. 
 
 " I haven't been often in the same town 
 myself," replied the stranger, "but as near as I 
 can guess, about two bare miles. And now, 
 neighbour, I'm goin' to ax a favour of you, — 
 God forgive you, if you're not what you look, 
 but I'll trust your face, for I think it's an honest 
 one. You see the .truth is this, I have a trifle of 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 49 
 
 money about me, four pound ten in notes, and 
 eight and three ha'pence in change ; no faiks, 
 I had a penny rowl, and a pint o' porther, at the 
 nine-raile-house out o' the change. But no matther, 
 I have four pound ten in notes about me, and I'm 
 puzzled where to find an honest house that a 
 poor man would be safe in." 
 
 " There's no danger wid this customer," thought 
 Barney. " Be me sowl, that's more than Td tell 
 a black stranger on the king's highway, no matter 
 what he was. Hut ! he's a gommach." 
 
 " Faith, neighbour," he rephed, '* we might 
 run in a chaise together on that point. The 
 divil o' one o' myself but knows as httle of the 
 town as you do — an' that's why I'm so onaisy to 
 get in while we have daylight, — that I may be able 
 to look about me, and put up in a dacent house." 
 
 " I know," said his fellow-traveller, " that 
 there's a carman's inn somewhere, called the Fox- 
 and-Geese, where a brother-in-law of mine 
 always stops. I forget the name of the street, 
 but I suppose we can make it out. Not that my 
 mind's made up to go there myself, bekase I'm 
 tould by him its purty sharp in the charges, but 
 
 VOL. III. ' D 
 
50 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 then it's the safest, he says, in the town. They 
 have three men up every night, watchin' the 
 place, so that nothin' can happen, any how." 
 
 " That's our ground," said Barney, who looked 
 upon his companion as rather a simple man. 
 " Take my advice and go to where you'll be safe, 
 even although it may be a thrifle dearer." 
 
 " Divil may care then," replied his companion ; 
 *' sure enough you're right, the safe place is the 
 chaipest, and the one of us will give the other 
 courage you see, bein' both of us together." 
 
 It was accordingly arranged between them to 
 put up at the Fox-and- Geese, which they 'f soon 
 discovered by a very significant representation of 
 the maddhu rua, or red dog, as the fox is termed 
 in Irish, looking behind him from the sign-board 
 with a singularly knavish leer, whilst he bore 
 upon his back a large fat-looking goose, the very 
 emblem of indolent and unsophisticated simplicity. 
 
 This is so common a sign over houses of enter- 
 tainment, both in this country and elsewhere, 
 that our travellers never once thought of consi- 
 dering it in a metaphorical sense, although we 
 question whether there is or can be another 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 51 
 
 emblem among the immense variety that exist, 
 so admirably expressive of the moral relation 
 which subsists between landlord and guest, or 
 so beautifully indicative of the plucking which 
 generally goes forward within. 
 
 Be this as it may, our two travellers stopped 
 at the sign in question, and after the usual 
 routine of calling upon hostler, stable-boy, and 
 watchman, every thing was settled to their wishes. 
 Barney's friend considering it his duty to render 
 him whatever assistance he could. Indeed he 
 clung to him as his companion, in consequence, 
 as it appeared, of being himself such a stranger 
 in the place, besides of a disposition naturally 
 timid. 
 
 Both being sharp set, they resolved to lose little 
 time in trying the fare of the Fox-and-Geese, 
 which they did in the shape of two smoking plates 
 of beefsteaks flanked by potatoes and porter. 
 Now, of Little Barney it must be said, that as a 
 trencher-man he was absolutely celebrated in his 
 native parish ; judge, then, how he stared, on 
 finding his powers of mastication surpassed by 
 those., of his companion beyond any thing like 
 
52 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 even moderate comparison. The latter plied bis 
 knife and fork with an ease and dexterity that 
 certainly evinced long practice, and bolted down 
 the steaks in squares which seemed to vanish 
 like magic. How an easy, soft, and sheepish- 
 looking countryman, who, from his appearance, 
 might not be supposed to have ever tasted meat, 
 unless at Christmas or Easter, could exhibit such 
 incredible activity in the use of the knife and 
 fork, puzzled the "gorsoon" more than any 
 thing he had seen for many a day. 
 
 " Begad," thought Barney, "^if he^s as handy 
 at the drink hell do. Fll thry him, any way." 
 
 And indeed if the stranger were a match for him 
 in strength of head, as well as in that of appetite, 
 he might challenge a host, for in truth Barney 
 had seldom been seen decidedly tipsy, although 
 his potations were both frequent and copious. 
 Whether the other felt himself unequal to a contest 
 of the kind or not, is more than he allowed to 
 appear at the time ; all we know is, that he 
 declined it at once, although put to him by Barney 
 in terms of extreme civiHty, and in a manner 
 absolutely insinuating, so anxious did he feel to 
 
BARNEY BKANAGAN. 53 
 
 achieve such a victory as might atone for his 
 defeat at dinner. 
 
 *' I'm very good at the atin'," said the stranger, in 
 reply to the invitation so cordially given, " but the 
 thruth is, I've a poor head for dhrink, not but I'll 
 take maybe a couple o' pints o' porther while 
 you're stickin' to the whiskey; but, of coorse, I 
 dhrink slow, an' indeed it's more to keep you in 
 countenance than any thing else." 
 
 "Faith," returned Barney, "if your head was 
 only aiquil to your stomach, I'd back you agin big 
 Mucklemurry, that can dhrink two quarts a day, 
 either raw or jnixed." 
 
 ** 'Deed I know that whin the mate comes afore 
 me I can take as good a throw as another ; and 
 sure," he added in a friendly whisper, " when a 
 man finds himself in a house like this, it's his duty 
 to take the worth of his money, — one can be only 
 charged for a dinner, any how." 
 
 They both looked at each other as he spoke, 
 and the broad grin which spread itself upon their 
 faces was replete with a. humorous conviction of 
 the truth with which they acted up to that principle. 
 
 For the remainder of the evening, Barney, who 
 
54 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 \ 
 
 drank pretty freely, thought he could observe an 
 occasional change of manner in the countryman, 
 for which he knew not exactly how to account. 
 On one occasion he heard him call the waiter, 
 Tom, as he addressed him on the stairs, and it 
 appeared also that the tones of their voices argued 
 a previous familiarity that was incompatible with 
 the man's assertion of having never been in that 
 inn before. Of the latter circumstance, however, 
 he could not feel quite certain, but that he called 
 him Tom, and that the other answered to it he 
 was positive. He made up his mind, therefore, to 
 ascertain the fact, and on finding his suspicions 
 confirmed, not only to place no confidence in the 
 stranger, but to watch his motions as narrowly as 
 he could. 
 
 " I thought, neighbour, you had never been 
 here before," he observed, when the other returned 
 into the room. 
 
 *' Who, me ?" he replied, staring with astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Ay," said Barney, " and for all that, you know 
 the waiter's name and called him Tom. Now, how 
 can you account for that ?" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 55 
 
 " Well," replied the other, " I thought I was a 
 simple fellow myself, but I believe you flog me 
 out. Why, haven't I ears ? Didn't I hear the 
 landlady callin' him as I came into the house first, 
 an' so might you, only you were jokin' wid the col- 
 leen at the pump." 
 
 This was, indeed, such a natural and obvious 
 solution to his doubts, that Barney felt somewhat 
 ashamed of having entertained them. 
 
 " Well, afther all," said the other, " it's but 
 nathral for one to be timersome and suspicious 
 when they're among black strangers ; so I don't 
 blame you for bein' on your guard ; it's what every 
 one of us ought to be." 
 
 Barney acknowledged the truth of this, but at 
 the same time he felt that some' indefinable im- 
 pression prompted him to be cautious. The 
 stranger became, in the course of the evening, 
 quite confidential and communicative, told him that 
 he had been at law with his next neighbour, whom 
 he cast in damages to the amount of forty shillings 
 at the Court Leet. This lawsuit, which appeared to 
 have been the only one in which he had ever been 
 engaged, so completely occupied his mind, that he 
 
56 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 not only inflicted upon Barney the whole history 
 of its progress pro and con, but actually succeeded 
 in making him forget every thing else. This, 
 indeed, was the less surprising, as the whole facts 
 and circumstances of the case were exactly iden- 
 tical with a suit in the same court wherein Barney's 
 own father, about two years before, was defendant, 
 and forced to pay the precise damages mentioned 
 by the stranger. Nor was this all. Barney could 
 hardly for the blood of him help imagining that 
 the narrative, so earnestly and precisely related, 
 was neither more nor less than the one alluded to, 
 every point of which was brought out with an ac- 
 curacy of detail perfectly amazing. This once 
 more awakened his suspicions, or if this did not, 
 a vague impression that certain tones of the 
 speaker's voice were not new to him certainly did. 
 It was in vain, however, that he strove to remem- 
 ber where he had heard them ; they were, besides, 
 so few and far between, and the general intona- 
 tions of the voice so different from any he had ever 
 heard before, that he ultimately gave up the belief, 
 and silently admitted that his suspicions were erro- 
 neous. At all events, whether by accident or 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 37 
 
 design, it appeared that the stranger possessed the 
 power of exciting or allaying his suspicions at will, 
 and of keeping his apprehension, like the buckets 
 of a draw-well, up and down alternately. In this 
 state of mind, Barney having helped himself libe- 
 rally to naked whiskey, retired to bed, but in no 
 perceptible degree affected by what he had drank. 
 "^ During the greater part of the night he dreamt of 
 the stranger, who, he thought, passed in various 
 shapes and disguises, through all the wild and 
 tumultuous combinations which fancy summons up, 
 while the faculties are prostrated under the influ- 
 ence of restless and unsettled slumber. 
 
 D 2 
 
58 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTEE HI. 
 
 The next morning the stranger and he breakfasted 
 together, and if any doubt of the man's honesty 
 or fair purposes remained, the open homehness of 
 his manners and his evident dependence upon the 
 superior sense and judgment of Barney utterly 
 removed it. Having finished their meals, each 
 separated ; Barney to the corn-market, and the 
 stranger to buy, as he said, two slips of pigs. 
 
 Many chapmen and offers had Barney for his 
 wheat, and long did he hold out for the highest 
 price, to which indeed it was entitled. The day 
 was now nearly half spent, and his patience began 
 considerably to relax, when a decent-looking 
 Englishman, who had by the way made him two 
 or three offers before in the course of the day, 
 came up to him, and, after some higgling, at length 
 became the purchaser. Having procured the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 59 
 
 weigh master's ticket, and adjourned to the " Sheaf 
 of Wheat" Tavern, a noted house, in which all 
 payments connected with grain were mostly made, 
 it is unnecessary to say that Barney's eyes glistened 
 when they were rested upon the crisped unsullied 
 bank notes with which he was about to be paid. 
 He now felt himself in high spirits, and the more 
 so as the Englishman made him swallow no less 
 than three glasses of brandy and water to conclude 
 the transaction. With his characteristic caution, 
 however, he refused to take the notes until the 
 other wrote his name upon each, which, to be sure 
 as he himself knew not how to write, was after ail 
 no great security. 
 
 " Well," thought he to himself, as he wended his 
 way to the Fox and Geese, "begad, for wanst I've 
 done the thing nate, and no blunder, and the sooner 
 I get home now widout worse luck the betther." 
 
 With spirits thus elevated, as well by the advan- 
 tageous sale of his wheat, as by the physical 
 excitement of the brandy and water, he was 
 pushing boldly along when he felt his shoulder 
 tapped, and on turning round he saw his old friend, 
 Jack Cassidy standing beside him. 
 
60 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Why, thin, blood and ages, Jack Cassidy, isit 
 yourself that's in it ? Thundher and strawberries, 
 man alive, and how is every tether length of 
 you? Bug-abounds, Jack, but I'm glad to see 
 youl" 
 
 " Thank you, my little gorsoon, and how are 
 you, Barney? — Eh? — as unfortunate as ever?" 
 
 " Divil a far you're from the truth, Jack; but, 
 faith, I made a good haul this day, and no mis- 
 take — sowld two cart-loads o' wheat for my uncle, 
 Ned, and got a fine long price too." 
 
 " Are you sure there's no mistake, Barney ?" 
 
 " Oh, divil the mistake, man dear ; I've the 
 notes clean an' crisp in my pocket." 
 
 " Step in here," said Jack, turning into a mer- 
 chant's warehouse opposite, where he stood. 
 " Show your notes," he added, pointing to a 
 gentlemanly man, who was apparently a cashier or 
 book-keeper — "show your money to this gentle- 
 man, and ask him if there's no mistake." 
 
 There was something in Jack's air and manner 
 that made our friend feel exceedingly blank and 
 dispirited, sensations which were fearfully corro- 
 borated, when the man, after glancing at them, 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 61 
 
 told Barney they were just worth so much waste 
 paper — they were bad, merely flash notes. 
 
 Barney had a habit of occasionally raising one 
 eye-brow, and now another alternately, when any 
 thing peculiarly disastrous occurred to him, and 
 we may add, that from the frequency of such 
 occurrences, the muscles of that part of his face 
 had by exercise become at once so lively and 
 vigorous, that to a stranger, scarcely any thing 
 connected with the human countenance could 
 present a more grotesque and ludicrous appearance 
 than these external manifestations of calamity or 
 disappointment. 
 
 *' Bad notes ! ! — do you mane to say that thira 
 are bad notes ?" he inquired with his right eye- 
 brow raised nearly to the hair of his forehead. 
 The man on locking at him, was so much struck, 
 with the dismal, yet laughable cast of his face, 
 that he could not prevent himself from smiling, 
 or rather from laughing outright. 
 
 " They are not worth a farthing," he replied ; 
 ** he who gave them to you was a swindler." 
 
 *' Faith, sir,'^ said Barney, dropping one eye- 
 brow, and immediately raising the other, " if the 
 
62 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 thing happened yourself, it's on the wrong side o' 
 your mouth you'd laugh, instead of makin' a joke 
 of such a thing. But maybe it's takin' a rise out' 
 o' me you are. As you're a gintleman, sir,— an' 
 faith you look the thing any how — tell me the 
 truth — are the notes good or bad ?" 
 
 " Seriously, my good friend, the notes are bad — 
 worth nothing ; and if you take my advice, you 
 will lose no time in finding the swindler out, if you 
 can, although, I suspect, that he will be too ac- 
 tive for you Are yoii a friend of his ?" he added, 
 looking at Cassidy, as he spoke. 
 
 '' Throth I am that, sir," replied the other, in a 
 voice which made Barney start. It was in truth 
 the voice of his companion and fellow-traveller in 
 the inn ; and on looking at him, he could scarcely 
 believe the evidence of his senses that so quick a 
 metamorphosis was possible in so short a time. 
 The face and voice were altogether changed, the 
 cast in the eye was again resumed, and were it 
 not for the absence of the beard, and the differ- 
 ence of dress, he could have sworn that the ap- 
 pearance in every other respect was perfectly 
 identical. Cassidy pressed Barney's arm to be 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 63 
 
 silent, who, in fact, was on the point of giving 
 utterance to his astonishment at a transmutation 
 so sudden and extraordinary. 
 
 " I'm thankful to you, sir," said Barney ; " but 
 I'd like to see yourself laughin' if you wor in my 
 shoes. Your advice is good, however, an' I'll 
 take — oh, thin, holy Moses, but it's I that's the 
 unfortunate being every day I clothe the naked. 
 To be done out o' the price of my poor uncle's fine 
 two carts o' whate by an EngHsh swindlin' blag- 
 gard. Bad luck to him, I might a knewn he had 
 no good in view when he tumbled the three glasses 
 of brandy and wather into me — a thing that these 
 English villains never do except whin they want to 
 take us at an average. Wurra, wurra ! Will this 
 hard fortune that sticks to me never lave me ?" 
 
 " This talk won't catch the swindler," said the 
 clerk ; "oif with you to the police, and describe him." 
 
 " What name's on the notes, sir ?" inquired 
 Barney. 
 
 The man smiled again and replied, " Not the 
 name he was christened by, at all events. Show 
 me one of the notes, again — here is written. Jack 
 Straw to unfortunate Barney Branagan." 
 
64 THE MISFORTUNES OP 
 
 *' Oh ! blug abounds !" exclaimed Barney, 
 ** what's this for ? May the divil fly away wid 
 him ! an' is it possible he knewn me too — a man 
 that I never seen atween the eyes since I was 
 foaled." ' 
 
 *' Come," said Cassidy, " there is no use in 
 mere talk. The gentleman's advice is right — 
 let us go to the polls — an' tell them what happened 
 — they may nab him for you. Come away wid yoa 
 — we've lost too much time as it is." 
 
 They had no sooner left the counting-house, 
 than Cassidy said, " Now, Barney, keep yourself 
 quiet about these notes, and follow me- I thought 
 I had secured you, but these villains can't be de- 
 pended on. It'll go hard, but I'll see you righted, 
 and make them suff'er for their treachery besides.'* 
 
 *' How is this, Jack?" asked Barney with sur- 
 prise. *' Surely it's not possible that there's any, 
 thing betune you an' " 
 
 *' Ask no questions at present," replied the 
 •other. *^ Only that I wouldn't turn stag or in- 
 former I would — but no — I wouldn't do the dirty 
 
 thing " 
 
 ** Then it's thrue," exclaimed Barney j " but, 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 65 
 
 any how, you are right in that. Let them do as 
 they may, do you never act the stag or informer." 
 
 *' Keep quiet," said the other, " and walk 
 after me. I must have a few words with you — 
 for your own benefit too." 
 
 He then led him to a quiet-looking house of 
 entertainment, in a narrow, but by no means a 
 disreputable-looking street. On reaching this, 
 they both entered, and Cassidy having conducted 
 his old friend to a private room, ordered in ale 
 and other refreshments. 
 
 A kind act, or the very intention of perform- 
 ing it is very seldom lost upon an Irishman. 
 Barney, notwithstanding his own misfortune, which, 
 the reader knows, was of no ordinary character, 
 felt a degree of sorrow for the infamous condition 
 in which he found his former friend, which even 
 the serious loss he had just sustained could not 
 remove. In the last conversation he had with him 
 on the evening previous to the departure of his 
 family for America, Cassidy expressed an inten- 
 tion of retrieving his character, and of seeking 
 honest employment in some distant part of the 
 country, where his previous misconduct could not 
 
66 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 be known. But now to find him degraded by his 
 connection with a crew of English swindlers and 
 pickpockets, was indeed a circumstance which 
 distressed him very much. 
 
 "Jack," said he, absolutely forgetting what had 
 just befallen himself, " as heaven's above us, my 
 heart is sore to see you sunk to what you are. 
 Afther all, your behaviour when I knewn you 
 had more of wildness than of wickedness in it. If 
 you wor dishonest, or tuck what didn't belong 
 to you, you tuck it from none but your own, 
 an' you had youth to plade for you, ay, and 
 even in your own parish, for all that happened — 
 if you had got steady, you might be looked upon 
 in time as a proper and an honest man. Jack, 
 Jack, my heart, God sees, is sore for you." 
 
 The other who certainly expected this kind and 
 honest remonstrance, after having kept his eyes 
 fixed on Barney with the gaze of a man who hears 
 what he knows to be the voice of a friend, sud- 
 denly laid down a glass of ale, which he was about 
 to bring to his mouth, and placing his two open 
 hands upon his face, remained in that position for 
 some time. Barney saw at once that the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 67 
 
 companion of his early days was touched by 
 ,the sincerity of his reproof, and remembering their 
 last conversation, and having said as much as 
 he deemed sufficient, he judiciously determined to 
 allow Cassidy's feelings to work their own way. 
 At length he could perceive that the poor fellow's 
 chest began to heave with the repressed power of 
 his emotions ; two or three quivering sobs then 
 burst forth, and he wept aloud. 
 
 " I'm fallen low, indeed," said the young man ; 
 ''lower than you think, Barney. I'm a decoy 
 duck for a set of English blacklegs that are rob- 
 bing every one they can fleece in every part of the 
 country." 
 
 " Well, God be praised," replied Barney. 
 
 " For what, man ?" said the other, staring at 
 him. 
 
 " God be praised," continued Barney, " that 
 bad as they say the Irish are, that's a kind of villany 
 we haven't nath'ral amongst us. That's one of the 
 bad importations. Jack. May the divil " 
 
 Although the tears were actually forcing each 
 other down Cassidy's cheeks, yet he felt it im- 
 possible to restrain a smile at Barney's manner. 
 
68 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 convinced as he was that the vehement and abrupt 
 naivete with which he was about to vent the im- 
 precation, drew no inconsiderable portion of its 
 energy from the sudden recollection of his own 
 disaster. 
 
 *' Ay," said he, interrupting the other, " I am 
 what I say, a decoy duck for these ruffians." 
 
 ** An' what is your duty as a decoy duck, 
 Jack ?" asked his friend. 
 
 *' Sometimes," he replied, *' I am dressed like 
 aplain farmer ; sometimes like a gentleman farmery 
 or hodagh ; and sometimes like a poor man that's 
 may be after selling a pig or a cow." 
 
 *' Well ?— go an." '- 
 
 *' I am not case-hardened yet," continued 
 Cassidy: *' you remember what my father was — 
 the dacent man — the pious man — the honest man. 
 I am his son, an' what am I now ?" 
 
 *' God pity you, Jack," said Barney, clasping 
 his hands together, while the tears stood in his 
 eyes. 
 
 The heart of the other was evidently smitten. 
 It would appear that the face of his old companion 
 touched many an association and remembrance' 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 69 
 
 that the life he recently led had caused to slum- 
 ber far down in the deepest and darkest recesses 
 of a heart still capable of much good. On this 
 occasion there were other and even better mo- 
 tives for what he felt. 
 
 " You remember my mother, too," he pro- 
 ceeded, his emotion still increasing as he went 
 on ; " but you cannot remember what she was 
 to me, when I was young, and innocent, and happy. 
 • Well I remember the time when if my head but 
 ached, I would let no hand near it but hers ; an' 
 neither would she — none but herself should be 
 about me. That blessed hand, Barney, will 
 never press this head again. My mother's dead, 
 and I — I — what am I — oh, what am I ?" 
 
 His companion had now as clearly forgotten 
 every circumstance connected with the loss of 
 his uncle's wheat, as if no such disaster had be- 
 fallen him. 
 
 " Not lost, yet, I hope," said he, wiping his 
 eyes with the skirt of his coat — " worth the full 
 of a ship-load of English blacklegs and swindlers 
 still, Jack. May the ould divil — the nate ould 
 fellow himself I mane — the biggest blackleg of 
 
70 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 them all— may he in. his own good time— wishin' 
 the same time, by the way, as short as possible- 
 may he, with the strongest backin' he has, wid 
 all his taij-^ " 
 
 " Hear me out," said Cassidy. 
 
 Barney wiped his eyes once more, and very 
 unceremoniously rubbed the cufF of the afore- 
 said coat strongly under his nose, and afterwards 
 to the back of his inexpressibles, a course of 
 action which justifies the truth of the old proverb, 
 that necessity is the mother of invention. The 
 truth is, that our readers may have often observed 
 a certain class of men who think it a shame to 
 be surprised into the expression of humane and 
 creditable emotion. The persons I allude to, of 
 whom Barney was one, on finding themselves 
 overcome, are put to singular shifts to conceal 
 their sensibility. Sometimes they will kick a 
 harmless dog or cat out of their way, or turn 
 upon some unoffending person with abuse ; and 
 not unfrequently do they manifest, as Barney did, 
 a very strong tendency to quarrelling or impre- 
 cation. Indeed it is often a perilous task to wit- 
 ness the feelings of such persons with a grave 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 71 
 
 face, and consequently without giving them in- 
 voluutary offence. Barney, however, was as 
 much surprised at the sensations he so strongly 
 evinced during the interview with Cassidy as 
 mortal man could well be, and for this reason, 
 that nothing of a character to touch him so deeply 
 had ever come within his experience before ; 
 there was, therefore an awkwardness in his sym- 
 pathy, or rather in his manner of expressing it, 
 which, sincere and honest as it was, could scarce- 
 ly be ranged with the pathetic, and yet it was 
 so. 
 
 " Hear me out," said the young man. 
 " Maybe — but. Jack achora, about the duck ?" 
 " I dress as a respectable farmer, and come 
 into a tent, where they keep what's called a 
 Roulette or Hazard-table, look on for a while, 
 and by degrees venture half-a-crown, after a 
 little while, again a crown or ten shillings, 
 or a couple of pounds, and win. Then I get 
 unlucky, and lose nearly all I won. Again 1 
 try it, for the last time, by the way — I win- — 
 then play on, and after due time, I walk off with 
 a sheaf of notes, which I show to all about me, 
 
72 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 especially to some warm-looking bodagh, like my- 
 self; he takes the bait— thinks he'll have the 
 luck, and plays on, till he's fleeced. This is 
 what's called being a decoy duck." 
 
 Barney groaned — " Ay, it is that, an' agin' 
 your own counthrymen, too, an' all for a knot 
 of English vagabones. Throth, it is low days 
 wid you, sure enough, for your father's son and 
 your mother's son — God make her bed in heaven, 
 this day, any how, and give the same English ers 
 a warm nook below. But, Jack achora, go 
 on." 
 
 " You remimber," he proceeded, " how I used 
 to make game of any one that had an odd face- 
 how I used to twist my mouth like Beal cam* 
 Heuston, and squint with one eye, like, TuUy- 
 Eye M'Neil." 
 
 " Throth, I do well, and many a good laugh 
 you tuck out o' me wid the same anticks." 
 
 " Well, these fellows find that I'm the man 
 they want ; for I can put myself into shapes that 
 my own father " 
 
 He stopped for some time. This was touching 
 
 * Crooked mouth. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. ^ 73 
 
 a recollection too sacred for such an association. 
 He then went on — " You didn't know me yester- 
 day, nor last night, in the inn ?" 
 
 " God presarve us, Jack, an' it was you — 
 but sure, I needn't ax. Didn't you change your- 
 self in that merchant's oflBce, a while ago, that 
 your brother wouldn't know you !" 
 
 " Ah, Barney, Barney," he replied, sighing 
 deeply — " that brother — every brother and sister 
 I had, for I can't say I have them now — loved 
 me well, and had I deserved their love, it's not 
 far from them I would be, as I am this day — 
 the slave and tool of such a low set of villains." 
 
 " Ay, a decoy duck, an' that makes you as 
 bad as they are,' if not worse ; if you take my 
 advice you'll lave the country — go off to them 
 that afther all will be glad to see you — where you 
 can turn over a new leaf — it'll maybe prevent 
 your father's heart from breakin' — an' if it was 
 
 only for the sake of her that's gone " 
 
 He paused, for it was clear that Cassidy's 
 feelings required rather to be soothed than ex- 
 cited — and he accordingly gave the conversation 
 
 VOL. III. E 
 
74 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 •a somewhat different direction without altogether 
 changing it. 
 
 " But how does it happen, Jack," he inquired, 
 " that you stay with them raps, an' you hate them 
 as you do ?" 
 
 " It's not many hours," returned Cassidy, 
 " since the change you see has been brought 
 about. I wrote to my brother Ned eight or ten 
 months ago, merely to know what kind of an 
 answer I would get, or whether I would get 
 any at all or not ; and besides, I wished to hear 
 from them, especially from my mother. I told 
 him if he or any of them would write to me, to 
 direct their letters to a friend of mine that I 
 named in this town, one Mullen, a bricklayer. 
 I thought they had altogether forgotten the un- 
 fortunate brother that disgraced them. My 
 heart sunk, and I grew careless and desperate ; 
 for, Barney, I didn't know how much I loved them, 
 and how my heart was with them until they were 
 far from me. After I left you to-day I got this 
 letter. I thought I might as well ask if there was 
 one as I passed by my friend's house where it 
 was to be directed. It's from my father that 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 75 
 
 loves me still — but little suspects how low T'm 
 brought." 
 
 " Jack, agra, read it/' 
 
 " I will. But there's a passage in it that I 
 cannot understand." 
 
 " Is it the first that you ever got from them ?" 
 inquired Barney. 
 
 " It is," said the other; "and it was only by 
 chance that I found out where they lived in 
 America. It was from Mullen's brother — he came 
 home from that country about a year ago." 
 
 " Then," returned Barney, whose sagacity at 
 once led him to suspect the meaning of the pas- 
 sage in question, "maybe, if you can't make 
 sinse out of it, I can — let us hear it, achora ; 
 an' God help you. Jack, I see now, my poor 
 fellow, why your heart is low, an' the rason that 
 the sorrow is upon you. She's gone, Jack dear, 
 that often shed many a tear over your follies ; 
 an' now you're cut to the sowl, for often lavin' 
 her as you did many a sore and breakin' heart. 
 Well, may God keep you to the good feelin' !" 
 
 This was the truth, naturally, and therefore 
 touchingly and forcibly, told. Nor was it lost upon 
 
76 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 poor Cassidy. For some minutes he could neither 
 speak nor read, so acute was his grief or com- 
 punction, or perhaps a mingled feeling which 
 combined both. At length he read the letter, 
 which ran as follows : — 
 
 "My deab but unfobtunate son, 
 
 " This is the third letter I, your poor father, has wrote 
 to you since your writin' to your brother Ned — it comes in 
 hopes to find you well, as this laves us all, thanks be to 
 God for the same. Dear Son, we are all in great affliction 
 as we hope you will be on reading this letter — your poor 
 mother never wanst rased her head or her heart since we 
 left the place where all belongin' to us live — an' she is now 
 lying low among strange people in a strange land, far away 
 from the place where we all once hoped to sleep, that is, among 
 our own — in our own earth — where the green shamrock — the 
 blessed sign of the sacred and undivided Trinity grows upon 
 our very graves to keep them holy. Her words always was 
 when we strove to comfort her— ' I can't help it — sure my 
 heart is broke about my unfortunate boy — that I wanst liked 
 better than any of them all.' Dear son, lay this to heart — 
 and maybe if you remimber her good advice, that it is not 
 too late — think of it, my dear son, for that is all you can 
 do now — you never can hear it from her own lips any more. 
 She departed in great happiness towards her Saviour :. but all 
 that troubled her, my dear son, was you. It may be a 
 
 comfort to you to hear that she sent you her blessin' an' 
 
 she said, ' maybe for my sake, when I am in the dust, that 
 he will think of my advices to him and change his unfor- 
 tunate coorses.' My dear son, I am longin* to see you 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 77 
 
 for it's long time since my anger against you is gone — and 
 I have often been thinkin' that you miglit be brought to 
 hunger, and want, and distress, and us not near to relieve 
 you — which we often did at home, when you didn't know 
 the hand it came from. Her heart and hand is now cowld 
 that often did it. Your brothers and sisters all sends their 
 love to you, and would be glad to see you. If you could 
 be like another, so as that your conduct wouldn't prevent 
 your sisters' getting settled in life, we might be happy yet 
 — that is as happy as I ever can be since my right hand is 
 taken away from me. My dear son, think of this letter, and 
 of her that's gone, and of them that's far from you — and 
 think of all the good and affectionate advices you have got 
 from, my dear son, 
 
 " Your loving father till death, 
 
 " Edwaed Cassidy." 
 
 P.S. — "My dear son, we didn't think that you knew your 
 poor mother's little sacret about the butter and the money — 
 indeed she didn't believe any body knew it. I wish you 
 would write a line about it for fraid of any mistake. My 
 dear son, 
 
 "Your loving father till death, 
 
 " Edwaed Cassidt." 
 
 Hard indeed as the nether millstone must the 
 son's heart be that could remain proof to a 
 communication so full of sorrow and affection 
 as that which Cassidy read out to his friend. 
 To do the young man justice, he was repeatedly 
 obliged to suspend its perusal until he could 
 
78 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 recover sufficient composure to resume it. Nor 
 was the individual who composed his audience 
 so far removed from the humanity of life— a 
 fact which our readers may have long since 
 perceived — as to sit unaffected by its pathetic 
 spirit. 
 
 '* Jack," said Barney, " take my advice in 
 one thing — keep that letther night and day about 
 you — it surely carries a blessin' wid it. My 
 hand to you, it'll help to keep the divil and 
 the blacklegs both from makin' you their own. 
 But, Jack, read the last part of it agin." 
 He did so. 
 
 " Now," continued Barney, " do you undher- 
 stand that ?" 
 
 " Not a bit," said the other, " I can make 
 nothing of it." 
 
 " Then I can," replied Barney. " You re- 
 mimber the cask o' butther I bought from you 
 the night before the family went to America. 
 The poor brothers and sisters — thinkin' it was 
 ihe last sight ever they would see of you — helped 
 you to that one." 
 
 "I do, well— you had a bargain in that, 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 79, 
 
 for it was the heaviest firkin for the size of 
 it 1 ever felt." 
 
 "Be my song, you don't know that half as 
 well as I do, that had to carry it two long 
 miles home the next evenin' ; an' faith, if ever 
 the moisture was taken out o' man it was out 
 o' me during the same trudge. However, I'll 
 tell the thruth — that firkin was only half filled 
 with butther. Undher the butther there was 
 a lump of a stone as hard and as heavy as 
 pot mettle ; an' listen, man alive, an' undher 
 that agin was a lair of guineas — yellow boys 
 — to the tune of threescore and three. Ay, 
 you may stare, but be the testament, it's truth, 
 an' I have them, an' they're at your sarvice, 
 man, an' it's to your poor mother I would 
 a sent them afore now, but divil a scrape ever 
 they wrote to the neighbourhood since they wint, 
 so that I didn't know where to send them to. 
 In the manetime, to be sure, I kept turnin' 
 the penny on them as well as I could." 
 
 " It is very strange, Barney," said Cassidy ; 
 " but the money is not mine, and I cannot 
 take it ; you must send it to my father, now 
 that you know where he is." 
 
80 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " But who would I trust it wid?" 
 
 " There's no difficulty in the way there ; you 
 have only to lodge it in a bank here, and get 
 what's called a letter of credit upon the nearest 
 bank to my father, and when he shows them 
 that letter he'll be paid the money. There's 
 many a way of doing business in the world, 
 Barney, that you don't know." 
 
 " I believe that," replied Barney, dryly. 
 
 It was in vain that Barney pressed Cassidy 
 to accept the money — he would not hear of 
 it. In the first place, he said he did not stand 
 in need of it, and in the next, he felt that 
 he had abused his father's kindness too frequently 
 before, to appropriate to himself now, that 
 which the necessities of the family encountering 
 the difficulties of a new mode of life in a strange 
 land must require. That matter was, therefore, 
 arranged according to his suggestion, and in 
 about a fortnight afterwards it was transmitted 
 to old Cassidy himself, so that Barney, who, 
 in truth, was beginning to entertain scruples 
 about retaining it so long, now felt his conscience 
 relieved. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 81 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Barney and his friend having left the little inn, 
 proceeded along a remote street towards, as the 
 latter informed him, that part of the town where 
 stood the tent of the roulette men. 
 
 " Now, Barney," sajd Cassidy as they went 
 along, "here are five pounds, and if you simply 
 follow my instructions, I will undertake that you 
 will soon recover the amount of your wheat — or 
 as the matter turns out, your uncle's. These 
 villains broke faith with me in your case, for 
 although I assumed the manner and character of 
 a stranger, yet I bargained with them, that as I 
 had brought you within the reach of their vil- 
 lany, you should not suffer by them. Indeed, 
 the truth was, that though I joined you first by 
 accident, yet, in order to protect you, I deter- 
 mined to lodge you in the same house with myself 
 
 E 2 
 
82 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 and some other of those fellows — for I need 
 scarcely say, had you escaped their clutches, I 
 had no intention whatever of letting myself be 
 known to you." 
 
 " Well, but, Jack achora, how am I to get back 
 the money?" 
 
 " Why, I'll tell you that : in the first place"— he 
 had time, however, to proceed no farther ; for 
 much to his amazement and mortification, one of 
 the roulette men sprang past him at full speed, 
 eagerly and closely pursued by a brace of con- 
 stables who hung closely upon his flank. 
 
 " Fly," said he, on passing Cassidy, " the 
 beaks are upon us, and have seized the tables ; 
 the trick's discovered." 
 
 He sprang onward with redoubled speed ; the 
 two constables stretching out with lengthened 
 strides in pursuit of him. The race, indeed, was 
 a close one, inasmuch as the constables had some- 
 how ascertained that the man they followed had a 
 large quantity of bad notes on his person, a cir- 
 cumstance which was of the greatest importance 
 towards his conviction. The crowd taking it for 
 granted that whoever was opposed to the constables 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 83, 
 
 must be generally right, made no effort either to 
 arrest him or in any way impede his progress ; on 
 the contrary, seeing that the run was one of much 
 interest, in consequence of the extraordinary speed 
 exhibited by both parties, they loudly cheered the 
 roulette man, notwithstanding the hoarse and, 
 hurried shouts of " stop the robber," uttered by 
 the officers. 
 
 "i Stop the robber, indeed! that's what you're 
 paid for ; doesn't the poor fellow say it's only for 
 a row ? Whirroo for the foremost ; sthretch out, 
 your sowl, or they have you ! — That's it — sthretch 
 out, an' may the divil take the hindmost !" 
 
 Now the fact was, that the fellow had two fac- 
 simile pocket-books ; one of which contained a 
 sum of money beyond four hundred pounds, being 
 nearly the amount of the gambling bank, whilst 
 the other was filled with the very flash notes which 
 the officers had been instructed, and correctly so, 
 that he carried about him. The similarity of the 
 pocket-books was a ruse, to enable them to escape 
 detection by substituting the good for the bad, if 
 reduced to any peculiar difficulty with strangers. 
 In this instance, however, especially with the 
 
84 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 officers of justice, such a trick was not only use- 
 less, but full of danger. Be this as it may, the 
 blackleg, who was rather gaining upon his pur- 
 suers, had now nearly reached the " Fox-and- 
 Geese," into which, after two or three enormous 
 strides, he at once bolted, and without stop or 
 stay, rushed up stairs. Now, it so happened, 
 that our friend Barney's jock, having a large out- 
 side pocket under each arm, hung upon a peg on 
 the lobby. Instantly a thought struck the black- 
 leg ; to get safely rid of the flash notes was his 
 object, otherwise he was utterly ruined ; thrusting 
 his hand, therefore, into the pocket, he dropped 
 the obnoxious pocket-book into it, and had merely 
 time to reach his own bed-room door on the flight 
 overhead, when the officers coming up immedi- 
 ately secured him and all the money he had in his 
 possession. 
 
 In a short time the history of the transaction 
 spread through the whole town, and Barney could 
 scarcely hear any thing else from the multitude — 
 for it was fair day — than English blacklegs, 
 swindlers, pickpockets, robbers, thieves, and flash 
 notes. The strong allusions made to the latter 
 
BARNKY BRANAGAN. 85 
 
 began to make him feel so uneasy that he deter- 
 mined to get rid of them the first opportunity ; 
 and accordingly on reaching the room where he 
 dined the day before, which he did a few minutes 
 after the roulette man with his trunk and the 
 police had left the house, he quietly put them into 
 the fire, and had the satisfaction of seeing their 
 white ashes borne on the smoke up out of sight 
 into the chimney. 
 
 " I think I'm long enough here," said he to 
 himself; " an faith, for fraid worse may happen, 
 I'll pay my bill, yoke my horses, and go home 
 safe, if I can." 
 
 He accordingly did so, and in the course of a 
 few hours was driving homewards with a heavy 
 heart, quite unconscious that he had the bank of 
 the roulette table, better than four hundred pounds, 
 in the right hand pocket of his jock. 
 
 It is here unnecessary to detail the scene which 
 took place between himself and his uncle, touch- 
 ing the villanous issue of his conduct as a corn 
 merchant. Our readers are aware that the latter 
 actually forced the undertaking upon him, and ex- 
 pressed himself willing to abide by the conse- 
 
86' THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 quences, be they fortunate or otherwise. Instead 
 of acting up, however, to this philosophic resolu- 
 tion, he assailed poor Barney with a virulence of 
 invective that was highly unreasonable ; and 
 indeed to do his nephew justice, he defended him- 
 self with an easy flow of scurrility which left his 
 enraged and disappointed relative very little to 
 boast of as a satirist. 
 
 It might be about a fortnight after this, that one 
 day, on searching for a gardener's knife, which he 
 usually carried about him, he put his hand into 
 the pocket of his jock, and to his utter surprise, 
 took out therefrom, — not the knife in question, — 
 but a pocket-book pregnant with bank notes. His 
 amazement at this was inexpressible. How in the 
 name of heaven could they have come there ? 
 To whom did they belong ? And next — for since 
 his last blunder he began to doubt every thing in 
 the shape of a bank note — were they good ? 
 That they might be the property of the blacklegs 
 was a circumstance which could not possibly enter 
 into his thoughts, and he knew that they could not 
 belong to Cassidy, for he had taken out of the 
 identical pocket, in which he found them the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 87' 
 
 clasp knife alluded to, after having first searched 
 the other pocket for it on the morning of the day 
 he sold his wheat, and after Cassidy had left the 
 house. It was therefore to no purpose he puzzled 
 himself by attempting to solve a mystery which 
 nothing within the bounds of his knowledge 
 enabled him to penetrate. Having quietly, and 
 without suspicion, ascertained the amount of the 
 notes, by bringing them in small parcels to be ex- 
 amined by different people, he laid them by for a 
 while, judging that the person who lost them 
 would of course use every possible effort for their 
 recovery. Week after week, however, and month 
 after month passed on ; but whether any public 
 inquiry had been set on foot was more than came 
 to his ears. Two circumstances might easily ac- 
 count for this — that is, his inability to read, and 
 the remoteness of the neighbourhood in which he 
 lived — a neighbourhood where a newspaper was 
 looked upon at that period as one of the rarest 
 literary curiosities that could be mentioned. 
 
 In the mean time, as in the case of Mrs. Cas-i 
 sidy's little hoard, he deemed it no harm to make 
 it fructify a little by industriously turning a portion 
 
88 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 of the capital thus fortunately sent him to some 
 account. He accordingly entered into the butter 
 business so eagerly and extensively, that it was 
 only now it might properly be asserted that he 
 was a bona fide butter merchant at all. He cer- 
 tainly went on blundering most successfully, adding 
 pound to pound by his mischances, and increasing 
 in wealth and a character for being unlucky, as 
 he advanced in life. One thing we cannot help 
 making the reader acquainted with : in the course 
 of a couple of years, on reflecting that were it 
 not for the trip he took to oblige his uncle, he 
 would have come in for no such windfall as the 
 pocket-book, he considered himself bound in 
 honour to make full compensation for the loss of 
 his wheat, — an act of generosity which raised him 
 very much in the good opinion of that worthy man, 
 as no doubt it will in that of our readers. 
 
 Having thus shown how misfortune stood his 
 friend and raised him to independence and an 
 unlucky name, we will pass over a considerable 
 portion of his life, and wind up by an account of 
 his first trip to Dublin, and his last adventure as 
 a butter-merchant. We pretermit his marriage, 
 
SarUey branagaN. 89 
 
 which, by the way, was also a very fortunate 
 calamity to him, — merely mentioning that he was 
 forced by the relatives of his fair partner to 
 invest her with the name of wife, as a kind of 
 balance to that of mother, which he had pre- 
 viously bestowed upon her. This compulsory 
 ceremony smacked rather of wormwood on his 
 palate. We must admit that the flavour, how- 
 ever, was soon changed ; and on receiving a 
 legacy of three hundred pounds left her by an 
 old aunt who was cook to an absentee nobleman, 
 and had never heard of the false step she made, 
 Barney began to reflect that as she made him a 
 prudent, faithful wife, the marriage, after all, 
 was only of a piece with his other misfortunes. 
 
 The reader must now consider him the father 
 of a fine family, his eldest son being twenty-two 
 years of age, just ready to step into his father's 
 shoes, and the stout hale father nearly as fresh- 
 looking as ever, being now a wealthy man, and just 
 as ready to resign them to him. 
 
 It was on a fine breezy morning in the delightful 
 month of August, that our friend Barney set out 
 with two loads of butter, each cart covered, in 
 
90' THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 good carman-like fashion, with a strong tarpauhn. 
 His son, Brine Oge, who felt extremely anxious 
 to be his companion in this his first trip to Dublin, 
 went with him as far as the main road — a distance 
 of about a couple of miles — when, after shaking 
 hands and wishing him a good journey and safe 
 home again, he added, "An' now, father, be an 
 your sharps, for, bad as Kilscaddaun is, I'm 
 tould that Dublin is young hell, in comparison 
 wid it ; so take care of yourself, an' God bless 
 you, an' sind you safe back to us !" 
 
 " Amin, achora, this day ! — an' Brine, tell 
 your mother that whin any poor crathurs in dis- 
 tress come to ax a bit or sup, antil I do get back, 
 not to refuse them. It's always good to have 
 their blessin', for they say it rises higher an' goes 
 farther than the blessin' of any one else, barrin' 
 the priest himself; an' Brine, have an eye to th^ 
 Long-shot field, an' the minute thim white Hol- 
 land oats is ripe let it be cut down ; an' if Mouleen 
 calves while I'm away, don't part with the calf 
 whatsomever it may be — he or she — nor have it 
 kilt — I want to keep the breed — that cow gives 
 more milk an' butther than any two cows I have 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 91 
 
 a'most; an' now good-by, an' God bless you, 
 avick, till I see you agin !" 
 
 "Good-by, father, and mind what I tell you; 
 be on your edge." 
 
 The father gave him rather a significant look, 
 and replied, " If you get through the world as 
 well, Brine, as I did, for all so unlucky as I am, 
 you needn't complain. Go home, achora, an' 
 think of what I said to you — of coorse I'll be on 
 my edge." So saying, they parted. 
 
 Nothing extraordinary occurred to Barney ; at 
 least, nothing worthy of a place here, until late 
 on the evening of the fourth day, when he reached 
 the little village of Finglas. Here he found 
 that his horses, owing to the badness of the 
 roads, as well as to the killing hills and hollows 
 over which the wisdom of our forefathers directed 
 them, were so thoroughly jaded, that it would be 
 positive cruelty to urge them farther that night. 
 He accordingly put up at the St. Patrick public- 
 house, to which his heart warmed, the moment he 
 saw the right hand of the worthy saint most 
 hospitably extended towards him, with all the 
 expression in his jolly face, of a most cordial and 
 
92 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 friendly welcome. Two men were seated at a 
 table behind him, (on the sign-post,) feeding 
 night and day upon fat beef and strong ale, 
 whilst the bluff and good-humoured patron of 
 conviviality, instead of a pitiful tape and medal, 
 held a substantial crozier in his hand, with which 
 he was ready to drive any creeping snake-like 
 sinner out of the house, who denied his authority, 
 and refused to take his liquor. It was Father 
 Patrick, and not Father Mathew, whu bore the 
 palm in those days ; and let not the watery Corko- 
 nian imagine, that the worthy saint will fail in 
 re-establishing those principles to which he has so 
 long lent the influence of his crozier and his 
 countenance. 
 
 Barney having disposed of a substantial dinner, 
 was seated in the tap-room, taking a warm glass 
 of punch apart from three persons who were also 
 drinking, but who, so far as he could observe, 
 took no more notice of him than if he had never 
 existed. They appeared to be exceedingly 
 pleasant fellows ; drank ale, smoked tobacco, 
 sang songs, and told stories in such a careless, 
 good-humoured spirit, that Barney, for an hour 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 93 
 
 or two, thought the time never passed more 
 agreeably in his hfe. 
 
 " Be gorra," thought he to himself, " but thim 
 in the corner beyant are honest fellows, not but I 
 think I could take the shine out of any o' them 
 at a soijg. Faix, I'll discoorse them a while, any 
 how, if they've no objection ; an' may be I'll give 
 the ' Cannie sooga,' or the ' Bouchaleen Dhun,' in 
 a way that'll take the pearl aff their eyes." 
 
 " Hem ! gintlemen, may I ax is the ale good?" 
 In reply to this, the whole party gave him a 
 broad stare, and were silent a few moments ; at 
 length one of them answered : — 
 
 "Yes, you may, my friend, why not? a cat 
 may look on a king." 
 
 Barney, who wished to be civil, thought this 
 reply rather impertinent, as in fact it was. 
 
 " Gintlemen — begs pardon — I axed the question 
 from civilitude." 
 
 " You did," returned the other — " oh, that 
 halters the matter ; thin in that case, I tell you, 
 that a cat may not look on a king ; see what 
 civihtude does." 
 
 " Wid great respect to you, sir," rejoined 
 
:94 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 Barney, " I think a king may look on a cat, 
 though." 
 
 " No," said the other, "he may not; he would 
 deserve to lose his crown if he did." 
 
 " Well, sir," observed Barney, " if he mayn't 
 look on a cat, I hope he may on a puppy." 
 
 " Loss of his crown, my friend; no less." 
 
 " Instead of losin' his crown, neighbour," 
 retorted Barney, " he would show more spunk if 
 he broke the puppy's." 
 
 " Bravo, countryman," shouted the rest with 
 loud laughter; "that's a facer; Dick, you're 
 floored." 
 
 " May I beg to ask where you grew, my. 
 friend?" 
 
 " Yes you may," replied Barney ; " an' I may 
 refuse to tell you." 
 
 " Good again, countryman ; pitch into him." 
 " But," said Barney, encouraged by getting 
 the laugh against his opponent, " if I can't tell 
 where you wor bred, I can tell when." 
 
 " How is that, countryman ? — out with it." 
 " Sure every body," proceeded Barney, with a 
 grin, " remembers the year that the crop o' good 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 95 
 
 breedin' failed, an' it was in the dearth that 
 followed it you showed your purty face." 
 
 A chorus of mirth followed this at the expense 
 of his antagonist. 
 
 " Do you know your own father ?" inquired the 
 other, winking blankly enough at his companions ; 
 for the joke and laughter were going hard against 
 him. 
 
 " Do you know yours ?" said Barney ; " if you 
 do, you're a Solomon, for it's more than your 
 mother does." 
 
 This brought forth another peal against him, in 
 which he himself joined heartily ; but amidst all 
 the din of the mirth he occasioned, Barney's own 
 laugh was the loudest, and its tones of derision 
 the most unequivocal. 
 
 " Come," said his foe, " you're a pleasant 
 fellow, and I have no doubt an honest one ; give 
 us your hand ; I was only trying you ; come, 
 now, and take a glass of ale with us." 
 
 " On one condition, surely," replied Barney ; 
 " for in troth, myself it is, that likes a piece o' 
 harmless fun as well as any one ; on one condition, 
 I will." 
 
96 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Name it," said they, 
 
 " Why, that you must allow me to give as well 
 as take." 
 
 " By Jove, he's a prime one. Certainly, coun- 
 tryman. You must have your way in it — ^^why not?" 
 
 " Very well, gintlemen," returned Barney ; 
 " wid all the veins o' my heart, I'll take a glass 
 and sing a song wid you into the bargain." 
 
 " Bravo, Paddy. What's your name ?" 
 
 " Barney." 
 
 " Bravo, Barney," they shouted ; " by Jove 
 you're a trump. Here, waiter, bring in more 
 hale. Perhaps you would prefer punch, Barney ; 
 only say the word and you shall have it." 
 
 " No, an' many thanks to you ; I want to try 
 the ale, if you plaise, gintlemen ; an' indeed I fear 
 it was takin' too great freedoms I was, to put the 
 furraun upon you at all, — for an humble counthry- 
 man like me, gintlemen, to enter into discoorse 
 wid the likes o' yez !" 
 
 " No such thing, Barney — not a word o' that. 
 Damn pride, my honest fellow. We're the right 
 sort, that like an honest man in the frize coat, 
 better than a knave in broadcloth," 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 97 
 
 " That text's not in our Bible, Parker," said 
 one of them aside. " You're getting heretical, and, 
 besides, smelling of the shop now. I knew the 
 broadcloth would come out." 
 
 *' Hush, you foolj" returned the other. " Perhaps 
 he's worth something. Let us work him on ; tut, 
 you're a blockhead — for that is the very text we 
 work upon." 
 
 " Faix you do appear to be the right sort," re- 
 turned Barney ; " as pleasant a set- of gintlemen 
 as ever I sot wid." 
 
 " What are you, Barney?" inquired one of them 
 — a huge high-shouldered tike of a Yorkshireman, 
 with a coarse but roguish face and reddish 
 whiskers — " that is, are you a tradesman or a 
 farmer, or wat ?" 
 
 " I'm an Irishman," said Barney, "in the first 
 place, an' next to that I dale a little in butther — 
 that is," he added, correcting himself, " for an 
 uncle I have." 
 
 " Oh," observed one of them, whom the rest 
 addressed as Captain Jackson, " it is an excellent 
 thing, Barney, to have kind relations. Whenever 
 
 VOL. III. ^ 
 
98 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 I'm 'ard hup I 'ave a huncle who never desarts 
 me — a capital fellow, Barney." 
 
 " Well, sir," replied Barney, " God spare you 
 to one another ; an' sure there can be no barm in 
 wishin' that to you and the worthy gintleman, any 
 how." 
 
 This, and the observation which occasioned it 
 caused a loud laugh, in which Barney himself 
 joined heartily, though without perceiving their drift. 
 
 " Are you extensive in the butter trade, 
 Barney ?" asked the Yorkshireman, whose name 
 was Parker. 
 
 "My uncle is it you mean?" said Barney. 
 " Why, middlin', sir ; as far as three or four cart- 
 loads, or so, I have wid me now; — an' that's as 
 much as he ever sends at a time." 
 
 *' Very fair, indeed, Barney — very fair." 
 
 " Why the devil," whispered the captain to the 
 third, a man named Fulton, with a particular 
 meaning in his eye, " don't you inquire about the 
 state of the grain trade ?" 
 
 The other laughed in reply. 
 
 " How is grain, now, Barney ?" he asked, with 
 the grave assumed air of a man of business. ' 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 99 
 
 " Throth, sir," he replied, " not makin you an 
 ill answer, the sorra one o' me knows much ; an' to 
 tell you the thruth, I care less ; an' if you wish 
 for more news still, I tell you I don't like ever to 
 hear it named." 
 
 " And why, Barney ? I was once in the grain 
 
 trade myself." 
 
 " Oh, for a raison I have. I niver dealt but 
 
 wanst in grain, an' be me soul I was done." 
 
 " How was that ?" they inquired. 
 
 " Faith, easily enough ; I was ped in flash notes 
 as good as three or four and twenty years ago in 
 the town of Kilscaddaun ; an' my bad look to the 
 villain that done me ! Ay, and what made it worse 
 upon me, the whate wasn't my own, but my 
 uncle's." 
 
 " And, Barney, did you never get any trace of 
 him that did you, as you say, since?" 
 
 " Oh the divil a trace, sir. I have no cur'osily 
 for pickin' saycrets out o' hangmen. Of coorse the 
 rope was graised for him long agone, or if it has 
 not yet, it will soon^ plaise God." 
 
 This communication was received with silence 
 for a while ; but at length his narrative of the 
 
100 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 fraud practised upon him seemed to tickle them 
 
 mightily, for it was received with roars of laughter, 
 
 Barney himself joining as heartily in it as the 
 
 rest. 
 
 " Well, Barney, you're an honest fellow," said 
 
 the Yorkshireman ; " come take hoff your hale." 
 " Gintlemen, here's wishin' all your healths ! 
 Sure whin I made the freedom to spake to yez, I 
 didn't wish to spoil sport. Be gorra, the gintle- 
 man that has turned his back to me there sings a 
 good pleasant song of his own. Sir, would I be 
 
 — it's only to jist ax " 
 
 " Not at all, Barney ; he must sing. Fulton, a 
 song for Barney." 
 
 Fulton sang, but by no means with the same 
 easy spirit and freedom as before. ' The fact was, 
 that the liquor began to affect him, as was evident 
 from the change in his speech, for his utterance 
 soon became so thick and hiccupish, that Barney 
 could scarcely understand him. In a few minutes 
 after the conclusion of the song he was so com- 
 pletely overcome, that his head sank upon his 
 breast, his hat fell over his eyes, and Barney could 
 not catch a glimpse of his face for the remainder of 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 101 
 
 the night. The other two and Barney drank on, 
 sang, and amused each other until eleven o'clock. 
 They gave him their address in town, and told him 
 if any thing went wrong with him to let them know, 
 and they would certainly do all that lay in their 
 power to serve him. He was a pleasant, honest 
 Hirishman, and hang them but they liked him very 
 much ; as a proof of which, and seeing that he 
 was a stranger, they strongly recommended him 
 to put up his horses and carts at the White Horse 
 in Stoney Batter ; which, after thanking them 
 warmly, he promised he would do. 
 
 Considerable experience and a pretty good 
 knowledge of the world, so far as related to his 
 own condition of life, had made our friend Barney 
 a different man at the period we write of, from 
 what he was in the fair of Kilscaddaun. He had 
 now no lack of confidence in himself, and was able 
 to meet every man with ah ungainly sense of free- 
 dom and an untoward attitude of independence. Al- 
 though perfectly illiterate, he had become such an 
 acute and thorough judge of paper money, upon 
 which his sagacity must have been sharpened by 
 the loss of his uncle's wheat, that it was impossible 
 
102 THE MISFORTUNES OF , 
 
 for any man, whether by trick or chance, to put a 
 bad note into his possession. Nay, so very extra- 
 ordinary and almost incredible was his skill in 
 detecting bad notes, that many an educated man 
 of business, and competent accountant, would rely 
 in this matter rather upon his judgment than their 
 own. He had also learned how to write his signa- 
 ' ture mechanically upon such notes as he passed, 
 without knowing the name- of a single letter that 
 composed it, so that he was always able to recog- 
 nise these notes if they were returned to him 
 again. Notwithstanding all this, it was currently 
 reported that he made many bad bargains, by 
 which we mean such as though they prospered 
 with him, would prosper with no one else. His 
 manner also was clumsy, and, in spite of features 
 that were not naturally bad, his face was heavy 
 and phlegmatic in appearance. Of topics so plain 
 and intelligible as to be almost incapable of dispute, 
 he would express the most extraordinary and im- 
 practicable views, and defend them with an ob- 
 stinacy that no reasoning could soften or subdue. 
 It was owing to this whimsical perversity of 
 thought, that many, who connected his actions 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 103 
 
 with it, were disposed to account for the blunders 
 he eommitted, or the ill luck into which he fell. 
 Whilst others again there were, who believed, that 
 he saw further into the millstone than he who 
 picked it, and that the misfortune, together with 
 the happy turn which generally wound it up in his 
 favour, were both the result of a sagacity which 
 he was ingenious enough to disguise, by the 
 assumption of an awkward simplicity that was 
 foreign to his character. This, however, was not 
 true ; but on these speculations it is not our inten- 
 tion to express any decided opinion, but merely to 
 relate facts. 
 
104 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 About seven o'clock the next morning Barney left 
 Finglas in excellent spirits, — himself and his horses 
 refreshed by rest and abundance of good proven- 
 der. Many a jocund crack of his whip echoed 
 up the little vale of the Tolka, and his favourite 
 song of the Bouchaleen Dhun might be heard 
 rolling sweetly among the green glens of the 
 Phenix Park, through which his road into the 
 city at that time lay. He had nearly reached 
 the park-gate, when an old beggar, who sat rock- 
 ing himself to and fro on the road-side, asked 
 him for alms. A pipe, blackened by use, and a 
 half-burned sod of peat turf lay beside him under ^ 
 shelter of two flat stones, that covered them like 
 the letter V when inverted. 
 
 " The blessin' of God an' his holy mother upon 
 you, an' leave something to the poor ould man." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 105 
 
 These words were uttered in that wild whine 
 which is lost upon the inhabitants of a metro- 
 polis by whom it is understood as assumed, but 
 which, nevertheless, so effectually impresses those 
 who are fresh from the country. 
 
 " Can you answer me a question ?" said 
 Barney in reply to him ; " bekase if you can, 
 I'll be apt to give you something." 
 
 *' What is it, avick?" 
 
 " I'm but a stranger in Dublin," he proceeded ; 
 " now maybe you can tell me where in town is 
 the -safest house to put up at." 
 
 " Did you come far, acushla ?" 
 
 '' Four score miles." 
 
 " What part, dear ?" 
 
 " Why from a place called Cornamuckla, in 
 the parish of Tullyragan, widin three miles of the 
 town of Ballywhack." 
 
 " I know the place, acushla — there was a 
 family — will you help the poor for the love and 
 honour of God, the poor ould man that can neither 
 walk nor work ?— do, an' the Mother o' God will 
 reward you, an' may the Lord make your bed in 
 heaven this day /"—this by the way was a paren- 
 
 F 2 
 
106 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 thetical address to a passenger — " there was a 
 family there of the Cassidys betther than twenty 
 years agone, it must be three or four and twenty 
 now — did you know them ?" 
 
 " Right well, and a dacent family they wor." 
 
 " As ever broke bread ; ay, it is you that may 
 say it. Well, an you want to know a dacent house 
 to put up at ? Throth, avick, for the sake of ould 
 Dan Cassidy, I wish I could do more than that 
 for you — the best house in the town is the White 
 Horse at Stony Batther. You wouldn't be safer 
 in your own than you'll be in it ; an' if you say it 
 was ould Manus O'Cullenan that sint you there, 
 you'll be well thrated." 
 
 *' God bless you, poor crature," said Barney ; 
 " there's a shillin' for you, an' that's maybe more 
 than you got in one lob this while back. If it 
 wouldn't be throublesome, I'd thank you to offer 
 up a Patthern Avy towards gettin' me safe out of 
 this same Dublin, as it's the first time I have ever 
 been in it, an' intends, plaise God, it'll be the last." 
 
 This the old mendicant not only promised but 
 performed on the spot, and Barney had the plea- 
 sure of hearing many a blessing show^ered down 
 upon him and his to the twentieth generation. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 107 
 
 The old man's allusions to the family of the 
 Cassidys, as a matter of course, prompted Barney 
 to inquire for their unfortunate relative ; he ac- 
 cordingly proceeded to sound the mendicant on 
 the subject with all the caution and skill in his 
 power. 
 
 " There was one of the family that sted behind 
 them," he said, "did you know him ?" 
 
 " Hould your tongue," replied the old man, 
 " the less you say, — oh chiernah ! to think o' the 
 coorse that blaggard run !" 
 
 " Why, man alive, what did he do so bad 
 entirely ?" 
 
 " Your charity to the poor ould man, a colleen 
 dhas — a purty girl she is — to the poor ould man, 
 a hagur, and may the Lord pay it back to you wid 
 inthrest. Thank you, a willish machree ; and 
 may the father of your childre when you get him, 
 
 never live to see any one of them brought 
 
 The poor old man, your worthy honner, &c. &c. — 
 didn't break my fast since," &c. &c. 
 
 "Why, what did he do?" inquired Barney, 
 who found that he was forced to bear those inter- 
 ruptions, no matter who passed, and that like old 
 Malice Ravens wood, he must " bide his time," 
 
108 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Why," returned the either, " did you know 
 the family and not his coorses ?" 
 
 " He was wild," replied Barney, " and that 
 was all; but where is he now can you tell, or 
 what is he doin' ? — or have you seen him lately ? 
 for it appears to me that you know a good deal 
 about him." 
 
 *' Me know about him ! — oh heaven forbid, 
 acushla ! No, no ; the last thing I heard of him 
 years agone was^ that he first turned body-snatcher 
 and then methodist." 
 
 ^' Aisy, neighbour," said Barney, " thaf s car- 
 rying the joke a little too far, he was bad enough 
 I grant you, worse indeed a thousand times than 
 he ought to be ; — body-snatcher I grant you he 
 might turn, but to turn methodist, to become a 
 swaddler, an' ait hairy bacon ! Not, be me sowl, 
 that he'd have any objection to their love faists, 
 as they call them, or to their glaumming nights, 
 where it is a known sartinty that they blow out 
 the candles, an' the praicher himself is the first — " 
 
 "Don't forget the poor ould man, sir, born 
 widout the use o' one o' my best legs, and may," &c. 
 
 *' An' is that all you know of him ?" asked 
 Barney ; " is he livin' or dead do you think ?" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 109 
 
 " It's all I know about him, an' what worse 
 could I know about him than that he turned 
 swaddler ? Whether he's livin' ov dead it's hard 
 to say, but I think he must be hanged. I'm re- 
 lated myself to him and the family, poor as I am, 
 and if he had been in Dublin for years I couldn't 
 but hear it. Maybe he's a praicher by this, that 
 is, if he's not hanged or a sack-'em-up stilL" 
 
 " Well I'm sorry for him/' said Barney ; ''good- 
 by agin, an' there's another shillin' to you on his 
 account. A methodist ! oh the divel a methodist ! 
 he never could come to that, bad as he was I" 
 
 Barney was about to proceed on his way, not 
 at all displeased with the old felloys^'s feelings as 
 expressed against Cassidy's adhesion to methodism, 
 which he himself detested most cordially, when a 
 man dressed in a fustian jacket approached, bearing 
 upon his shoulders a large and apparently weighty 
 trunk. 
 
 *' Arra, God for ever bless you, neighbour, and 
 maybe you'd be civil enough to give me a lift wid 
 this weary trunk that I'm bringing to the White 
 Horse at Stony Batther?" 
 
 " He's jist goin' to it," said the mendicant, " an' 
 
no THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 as he's a stranger, do you show him the way, 
 and no doubt he'll give your thrunk a lift. Sure 
 we ought to be civil to one another any how. Will 
 you remimber the ould man, avick ?" 
 
 The porter looked at him and smiled, but the 
 old fellow kept rocking as usual, and still pressed 
 his solicitations with unabated eagerness ; the 
 other, as if recollecting himself, suddenly thrusf, 
 his hand into his pocket, and threw him a penny, 
 adding in a dry tone, " you're right, old Hackball, 
 we ought to be civil to one another. Neighbour, 
 if you take this trunk," he proceeded, addressing 
 himself to Barney, " I'll give you your mornin' 
 at the White Horse, if you haven't got it already." 
 
 " On wid it," said Barney, " mornin' or no 
 mornin', I'm not the man to refuse a friendly lift 
 to any honest fellow that may stand in need of it, 
 an' I'm much mistaken, or there's an honest dhrop 
 in you." 
 
 " We'll both have a good drop in us as soon as 
 we rache the White Horse at any rate," returned 
 the other good-humouredly ; " an' there's not much 
 differ afther all between a good drop and an honest 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. Ill 
 
 The trunk was now placed upon one of the 
 carts, and both proceeded towards the far-famed 
 Stony Batter, having bade good-by to the old 
 mendicant, who looked after them with a keen 
 glittering eye which age could not dim, and a 
 cold sneer upon his hard weather-beaten features. 
 Barney on looking back was struck with it, and 
 could not avoid observing to his companion, that 
 he thought him a curiosity in his way. 
 
 " And a quare ould chap too," he added. 
 
 " Why," said the other dryly, " he is that. 
 From day-break till afther the quality all pass to 
 dinner, he seldom budges from that spot. Then 
 he disappears, and it's odd, but nobody can tell 
 what becomes of him nor where he goes. They 
 say he's very rich. Numbers of the gentry that 
 know him on his stand for years, give so much a 
 day, or so much a week, not to mention what he 
 gets from others." 
 
 " He has the devil's knowin' look," said Barney ; 
 who, however, on thinking over his interview with 
 him, could see no reason why an old man sepa- 
 rated from the world as he was, should out of 
 mere wantonness of mischief, direct him to an 
 
112 . THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 improper or an unsafe house to stop in. Still the 
 look of the old fellow, sinister and bitter as it 
 was, haunted his imagination in spite of himself, 
 and clung to him with' such tenacity that for 
 -several minutes he was completely absorbed by 
 the consideration of it. At length he resolved to 
 ask his companion, if he knew, or had ever heard 
 any thing to the disadvantage of the inn in 
 question ; but on turning about to address him, he 
 found that he had disappeared. By this time he had 
 fairly entered the city, and it was of course a very 
 easy thing for any one to turn a comer and give 
 him the slip ; but why the man should run away 
 and leave his trunk behind him was difficult to be 
 accounted for. Impossible ! He only met a 
 friend and stopped to speak to him. In a few 
 minutes there was no doubt but he would over- 
 take him. 
 
 Such were his cogitations, when, to increase his 
 surprise still further, he saw his horses seized by 
 the head, and at the same moment found himself 
 between two constables who declared him their 
 prisoner. 
 
 " What is this for ?" he inquired, his blood 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 113 
 
 rising, "the king's prisoner! for why am I the 
 king's prisoner ?" 
 
 " Walk away with us, and you'll soon know 
 that." 
 
 *' What ! an' lave my horses an' property in the 
 street ; divil a morsel of that same if there was 
 half a dozen of yez. Tell me what I have 
 done I say ?" and with a powerful effort he shook 
 the two men off him as he spoke. 
 
 The men again fastened on him, but his resis- 
 tance was instantly checked by seeing two other 
 constables raise the tarpaulin, under the corner 
 of which he and the porter had fixed the trunk. 
 The moment it was found, they exclaimed to the 
 others, — "here it is, all's right and correct to a 
 hair." 
 
 " You see how it is," said those who held him; 
 *'walk away with us, my good fellow, and no 
 palaver j if not, we'll clap that upon your wrists 
 that will save you sleeve-buttons." 
 
 Now, all this occurred in less than a minute, 
 yet so easy is it to collect a crowd in the streets of 
 any great city, that the horses and carts as well 
 as the actors in this drama were already surround- 
 ed with people. 
 
114 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " I have a right to know what I'm guilty of," 
 said Barney ; " an' I must know it afore I budge a 
 step for any man ; so I demand wanst more what 
 charge you have aginst me ?" 
 
 " It's a fair question," said the by-standers ; 
 " tell the man what you charge him with." 
 
 " He'll know it too soon," they replied ; 
 " come, my buck, step out." 
 
 *' You don't expect me, as I said, to lave my 
 property in the street ?" he replied again ; " you 
 know I can't do that, an' I won't ; that's a sure 
 thing." 
 
 " Ned, hand out them darbies. Your pro- 
 perty ! We will take charge of your property, my 
 man. But you don't expect us to put your horses 
 and carts in gaol with you, my fine fellow ? Come, 
 step along." 
 
 " Do you know that I'm sure this is a plot," 
 said Barney ; " none of yez has showed me your 
 authority, an' antil you do, you may jist as well 
 whistle jigs to a milestone, as bring me a foot if 
 there wor a dozen of yez." 
 
 A peace-officer's mace was immediately held to 
 his nose. "There it is," said the fellow who 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 115 
 
 carried it. " Will you move now or must we get 
 on the darbies ?" 
 
 " I will," returned Barney, " but you must let 
 my horses an' carts come along wid me. I can^'t 
 be detained any time ; for as to the trunk, it's 
 not twenty minutes in my possession ; bring the 
 horses and carts along, an' I'll go." 
 " And you won't otherwise ?" 
 *' No, not while I can raise a hand." 
 " Damn you for a ruffian," exclaimed the other, 
 dragging him forward, and at the same time 
 giving him with his mace something between a 
 punch and a blow about the neck. " Come along, 
 I say, bloody end to you come along, your horses 
 and carts will be safe." 
 
 " Don't abuse the man," shouted the people : 
 " don't strike him, you bloody thief-snatcher ! 
 Is it going to kill the dacent man they are ? 
 They'll murder him, the bloody bulkies, so they 
 will !" 
 
 Barney, seeing that the crowd, at all events, 
 were with him, felt his confidence get strong, and 
 his resolution not to be separated from his pro- 
 perty increase. The stroke of the mace, howevers 
 
116 . THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 was that which principally determined him. With 
 a powerful wrench he immediately disentangled 
 himself, and by two successive blows quickly and 
 powerfully sent home, he felled to the earth the 
 two fellows who had held him. A short but 
 furious contest took place, in which Barney had 
 an opportunity of duly estimating the value which 
 ought to be placed on the brawling support of a 
 Dublin mob — the most cowardly, by the way, in 
 Europe — for during its continuance he was left 
 unaided and unsupported, unless by their idle and 
 senseless clamour. As it was, the constables 
 found it a» formidable task to master him, — one, 
 indeed, in the execution of which they suffered 
 heavy punishment. Nay, we question if the five 
 men present could have succeeded in getting on 
 the irons, were it not that one of them shouted to 
 the crowd, — ^" He's either a body-snatcher or a 
 murderer, and has a corpse in the trunk !" 
 
 Lightening itself is not quicker than was the 
 change which took place from their vain sympa- 
 thies in his favour to a fearful feeling of vengeance 
 against him. Had the constable merely denounced 
 him as a murderer, the circumstance might have 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 117 
 
 somewhat abated, but would not have removed, 
 their prejudices in his favour. The man who 
 atrociously shed his blood, took away his life, and 
 hurled him unprepared into the presence of his 
 God, might be felt for : but the unfortunate 
 creature who raised the senseless flesh, and sold 
 it for a guinea or two to a surgeon, for purposes 
 beneficial to humanity, neither can expect nor 
 ever will receive any sympathy at the hands of a 
 mob. On the contrary, whilst the murderer is 
 often pitied, and his fate the object of solicitude 
 and anxiety to thousands, the other is thought of 
 and looked upon with feelings of unmitigated 
 hatred and horror. 
 
 The scene which now occurred could hardly be 
 described. The indignation of the people against 
 Barney was boundless. Their shouts and execra- 
 tions, could they have become visible as well as 
 audible, would have hterally darkened the sky. 
 All were in a state of frightful commotion, every 
 one rushing to the spot where the prisoner stood. 
 
 " A body-snatcher ! A sack-'em-up ! Down 
 wid him ! Tear him to pieces ! Put him in his 
 own sack ! Where — where is the villain ? Let 
 
118 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 US at him ! Into the LifFey wid him, the bloody- 
 thief I How many? Two cart-loads full! A 
 body in every firkin ! Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! An' 
 is he alive yet ! Childhre, too, from ten to four- 
 teen years ! Arra ! why don't they garther the 
 villain wid his own guts !" 
 
 In the midst of all this din, the constables, 
 aided by the people, immediately put Barney in 
 irons, and, so far, their object was gained. The 
 outrage of the crOwd, however, was yet by no 
 means at its height ; nor was this at all surprising, 
 v^'hen we consider the appalling spectacle which 
 was soon to be presented to them. The moment 
 the man said that the trunk contained a corpse, a 
 rush was made towards it ; the cords that bound 
 it were instantly cut or reft off, and in less 
 than two minutes it was forced open, the dead 
 body dragged out, and exposed to the gaze of the 
 now maddened spectators. The groans, and yells, 
 and hisses were furious and astounding ; and 
 perhaps nothing could have saved Barney's life, 
 but the diversion which this exposure from the 
 top of the cart, where the trunk had been hoisted, 
 produced in his favour. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 119 
 
 It was certainly a most horrible sight. At any 
 time, to bring the glare of day upon the ghastli- 
 ness of death causes a revulsion of feeling that is 
 painful and sickening ; but here was the body of 
 an emaciated old man, from the upper part of 
 which all covering had been taken away, sitting 
 in a squat or crouching attitude, its fleshless arms 
 bent up towards the shoulders, and its thin lips, 
 exposing the teeth, pressed back into something 
 that had a frightful resemblance to a laugh. 
 That, however, which raised the feelings of the 
 crowd to a still more revolting sense of the hor- 
 rible was the expression of the white closed eye- 
 lids, which, as the head was perfectly erect, had, 
 under the light of the sun, an appearance so 
 indescribably awful, tliat many persons covered 
 their eyes from a strong disinclination to look 
 upon it. The very motions of the stiff carcase, 
 as it was turned about in every direction, that the 
 crowd might see it, wrenched as it was, and 
 squatted up by brute force, from the calm and 
 outstretched attitude of unviolated death, conveyed 
 to the spectators that impression which teaches us 
 instinctively to secure to the defenceless dead the 
 
120 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 hallowed composure of the grave, ' and to feel that 
 invincible hatred of those who, for whatever 
 purpose, will sacrilegiously disturb them from that 
 last repose. The thin white hair, too, conveying 
 as it did the ideas of helplessness and reverence, 
 blew about the ghastly temples in a manner which 
 made the lookers-on shudder at the hardened 
 impiety that could trample upon all the rights and 
 privileges of old age and death, and drag them 
 impiously abroad to make " day" hideous. 
 
 Poor Barney, thus exposed, alone and with- 
 out a friend, to the resentment of an excited 
 rabble, who considered him as having outraged 
 humanity by a crime of the blackest dye, was 
 certainly an object of much pity. It_was by the 
 greatest efforts of the very men with whom he 
 was but a few minutes before in violent conflict, 
 aided by the calmest and most sensible persons in 
 the crowd, that he escaped with his life, and 
 that his property was rescued from the fury of 
 the people. Indeed his distress, when about to 
 be removed from it, was so very obvious, that a 
 gentleman in the crowd, apparently moved by 
 compassion, made way to him., and presenting his 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 121 
 
 card, said in tones of sympathy that went at once 
 to the poor fellow's heart. — 
 
 " I am very much afraid, poor man, that there 
 has been some trick played upon you, and indeed, 
 if you be a stranger, it is not at all improbable. 
 
 ' At all events, you have an honest look; and al- 
 though I certainly do not know you, still I think 
 it too bad that your property should be left without 
 due protection. There's my card, which will 
 direct you where to find me. I will have your 
 horses and carts brought to my own stores, where 
 they shall be perfectly safe. So far as that is 
 concerned, make your mind easy ; I only hope 
 you may get as readily out of the ugly fact that 
 is against you." 
 
 The constables said he might entertain no fears 
 for his property, — that they would put it up wher- 
 ever he wished. Barney, however, hesitated, and 
 said he would prefer leaving it with the kind 
 gentleman. 
 
 " God Almighty bless you, sir," said he, for 
 
 the humane gentleman's kindness actually brought 
 
 the tears to his eyes ; " you have taken a heavy 
 
 load off of my heart." 
 
 VOL. III. ^ 
 
122 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Keep that card in your pocket, and the 
 moment you are at liberty — but, at all events, I 
 shall see whether I can serve you in the other 
 matter — where are you bringing him now ?" he 
 inquired of the officers. 
 
 " To Harry-street, before Mr. Coke, your 
 honour." 
 
 " Well then, go quietly with these men, and — 
 let me see — I could not possibly attend the office 
 to-day ; but I'll tell you what — ask the magistrates 
 to let your examination stand over till to-morrow. 
 Is there any one of respectability in town that 
 you know ?" 
 
 " Not a soul, sir," replied Barney ; " I never 
 had my fut in Dublin afore, an' if I was but safe 
 at home — Mavrone, oh ! but I'm the unlucky 
 boy this day !" 
 
 " What, none ! Well, then, you have the more 
 need of some one to interfere for you," said the 
 gentleman ; " so get your business put off till to- 
 morrow, if you can ; and I will go to the office, 
 and see how your case really stands. Bring him 
 away now ; go quietly with the officers." 
 
 " Maybe yez would wait for one minute," 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 123 
 
 said a voice which made Barney look with a start 
 in the direction from which it issued — he could not 
 be mistaken ; it was that of the old meildicant 
 from the park-road, who had wrought his way 
 through the crowd, and stood beside the parties in 
 question. 
 
 " Are yez takin' the man away from his horses 
 and carts ?" he asked, without addressing any one 
 in particular. 
 
 " Thanks be to God," exclaimed Barney, 
 raising his hat and looking up with thanksgiving, 
 " here's a man can prove my innocence." 
 
 " That I can an' will," said O'Cullenan ; " but 
 about your property, who is to take care of 
 thatr 
 
 " This worthy gintleman," said Barney, " has 
 promised to take my horses and carts home to his 
 stores till I get out of this divil's business that 
 I've got into." 
 
 The mendicant' and Barney's new patron sur- 
 veyed each other for nearly half a minute, as if 
 each strove to read the very soul of the other. 
 At length the old man, with a hard and determined 
 expression of scorn and self-will upon his face, 
 
124 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 and the same keen and glittering look of decision 
 in his eye, which Barney had observed before, 
 simply but emphatically uttered the monosyllable 
 ''No." 
 
 " Show me that card," said he to Barney, who 
 still held it in his hand. One glance at it seemed 
 completely to confirm his determination — " No," 
 said he, " No. This man," he added, addressing 
 the officers, " I know a little about — he is an 
 honest man — and I can clear him from the charge 
 against him. In the mane time he was bound 
 for the White Horse, at Stoney Batther, an' there 
 I'll bring his property, and one of you can come 
 and see his horses and carts put up. The house 
 is a well-known house, and his horses and every 
 thing else belonging to him will be safe, for the 
 landlord is responsible for them." 
 
 " It is to you only that I will trust them," said 
 Barney, "for I know they will be as safe wid 
 you as wid myself, thankin' the gintleman in the 
 mane time for his intinded kindness." 
 
 The old man then addressed Barney in Irish, 
 and rebuked him very sharply for his simplicity 
 in allowing one who was an utter stranger to him 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 125 
 
 to get possession of his property, to which Barney 
 replied, that under the circumstances, he had no 
 other alternative. This dialogue lasted not more 
 than two minutes, yet, whether the gentlemanly 
 man entertained a rooted antipathy to Irish, or 
 whether he felt his honour offended by the bad 
 taste and ingratitude of Barney, who could prefer 
 the aid of a common beggar to his, it is difficult 
 to determine. One thing was certain, that before 
 the close of their Irish conversation he had ming- 
 led with the crowd, and very quietly disappeared 
 from the scene of action. 
 
 Matters having now assumed a somewhat 
 brighter aspect for Barney, he accompanied the 
 officers with an easier heart. The old man, true 
 to his word, brought the carts to the redoubtable 
 White Horse Inn, after which he went directly to 
 Harry-street, in order to complete that which he 
 had undertaken, by giving the proving testimony 
 which was essential to Barney's liberation. 
 
126 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The investigation which took place was more 
 a matter of form, as the case turned out, than 
 any thing else. The evidence of Manus O' CuUe- 
 nan placed Barney beyond all suspicion of having 
 had any thing to do with the disinterment of 
 the body. That he appeared to be the object 
 of some hoax, or of a much more nefarious 
 design, was quite evident to men whose pene- 
 tration of character had been sharpened, as 
 that of the magistrates must have been, by 
 long practice in dealing with the crooked schemes 
 of villany, and unravelling the ingenious meshes 
 in which the knaves and swindlers of the day 
 were in the habit of entangling the innocent 
 and unwary. Barney, when examined, very 
 candidly and honestly detailed the nature of 
 ,his interview with the three English fellows 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 127 
 
 in Finglas on the preceding night; and when 
 it came out in the course of the inquiry, that 
 they had sang two songs, — the names only of 
 which he could remember, namely, " Sir Billy 
 has lost his queue," and " Old king Cole," 
 the worthy gentlemen were satisfied, from cir- 
 cumstances which had come to their knowledge 
 on former occasions, that poor Barney had fallen 
 unwittingly into the hands of the three most 
 notorious sharpers and blacklegs of the day. 
 These were fellows, who, with the roulette 
 and hazard tables, attended every race-course 
 and great fair in the kingdom, where by the 
 iniquitous machinery of these tables, they necessa- 
 rily fleeced every person who played, except 
 their own accomplices, who knew how to win, 
 or some individual whom they allowed to escape, 
 upon the principle of throwing a sprat to catch 
 a salmon. As this was not the first case in 
 which these knaves had entrapped unsuspicious 
 men, the magistrates were prepared to take a 
 just and correct view of the whole transaction. 
 Our worthy butter merchant was not only ho- 
 nourably set at large, but desired to be sharply 
 
128 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 on his guard, as it was not impossible that 
 they might still, through other agents, attempt 
 to swindle him out of his property. 
 
 Barney thanked them for this kind advice, 
 and in company with his friend and witness, 
 Manus O'CuUenan, left the office quite delighted 
 that he had escaped so well, and full of gratitude 
 to the mendicant for his assistance. 
 
 Thus ended the charge against Barney, who, 
 accompanied by his new friend, repaired to the 
 White Horse, where he found his butter, horses, 
 and carts, as safe and as well taken care of 
 as he could havie wished. Having ordered in 
 some liquor, the old fellow, with an appearance 
 of much interest in the result of his future 
 transactions, addressed him as follows : — 
 
 " You may thank me," said he, " or you 
 would have been stripped naked — ay, as naked 
 as the palm of my hand; and you think it 
 odd, too, that a poor beggar like me could 
 prevent it, but I could and did — ay, and I 
 know more about you than you think. Did 
 you ever sell wheat in the fair of Kilscaddaun ?" 
 Barney groaned. " For God's sake," said 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 129 
 
 he, " don't mention it — I was done purtily 
 there." 
 
 "Don't be too sure but you'll be done as 
 purtily here, — I tell you that. If I hadn't pre- 
 vented that fellow from taking care of your 
 horses and carts, — whew ! where would they 
 be now do you think ? In bank notes — and 
 in good ones, too — before this." 
 
 " Faith," said Barney, " you have proved 
 yourself a true friend to me. Well, no matter, 
 my poor fellow, I'll give you the price of a 
 betther coat than that before we part." 
 
 " Will you indeed ?" said the other, with 
 an incredulous sneer ; " maybe not." 
 
 " Well, we'll see," said Barney ; " but how 
 the sorra do you know any thing about the 
 Kilscaddaun business ?" 
 
 " Never mind. All I can say is, you're 
 far from being safe yet, unless I take good 
 care of you. I tell you you're set ; and if 
 we're not well on our sharps we'll have Kilscad- 
 daun acted over again." 
 
 Barney groaned aloud a second time. " Jasus," 
 said he, " what wouldn't I give to be safe 
 
 G 2 
 
130 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 at home! Mavrone ! but I'm the unfortunate 
 boy this day ! — But tell me — you mentioned 
 Jack Cassidy, an' said he was a sack-'em-up. 
 Whin- I saw that corpse in the trunk, faith 
 I thought of him, too, an' that he might have 
 a hand in it." 
 
 " Think no more of him," said the other, 
 " he's dead ; dead, years ago — and the less 
 that's said of him the better." 
 
 " God be good to his sowl, any how," ejacu- 
 lated Barney, "he was neither so bad -as they 
 thought or spoke of him. But tell me this 
 —what's the raison that there's sich a change 
 in your discoorse ? Your brogue is gone !" 
 
 " Never mind that, either ; ask me as few 
 questions as possible ; but this I tell' you, that 
 if I leave you altogether to yourself, marked 
 and set as you are, you will go home, as I 
 said, stark naked. For the present, however, 
 I must leave you, but I will see you in the 
 evening. In the meantime, let every thing 
 » rest as it is — do nothing till to-morrow, and 
 good-by for the present." 
 
 Barney, having nothing else to do for the 
 remainder of the day, inquired his way to the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 131 
 
 butter market, not only that he might pass the 
 time, but also to see how the wind blew, touching 
 the prices. Until he reached that busy and 
 classical spot, the adventures of the day seemed 
 to him like a dream. Not a man looked at 
 him that he did not suspect to be a blackleg, 
 robber, or cut-throat. He ,had always heard 
 awful accounts of the numerous strangers that 
 had been robbed, kidnapped, or murdered in 
 Dublin ; and it is not, indeed, surprising, if we 
 consider what he had encountered since his arrival 
 in it — a space only of a few hours — that his 
 apprehensions should have been excited until 
 they were little short of actual terror. 
 
 The butter market, however — heavens ! the 
 great Dublin butter market — which he was in 
 a few minutes to see, gave a complete super- 
 sedeas to every such sensation. His whole soul 
 was in a tumult of high-wrought expectation 
 and prophetic enjoyment ; but never did man 
 suffer more from allowing his imagination to 
 run riot when he saw the poor, paltry, shabby, 
 miserable, contemptible exhibition that it^ was — 
 he groaned at heart and in spirit. He felt chap- 
 
132 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 fallen — annoyed — grieved. " Here," said he, 
 *' have I thravelled above four-score miles to 
 see the great Dublin butter market, and may I 
 never bite an auger, but I have seen more butter 
 of a market-day in the town of Kilscaddaun 
 than comes here at this rate for a month. 
 Mavrone, oh — but I am the unfortunate boy 
 every way ! Chiernah yeelish ! sich a market ! 
 May God send me safe home wid my life and 
 health, and I'll be continted !" For an hour 
 or two he amused himself by sauntering about, 
 pricing one cask, tasting another, guessing 
 the weight of that cool, and examining with 
 great vigilance and sagacity all the Ideal tricks, 
 strange usages, and technical phrases that pre- 
 vailed. In a little time he forgot himself, and be- 
 came better pleased. He had added something to his 
 experience as a butter merchant — ascertained the 
 market prices, and was every way prepared 
 for the sale of his own to-morrow. 
 
 Never did any human being pass a night of such 
 terror and distress as did Barney on that. His 
 throat was cut successfully several times,; he was 
 robbed of the proceeds of his butter— he was strip- 
 ped naked and narrowly escaped with his life. But 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 133 
 
 above all that he felt, in the groaning and spasmo- 
 dic horror of sleep, were the paralyzing agonies 
 which he suffered from the associations connected 
 with the sack-'em-ups. The grin of the corpse 
 was in his soul. The white eyeUds, the flattened 
 nosCj, and the hideous mouth were before his spirit, 
 exaggerated by terror and imagination into all that 
 was frightful. Sometimes the dead body was 
 astride of him, poking his ribs with his own butter 
 auger. Sometimes he thought it was one of the 
 magistrates who wore a queue, that was laying on 
 him with that luckless appendage as if he had been 
 pushing him for the Derby stakes ; and though 
 last, not least, came the old mendicant with his 
 bitter sneer and glittering eye looking into his very 
 soul, and attempting to suffocate him into the bar- 
 gain, with the clouted patches of his old great 
 coat. When to all this is added, that he never 
 yet could sleep soundly in a strange bed, and had 
 a most pitiable fear of ghosts, the reader may give 
 a pretty correct guess as to the nature of the 
 repose he enjoyed on that night. 
 
 It had been arranged during the evening 
 between him and the mendicant, whom he had 
 
134 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 reason to look upon as his guardian angel, that 
 they should both go to the butter market together. 
 Without this promise from his friend, Barney 
 would not indeed have considered himself safe ; 
 but as it was, on reaching the market, he went 
 through it with the air of a man confident in his 
 own sagacity, and up to all the tricks and ma- 
 noeuvres of the place. In the course of a very short 
 time he disposed of his butter, saw it tasted, 
 weighed, marked, and what was still better, 
 received in good Bank of Ireland notes, such a 
 sum of money as, allowing for the contingency of 
 his reaching home safely, caused him to feel quite 
 satisfied that he had made the trip in question to 
 the metropolis. 
 
 Nothing now prevented him fronj leaving Dublin 
 but the purchase of several things for his wife and 
 children which he could get neither so good nor 
 so cheap near home, and which he had promised 
 them. The old mendicant after giving him every 
 necessary advice and caution against the tricks and 
 traps that might be laid for him, said he could stay 
 no longer : but now that the principal danger was 
 over— his butter well sold and the money for it in 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 135 
 
 his fob — in good notes, too— he[thought there could 
 be no such very great danger, provided he looked 
 well to his pockets, did not drink with any one, 
 and entered into no intercourse with strangers. 
 " But you must not leave town to-day. The dan- 
 ger here is past, because / am with you ; but go 
 out of town by yourself and the danger is before 
 you and over you. I must now go, but I will see 
 you in the evening. 
 
 "Stop," said Barney, " you have been a friend 
 to me when I wanted one — ay, an' a good friend 
 too — I won't ax questions, but you know I pro- 
 mised you the price of a betther coat than 
 that." 
 
 The old fellow looked at the coat and then at 
 Barney, and the eye as before glittered — 
 
 " Well," said he, "a better coat — maybe not : 
 a newer, a decenter, a more fashionable coat you 
 might easily get me — but I tell you I wouldn't 
 part with this coat for all the coats in the shop of 
 the wealthiest tailor in Dublin. It's an old friend 
 and an old companion, and is more valuable to me 
 than it looks ; so you see I don't like to throw it 
 away yet. At the same time I'll take, thankfully. 
 
136 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 any present you may give me. I will not deny 
 but I deserve something at your hands." 
 
 "Then," said Barney, "here's two pound ten 
 — a thirty-shilling note and a pound note — get 
 some better duds than thim — for betune you and 
 me your dress is open to objection. If you think 
 that's not enough I'll put more to it." 
 
 The old man looked at him, and seemed to cal- 
 culate, if one could judge by the keen cold expres- 
 sion of his eye, to what extent the benevolence of 
 the other might carry him ; but, as if upon further 
 consideration, he appeared to change his pur- 
 pose ! 
 
 "Why," said he, "you might make it — eh? 
 let me see — you might — no, no — you have done 
 the generous thing — I'll take — take no more — no, 
 I'll take no more, not a penny." 
 
 " Well, get the feathers, for you v/ant them." 
 
 " Would you wish," said the old fellow, after 
 having slipped the notes into his pocket, " to ruin 
 my trade ? No, no — these clothes must do me for 
 the rest of my life. But thank you — thank you — 
 take care of yourself, and I'll convoy you some 
 miles out of town when you're going home." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 137 
 
 They then separated; Barney to the White 
 Horse in order to get a youngster acquainted with 
 the town to show him the streets and particular 
 houses in which he wished to make his purchases ; 
 the old fellow adjourned to his usual seat upon the 
 park-road. The only person about the inn who 
 could be afforded to him as a guide was a slipshod 
 tattered girl about nineteen years of age ; but as 
 she knew the places to which he was going, and 
 had her honesty solemnly vouched for by her mis- 
 tress, Barney was fain to accompany her, being 
 anxious to lose as little time as possible in a city 
 which he felt to be a series of pitfalls, into some one 
 of which every step he took was likely to tumble 
 him. 
 
 Three or four hours elapsed in this shoping 
 expedition, and Barney, with his tattered guide 
 walking loaded with his purchases before him — for 
 on no possible account would he let her for 
 a moment out of his sight — was on his return home 
 through Little Britain-street, when the girl was 
 stopped by an acquaintance of her own sex, who 
 shook hands with and appeared very glad to see 
 her. Barney, who was himself burthened pretty 
 
138 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 heavily, being determined not to let the wench get 
 behind him, was obliged to stand, and of course had 
 an opportunity of hearing their conversation. 
 This consisted of the usual gradations by which 
 such casual rencontres between individuals of the 
 sex are marked — viz., first warm inquiries as to 
 the personal welfare of the parties ; secondly, of 
 their absent friends ; and thirdly, a discussion upon 
 sweet-hearts and love. 
 
 " And how is your mother, Biddy ?" 
 " Bedad, sportin' — as light as a cobweb — where 
 are you livin' now, Judy ?" 
 
 " At the White Horse, up in Stoney Batther." 
 " Oh, I know ; sure my cousin Mary lived 
 there before she tuck to the bad, poor girl. Is 
 Pat Rorke there still ?" 
 
 " Lord, Biddy, but you're full o' you mock 
 modesty. Maybe you don't know who he is ?" 
 
 " Bad luck to the hair I care whether he is or 
 not— he's but a poor crature : are you in a hurry ? 
 well, divle cares, wait a minute. You know 
 Peggy Halpenny, from Stockin' Alley below, her 
 mother keeps half a sheet an' a stool o' tay at the 
 Egg Market — sure, my dear, who does I meet 
 
# 
 
 BARNEY BRANAGAN. 139 
 
 but her an' a soger from the Barricks above, that 
 she's doin' it heavy wid — he's to bring her to 
 the Straw Market on Tuesday night, no less. 
 Well, my dear, she was biddin' him good-by when 
 I came up ; an' my dear, says she to me, ' sure 
 I have news for you, Bid.' 
 
 " * I hope it's good, Peggy,' says I, ' an' be on 
 your guard, my dear, becase you know what 
 sogers is,' says I, givin' her a bit o' good advice at 
 the time. 
 
 " ' My dear,' says she, ' that's all settled ; a red 
 coat's his Majesty's livery. Bid ; an' on Tuesday 
 night, my dear; we are to be spliced at de Market 
 — I'm not ashamed of it — an' so I tould them at 
 home. I'll follow him to de world's end,' says I, 
 ' an' farther if he goes it — so yez may make 
 your minds aisy,' says I, ' I'm not the girl to 
 desart the boy that's true to me' — so, seein' how 
 I tuck afther him, they said no more. Well, but 
 the news — I must tell you that — sure, Judy — but 
 first, when did you see Mickey Gallaher ?' 
 
 " Not these three weeks— Sunday night three 
 weeks at the dance in Grange Gorman." 
 
 " Well, my dear, it's a friend would tell you 
 
140 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 this — he's as great a scamp as Pat Rorke himself. 
 Sure, no longer ago than last Sunday, he had 
 Nancy Moran at de Strawberry Beds — he an' 
 some schamin' cadey out o' place traited her an' 
 a girl from Boot Lane at de Beds,and had half a 
 pint of punch on their way home, at the Hole in 
 the Wall." 
 
 " Well, my dear, who cares — Mickey Galla- 
 her was nevermore than any other boy to me — 
 whatever he might be to others." This was 
 accompanied by a short toss of the head, which 
 showed, however, that she felt it ; "I wish them 
 joy of him that gets him. Where are you goin' 
 now, Bid ?" -, 
 
 " To the Post Office, wid a note from poor 
 Mr. Cassidy — oh, but you never seen him — it was 
 before your time when he used to be at the White 
 Horse. Sorra the fut I'll stop in that house ; 
 they're a gallis pack that comes about it. There's 
 poor Mr. Cassidy — oh, Judy, if you'd see him 
 now, he can't live four an' twenty hours — there 
 he's lyin' in my aunt's down in Boot Lane, half 
 mad, I believe, an' half dead, too." 
 
 " I know your aunt's." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 141 
 
 " Bad luck to the whole crew o' them — there 
 he's dyin' be inches, and they know it at the 
 White Horse very well — but not one o' the black- 
 guard crew ever comes next or near him." 
 
 Barney had been for some time impatient, and 
 would ere now have made the girl move on, were 
 it not that he felt a kind of curiosity in the com- 
 munications which they made to each other. His 
 patience, however, was on the very point of 
 yielding, when the mention of Cassidy's name 
 not only arrested his attention, but if we may use 
 the expression, actually caused his very ears to 
 erect themselves with the interest he felt at it. 
 Nor was this the sole cause of the excitement 
 which began to absorb his feelings. The very bad 
 character given by this girl to the White Horse 
 Inn, astounded and alarmed him. Could it be 
 possible, after all, that he was in danger there ? 
 The old mendicant certainly proved himself his 
 friend, but yet even he was surrounded by mys- 
 tery, and appeared to know the movements of 
 half the swindlers and blacklegs in the city. One 
 thing would relieve him, and that was an interview 
 with Cassidy, if he were the same person ? From 
 
142 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 him he could expect the truth as far at least as he 
 knew it. He could advise him also how to act, 
 and perhaps throw light upon circumstances which 
 to him were at the present time unaccountable. 
 But above all, he himself might be able to soothe 
 the death-bed of his old friend if he were dying, - 
 or if not, to afford him such assistance as his 
 health and circumstances then required. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said kind-hearted Barney, 
 with a sigh ; " who know^ but I might be able 
 yet to send him to his friends. If he can bear the 
 journey he won't want the needful to pay his 
 passage, and keep him comfortable till he gets to 
 them." 
 
 Little he knew what was to befall himself when 
 his sterling heart conceived the benevolent senti- 
 ments he then uttered. 
 
 " Come, girsha," said he to the girl — " get an, 
 get an — you don't intind to stop here the whole 
 day." 
 
 " Good-by, Bid — will you be at the dance in 
 Church-street on Sunday evenin' ?" 
 
 " If I can," replied Biddy. " Give my love 
 to Pat Rorke — ha, ha, ha — the poor rap !" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 143 
 
 " Now," continued he, addressing Judy, when 
 the other passed on, " I'll give you a shillin' to 
 yourself over an' above what I'll pay you for this 
 trip, if you'll bring me in an hour or two to the 
 man named Cassidy that your acquaintance spoke 
 of. An' see, girsha, say nothin' about it to any 
 one." 
 
 <' Very well," said the girl, " I'll be goin' out 
 on a message as far as Mary's Abbey, anyhow, — 
 a shillin' mind." 
 
 " Ay, a shillin', an' if you can keep your mouth 
 shut may be another." 
 
 " Devil a one about the place I'd think worth 
 tellin' it to," she replied. " Keep your eye on 
 me in the evenin'; an' when I'm goin' out I'll 
 look at you, and pin my shawl this way, then 
 you can slip afther me, and no one will notice 
 us." 
 
 It was so arranged. 
 
144j THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The house in which unfortunate Cassidy then 
 lay, was one of a class too numerous in the 
 metropolis of our country. It was large and 
 divided into many apartments, in every one of 
 which there lived a distinct family. The front 
 windows of it presented a most anomalous collec- 
 tion of wearing apparel drying in the sun, and 
 dangling from lines that ran up to the walls from 
 the points of slender sticks that projected out- 
 wards. Those who resided in this dilapidated 
 habitation were persons of the very lowest grade 
 of society — its mere dregs. The consequence 
 was, that with few exceptions they were idle, 
 drunken, scurrilous, dishonest, and filthy. As 
 he approached the house which his guide pointed 
 out to him there were three or four dirty tattered 
 women stretched out of the windows pinning > 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 145 
 
 clothes to the hnes in such a perilous manner, 
 as to alarm him lest they might lose their balance 
 and tumble into the street. Between two, or 
 rather between three of them — for it was two 
 against one on this occasion — there raged such a 
 clanging war of words, and such an intemperate 
 outpouring of scurrility, that Barney's notions of 
 metropolitan villany were raised to the highest 
 pitch. The doors of the cellars were garnished 
 with rags, salt herrings, pigs' feet, bits of dirty 
 tripe, old shoes, and bunches of straw — all for 
 skle. The only evidence of industry that struck 
 him was a new shoe on a last, half made, lying 
 outside the window stone, that the insole might 
 harden in the sun, so he thought ; but, alas ! on 
 a closer inspection he perceived through the raised 
 window the unfortunate workman lying on a crazy 
 bed without curtains, evidently sleeping away his 
 intoxication. 
 
 If the din outside was bad, that which greeted 
 his ears within was worse ; but indeed his hearing 
 was not the only sense that suffered. All kinds of 
 filth — for the hall-door was open night and day — 
 greeted both his eye and his nostril ; but not a 
 
 VOL. III. H 
 
146 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 villanous smell among them all so completely 
 overpowered him as the cold fetid one of wet bark 
 purchased from the Liberty tanners as a substi- 
 tute for coals. The lower doors were hanging 
 nearly unhinged ; and as they were all open, the 
 glimpse he caught of the back yard gave him an 
 idea of Dublin modesty and cleanliness which he 
 never forgot. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this, the place was so lite- 
 rally alive with children that the house had more 
 the appearance of a lying-in hospital for paupers 
 than of any thing else. The ragged brats that 
 tumbled about in every direction — squabbling, 
 brawling, and clawing each other from morning 
 to night — were equally remarkable for health and 
 dirt. As he went up stairs he met a besmutted 
 but not ill-looking woman with a child on her 
 arm, a cut face, and a black eye ; she had a 
 tattered shawl about her, under the corner of 
 which he saw the materials of a pair of shoes, 
 being destined most probably for the clutches of 
 the pawnbroker. We do not think he was wrong 
 in guessing her to be the wife of the drunken shoe- 
 maker. As he ascended the stairs, every succes- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 147 
 
 sive flight presented symptoms of still more 
 striking and squalid poverty. Nothing indeed 
 could he see but destitution, misery, recklessness, 
 and profligacy. Screams, and oaths, and weeping, 
 and singing, and laughter were all blended 
 together, so as to constitute a heterogeneous mass 
 of sounds, that nothing but a state of society 
 based upon general misery — heedless marriages, 
 and incorrigible improvidence, joined to the strong 
 temptations of a great city — could present in so 
 .small a compass. At length, having surmounted 
 the creaking and broken stairs, and nearly had 
 his feet shot from under him by heaps of cold 
 potato skins and filth, he reached the garret in 
 which lay the unhappy man he was in quest of. 
 And, oh ! what a picture of physical and moral 
 misery presented itself to his contemplation in 
 this cold and desolate apartment ! 
 
 On arriving at the garret-door, Barney told 
 the girl who had been his guide, that if he did not 
 get back to the White Horse in two hours, he 
 would give her another shilling if she came to 
 that room and called for him. The appearance 
 of the house, the character of those he saw in it, 
 
148 THE MIsrORTENES OF 
 
 taken in connection with his own adventures, were 
 certainly sufficient to justify a stranger hke him in 
 his apprehensions. 
 
 Before entering the room, he knocked, and was 
 immediately replied to in a shrill, shrewish female 
 voice — 
 
 " Come in if you be fat." 
 
 Barney pushed, and found that the door was nei- 
 ther bolted nor shut, but only lay to in consequence 
 of having lost one of the hinges. 
 
 " God save all here," said he, as he walked in. 
 
 " God save you kindly, if it was only for the 
 novelty of seein' a strange face," replied a woman, 
 who sat at a back window " putting a stitch" in 
 the tattered frock of a little girl. 
 
 Barney looked about him, and his heart sank 
 at the utter vacancy of the room. A fire-place 
 there was, but not a chair ; one stool there was, 
 but not a second ; two or three cups and saucers, 
 a small tin teapot, and a bottle or two, that was 
 all. He could in fact see little else. At last he 
 discovered a kettle in one corner, and in another 
 a round heap of straw covered with an old rug, 
 through the large holes of which the straw pro- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 149 
 
 jected. Overhead, the roof was open in several 
 places. The wind, the sun, the rain, were all 
 equally at liberty to come in by the shortest way ; 
 the windows had only an odd pane here and there ; 
 and if we except part of the floor, which was old, 
 and presented foot-traps that required great 
 caution, even from those who knew them, there is 
 little else to be said about the apartment. Owing 
 to the innumerable chinks andcrannies produced by 
 time and neglect, the' winds blew through the 
 house in several directions, emitting that lonely 
 and melancholy whistle which comes upon the 
 ear like the mournful voice of desolation and 
 ruin. This, although we have given it at a glance, 
 as that which struck Barney at first, was the re- 
 sult of many looks and examinations which took 
 place long after the warmth of his honest heart 
 brought him over to the old but unhappy friend 
 he was so anxious to see and relieve. 
 
 Stretched upon a bed of straw with a dark and 
 most dirty remnant of the coarsest linen, intended 
 for a sheet, but which was gathered up about him, 
 with only an old rug over him, without blanket, or 
 
150 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 pillow, or bedstead, lay the squalid and emaciated 
 resemblance of a human being. 
 
 Nightcap he had none ; but his black, raven 
 hair, which had evidently not been cut for months, 
 had grown so long that it was tangled into a dark 
 dirty mass, from several parts of which projected 
 snake-like elf locks, that, when taken in connection 
 with his haggard unshaved face and disturbed 
 gleaming eyes, conveyed one wild impression more 
 to the spectator, that he was insane as well as ill, 
 and that death had only half his task to perform, 
 the lamp of reason having been extinguished be- 
 fore the lamp of life. 
 
 *' I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Barney, 
 ' ' maybe I'm mistaken." 
 
 " Who wor you wantin' ?" asked the woman. 
 
 " A man of the name of Cassidy ; but I don't 
 think — I can scarcely believe that this is him." 
 
 " It's all that's left of him," she replied, in a 
 tone of voice that intimated tartness to him, and 
 indifference towards the object of his inquiries. 
 
 *'The Lord-Almighty save my sowl," exclaimed 
 Barney, half aloud, and half in soliloquy ; " is it 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 151 
 
 possible ? Can it be that this is Jack Cas- 
 sidy ?" 
 
 " Ay, you may well say so," said the woman ; 
 " but if you had the troublesome handful of him 
 that I've had for five months past, it's little his 
 mere looks or appearance would trouble you." 
 Here she slapped a child of five or six years se- 
 verely on the cheek, exclaiming " Why don't you 
 go, you young slut, and bring over the stool to the 
 man. You had better be on your guard," she 
 added, addressing Barney, "for it has only three 
 feet ; an' take care you don't drive them through 
 the ceilin' undher us, and then we'd have to brave 
 another battle with that drunken scourge of a 
 delf-woman below ; for she's at home to-day." 
 
 Barney sat down, clasped his hands together, 
 and sighed, or rather groaned deeply. 
 
 " Mother of heaven I and is it this way I find 
 you, Jack ?" " 
 
 He looked at his old friend as he spoke, and a 
 few tears ran slowly down his cheeks. 
 
 " He'll not be apt to speak to you now," sai L 
 the woman ; "he's in one of his fits; seldom he 
 speaks to any body then ; an' often the less he 
 
152 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 says when it's on him, the betther. He would 
 sometimes make the hair of your head stand, if 
 you wor to hear him." 
 
 " Why heaven presarve us," exclaimed Barney^ 
 " is his head not right ?" 
 
 " No, nor his heart either, I doubt. He'll be 
 sometimes a whole day beside himself." 
 
 " Ah, my poor fellow !" exclaimed Barney 
 again; " is it this you're come to at last? Jack 
 achora — Jack, do you know me ? — Don't you 
 know your ould friend Barney Branagan ?" 
 
 " Judy," the other called, addressing the 
 woman. 
 
 " Well ! what do you want now ?" she replied 
 in a peevish voice, like one who had been harassed 
 with such questions. 
 
 " Were you ever in hell?" 
 
 " Have sinse, you fool." 
 
 " Don't despair ; don't despair; because if you 
 have not, you will be there. Your hardness of 
 heart towards me will do it. You can be cruel to 
 me ; you can jeer at me ; mock me in my misery ; 
 and cut my heart with your evil tongue ; but you 
 will not take example by me ; and where, you 
 
BA.RNEY BRANAGAN. 158 
 
 cruel hag, could you get such an example — yes, 
 such an example of an ill-spent life as I am ? 
 and yet you will not profit by it !" 
 
 While he spoke, his eyes were fastened on 
 Barney's features, with a gaze as intense as if he 
 had been addressing him instead of the woman. 
 
 "Jack achora, don't you remimber me, Barney 
 Branagan ?" 
 
 " I was near selling him in Kilscaddaun, but 
 at that time, I had a little conscience left, and I 
 did not ; however, that's all gone long ago — the 
 conscience I mean." 
 
 "Jack, sure I'm Barney — look at me — don't 
 you know me ?" 
 
 « No — who are you — how should I know you — 
 no one knows me but one — and certainly she's as 
 true as an angel to me. The devil is true to 
 his own they say, and so is poor Eliza to me. 
 Well, I've found out one consolation ; I won't be 
 buried among the pure clay of my own kindred- 
 faith I think the very dead would rise against me, 
 if I came to contaminate the natural corruption 
 of the grave ; so I'll even take my chance in 
 Bully's Acre, if I get that far, which, Judy, my 
 
 H 2 
 
154 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 darling, it won't be your fault if I do, for I know 
 you would sell my carcase for half a pint ; what 
 am I worth, Judy, eh ? — when the soul's in hell 
 what is the body worth ? have you arithmetic for 
 that, you cruel strumpet ? eh ? cruelty, did you 
 hear me ? You don't think that I forget the day 
 when, in your drunkenness, you threw the boiling 
 water upon me — upon a sick man — who was help- 
 less at the time ? But come — forget and forgive — 
 I'm not worth your anger now — so we'll be friends, 
 and I'll give you a verse of a song — 
 
 " ' For what do we care about riches, 
 
 Or any such glittering toys ? 
 A light heart and a thin pair of breeches, 
 
 Goes through the world brave boys.' '' 
 
 When Barney looked closely at the skeleton 
 from whose clammy lips these incoherencies pro- 
 ceeded, and read the characters of disease and 
 death there so legibly and fearfully impressed, he 
 could not help shuddering, especially at the mirth 
 of misery, which hovered like the flickering light 
 of some fetid but gleaming exhalation upon the 
 very brink of the grave. The evening was stormy, 
 and as the last words of the reckless stanzas died 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 155 
 
 away, the wind whistled through the crannies of 
 the crazy house, with a wild and desolate sound, 
 that made such mirth actually chill the heart : the 
 wail seemed as if the very spirit of the elements 
 uttered a solemn and awful comment upon the 
 vanity and guilt of human life. 
 
 " Regardin' the stuff and nonsense he raves out 
 of him," said the woman, " there's nobody minds 
 it ; of coorse he knows nothing about what he 
 does be sayin' — he abuses every one; even his 
 father can't escape. He wrote to him three or 
 four months ago, an' bekase he didn't answer his 
 letther, he comes in for his share." 
 
 Barney could not readily believe this, for he 
 knew that Cassidy, in his wildest moods of tem- 
 per, always spoke respectfully, if not affection- 
 ately, of his parents ; and he accordingly re- 
 solved to test her veracity the best way he could. 
 
 " An' the mother too," he added, " I suppose 
 she doesn't come betther off?" 
 
 " Divil a bit — she gets it hot and heavy." 
 
 " I wondher he didn't write to her" he con- 
 tinued, " instead of the father ; one's mother, you 
 know, is apt to be kinder." 
 
156 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " So he did," she repHed, " to my own know- 
 ledge ; but divil the fig one o' them cares about 
 him; at any rate, he has broken me horse and 
 foot, strivin' to keep him alive ; five months sup- 
 portin' him's a heavy job to a poor crature, that 
 finds it hard enough to get the bit an' rag for 
 myself and my child ; an' instead of thanks, divil 
 the thing I get but the worst word in his cheek." 
 
 Barney said nothing ; but if the look he gave 
 her could be translated, it would have enabled 
 her to form a very correct notion, but not a very 
 flattering one, of the opinion he entertained of 
 her veracity. 
 
 "Judy," said the sick man. 
 
 " Well, well, what now ?" 
 
 He spoke not, but still. kept his eyes intently 
 fixed upon Barney, rather it would seem because 
 he sat opposite than from any power of recognising 
 him. The latter changed his position, but the 
 turbid gaze did not follow him ; on the contrary, 
 it was bent as before in the same direction. 
 
 " Well," said he, " I have taken the black 
 track for it ; they say it is the pleasant one, but 
 they lie. No matter, many a pleasant day and 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 157 
 
 night I had — heigh ho ! they're not so pleasant to 
 remember, though, and how does that come ? 
 Judy, you sinner, are you there ? Can you ac- 
 count for it ?" 
 
 She shook her head, as much as to say there's 
 no use in answering him. 
 
 " No matter," he continued, " I have a plan — 
 a plan — ha ! ha ! ha ! — Judy, you must help me 
 in this — not play me false, and drink it your- 
 self — for faith, Judy, you are a sandpit — your 
 throat's like the Donnybrook road in the fair 
 week ; you have no conscience at all — not as much 
 as would cover the smallest speck on your scorbu- 
 tic soul. Will you support me in this, I say ? 
 for poor Eliza wouldn't let me do it. It's a great 
 thought that can enable a man to out-manoeuvre 
 God himself for the time being. Will you help 
 me?" 
 
 " Sleep, you fool, sleep ! You don't know what 
 you're sayin'. Why do you spake that way before 
 a strange man ?" 
 
 " What do I care about man or woman now, 
 you scourge ?" He then added, following up 
 the plan : — " Father, and mother, and all, to be 
 
158 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 forgotten — and myself too — and to find it over ; 
 for it is terrible to go into the other world with a 
 man's eyes open — frightful to a man that has led 
 my life — that has gone the black track, and will 
 go out by the black gate ; — it's terrible, terrible ! 
 for a man like me to pass into another world with 
 his eyes open ! It's a great thought — a great dis- 
 covery — that will enable a man to avoid that, in 
 spite of God himself !" 
 
 " Mother of heaven !" exclaimed Barney ; 
 " surely he couldn't mane to put an end to him- 
 self!" 
 
 " No such thing, you fool !" he proceeded, re- 
 plying to the surmise at once — " no such thing. 
 Would not that be going out of life with a man's 
 eyes open indeed? the very thing I want to 
 avoid ! You're a fool and a blockhead ! No ! 
 my plan is glorious ! — I will die drunk ! — drunk ! ! 
 — Ha ! ha ! ha ! There it is now for you ! — 
 Ha! ha! ha !" 
 
 As long as his extreme debility would allow him, 
 he chuckled in a laugh that was at once feeble, 
 wild, and hideous. Indeed, it is not too much to 
 say that Barney's blood ran cold at witnessing a 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 159 
 
 scene which, taken with all the circumstances 
 that attended it, was calculated to excite dread 
 and horror in minds unaccustomed to hear the 
 ravings of death-bed profligacy and despair. 
 
 " Judy, you runagate ! are you there ?" 
 
 " Sleep, sleep !" 
 
 " Can you tell me why I am so anxious to go out 
 of life with my eyes shut ? Of course you cannot. 
 Well, then, it's this, — because I led the life I did 
 with my eyes open ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 " ' For what do we care about riches. 
 
 Or any such glittering toys_? 
 A light heart and a thin pain of breeches 
 
 Goes through the world, b 
 
 Such was his weakness that the utterance of 
 these incoherencies it appeared gradually ex- 
 hausted him. The last line of the verse he was 
 singing died ^way upon his tongue ; and after 
 some broken murmurs that could not he under- 
 stood, his eyes closed, and he at length fell into 
 an apparently tranquil sleep — a sleep that was 
 felt to be the more solemn and impressive by the 
 looker-on, when its utter stillness was contrasted 
 
160 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 with the fitful rushing of the wind, as its almost 
 unearthly moanings continued to rise and fall with 
 a cadence that might well be termed the very ex- 
 ponent of sorrow and despair. 
 
BARNEY BKANAGAN. 161 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It were, indeed, difficult to find a more appaling 
 picture of the state both of mind and body 
 to which a life of wild dissipation and depravity 
 will bring its votaries, than that which now , 
 lay before him in the emaciated skeleton, and 
 repulsive principles, of his old companion. Cas- 
 sidy appeared to be one of those persons who 
 are gifted with a clear perception of what is 
 right, but possessing too little firmness and 
 too much vehemence of passion to resist what 
 is wrong. Men of his character, it is true, 
 never become utterly callous and hardened, 
 and not unfrequently display strong touches of 
 feeling, and occasional manifestations of virtue 
 and honour. These lights, however, when con- 
 trasted with the deep, dark shadows of their 
 moral being, only serve to exhibit the general 
 
162 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 spirit of their profligacy in its true colours, 
 and that not only to others, but, under occasional 
 impulses of a better kind, even to themselves. 
 Such men never lose a consciousness of their 
 responsibility in their very worst actions, and 
 hence, when on the bed of death, these frightful 
 awakenings of the soul, and terrible exhibitions 
 of remorse or despair, with which their last 
 moments are often closed. 
 
 Video meliora proboque 
 Deteriora sequor, 
 
 ought to be their motto. 
 
 Barney, now that the invalid had sunk into slum- 
 ber, drew near to examine him closer, and 
 looked sorrowfully upon him. 
 
 The unhappy man lay in the bed we have 
 described, stretched out more like a corpse than 
 a living being. His head had nothing under 
 it but a little rotten straw, that merely kept 
 it from the hard boards, and which was woven 
 into his black, matted hair, in consequence 
 of having had no nightcap. One arm was stretched 
 down by his body, while the hand and part 
 of the other lay outside the clothes, apparently 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 163 
 
 helpless from mere emaciation. His beard had 
 evidently not been shaven for weeks, so that 
 there was little of his face visible from amidst 
 the black, unsightly mass that surrounded it. 
 His lower forehead was a sallow white, through 
 which the sickly veins could be easily traced ; 
 his nose was sharp, and wasted away nearly 
 to a point ; his cheek-bones did not so much 
 project as rise out of his face almost perpen- 
 dicularly, so completely had the cheeks fallen 
 away from about them; his lips, which were 
 a little open, could scarcely be seen, but the 
 front teeth were visible, and, from their death- 
 like whiteness, gave to the whole countenance 
 the character of an unwashed corpse. Over 
 all of his face that was not concealed by the 
 black hair there could be seen clearly the clammy 
 dews that were generated at once by disease, 
 the strugglings of his spirit, and the want of 
 a kind hand to keep him clean. There he 
 lay neglected — if not worse than neglected — 
 in a sleep still as death; wasted away by disease 
 and squalid misery, without one eifectual friend — 
 without one comfort either for mind or body ; 
 
164 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 there he lay, — a man who knew his duty to 
 God, to the world, and to himsjelf, — the man 
 of many resolutions, — the hero of good inten- 
 tions; there he lay, not more the victim of 
 the several vices which he had, than that of 
 one virtue which he had not, — moral firmness 
 to carry into effect the many determinations 
 towards good which his perception of what 
 was right often prompted him to make. 
 
 Barney now, after pondering as to what he 
 should do, or how he could serve him, resolved 
 to glean from the woman as much intelligence 
 concerning him as he could. In this, however, 
 he was altogether mistaken ; the woman's cunning 
 was an overmatch for his sagacity. In fact, 
 she saw at once the drift of all his questions, 
 and took especial care that however she might 
 put him upon a wrong track, she would not 
 upon the right one. The two facts which had 
 been stated to him by O'Cullenan troubled 
 him sorely ; that is to say, that Cassidy had 
 become a methodist and a body-snatcher. In- 
 deed Cassidy's incoherent allusion to Bully's 
 Acre, and the sale of his own body, had well 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 165 
 
 nigh confirmed him in this part of the infor- 
 mation. Upon these he determined to sift the 
 woman, and commenced in the following manner, 
 after about half an hour's dialogue to no purpose 
 on other points of inquiry : — 
 
 " Well," said he, in a low voice, such as 
 might not awaken him, " this poor fellow is 
 to be pitied." 
 
 " An' so is them that has sich a sickenin' 
 handful of him," she replied ; " but you had 
 betther not be spakin' any more, honest man, 
 for if he wakens before he gets his full sleep 
 he'll be worse." 
 
 " We'll spake low," said Barney ; " it's 
 wondherful to think what the child of dacent 
 parents may come to." 
 
 " It is," said the woman ; " this world brings 
 many a proud head an' fair face undher every 
 body's foot. We're all the same in the grave, 
 honest man," 
 
 " Out o' Dublin, I believe, that's thrue 
 enough," replied Barney ; " but I'm tould that 
 some bodies fetch - a far higher price here nor 
 others — spakin' about the grave I mane." 
 
166 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 The woman looked keenly at him, and with 
 some appearance of surprise, — " What are you 
 talkin' of?" 
 
 '* Hem ! hem ! — Why, indeed, I'm not the 
 man that 'ud be overly sevare on any one. 
 Many a thing one must do for a livelihood when 
 they're hard run ; an,' besides, if there wasn't 
 body-snatchers, how would the docthors know 
 how to cure us ? Sure they say it's from thim 
 they gain all their knowledge." He gave her 
 a scrutinising look as he concluded. 
 " So they say." 
 
 " I suppose there's plenty of them in Dublin 
 in these times ?" 
 
 " To be sure there is, an' at all times. Stran- 
 gers isn't safe in the same Dublin for them. There 
 was a carman snatched alive about three months 
 ago. They clapped a pitch plasther on his mouth, 
 and held his nose wid a pair of pinchers, and 
 in an hour's time he was flayed alive by the 
 surgeons." 
 
 Barney's hair literally stood on end at this 
 intimation. 
 
 " Crass o' Christ about us ! Poor Jack : 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 167 
 
 little I thought it would ever come to this wid 
 you. Has he been long in that way ?" 
 
 " In what way, honest man ?" 
 
 " A sack-'em-up !" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! How fond o' news you are ! 
 An' if he was itself — do you think — well, well ! 
 Spare your inquiries — you may as well." 
 
 " Is the methodists plenty in Dublin ?" he 
 asked, changing his hand. 
 
 " Is it the swaddlers ? To be sure they are." 
 
 '* Well, thank God, Jack was a good Catholic 
 any how." 
 
 " Not as good, maybe, as you think. What 
 do you call a good Catholic ?" 
 
 " Why," replied Barney, " one that never 
 changes his religion. Oh, divel the betther or 
 firmer ever crossed himself. I'd stake my life 
 on that, ay, or all I'm worth." 
 
 ** An' how much might that be, neighbour ? 
 Maybe you're richer nor you look." 
 
 "Maybe I am," said Barney, "but I'm not 
 the fool to carry my money about me ; and 
 maybe I'm not what I appear to be either." 
 
168 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " Maybe not," replied the other, cuttingly, 
 " for you look to be an honest man." 
 
 " Thin you're out of it," said Barney, " the 
 truth is, I'm a methodist, an' , I want to know 
 if you think he'd have any objection to let 
 one of our praichers pray wid him." 
 
 Barney, to his honour be it said, though 
 no pretender to religion, felt much more anxiety 
 for the salvation of poor Cassidy's soul than 
 he did for the recovery of his body, although 
 he would without scruple have shared his last 
 guinea to effect even the latter object. This 
 assumption of a new creed was a description 
 of fraud, however, which he was so badly 
 calculated to practise, that he did not see how 
 the fact of his denying himself to be an honest 
 man, could disparage his assumed character 
 of a methodist, 
 
 *' You a methodist!" exclaimed the woman; 
 " arra, be my sowl, man, you have the Pad- 
 dhereen Partha* in your face." 
 
 • A Rosai^y — or Joint Prayer — so called from all the mem- 
 bers of a family taking a part in it. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 169 
 
 " Whisht, don't be swearin'. Be thim five 
 Classes," he exclaimed, crossing his hands, "it's 
 thruth I'm tellin' you. Divil resave the word 
 o' He I'd mintion to you or any dacent woman 
 about it. I am, faith, a regular buck swaddler. 
 Divil the lie in it !" 
 
 After indulging in a hearty fit of suppressed 
 laughter, the woman merely said, " Well, and 
 what if you are ? There's many a good man a 
 swaddler." 
 
 " Is there faith ?" Here he was on the point 
 of flatly contradicting her, and again committing 
 himself, when he saw the blunder into which it 
 would lead him. " Very right," he added, " an' so 
 there is. Didn't poor Jack there — ehem ! — didn't 
 the divil timpt him to— What am I sayin', didn't 
 he join them ?" 
 
 " Is it the swaddlers ?" 
 
 "Ay!" 
 
 " Why, maybe so ; it's not unlikely ; for he 
 done quare things, by all accounts." 
 
 " But are you sure of it ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm sure of— that you're not 
 what you look to be, a dacent man, or you'd get 
 VOL. in. ^ 
 
170 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 in a jug o' punch an' thrate us before now. Or if 
 you had any thing to lave for that unfortunate 
 argyle in the corner there, lave it, and he'll get it. 
 The divil a bit o' me will sit gostherin' here wid 
 you, unless you stand a thrate, — divil a bit. An' 
 into the bargain, you want to pick out o' me about 
 him. Ger out, or stand the thrate !" 
 
 " Hut," said Barney, " don't lose your temper 
 any how ; there's good times comin'." 
 
 " Will you stand the thrate ?" 
 
 " I couldn't think of dhrinkin' punch an' that 
 crayture in the state he's in. It wouldn't be right." 
 
 " Pack out o' this thin — divil a foot you'll be 
 here. Ger out, I say ! You're a mane crayture, 
 so you are, an' nothin' else. To come to disturb 
 the house an' the poor man the way he's in. Ger 
 out — out o' this !" 
 
 " Don't waken the sick man," said Barney. 
 
 The high pitch of the woman's voice, however, 
 had already effected that object. Cassidy opened 
 his eyes, and was now capable of speaking ration- 
 ally. " Ah, Judy," he said feebly, "this is the 
 ould work ! — heigh ho ! I must bear it. I must 
 bear it." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGA^N. 17 1 
 
 Barney approached him. " Jack achora, don't 
 you know an ould friend ? Ah ! Jack ahagur, I'm 
 afeard you never wanted a thrue friend so much 
 as now." • 
 
 " Ay,'* said the poor patient, " I cannot be mis- 
 taken — there is kindness in the tones of that voice. 
 I did not think the voice of friendship — tut, that's 
 a dream — well, of kindness — with one exception, 
 if there be such a thing, would ever reach my 
 €ars. I think it has. My heart tells me there's 
 kindness in that voice. Sit a little over in the 
 light, that I may get a better view of your face — 
 there, that will do." He looked at him steadily, 
 but whether from weakness of sight or of intellect, 
 it was quite evident that he did not i^ecognise him. 
 " You say you are a friend of mine,"" said he, 
 " and yet I don't know you. No, no, I cannot 
 have a friend, — there is some mistake." 
 
 " You have a friend, and, Jack, there's no mis- 
 take," said Barney, scarcely able to speak. 
 " Don't you know Barney Branagan ? Are you 
 satisfied now ?" 
 
 " Virtuous or vicious every man must be. 
 Few in the extreme, but all in the degree." 
 
172 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 The unhappy man's face was perceptibly tinged 
 with the ' hectic of a moment ;' *' T know' yoti 
 now," said he, " I know you now. I am hot ablie to 
 reach my hand to you, or I would. Barney," said 
 he, struggling with his feelings, " it's a sad thing to 
 find me here, in such a place as this ; but I've led 
 a wild life since I saw you last, and that accounts 
 for it." ^^S « ^^'^ W^ "gaomBBib em iH i>na jsra 
 9rt« Never mind that," said Barney, " if money 
 can do it, we'll soon have you in a betther place. 
 Tell me what you'd wish me to do for you, Jack 
 achora, and where you'd wish to go out o' this 
 infernal stye." ...... , . ..,.^; 
 
 "What," exclaimed Judy, in a" fiirj'', "to tale 
 him away now, widout payin' me for my trouble. 
 Divil saize the foot !" '"^''^ ^* ^^^"^ "^^^ " 
 
 " No," said Barney, " we don't intind to do any 
 such thing ; whatever is fairly and honestly comin' 
 to you, will be ped ; at the same time I'm afeard he 
 hasn't been in the best hands, my good woman." 
 ■ HHe then asked him what steps he ought to 
 take to relieve him. • 
 
 " If I could be removed," said Cassidy, — " if I 
 could be removed to an hospital — but that I think 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 173 
 
 i? impossible now — I'm worn to the last thread— 
 my hopes are gone, and my heart— my heart is 
 long broken." -rjsVe 
 
 ,3;/^ No, Jack dear, no ; don't say that." 
 ,;, ** I wrote to my father four months ago," he 
 continued, " telling him what I was, and how I was, 
 and begging of him to take me home and forgive 
 me, and let me die among my own ; and to let me 
 be buried in the same grave-yard with my blessed 
 mother ; I didn't ask to be buried in the same 
 grave, because I knew I was not worthy of it." 
 
 " But, Jack achora," said Barney, deeply 
 affected, "sure, if you repint towards God an' 
 our Saviour, you may be worthy of that, ay, an' 
 of betther things yet." 
 
 " No," said the other, " I cannot get the im- 
 pression off my mind, that I am a reprobate ; that 
 God and man have disowned me, and deserted me ; 
 and that my hopes are gone. What ground, in- 
 deed, has a man like me for hope ?'' 
 - " But, acushla machree, man, you see, has not 
 desarted you, an' I hope God won't. Sure, 
 Scripthur says — I often hard it read — that if a 
 man's sins are as black as wool, if herepints they 
 
174 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 can be made as white as scarlet. I'm li6t Slif e o' 
 the words, but any how, don't despair, Jack — don't 
 despair, man, so long as you have Barney Brana- 
 gan at your back in this world ; but put your trust 
 in God above all for the next. Betune us, man, 
 we'-ll take care of you, man, and set you right yet." 
 
 " I am glad you are with me," said Cassidy, 
 " and if I had my father's forgiveness, I could wish 
 to die now. Oh, Barney, death — death is dread- 
 ful; but especially to die here alone, with nothing 
 but corruption, and sin, and profligacy about me, 
 and to think of judgment, and how I'm prepared 
 for it — this — this often drives me to despair — -to 
 outrageous despair." 
 
 Barney was more fully aware of that circum- 
 stance than Cassidy imagined; but with natural 
 delicacy, he avoided any further allusion to it, lest 
 he might occasion him too much pain, or perhaps 
 revive such another paroxysm as he had already 
 witnessed. 
 
 " Take my hand," said the unhappy man, look- 
 ing pitifully in Barney's face, "for I am not able 
 to take yours. Oh, do not leave me here to die of 
 the wages of vice and crime — be a friend to me." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 175 
 
 The last short sentence was uttered with a tone 
 of supplication and sorrow which brought the tears 
 to Barney's eyes, for, in truth, scarcely any heart 
 could resist it. He gently squeezed the emaciated 
 hand wjiich solicited his, and in a husky voice 
 replied, " I will, Jack — God sees I will — make 
 your poor heart aisy on that head." 
 
 " My life is closing," continued the other: "oh, 
 what would I not give to see the face of my 
 father or to heair the tone of a brother's voice. 
 Did I tell you that I wrote to my father, and that 
 I begged him to forgive me — to take me back 
 and to forgive me ?" 
 
 " You did ; and if he got your letther, so he 
 would ; don't you remimber the one he wrote to 
 you afore ? Jack achora, that letther came from a 
 lovin' and a forgivin' heart." 
 
 At this moment, footsteps were heard upon 
 the stairs, and after some inquiries which were 
 made outside, an aged man entered the room, and 
 having uttered a solemn " God save all here," 
 stood to contemplate the scene which presented 
 itself to- him. 
 
 " Humph ! I believe it's a levy we're goin' to 
 
176 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 have," exclaimed the woman; "who'll come next 
 I v^ondher?" 
 
 " God save you kindly, neighbour," replied 
 Barney, rising up; "I b'lieve there's but one stool 
 in the house ; an' as age is honourable, you must 
 have it." ' ^ ^ ^ 
 
 The old man having removed the stool to a 
 more distant part of the room, sat down, and was 
 silent. 
 
 Barney, whose heart was in whatever he did, 
 paid no further attention to him, and Cassidy him- 
 self was aware that occasionally acquaintances of 
 the woman used to come in and chat with her. 
 
 " Well, Jack achora, I'll do what you wish; but 
 you must instruct me how to act, for I'm a stran- 
 ger here, and knows no one. I'll have you taken 
 out of this, plaise God, to-morrow, and will bring 
 the priest to you. But don't despair of God's 
 marcy ; you thought man had desarted you, and 
 you see he did not. And God is more marciful 
 again than man is, an' he I hope won't desart you, 
 aither, glory be to his name !" 
 
 " If I had got one line," said Cassidy, " to 
 let me know that my father forgives me, I think — 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 177 
 
 1 think I could raise my heart to God ; but per- 
 haps he's dead, and that, as in my mother's ease, 
 I was the means of breaking his heart. I know 
 I am going, and, putting judgment out of the 
 question, I feel what a lonely thing it is to die 
 away from one's own — from the only beings that 
 one loves, and that deserve our love. Oh, my 
 God, my God ! if I had received only one line 
 to let me know that my father forgives me! — I 
 asked it, but I did not get it." 
 
 The deep sobs that were uttered by the strange 
 old man now arrested the attention of the little 
 group present. He had sat uncovered, and, with 
 his long hair, white as snow, hanging about his 
 shoulders, marked with the deepest interest the 
 scene before him. 
 
 "Who is that?" asked Cassidy, feebly; "for 
 surely there is pity and affection in that voice, 
 
 too." 
 
 The old man advanced, knelt down beside the 
 miserable bed, and extending his arms, let them 
 fall gently upon the sick man's head. "John," 
 said he, "I am here— I am here ! Oh, my 
 unhappy son!" he exclaimed, "these hands are 
 
 I 2 
 
178 THE MiSFORTUNES OF 
 
 the hands of your father, that has come in his 
 ould age thousands of miles to forgive you and to 
 bless you ! Yes, I am here to forgive and bless 
 you ; and may the eternal blessin' of God and his 
 holy forgiveness rest upon you, my son, my son ! 
 Oh, look up to me, John ; it's the hands of your 
 grey-haired father — your lovin' father — that's upon 
 your head, and his tears that's upon your face." 
 
 The tears, indeed, streamed fast down the old 
 man's cheeks, as with a loving but gentle eager- 
 ness he bent his white head, and kissed often and 
 often the pallid lips of him who, in his early 
 youth, was truly, of all his children, the dearest 
 and best beloved. 
 
 " I got your letther," he said, when he could 
 command his voice ; " I got your letther, and I 
 am now come as you wished, to take the load off 
 your heart, — to forgive you, and to bring you 
 home to sleep with your own. Oh ! there is and 
 was many a heart sorrowful for you, my son ; and 
 many a heart is longin' once more to have you 
 near it, and to forget aU that has passed, if you 
 will only come and stay with us, my son — with 
 them that loves you still." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 179 
 
 " Raise me," said the son ; "let me look upon 
 my father's face. Is this not a dream ? I know^ 
 I am subject to strange ravings and terrible 
 visions, and this may be one of them. Who are 
 you that were with me before he came in ? Are 
 you not Barney Branagan ?" 
 
 " I am — I am, achora !" said Barney, wiping 
 his eyes. 
 
 " And this white-haired old man is my father ? 
 Then, if you be, bless me and forgive me once 
 more, dear father. I will then believe that it is 
 you." 
 
 " May the blessin' of Almighty God and mine 
 rest upon you, my dear son ; and may he forgive 
 you your sins, as freely as I do this night all the 
 follies that ever you were guilty of towards me ! 
 Amin!" 
 
 " Raise me up," said Gassidy ; " no, it is not 
 that ; put my arms about my father's neck, for I 
 am not able to put them there myself; but I fear 
 I am not worthy of this father." 
 
 Barney did this gently, and, fortunately, 
 without giving him pain. 
 
 When it was done he looked affectionately into 
 
180 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 the old man's face and smiled, whilst at the same 
 time a few tears fell gently down his cheeks. 
 " Father, you forgive me ?" : j,^ • 
 
 " I do— I do, my son." 
 
 " I now would be glad to die," he said ; " but 
 I have another father to whom I have been a 
 worse son than I have ever been to you, my 
 father. All my crimes, my errors, — all my sins, 
 all my omissions,— forgive me, oh God !" 
 
 " He will, avick machree,— he will, he will !" 
 
 " Lay my head upon your breast for a little," 
 he said. " Father, it's many a long and bitter 
 year since my head lay here before." He smiled, 
 but shed tears as he spoke. 
 
 " It is, darlin', it is," said the old man, whilst 
 a shower of tears fell upon his son's emaciated 
 cheeks ; " but we'll never part , now, avillish ; I 
 won't let you from me any more. I won't lave 
 you to bad company and temptation again." 
 
 The son gave one affectionate look up into his 
 father's face, and at the same moment a slight 
 spasm seemed to affect his own. The old man 
 felt a pressure of the arms about him, which he 
 returned: but the next moment the arms relaxed 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 181 
 
 their hold, and the head fell down more upon his 
 breast. 
 
 " What ails you, avick ?" said the old man ; 
 " raise your head, John dear, my darlin' son ! 
 God of glory, what is this ?" 
 
 Barney, who at once thought that the last 
 feeble struggle of life was over, said, " Lay 
 back his head. May the Almighty pardon all 
 our sins, and his especially. All your love and 
 all your forgiveness can do nothing more for him 
 now — he is dead ! But thanks be to God that 
 they didn't come too late !" 
 
 The trembling hands of the old man, paralyzed 
 by the unexpected shock and agitation of the 
 moment, was scarcely able to hold the body up, 
 were it not that the moral strength of affection 
 counteracted his physical weakness, and enabled 
 him to lay it down upon the miserable bed, which 
 he did with many sobs, but he could not be pre- 
 vailed on for some minutes, to take his arms from 
 about it. 
 
 Judy, however, who had looked on very calmly, 
 came over and said, " Yez needn't be alarmed ; 
 many a time he has been this way — I'll be bail 
 
182 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 divil a drop's out of him yet. Be me sowl, with 
 the help o' God, he's worth half a dozen gone 
 people still. I know him well." 
 
 *' What !" said the old man, " do you think he 
 has only fainted ? Oh, make me sure of that, and 
 I'll " 
 
 " You're a heartless vagabone," exclaimed Bar- 
 ney, interrupting him, for he could bear her no 
 longer ; " whether he's alive or dead — an' if I 
 hear you spake another word in that sthrain, bad 
 luck saize me but I'U take you by the scruff o' 
 the neck an' pitch you down stairs, you infernal 
 rap !" The fury and determination of his eye at 
 once satisfied her that on this subject he was not 
 to be trifled with ; the wretch accordingly with- 
 drew to a corner of the room, where she muttered 
 something which could not be understood. 
 
 Though an ungracious prophetess, she was, as 
 the fact turned out, in this instance a true one. 
 Cassidy once more opened his eyes, and looking 
 mournfully about him, seemed startled for a mo- 
 ment by the presence of strangers ; another 
 glance, however, brought the past scene to his 
 memory. 
 
BARNEY BR AN AG AN. 183 
 
 " You were alarmed, father," said he, in a 
 feeble voice ; " but the truth is, I am very weak, 
 and the slightest disturbance of my mind brings 
 on these faintings." 
 
 The father was yet upon his knees, and with- 
 out replying to him he raised his arms, which still 
 shook excessively, and exclaimed, " Praise be to 
 the Almighty Father for sparing him yet — and 
 oh, if it is your blessed and holy will, wait — oh, 
 hould back your hand in mercy till my unfortunate 
 and unhappy son is prepared to go before you — 
 you are the holy and blessed Father of all your 
 cratures, and oh, remimber it is his father that is 
 now pladin' for him — pladin' in favour of a son 
 that is sorry, I hope, for all his errors, an' sins, 
 an' offinces aginst you ; an' if he is not, oh grant 
 him the grace to be so, oh, my God ! Thousands 
 of miles have I come to sthrive an' save him, O 
 God of Mercy, from an unhappy life and an 
 unhappy death, but you are always near to them 
 that turns away from their wickedness, an' comes 
 to you wid humbleness, an' sorrow, an' thrue 
 contrition in their heart ! Oh ! for the sake of 
 him that died for my poor son an' for us all, for 
 
184 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 we are all sinners, an' for the sake of the holy 
 Virgin Mother of Heaven, who knew what it 
 was to have a son in sorrow, an' in pain, an'- 
 throuble ; oh, for his sake an' for hers, spare him 
 — oh, spare my unhappy son till his poor heart is 
 softened, an' he is fit to go before you !" 
 
 The reverence of his figure, the meekness and 
 sorrow with which he pleaded — his trembling arms 
 extended to their full length — the snow-white hair 
 that flowed down his shoulders, and, above all, 
 the humble but fervent faith which breathed its 
 sublime spirit from his countenance, constituted 
 an image of earnest and exalted piety such as may 
 be met with among thousands of our peasantry, 
 as well in the lowly cottages as in the wealthier 
 homesteads of our native land. 
 
 This was indeed an affecting picture — one into ' 
 which the exquisite pencil of our countryman. 
 Burton, might infuse that pious and pathe'tic 
 spirit and melancholy tenderness of heart which: 
 are so rarely to be found among any other people 
 but our own, — and which he appears to feel and 
 understand so well, and to invest with the poetry 
 of truth and beauty. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 185 
 
 Barney, notwithstanding the ferocity of his 
 threat against the heartless woman, was down 
 upon his knees before the words that conveyed it 
 to her were well uttered — his attitude was also that 
 of prayer, his body was bent in the posture of 
 earnest supplication, his head borne a httle to 
 one side, his eyes turned up, his hands fervently 
 clasped together unless when in the act of beating 
 his breast, to which he applied his right with a 
 vehemence that betokened an equal portion of 
 bodily strength and sincerity. When old Cassidy 
 concluded, Barney drew his breath deeply, and 
 uttered (not without tears) in the shape of a re- 
 sponse, " Amin, Chiernah ! Vich na Hoiah, Amin 
 this day !" 
 
 The weakness of the son was very great ; so 
 great indeed that he could bear little emotion or 
 agitation of any kind. He appeared soothed, 
 however, and more composed than he had been. 
 After his father had concluded his sincere and 
 heartfelt supplication, the poor invalid looked long 
 and earnestly upon him. 
 
 " You are an old man, father," he said, quietly ; 
 "your hair is as white as snow: yet you have 
 
186 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 peace and the light of a good conscience upon 
 your face ; but I — look at me — what am I ? and 
 what has an ill-spent life made me. God bless 
 you, my dear father ; I think that the very 
 breath of a good and pious man is sweet about me, 
 for it is long since I felt it — your affection and 
 your piety make me think and feel that God has 
 not altogether forgotten your unhappy son, for 
 your sake." 
 
 A few tears, without any appearance of phy- 
 sical excitement, filled his eyes, but his father at 
 his request wiped them, and he was again calm. 
 After a little he added, as if to himself — *' No, 
 forgive me, oh God ! I will not despair !" 
 
 " No, avick," said the old man, tenderly ; " no, 
 you will not, an' why would you despair ? Sure 
 the mercy of God, John dear, is a thousand an' 
 a million times greater than your sins. But, John 
 avillish, wouldn't you like to have the priest ? 
 wouldn't it aise your mind, and lighten your 
 troubled heart to lay aside the heavy load that's 
 upon it, an' to feel, ahagur, that the black burden 
 of your whole life is taken off it ?" 
 
 Barney's curiosity was wound up to the highest 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 187 
 
 :possible state by this proposition. Now, said he 
 to himself, we will see whether he is a swaddler 
 OTnot. 
 
 ; " To-morrow," replied the son ; *' to-morrow 
 I will be more composed I hope, and I will be 
 glad to see a priest." ,, 
 
 Barney with a natural delicacy which was 
 creditable to his heart, stooped down lest the old 
 man might hear him, and in a whisper, asked if 
 there was any other kind of clergyman he would 
 -wish to see. " Maybe, Jack achora, you'd hke to 
 have one of thim dam — hem---a methodist preacher 
 or the like?" ~ 
 
 The son gave him a look of much surprise. 
 - *' What do you mean," said he aloud, "by 
 asking me such a question ? What have I to do 
 with methodist preachers ? I am, God help me, 
 a Catholic, and have been a Catholic all my Ufe — 
 and alas, little credit have I brought upon my 
 religion ! but what do you mean ?" he again asked. 
 
 " Nothing at all," said Barney ; " all's right- 
 all's right." 
 
 The old man bestowed upon him a look of 
 equal curiosity and inquiry. a. 
 
. 188 THE MISFORTUNES GF 
 
 " To tell the thruth," said Barney, in teplf to 
 the old man's gaze, '* I hard that he had turned 
 praicher himself; I was tould so, an' that was 
 jist what made me ax." 'nmn^ -t^U mh 
 
 The old man looked solemnly and earnestly at 
 the son. ^ •grriiB'sd liyi% ^ffjiooi-dteoilsb 
 
 "John dear," he asked, "surely this can't be 
 thrue ?" o;j s»da ooqir D&iuji^y^^iiftlgii dijSaijfeii|iu©'j 
 
 " No," said the invalid ; " it is not — whatever 
 I have been, up to this hour, I have never for 
 a moment either publicly or privately professed any 
 creed but that in which I was born and educated ; 
 but, indeed, I was an unworthy member of it." 
 
 Barney slapped his corduroy breeches with a 
 force that evinced his satisfaction, and startled 
 every one in the room. " I knew it," said he; • 
 " I couldn't lend myself to sich a story." 
 - n<' God be'praised, Jack achora I divil the fear of 
 you yit. What signifies if you wor wild, an' a 
 thrifle wicked, man alive, or shivered an odd com- 
 mandiment or two, now and then ? Divil may 
 care, for all that ; it's a good man's case ; but sO 
 long as you stick to your faith. Jack, you're on 
 the safe side still. Divil the fear of you." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 189 
 
 Whilst Barney was speaking, the eye of the 
 invalid appeared to be caught by a different ob- 
 ject, and when he concluded, a light and gentle 
 step attracted their attention, but it paused, and 
 ^ji looking round, they perceived that a pale and 
 delicate-looking girl, bearing a small parcel in 
 her hand, stood in the room. A serene and 
 complacent light beamed upon the countenance 
 of the sick man, as he said to his father — 
 
 "She is a friend. Eliza, come forward; this 
 is my father, and another old friend and acquain- 
 tance." - :iRfft .inrf liBaTO) 
 Her pale face was lit into a transient blush, it 
 might be of modesty, or it might be of guilt, as 
 she meekly inclined her head to the old man and 
 Barney in salutation, but from neither did she re- 
 ceive any other notice than a look of stern and 
 forbidding solemnity. The poor girl seemed con- 
 scious of this, for her appearance became more 
 timid and embarrassed than it had been ; she 
 evidently saw she was the object of suspicion, 
 and felt at a loss what to do or to say. 
 
 ."Judy," said the invalid, "will you get Eliza 
 a seat ? Eliza dear, sit down." 
 
190 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 "It is scarcely worth my while, for I have not 
 long to stay ; but how do you feel ?" 
 
 " I am better," said he — "much better. How 
 do you yourself feel, and how is your cough?" 
 
 " It is much slighter ; and I think my general 
 health is improving. I have brought you a little 
 wine, and some chicken — it is not much, but I 
 hope it may do you good. I cannot stay, but 
 
 may I ?" She looked hesitatingly, and 
 
 seemed too irresolute to put the question she was 
 about to ask. 
 
 " Wliat is it, dear? Don't be afraid, dear 
 Eliza — ask it." 
 
 " I could come to-morrow," she said. 
 
 " But are you able? for if it would distress 
 you, I would rather not." 
 
 " Oh no," she replied, " I am quite equal to 
 
 it ; but perhaps " Here she glanced timidly 
 
 at his father, and hesitated. 
 
 A deep shade of bitterness and sorrow had been 
 gathering upon the old man's brow ever since she 
 came into the room. It was quite obvious that 
 she stood before him, the object of strong sus- 
 picion. At length he spoke — 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 191 
 
 " Young woman, I am this unhappy man's 
 father, an' I've come across the wide say to thry 
 and save him from this bad world, an' with the 
 Almighty God's assistance and his own, from, I 
 hope, a worse one — I ax you now, are you his 
 wife ?" 
 
 " Father dear," said his son, " I will answer 
 you. No, she is not ; but she is my friend. 
 Since my illness she has been the only human 
 being who cared for me or my miseries — who 
 tried to relieve me, and who has done so. Were 
 it not for her, I would have been long since in 
 my grave. She forgot her own sorrows and her 
 own illness in attending to mine, and I fear de- 
 nied herself the very necessaries of life, that I 
 might not starve for want." 
 
 " May the blessin' of heaven be upon her 
 head!" said Barney, "whatever she is. Be me 
 sowl, she has it in her face, too, although it looks 
 pale and sorrowful enough, poor thing. Take 
 that ould chair, avourneen, that the woman brought 
 in. You're tired, maybe, for you look it." 
 
 Old Cassidy's brow, however, was not yet 
 cleared, nor the distrust which he enter- 
 
192 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 tained against her at all removed by what his son 
 had said. 
 
 " John, as she is not your wife, I don't wish to 
 hurt the girl's feelings by axing you any more 
 questions about her. If you put away the sin, 
 you must put away the sinner There's no half 
 repentance in the sight of God ! Forgive me, 
 girl, if I do you wrong, for I wouldn't wish it — 
 an' I'd be sorry for it." 
 
 The girl from weakness was obhged to sit 
 down ; but she appeared to gather calmness and 
 moral strength from the very imputations which 
 had been so strongly cast upon her, although, we 
 must admit, not without apparent grounds. 
 
 " Father," said the son, solemnly, " you do 
 her most grievous wrong. She is truth and purity 
 itself; and I only wonder how a creature, so far 
 above all of her sex that I had ever known, could 
 continue to feel any interest in a being like me." 
 
 " God forgive me, then," exclaimed the old 
 man, which was echoed by a loud amen from Bar- 
 ney, who, in the hurry of a kind heart, mistook 
 what had been said for a blessing upon her. 
 " I ax your forgiveness, alanna machree. Sure 
 
BARNEY BRANAGANi^ 19^ 
 
 it was out of affection for him, and out of regard 
 for his sowl, that I said what I said. ^ Give me 
 your hand, dear, and forgive me." 
 
 He took her hand in his, and as he pressed it 
 affectionately, a few hot tears fell upon his own, 
 although she exhibited no external symptoms of 
 grief. Gently did they fall from her pale cheeks, 
 but she neither sobbed, nor in the slightest degree 
 appeared agitated ; her sorrow was quiet and 
 calm, but evidently deep. 
 
 " I know now that the words of my son are 
 thruth, avillish. May the blessin' of God be 
 upon you, an' about you, an' keep you !" 
 
 " Night an' day," added Barney ; " and may 
 you never know what it is to want a friend, or to 
 have a sore heart, achora !" 
 
 " Father," said the son, abruptly — " hear me 
 -t-hear me, but don't curse me when you do hear 
 me!" 
 
 " What is it, John avick, what is it ? — Com- 
 pose yourself." 
 
 " Father, that sweet girl was independent, very 
 independent ; and I — I, your vile son — your un- 
 
 VOL. III. K 
 
194 ' THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 principled profligate, whom God, I fear, cannot 
 pardon — I made her a beggar. She loved me ; 
 she trusted me with her property — I gambled it 
 away, broke her heart, and brought her to the 
 brink of the grave ; but one thing I could not do 
 — I durst not do — I did not marry her. She 
 was too innocent, too pure, too faithful to be 
 united to a villain like me. I resisted that, and 
 the consequence is, thank God, that she is still 
 innocent, pure, and faithful, but then she is full 
 of sorrow, and her heart is broken. Father, 
 father — " he said with energy. 
 
 " Ay," said the woman, " yez will bring it on 
 him again." 
 
 " Keep yourself quiet, John dear ; you're not 
 aquil to, this, an' you'll do yourself harm," said 
 the old man. 
 
 " Father," he proceeded, whilst his eye kin- 
 dled, " I was afraid of that girl — 1 feared her, 
 for her unsuspecting goodness and purity, just as 
 an evil spirit would an angel of light — I feared 
 her ; she was too good for me ; besides, I had 
 done her evil enough, without allowing her to call 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 195 
 
 a man like me husband. That was some sacrifice, 
 too, and I made it — ha, ha ! Well, Judy, are 
 you there, you sinner ?" 
 
 "Ay," said Judy, "it's on him now, an' you 
 may thank yourselves for it ; but she may take it 
 off him still, for she sometimes can. Nobody has 
 any check over him then, but her. It's seldom 
 he has them twice in one day, unless when he is 
 too much disturbed." 
 
 " Do you go to him, ma'am achora," said Bar- 
 ney, in a low voice, " an' thry what you can do. 
 Surely, he'll be quiet and calm if you spake kind 
 to him. It seems he's apt to rave a little," he 
 proceeded, addressing his father softly, "but it 
 laves him afther a time, an' he's thin as well as 
 before." 
 
 The sorrowful but placid girl wiped her eyes, 
 and with a tenderness of manner which affection 
 occasioned, but which natural diffidence strove in 
 some degree to repress, she approached his lotiely 
 bed, and stooping on one knee, caught his wasted 
 hand in one that was nearly as wasted as his own. 
 
 "John," she said, " will you not make an effort 
 
196 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 to be calm ? It is Eliza that requests it, and from 
 you /" 
 
 He turned his eyes upon her for a moment, 
 then passed his gaze from her to his father, and 
 afterwards to Barney. There was a deep silence. 
 After about a minute, they reverted to her, and 
 dwelt upon her pale but beautiful features. 
 
 " My dear John," she continued, in a voice 
 which, like the songs of her country, breathed at 
 once music and melancholy, "it is Eliza that 
 
 speaks to you, it is she^ — it is I, your own ," 
 
 here she paused timidly ; "it is I that beg you 
 to be calm, — I — Eliza." 
 
 " Is there not an angel of sorrow," said he, 
 "that touches and softens the heart of stone, 
 that soothes the bed of sickness, but that maddens 
 the brain, the brain ?" 
 
 " You see that God has not deserted you," 
 she proceeded ; " here you are surrounded by 
 friends whom you never expected to look upon. 
 God deals forth his mercy by degrees, and in pro- 
 portion to the weakness or strength of those for 
 whom he designs it. Here is your father, dear 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 197 
 
 John, and are you not glad that he is with you 
 to bless and to forgive you ?" 
 
 This she well knew to be the thought that had 
 troubled and depressed his heart ever since his 
 illness became serious, and with great good sense 
 she led him to it. 
 
 " My father !" he exclaimed ; " yes, thank 
 God he is here, but my mind is very weak, — 
 have I been rambling ?" 
 
 " A little," she replied, " only a very little ; 
 compose yourself, and make an effort, and you 
 will succeed." 
 
 " I am better now, my dear Eliza, I feel quite 
 collected. I thank God that my father is here, 
 and that you are here with him. Except God, 
 you are the two on this earth whom I have 
 offended most. Let me feel your hands upon my 
 head, and let me hear you both pronounce my 
 forgiveness : it will relieve me, I feel it will re- 
 lieve my heart." 
 
 In accordance with this wish, his father once 
 more stooped, and in terms similar to those we 
 have already recited, blessed him and expressed 
 his forgiveness of all his offences towards him. 
 
198 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 He then withdrew, and the wasted girl at his side 
 placed her hands upon his head, and raised her 
 eyes, which now streamed with tears, to heaven ; 
 but such was the profound character of her sor- 
 row, and the power of her calm but strong afifec- 
 tion, that she could not utter a word. 
 
 " Say in my father's presence, Eliza, that you 
 forgive me, — I know you do, but I am weak, 
 and in his presence it will relieve me ; I am like 
 a child in this, it will please me." 
 
 " I do, I do," she sobbed; "in his presence, 
 and in the presence of God, I forgive you, I 
 forgive you, dear John ! Oh ! never think of me 
 but as of one that would have saved you from — 
 from ALL — from yourself, dear John ; yes, and 
 evil counsellors, and the unmanageable force of 
 your own wild inclinations. I wished to make 
 you happy, to bring you back to peace of mind, 
 and to be your friend, your guide, and your com- 
 panion, to share that happiness with you,, for I 
 thought there was still something in your heart 
 which the corruption of the world never reached, 
 and I think so still. Surely, surely, dear John, 
 you cannot doubt my forgiveness !" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 199 
 
 " No, no, — oh no ! you whose love has followed 
 me through so many dark paths of my life, whose 
 love has attended me through all my crimes, my 
 follies, my madness ; through my destitution, my 
 sorrow, my misery, my long sickness, and is 
 now with me at the grave, to the very verge of 
 this bad world ! Yes, this is love." 
 
 "Do not stop there," she added, whilst she 
 wiped away the calm tears from her eyes ; " you 
 know, dear John, my love would not, and will 
 not desert you even at the grave. Oh no ! it 
 would follow you to a better world ; for what after 
 all is this short and unhappy life ? Oh no, if I 
 only saw your heart reconciled to God, and 
 softened by a sense of his mercy, then and only 
 then would the love I have felt and feel for you 
 meet its full reward. I have often told you this, 
 and, oh, think of it now, while you have your father 
 with you to soothe, and comfort, and sustain you. 
 I must now leave you, I have brought you some- 
 thing, it is but a little, and here is a parcel con- 
 taining two or three things that Judy will, I hope, 
 give you. Good-by now. May I see you to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
200 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 He looked his assent, but the fullness of his 
 heart denied him utterance. 
 
 She then adjusted her bonnet, and was about 
 to bid them good morning, and depart, when the 
 old man, whose eyes were overflowing, called her 
 to him, and looking -into a face, faded, but still 
 beautiful in its decay, exclaimed — 
 
 *' Forgive me ! oh, forgive me for my harshness 
 when you came in ! alanna dhas machree* forgive 
 me ! I love you as if you wor one o' my own. 
 Oh, don't lave him, there must be peace and good- 
 ness where you are. Come to-morrow, daughter 
 of my heart, for the eyes of the ould man will 
 be glad to see her that strove to save my son 
 when he had no friend ; her that loved him with 
 the love that yoii do, — through evil, and shame, 
 and poverty, avillish machree !" 
 
 "An'," said Barney, "didn't he say that you're in 
 distress yourself, acushla ? bekase if you are, plaise 
 the Lord in heaven, you won't be long so, ma'am." 
 
 The " ma'am" was politely added from an 
 apprehension that, judging from the superior tone 
 
 * Fair child of my heart. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN.^ 201 
 
 of her language, he had made a little too free in 
 addressing her as he would a country girl. 
 
 " No, no," she replied ; " but get medical 
 advice for him, and, above all things, bring him 
 out of this wretched place. Good air, and clean- 
 liness, and comfort will do a great deal for him ; 
 that and peace of mind, and all may yet be well. 
 Now I must go, for it will soon get dark." 
 
 " Well but to-morrow at what hour will you 
 come ?" 
 
 She then appointed an hour, and bid them 
 good evening once more. 
 
 On examining the parcel, it was found that she 
 had brought him a phial of wine, a slice of bread, 
 and half a chicken. Added to this was a clean 
 sheet, a towel, and a nightcap. They further 
 observed, that although her appearance was 
 respectable, and her motions easy and graceful, 
 yet her dress was thin, faded, and of plain mate- 
 rials. The marks of suffering and poverty were 
 in fact visible, not only in a countenance worn at 
 once by care and ill health, but in the details of 
 her apparel, which, upon a close examination, 
 
 K 2 
 
202 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 owed a great deal of its apparent decency to the 
 iftdustry of her own needle. 
 
 The contents of the parcel, humble as the 
 articles were, went further to touch Barney's 
 heart and to smite that of the old man with 
 remorse for his harshness and suspicions, than all 
 that had passed during the interview between his 
 son and her. When they thought of what Cassidy 
 had said concerning her, and brought to mind 
 the evident symptoms of poverty, and struggle, 
 and illness, which her whole] appearance, when 
 closely looked into, indicated, they both felt that 
 kind of sensation which makes the heart quiver, 
 and the throat fill, and the eye to overflow. As 
 it was, however, they had little time to lose in 
 striving to amend Cassidy's most miserable con- 
 dition. A barber was got, and the invalid was 
 trimmed, shaved, and washed, and placed with a 
 clean nightcap on his head upon a clean sheet 
 until the following or second day should find him 
 in different and better lodgings. Early the next 
 morning a priest visited him and heard his full 
 confession, a circumstance which seemed to re- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 203 
 
 move a heavy load from his heart. A doctor was 
 also brought to see him, but alas! he gave no 
 hope whatsoever of his ultimate recovery. If 
 there were a chance at all, he said, it depended 
 upon his being brought to try the effect of his 
 native air. The next day, under the superinten- 
 dence of his father, Barney, and Eliza, he was 
 removed to a clean airy lodging in Prussia-streefej 
 in order that by medical aid, comfort, and good 
 air, he might gather strength sufficient to reach 
 his native place. Barney insisted that his house 
 should be his home, and as old Cassidy himself 
 had not had time to ask any of his own relatives 
 for an asylum for him, it was agreed upon that 
 this friendly offer should be accepted. 
 
204 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 To detail the incidents of Cassidy's life, and 
 dwell upon the progressive stages through which 
 a man of dissipation and a professed gambler 
 must necessarily pass, is not our intention, 
 inasmuch as it has been done by many abler 
 hands, with whom it would be idle for us to 
 compete. We cannot, however, let pass this 
 opportunity of explaining to our readers, the prin- 
 ciples of an attachment, so remarkable for its 
 tenderness of affection and purity — to such an 
 object, — an attachment not unprecedented, but 
 certainly never surpassed as an exhibition tran- 
 scendantly beautiful and noble of that undying 
 hght of man's life — the love of woman. Cassidy, 
 as we have already said, was never wholly lost to 
 a sense of honour, neither was his heart utterly 
 proof against occasional visitings of compunction 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 205 
 
 and remorse. The fact is, he was a profligate 
 from impulse, but not from principle — and our 
 readers need not be told that there is an essential 
 distinction between them. During the last eighteen 
 or twenty years he had giving up gambling three 
 or four times, and by exertions creditable to him- 
 self, obtained respectable situations. On one 
 occasion he procured a clerkship in a merchant's 
 office, which, however, he only held until he drew 
 his first quarter's salary, when the old temptation- 
 overcame him, and he immediately plunged again 
 into the mad enthusiasm of the gaming-table. 
 He had received a good education, and as his 
 natural talents were quick and versatile, there 
 were few duties connected with civil life with 
 which he could not make himself almost intuitively 
 conversant. He was also for a time classical 
 tutor in a school — and it was here, by the way, 
 where he first met the brother of Eliza Graham, 
 for such was the name of the girl we have intro- 
 duced to the reader. Graham was then the most 
 simple, warm-hearted, unsuspecting boy in Cas- 
 sidy's class — possessing a good deal of vanity and 
 a great deal of good-nature. Several years after 
 
206 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 this they met again in a gambling-house, where 
 Graham made himself known to his old tutor, the 
 latter having forgotten, in the haggard and dissi- 
 pated look of the tall but broken down rake, the 
 clear complexion and promising figure of the 
 healthy schoolboy. Their intimacy was renewed, 
 and as Graham was his own master and possessed 
 an independent property — or rather the remnant 
 of one — having reduced two thousand a year to 
 five hundred — he had Cassidy a frequent guest at 
 his table. 
 
 At this time a plan was laid by the pro- 
 prietors of the gaming-table " to clean him 
 out," for his warmth of temper and unsuspicious 
 character made him an excellent pigeon in the 
 hands of such a set. This scheme, to a certain 
 extent, succeeded ; Graham and his sister were 
 virtually beggared — their last guinea staked — when 
 Cassidy, who had been decoyed out of the way, 
 having suspected that all was not right, came in 
 time to save both from ruin. 
 
 " I will not consent to this villany," he ex- 
 claimed, with indignation. " Graham, the dice 
 are loaded ; you have lost nothing." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 207 
 
 The determination of Cassidy's character being 
 known, Graham's money was immediately re- 
 stored to him, and all his other pecuniary engage- 
 ments to the fellows cancelled ; but the bully of 
 the establishment, who had been the principal 
 contriver of the plot, felt so deeply maddened at 
 this disappointment, that he challenged Cassidy 
 to the Fifteen Acres the next morning, where the 
 furious ruffian was shot dead by the first fire of 
 his antagonist. Cassidy immediately withdrew 
 from that establishment, and became for several 
 months an inmate in the house of his friend Gra- 
 ham, whose earthly career was now near a close. 
 Before this time he had become deeply attached 
 to Eliza, and succeeded in gaining her affections ; 
 but he loved her at first only as the, generality of 
 men love — merely because she was beautiful, and 
 often thrown in his way. Her conduct, however, 
 during the last illness of her only brother placed 
 her character in a light so noble, so exalted, so 
 sacred, that to a man like him, who had little in- 
 tercourse with any but the weakest of the sex, it 
 appeared to belong to a person raised above 
 humanity itself, and superinduced upon his former 
 
208 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 love for her an impression of holiness or worship, 
 such as one might be supposed to feel towards a 
 divine being. The death of her brother — which 
 for a time came home to his heart as a serious 
 lesson — now rendered it improper that he should 
 longer reside in the house with a beautiful and 
 unprotected woman, betrothed even though they 
 were to each other with that brother's consent, 
 for he had looked upon Cassidy as a changed and 
 reformed man. 
 
 He was now once more removed from that 
 sweet and benignant influence, which, when 
 his heart was softened by the better feelings of his 
 nature, might have saved him ; but although 
 thrown upon the world, he was not friendless. 
 Eliza, who found him too proud directly to receive 
 money at her hands, resolved, from a feeling of 
 delicacy, to relieve him from scruples which, how- 
 ever they stood in the way of her kindness towards 
 him, she could not but admire. For this purpose, 
 she intrusted him, in a fatal moment, with the full 
 management of her property, assuring him that 
 as soon as she saw a period of time elapse, long 
 enough to induce her to think his abandonment of 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 209 
 
 the gaming-table 'sincere, she and it would be- 
 come his. 
 
 Alas r to a man whose propensities were so 
 impetuous, and whose moral resolutions, however 
 well meant, were unable to grapple with them, 
 such a trust offered a temptation which he could 
 not resist. To be brief, the short period of 
 two years saw her income reduced to twenty 
 pounds per annum, and Cassidy, stung into deli- 
 rious insanity by remorse and affection, the pitiable 
 inmate of a mad-houseJ 
 
 But oh, the love of woman — the love of woman ! 
 How high will it not rise ! and to what lowly 
 depths will it not stoop ! How many injuries 
 will it not forgive! What obstacle will it not 
 overcome ! and what sacrifices will it not make, 
 rather than give up the being upon which it has 
 been once wholly and truthfully fixed! Peren- 
 nial of life, which grows up to beauty under every 
 climate, how small would the sum of man's hap- 
 piness be without thee ! No coldness, no ne- 
 glect, no harshness, no cruelty can extinguish 
 thee ! Like the fabled lamp in the sepulchre, 
 thou sheddest thy pure light in the human heart. 
 
210 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 when every thing around thee there is dead for 
 ever ! 
 
 This terrible visitation disarmed the gentle girl 
 of her resentment, if she ever seriously enter- 
 tained any, against the man who had won her 
 first affections, and who had more than once de- 
 clined to marry her from an honourable conscious- 
 ness that he would thereby only involve her in 
 poverty and ruin. In the cell of the maniac she 
 was with him, attempting to calm the storms of 
 his brain, and to soothe the tumultuous agonies of 
 his heart. It is sufficient to say, that after a 
 time, whether owing to her presence, and the re- 
 peated assurances of her forgiveness, or to the 
 power of a naturally strong intellect, he reco- 
 vered the use of his reason, and went out again 
 upon the world. It is unnecessary now to detail 
 the neglect, the destitution, the sickness, through 
 which he passed, for his conduct towards Eliza 
 was generally known, and no one would either 
 employ or relieve him. In about seven months 
 after his removal from Swift's, she herself having 
 just recovered from an illness which evidently only 
 detained her a short time from the grave, found 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 211 
 
 him lying as we have described him, under the 
 heartless care of the woman called Judy, brought 
 as far down in the wretchedness of life as human 
 misery could well go. There, however, as often 
 as ill health and the pressure of her own 
 pecuniary struggles permitted her, she was 
 to be found attending, comforting, and sooth- 
 ing him. Nor did her love confine itself to this. 
 So far as a constitution fast sinking under decline 
 enabled her, she plied her needle on his behalf, 
 with an industry that ultimately sapped the feeble 
 stamina of life now left her. 
 
 Such an instance of affection is certainly un- 
 frequent in life. That it was singularly tender, 
 faithful, and true, none can deny ; but alas, 
 that it was also misplaced, is not more obvious 
 to our readers, than is the wretchedness in 
 which it was the means of involving her whole 
 life, and the complete wreck it made of her 
 hopes and happiness. It is true the qualities 
 which she loved in him might have redeemed 
 his character, and rendered him worthy of her, 
 could he have gathered moral courage enough 
 to break through a habit which swayed him 
 
212 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 with the power of an evil spirit, contrary to 
 strong impressions of moral truth and rectitude. 
 
 Cassidy had not been more than two days 
 in Prussia-street, when one of those capricious 
 longings for a change of place to which such 
 persons are subject, came strong upon him. 
 These, by the way, being considered by the 
 country people as premonitions of approaching 
 death, and we believe with some truth, induced 
 his father to comply with them in this instance 
 with less reluctance than he would otherwise 
 have evinced. 
 
 " Father, bring me home," said the son. 
 " I feel that the inclination and wish to die 
 tbere will give me strength to travel, which 
 I can do by easy stages. Oh, bring me home, 
 for I wish to sleep my last sleep among my 
 own." 
 
 " I will, avick," said his father ; " but are 
 you aquil to sich a journey, John ?" 
 
 " I think I am," said the son ; " we can 
 thravel in a chaise, slowly. Father dear, as 
 you love me, don't keep me from the wild 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 213 
 
 hills and green valleys of our native place. It 
 will soothe my last moments — it will give a 
 sweet but melancholy pleasure to my broken 
 heart, to look upon the places of my early 
 life, where I once was happy and innocent." 
 
 The father's heart was opened, and he wept 
 bitterly. " I will bring you, then, avillish," 
 said the old man, " I'll lose no time — there's 
 a thing or two that I wanted to do, but I'm 
 sure Barney won't refuse stoppin' in town one 
 day to do them for me ; we can go then in 
 the mornin', plaise God. But, John dear, won't 
 you see poor Eliza before you go ?" 
 
 '• It is my intention, although I am scarcely 
 equal to it ; I cannot, however, reconcile it 
 to myself to steal away, as it were, without 
 seeing her." 
 
 In accordance with this arrangement, his father 
 went to bring her to see him, after which he 
 found Barney, who consented, with somewhat 
 of a wormwood aspect, to remain another day 
 in town, in order to deliver letters, make in- 
 quiries, and transact a few other matters, which 
 
214 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 the old man had promised to do for some of 
 his friends in America. 
 
 The interview between Cassidy and Miss 
 Graham was one which her affection for him 
 would not allow her to prolong. The high- 
 minded girl saw that he had not strength for 
 much more excitement than he had already been 
 forced to undergo, and that if there were any 
 chance at all of his recovery, the sooner he 
 got to the country the better. She conducted 
 herself with singular strength of mind — appeared 
 firm and calm, if not cheerful ; and by this 
 means, instead of exhausting him, she com- 
 municated to him much of her own serenity 
 and firmness. The next morning, at an early 
 hour, they set out for their native place, satisfied 
 of a warm and cordial welcome ; Barney himself 
 hoping to reach home very soon after their 
 arrival. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 215 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Having now performed these kind offices to 
 his old companion, Barney determined to lose 
 no time in getting home to his wife and family. 
 His new friend the mendicant had not called 
 to the White Horse, or if he had, it must 
 have been in his absence, while he was assisting 
 old Cassidy in removing his son to his new 
 lodgings and making preparations for his journey. 
 Be this as it might, strong suspicions as to 
 the honesty of that inn, and its safety as a 
 place to -put up at, came across his mind, in 
 consequence of the dialogue between the two 
 girls in little Britain-street. He also enter- 
 tained a terror of the sack-'em-ups, which indeed 
 was at that period, when the city was but poorly 
 policed, a kind of epidemic among such country 
 folks as happened to come to Dublin for the 
 
216 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 first time, under apprehensions created by the 
 exaggerating tongue of rumour, which gave 
 awful accounts of men who were kidnapped, 
 smothered, and sold to the surgeons for large 
 sums of money. 
 
 Another matter, though an apparently trifling 
 one, gave him some uneasiness, and that was the 
 neglect of the wench who guided him to the house 
 where Cassidy lay to return for him, according to 
 agreement. When spoken to about it the next 
 morning, she leered at him very knowingly, and 
 laughed in his face as if she knew more than was 
 necessary to communicate. Her whole deport- 
 ment vexed Barney, who, to let her see that he 
 too was sharp and well up to things, plumply told 
 her that he had no great opinion of the house, and 
 that it would be the last time he would ever stop 
 in it. 
 
 It was now the evening of the day following 
 that upon which Cassidy had gone to the country, 
 and as Barney had the proceeds of his butter 
 about him, a considerable sum, he made up his 
 mind to start for home the next morning as early 
 as travelling might be safe upon the road. Before 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 217 
 
 going, however, he resolved to see the unhappy 
 girl whose love for his friend had been so faithful' 
 and steadfast to him, but, alas, so ruinous and 
 fatal to herself. This visit he paid, we must ad- 
 rait, with a purpose as feloniously benevolent to- 
 wards Eliza as could readily enter into the head 
 of an Irishman. He had already made two unsuc- 
 cessful attempts to trick her into the receipt of 
 money, but failed wofully in each, as he had been 
 assured by Cassidy that he would do. He now 
 resolved to make a third, for he was superstitious 
 enough to believe that the third attempt might 
 succeed, and actually had almost made up his 
 mind, if every other device failed, to pick it into 
 her pocket, provided it so happened that the poor 
 girl had one. All these calculations, however, 
 were unavailing. The girl was too high-minded 
 to receive money from him ; but, in order to soothe 
 him a little, for he was on the point of abusing her 
 somewhat after the style of his attack upon Cas- 
 sidy for the same reason, she compromised the 
 matter with him, by asking, as a favour, that he 
 would get some one to write her an account, from 
 time to time, of Cassidy's health ; and that, above 
 
 VOL. III. L 
 
218 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 all things, when hope was gone, and his life draw- 
 ing to its final close, he would be certain to let her 
 know. This was agreed upon between them, and 
 Barney haviiig bade her farewell, not with dry 
 eyes, was proceeding to his inn, and had reached 
 the corner of North King-street on his way, when 
 he was met by O'Cullenan, who, after some 
 preliminary chat, asked him where he had been, 
 and why he was out so late, for it was a little after 
 ten o'clock at night. Barney told him the truth, 
 and asked him in return why he had assured hiril 
 that Cassidy had been dead. 
 
 " Whist," said the man, "what would you have 
 me say — didn't he come back from transporta- 
 tion before his time? It was agreed that his 
 friends should say what I tould you." 
 
 This was presenting Cassidy's character in a 
 new and not at all an improbable light to Barney, 
 who imagined that he felt ashamed to allude to it ; 
 he consequently felt perfectly satisfied with the 
 explanation. 
 
 "Now," proceeded O'Cullenan, " I have been 
 looking for you, and I want you." 
 
 " Well," said Barney, " here I am." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 219 
 
 " Ay," replied the other, "you are here now, 
 but it's hard to say where you may be by this time 
 to-morrow. I have made a discovery about the 
 White Horse that surprises me. It's not a safe 
 place — an' all I can say is, that if you take my 
 advice you won't sleep in it to-night- In open day 
 light you can get your horses and carts, and leave 
 it without danger ; but take my advice, and don't 
 sleep there to-night, nor leave your money in it." 
 
 " Why," asked Barney, with a palpitating heart, 
 " do you know of any danger ?" 
 
 " Do I hioio of any ? No, I don't know of any, 
 but I suspect it strongly." ^ 
 
 " And where would I sleep, for the sorra place 
 or house I know in the town, barrin' the one I'm 
 stoppin' at ?" 
 
 " For this one night it would be betther to 
 sleep in some poor place, and I'll tell you why — 
 none but humble people, with little money, ever 
 resort to such places. Of course, by going to 
 some poor lodging, they'll never suspect you to 
 have much money about you. That is, in my 
 opinion, the wisest thing you can do, and the 
 safest. Tell me this — stand down here out of the 
 
220 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 thoroughfare, it's hard to tell ] how you may be 
 watched, — tell me this — did you meet three 
 English fellows at Finglass ?" 
 
 " Faith I did, sure enough." 
 
 " Well, then, these are three of the most dan- 
 gerous villains in all Dublin. They have their 
 hand in every wickedness that can be thought of. 
 It's said they carry on a trade in dead bodies from 
 this to London, and that they take none but such 
 as they rob first for their money, and murder 
 afterwards. Now whisper — I'm told they very 
 often come privately to the White Horse. If 
 you think yourself safe in, it after knowing this, I 
 have nothing more to say. Judge for your- 
 self." 
 
 " Divil the fut I'll sleep in the same White 
 Horse this night, if I should lie on the streets," 
 exclaimed Barney, the cold perspiration beginning 
 to ooze out of his skin with sheer terror. " For 
 God's sake, will you bring me to some poor 
 quiet place where the crathurs, as you say, 
 won't suspect me of havin' money. Let me' get 
 safe out o' this cursed hole, an' I'll double what I 
 gave you. As I happen to have all my money 
 
BARNEY BRAN AG AN. 221 
 
 about me, I won't go back to put myself any more 
 in their power this night. To tell you the truth, 
 I had strong suspicions of the place myself, in 
 regard of something I heard about it accidently. 
 For heaven's sake, thin, bring me to some house 
 where you think I'll be safe." 
 
 This was agreed to, and after trying several 
 dry lodging houses, they at last fixed upon one in 
 Grange Gorman-lane, which appeared to b 
 quieter and decenter-looking than the others. 
 
 "Now," said O'Cullenan, "the earlier you 
 start the better, that is after daylight, you under- 
 stand ? I'll see you as you pass, for I'm there 
 every mornin' with the first light. Good night !" 
 
 " I do ; I undherstand you right well," replied 
 Barney; "but sure you won't go so soon? No 
 good night yet awhile. Sit down, we must have 
 a sup o' dhrink afore we part." 
 
 " The less you take the better," said the other, 
 dryly. 
 
 " I know that," said Barney, " but I feel that 
 one glass of something will sarve me — faith, I 
 want it to keep up my " 
 
 " Very well, very well," said the mendicant. 
 
222 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 " A glass o' porther, then ; as for me, a drop of 
 spirits won't crass my lips this night. I make a 
 point always to keep my head clear — hem, hem !" 
 
 Here he glanced significantly at Barney, as 
 much as to say take the hint and do the same. 
 
 Barney returned a most lugubrious nod of 
 intelligence, and as he raised one of his eyebrows 
 and depressed the other, the ludicrous elongation 
 of his face was indeed irresistible. 
 
 " Could we get in a glass of porther, ma'am?" 
 said Barney, applying himself to an old woman, 
 who, with a young girl about sixteen, were the 
 only inmates visible in the house. " I feel as 
 dhry as a stick, an' I ever an' always had a dis- 
 taste agin wather, unless whin there was something 
 to tighten it ; ha, ha 1" 
 
 This was an effort at being careless and face- 
 tious merely to conceal his terror. It was, how- 
 ever, a dead failure, the laugh stuck in his throat, 
 and would not come. 
 
 " Not unless you go for it yourselves," replied 
 the old dame. " I'm not able to go, an' I have 
 no notion of lettin' that young crature out at sich 
 an hour o' the night as this is, an' in ich times. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 223 
 
 the Lord save us, when so many people is whip- 
 ped off, nobody knows how or where." 
 
 " If / knew," said Barney, with a hesitating 
 voice that betrayed the effect of the last observa- 
 tion upon him. 
 
 The old man shook his head — " No," said he, 
 interrupting him, " the devil a foot you shall go, 
 I must only try it myself. Give me the money, 
 an' do you, ma'am, get me a vessel to bring it in." 
 
224 THE MISFORTUNES OV 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 While the old man was absent, Barney asked a 
 candle to look at his bed, more for the purpose of 
 reconnoitering the premises with a view to his 
 safety than to see that the bed was a good one. 
 The house was very poorly furnished. Below stairs 
 there was first the room you entered, which served 
 for kitchen, and parlour, and all. Off this, sepa- 
 rated from each other by a thin partition of boards, 
 were two bed-rooms, with nothing but a table and 
 chair in each. Above, there was a miserable 
 sitting-room, with a couple of long-backed oak 
 chairs and a crazy round oak table, having turned 
 legs, that shrieked with pain, as it were, when 
 you touched them ; off this were toto other sleep- 
 ing apartments precisely similar to those below. 
 The beds were hard straw mattrasses, with dirty 
 sheets, single blankets, and rugs that were brown 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 225 
 
 to conceal the dirt. Upon the wall, above the 
 fireplace, was a red and blue crucifixion on paper, 
 opposite which, on the other side, hung " the 
 Sorrowful Ballad of Jemmy and Nancy, or the 
 Yarmouth Tragedy." On the chimney-piece, 
 and in rather irreverend contiguity to the Cru- 
 cifixion, was a group of two dirty naked figures, 
 courting each other, in plaster, the youth with a 
 nose demolished, and the nymph blinking at him 
 with but one eye. ' 
 
 Barney, having little taste for the antique, paid 
 no great attention to the statuary, but derived some 
 comfort from the crucifixion. Nothing, however, 
 gave him such confidence as a large eye that 
 seemed to look in all directions from the paper on 
 which it was printed. On asking its meaning, 
 and that of the words under it, his heart got 
 strong when he heard that it was emblematic of 
 the Almighty, and that the words were " God 
 sees me." 
 
 "Thank God!" said he; "lam safe here at 
 all events ; none but honest people would have 
 holy things like this about their place ; that's a 
 sure case. Plaise God, by this time to-morro^y 
 
 L 2 
 
226 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 night I'll be out of the dangers and rogueries of 
 Dublin, any how ; and divil saize the fut ever I'll 
 put into it agin while I'm alive." 
 
 A considerable time elapsed during this survey 
 of the premises, and yet the mendicant did not 
 return with the liquor. 
 
 " What can keep this ould man ?" said Bar- 
 ney. ' 
 
 " There's ne'er a public-house near this," said 
 the woman : " he had a good piece to go for it." 
 
 " He's a dacent ould poor crature," he con- 
 tinued ; anxious to draw her into conversation. 
 
 " He may be that," she replied, " for all I 
 know to the contrairy ; none here ever set an eye 
 on the man before." 
 
 " Is this brave young woman your daughter ?" 
 he then inquired. " Begad, she has a fine pair 
 of red shinin' cheeks of her own, an' a brave neck 
 on her shouldhers. Faix, young woman, if you 
 wor in our neighbourhood, you'd soon come in 
 for a husband. The young men would be breakin' 
 their shins to get you." 
 
 " It's time enough for her to be thinkin' of thim 
 things yet," returned the old woman ; " she's 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 227 
 
 only my grand-daughter. Go and say your 
 prayers, Mary, and off to bed." 
 
 " Sorra fut till she gets share of what's comin' 
 in," said Barney; "there's not so many of us 
 but we may have our drop together in comfort." 
 
 This would not be listened to. No teetotaller 
 was ever more condemnatory of drink, no matter 
 of what description, than was the grandmother. 
 The girl herself assured him that she seldom or 
 never touched a drop, and yet Barney could hardly 
 help concluding, from a kind of jeering expression 
 in her eye, that her protestations against it were 
 rather ironical. The old fellow's delay was now 
 beginning to occasion him much uneasiness ; but 
 in order to pass the time and conceal his impa- 
 tience, he chatted with the old woman upon 
 different topics, and was pleased to find that she re- 
 proved him two or three times for having indulged 
 in something like an oath. 
 
 " There's no use in swearin'," said she ; " any 
 man that can't be believed without an oath oughtn't 
 to be believed with one. We have enough to 
 answer for without that." 
 
 Barney stoutly contested the truth of the first 
 
228 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 part of the proposition, and was insisting that 
 many an honest fellow who, in point of fact and 
 practice highly respected truth, was in the habit 
 of letting slip an oath occasionally ; he then pro- 
 ceeded to attack pharisaism and hypocrisy gene- 
 rally, and was exhibiting his powers as a moralist 
 with great spirit, when the return of O'Cullenan 
 put an agreeable period to the discussion. 
 
 " What on earth kept you ?" said Barney ; 
 " I was beginnin' to think that something hap- 
 pened you." 
 
 The man laid down two jugs of porter. " The 
 vessel you gave me," said he to the woman, 
 "would not hold half a gallon, so I had to 
 borrow another in Brady's public-house below; 
 but I promised you would send it home in 
 the morning, for they say it's too far to come 
 for it." 
 
 " Of coorse," she replied ; " you don't think 
 I'd keep it." 
 
 " I want a word with you," he said, addressing 
 Barney : "come outside the door a minute." 
 
 " In the name o' God, what is it ?" asked 
 the other in evident alarm. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 229 
 
 " You had a narrow escape this night," said 
 the mendicant ; "an' if ever a man had a right 
 to be thankful, you have. Indeed if it hadn't 
 happened till to-morrow it would be better still." 
 
 " What has happened ?" said Barney, breath- 
 less with anxiety. 
 
 " Why," said the old man, " as I was so 
 near the White Horse, I slipped down to look 
 about me. There's three executions in the house 
 — one from the landlord, and two others — so 
 that your horses and carts are gone without 
 redemption. The house is closed, and I see 
 clearly, had you slept there to-night" — here he 
 shook his head and paused. " Well," he added, 
 " at all events you're not among them ; a black 
 business it would be — a black and a blue. 
 Well, you're out of their clutches." 
 
 " Are we sure of that ?" said Barney. 
 
 " It's impossible to be sure of any thing, but 
 I hope you are. This is an honest-looking 
 house, and that poor woman and her daughter 
 dacent- looking creatures. At the same time, 
 I'd recommend you not to go to sleep if you 
 can : for there's one thing I know, that these 
 
230 ' THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 English villains are drinking openly with the 
 laudlord — I heard them singing and carousing." 
 
 Barney's apprehensions were very naturally 
 almost at their height ; so much so, that all 
 he was now anxious for was, to get away clear 
 with his life and money, but, above all things, 
 with his life. 
 
 *' To the divil wid horses and carts," he re- 
 plied ; "let me get safe away widout them, 
 and I'll be satisfied. Here's the same as I 
 gave you afore ; or stay, couldn't you stop 
 here to-night ?" 
 
 " Thank you," he replied, pocketing the 
 money. " But is it me staying ? What could 
 a poor helpless old man like me do if any 
 thing happened ? No ; but I'll tell you what, 
 — I'll serve you better out than I could by 
 staying. Let me alone; whatever I do for 
 you I must do it my own way. Don't appear 
 uneasy; and now come in and take a drink, 
 you do want it to keep up your spirits." 
 
 The old woman, notwithstanding her inveterate 
 determination against liquor, relaxed a little when 
 she saw it, and after considerable persuasion 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 231, 
 
 on the part of Barney and the mendicant she 
 and her grand-daughter were prevailed on to 
 take a glass. O'Cullenan, indeed, seemed in 
 high spirits that Barney had got safe from the 
 harpies of the White Horse ; but somehow the 
 latter could not help feeling uncomfortable on 
 seeing the cold sarcastic sneer with which his 
 exultation was expressed. Still he felt himself 
 deeply indebted to him, and in language full 
 of warmth, but rendered ludicrously mysterious 
 by the presence of the females, he poured out 
 the gratitude he felt. At length their potations 
 closed, and Barney, after bidding the old fellow 
 " good night," retired to bed, not with the 
 purpose of sleeping, but rather of remaining 
 awake until the return of daylight. 
 
 Hundreds may make resolutions, but few, 
 very few, keep them when made. Barney most 
 devoutly said his prayers, stripped himself all 
 but his small-clothes, in one of the pockets of 
 which he kept his bank-notes securely buttoned, 
 and went to bed ; but as the fact turned out, 
 not only to sleep, but to sleep deeply. 
 
 It was precisely as daylight was beginning to 
 
232 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 break that he awoke, much to'his own surprise, 
 seeing that he had resolved not to sleep at all. At 
 that moment he was startled by the noise of smo- 
 thered voices in the next room, which, as we 
 have already said, was divided from his by only a 
 thin partition. He started with terror, and on 
 trying if his money were safe, felt as if the weight 
 of death had fallen upon his heart, when he 
 discovered that it had been taken, although the 
 very pocket in which it lay was buttoned as before. 
 What was he to do ? He paused a moment to 
 determine, and during that pause the following 
 dialogue reached his ears, now sharpened as they 
 were by terror and danger into an acuteness of 
 hearing that made every word impinge itself upon 
 his very brain. 
 
 " Is the trunk ready ?" said a voice. " Make 
 haste, d — n your blood ! we won't have time to 
 stow him into it, and the ship sails at half-past 
 twelve o'clock." 
 
 " It was all Jack's fault," said the other. " Did 
 you prog all his money ?" 
 
 *' Every penny," said the first voice ; " and I 
 would have snatched him then, only the pitch 
 
BAllNEY BRANAGAN. 233 
 
 plaster wasn't ready. He'll make the best corpse 
 we got this month." 
 
 The cold perspiration was now pouring from 
 Barney in the bed. " May God have mercy on 
 me!" he prayed inwardly, "for I'm surely lost. 
 But as it's do or die wid me, I'll make a hard 
 fight, at any rate ; they can but take my life, but 
 it'll go hard if I don't return the compliment to 
 some of them." 
 
 " He'll bring us about thirty guineas in Lon- 
 don," said a third voice. " Be Japers, it's well 
 the beggerman O'Cullenan doesn't know of this, 
 or he'd hang us every man, for he took a great 
 fancy to this cove. At all events, between his 
 butter-money and the price of his body, it's the 
 best thing we did this long time." 
 
 " Have you the daggers and pistols ready, in 
 case of resistance ?" inquired a fourth voice. 
 
 " To be sure," replied the first. " But what 
 the d — I's keeping Dick? he's as long melting 
 that pitch as I'd sack up half a dozen carcases. 
 I have the trunk beautifully water-tight, and the 
 pickle ready. I made it stronger than usual, for 
 
234 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 the fellow's fat, and would stink like a badger, 
 unless well salted." 
 
 Here Barney heard the atrocious villains abso- 
 lutely indulging in smothered laughter at the 
 contemplation of their own hellish designs. 
 
 At this moment the front window of his sleeping 
 room caught his eye, and with the quickness 
 almost of thought he tried if it v/ould open. 
 Heavens above ! it gave way with as little noise 
 as if it had been oiled for the purpose ; and Bar- 
 ney, with the stealthy pace of a cat, or one of 
 the thieves themselves, peeped out to view the 
 ground, and see if the coast was clear for a 
 spring. All was right. In a moment's time he 
 backed himself out, got his foot upon the upper 
 ledge of the lower window, twisted himself round, 
 so as to leap down with his face to the street; 
 which he did without any serious injury. He 
 immediately set off at full speed, having only his 
 shirt and small-clothes on ; but as he was almost 
 ignorant of the streets, and the directions in which 
 they led, nearly an hour elapsed before he found 
 himself on the way to the Park. He was ques- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 235 
 
 tioned and about to be stopped by two or three 
 watchmen, but on assuring them, in breathless 
 haste, that he was going for a midwife, they had 
 too much national gallantry to make further 
 inquiries or retard his progress upon such an 
 interesting message. He had not passed far 
 through the park gate, when the first person — 
 indeed the only one — he saw was the mendicant, 
 who, hearing his quick tread and rapid breathing, 
 turned round with his usual bitter sneer to see 
 who it was. 
 
 "What? what? eh, how the devil is this? 
 What's wrong ? Are you attacked ?" 
 
 Barney seized him like lightning with the gripe 
 of a vice, and whipping out the iron skewer which 
 pinned on his old great coat, dragged it off him 
 before he had a moment's time for resistance or 
 remonstrance. 
 
 " I gave you the price of a betther coat," said 
 he, " and in the mane time I'll borrow this. You 
 can get another with my money. A fair exchange is 
 no robbery. And now may my curse hght down 
 upon Dublin, and you, and every man, woman, 
 and child that's in it." 
 
236 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 The old man attempted to run after him, but he 
 became for a short time quite paralyzed, and could 
 not get out a word. At length he uttered scream 
 after scream so wild and sharp, that Barney, going 
 at full speed as he was, could not avoid turning 
 round to look at him. His gestures of menace 
 were frantic, convulsive, spasmodic; his keen 
 eyes glittered with the concentrated venom and 
 lustre of fifty rattle-snakes ; the foam was white 
 upon his lips as he uttered one imprecation after 
 another, each deepening in Satanic bitterness and 
 malignity. 
 
 " Take it aisy," shouted Barney over his 
 shoulder ; " my conscience doesn't throuble me. 
 When I'm cotch in Dublin again, you'll rob me 
 among you, that's all. Divil saize the whole of ye !" 
 
 On coming to the turn of the road that brought 
 him out of the mendicant's sight, he again looked 
 back, but the old fellow no longer stood. He was 
 lying on the ground grasping at the earth, and 
 kicking his limbs about after the manner of an 
 ill-tempered boy, who for his perversity has been 
 deprived of some plaything on which he had set 
 his peevish and self-willed heart. 
 
 I 
 
BARNEY BR AN AG AN. US7 
 
 " Kick away," said Barney ; " you have the 
 price of many a coat like this, of my money — an' 
 little good in the long run you done me for it. 
 Kick away, my ould cock, you have room enough — 
 when you cool, you'll get aisy ;" and on he went. 
 
238 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 That Barney v/as forced to throw himself upon 
 the kindness and hospitality of his warm-hearted 
 countrymen, it is scarcely necessary to state to 
 our readers, who know the destitute condition in 
 which he travelled. He got, however, an old hat 
 from one farmer, and a pair of half-worn shoes 
 from another, and would have got a better coat 
 than that of the mendicant, but he declined to ac- 
 cept it. 
 
 " I'll not part wid it," said he, " in regard that 
 it's all I have to show for my butther, my horses, 
 and my carts. An' God he knows it's an ugly 
 witness to a bad bargain. Mavrone, this day, 
 but I'm the nice unlucky boy, wid this upon my 
 back !" 
 
 At length he reached home, and as he approached 
 the house, he knew by the hour of the day and 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 23§ 
 
 the appearance of the place, that the family were 
 at dinner, and that he should be forced to suffer 
 the mortification of meeting them together, and 
 bearing either their combined ridicule or anger. 
 What on earth to do he knew not. For twenty 
 minutes he tept lounging and skulking about, in 
 the garb of some sturdy overgrown beggar blade, 
 who might be manoeuvring to steal something oif 
 the premises. This, however was all in vain ; for 
 after sliding up to the door, with as much appa- 
 rent sheepishness as a country lad or wench going 
 to dance in public for the first time, he was de- 
 tected by his youngest son, in the act of stretching 
 his neck to look into the window of his own bed- 
 room, through^ which he intended if possible to 
 enter unseen. 
 
 " There's a big beggar-man," said the lad, " at 
 the windy." 
 
 An older boy then looked out, and was about to 
 withdraw, after having told him to wait, and he'd 
 be helped ; when he looked again — started — and 
 exclaimed, " Chiernah, uncle !" Their uncle, by 
 the way, had come over to inquire if he was re- 
 
240 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 turned and dined with them, as it was near dinner 
 hour. 
 
 " Chiernah, uncle — Come here, boys — Mother, 
 upon my sowl, if you wouldn't think this is my 
 father ! — It is, it is — no — eh ? — by this an' by that 
 — Come here, can't yez !" 
 
 His disguise could be kept up no longer, nor 
 his vexation concealed. The great butter-mer- 
 chant, the acute, sharp, experienced dealer, came 
 home to them like a shorn sheep. 
 
 " Why, Barney !" exclaimed his wife and bro- 
 ther, simultaneously, " in the name o' goodness 
 above, what's the raison of this ?" 
 
 " Where's the horses an' carts, father," said the 
 eldest boy, running in, after having gone out to 
 see where they were, " an' where's your clo'es, 
 father," exclaimed his daughter. 
 
 "Chiernah, Barney," asked the wife again; 
 " tell us at wanst, man, what happened you ?" 
 
 " You'll hear it time enough ; in the mane time 
 there," he added, flinging down the old coat upon 
 the floor ; "is payment for my horses and carts, 
 an' butther and clo'es, divil resave the thing I've 
 brought you home but that." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 241 
 
 " Blood !" said his brother, " that's a bad busi- 
 ness, Barney." 
 
 " You were robbed, Barney ?" said the wife. 
 
 " You may say that," he groaned. 
 
 " Well," said the affectionate woman, whilst the 
 tears streamed from her eyes, " let it go. Sure, 
 thanks be to God that you're safe yourself, we can 
 afford tolose it, glory be to God!" — and as she spoke 
 she put her arms about his neck, and kissed him 
 heartily, a ceremony which was now gone through 
 by every one of the family, from the good woman 
 down to the youngest of the children. 
 
 " I brought that home to yez," said he, kicking 
 it out of his way with a very rueful face, " to show 
 yez the value I got for my brave property. 
 Mavrone oh, but I'm the unlucky boy this day ! 
 Misfortune ! I'd like to know where's the thing 
 now to set this one right, or to make it turn out 
 well. An ould coat ! Oh, murther ! to say that 
 purshuin to the thing I have, but one ould rag 
 that no one would lift out o' the gutther !" 
 
 " Throw it in the fire — burn it to ashes !" said 
 his wife, transferring to the coat the indignation 
 which she felt against the robbers; "don't be 
 
 VOL. HI. M 
 
242 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 keepin' it here, to put us in mind of what we've 
 lost ;" and she was about to execute her own sen- 
 teince to the letter. 
 
 " Aisy," said Barney ; " aisy a bit. No ; what- 
 ever happens, I'll keep this very coat in the family, 
 jist to taiche my childher and grand-childher what 
 an unlucky boy their ould fool of a father was, 
 when he should go all the ways to Dublin to sell 
 his butther, instead of sellin' it nearer home." 
 
 The coat was accordingly hung up on a peg in 
 Barney's sleeping-room, as a lesson to his children 
 and their descendants, that the air of Dublin was 
 not exactly thi atmosphere in which they should 
 attempt to thrive. 
 
 The next thing that demanded his attention, 
 and deeply excited his concern, was the absence 
 from his house of Cassidy and his father, both of 
 whom he had expected to find at home before him. 
 The family were surprised at his inquiries about 
 them; for as they knew nothing of his meeting 
 them in Dublin, so were they completely in the 
 dark on the subject. Of either the one or the 
 other, they had heard not a syllable, and it was 
 clear, too, that they had not come to the neigh- 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 243 
 
 bourhood, otherwise every one would have known 
 of a visit so remarkable. 
 
 " Well," said Barney, " unless Jack's dead, he'll 
 be here, and his father wid him ; but there's one 
 thing that you must all attind to, mind, an' it's 
 this — don't let out a single syllable about what has 
 happened me — not a word about the ould coat an' 
 the robbery. In the first place, I have no wish 
 to have the people of the neighbourhood, especially 
 Ned M'Keown, puttin' their tongues in their 
 cheeks at me ; an' in the next place, poor Jack an' 
 his father, not knowin' that we're as rich as we are 
 might feel themselves a burden on us afther sich a 
 loss. — Hut ! to the divil wid the neighbours, if it 
 comes to that ; but God knows I wouldn't make 
 them unaisy or unhappy, now when they're in sor- 
 row, for all I lost. So mind — if I hear a word 
 about it, it'll be worse for yez," 
 
 This they all faithfully promised to comply with ; 
 for although neither Barney nor they acted accor- 
 ding to the acquired standard of conventional 
 feeling, yet it is quite clear that the natural 
 impulses of a generous and affectionate heart, as 
 
244 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 in his case and theirs, rise to a deHcacy and 
 consideration which no mere form of etiquette or 
 studied civihty could ever reach. 
 
 " Sure the sorra one here, Barney, no more 
 than yourself, acushla, would say a word, or do 
 a single thing to make them suppose they weren't 
 welcome. Welcome ! Ay, from the veins o' my 
 heart they are. So, childre, mind what — arra, 
 behave Barney ; didn't I give you half a dozen 
 o' them this minute ?" 
 
 " Faith, you're the right sort," he replied, 
 after having kissed her. 
 
 " So, childre, not a word about the robbery." 
 
 Cassidy in his anxiety to see his native place, 
 had, with the unhappy enthusiasm peculiar to his 
 warmth of temperament, completely over-rated 
 his strength. He was obliged to stop several 
 days at the different stages on the road, so that it 
 was about a fortnight after Barney's arrival home, 
 when his father and himself reached the last 
 stage, which was distant from Derryvolan, where 
 Barney lived, only a short day's journey. It may 
 be well to observe here, that their way to the 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 245 
 
 house of their sterhng friend passed by the door of 
 that in which the Cassidys, both father and son, 
 had been born. 
 
 The morning of the day which brought them to 
 "their old home," as the father "called it, opened 
 up with that autumnal beauty which gives us 
 sensations of heaven and enjoyment, more in 
 accordance with our impressions of them than are 
 produced by any other season of the year. Cas- 
 sidy felt himself buoyed up by a feeling which was 
 new to him. Weak, and exceedingly feeble, 
 undoubtedly he was, but there bubbled up out of 
 his heart a yearning and enthusiastic spirit which 
 drew him with a thousand tender remembrances 
 to the home of his early and happy days. The 
 lamp of life rose higher and higher as he ap- 
 proached the picturesque valleys and green hills 
 and rough mountains, where he had sported while a 
 boy ; but every flicker of its light only diminished 
 the almost wasted source from which it was fed. 
 The pleasure which he felt, tender and melancholy 
 though it was, could only be considered as the 
 last smile of a child who dies unconscious of pain, 
 
246 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 — the last light of life that will ever pass from his 
 countenance. 
 
 The roof of the chaise was opened about twelve 
 o'clock, for he said that the air, he thought, 
 brought back to him some of the feelings which 
 he had long forgotten. 
 
 " Father," said he, " be good and kind to me 
 now^ and for the remainder of this day .^ We are 
 both going back to our old places. I don't know 
 how you feel, but I — I, oh, I am very weak; 
 but let me get one glimpse of the early scenes— 
 of the early scenes — but one glimpse " 
 
 The old man's arm was about him, for he 
 required support; and a silent pressure, which 
 drew him to his heart, told him how deeply and 
 tenderly he sympathised with all he said and 
 felt. 
 
 The chaise proceeded slowly along, the father's 
 arms around his son, and each wrapt up in his 
 own thoughts, until the sun was near setting, 
 when they found themselves ascending that part of 
 the road, where the eminence before them opened 
 upon all that the heart of each craved to look 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 247 
 
 upon. Every minute brought them nearer and 
 nearer, until at length only a distance of about 
 ten or twelve yards interrupted their view. 
 
 " Father," said the son, " support me, oh 
 support me !" 
 
 " Avick machree !" exclaimed the old man, 
 pressing him again to his heart, " avick machree, 
 I know what you feel, keep yourself up. Don't 
 let your heart down, avillish. Sure I forgive you 
 every thing. If that will comfort you, sure I 
 forgive you all, and so did she, achora, oh, so 
 did she, your blessed mother, and said with her 
 last words, — ' oh if I had my boy near me !' " 
 
 The son pressed his hand and looked up into 
 his father's face. "Oh father," said he, "how 
 you would pity me if you knew what I feel ! My 
 mother, — I feel that I'll be with her soon ; I hope 
 so." 
 
 " Whisht, avillish ; John dear, be firm ; but how 
 can /expect it? Sure here is where they all lie, 
 down there, there, — an' she — she sleeps hy herself 
 far from this ! Stop, carman, or driver, stop 
 here — an' turn it about a little till we look upon 
 
248 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 all that's here before us. Oh stop ! for our^hearts 
 is in it still !" 
 
 Tt opened upon them at once, and both, as if 
 moved by a similar impulse, wept. 
 
 " There," said the son, " is before us that 
 which my heart has been thinking of night and 
 day for years. I look upon that scene as my 
 early friend" 
 
 " Oh, John avillish ! don't speak that way, 
 don't — think of me, your white-haired father- 
 think of all we felt in a strange counthry, — 
 think of what we suffered whin we laid your dar- 
 lin' mother in a strange bed, far, far from our own. 
 Oh, avick machree, if she and they were all here 
 with us noiv, — but she sleeps by herself, and with 
 the blessin' of God who gave her to me, where 
 she sleeps I will sleep — alongside of her head 
 will mine rest, for in no other place could I be 
 happy!" 
 
 The son, who still lay against his father's breast, 
 made no reply, but after a long look upon the 
 places of " auld lang syne," as he termed them, 
 beckoned to the driver to proceed, — " but go 
 easily," said he, " go easily." 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 249 
 
 In this manner did they move slowlv along, the 
 mind of each teeming with many an affectionate 
 and sorrowful remembrance, until they approached 
 the green fields and meadows which had once 
 belonged to themselves. Many a time did they 
 stop, and with melancholy hearts survey every 
 spot over which their feet had so often passed in 
 peace and happiness, unconscious of the bitter 
 changes which the world had in store for them. 
 
 " Father," said the son, "it is a blessed thing 
 to die in one's own counthry." 
 
 " Don't, John dear," said the father with a 
 tender pressure. " I have but one counthry, and 
 that is where she sleeps, — but be calm, darlin'. 
 We'll jist take one look at our own house — here 
 it is, — Oh, God ! Many a happy day we had in 
 it, — drive aisy, drive aisy ; — I, an' my forbears 
 for generations, an' now where are we ?" 
 
 " Father," said the son, " I have seen them — 
 I have now seen them all. Here they are about 
 us, — these dark mountains that I have often trod 
 
 these noble hills httle else than mountains, — 
 
 these beautiful vallies, meadows, streams, — all, 
 all are about me, as I once trod them, an inno- 
 
 M 2 
 
250 THE MISFORTUNES OP 
 
 cent and happy boy, when I was like the morning 
 star among you, the hope of you all, — the treasure 
 of my mother's heart. Oh had I died then! 
 Yes, raise me a little if you can, my father, and 
 make him stop opposite that v/hite thorn. There, 
 or rather here, is the spot, where bent on my 
 knees, the night before you went to America, I 
 received my mother's blessing. Father, give me 
 yours on the same spot, it will make my heart 
 lighter, it will give my memory one sweet glimpse 
 of 'auld lang syne' of days long gone, that 
 never, never more can come back to us; — stop 
 now, this, this is the spot." 
 
 " My son, my son !'' said the father, melted 
 into tenderness by so many recollections, " sure 
 you know we all loved you best. My forgiveness ! 
 I do forgive you, John darlin'. Mine an' God's 
 forgiveness be upon you for ever," 
 
 Whilst he was speaking, the chaise moved on 
 but still very slowly. " Father," said he with a 
 faint smile, " the sun is just gone down, — he is 
 set, — see those clouds, they look like the very 
 gates of heaven. Is my mother there? come 
 back again to where she blessed me." 
 
BARNEY BIIANAGAN. 251 
 
 "What is it, avick? what are you turning 
 back for, John dear ? Stop you, driver, my son 
 wants to look back, wants to see something behind 
 him. John avilHsh ! spake to me, — oh but spake 
 to me. Is it the spot where your mother forgave 
 you ? He'll turn back, — he must." 
 
 A deep drawn sigh was the only answer he 
 could receive from the penitent. On looking 
 down at him as he lay in his arms, he perceived 
 at once that he was dead. There was nothing 
 for it now but Barney's kindness, and thither 
 the good old man determined to go. 
 
 " Drive aisy," he exclaimed, as he clasped the 
 body to his bosom, and kissed his son's lips. 
 " Oh drive aisy, an' go along as I'll direct you. 
 This was what you wished for, avillish machree, 
 and thanks be to God you got it." 
 
 Their arrival at Barney's brought them to the 
 house of death if not of mourning. On the 
 third evening before, the devoted Eliza Graham 
 arrived at Derryvola, her pale cheek lit up by 
 good tidings, and tremblingly anxious that what 
 she had to communicate might produce some un- 
 expected change for the better in the health of her 
 
252 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 lover. The fact wiis, she had been left by a 
 maternal uncle in the East Indies, a property 
 amounting to three hundred a year, and the mo- 
 ment she understood that it was certain, she took 
 immediate steps to communicate it to Cassidy, 
 hoping that the good intelligence might produce a 
 salutary re-action in his state of health. The 
 journey, however, was the effort of a heart and 
 constitution that were unequal to the task. She 
 had merely time to make her will, and leave all 
 her fortune to Cassidy, should he survive her, and 
 in case of his death one half to a benevolent 
 institution, and the remainder to the family of him 
 for whose sake she literally died of a broken 
 heart. 
 
 To the spectators it was an affecting and mourn- 
 ful meeting, this meeting between the dead, but 
 not one without a moral on either side. Strong 
 must the affection have been of the old man for 
 her who bad loved his son so truly and so well, 
 when he allowed the stranger to be buried in the 
 same grave with him, — a privilege which in Ireland 
 is never granted unless to those who are bound to 
 us by the ties either of blood or marriage. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 253 
 
 Thus passed away two beings of whom it may 
 be truly said, they were unhappy in their Uves, 
 but in death they were not divided. 
 
 Old Cassidy remained among his friends for a 
 month, at the expiration of which time he took a 
 sorrowful leave of, as he said himself, " the ould 
 friends and the ould places for ever." 
 
 " I love them all," said he, — " but I must go. 
 I must go ; there's a call upon my heart that I 
 must answer, — she must not sleep alone, an' I'll 
 soon be with her ;" but he added, with clasped 
 hands and upturned streaming eyes, — " Oh what 
 wouldn't I give to have her and them here, that 
 we might go to our last rest in the consecrated 
 clay of our own home, an' our own country. But 
 God's will be done ! We must obey it." 
 
 And thus passed away to a far and strange land 
 the white-haired old man, in whose heart length of 
 years only consecrated the domestic affections into 
 a holier tenderness. He passed away in sorrow, 
 it is true ; but that sorrow was sustained by piety 
 that nothing could dim, and by that hope which 
 can never die. 
 
254 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 And now our readers may be inclined to ask if 
 our kind-hearted friend Barney was never by any 
 freak of fortune in his favour compensated for the 
 loss of his property in Dublin. This was a sub- 
 ject, indeed, on which Barney himself, for some 
 short period after his loss, felt exceedingly sore. 
 Sometimes, 'tis true, he would speak about it, and 
 that with a scurrility against Dublin which could 
 not be heard without laughter. The coat still 
 hung upon the peg, but unless when Barney had a 
 drop in, it was kept as secret from the glimpse of 
 a strange eye, as if it had been some sacred relic 
 too holy to be profaned by the gaze of a sinner. 
 
 One evening just three months after his luckless 
 return from the metropolis — of which unfortunate 
 day it was the anniversary — Barney was sitting at 
 home taking a glass of punch with his brother, his 
 uncle, and a neighbour or two, one of whom, by 
 the way, was a butter merchant like himself, who 
 had returned only about a week before from Dub- 
 lin. This circumstance caused the conversation to 
 turn on the far-famed city, and ultimately induced 
 Barney to narrate the full particulars of his dis- 
 astrous speculation and journey to it. 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 255 
 
 " The worst fortune ever I met with," said he, 
 " always was sure to have a twist for the betther 
 towards the heel o' the hunt ; but divil a thing's 
 left for me here but an ould cothamore that you'd 
 not dirty your feet upon the muddiest day in win- 
 ther. Mavrone, oh, but it's I that was the un- 
 lucky boy in that whole business !" 
 
 " Arra! let us have a sight of the price o' your 
 butther, Barney," said the butter dealer ; "begad, 
 it must be a valuable coat to be worth so much — 
 ha, ha, ha ! Maybe if you set it up to auction 
 you'd get the worth o' it — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 This made the mirth very general and loud at 
 his expense, especially with his rival, who took 
 great pleasure in leading the joke on this occasion. 
 
 " Folly on," said Barney, " folly on — I own 
 the laugh's fairly against me — divil a lie in it. 
 How-and-iver the coat you shall see, sich as it is, 
 the dirty thief." 
 
 He then went to the room where it hung, and 
 immediately returned v/ith a very long face bearing 
 the graceful object in his hand, amidst the loud 
 laughter of all present ; for even in Ireland a man 
 
256 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 can laugh at the misfortunes of his friend, pro- 
 vided they keep aloof from himself. 
 
 " There it is," said he, holding it up and 
 shaking the dust off it, " there it is, an' the 
 devil's weight's in it too; for it's as heavy as if it 
 was lined with lead — but — whisht ! Tare an' age 
 what's this !" 
 
 On shaking the coat something fell upon the 
 ground and jingled ; but judge of his surprise 
 when, on stooping to lift it, he found that it was a 
 guinea — "whisht," he exclaimed; " hould — will 
 ye whisht !" 
 
 At this moment they were every one silent as 
 the grave but himself. In an instant he felt the 
 coat closely, and poked the patches with his fin- 
 gers, a broad grin upon his face, whilst, as usual, 
 one eye-brow was up and the other down, alter- 
 nately. 
 
 " Hurra for Dublin," he shouted, " why don't 
 yez get me a pair of scissors ? I have it all now — 
 I'm up to the ould fellow — he wouldn't part wid it 
 indeed ! Oh not he ! Hurra for Dublin — Hurra 
 for the metrolopis ! That's the ground for a 
 butther merchant ! Whiz !" 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 257 
 
 " Gog's blakey, but I believe it's lined with 
 guineas," said his uncle. " Be the elevens he's 
 in for the ould luck still !" 
 
 " Me sell butther! oh no— hut, tut, no— I'm a 
 fool, amn't I ? an' always made a bad bargain — 
 Eh, Hugh Traynor, where's your laughin' face 
 gone? out wid a joke at me, can't you? Will I 
 call an auction, eh ? Hurra for Dublin ! Hurra 
 for the metrolopis ! Whiz — whirros !" 
 
 He immediately proceeded to rip the coat, and, 
 sooth to say, such a disembowelling of hard 
 guineas and bank-notes was never witnessed from a 
 source so strange and unexpected. Nothing could 
 resist the comic expression of Barney's face, as 
 patch after patch gave forth their treasures. His 
 laughter and grimaces now became infectious, and 
 as hundred after hundred tumbled out, the fun 
 still grew fast and furious ; but that which brought 
 it to the most convulsive climax of all, was the 
 fact of Barney's drawing out of a strong and well- 
 concealed gusset, the full amount of his own 
 butter, snug and dry, precisely as it had been in 
 the right-hand pocket of his breeches, the very 
 
258 THE MISFORTUNES OF 
 
 night on which he had been drugged and robbed 
 of it. 
 
 " The desateful.ould villain," exclaimed Barney ; 
 " an' so afther all, it was he that done me ! but 
 divil's cure to him !" 
 
 " Begad, Barney," said the brother, " this is 
 the best misfortune ever you had. You'll be goin' 
 to Dublin agin, I'm thinkin' ?" 
 
 "No — divil a toe," replied Barney, "I'll let 
 well enough alone. It's not good to tempt fortune 
 too far. But come, blood alive, vanithee, won't 
 you brew us a jug of punch, for faix,sure enough 
 this windfall desarves a good throw, an' we must 
 have it. Hurra for Dublin ! Hurra for the great 
 metrolopis of Ireland ! That's the place for a 
 butther merchant ! Whiz !" 
 
 Honest Barney, however, did go to Dublin 
 again, but it was for the purpose of finding out 
 Manus O'Cullenan, in order to restore to him the 
 contents of his coat, deducting simply the price 
 of his own butter. He did not venture, however, 
 on this journey alone, nor bring the money with 
 him. He was accompanied by his son and brother, 
 who were, of course, anxious to see the great 
 
BARNEY BRANAGAN. 259 
 
 city, at least once in their lives. The honest pur- 
 port of his journey proved fruitless; old O'Cul- 
 lenan had been dead exactly three months upon 
 the day that Barney discovered the contents of 
 his coat ; or to speak more plainly, the fury of his 
 vengeance against Barney for taking his cloak, 
 and the paroxysm of the old villain's despair at 
 losing his money, caused a blood-vessel to burst, 
 and he was in less than a week a very interesting 
 subject in the hands of the surgeons. Of his 
 lineage or relatives Barney could get no clue 
 whatsoever, a circumstance which rendered it 
 probable that the wretch went under a false name. 
 While in Dublin Barney had also the satisfaction 
 of hearing, through the public papers, that the 
 gang of roulette swindlers was broken up, having 
 been detected on a race-course in the act of cheat- 
 ing the public by a contrivance in the machinery 
 that secretly moved the numbers, and which, of 
 course, was known only to themselves. 
 
 Barney and Ms friends returned home, where he 
 sat down to enjoy life in the repose of a happy old 
 age, free from care, full of benevolence and cha- 
 rity, and ever willing and able to aifl a friend in 
 
260 THE MISFORTUNES OF BARNEY BRANAGAN. 
 
 distress. It was often his custom to amuse his 
 neighbours and beguile the long evenings with a 
 history of the adventures we have so imperfectly 
 narrated ; and so generally did they become 
 known in the course of time, that the last of his 
 misfortunes grew into a proverb — so that "to be 
 as full of money as O'Cullenan's coat " is a saying 
 well known in a certain part of Ireland even to the 
 present day. 
 
THE BESUERECTIONS 
 
 BAENEY BRADLEY. 
 
THE BESUEEECTIONS 
 
 BARNEY BRADLEY. 
 
 There was a time when the friends of any Irish- 
 man who happened to be found " dead" or 
 " drowned," which, after all, is much the same 
 thing, never thought of getting a coroner to " sit 
 upon the body," as it is frequently termed ; but 
 this was before Barney Bradley's time. There 
 was a time when Irishmen brewed their own 
 beer, and wore strange wigs ; but this was also 
 before Barney Bradley's time. There was a 
 time when Irishmen were industrious, lived 
 in rude comfort, and slept in bed o' nights ; bnt 
 this was before the coercion bill and Barney 
 Bradley's time. There was also a time when 
 Irishmen loved whiskey and fighting, and hated 
 
264 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 gaugers, which time was long before Barney 
 Bradley's time, and will be long after it. This 
 now is the time we speak of: — rather a brief 
 space, to be sure, extending only from the days 
 of Adam to the present, and from the present to 
 the end of secula seculorum. We say from 
 Adam's time, for Barney, who was a walking 
 book of knowledge, could have told you that when 
 Adam was thrust out of paradise, he set up a 
 private still ; " an' more betoken," added Barney, 
 " a murdherin' fine time it was, in regard that 
 divil a gauger or red coat durst show his face." 
 Barney, in fact, was very learned upon the history 
 of malt drink, and could, if you believed him, 
 disclose the receipt from which the Danes used 
 to make beer from heather. In this boast, to 
 be sure, he went in the very teeth of tradition, 
 which affirms that the Danes kept the knowledge 
 of such an invaluable secret to themselves ; 
 "bekase," says tradition, "if Irishmen had known 
 it, they'd have earlier leathered the murdherin' 
 villains clane out o' the country." But at all 
 events Barney without scruple frequently put 
 himself not only against tradition, but against 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 265 
 
 Scripture. " Sure whin Noah," said he, " pressed 
 the grapes, what does it mane barrin' distiUin' the 
 sup o' malt ?" When contradicted on this point, 
 by his friend Darby M' Fudge, Barney rephed, 
 " Keep your jaw asy. Darby ; what do you know 
 about it ? Sure it's only the highflown way that 
 Scripture has. I can't shave you if you be 
 spakin'." Now this last observation usually 
 silenced his antagonist, and we will tell you why. 
 Barney, though no barber either by education or 
 profession, carried such a smooth hand at the 
 razor, that his house was crowded every Sunday 
 morning with his village friends, from whose faces 
 he reaped with the greatest dexterity their week's 
 crop of beard. There are few villages in Ireland 
 that do not contain such a character as Barney 
 Bradley, and every one of them is famous for 
 anecdote or story telling : but whether the opera- 
 tion of shaving naturally produces the power of 
 invention, or this imaginative faculty their expeit- 
 ness at shaving, we leave to modern philosophy to 
 determine. The subject is too slippery for us, 
 who are no philosophers at all. Here then follows 
 a loose outline of Barney, whom the reader will 
 
 VOL. III. N 
 
266 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 be kind enough to take, upon our authority, as the 
 representative of his class. Within the bounds of 
 his own parish he was a well-known man ; and in 
 his own village the best authority under the sun 
 upon any given subject. His cabin stood in the 
 very centre of the hamlet, a perfect pattern of 
 houses inhabited by men who hate work and scorn 
 comfort. The roof was covered with a coat of 
 rotten thatch, long dissolved into black dirt, over 
 which grew large lumps here and there of green 
 and flourishing chicken weed. When Barney's 
 wife had put down a fresh fire, you might see the 
 smoke oozing through the roof in all directions, 
 and spreading so complacently in dusky clouds 
 over its surface, that on a calm day very little else 
 except the smoke could be seen. As you entered 
 it, two stone steps brought you over a pool that 
 lay, two thirds of it at least outside the door, one 
 third inside. A good stride brought you to the 
 the middle of the floor, where you found Barney, 
 with a beard two inches long upon his own chin, 
 hard at work shaving his neighbours, and amusing 
 them with his stories. When you came close to 
 the house, you might hear the peals of laughter 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 267 
 
 ringing from within, and among all the voices 
 Barney's was by far the most audible ; for be it 
 known to you that he always laughed longest and 
 loudest at his own jokes. Barney never loved 
 what is termed spade-work, nor agricultural labour 
 of any kind ; but devoted himself on the contrary 
 to the lighter employments of life. Some wicked 
 wag who had read Horace taught him a phrase, 
 which he frequently applied to himself with a 
 marked air of consequence, and a rather offensive 
 consciousness of his own accomplishments. When, 
 for instance, any good-natured neighbour reproved 
 him for frittering away his time in a series of small 
 pursuits, that were, at all events, unprofitable to 
 himself, he usually replied first with what is called 
 barber's logic, and then with the quotation from 
 Horace. 
 
 " Keep your jaw asy, Paddy : how can I shave 
 you, if you be spakin' ?" — This was the barber's 
 argument, — " if you want to have laming for it, 
 it's this — / mix the utyle with the dulse, an' by 
 jabus, show me a man of you all that's able to do 
 as much. So no palaver, but bate that if you 
 can." 
 
268 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " An' what do you mane, Barney, by mixin' 
 the utyle wid the dulse ?" 
 
 " Pick that out o' your larnin'," was Barney's 
 reply ; and as the querist seldom had learning 
 from which to pick it, Barney found it a very 
 valuable method of putting an end to the remon- 
 strances of his friends. There was, besides, a 
 third method of silencing them — to which he also 
 pretty frequently resorted. This mode, which he 
 only adopted when tipsy, which always happened 
 whenever he could get liquor, simply consisted in 
 knocking them down first, and afterwards explain- 
 ing to them the grounds upon which he did it. 
 Such a species of argument, however, frequently 
 went against himself, so that his friends had, on 
 some occasions, not only the satisfaction of point- 
 ing out to him his follies, but of correcting them 
 in his person ; a kindness which, to do him justice, 
 he returned to them as often as he could. Barney 
 not only shaved his neighbours gratuitously, but 
 bled them also, whenever they required it, or 
 rather whenever he himself thought it necessary. 
 He was, in fact, a perfect Sangrado, with this 
 difference, that he recommended burnt whiskey 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 269 
 
 instead of water. It were to be wished, indeed, 
 that every medical man, now-a-days, would 
 imitate him, and take his own prescription as 
 Barney did ; for then a patient could put con- 
 fidence in his doctor. Barney charged half a 
 crown per head for bleeding ; and let it be men- 
 tioned to his credit, that his parish was the best 
 bled parish in Europe. He had a threefold 
 system of treating every possible complaint under 
 heaven; he bled, as we have said, administered 
 Glauber salts upon a fearful scale, and then pre- 
 scribed burnt whiskey. To be sure, he frequently 
 inverted the order of his recipes. Sometimes, for 
 instance, he bled and medicined them first, and 
 afterwards administered the whiskey ; and some- 
 times, on the contrary, he administered the whis- 
 key and then bled and medicined them. It 
 mattered not what the complaint was, Barney 
 scorned to alter his treatment, except as to the 
 order in which he applied it, or to give up one 
 atom of his judgment touching the virtue of his 
 tripartite theory, which was, in the mean time, 
 dreadfully practical to his patients. 
 
 One excellent advantage resulted from his 
 
270 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 system. There was no such thing in the parish as 
 an imaginary malady. To complain in the pre- 
 sence of Barney was a proof of no common 
 hardihood, it being, in fact, only another word 
 for undergoing the threefold operation in its most 
 rigorous severity. Barney would have no excuse, 
 hear no palaver : did they know better than the 
 doctor whether they were well or not ? " Sure, 
 blood alive, there was a great big faver on their 
 back. Didn't he cure Darby M'Fudge of the 
 same complaint, only that Darby was dead all out 
 afore they sent for him ; an' now isn't he as well 
 an' betther than ever he was, barrin' the weakness 
 in his back, that'll go off wid two or three more 
 bleedings, two or three stiff doses, and two quarts 
 o' whiskey." In short, there was no resisting 
 Barney, who so far departed from the regular 
 practice as frequently to spend the better half of 
 his fee in treating his patient to the prescription he 
 had ordered him. With respect to Darby M'Fudge, 
 whom we have mentioned, he was a standing re- 
 feree for Barney. No complaint ever afflicted a 
 human being, under which, according to Barney's 
 account and his own, he had not suffered. Barney 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 271 
 
 had cured him of the cancer, the falling sickness, 
 a paralytic stroke, a broken back, together with 
 fevers, agues, and several minor complaints without 
 end. Darby, when applied to, gave the inquirers 
 every possible satisfaction. 
 
 " Be gorra thin he did cure me o' the cancer, 
 sure enough, an' aftherwards of a palatic stroke 
 I got in a row we had with the M'Thumpers, in 
 Ballykippeen fair. Devil a' ha'porth fails the 
 same man, when he gets his own way, so there 
 isn't. Sure it 'ud be neither fair or honest in me 
 to deny the truth." 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding this disastrous valetudi- 
 narianism of Darby, we are bound to say that 
 not a man in the parish ever knew him to have a 
 day's sickness. But as he and Barney said, in 
 reply to this very natural observation, " they 
 always tuck the complaint in time, before the 
 nabours had an opportunity of seein it." 
 
 Pass we on now to the other accomplishments 
 for which Barney was noted. Not that we are 
 anxious to claim for them more high-sounding 
 titles than those by which Barney himself was 
 
272 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 willing that they should be recognised. He was, 
 then, what modern taste would call a veterinary 
 surgeon ; but Barney would certainly have by no 
 means relished the term of a surgeon for horses. 
 Nay, he was not even known as a farrier, but 
 simply as a horse doctor ; which is, after all, a 
 more significant phrase than either of the other 
 two. He bled and doctored horses upon the same 
 principles as those applied to his friends, and it 
 was observed by those who had a right to know, 
 that if we except the blood-letting, he treated 
 man and horse upon nearly the same scale. In 
 addition to this, he understood all diseases inci- 
 dent to cows, sheep, pigs, and dogs ; and as a 
 referee was necessary in these cases, as well as 
 in those of his human patients, so did he refer, 
 without compunction, to his staunch friend Darby 
 M'Fudge, who never, in a single instance 
 failed to lie stiffly on his behalf ! Darby's farm- 
 yard in fact was, if you could believe himself and 
 Barney, absolutely a veterinary hospital, and his 
 cattle as much afflicted with disease as himself. 
 But that signified little. Their cures were every 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 273 
 
 whit as eiFectual as his own, and, we may add, 
 as secret; for "Barney," as Darby said, "had 
 them well agin afore they had time to be sick." 
 
 Their immediate neighbours, of course, under- 
 stood all this, and bantered them with a good 
 deal of humour upon their success in so gravely 
 hoaxing those who did not know them. They 
 told Barney that all his most topping cures were 
 wrought upon those who were not sick — that 
 however successful he might be at curing, he was 
 a very bad hand at prevention ; for that whenever 
 he persuaded a healthy man to take a course of 
 his medicine, by way of guarding off any malady, 
 he never failed to bring either it or a worse one 
 on him. Notwithstanding this, many of those 
 who openly ridiculed his pretensions had a lurking 
 confidence in his skill, and applied to him as 
 readily, when ill, as if they had never made him 
 the subject of their mirth. 
 
 At faction-fights Barney was frequently useful 
 in bleeding those who had been severely beaten ; 
 but, with the true spirit of a partizan, he, for 
 that day, confined his skill, with a rascally want 
 of benevolence, altogether to the necessities of 
 
 N 2 
 
274 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 his own party. This we neither can nor shall 
 attempt to defend, because it was unprofessional ; 
 we simply state the fact, that he would not open 
 a vein in one of the opposite side, if it would 
 save their lives, except with his cudgel, which 
 was heartily at their service. It w^ould be unjust 
 in us, however, to deprive Barney of a certain 
 high degree of merit to which, in the capacity of 
 a medical practitioner, he was fairly entitled. 
 His parish was, without exception, the most 
 peaceable one in Ireland, and this effect was, by 
 the best judges, properly traced to Barney, as 
 the efficient cause. The priest and the parson 
 both certainly scouted this argument, so creditable 
 to him, and ascribed the cool moral state of their 
 parishioners to religious instruction. Their jea- 
 lousy was natural enough, though rather narrow- 
 minded on both their parts ; but it was notorious 
 that his medicine and lancet, so freely and vigo- 
 rously applied, did more in keeping down the 
 passions of the people, by letting their bad blood 
 out, and removing their bile, than all the sermons 
 that ever the worthy gentlemen preached. As a 
 proof that we are right, we will just mention an 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 275 
 
 anecdote, which, as it is an authentic one, is 
 calculated to set the matter at rest. On a certain 
 occasion the two religious parties of the parish 
 were openly preparing for a party fight. The 
 priest and parson went to the respective leaders, 
 and attempted by every argument in their power 
 to change their purpose. Neither could succeed, 
 and the task was given up in despair. Barney, 
 on the other hand, having heard of their failure, 
 resolved to show them that he was the best peace- 
 maker of the three. He accordingly waited upon 
 the two heroes the day before the fair, insisted 
 that they wanted blood-letting, would take no 
 excuse — they would fight, he said, the cooler for 
 it — and ere he left their respective houses, he had 
 taken forty-eight ounces of blood from each. 
 The next day neither of them attended the fair, 
 and in consequence of their unaccountable absence 
 there was no fight. 
 
 But the priest and minister were not the only 
 persons who looked upon Barney with jealousy. 
 The two parish attorneys were his bitter enemies, 
 in consequence of losing so many law-suits through 
 his interference. Two neighbours, who had a 
 
276 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 dispute about a strip of land worth very little, 
 decided on going to law, and having each con- 
 sulted his attorney, they were egged on to a most 
 vindictive and litigious spirit by Jack M'Fleece'em 
 and Dick M'Shear'em. On the eve of the as- 
 sizes, Barney bled and medicined the two neigh- 
 bours, and to the utter dismay of M'Fleece'em 
 and M'Shear'em, they came to a compromise, 
 and peaceably divided the strip between them. 
 Barney's wife, before her marriage, had given 
 such proofs of temper and prowess as promised 
 little more in married life than a very slender 
 share of authority to the husband : yet it was 
 wonderful to think with what placidity and resig- 
 nation she discharged her domestic duties. Whe- 
 ther she possessed a certain idiosyncracy of 
 constitution or not, we cannot pretend to say; 
 but we do affirm, that although he was ready with 
 the lancet, he never prescribed whiskey in her 
 case. On the contrary, he took that part of the 
 prescription on her behalf, and let it act if it 
 pleased, by sympathy. 
 
 Barney, however, after all, distinguished him- 
 self most as a rustic barber and hair-dresser. He 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 277 
 
 was, besides, a keen hand at sharpening a razor, 
 having acted as razor-setter to priest, parson, and 
 all the neighbouring country gentlemen for some 
 years. From his equals he made no charge, as 
 we have said ; but he never hesitated to accept a 
 gratuity from the wealthy. Such, in fact, is a 
 routine of his pursuits, that is, of such as he 
 actually did practice, for it would swell our pages 
 beyond all bounds were we to enumerate all that 
 he attempted. Nothing could prevent him from 
 believing that he was an universal genius. For 
 instance, he tried his hand at masonry, which he 
 abandoned, after having built a house that did 
 not crush its intended inmates to death, merely 
 because it fell before they came into it. He 
 attempted on two or three occasions to be allowed 
 to practise as accoucheur ; but was repulsed with 
 scorn by Bridget Moan, the midwife. He prac- 
 tised as a shoe-maker for some time, and lamed 
 half the parish. All his own stools and chairs 
 were made by himself, in his efforts to be a car- 
 penter ; for which reason it was as much as a 
 man's limbs were worth to sit on them. As a 
 hair-dresser he was desperately ornamental, the 
 
278 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 heads which came from under his hands usually 
 exhibiting all the variety which could be produced 
 by the most startling inequality of surface. 
 
 Still Barney was a great favourite with the 
 whole parish. If he fought with a man to-day, 
 he treated him to-morrow, which surely was a 
 proof that his heart retained no malice; and he 
 whose heart retains no malice deserves to be a 
 favourite. He loved his glass, too, and that was, 
 is, and will be, many a good man's case. If he 
 drank too much to-day, why he atoned for that by 
 drinking as soon as possible after he had got 
 sober, to show that he entertained no spite 
 against the whiskey. He was, from the nature 
 of his pursuits, a wandering character : to-day at 
 one extremity of the parish, strapping a razor ; 
 to-morrow at the other, bleeding a friend, or 
 doctoring his horse, perhaps both. Of course, 
 no man was more visible. Wherever you went 
 you met him. Any odd sight that was to be seen 
 in the country side, he saw it — at least he always 
 said so. Any strange story that was to be heard, 
 he heard it. He was an eye-witness of all fights, 
 cock-fights, still-huntings, fox-chases, weddings. 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 279 
 
 drivings, auctions, and all the other great little 
 events that keep parish rumour afloat. Neither 
 was any man more ready to take a part in a pass- 
 ing spree, than Barney ; for which reason he has 
 often come home to the wife in rather a queer 
 condition. Many a drubbing has he got at the 
 hands of his own patients ; and many a drubbing, 
 on the contrary, have they received at his. 
 
 For many a year will the May fair of Ballykip- 
 peen be remembered, if for no other reason, at 
 least on Barney's account. Barney, in fact, 
 attended it professionally, and spent the early 
 part of the day in the pig-market, where the soft 
 and peculiarly mellow intonations of his horn 
 might be heard rising gradually to its fullest note, 
 and melting away quite poetically in a dying fall. 
 We do not undertake to say how he spent the 
 better half of the day ; but we know that about the 
 hour of four o'clock he was something between 
 drunk and tipsy. His professional avocations had 
 terminated for at least two hours before ; but 
 in the course of that period, he had atoned for his 
 morning's sobriety. Now, Barney was one of 
 those men whose ruling passion still is strong in 
 
280 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 drink ; and, of course, whenever he was tipsy, he 
 could not sit five minutes in any man's company 
 without taking out the lancet, and feeling his pulse. 
 It was then, a little after four o'clock, that, on 
 going somewhat unsteadily up the street of Bally- 
 kippeen, he met a large, comfortable, corpulent 
 farmer, called Andy Murtagh. 
 
 " Andy," said Barney, " how goes it?" 
 
 " Why, Barney, man alive — no but docthor — or, 
 I b'lieve surgin's betther — why surgin Bradley, 
 how is every inch of you, not forgettin' your 
 lances ?" 
 
 " Faith the ould cut^ Andy ; — still mixin' the 
 utyle an' the dulse : did you hear the cure I made 
 on Darby M'Fudge ?" 
 
 "No, Barney, I did not ; let us hear it. — But 
 what do you mane by the yew — yewt — Phoo ! what 
 the dickens do you call it? I suppose it manes 
 the whiskey an' wather ; am I at it, Barney ?" 
 
 " Faith you opened the right vein there, any 
 how — divil a nater explanation could be put to it. 
 But, Andy, did ever any man livin' remember 
 such unhealthy weather? Begad it's a killin' 
 sason, the Lord be praised !" 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 281 
 
 " Killin'! why it's the healthiest sason, Barney, 
 widin' my memory, instead o' that." 
 
 " Andy, you have but one faiUn' — you'd contra- 
 dict St. Pether if he said the same thing. I tell you 
 it is an unhealthy time, an' that if the people don't 
 take warnin' they'll die in scores like rotten sheep. 
 What does Jack Simpson's weather-glass say ? 
 ' For the next three months there's to he a mortual 
 number of deaths.^ " 
 
 " An' I contradict the weather-glass too, 
 Barney." 
 
 " Why, do you mane to say that you're well 
 yourself at present ?" 
 
 " Faith, I'll swear it, Barney — in spite of you 
 an' all the weather-glasses in Europe." 
 
 " Then divil a worse sign could be about than 
 that same. It's always the forerunner of ill 
 health. Sure you never heard of a man bein' sick 
 yet, that his health was'nt good before it." 
 
 " Barney, how is your ould patient Darby 
 M'Fudge ? Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Come, come, man, don't be a coward ; I tell 
 you, your nose is a little to the one side, an' that's 
 another sign. There's a complaint, Andy, that 
 
282 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 twists the half of a man's face towards the left 
 ear ; an' nothin' cures it but flaybottomry. Divil 
 a thing. Now don't be an ass, Andy ; you know 
 as well as I do that you're out of ordher. You're 
 unwell ; that's the short an' the long of it." 
 
 " Unwell ! why what 'ud ail me ? Sure you 
 see nothing wrong wid me ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what, Andy — by all the books that 
 ever was shut, you want flaybottomry. All the 
 blood in your body's in your face this minit. But, 
 asy ; let me feel your pulse. Oh tundher an ounze ! 
 you're — you're — Andy, folly me. It's nothin' else 
 than a downright blessin' that I met you." 
 
 " The good-natured farmer had not time to 
 resist him, so without saying a word, Barney led 
 him across the street into a back yard, where, after 
 planting him in a stable, he proceeded with his 
 dialogue. 
 
 " Now, Andy, be a man, an' don't fear a drop 
 o' blood : have you half-a-crown about you ?" 
 
 " For what, Barney ?" 
 
 " Bekase, if you have, better laid out money 
 never left your pocket; I'll save yourMife — not 
 that I want to alarm you — all I say is, that you're 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 283 
 
 widin a turn of havin' a fit of perplexity — divil a 
 less it is !" 
 
 " A fit o' perplexity I faith, if that's a complaint 
 I've had it often in my day, Barney." 
 
 " A fit o' perplexity, Andy, is what they call 
 the knock-down complaint." 
 
 " Faith, surgin, an' I have both got an' gave 
 the same complaint in my time," said the stout 
 farmer, laughing. " I tell you, Barney, I've given 
 many a man the falling sickness afore now, an' 
 that's well known. Are they related ?" 
 
 " They're cousin-jarmins any how, man alive — 
 if you go to that. But this perplexity you see 
 is " 
 
 " Look to yourself, Barney — if ever a man had 
 an appearance of it, you have. You're black in 
 the face this minit, an' your two eyes is set in your 
 head." 
 
 " Why, man," said Barney, " your pulse is fifty- 
 six, that's six more than the half hundred — strip 
 immediately, or I'll not be answerable for the con- 
 sequences." 
 
 " How could you bleed me here, you nager ?" 
 
 " Right well ; I have the ribbon and every 
 
284 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 thing — as for a plate we don't want it. I'll bleed 
 you wid your face to the wall." 
 
 " Well, come, hit or miss, I can't be much the 
 worse of it, so I don't care if I lose a thrifle; I 
 think I do want to get red of some of it — I always 
 bleed in May, any how." 
 
 He stripped and in a short time Barney had the 
 blood spinning out of his arm against the stable 
 wall, to his own manifest delight, and not much to 
 the dissatisfaction of honest Andy Murtagh. 
 
 It might be about an hour after this, that the 
 attention of the crowd was directed to a fight be- 
 tween two men opposite the public-house to which 
 the stable wherein Andy had been phlebotomized, 
 was attached. One of them was evidently in a state 
 of intoxication, and the other had the use of only 
 one arm ; but as he appeared, by the dexterity with 
 which he handled his cudgel, to be left-handed, or 
 kitthogue, this circumstance was not such a disad- 
 vantage as might be supposed. The fight lasted 
 but a short time, for the more drunken of the two 
 received a blow which left him senseless on the 
 street. 
 
 Our readers need scarcely be told that this was 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 285 
 
 Barney and his patient. The former on receiving 
 his half-crown, insisted on giving Andy a treat, at 
 which some dispute arose that caused the keeper 
 of the pubhc-house to put them both out into the 
 street. Here they fought, and the result is 
 known. Barney, however, soon recovered ; but 
 having been perfectly satisfied with what he got, 
 he only thrust his hands into his pockets, to ascer- 
 tain whether or not he had any more money to 
 bear the future expenses of the day. On hearing 
 silver jingle, he concluded that all was right ; and 
 with his professional spirit highly excited, he went 
 through the fair, insisting, by the way, that every 
 acquaintance he met was on the point of having " a 
 fit of perplexity," and pressing them to " thry 
 flaybottomry and medicine," for he had added the 
 latter in consequence of his being more highly 
 intoxicated. We cannot at present trace him 
 further ; but we must request our kind readers to 
 accompany us to the head inn of the town, where, 
 with the apothecary and doctor, the county coroner, 
 a vulgar man who loved his glass, was seated at 
 lunch, or dinner if you will, upon a cold turkey 
 and ham, both of which they washed down with 
 
286 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 indifferent good port. The coroner was in the act 
 of putting the glass to his lips, when the door 
 opened, and two men in evident distress and alarm 
 soon entered. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said the coroner, laying 
 down the glass ; " you look as if you were — were 
 — eh ? — what do you want ?" 
 
 " We want you, sir, if you plase." 
 
 " Why, what's wrong ?" 
 
 " One Barney Bradley, sir, that was kilt.'' 
 
 " Kilt ! by whom was he kilt ?" 
 
 " By one Andy Murtagh, sir, that hot him a 
 polthogue on the skull, sir, and kilt him." 
 , " Right — right," said the coroner — " all fair : 
 gintlemin, you will have the goodness to come 
 along wid me, till we sit upon the corpse. Your 
 opinions may be necessary, and I shall order the 
 waither to keep the lunch safe till we dispatch this 
 business. Between you and me, I'm not sorry 
 that that fellow's done for. The confounded scrub 
 has bled me out of business — ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Barney Bradley !" said the doctor, " was not 
 that the quack who treated men and horses upon 
 the same scale ? That rascal," he added, in an 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 287 
 
 undertone to the apothecary, " that rascal was 
 not fit to hve. He had a monopoly of deaths to 
 himself, the villain." 
 
 " Better could not happen him," replied the 
 apothecary in a whisper : " the scrub got his salts 
 from Boileau, in Dublin, took them by the hun- 
 dred weight, the slave, and I never got a penny 
 by him. Well, you see, doctor, there is justice 
 above." 
 
 " Gintlemen, the sooner we get through this 
 consarn, the better," said the coroner. " Let us 
 dispatch it quickly, and we'll have our snack snug 
 and convanient when we return our verjick." 
 
 On arriving at the public-house, they found 
 considerable difficulty in making way to the room 
 in which Barney lay. The coroner's name, how- 
 ever, was an open sesame to the party, who in a 
 few minutes found themselves ready, as the coroner 
 said, to " enter upon business." After having 
 surveyed the corpse, the judge of the dead re- 
 quested his medical friends to try if any symptoms 
 of life remained. The doctor consequently felt 
 his pulse, and shook his head. 
 
 " Ah !" said he, " it's all over with him !" 
 
288 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 The apothecary looked into his face — " Ay 1" 
 he exclaimed, "it is so, but isn't that a villanous 
 expression of countenance ? That man, doctor — 
 that man, sir, had — a — a — that is, independently 
 of the violent mode of his death — had — I think, 
 the germs, doctor, the germs — or seeds of death 
 within him. Am I right, sir ?" 
 
 " You are positively right, sir. The man 
 would have died, most decidedly, especially when 
 we consider that " 
 
 " Gintlemen," observed the coroner, " it doesn't 
 signify a horse-nail how or whin he might have 
 died. The man is dead now, and that's enough — 
 or rather he was kilt by a blow on the sconce ; so ^ 
 our best and only plan, you persave, is to swear a 
 jury to thry the merits of the case. And, gintle- 
 men, ril take it as a particular fever if you will 
 have the civility to make no reflections upon the 
 corpse, for every such reflection, gintlemen, is 
 unbecoming, and dangerous, according to the 
 present law of libel, and an extenuation probably 
 against myself. Let day mortisis nil neesy boreum 
 be our rule in this unhappy case — hem !" 
 
 This was received with great applause by the 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 289 
 
 by-standers, who began to cheer him for so 
 spirited a defence of the deceased. The coroner, 
 however, would not suffer this. 
 
 " Gintlemen," said he, " I must requist that 
 you will avoid giving exprission to any such thing 
 as public feeling on this occasion. We want to 
 identify ourselves with no party whatsoever, at 
 least I don't. I'm partly a government officer, 
 and obadience is my cue ; but as the country 
 is divided into two parties, I feel it to be my 
 duty to hould myself neuther upon the one side. 
 Hanim an diouol ! whisht wid yez, gintlemen, no 
 cheerin' !" 
 
 The worthy coroner immediately swore a jury, 
 after which they proceeded to find a verdict in the 
 following manner : 
 - " Gintlemen, are you all sworn ?" 
 
 " We're all sworn, Misther Casey." 
 
 " Waither," he shouted, " I'll throuble you to 
 bring me a tumbler of cowld wather, with a naggin 
 of whiskey in it. There's the devil's dreioth about 
 me to-day, boys ; upon my honour and soidI there 
 is — owing to the hate of the room and the hot 
 weather." 
 
 VOL. III. O 
 
290 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " Faith," said the foreman, " myself is just as 
 if I was afther bein' pulled out o' the river, with 
 prospiratioii, I'm so dry. Blood alive, Misther 
 Casey, don't forget us /" 
 
 " What ! a naggin a man ! No, faith ; let it be 
 a glass a-piece, and I don't care. Waither !" 
 
 The waiter appeared. 
 
 " Bring up twelve glasses of whiskey, and be 
 quick, for I'm in a devil of a hurry." 
 
 The coroner, when the whiskey arrived, took 
 off his grog, and the treat to the jury also soon 
 began to disappear. 
 
 " Misther Casey," said the foreman, with a 
 shrewd face, " here's wishin' your health, and 
 success to you, sir, in your occupation !" 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Mr. Foreman. Now 
 let us proceed to call the witnesses — capital whis- 
 key that, for public-house whiskey : gintlemin," 
 added he to the by-standers — " if there's any of 
 you comperent to give evidence in this unfortunate 
 affair, we are ready to hear you. Does any of 
 you know how the diseased came by his death ?" 
 
 " Faith, Mr. Crowner," said a voice out of the 
 crowd, " it would be well for him if he had come 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 291 
 
 hy it — be my soul he stuck in it, any way, poor 
 fellow." 
 
 " That's no evidence of his death," said the 
 coroner, with a grave and knowing air ; " we want 
 something nearer related to the subject." 
 
 " I'm his cousin, Misther Casey," said a man, 
 coming forward. 
 
 " But what do you know of his death ?" inquired 
 Mr. Casey. 
 
 " Oh, devil the haporth, good or bad, barrin' 
 that he's dead, poor fellow," replied the man. 
 
 Several persons now advanced, who declared 
 that they were competent to give testimony touch- 
 ing the manner and cause of his death. One man 
 was sworn, and thus replied to the jury : 
 
 Foreman — " What do you know about this 
 buisness, Mickey ?" 
 
 " Why, be gorra, I seen Andy Murtagh there 
 givin' him the lick on the head that kilt him : an' 
 I say it's neither fair nor honest for Andy to be a 
 jury upon the man that he done for T 
 
 This was like a thunder-stroke to the coroner, 
 who, by the way, our readers may have perceived, 
 was at the time none of the soberest. Instead of 
 
292 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 being angry, however, it affected him with uncon- 
 trollable mirth ; and as a feather will often turn 
 the feelings of an Irish crowd either one way or 
 the other, so did Andy's manoeuvre and the coro- 
 ner's example produce loud laughter among all 
 present, especially among the jurors themselves, 
 except, of course, the friends of the deceased. 
 
 " Murtagh," said the coroner, " devil a thing 
 you are but a common skamer, to make such an 
 ass of me, and corpse, and jury, and all, by such 
 villanous connivance. You're at laste a homicide, 
 Andy ; and to think of our bringin' in a verjick, 
 and one of the jury an outlaw, would mutilate the 
 whole proceedings. Only for the humour of the 
 thing, upon my honour and sowl, I'd not scruple 
 a thrawneen to commit you for contempt of coort, 
 you imposther." 
 
 " Faith, sir," said Murtagh, " I thought I had 
 as good a right to be on the jury as any other, in 
 regard that I knew most about it. I'll make a 
 good witness, any how." 
 
 " Get out, you nager," said the coroner ; " I'll 
 lay you by the heels before night, plase God. 
 Gintlemen, hould him tight till we return our 
 verjick." 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 293 
 
 " I'll give you my book oath," replied Murtagh, 
 " that the man was walkin' about as well as ever 
 he was, long after his scrimmage wid me. Ay, 
 an' I can prove it. There's Dick Moran, he 
 knows it." 
 
 Dick was sworn and examined by the fore- 
 man. 
 
 " Dick," said the foreman, who was a process- 
 server, and who, moreover, considered himself no 
 bad authority as a lawyer, an opinion which 
 caused him to keep a strict eye upon the practice 
 of the courts. " Dick, what's your name ?" 
 
 " Dick, what's your name !" replied Dick, with 
 a grin: "be my faith, that's aquil to ' Paddy, is 
 this you ?' when you meet a man !" 
 
 " You must answer him," said the coroner ; 
 " the question is strictly legal." 
 
 " It is," said the foreman, in high dudgeon — 
 " it is sthrictly laygal ; an', I say agin, Dick 
 Moran, what's your name ?" 
 
 Dick raised his eye-brows, and after giving a 
 look of good-humoured astonishment and contempt 
 at the foreman, gravely replied, "my name, is 
 id? why, Paddy Baxther." 
 
294 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 ^ 
 
 This excited considerable mirth ; but the coro- 
 ner began to get exasperated at what he looked 
 upon as an insult to his authority. 
 
 " Confound you, you rascal, why don't you 
 answer the foreman ?" 
 
 " Come, thin— my name's Dick Moran." 
 
 Foreman—'' Do you remimber the present fair- 
 day of Ballykippeen ?" 
 
 Dick—"' You may swear that, Pether ; but I'd 
 tell you betther to-morrow." 
 
 Foreman — " No, sir ; but you are swearin' it, 
 so ril have no shufflin'." 
 
 Dick — " Time for you to determine on that, 
 Pether; betther late mend than never do well, 
 any how — does that cap fit ?" 
 
 " That's not to the purpose at aU at all," 
 observed the coroner ; " devil a verjick we'll get 
 to-night, at this rate." 
 
 Foreman — '" Hem ! did you see the deceased on 
 that day ?" 
 
 Dick — •' On what day ?" 
 
 Foreman — " I mane on thisdaj." 
 
 Dick—'' But who do you mean by the deceased, 
 Pether?" 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 295 
 
 Foreman — " Barney Bradley, you omodhawn, 
 who else ?" 
 
 Dick — " To be sure I did ; but the man's 
 drinkin' this minnit, wid his wife and father-in-law 
 in Bill Finnigan's, an' is in as good health as your- 
 self, Pether; faith, in a betther state of honesty 
 at all evints." 
 
 Foreman — " Why, don't you see him lyin' kilt 
 before you, man alive ?" 
 
 Dick — " Hut, man, I'm spakin of his cousin 
 an' namesake." 
 
 Coroner — " Well, of all the rascals I ever saw 
 at an inquest, you, Dick Moran, are the greatest !" 
 
 "Misther Lacy," said one of the jurors, " you 
 don't undherstand this business, wid submission. 
 If our foreman was at Dick for fifty years, he'd 
 not wring a syllable out of him. Neither Dick, 
 sir, nor any other witness in the house, will answer 
 a pross-sarver ." 
 
 " Right, Brian," said Dick : but I'll answer 
 you any thing." 
 
 " Well, tell us what you seen of this business ?" 
 
 " Why, I seen Andy Murtagh knockin' down 
 Barney ; but thin, by the vartue of my oath, didn't 
 
296 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 Barney bleed myself in Paddy Campbell's tint 
 aftherwards ?" 
 
 " There's not a word o' truth in that, at all 
 evints," said another man, pushing himself forward 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " What's your name ?" said the coroner. 
 
 " Darby M'Fudge," said the man. " I'll give 
 my oath that poor Barney, God rest his sowl, never 
 moved or spoke afther the welt that Andy there 
 hot him. I was by from the beginnin' of the fight 
 till his death, and his last words to myself was — 
 ' I lave my death, said he, ' upon Andy Murtagh ; 
 and,' says he, ' Andy had no right to shut his 
 fist so hard, or he wouldn't have kilt me good or 
 bad.' God be good to you, Barney darlin', 
 you're lyin' there, and it was you that cured me of 
 the cancer an' fallin' sickness along v^id a broken 
 back ; an' bad luck to the penny o' money ever 
 he'd take, by way o' payment, barrin' a bottle o' 
 whiskey, or the likes. Be me sowl, he Ttnewn 
 more than docthors an' puttyearies that had a 
 higher name." 
 
 " That's direct proof," said the coroner ; " we 
 can asily find a verjick on it : there's a man who 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 297 
 
 evidently speaks truth. Now, my worthy fellow, 
 remember that you're on your solemn oath — when 
 did this conversation take place between the corpse 
 and you ?" 
 
 " In the street below, sir, afther poor Barney 
 was kilt, wid the help o' God." 
 
 " Darby, my nate fellow," said one of the jury, 
 "how could he tell this aftherhe. was kilt ? Keep 
 a sharp look out. Darby ; we know you an' Barney 
 of ould. Arra, be me sowl, Misther Casey, that 
 man 'ud swear through a dale boord for him." 
 
 " I'd not believe a syllable from that fellow's 
 lips," whispered the apothecary to Mr. Casey. 
 
 " He is evidently a lying rascal," said the doc- 
 tor ; " for no honest man would wantonly asperse 
 the professional character of any set of gentlemen." 
 
 " Come, sir," said the coroner, " there must be 
 no equivocality here, nor no dispersion of pur- 
 fessional character. You could have no conver- 
 sation wid the man after he was killed." 
 
 " Be me sowl, an' he was speechless, any how. 
 I swear to that through thick an' thin, an' I'll 
 stand up for it, that it was Andy Murtagh there 
 that kilt him." 
 
 o 2 
 
298 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " But, Darby," said the process-server, "how. 
 could a man who was speechless hould discoorse 
 wid you, you nager ?" 
 
 " How could a pross-sarver be a rogue, you 
 dirty savage ?" replied Darby ; " I'll answer you 
 nothing. Paddy Finnigan, do you ax me," he 
 added, with a significant look at Paddy, "an', 
 remimber, Paddy, that poor Barney was a warm 
 friend o' your own." '' 
 
 " Misther Casey," said the angry foreman, 
 " that's puttin' swiggestions upon the jury, an' be 
 the same token, it's not laygal." 
 
 " You ought to be committed, you rascal, for 
 perjury," said Casey to M'Fudge. " How dare 
 you swear that you held a conversation with the 
 man after he lost his speech ?" 
 
 "Faith, an' I did too," replied Darby; "I 
 axed him wasn't it Andy Murtagh that done for 
 him, an' he didn't say to the contrary. Silence 
 gives consint you know." 
 
 " You're nothing but a profligate," observed 
 the coroner ; "a cool, hardy villain." 
 
 "Why, wid great respect to you, Misther Casey," 
 said a man in the crowd, " I b'lieve you didn't 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 299 
 
 swear Darby M'Fudge, at all at all . Howsomever, 
 as to that, sir, I can settle him, any how. The 
 thruth is, sir, that Darby there never seen a mor- 
 sel of the fight betune Andy and Barney, good or 
 bad. He was wid me, sir, an' my brother, at the 
 time it happened, an' I can swear that it was only 
 since he came into this very house that he knew 
 who it was that gave Barney the welt that settled 
 him." 
 
 " What my brother says is thruth, sir. Darby 
 said too, it was wid his fist that Andy sthruck him, 
 when every one knows it was with a staff, your 
 honour." 
 
 " You are a sensible fellow," replied Casey. 
 
 " But, in the mane time, the man is right," 
 said the foreman : " devil a one of Darby M'Fudge 
 was sworn at all, the sconce !" 
 
 "And that's all the betther," said Casey; 
 " there's so much perjury saved," 
 
 " An' if I wasn't even, isn't my word as good 
 as your oath any day, you rip you? He has 
 perjured himself, Mr. Casey, till there's a crust 
 upon his conscience a foot thick !" said Darby. 
 
300- THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " Bravo, Darby !" exclaimed several voices from 
 the crowd, " lay it into him." 
 
 " An oath from him would blisther a griddle," 
 continued Darby, encouraged by those around 
 him. 
 
 " Sir," said the foreman, " you ought to have 
 a crier to keep ordher in the coort. That blag- 
 gard should be put out." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," said the choleric 
 coroner, addressing Darby, " if you're not oif 
 before we find our verjick, upon my secret honour 
 I'll kick you from this to the coort-house above, 
 and lay you by the heels there afterwards;" 
 
 " You'll kick me, is id ? A pair of us can play 
 at that game, Misther Casey. Did you ever hear 
 what profound inthrest is ? I tell you, if you rise 
 hand or fut to me, you'll get that same. To the 
 devil wid all upstarts." 
 
 The coroner, who was a noted pugilist, set in a 
 body blow that laid Darby, horizontal in a moment. 
 Darby, however, had friends on his own part, as 
 well as on behalf of Barney, who were not all dis- 
 posed to see him ill-treated by a man in office. 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 301 
 
 " Down wid the rascal !" they shouted, closing 
 immediately about the coroner, " down wid him ! 
 he's a government man, any how, an' a spy, maybe, 
 into the bargain. Dov/n wid him !" 
 
 " Come on, you rascals !" shouted the coroner ; 
 " my jury and I against any baker's dozen of you. 
 Gintlemen of the jury, stand to me, and we'll 
 clear the house. Come, boys — come, gintlemen — 
 fight like devils. We can bring in our own verjick 
 aftherwards." 
 
 " Honour bright, Mr. Casey," responded the 
 jury, "we'll back you, sir, every man of us. To 
 the devil wid the verjick, till afther our spree's 
 over." 
 
 The friends of the jurors also took the part of 
 the coroner, as did many others present, for the 
 man's propensities to fighting had made him popu- 
 lar ! so that in point of fact, the numbers were 
 pretty equal on both sides. A rich scene ensued. 
 In a moment, the whole room exhibited such a 
 picture of riot and uproar, as could scarcely be 
 conceived. The coroner and his jury certainly did 
 fight like devils, and they were every whit as 
 devilishly opposed. All were thumping, knocking 
 
302 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 down, pulling, dragging, wrestling, and shouting. 
 Crash went a chair — smash went a window or a 
 table — down went a man here — up sprung another 
 there — a third was heard in this corner — a shout 
 in that. Sometimes they appeared detached into 
 small groups; again they seemed like a ravelled 
 hank, matted into one mass of inextricable con- 
 fusion. The doctor and apothecary got first an 
 odd thump, en passant, in compliment to the 
 coroner : by-and-by they were sucked, sorely 
 against their wills, into the vortex of the fight ; and 
 ere it was half over, they might be seen amongst 
 the thickest of the fray, giving and receiving, ac- 
 cording to their ability, on each side. The fight 
 might now be at its hottest, when two men were 
 seen engaged in a bitter struggle near the window, 
 one of whom was the coroner, and the second, to 
 the inexpressible astonishment of all present, no 
 other than the subject of the inquest, Barney 
 Bradley himself. In a moment, what between 
 surprise and mirth, there was an immediate ces- 
 sation of hostilities among all the belligerents, 
 with the exception of the coroner and Barney, 
 Darby M' Fudge and the foreman, who, so far as 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 303 
 
 exhaustion permitted them, laid in the blows with 
 great -vigour. It was impossible to say on which 
 of their heads victory might have alighted ; for, 
 however amusing their contest appeared to the 
 wondering and excited by-standers, the latter 
 deemed it proper to separate Barney and the coro- 
 ner, for the ludicrous purpose of giving that gen- 
 tleman an opportunity of recognising his antago- 
 nist. The foreman, who had already been suffi- 
 ciently well drubbed, felt no wish for a more 
 lengthened battle ; and the two medical gentle- 
 men stood as if thunder-struck at the activity of 
 the corpse ! When the four were separated, it is 
 utterly impossible to describe what ensued, so as 
 to retain any portion of the mingled mirth and 
 amazement of the whole crowd. 
 
 " Eh ?" exclaimed the coroner — " What ! why ! 
 is it — eh ? — is it the — it is — by the sky above us, 
 it's the rascal that was kilt ! !— the dead vagabond 
 we had the inquest over !" 
 
 This was replied to by a thundering uproar of 
 laughter, in which, however, neither the coroner 
 nor his medical friends felt any inclination to 
 join. 
 
304 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " Be the holy farmer, Mr. Casey, you're fairly 
 done !" 
 
 " Death alive ! Misther Casey ! you may say 
 that, any how, an' so may Barney. You see, 
 in spite of all your law, the devil a dhrop was 
 out of him ! ha ! ha ! ha ! !" 
 
 " Why, who dared to hould an inquest on me ?" 
 exclaimed Barney, with astonishment. 
 
 " Faith, Mr. Casey there, Barney, and twelve 
 jurymen, wid that pross-sarver for the foreman." 
 
 " He did ! well here's for his throuble," said 
 Barney, attacking the coroner once more with evi- 
 dent good-will. The crowd however interposed, 
 and succeeded in appeasing his indignation. " Let 
 me at him!" he shouted; "let me at the rascal ! 
 You won't ! Well, never heed ! Be this and 
 be that, Misther Casey, if I ever catch you 
 houldin' an inquisht on me agin, I'll make it be 
 an ugly business to you !" 
 
 " Tn the mane time, we will return our verjick," 
 said Casey. " There is legal proof that you 
 were dead, and the jury have nothing to do at all 
 with your resurrection at all at all, you unsa- 
 sonable rascal you." 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 305 
 
 " Right, Mr. Casey," shouted the whole crowd ; 
 "the sorra's funny thought, that. Barney, be 
 asy, man alive ! Barney himself can be a witness, 
 Misther Casey." 
 
 " Faith," said Casey, " I'll not be well licked, 
 and defrauded out of my money into the bargain. 
 I have two medical gintlemen to prove that he 
 was dead, and wid the help of heaven and an 
 obadient jury, we'll return our verjick. Waither !" 
 
 The waiter appeared. 
 
 " Waither, another tumbler of wather, wid a 
 naggin of the same to tighten it. Gintlemen of 
 the jury, I cannot lose this opportunity of return- 
 ing my sinsare congratulations upon the decided 
 stand you have made on this trying occasion, against 
 those who countenance and encourage blaggardism 
 and outrageousness. You are, gintlemen — (here 
 waither, it's not for the foreman I ordhered it) — 
 you are, gintlemen, an honour to your country, 
 and wid twelve such indepindent men to support 
 me, I'd undertake to lick any thirteen fellows in 
 the county, and to give a proper verjick upon any 
 dacent case of manslaughter, murder, shooicide, 
 or Otto-diffay afterwards. And now, gintlemen, 
 
306 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 for fear you might be disposed to call this merely 
 dry talk, I order you a glass of whiskey each, to 
 keep you cool and collected !" 
 
 " Bravo ! Misther Casey ; be my song, sir, 
 you're the very moral of a crowner," returned the 
 jury; " long life to you, sir !" 
 
 " Waither ! a glass of whiskey a-piece for the 
 gintlemen of the jury." 
 
 " Faith, Misther Casey, it 'ud be a'most worth 
 one's while to get knocked on the head, just to 
 have the pleasure of your sittin' an them." 
 
 " Gintlemen, your healths, any way ! Why, 
 touching a verjick, I'd not give in to e'er a coroner 
 in Europe for probing an Otto-diffay, or charging 
 a jury. And, gintlemen, I say there's nothing 
 like a good skrimmage, even although a skull or 
 two be cracked." 
 
 " Devil a thing. Bravo, Misther Casey! 
 Faith you're the jewel of a crowner, sir. More 
 power to you ! If other people won't make work 
 for you, why you'll be apt to make work for your- 
 self, an' why not ?" 
 
 The waiter now returned with the spirits, and 
 the jury, after pledging the now tipsy coroner, 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 307 
 
 told him they were ready to proceed with Barney's 
 inquest. 
 
 " Come, gintlemen," said Casey, " before we 
 begin I'll be dacent. Here, waither, agin : bring 
 the subject — bring Barney Bradley something to 
 drink. He liked it before death, and faith he 
 must get a sup after it." 
 
 " Why then as you're doin' the dacent thing, 
 Misther Casey," said Barney, " you're welcome 
 to sit an me wid a heart an' a half." 
 
 Coroner — " Now, Barney, be an evidence, man 
 alive, and give us a lift where you can." 
 
 Barney — "Ha! ha! ha! Devil fly away wid 
 the merrier. Depind your life an me, Misther 
 Casey. We'll make out a clear case, or the 
 sorra's in it. But saize the word I'll answer the 
 pross-sarver." 
 
 " The pross-sarver, faith and an unlucky 
 spalpeen he is to be put on a jury. But I'll 
 pledge my reputation that if one half the county 
 was to murder the other, Barney, I'll never have 
 one on an inquest agin. Let that satisfy 
 you all." 
 
 " Success, Misther Casey ! The drivin' 
 
308 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 blaggard skulked into it merely to grab the 
 shillin'." 
 
 " Now, gintlemen, let us resume proceedings. 
 Barney, as I consider you the most important 
 evidence, we shall begin wid yourself." 
 
 *' Wid all my heart, sir ; ha ! ha ! ha ! But, 
 wid submission, Misther Casey, are you unwell, 
 sir ?" 
 
 " Not I. I'm in excellent health." 
 
 " Be gorra then, wid great respect, you're no 
 such thing, sir. Devil a man in Ireland wants 
 flaybottomry more than you do." 
 
 " What do you mane, Bradley ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, you have too much blood in you 
 entirely. Your nose, sir, is twisted a little to 
 the one side too, an' be gorra that's another 
 sign." 
 
 " Come, come, man — my nose ! Asy, Barney, 
 you know how that can be accounted for. On the 
 other point you're right enough. Maybe I have 
 more blood than I want, sartinly." 
 
 " Sir, if you take my advice, you'll lose some 
 immedintly. I'll spin it out o' you while you'd 
 say Jack Robisson." 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 309 
 
 The audience were exceedingly grave here. 
 Not the least symptom of a smile appeared on a 
 single face. On the contrary, they looked at the 
 coroner with an alarm which the rascals succeeded 
 in making more impressive by their feigned 
 attempts to conceal it. At length one of them 
 said in a very solemn voice, — 
 
 " Misther Casey, Barney's right, sir. Some- 
 thing is wrong wid you, whatever it is, for there's 
 a great change in your face since you came into 
 the house." 
 
 " Tut, it can't be, but if I thought " 
 
 " The safest way, sir, is to be sure and lose 
 the blood. Barney's the very boy that can breathe 
 a vein in style." 
 
 "Where are the other medical gintlemen?" 
 said the coroner. " Why, they are gone ! How- 
 ever I don't wonder at it, after what they got:' 
 
 " Waither," shouted Barney, " bring up a 
 basin, poor Misther Casey's not well. Why, sir, 
 you're changin' for the worse in your looks every 
 minute. Devil a word I'll hear, sir, nor a 
 blessed syllable of evidence I'll give to-day, 
 barrin' you take care of your health." 
 
310 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " Gintlemen of the jury, do you think I want 
 to lose blood ?" 
 
 " Bedad, sir, there's a terrible change on you : 
 why you're black undher both eyes. You must 
 have got some hurt, sir, inwardly, durin' the 
 row." 
 
 " Faith and there may be something in that 
 sure enough. Come, Barney, set to work. It 
 can do no harm at all events." 
 
 Barney, now in his glory, stripped the €oroner, 
 and in two minutes had a full tide of blood rushing 
 from his arm, into a large wash-hand basin, the 
 bottom of which could not be covered by less than 
 thirty ounces of blood. 
 
 " Now, Misther Casey, don't you feel asier ?" 
 
 " I do, Barney, but very wake. Stop, 
 man, you have taken enough, five times over ; 
 do you intend to Jill — the — the basin ? Stop ! — 
 my sight's going — I'm getting " 
 
 Forty-eight ounces of blood would be apt to 
 make any man weak. The worthy coroner could 
 go no farther, and in a moment he lay at full 
 length, in a swinging faint. 
 
 It was now, when he could not hear them, that 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 31 1 
 
 their mirth became loud and excessive. Barney, 
 in the mean time, tied up his arm. 
 
 " The devil fly away wid you, Barney, but 
 you're able to walk widout bein' led, any how, 
 you bird o' grace !" 
 
 "Whisht, wid yees," replied Bradley; "we'll 
 be up to him. Let us sit an' hould an inquisht an 
 himself, before he comes to — that won't be these 
 ten good minutes to come." 
 
 " Oh ! consumin' to the better. Here, you rap 
 of a pross-sarver — you must be the crowner ; an' 
 as you'd do nuttin for nuttin, we'll give you 
 another glass o' whiskey." 
 
 " Then, Barney, you must take my place on 
 the jury." 
 
 " To be sure I will." 
 
 " Well thin, gintlemen, as we were all specta- 
 thors of this bloody business, we may as well, at 
 wanst, return a verdict against Barney." 
 
 " Not wilful murdher agin me any how, aither 
 in joke or airnest." 
 
 " No ; but here's the verdict : we find that 
 Misther Casey died by the visitation of Barney 
 Bradley.'' 
 
312 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " A choice good one," replied Barney. " Here, 
 waither, bring in a naggin of burnt whiskey for 
 Misther Casey. That's what'll set him to rights. 
 Here, boys, let us bring him near the windy, an 
 rise him up a little. Come, Misther Casey, 
 blood alive, sir, don't be a woman. Pluk up 
 spirit ; here's' a naggin o' burnt whiskey, to make 
 all square. Bedad, sir, you have nothin' else 
 than the pattern of a ginteel face this minute." 
 
 Coroner — " Where's the whiskey, in the first 
 place ?" 
 
 Barney — "Here, sir; here it is. Never nip 
 it ; take it at a bite, an' you may dance Shawn 
 Buie in five minutes." 
 
 " Yes, it will do me good. Gintlemen of the 
 jury, what has happened to me ? Was there any- 
 thing illaygal in this business ?" 
 
 " Sorra, haporth, Misther Casey, barrin' that 
 Barney Bradley tuck a few ounces of blood out 
 o' you." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I remember. Barney, in the 
 mane time, confound you and your flaybottomry, 
 you have almost bled me to death, you infernal 
 quack." 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 313 
 
 It was impossible to resist the ridiculous 
 appearance of the coroner, whose face, being at 
 best ruddy upon a sallow ground, now bore a 
 strong resemblance to green linen, if we except 
 his nose, which was of a pale dead blue, like the 
 end of a burned brick. The laughter in fact 
 could not be suppressed, nor could the coroner, 
 after surveying himself in a three-cornered broken 
 looking glass that hung against the wall, avoid 
 joining in the mirth, although at his own expense. 
 
 " Gintlemen of the jury," said he, " there is no 
 use in my spoiling a good joke, although I've paid 
 some of the best blood in my veins for it. It's 
 well known, any how, that a more blood-thirsty 
 vagabond than Barney Bradley is not to be had. — 
 You go about, Barney, you nager, seeking whom 
 you may bleed ; and I now tell you, that you'll 
 take a cup too much from some one before you're 
 hanged, my man. Reduce your practice, Barney, 
 or you'll die somewhere convanient to the county 
 gaol — ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, gintlemen, now let 
 us to sarious business, for, upon my conscience, 
 I'll have a verjick and my fees, if the fellow was 
 to come alive fifty times." 
 
 VOL. III. P 
 
314 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " We're ready, Misther Casey, to examine the 
 witnesses." 
 
 " Let any man, then, who was present at this 
 unfortunate business, step forward and state all 
 he knows." 
 
 " I seen the whole of it, sir, an' more," said 
 a man to the jury. 
 
 " Alick Smith," said one of the jury, '* tell us 
 what you did see, an' never mind statin' what you 
 didn't see." 
 
 " y/hy, you see, Pether, I happened to be 
 passin' Brian Finigan's public-house at the time ; 
 so, begad, hearin' that it was a bit o' fun, I ran 
 up from the street that Billy Button the tailor 
 lives in, bekase you see, I was goin' to leave the 
 measure of my head for a hat wid Condy Bra- 
 nagan." 
 
 " I thought," observed the coroner, '- you said 
 you were passing Brian Finigan's." 
 
 " But that was afther, sir — so, hearin', you 
 see, of the row, up I ran just about two minutes 
 afther Barney was sent home to his modher." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ?" inquired 
 Casey. 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 315 
 
 " Why, afther he was knocked down an' kilt, 
 sir. 
 
 " But were you not present at the fight?" 
 
 " Oh the devil a blow I seen them give, sir, 
 barrin' what I heard from them that wor lookin' 
 on. But that's no rason that I can't give you the 
 outs and ins of the business as true as any one, 
 allowin' for mistakes." 
 
 " Get out, you spalpeen," said Casey ; " take 
 yourself and your mistakes out of this. You're 
 nothing but a nagevly equivocator." 
 
 " Well, Misther Casey," said the fellow, wink- 
 ing at the by-standers, " if that's ray thanks, I 
 can't help it. I'm always willin' to oblage a 
 jijiteel lookin' gintleman. It's more than I'd do 
 afore Barney bled you." 
 
 The coroner winced at this, but the mirth 
 and the cause of the mirth were too decidedly 
 against him to resent it with success. 
 
 " Come, now," said he, " I'll tell you what, 
 boys ; I'll order any man half-a-pint that will 
 give true evidence on this melancholy affiiir." 
 
 Nine of the jury immediately volunteered. 
 
 " Beg pardon, Mistber Casey," said the fore- 
 
316 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 man, "that's not laygal, wid submission ; it's 
 what lawyers call insubordination of perjury. 
 It'll invaleed the whole inquest." 
 
 " You lie, you rascal," replied Casey, deeply 
 offended ; " how dare you charge the coroner of 
 the county with disorganization of perjury. Only 
 you're on the jury, I'd send you out of the 
 window by the heels." 
 
 " Faith, an' let him not be too sure that that 
 same will save him," observed the rest of the 
 jury ; " devil a betther we could do than shove 
 him out, an' clap Barney himself in his place." 
 
 " Out wid him !" shouted the by-standers, 
 "out wid him, the rip, an' make Barney himself 
 foreman — ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Devil a sweeter," said Barney ; " wid all my 
 heart. Out wid the rascal !" 
 
 The coroner, if he were even disposed, had not 
 strength to prevent this. The window was raised, 
 the unfortunate process-server caught, and very 
 quietly, but with remarkable exactness, dropped 
 astride a cow that happened to pass, which cow 
 belonged to a poor widow who lived in the suburbs 
 of the town. It is sufficient to say that in a short 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 317 
 
 time the cow and her rider were followed by at 
 least two-thirds of the fair, as far as the pound- 
 burn, in which she deposited him, to the exquisite 
 enjoyment of the spectators. 
 
 " Now, Misther Casey, we'll make Barney 
 himself foreman." 
 
 " I doubt it's a little irregular," said Casey ; 
 " but as it's a particular case altogether, why let 
 him have the office." 
 
 " Well but, sir," said the jurors, " here's nine 
 of us that can give right thrue evidence." 
 
 "Faith," said Barney, "you may add me for 
 a tenth, provided the half-pint's to come to the 
 fore." 
 
 The coroner now felt himself sadly puzzled ; 
 he was literally overwhelmed with evidence. Not 
 an individual present, after having heard of the 
 affair of the half-pint, but professed himself to be 
 intimately acquainted with all the particulars of 
 that "melancholy affair." The transaction pro- 
 mised to be clouded with witnesses. 
 
 "What's to be done?" said Casey; "death 
 alive, boys, I can't hear you all; if I did the 
 fees of the inquest wouldn't cover the expenses." 
 
318 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 " But the gintlemen of the jury, Misther 
 Casey, have the best right to the whiskey, sir. 
 Remimber how we stood to you in the skrimmage, 
 a while agone." 
 
 " Under the circumstances, gintlemen, I'll 
 ballot for evidence ; first, for two out of the jury; 
 and afterwards for two more out of the by-stan- 
 ders ; and there's a full bottle gone." 
 
 " That's takin' evidence by the quart, Misther 
 Casey." 
 
 " Boys, be asy, now — and don't turn so solemn 
 an investigation into ridicule. Get me a hat." 
 
 A score of caubeens, amidst the most unlimited 
 glee, were instantly offered to him, and having 
 selected one, he proceeded to draw lots for the 
 witnesses, or, as he more formally termed it, " to 
 ballot for the evidence in this unfortunate trans- 
 action." Barney himself and another juror had 
 the good luck to succeed, as had Andy Murtagh 
 who had kilt him, and a person who was an eye- 
 witness. 
 
 " What's your name ?" said Casey to the stran- 
 ger. 
 
 " Philip Coogan, sir." 
 
BARNEY BUADLEY. 319 
 
 " Were you present at this business, Philip ?" 
 
 " I was present at both, sir, wid the help o' 
 goodness." 
 
 " At both what, man alive ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, at Barney and Andy's affair, an' 
 aftherwards at your own little consarn in the 
 house here." 
 
 " Well, but stick to Barney's and Andy's ; what 
 do you know of that ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, Barney bled him in Brian Finni- 
 gan's stable, up agin the wall ; then, sir, Barney 
 brought him in to trate him. I don't know what 
 privication came atune them, but something surely 
 must, sir, or they'd not tuck to weltin' one 
 another as they did." 
 
 " Go on, Philip." 
 
 " I was passin', sir, when I see Brian Finnigan 
 an' his brodher, an' his sarvint, pushin' them out ; 
 an' one o' them, but I can't say which, hot Brian 
 a lick as he went in." 
 
 " Well done, Philip ; you're coming to it by 
 degrees, as the lawyers go to heaven. Go on." 
 
 " Then, sir, they attacked one another again 
 — Barney, sir, let fly at Andy wid his battagh, an' 
 
320 
 
 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 thin' Andy here knocked him down, an' that blow 
 sobered him." 
 
 • "Be the vartue of my oath, Misther Casey, he 
 didn't knock me down this day. It was never in 
 his waistcoat to do it," said Barney. 
 
 " Phihp Coogan tould the thruth, Misther 
 Casey," observed Andy ; "'twas I that gave him 
 as purty a tumble as ever he got since he was 
 christened ; an' is well able to do it any day." 
 
 " Murtagh, be asy, man," said the coroner, 
 " you're not bound to criminate yourself; 
 (waither!) consider that there may be a verjick of 
 homicide, any how, brought against you." 
 
 " Not 'till I kill Barney over agin, Misther 
 Casey." 
 
 " I tell you, Andy, that the jury have laygal 
 and professional proof that the man was dead. 
 We have nothing to do only to prove how he was 
 killed. Coming to life again is his own affair, and 
 not ours." 
 
 " Be me sowl, I suppose it w^as the row 
 brought me to life," said Barney ; if any thing 'ud 
 do it, 'twould be aither that, or a smell of the 
 whiskey bottle, praise be goodness I" 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. ,321 
 
 " That's your own consarn, Barney, and not 
 the jury's" said Casey. 
 
 Barney — " It's a lie, any how, to say that Andy 
 knocked me down ; he was never the man." 
 
 Andy—'' Well, I'll tell you what, Barney, let the 
 business go an, and you know we can decide that 
 asy enough afther. 
 
 Barney — "Never say it again, Andy. Boys go 
 an wid the inquest. It's the least I should know 
 whether I was kilt or not, at any rate. Ha ! ha ! 
 ha !" 
 
 Barney's brother juror now stepped forth to set 
 them right. 
 
 " Misther Casey, sir " , 
 
 " Waither !" said Casey, "were you asleep, 
 you spalpeen ? Bring me another tumbler of 
 wather, wid a naggin of whiskey in it. I'm as 
 wake as a fishing-rod." 
 
 "Take it burned, sir," said Barney, "an 
 dhrink the wather afterwards. That's the right 
 plan." 
 
 " Bring what /desire you," said Casey. " Go 
 on, Mr. Juror." 
 
 " I must give it agin Barney, sir — I seen Andy 
 
322 THE IlESURUECTIONS OF 
 
 Murtagh give him as clane a knock-down as ere 
 a shave ever Barney himself gave in his life. I 
 vi'as beside them, sir, an' Barney, by the vartue 
 o' my oath, couldn't kick no more than a spatch- 
 cock." 
 
 " Able to kick you for that lie, any day," said 
 Barney, " an' will, too, before a month o' Sundays 
 passes." 
 
 A fresh argument here took place between 
 Barney, his brother juror, and Andy Murtagh, in 
 which the latter insisted that if Barney were kilt 
 at all, he it was who had the merit of killing him. 
 Barney stiflSy denied this, and their partizans on 
 either side gave rather decisive proofs of their 
 readiness to bring the matter to a short issue. 
 The coroner, however, at this moment received his 
 tumbler of water, a fact which reminded him of 
 the compensation he had promised them for their 
 evidence. 
 
 " Now, boys," said he, " let us have no more 
 fighting here till we finish the business on hand, at 
 any rate. After that you have the length and 
 breadth of the street to decide it in. All I can 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 323 
 
 say IS, that if you rise a ruction now, you'll get no 
 whiskey from me." 
 
 " Faith, an' that's sensible, Misther Casey, an' 
 stands to rason ; we have the street, as you say ; 
 so let us put it off till afther we get the quart of 
 evidence.'^ 
 
 " Asy, boys, asy ; no more of that. But now 
 what verjick will we return upon the death of 
 Barney ?" 
 
 " Oh devil purshue the one o' me will ever 
 consint to be kilt by Andy Murtagh, or the likes 
 o' him," said Barney. 
 
 " Faith, an' if I was on the jury," replied 
 Andy, " Fd consint to give no other." 
 
 " Misther Casey, sir," said the juror, " we'll 
 do the thing in a way that Barney can't be offinded 
 wid." 
 
 " How is that ?" 
 
 " We'll find — Kilt hy Andy Murtagh, and found 
 heatin the coroner afterwards." 
 
 The by-standers decided on the propriety of 
 this verdict by the loud seal of their approbation. 
 Barney himself, the coroner, and Andy Murtagh, 
 were also carried away by the spirit of the moment 
 
324 THE RESURRECTIONS OF 
 
 It was impossible, in fact, to resist it. A general 
 scene of mirth followed, which was still heightened 
 by the good humour with which Casey paid them 
 for their testimony. This worthy gentleman 
 insisted that they should shake hands, and bury 
 their differences in a fresh bottle at his expense, a 
 suggestion which was instantly acted on, but with 
 what degree of sincerity we cannot say. He 
 thought himself bound, however, to thank the 
 jury in " a neat address," and proceeded as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Gintlemen of the jury — For your unwearied 
 attintion, patience, and general good conduct, in 
 this trying and tadious case, I beg lave to return 
 you my most sarious acknowledgments. I am now 
 fifteen months and six weeks upon the bench ; and 
 I am bound to say that in the coorse of that 
 pariod I have never sat upon a case of such diffi- 
 culty, handled in a manner that reflects, gintlemen 
 — hem — that reflects such — such credit and gineral 
 esteem upon the talents you displayed in assisting 
 me in my difficulties, this day. We had, gintle- 
 men, to Jight our way through a very ugly spacies 
 of opposition, and nobly you acquitted yourselves. 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 325 
 
 Gintlemen, I am bound to say, that you are the 
 best boxed jury in the three united kingdoms ; by 
 which I mane England, Ireland, and Scotland. 
 But I must add, that some of the party who con- 
 ducted the row against us have a villanous habit of 
 kicking in the shins while they fight ; by which I 
 have heavily suffered. I do not now wish to rip 
 up the embers of strife ; but I must confess that, 
 touching the kicking in the shins, I strongly 
 suspect the corpse to have been by far the worst 
 conducted. Gintlemen, I repeat it, that the sub- 
 ject of the inquest did not behave himself with 
 due decorum. He denied that he was kilt, gintle- 
 men, in the teeth of the plainest and most equivo- 
 cal evidence. We had the opinion of two medi- 
 cal men — who, I am sorry to say, were each of 
 them by the corpse, gintlemen — so to spake — both 
 of whom proved that he was dead. We had, 
 moreover, the testimony of the worthy man who 
 kilt him, corroborating the opinion of the doctors. 
 Yet Jie denied the fact in the face of all this ! 
 However, as I said, let it be forgotten. Gintle- 
 men, I now propose the health of ould Ireland — 
 a country, gintlemen, in which, I am proud to say, 
 
326 THE RESURRECTIOMS OF 
 
 the law of inquest, gmtlemen — the law of inquest 
 — is better understood than in any other country 
 under the sun. Gintlemen, ' Ould Ireland, the 
 land of Inquests !' " 
 
 This, as the papers say, was received with 
 tremendous cheers, and the health of the coroner 
 drank, as "one of the best coroners that ever sat 
 on a live corpse." This was rather sharp, but the 
 worthy man was now too far advanced in liquor to 
 notice it. He accordingly paid the reckoning, got 
 his hat, and was staggering out, when the waiter 
 thrust a slip of paper into his hand, on which was 
 written : " Verdict of the jury that sot upon the 
 body of Bartle Casey, Esquire, late crowner for 
 this part of the county, before Barney Bradley, 
 Esquire, flaybottoraist and horse-doctor — We find 
 that the diseased died by the visitation of Barney 
 Bradley. Signed Barney Bradley." Here fol- 
 lowed the names of the twelve jurors. 
 
 " Ay," exclaimeTi Casey, after he had made it 
 out with some difficulty, " I don't doubt that, any 
 how. The rascals would outwit the devil, let 
 alone Bartlemy Casey, Esquire ; and as for Bar- 
 ney Bradley, he would bleed the devil if he had 
 
BARNEY BRADLEY. 327 
 
 auy blood in him." He then staggered up to the 
 inn where he slept that night, with less of fever 
 than he would have felt were it not for the Barney 
 Bradley's lancet. 
 
 This was Barney Bradley's first inquest, or, as 
 it was termed by his neighbours, his first resurrec- 
 tion. He was, however, the subject of three 
 inquests, every one of which he survived, and in 
 every one of which the coroners sufi'ered, either by 
 " fiaybottomry" or a sound drubbing. In fact he 
 became so celebrated a corpse, and withal so dan- 
 gerous, that on the occasion of two or throe subse- 
 quent deaths occurring, after the three inquests 
 alluded to, no coroner could sit upon him, inas- 
 much as they did so at the evident risk and hazard 
 of their lives. 
 
 Our readers will of course be anxious to know 
 what disease or accident it was that occasioned 
 Barney's temporary death. Ah ha ! — There we 
 have them ! Don't you know, worthy readers, that 
 the beauty of a modern tale is mystery ? Do you 
 think we are such a common-place writer as to tell 
 every thing ? That, you know, would be blabbing 
 on poor Barney. Farewell ! 
 
328 RESURRECTIONS OF BARNEY BRADLEY. 
 
 And now to conclude, we beg leave to recom- 
 mend this authentic story to John Bull's perusal, 
 and that it may serve to correct his'views of Irish 
 life and character is the earnest and sincere wish 
 of the writer. Amen. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 OUBLTN 
 
 PRINTED BY FOLDS, SON, AND PATTON, 
 
 5, Bacheloi's-VS'aiK, 
 

>^-^r\