POIiii Ii i'
11(1                              Ii             Jiltl!
iii   Ij
What's this? Why there's something wrong  vid you, good people I"
p. 84.




TUBBER DERG;
OR,
THE RED  W ELL.'II
OliN M
"HE HAD RAISED HIS EYES TO HEAVEN." 
NEW YORK:
P. & J. SADLIER & CO., 164 WILLIAM STREET.
BOSTON: 128 FEDERAL STREET.
Mo()NT rIaA: CORK. OF NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XA~yEER ~S:
1860.








TALES AND STORIES
OF THE
IRISH PEASANTRY.
BY
WILLIAM CARLTON,
AUTHOR OF "VALENTLNE M.CCLUTCHY," "ART. MAGUIRE,"
ETC., ETC.
TWO W VO L UTES IN  ONE.
Nt b3   xf:
D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 164 WILLIAM ST.
BOSTON:-128 FEDERAL STREET.
MONTREAL:-COR. OF NOTRE DAME & FRANCIS XAVIER STS.
1860.








CONTENTS.
VOL. 1.                 PAGE
INTRODUCTION..............................   5
TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL..............
BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE..................... 157
ToM GRESSLEY, THE IRISH SENACHIE.............. 222
A LEGEND OF TIlE BROWN GOAT................ 243
THE WHITE HORSE OF THE PEPPERS...........  273
MICKEY MCRORY, THE IRISH FIDDLER............ 301
VOL. II.
INTRODUCTION..............................5... 
THE POOR SCIOLAR...........................9.. 
A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.................... 269
TALBOT AND GAYNOR, THE IRISH PIPERS........... 283
FRANK FINEGAN, THE FOSTER BROTHER..........  300








INTRODUCTION.
THE lesser tales of Carleton present, perhaps, as
strong a claim to immortality as a delineator of
national character can desire. Thomas Davis, speaking
of the " Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry,"'
well remarks, that we enter into all the sports and
sorrows of the characters therein pourtrayed; and this
charming quality of fascination will yet live and be
attractive, when Carleton's stories will afford no matter
for excitement, except that of curiosity towards a state
of things extinct and passed away. When this era
shall dawn it is impossible to determine; but certain
it appears to be, that the last of our chroniclers belongs
to the day we live in. And why? Because Irish
nature and Irish grievance have been described in
every phase and form, and there does not exist in




V1               INTRODUCTION.
either anr possible variety which could demand a
future painter.
Carleton then is the last of this order. He possesses
an interest on this account, as well as from the knowedge that in scanning his pictures, we are regarding
what was admired by the last generation, and will
continue to be so for many yet to come.
If he has a fault, it is in the sudden boldness of his
images; but truth exists in all, and that exquisite
depth and warmth which strikes the eye and mind, and
leaves them both enraptured. Whoever reads " Tubber
Derg,': will acknowledge a charm compounded of
every-day truth, which must be always potent to work
the heart into alternate softness and indignation.
TFH  PUBLISHERS.




TUBBER DERG:
OR, THE RED WELL.
THE following story owes nothing to any coloring or invention of mine; it is unhappily a true
one, and to me possesses a peculiar and melancholy interest, arising from my intimate knowledge of the man whose fate it holds up as a
moral lesson to Irish landlords. I knew him
well, and many a day and hour have I played
about his knee, and ran, in my boyhood, round
his path, when, as he said to himself, the world
was no trouble to him.
On the south side of a sloping tract of light
ground, lively, warm, and productive, stood a
white, moderate-sized farm-house, which, in consequence of its conspicuous situation, was a




8            TUBBER DERG, OR
prominent and, we may add, a graceful object
in the landscape of which it formed a part.
The spot whereon it stood, was a swelling natural terrace, the soil of which was heavier and
richer than that of the adjoining lands.  On
each side of the house stood a clump of old
beeches, the only survivors of that species then
remaining in the country.  These beeches extended behind the house in a kind of angle,
with opening enough at their termination to
form a vista, through which its white walls glistened with beautiful effect in the calm splendor
of a summer evening. Above the mound on
which it stood, rose two steep hills, overgrown
with furze and fern, except on their tops, which
were clothed with purple heath; they were also
covered with patches of broom, and studded
with gray rocks, which sometimes rose singly
or in larger masses, pointed or rounded into
curious and fantastic shapes. Exactly between
these hills the sun went down during the month
of June, and nothing could be in finer relief than
the rocky and picturesque outlines of their sides,
as crowned with thorns and clumps of wild ash,
they appeared to overhang the valley whose




THE RED WELL.              9
green foliage was gilded by the sun-beams,
which lit up the scene into radiant beauty.
The bottom of this natural chasm, which
opened against the deep crimson of the evening sky, was nearly upon a level with the
house, and completely so with the beeches that
surrounded it. Brightly did the sinking sun fall
upon their tops, whilst the neat white house below, in their quiet shadow, sent up its wreath of
smoke among their branches, itself an emblem
of contentment, industry and innocence.  It
was, in fact, a lovely situation; perhaps the
brighter to me, that its remembrance is associated with days of happiness and freedom from
the cares of a world, which, like a distant mountain, darkens as we approach it, and only exhausts us in struggling to climb its rugged and
barren paths.
There was to the south-west of this house
another little hazel glen, that ended in a precipice formed by a single rock some thirty feet
high, over which tumbled a crystal cascade into
a basin worn in its hard bed below. From this
basin the stream murmured away through the
copse-wood, until it joined a larger rivulet tha:




10            TUBBER DERG, OR
passed, with many a winding, through a fine extent of meadows adjoining it. Across the foot
of this glen, and past the door of the house we
have,described, ran a bridle road, from time immemorial; on which, as the traveler ascended it
towards the house, he appeared to track his way
in bloid, for a chalybeate spa arose at its head,
oozing out of the earth, and spread itself in a
crimson stream over the path in every spot
whereon a foot-mark could be made. From
this circumstance it was called Tubber Derg,
or the Red Well.  In the meadow where the
glen terminated, was another spring of delicious
crystal; and clearly do I remember the everbeaten pathway that led to it through the
grass, and up the green field which rose in a
gentle slope to the happy-looking house of
Owen M'Carthy, for so was the man called
who resided under its peaceful roof.
I will not crave your pardon, gentle reader,
for dwelling at such length upon a scene so dear
to my heart as this, because I write not now so
much for your gratification as my own. Many
an eve of gentle May have I pulled the Maygowans which grow about that well, and over




THE RED WELL.              11
that smooth meadow. Often have I raised my
voice to the shrillest pitch, that I might hear its
echoes rebounding in the bottom of the green
and still glen, where silence, so to speak, was
deepened by the continuous murmur of the cascade above; and when the cuckoo uttered her
first note from among the hawthorns on its side,
with what trembling anxiety did I, an urchin of
some eight or nine years, look under my right
foot for the white hair, whose charm was such,
that by keeping it about me the first female
name I should hear was destined, I believed in
my soul, to be that of my future wife.* Sweet
was the song of the thrush, and mellow the
whistle of the blackbird, as they rose in the
stillness of evening over the "hirken shaws"
and green dells of this secluded spot of rural
beauty. Far, too, could the rich voice of Owen
M'Carthy be heard along the hills and meadows,
as, with a little chubby urchin at his knee, and
another in his arms, he sat on a bench beside his
own door, singing the "Trougha" in his native
Irish; whilst Kathleen his wife, with her two
* Such is the superstition; and, as I can tell, faithfully is
it believed.




12            TUBBER DERG, OR
maids, each crooning a low song, sat before the
door, milking the cows, whose sweet breath
mingled its perfume with the warm breeze of
evening.
Owen M'Carthy was descended from along
line of honest ancestors, whose names had never,
in the memory of man, been tarnished by the
commission of a mean or disreputable action.
They were always a kind-hearted family, but
stern and proud in the common intercourse of
life. They believed themselves to be, and probably were, a branch of the MacCarthy Mlore
stock; and, although only the possessors of a
small farm, it was singular to observe the effect
which this conviction produced upon their bearing and manners. To it might, perhaps, be attributed the high and stoical integrity for which
they were remarkable.  This severity, however,
was no proof that they wanted feeling, or were
insensible to the misery and sorrows of others:
in all the little cares and perplexities that
chequered the peaceful neighborhood in which
they lived, they were ever the first to console, or,
if necessary, to support a distressed neighbor
with the means which God had placed in their




THE RED WELL.              13
possession; for, being industrious, they were seldom poor. Their words were few, but sincere,
and generally promised less than the honest
hearts that dictated them intended to perform.
There, is in some persons a hereditary feeling of
just principle, the result neither of educatio
nor of a clear moral sense, but rather a kind of
instinctive honesty which descends, like a constitutional bias, from father to son, pervading every
member of the family. It is difficult to define
this, or to assign its due position in the scale of
human virtues. It exists in the midst of the
grossest ignorance, and influences the character
in the absence of better principles. Such was
the impress which marked so strongly the family
of which I speak.  No one would ever think of
imputing a dishonest act to the M'Carthy's;
nor would any person acquainted with them,
hesitate for a moment to consider their word as
good as the bond of another. I do not mean to
say, however, that their motives of action were
not higher than this instinctive honesty; far
from it: but I say, that they possessed it in
addition to a strong feeling of family pride, and
a correct knowledge of their moral duties.
2




I4           TUBBER DERG; OR,
I can only take up Owen M'Carthy at that
part of the past to which my memory extends.
He was then a tall, fine-looking young man;
silent, but kind.  One of the earliest events
within my recollection is his wedding; after that
the glimpse of his state and circumstances are
imperfect; but as I grew up, they became more
connected, and I am able to remember him the
father of four children; an industrious inoffensive
small farmer, beloved, respected, and honored.
No man could rise, be it ever so early, who would
not find Owen up before him; no man could anticipate him in an early crop, and if a widow or
a sick acquaintance were unable to get in their
harvest, Owen was certain to collect the neighbors to assist them; to be the first there himself,
with quiet benevolence, encouraging them to a
zealous performance of the friendly task in which
they were engaged.
It was, I believe, soon after his marriage,
that the lease of the farm held by him expired.
Until that time he had been able to live with
perfect independence; but even the enormous
rise of one pound per acre, though it deprived
him in a great degree of his usual comforts, did




TIHE RED WELL.            15
not sink him below the bare necessaries of life.
For some years after that he could still serve
a descrving neighbor; and never was the hand
of Owen M'Carthy held back from the wants
and distresses of those whom he knew to be
honest.
I remember once an occasion upon which a
widow Murray applied to him for a loan of five
pounds, to prevent her two cows from being
auctioned for half a year's rent, of which she
only wanted that sum. Owen sat at dinner with
his family when she entered the house in tears,
and, as well as her agitation of mind permitted,
gave him a detailed account of her embarrassment.
"The blessin' o' God be upon all here," said
she, on entering.
"The double o' that to you, Rosha," replied
Owen's wife: "won't you sit in an' be atin'?here's a sate beside Nanny; come over, Rosha."
Owen only nodded to her, and continued to
eat his dinner, as if he felt no interest in her distress. Rosha sat down at a distance, and with
the corner of a red handkerchief to her eyes,
shed tears in that bitterness of feeling which




16            TUBBER DERG; OR,
marks the helplessness of honest industry under
the pressure of calamity.
" In the name o' goodness, Rosha," said Mrs.
M'Carthy, "what ails you, asthore? Sure Jimmy-God spare him to you-wouldn't be dead?"
" Glory be to God I no, avourneen machrce.
Och, ochl but it'ud be the black sight, an' the
black day, that'ud see my brave boy, the staff
of our support, an' the bread of our mouth, taken
away from us!-No, no, Kathleen dear, it's not
that bad wid me yet. I hope we'll never live to
see his manly head laid down before us.'Twas
his own manliness, indeed, brought it an himbackin' the sack when he was bringin' home our
last meldhre* from the mill; for you see he should
do it, the crathur, to show his strinth, an' the
sack, when he got it an was too heavy for him,
an' hurted the small of his back; for his bones,
you see, are too young, an' hadn't time to fill up
yet. No, avourneen.  Glory be to God! he's
gettin' betther wid me!" and the poor creature's
eyes glistened with delight through her tears
and the darkness of her affliction.
* Meldhre-whatever quantity of grain is brought to the
mill to be ground on one occasion.




THE RED WELL.              1'
Without saying a word, Owen, when she finished the eulogium on her son, rose, and taking
her forcibly by the shoulder, set her down at the
table, on which a large potful of potatoes had
been spread out, with a circle in the middle for
a dish of rashers and eggs, into which dish every
right hand of those about it was thrust, with a
quickness that clearly illustrated the principle of
competition as a stimulus to action.
" Spare your breath," said Owen, placing her
rather roughly upon the seat, "an' take share
of what's goin': when all's cleared off we'll hear
you, but the sorra word till then."
"Musha,  Owen," said  the poor woman,
"you're the same man still; sure we all know
your ways; I'll strive, avourneen, to ate-I'll
strive, asthore —to plase you, an' the Lord bless
you an' yours, an' may you never be as I an'
my fatherless childhre are this sorrowful day!"
and she accompanied her words by a flood of
tears.
Owen, without evincing the slightest sympathy,
withdrew himself from the table. Not a muscle
of his face was moved; but as the cat came
about his feet at the time, he put his foot under
2*




18           TUBBER DERG; OR,
her, and flung her as easily as possible to the
lower end of the.kitchen.
"Arrah, what harm did the crathur do," asked
his wife, "that you'd kick her for, that way? an'
why but you ate out your dinner?"
"I'm done," he replied, " but that's no rason
that Rosha, an' you, an' thim boys that has the
work afore them, shouldn't finish your male's
mate."
Poor Rosha thought that by his withdrawing
he had already suspected the object of her visit,
and of course concluded that her chance of succeeding was very slender.
The wife, who guessed what she wanted, as
well as the nature of her suspicion, being herself
as affectionate and obliging as Owen, reverted
to the subject, in order to give her an opportunity of proceeding.
"Somethin' bitther an' out o' the common
coorse, is a throuble to you, Rosha," said she,
" or you wouldn't be in the state you're in. The
Lord look down on you this day, you poor
crathur —widout the father of your childhre to
stand up for you, an' your only other depindance
laid on the broad of his back, all as one as a




THE RED WELL.              19
cripple; but no matther, Rosha; trust to Iirn that
can be a husband to you, an' a father to your orphans-trust to Him, an' his blessed mother in
heaven, this day, an' never fear but they'll rise
up a frind for you. 5Musha, Owen ate your dinner as you ought to do, wid your capers!  How
can you take a spade in your hand upon that
morsel?"
"Finish your own," said her husband, "an'
never heed me; jist let me alone. Don't you see
that if I wanted it, I'd ate it, an' what more
would you have about!"
"Well, acushla, it's your own loss, sure, of a
sartinty.  An', Rosha, whisper, ahagur, what
can Owen or I do for you?  Troth, it would
be a bad day we'd see you at a deshort* for a
friend, for you never wor nothin' else nor a civil,
oblagin' neighbor yourself; an' him thht's gone
before-the Lord make his bed in heaven this
day-was as good a warrant as ever broke
bread, to sarve a friend, if it was at the hour of
midnight."
"Ah! when I had him," exclaimed the dis.
* That is at a loss; or more properly speaking, taken
short, which it means.




20           TUBBER DERG; OR,
tracted widow,' " I never had occasion to trouble aither friend or neighbor; but he's gone, an'
now it's' otherwise wid me-glory be to God for
all his mercies —a wurrah dheelish! Why, thin,
since I must speak, an' has no other frind to
go to-but somehow I doubt Owen looks dark
upon me-sure I'd put my hand to a stamp, if
my word wouldn't do for it, an' sign the blessed
crass that saved us, for the payment of it; or
I'd give it to him in oats, for I hear you want
some, Owen-Phatie oats it is, an' a betther
shouldhered or fuller-lookin' grain never went
undher a harrow-indeed, it's it that's  the
beauty, all out, if it's good seed you want."
"What is it for, woman alive?" inquired
Owen, as he kicked a three-legged stool out of
his way.
"What is it for, is it?"  Och, Owen darlin',
sure my two brave cows is lavin' me, Owen
M'Murt, the driver, is over wid me beyant, an'
has them ready to set off wid. I reared them
both, the two of them, wid my own hands;
Cheehoney, that knows my voice, an' would
come to me from the fardest corner o' the field,
is goin', an' nothin' will we have-nothin' will




THE RED WELL.              21
my poor sick boy have-but the black wather,
or the dhry salt; besides the butther of them
bein' lost to us for the rent, or a small taste of
it, of an odd time, for poor Jimmy.  Owen, next
to God, I have no friend to depind upon but
yourself!"
"Me!" said Owen, as if astonished.  "Phoo,
that's quare enough! Now do you think, Rosha,
— hut, hut, woman alive! Come, boys, you're
all done; out wid you to your spades, an' finish
that meerin* before night.  Me!-hut, tut!"
" I have it all but five pounds, Owen, an' for
the sake of him that's in his grave-an' that,
maybe, is able to put up his prayer for you"
"An' what would you want me to do Rosha?
Fitther for you to sit down an' finish your din
ner, when it's before you. I'm goin' to get an
ould glovet that's somewhere about this chist,
for I must weed out that bit of oats before night,
wid a blessin'," and, as he spoke he passed into
another room, as if he had altogether forgotten
her solicitation, and in a few minutes returned.
"Owen, avick " —ap' the blessin' of the father* Meerin-a march ditch, a boundary.
t In "hand-weeding," old gloves are used to prevent the
bands from being injured by the thistles.




22           TUBBER DERG; OR,
less be upon you, sure, an' many a one o' them
you have, any how, Owen!"
"Well, Rosha —well?"
"Och, och, Owen, it's low days wid me to be
depindin' upon the sthranger? Little thim that
reared me ever thought it'ud come to this. You
know I'm a dacent father's child, an' I have
stooped to you, Owen M'Carthy-what I'd
scorn to do to any other but yourself-poor an'
friendless as I stand here before you. Let them
take the cows, thin; from my children; but the
father of the fatherless will support thim an' me.
Och, but it's well for the O'Donohoes that their
landlord lives at home among themselves, for
may the heavens look down on me, I wouldn't
know where to find mine, if one sight of him'ud
save me an' my childhre from the grave I The
Agent even, he lives in Dublin, an' how could I
lave my sick boy an' small girshas by themselves,
to go a hundred miles, an' maybe not see him
after all. Little hopes I'd have from him, even
if I did; he's paid for gatherin' in his rents; but
it's well known he wants the touch of nathur for
the sufferins of the poor, an' of them that's honest in their intintions."




THE RED WELL.             23
"I'll go over wid you, Rosha, if that will be
of any use," replied Owen, composedly; " come,
I'll go an' spake to Frank M'Murt."
"The sorra blame I blame him, Owen,"
replied Rosha, "his bread's depindin' upon the
likes of sich doins, an' he can't get over it; but
a word from you, Owen, will save me, for who
ever refused to take the word of a M'Carthy?"
When Owen and the widow arrived at the
house of the latter, they found the situation of
the bailiff laughable in the extreme. Her eldest
son, who had been confined to his bed by a hurt
received in his back, was up, and had got the
unfortunate driver, who was rather old, wedged
in between the dresser and the wall, where his
cracked voice-for he was asthmatic-was raised to the highest pitch, calling for assistance.
Beside him was a large tub half-filled with
water, into which the little ones were emptying small jugs, carried at the top of their speed
from a puddle before the door. In the meantime, Jemmy was tugging at the bailiff with all
his strength-fortunately for that personage, it
was but little-with the most sincere intention
of inverting him into the tub, which contained




24            TUBBER DERG, OR
as much muddy water as would have been sufficient to make him a subject for the deliberation
of a coroner and twelve honest men. Nothing
could be more conscientiously attempted than
the task which Jemmy had proposed to execute
every tug brougoht out his utmost strength, and
when he failed in pulling down the bailiff, he
compensated himself for his want of success, by
cuffing his ribs, and peeling his shins by hard
kicks; whilst from those open points which the
driver's grapple with his man naturally exposed,
were inflicted on him by the rejoicing urchins,
numberless punches of tongs, potato-washers,
and sticks whose points were from time to time
hastily thrust into the coals, that they might
more effectually either blind or disable him in
some other manner.
As ono of the little ones ran out to fill his
jug, he spied his mother and Owen approaching,
on which, with the empty vessel in his hand, he
flew towards them, his little features distorted
by glee and ferocity, wildly mixed up together.
" Oh, mudher, mudher-ha, ha, ha!-don't
come in yet; don't come in, Owen, till Jimmy,
an' huz, an' the Denisses, gets the Bailie




TIlE RED WELL.            25
drownded.  We'll soon have the bot * full;
but Paddy an' Jack  Denis have the eyes
a'most pucked out of him; an Katty's takin'
the rapin' hook from behind the cuppel, to get
it about his neck."
Owen and the widow entered with all haste,
precisely at the moment when Frank's head was
dipped, for the first time, into the vessel.
"Is it goin' to murdher him ye are?" said
Owen, as he seized Jemmy with a grasp that
transferred him to the opposite end of the
house; "hould back, ye pack of young devils,
an' let the man up. What did he come to do
but his duty? I tell you, Jimmy, if you wor at
yourself, an' in full strinth, that you'd have the
man's blood on you where you stand, and would
suffer as you ought to do for it."
"There let me," replied the lad, his eyes
glowing, and his veins swollen with passion;
"I don't care if I did.  It would be no sin,
an' no disgrace, to hang for the like of him;
dacenter to do that, than stale a creel of turf,
or a wisp of straw,'tanny rate."
In the meantime the bailiff had raised hib
* Tub.
3




26            TUBBER DERG, OR
head out of the water, and presented a visage
which it was impossible to view with gravity.
The widow's anxiety prevented her from seeing
it in a ludicrous light; but Owen's severe face
assumed a grave smile, as the man shook himself, and attempted to comprehend the nature
of his situation. The young urchins who had
fallen back at the appearance of Owen and the
widow, now burst into a peal of mirth, in which,
however, Jemmy, whose fiercer passions had been
roused, did not join.
"Frank M'Murt," said the widow, " I take
the mother of heaven to witness, that it vexes
my heart to see you get sich thratement in my
place; an' I wouldn't for the best cow I have
that sich a brielLliagh* happened. Dher c/harp
ag'us ma'nim,t Jimmy, but I'll make you suffer
for drawin' down this upon my head, an' me had
enough over it afore."
"I don't care," replied Jemmy; "whoever
comes to take our property from us, an' us willitu' to work, will suffer for it. Do you think
I'd see thim crathurs at their dhry phatie, an'
our cows standin' in a pound for no rason? No;
* Brieuliagh-squabble.  t By my soul and body.




THE RED WELL.             27
high hangin' to me, but I'll split to the scull the
first man that takes them; an' all I'm sorry for
is, that it's not the vagabone Landlord himself
that's near me.  That's our thanks for payin'
many a good pound, in honesty an' dacency, to
him an' his; lavin' us to a schamin' Agent, an
not even to that same, but to his undher-strappers, that's robbin' us on both sides between
them.  May hard fortune attind him, for a
landlord I You may tell him this, Frank,that his wisest plan is to keep clear of the
counthry. Sure, it's a gambler he is, they say;
an' we must be harrished an' racked to support
his villany!  But wait a bit; maybe there's a
good time comin', when we'll pay our money to
thim that won't be too proud to hear our complaints wid their own ears, an' who won't turn
us over to a divil's limb of an Agent. He had
need, any how, to get his coffin sooner nor he
thinks.  What signifies hangin' in a good
cause?" said he, as the tears of keen indignation burst from  his glowing eyes.  " It's a
dacent death, an' a happy death, when it's for
the right," he added-for his mind was evidently fixed upon the contemplation of those




28           TUBBER DERG; OR,
means of redress, which the habits of the country, and the prejudices of the people, present to
them in the first moments of passion.
" It's well that Frank's one of ourselves,"
replied Owen, coolly, " otherwise, Jemmy, you
said words that would lay you up by the heels.
As for you, Frank, you must look over this.
The boy's the son of dacent poor parents, an'
it's a new thing for him to see the cows druv
from the place. The poor fellow's vexed, too,
that he has been so long laid up wid a sore
back; an' so you see one thing or another has
put him through other. Jimmy is warm-hearted
afther all, an' will be sorry for it when he cools,
an' remimbers that you wor only doin' your duty."
"But what am I to do about the cows?
Sure, I can't go back widout either thim or
the rint?" said Frank, with a look of fear and
trembling at Jemmy.
"The cows I" said another of the widow's
sons who then came in; "why, you dirty spalpeen of a rip, you may whistle on the wrong
side o' your mouth for them.- I druv them off
of the estate; an' now take them, if you dar I
It's conthrairy to law," said the urchin; "an' if




THE RED WELL.            29
you'd touch them, I'd make my mudher sarve
you wid a lattitat, or a fiery-flashes."
This was a triumph to the youngsters, who
began to shake their little fists at him, and to
exclaim in a chorus-" EHa, you dirty rip! wait
till we get you out o' the house, an' if we don't
put you from ever drivin'!  Why, but you work
like another?-ha, you'll get it!"-and every
little fist was shook in vengeance at him.
"Whisht wid ye," said Jemmy to the little
ones: "let him alone, he got enough. There's
the cows for you; an' keen may the curse o' the
widow an' orphans light upon you, and upon
them that sent you, from first to last!-an' that's
the best we wish you!"
"Frank," said Owen to the bailiff, "is there
any one in the town below that will take the
rint, an' give a resate for it? Do you think,
man, that the neighbors of an honest, industrious
woman,'ud see the cattle taken out of her byre
for a thrifle?  Hut tt I no man alive-no sich
thing?  There's not a man in the parish, wid
manes to do it, would see them taken away to
be canted, at only about a fourth part of their
value. Hut, tut, —lo!"
3*




30           TUBBER DERG; OR,
As the sterling fellow spoke, the cheeks of the
widow were suffused with tears, and her son
Jemmy's hollow eyes once more kindled, but
with a far different expression from that which
but a few minutes before flashed from them.
"Owen," said he, and utterance nearly failed
him: " Owen, if I was well it wouldn't be as it
is wid us; but-no, indeed, it would not: butmay God bless you for this! Owen, never fear
but you'll be paid;-may God bless you, Owen."
As he spoke the hand of his humble benefactor was warmly grasped in his. A tear fell
upon it: for with one of those quick and fervid
transitions of feeling so peculiar to the people,
he now felt a strong, generous emotion of gratitude, mingled, perhaps, with a sense of wounded
pride, on finding the poverty of their little family
so openly exposed.
"IHut, tut, Jimmy, avick," said Owen, who
understood his feelings; "phoo, man alive! hut
— hem!-why, sure, it's nothin' at' all, at all;
anybody would do it-only a bare five-an'-tweuty
shillins, [it was five poundJ: —any neighborMick Cassidy, Jack Moran, or Pether M'Cullagh, would do it.-Come, Frank, step out; the




THE RED WELL.             31
money's to the fore. Rosha, put your cloak
about you, and let us go down to the Agint, or
clerk, or whatsomever, he is-sure, that makes
no maxim anyhow;-I suppose he has power to
give a resate. Jemmy, go to bed again, you're
pale poor bouchal; and, childhre, ye crathurs ye,
the cows won't be taken from you this bout.Come, in the name of God, let us go, and see
everything rightified at once-hut tut -com6."
Many similar details of Owen M'Carthy's
useful life could be given, in which he bore an
equally benevolent and Christian part. Poor
fellow! he was, ere long, brought low; but, to the
credit of our peasantry, much as is said about
their barbarity, he was treated, when helpless,
with gratitude, pity, and kindness.
Until the peace of 1814, Owen's regular and
systematic industry enabled him to struggle successfully against a weighty rent and sudden
depression in the price of agricultural produce;
that is, he ias able, by the unremitting toil of a
man remarkable alike for an unbending spirit
and a vigorous frame of body, to pay his rent
with tolerable regularity. It is true a change
began to be visible in his personal appearance,




32            TUBBER DERG; OR,
in his farm, in the dress of his children, and in
the economy of his household.  Improvements,
which adequate capital would have enabled him
to effect, were left either altogether unattempted,
or in an imperfect state, resembling neglect,
though, in reality, the result of poverty. His
dress at mass, and in fairs and markets,*had, by
degrees, lost that air of comfort and warmth
which bespeak the independent farmer. The evidences of embarrassment began to disclose themselves in many small points-inconsiderable, it is
true, but not the less significant. His house, in
the progress of his declining circumstances,
ceased to be annually ornamented by a new coat
of whitewash; it soon assumed a faded and
yellowish hue, and sparkled not in the setting
sun as in the days of Owen's prosperity. It had,
in fact, a wasted, unthriving look, like its master.
The thatch became black and rotten upon its
roof; the chimneys sloped to opposite points;
the windows were less neat, and ultitately, when
broken, were patched with a couple of leaves
from  the children's blotted copy-books.  His
out-houses also began to fail. The neatness of
his little farm-yard, and the cleanliness which




THE RED WELL.             33
marked so conspicuously the space fronting his
dwelling-house, disappeared in the course of time.
Filth began to accumulate where no filth had
been; his garden was not now planted so early,
nor with so much taste and neatness as before;
his crops were later, and less abundant; his haggarts neither so full nor so trim, as they were
wont to be, nor his ditches and enclosures kept
in such good repair. His cars. ploughs, and
other farming implements, instead of being put
under cover, were left exposed to the influence
of wind and weather, where they soon became
crazy and useless.
Such, however, were only the slighter symptoms of his bootless struggle against the general
embarrassment into which the agricultural interests were, year after year, so unhappily sinking.
Had the tendency to general distress among
the class to which' he belonged become stationary, Oyen would have continued by toil and
and incessW  exertion to maintain his ground;
but, unfortunately, there was no point at which
the national depression could then stop. Year
after year produced deeper, more extensive, and
more complicated misery; and when he hoped




34            TUBBER DERG; OR,
that every succeeding season would bring an
improvement in the market, he was destined to
experience not merely a fresh disappointment,
but an unexpected depreciation in the price of
his corn, butter, and other disposable commodities.
When a nation is reduced to such a State, no
eye but that of God himself can see the appalling wretchedness to which a year of disease and
scarcity strikes down the poor and working
classes.
Owen, after a long and noble contest for
nearly three years, sank, at length, under the
united calamities of disease and scarcity. The
father of the family was laid low upon the bed
of sickness, and those of his little ones who
escaped it were almost consumed by famine.
This two-fold shock sealed his ruin; his honest
heart was crushed-his hardy frame shorn of its
strength, and he to whom every neizhbor fled as
a friend, now required friendship W a moment
when the wide-spread poverty of the country
rendered its assistance hopeless.
On rising from his bed of sickness, the prospect before him required his utmost fortitude to




THE RED WELL.             35
bear, He was now wasted in energy both of
mind and body, reduced to utter poverty, with
a large family of children, too young to assist
him, without means of retrieving his circumstances, his wife and himself gaunt skeletons, his
farm neglected, his house wrecked, and his offices
falling to ruin, yet every day bringing the halfyear's term nearer l Oh, ye who riot on the
miseries of such men-ye who roll round the
easy circle of fashionable life, think upon this
picture I Ye vile and heartless landlords, who
see not, hear not, know not those to whose
heart-breaking toil ye owe the only merit ye possess-that of rank in society-come and contemplate this virtuous man, as unfriended, unassisted, and uncheered by those who are bound
by a strong moral duty to protect and aid him,
he looks shuddering into the dark cheerless
future!.  Is it to be wondered at that he, and
such as he, should, in the misery of his despair,
join the ni-itly meetings, be lured to associate
himself with the incendiary, or seduced to grasp,
in the stupid apathy of wretchedness, the weapon
of the murderer? By neglecting the people, by
draining them, with merciless rapacity, of the




36            TUBBER DERG, OR
means of life; by goading them  on under a
cruel system of rack rents, ye become not their
natural benefactors, but curses and scourges,
nearly as much in reality as ye are in their
opinion.
When Owen rose, he was driven by hunger,
direct and immediate, to sell his best cow; and
having purchased some oatmeal at an enormous
price, from a well-known devotee in the parish,
who hoarded up this commodity for a "dear
summer," he laid his plans for the future,'with
as much judgment as any man could display.
One morning after breakfast he addressed his
wife as follows:
" Kathleen, mavourneen, I want to consult
wid you about what we ought to do; things are
low wid us, asthore; and except our heavenly
Father pets it into the heart of them I'm goin'
to mention, I don't know what we'll do, nor
what'11 become of these poor crathurs that's
naked and hungry about us. Goarpity them,
they don't know —and maybe that same's some
comfort —the hardships that's before them.
Poor crathurs! see how quiet and sorrowful
they sit about their little play, passin' the time




THE RED WELL.              37
for themselves as well as they can!  Alley,
acushla machree. come over to me. Your hair
is bright and fair, Alley, and curls so purtily
that the finest lady in the land might envy it;
but, acushla, your color's gone, your little hands
are wasted away, too; that sickness was hard
and sore upon you, a colleen machree,* and he
that'ud spend his heart's blood for you, darlin',
can do nothin' to help you I"
He looked at the child as he spoke, and a
slight motion in the muscles of his face was
barely perceptible, but it passed away; and,
after kissing her, he proceeded:"Ay, ye crathurs- you and I, Kathleen,
could earn our bread for ourselves yet, but
these can't do it. This last stroke, darlin'; has
laid us at the door of both poverty and siclkness, but blessed be the mother of heaven. for
it, they are all left wid us; and sure that's a
blessin' we've to be thankful for-glory be tb
God!"
"Ay, poor things, it's well to have'them
spared, Owen dear; sure I'd rather a thousand
times beg from  door to door, and have my
" Girl of my heart
4




38           TUBBER DERG, OR
childher to look at, than be in comfort widout
them."
"Beg: that'ud go hard wid me, Kathleen.
I'd work-I'd live on next to nothing all the
year round; but to see the crathurs that wor
dacently bred up brought to that, I couldn't
bear it, Kathleen —'twould break the heart widin me. Poor as they are, they have the blood
of kings in their veins; and, besides, to see a
M'Carthy beggin' his bread in the counthry
where his name was once great-The M'Carthy More, that was their title-no, acushla; I
love them as I do the blood in my own veins;
but I'd rather see them in the arms of God in
heaven, laid qown dacently, with their little
sorrowful faces washed, and their little bodies
stretched out purtily before my eyes —I wouldin the grave-yard there beyant, where all belonging to me lie, than have it cast up to them, or
have it said, that ever a M'Carthy was seen beggin' on the highway."
"But, Owen, can you strike out no plan for us
that'ud put us in the way of comin' round agin?
These poor ones, if we could hould out for two
or three year, would soon be able to help us."




THE RED WELL.             39
"They would-they would. I'm thinkin' this
day or two of a plan: but I'm doubtful whether
it'ud come to anything."
"What is it, acushla?  Sure we can't be
worse nor we are, any way."
" I'm goin' to go to Dublin. I'm tould that
the landlord's come home from France, and that
he's there now; and if I didn't see him, sure I
could see the agent. Now, Kathleen, my intintion'ud be to lay our case before the head landlord himself, in hopes. he might hould back his
hand, and spare us for a while. If I had a line
from the agent, or a scrape of a pen, that I could
show at home to so-me of the nabors, who knows
but I could borry what'ud set us up agin  I
think many of them'ud be sorry to see me
turned out; eh, Kathleen?"
The Irish are an imaginative people; indeed
too much so, for either their individual or national happiness. And it is this and superstition, which also depends much upon imagination, that makes them so easily influenced by
those extravagant dreams that are held out to
them by persons who understand their character.




40            TUBBER DERG, OR
When Kathleen heard the plan on which
Owen founded his expectations of assistance,
her dark melancholy eye flashed with a portion
of its former fire; a transient vivacity lit up her
sickly features, and she turned a smile of hope
and affection upon her children, then upon
Owen.
"Arrah, thin, who knows, indeed!-who
knows but he might do something for us?
And maybe we might be as well as ever yetl
May the Lord put it into his heart, this day! I
declare, ay! —maybe it was God put it into your
heart, Owen I"
" I'll set off," replied her husband, who was a
man of decision; "' I'll set off on other morrow
mornin'; and as nobody knows anything about
it, so let there not be a word said upon the subject, good or bad. If I have success, well and
good; but if not, why nobody need be the wiser."
The heart-broken wife evinced, for the remainder of the day, a lightness of spirits which
she had not felt for many a month before. Even
Owen was less depressed than usual, and employed himself in making such arrangements as
he knew would occasion his family to feel the




THE RED WELL.              41
inconvenience of his absence less acutely. But
as the hour of his departure drew nigh, a sorrowful feeling of affection rising'into greater
strength and tenderness threw a melancholy
gloom around his hearth. According to their
simple view of distance, a journey to Dublin was
a serious undertaking, and to them it was such.
Owen was -in weak health, just risen out of
illness, and what was more trying than any other
consideration was, that since their marriage they
had never been separated before.
On the morning of his departure, he was up
before daybreak, and -so were his wife and
children, for the latter had heard the conversation already detailed between them, and, with
their'simple-minded parents, enjoyed the gleam
of hope which it presented; but this soon
changred —when he was preparing to go, an
indefinite sense of fear, and a more vivid clinging of affection  marked  their feelings.  HIc
himself partook of this, and was silent, depressed, and less ardent than when the speculation
first presented itself to his mind. His resolution,
however, was taken, and should he fail, no blame
at a future time could be atttached to himself.
4*




42            TUBBER DERG; OR,
It was the last effort; and to neglect it, he
thought, would have been to neglect his duty.
When breakfast was ready, they all sat down in
silence; the hour was yet early, and a rushlight
was placed in a wooden candlestick that stood
beside them to afford light. There was something solemn and touching in the group as they
sat in dim relief, every face marked by the traces
of sickness, want, sorrow, and affection.  The
father attempted to eat, but could not; Kathleen
sat at the meal, but could taste nothing; the
children ate, for hunger at the moment was
predominant over every other sensation.  At
length it was over, and Owen rose to depart; he
stood for a minute on the floor, and seemed to
take a survey of his cold, cheerless house, and
then of his family; he cleared his throat several
times, but did not speak.
" Kathleen," said he, at length, "in the name
of God I'll go; and may his blessin' be about
you, asthore machree, and guard you and these
darlins till I come back to yez."
Kathleen's faithful heart could bear no more;
she laid herself on his bosom-clung to his neck,
and, as the parting kiss was given, she wept




THE RED WELL.              43
aloud, and Owen's tears fell silently down his
worn cheeks. The children crowded about them
in loud wailings, and the grief of this virtuous
and afflicted family was of that profound description, which is ever the companion, in such scenes,
of pure and genuine love.
" Owen l" she exclaimed; "Owen, a-suilisl
mahuil agits machree!*  I doubt we wor wrong
in thinkin' of this journey.  How can you, mavourneen, walk all the way to Dublin, and you
so worn and weakly wid that sickness, and the
bad feedin' before and since? Och, give it up,
aehree, and stay wid us, let what will happen.
You're not able for sich a journey, indeed you're
not. Stay wid me and the childher, Owen; sure
we'd be so lonesome widout you-will you,
agrah? and the Lord will do for us some other
way, maybe."
Owen pressed his faithful wife to his heart,
and kissed her chaste lips with a tenderness
which the heartless votaries of fashionable life
can never know.
"Kathleen, asthore," he replied, in  those
terms of endearment which flow so tenderly
* Light of my eyes and of my heart.




44           TUBBER DERG; OR,
through the language of the people; " sure whin
I remimber your fair young face-your yellow
hair, and the light that was in your eyes, acushla
xlachree —but that's gone long ago-och, don't
ax me to stop. Isn't your lightsome laugh, whin
you wor young, in my ears? and your step that'ud not bend the flower of the field —Kathleen,
I can't, indeed I can't, bear to think of what
you wor, nor of what you are now, when in the
coorse of age and natur, but a small channge
ought to be upon you!  Sure I ought to make
every struggle to take you and these sorrowful
crathurs out of the state you're in."
The children flocked about them, and joined
their entreaties to those of their mother.
"Father, don't lave us-we'll be lonesome if
you go; and if my mother'ud get unwell, who'd
be to take care of her? Father, don't lave your
own'weeny crathurs,' (a pet name he had for
them)-maybe the meal'ud be eat out before
you'd come back; or maybe something'ud happen you in that strange place."
"Indeed, there's truth  in what they say,
Owen," said the wife; "do be said by your own
Kathleen for this time, and don't take sich a




THE RED WELL.             45
long journey upon you. Afther all, maybe, you
wouldn't see him-sure the nabors will help us,
if you could only humble yourself to ax themI"
"Kathleen," said Owen, "when this is past
you'll be glad I went-indeed you will; sure it's
only the tindher feelin' of your hearts, darlins.
Who knows what the landlord may do when I
see himself, and show him these resates-every
penny paid him by our own family. Let me go,
acushla; it does cut me to the heart to lave yez
the way yez are in, even for a while; but it's far
worse to see your poor wasted faces, widout
havin' it in my power to do anything for yez."
He then kissed them again, one by one; and
pressing the affectionate partner of his sorrows
to.his breaking heart, he bade God bless them,
and set out in the twilight of a bitter March
morning. He had not gone many yards from
the door when little Alley ran after him in tears;
he felt her hand upon the skirts of his coat,
which she plucked with a smile of affection that
neither tears nor sorrow could repress. " Father,
kiss nme again," said she. He stooped down and
kissed her tenderly. The child then ascended
a green ditch, and Owen, as he looked back,




46           TTUBBER DERG; OR,
saw her standing upon it; her fair tresses were
tossed by the blast about her face, as with
straining eyes she watched him receding from
her view. Kathleen and the other children
stood at the door, and also with deep sorrow
watched his form, until the angle of the bridleroad rendered him no longer visible; after whllich
they returned slowly to the fire and wept bitterly.
We believe no men are capable of bearing
greater toil or privation than the Irish. Owen's
viaticumn was only two or three oaten cakes
tied in a little handkerchief, and a few shillings
in silver to pay for his bed. With this small
stock of food and money, an oaken stick in his
hand, and his wife's kerchief tied about his
waist, he undertook a journey of one hundred
and ten miles, in quest of a landlord who, so far
from being acquainted with the distresses of his
tenantry, scarcely knew even their names, and
not of them in person.
Our scene now changes to the metropolis.
One evening, about half past six o'clock, a
toil-worn man turned his steps to a splendid
mansion in Mountjoy Square; his appearance




THE RED WELL.             47
was drooping, fatigued, and feeble. As he went
along, he examined the numbers on the respective doors, until he reached a certain one-before
which he stopped for a moment; he then stepped
out upon the street, and looked through the
windows, as if willing to ascertain whether there
was any chance of his object being attained.
Whilst in this situation a carriage rolled rapidly
up, and stopped with a sudden check that nearly
threw back the horses on their haunches.  In
an instant the thundering knock of the servant
intimated the arrival of some person of rank;
the hall door was opened, and Owen, availing
himnself of that opportunity, entered the hall.
Such a visitor, however, was too remarkable to
escape notice.  The hand of the menial was
rudely placed agaiist his breast; and, as the
usual impertinent interrogatories were put to
him, the pampered ruffian kept pushing him
back, until the afflicted man stood upon the
upper step leading to the door.
"For the sake of God, let me spake but two
words to him. I'm his tenant; and I know he's
too much of a gintleman to turn away a man
that has lived upon his honor's estate, father




48            TUBBER DERG, OR
and son, for upwards of three hundred years.
My name's Owen    "
"You can't see him, my good fellow, at this
hour. Go to Mr. M-, his Agent: we have
company to dinner. He never speaks to a ten
ant on business; his Agent manages all that
Please, leave the way, here's more company."
As he uttered the last word, he pushed Owen
back; who, forgetting that the stairs were behind him, fell,-received a severe cut, and was
so completely stunned, that he lay senseless and
bleeding.  Another carriage drove up, as the
fellow, now much alarmed, attempted to raise
him from -the steps; and, by order of the gentleman who came in it, he was brought into the
hall. The circumstance now made some noise.
It was whispered about, that one of Mr. S —'s
tenants, a drunken fellow from the country,
wanted to break in forcibly to see him; but
then it was also asserted, that his scull was
broken, and that he lay dead in the hall. Several of the gentlemen above stairs, on hearing
that a man had been killed, immediately assembled about him, and, by means of restoratives,
he soon recovered, though the blood streamed




THE RED WELL.            49
copiously from the wound in the back of his
head.
" Who are you, my good man?" said Mr. -.
Owen looked about him rather vacantly; but
soon collected himself, and replied in a mournful
and touching tone of voice-" I'm one of your
honor's tenants from Tubber Derg; my name is
Owen M'Carthy your honor-that is, if you be
Mr. S."
"And, pray, what brought you to town,
M'Carthy?"
"I wailted to make an humble appale to your
honor's feelins, in regard of my bit of farm. I,
and my poor family, your honor, have been broken down by hard times and the sickness of the
season-God knows how they are."
"If you wish to speak to me about that, my
good man, you must know I refer all these matters to my Agent. Go to him —he knows them
best; and whatever is right and -proper to be
done for you, he will do it. Sinclair, give him
a crown, and send him to the ---- Dispensary,
to get his head dressed. I say, Carthy, go to
my Agent; he knows whether your claim is just
or not, and will attend to it accordingly."




50            TUBBER DERG, OR
" Plase your honor, I've been wid him, and
he says he can do nothin' whatsomever for me.
I went two or three times, and couldn't see him,
he was so busy; and, when I did get a word or
two wid him, he tould me there was more offered for my land than I'm payin'; and that if I
did not pay up, I must be put out, God help
me I"
" But I tell you, Carthy, I never interfere between him and my tenants."
" Och, indeed! and it would be well both for
your honor's tenants and yourself, if you did,
Sir. Your honor ought to know, Sir, more
about us, and how we're thrated. I'm an honest man, Sir, and I tell you so for your good."
"And pray, Sir," said the Agent, stepping forward, for he had arrived a few minutes before,
and heard the last observation of M'Carthy —
" pray how are they treated, you that know so
well, and are-so honest a man? —As for honesty, you might have referred to me for that, I
think," he added.
"Mr. M —,"  said Owen, "we're thrated
very badly.  Sir, you needn't look at me, for
I'm not afeerd to spake the thruth; no bullyin',




THE RED WELL.             51
Sir, will make me say anything in your favor
that you don't desarve.  You've broken the
half of them by severity; you've turned the tenants aginst yourself and his honor here; and I
tell you now, though you're to the fore, that, in
the coorse of a short time, there'11 be bad work
upon the estate, except his honor, here, looks
into his own affairs, and hears the complaints of
the people.  Look at these resates, yer honor;
they'll show you, Sir, — "
"Carthy, I can hear no such language against
the gentleman to whom I entrust the management of my property; of course, I refer the
matter solely to him.  I can do nothing in it."
" Kathleen, avourneen I" exclaimed the poor
man, as he looked up despairingly to heaven;
" and ye, poor darlins of my heart I is this the
news I'm to have for yez whin I go home?-As
you hope for mercy, Sir, don't turn away your
ear from my petition, that I'd humbly make to
yourself. Cowld, and hunger, and hardship, are
at home before me, yer honor.  If you'd be
plased to look at these resates, you'd see that I
always paid my rint; and'twas sickness and the
hard times    "




52           TUBBER DERG; OR,
"And your own honesty, industry, and good
conduct," said the Agent, giving a dark and
malignant sneer at him.  "Carthy, it shall be
my business to see that you do not spread a bad
spirit through the tenantry much longer.-Sir,
you have heard the fellow's admission. It is an
implied threat that he will give us much serious
trouble. There is not such another incendiary
on your property —not one, upon my honor."
" Sir," said a servant, " dinner is on the table."
"Sinclair," said his landlord, "give  him
another crown, and tell himn to trouble me no
more."  Saying which, he and his agent went
up to the drawing-room, and, in a moment,
Owen saw a large party sweep down stairs, full
of glee and vivacity, by whom both himself and
his distresses were as completely forgotten as if
they had never existed.
He now slowly departed, and knew not
whether the house-steward had given him money
or not until he felt it in his hand. A cold, sorrowful weight lay upon his heart; the din of
the town deadened his affliction into a stupor;
but an overwhelming sense of his disappointment, and a conviction of the Agent's diabolical




THE RED WELL.             53
falsehood, entered like barbed arrows into his
heart.
On leaving the steps, he looked up to heaven
in the distraction of his agonising thoughts; the
clouds were black and lowering-the wind
stormy —and, as it carried them  on its dark
wing along the sky, he wished, if it were the
will of God, that his head lay in the quiet graveyard where the ashes of his forefathers reposed in
peace. But he again remembered his Kathleen
and their children; and the large tears of anguish,
deep and bitter, rolled slowly down his cheeks.
We will not trace him  into an hospital,
whither the wound on his head occasioned him
to be sent, but simply state, that, on the second
week after this, a man, with his head bound in a
handkerchief, lame, bent, and evidently laboring
under severe illness or great affliction, might be
seen toiling slowly up the little hill that communicated a view of Tubber Derg.  On reaching the top he sat down to rest for a few
minutes, but his was eagerly turned to the house
which contained all that was dear to him on this
earth. The sun was setting, and shone, with his
half disc visible, in that dim and cheerless splen



54            TUBBER DERG; OR,
dor which produces almost in every temperament
a feeling of melancholy. His house which, in
happier days, formed so beautiful and conspicuous an object in the view, was now, from  the
darkness of its walls, scarcely discernable. The
position of the sun, too, rendered it more difficult to be seen; and Owen, for it was he, shaded
his eyes with his hand, to survey it more distinctly.  Many a harrowing thought and remembrance passed through his mind, as his eye
traced its dim outline in the fading light. He
had done his duty-he had gone to the fountain-head, with a hope that his simple story of
affliction might be heard; but all was fruitless:
the only gleam of hope that opened upon their
misery had now passed into darkness and despair for ever. Hie pressed his aching forehead
with distraction  as he thought of this; then
clasped his hands bitterly, and groaned aloud.
At length he rose, and proceeded with great
difficulty, for the short rest had stiffened his
weak and fatigued joints.  As he approached
home his heart sank; and as he ascended the
blood-red stream which covered the bridle-way
that led to his house, what with fatigue and




THE RED WELL.             55
affliction, his agitation weakened him so much
that he stopped, and leaned on his staff several
times, that he might take breath.
"It's too dark maybe for them to see me, or
poor Kathleen would send the darlins to give
me the she dha vehs.*  Kathleen, avourneen
machree! how my heart beats wid longin' to see
you, asthore, and to see the weeny crathursglory be to Him that has left them to me-praise
and glory to his name!"
He was now within a few perches of the door;
but a sudden misgiving shot across his heart
when he saw it shut, and no appearance of
smoke from the chimney, nor of stir or life' about
the house. He advanced"Mother of glory what's this! —But, wait,
let me rap agin.  Kathleen, Kathleen I —are
you widin, avourneen?  Owen-Alley-arn't
ye widin, childhre?  Alley, sure I'm come back
to you all!" and he rapped more loudly than
before.  A  dark  breeze swept through  the
bushes as he spoke, but no voice nor sound proceeded from the house; all was still as death
within.  "Alley I" he called once more to his
* The welcome.




56            TUBBER DERG; OR,
little favorite; "I'm  come home wid something
for you, asthorel I didn't forget you, alanna!I brought it from Dublin all the way. Alley!'
but the gloomy murmur of the blast was the
only reply.
Perhaps the most intense of all that he knew
as misery was that which he then felt; but
this state of suspense was soon terminated by
the appearance of a neighbor who was passing.
"Why, thin, Owen, but yer welcome home
agin, my poor fellow; and I'm sorry that I
haven't betther news for you, and so are all of us."
He whom he had addressed had almost lost
the power of speech:" Frallk," said he, and he wrung his hand.
"What-whnat? was death among them?  For
the sake of heaven, spake!"
The severe pressure which he received in
return ran like a shock of paralysis to his heart.
"Owen, you must be a man; every one pities
yez, and may the Almighty pity and sapport yez!
She is' indeed, Owen, gone; the weeny fairhaired child, your favorite Alley, is gone.  Yestherday she was berrid: and dacently the nabors
attinded t'ie place, and sent in, as far as tiley




THE RED WELL.            56
had it, both mate and dhrink to Kathleen and
the other ones. Now, Owen, you've heard it;
trust in God, an' be a man."
A deep and convulsive throe shook him to the
heart.  "Gone! —the fair-haired one! —Alley!Alley! —the pride of both our hearts; the sweet,
the quiet, and the sorrowful child, that seldom
played wid the rest, but kept wid miys!
Oh, my darlin', my darlin'l gone from my eyes
for ever! —God of glory; won't you support me
this night of sorrow and misery!"  With a sudden yet profound sense of humility, he dropped
on his knees at the threshold, and, as the tears
rolled down his convulsed cheeks, exclaimed, in
a burst of sublime piety, not at all uncommon
among our peasantry —"I thank you, 0  my
God! I thank you, an' I put myself an' my
weeny ones, my pastchee boght,* into your hands.
I thank you, 0 God, for what has happened!
Keep me up and support me-och, I want it!You loved the weeny one, and you took her;
she was the light of my eyes, and the pulse
of my broken heart, but you took her, blessed
Father of heaven! an' we can't be angry wid
My poor children.




58            TUBBER DERG, OR
you for so doin'I  Still if you had spared
her-if-if —O, blessed Father, my heart was
in the very one you took-but I thank you, 0
God? May she rest in peace, now and for ever,
Amin!"
He then rose up, and slowly wiping the tears
from his eyes, departed.
"Let me hould your arm, Frank, deal," said
he, "I'm weak and tired wid a long journey.
Och, an' can it be that she's gone-the fairhaired colleen! When I was lavin' home, an'
had kissed them all-'twas the first time we
ever parted, Kathleen and 1, since our marriagre-the blessed child came over an' held up
her mouth, sayin','Kiss me agin, father;' an'
this was afther herself an' all of them had kissed me afore. But, och! oh I blessed Mother I
Frank, where's my Kathleen and the rest? —and
why are they out of their own poor place?"
"Owen, I tould you a while agone, that you
must be a man.  I gave you the worst news
first, an' what's to come doesn't signify much.
It was too dear; for if any man could live upon
it you could: — you have neither house nor
home, Owen, nor land. An ordher came from




THE RED WELL.             59
the Agint; your last cow was taken, so was all
vou had in the world-hem-barrin' a thrifle.
No, —bad manners to it I no,-you're not widout a home, anyway. The family's in my barn,
brave and comfortable, compared to what your
own house was, that let in the wather through
the roof like a sieve; and, while the same barns
to.the fore, never say you want a home."
" God bless you, Frank, for that goodness to
them and me; if you're not rewarded for it here,
you will in a betther place. Och, I long to see
Kathleen and the childher    But I'm  fairly
broken down, Frank, and hardly able to mark
the ground; and, indeed, no wondher, if you
knew but all: still, let God's will be done!
Poor Kathleen, I must bear up afore her, or
she'll break her heart; for I know how she
loved the goolden-haired darlin' that's gone from
us. Och, and how did she go, Frank, for I left
her betther?"
"Why, the poor girsha took a relapse, and
wasn't strong enough to bear up against the
last attack; but it's one comfort that you know
she's happy."
Owen stood for a moment, and, looking




60           TUBBER DERG; OR,
solemnly in his neighbor's face, exclaimed, in
a deep and exhausted voice, "Frank!"
"What are you goin' to say, Owen?"
"The heart widin me's broke-brokel"
The large tears rolled down his weatherbeaten cheeks, and he proceeded in silence to
the house of his friend.  There was, however,
a feeling of sorrow in his words and manner
which Frank could not withstand. He grasped
Owen's hand, and, in a low and broken voice,
simply said —" Keep your spirits up -keep
them up."
When they came to the barn in which his.helpless family had taken up their temporary
residence, Owen stood for a moment to collect
himself; but he was nervous, and trembled with
repressed emotion.  They then entered; and
Kathleen, on seeing her beloved and affectionate husband, threw herself on his bosom, and
for some time felt neither joy nor sorrow —
she had swooned. The poor man embraced
her with a tenderness at once mournful and
deep.
The children, on seeing their father safely
returned, forgot their recent grief, and clung




THE RED WELL.            61
about him with gladness and delight.  In the
mean time Kathleen recovered, and Owen for
many minutes could not check the loud and
Clamorous grief, now revived by the presence of
her husband, with which the heart-broken and
emaciated mother deplored her departed child;
and Owen himself, on once more looking among
the little ones, on seeing her little frock hanging
up, and her stool vacant by the fire-on missing
her voice and her blue laughing eyes —and
remembering the affectionate manner in which,
as with a presentiment of death, she held up her
little mouth and offered him the last kiss —he
slowly pulled the toys and cakes he had purchased for her out of his pocket, surveyed them
for a moment, and then, putting his hands on
his face, bent his head upon his bosom, and
wept with the vehement outpouring of a father's
sorrow.
The reader perceives that he was a meek man;
that his passions were not dark nor violent; he
bore no revenge to those who neglected or injured him, and in this he differed from too many
of his countrymen. No; his spirit was broken
down with sorrow, and had not room for the
6




62            TUBBER DERG; OR,
fiercer and more destructive passions. His case
excited general pity.  Whatever his neighbors
could do to soothe him and alleviate his affliction was done. His farm was not taken; for
fearful threats were held out against those who
might venture to occupy it.  In these threats
he had nothing to do; on the contrary, he
strongly deprecated  them.  Their existence,
however, was deemed by the Agent sufficient
to justify him in his callous and malignant
severity towards him.
We did not write this story for effect. Our
object was to relate facts that occurred.  In
Ireland, there is much blame justly attached to
landlords, for their neglect and severity, in such
depressed times, towards their tenants: there is
also much that is not only indefensible but atrocious on the part of the tenants. But can the
landed proprietors of Ireland plead ignorance or
want of education for their neglect and rapacity,
whilst the crimes of the tenants, on the contrary,
may in general be ascribed to both? He who
lives-as, perhaps, his forefathers have doneupon any man's property, and fails from unavoidable calamity, has as just and clear a right




THE RED WELL.             63
to assistance from the landlord as if the amount
of that aid were a bonded debt. Common policy, common sense, and common justice, should
induce the Irish landlords to lower their rents
according to the market for agricultural produce, otherwise poverty, famine, crime, and
vague political speculations, founded upon idle
hopes of a general transfer of property, will
spread over and convulse the kingdom. Any
man who looks into our poverty, may see that
our landlords ought to reduce their rents to a
standard suitable to the times, and to the ability
of the tenant.
But to return.  Owen, for another year,
struggled on for his family, without success; his
firm spirit was broken; employment he could
not get, and even had it been regular, he would
have found it impracticable to support his helpless wife and children by his labor. The next
year unhappily was also one of sickness and of
want; the country was not only a wide waste of
poverty, but overspread with typhus fever. One
Saturday night he and the family found themselves without food; they had not tasted a morsel for twenty-four hours. There were murmur



64           TUBBER DERG; OR,
ings and tears, and finally, a low conversation
among tlhem, as if they held a conference upon
some subject which filled them with both grief
and satisfaction. In this alternation of feeling
did they pass the time until the sharp gnawing
of hunger was relieved by sleep. A keen December wind blew with a bitter blast on the following morning; the rain was borne along upon
it with violence, and the cold was chill and
piercing.  Owen, his wife, and their six children, issued at day-break out of the barn in
which, ever since their removal from Tubber
Derg, they had lived until then; their miserable
fiagments of bed-clothes were tied in a bundle
to keep them dry; their pace was slow, need we
say sorrowful; all were in tears.  Owen and
Kathleen went first, with a child upon the back,
and another in the hand of each. Their route
lay by their former dwelling, the door of which
was open, for it had not been inhabited. -On
passing it they stood a moment; then with a
simultaneous impulse both approached-entered-and took one last look of a spot to which
th:eir hearts clung with enduring attachment.
fhey then returned; and as they passed, Ow



THE RED WELL.            65
en put forth his hand, picked a few small pebbles out of the wall, and put them in his
pocket.
"FarewellI" said he, "and may the blessin'
of God rest upon youI We now lave you for
ever I We're goin' at last to beg our bread
through the world wide, where none will know
of the happy days we passed widin your walls!
We must lave you; but glory be to the Almighty,
we are goin' wid a clear conscience; we took no
revenge into our own hands, but left everything
to God above us. We are poor, but there is
neither blood, nor murder, nor dishonesty upon
our heads.  Don't cry, Kathleen —don't cry,
childher; there is still a good God above, who
can and may do something for us yet, glory be
to his holy name "
He then passed on with his family, which,
including himself, made, in all, eight paupers,
being an additional burden upon the country,
which might easily have been avoided. His
land was about two years waste, and when it
was ultimately taken, the house was a ruin, and
the money allowed by the landlord for building
a new  one, together with the loss of two
6*




66           TUBBER DERG; OR,
years' rent, would, if humanely directed, have
enabled Owen M'Carthy to remain a solvent
tenant.
When an Irish peasant is reduced to pauperism, he seldom commences the melancholy task
of soliciting alms in his native place. The trial
is always a severe one, and he is anxious to
hide his shame and misery from the eyes of those
who know him. This is one reason why some
system of poor laws should be introduced into
the country. Paupers of this description become
a burden upon strangers, whilst those who are
capable of entering with friendly sympathy into
their misfortunes have no opportunity of assisting them. Indeed this shame of seeking alms
from those who have known the mendicant in
better days, is a proof that the absence of poor
laws takes away from the poor classes one of
the strongest incitements to industry; for instance, if every pauper in Ireland were confined
to his own parish, and compelled to beg from
their own acquaintances, the sense of shatme
alone would, by stirring them up to greater inindustry, reduce the number of mendicants one
half.  There is a strong spirit of family pride




THE RED WELL.              67
in Ireland, which would be sufficient to make
many poor, of both sexes, exert themselves to
the utmost rather than cast a stain upon their
name, or bring a blush to the face of their
relations. But now it is not so; the mendicant
sets out to beg, and in most instances commences his new mode of life in some distant part
of the country, where his name and family are
not known.
Indeed it is astonishing how any man can, for
a moment, hesitate to form his opinion upon the
subject of poor laws. The English and Scotch
gentry know something about the middle and
lower classes of their respective countries, and
of course they have a fixed system of provision
for the poor in each. The ignorance of the
Irish gentry,. upon almost every subject connected with the real good of the people, is only
in keeping with their ignorance of the people
themselves.  It is to be feared, however, that
their disinclination to introduce poor laws arises
legs from actual ignorance, than froIn an illiberal
selfishness.  The facts of the case are these:In Ireland the whole support of the inconceivable multitude of paupers, who swarm like




68            TUBBER DERG; OR,
locusts over the surface of the country, rests
upon the middle and lower classes, or rather upon
the latter, for there is scarcely such a thing in
this uuhappy country as a middle class. In not
one out of a thousand instances do the gentry
contribute to the mendicant poor. In the first
place, a vast proportion of our landlords are
absentees, who squander upon their own pleasures or vices, in the theatres, saloons, or gaminghouses of France or in the softer profligacies of
Italy, that which ought to return in some shape
to stand in the place of duties so shamefully
neglected. These persons contribute nothing to
the poor, except the various evils which their
absence entails on them.
On the other hand, the resident gentry never,
in any case, assist a beggar, even in the remote
parts of the country, where there are no Mendicity Institutions.  Nor do the beggars ever
think of applying to them. They know that
his Honor's dogs would be slipped at them; or
that the whip might be laid, perhaps, to the
shoulders of a broken-hearted father, with his
brood of helpless children wanting food; perhaps, upon the emaciated person of a miserable




THE RED WELL.             69
widow, who begs for her orphans, only because
the hands that supported, and would have defended both her and them, are mouldered into
dust.
Upon the middle and lower classes, therefore,
comes directly the heavy burden of supporting
the great mass of pauperism that presses upon
Ireland. It is certain that the Irish landlords
know this, and that they are reluctant to see
any law enacted which might make the performance of their duties to the poor compulsory.
This, indeed, is natural in men who have so
inhumanly neglected them.
But what must the state of a country be
where those who are on the way to pauperism
themselves are exclusively burdened with the
support of the vagrant poor? It is like putting
additional weight on a man already sinking
under the burden he bears. The landlords suppose, that because the maintenance of the idle
who are able, and of the aged and infirm who
are not able to work, comes upon the renters of
land, they themselves are exempted from their
support.  This, if true, is as bitter a stigma
upon their humanity as upon their sense of




~70           TUBBER IE:RG; OR,
justice: but it is not true. Though the cost of
supporting such an incredible number of the idle
and helpless does, in the first place fall upon the
tenant, yet, by diminishing his means, and often
compelling him to purchase, towards the end of
the season a portion of food equal to that which
he has given away in charity, it certainly becomes ultimately a clear deduction from the
landlord's rent. In either case it is a deduction,
but in the latter it is often doubly so; inasmuch
as the poor tenants must frequent pay, at the
close of the season, double, perhaps treble, the
price which provision brought at the beginning
of it.
Any person conversant with the Irish people
must frequently have heard such dialogues as
the following, during the application of a beggar for alms:M1endicant. —-" We're axin' your charity, for
God's sake!"
Poor Tenant.-" Why thin for His sake you
would get it, poor crathur, if we had it; but
it's not for you widin the four corners of the
house.  It'ud be well for us if we had now
all- we gave away in charity durztn' the whole




THE RFb WELL.             71
year; we wouldn't have to be buyin' for our
selves at three prices. Why don't you go up
to the Big House?  They're rich and can
afford it."
MIendicant, with a shrug, which sets all his
coats and bags in motion-" Och! och! The
Big House, inagh  Musha, do you want me,
an' the childhre here, to be torn to pieces wid
the dogs? or lashed wid a whip by one o' the
sarvints? No, no, avourneen!" (with a hopeless shake of the head.) " That'ud be a blue
look-up, like a clear evenin'."
Poor Tenant.-" Then, indeed, we haven't it
to help you, now, poor man. We're buyin' ourselves."
Mendicant. —" Thin, thruth, that's lucky, so it
is! I've as purty a grain o' male here, as you'd
wish to thicken watller wid, that I sthruv to get
together, in hopes to be able to buy a quarther
o' tobaccy, along wid a pair o' new bades an' a
scapular for myself. I'm suspicious that there's
about a stone ov it altogether. You can have
it anunder the market price, for I'm frettin' at
not havin' the scapular an me. Sure the Lord
will sind me an' the childhre a bit an' sup some




?72           TUBBER tERG; OR,
way else-glory to his name! —besides a lock o'
praties in the corner o' the bag here, that'll do
us for this day, any way."
The bargain is immediately struck, and the
poor tenant is glad to purchase, even from a
beggar, his stone of meal, in consequence of
getting it a few  pence under market price.
Such scenes as this, which are of frequent ocsurrence in the country parts of Ireland, need
no comment.
This, certainly, is not a state of things which
should be permitted to exist. Every man ought
to be compelled to support the poor of his native
parish according to his means. It is an indelible disgrace to the legislature so long to have
neglected the paupers of Ireland. Is it to be
thought of with common patience that a person
rolling in wealth shall feed upon his turtle, his
venison, and his costly luxuries of every description, for which he will not scruple to pay the
highest price-that this heartless and selfish
man, whether he reside at home or abroad, shall
thus unconscionably pamper himself with viands
purchased by the toil of the people, and yet not
contribute to assist them, when poverty, sick



THE REbD WELL.            73
ness, or age, throws them upon the scanty support of casual charity!
Shall this man be permitted to batten in luxury in a foreign land, or, at home; to whip our
paupers from his carriage; or hunt them, like
beasts of prey, from h]is grounds, whilst the
lower classes-the gradually decaying poor —
are compelled to groan under the burden of
their support in addition to their other burdens? Surely it is not a question which admits
of argument.  This subject has been darkened
and made difficult by fine-spun and unintelligible
theories, when the only knowledge necessary to
understand it may be gained by spending a few
weeks in some poor village in the interior of the
country. As for Parliamentary Committees upon this or any other subject, they are, with reverence be it spoken, thoroughly contemptible.
They will summon and examine witnesses who,
for the most part, know little about the habits
or distresses of the poor; public money will be
wasted in defraying their expenses and in printing reports; resolutions will be passed; something will be said about it in the House of
Commons; and, in a few weeks, after resolving
7




74            TUBBER DERG; OR,
and re-resolving, it is as little thought of, as if it
had never been the subject of investigation. In
the mean time the evil proceeds-becomes more
inveterate-eats into the already declining pros*erity of the country-whilst those who suffer
under it have the consolation of knowing that a
Parliamentary Committee sat longer upon il
than so many geese upon their eggs, but hatch
ed nothing. Two circumstances, connected with
pauperism in Ireland, are worthy of notice. The
first is this-the Roman Catholics, who certainly
constitute the bulk of the population, feel themselves called upon, from the peculiar tenets of
their religion, to exercise indiscriminate charity
largely to the begging poor.
The second point, in connexion with pauperisin, is the immoral influence that proceeds from
the relation in which the begging poor in Ireland stand towards the class by whom they are
supported. These, as we have already said, are
the poorest, least educated, and consequently
the most ignorant description of the people.
They are, also, the most numerous.  There
have been for centuries, probably since the
Reformation itself, certain opinions floating




THE RED WELL.             75
among the lower classes in Ireland, all tending to prepare them for some great change in
their favor, arising from the discomfiture of
heresy, the overthrow of their enemies, and the
exaltation of themselves and their religion.
Scarcely had the public mind subsided after
the Rebellion of Ninety-eight, when the success
of Buonaparte directed the eyes and the hopes
of the Irish people towards him, as the person
designed to be their deliverer.  Many a fine
fiction has the author of this work heard about
that great man's escapes, concerning the bullets
that conveniently turned aside from his person,
and the sabres that civilly declined to cut him
down. Many prophecies too were related, in
which the glory of this country under his reign
was touched off in the happiest colors. Pastorini also gave such notions an impulse. Eighteen
twenty-five was to be the year of their deliverance: George the Fourth was never to fill the
British throne; and the mill of Lowth was to
be turned three times with human blood.  "The
miller with the two thumbs was then living,"
said the mendicants, for they were the principal
propagators of these opinions, and the great




T76          TUBBER DERG; OR,
expounders of their own prophecies; so that of
course there could be no further doubt upon the
subject. Several of them had seen him, a redhaired man with broad shoulders, stout legs,
exactly such as a miller ought to have, and two
thumbs on his right hand; all precisely as the
prophecy had stated. Then there was Beal-derg,
and several others of the fierce old Milesian
chiefs, who along with their armies lay in an
enchanted sleep, all ready to awake and take
a part in the delivery of the country.  "Sure
such a man," and they would name one in the
time of the mendicant's grandfather, "was once
going to a fair to sell a horse —well and good;
the time was the dawn of morning, a little
before day-light: he met a man who undertook
top purchase his horse; they agreed upon the
price, and the seller of him followed the buyer
into a Rath, where he found a range of horses,
each with an armed soldier asleep by his side,
ready to spring upon him  if awoke.  The
purchaser cautioned the owner of the horse as
they were about to enter the subterraneous
dwelling, against touching either horse or man;
but the countryman happening to stumble, in



THE RED WELL.              7
advertently laid his his hand upon a sleeping soldier,
who immediately leaped up, drew his sword, and
asked,' Wuil anam inh?''Is the time in it?
Is the time arrived?' To which the horse-dealer
of the Rath replied,'Ha niel.  Gho dhee collho'w
areesht.''No: go to sleep again.' Upon this
the soldier immediately sank down in his former
position, and unbroken sleep reigned throughout
the cave."  The influence of the warm imaginations of an ignorant people, of such fictions concocted by vagrant mendicants, is very pernicious.
They fill their minds with the most palpable
absurdities, and, what is worse, with opinions,
which beside being injurious to those who receive
them, in every instance insure for those who
propagate themr  a cordial and kind reception.
These mendicants consequently pander, for
their own selfish ends, to the prejudices of the
ignorant, which they nourish and draw out in a
manlier that has in no slight degree been subversive of the peace of the country. Scarcely
any political circumstance occurs which they do
not immediately seize upon and twist to their
own purposes, or in other words, to the opinions
of those from whom they derive their support
7*




7 8           TUBBER DERG; OR,
When our present police first appeared in their
uniforms and black  belts, another prophecy,
forsooth, was fulfilled. Immediately before the
downfall of heresy, a body of "Black Militia"
was to appear; the police, then, are the black
militia, and the people consider themselves
another step nearer the consummation of their
vague speculations.
In the year Ninety-eight, the Irish mendicants were active agents, clever spies, and
expert messengers on the part of the people;
and to this day they carry falsehood, and the
materials of outrage in its worst shape, into the
bosom of peaceable families, who would, otherwise, never become connected with a system
which is calculated to bring ruin and destruction
upon those who permit themselves to join it.
This evil, and it is no trifling one, would, by
the introduction of poor-laws, be utterly abolished; the people would not only be more easily
improved, but education, when received, would
not be corrupted by the infusion into it of such
ingredients as the above. In many other points
of view, the confirmed and hackeneyed mendicants of Ireland are a great evil to the morals




THE RED WELL.              7
of the people.  We could easily detail them,
but such not being our object at present, we will
now dismiss the subject of poor-laws, and resume
our narrative.
Far-far different from this description of
impostors, were Owen M'Carthy and his family.
Their misfortunes were not the consequences of
negligence or misconduct on their own part.
They struggled long but unavailingly against
high rents and low markets; against neglect on
the part of the landlord and his agent; against
sickness, famine, and  death.  They had  no
alternative but to beg or starve.  Owen was
willing to work, but he could not procure employment: and provided he could, the miserable
sum of sixpence a day, when food was scarce
and dear, would not support him, his wife, and
six little ones. He became a pauper, therefore,
only to avoid starvation.
Heavy and black was his heart, to use the
strong expression of the people, on the bitter
morning when he set out to encounter the dismal
task of seeking alms, in order to keep life in
himself and his family.  The plan was devised
on the preceding night, but to no mortal, except




80           TUBBER DERG; OR,
his wife, was it communicated. The honest pride
of a man whose mind was above committing a
mean action, would not permit him to reveal
what he considered the first stain that ever was
known to rest upon the name of M'Carthy; he
therefore sallied out under the beatings of the
storm, and proceeded, without caring much
whither he went, until he got considerably beyond the bounds of his own parish.
In the mean time hunger pressed keenly upon
him and them. The day had no appearance of
clearing up; the heavy rain and sleet beat into
their thin, worn garments, and the clamor of his
children for food began to grow more and more
importunate.  They came to the shelter of a
hedgce, which inclosed on one side a remote and
broken road, along which, in order to avoid the
risk of being recognised, they had preferred
traveling. Owen stood here for a few minutes to
consult with his wife, as to where and when they
should "make a beginning;" but on looking
round, he found her in tears.
" Kathleen, asthore, said he, "I can't bid you
not to cry; bear up, acushla macbree; bear up:
sure, as I said when we came out this mornin',




THE RED WELL.             81
there's a good God above us, that can still turn
over the good lafe for us, if we put our hopes
in him."
"Owen," said his sinking wife, "it's not altogether bekase we're brought to this that I'm
cryin'; no, indeed."
" Thin what ails you, Kathleen, darlin'?"
The wife hesitated, and evaded the question
for some time; but at length, upon his pressing
her for an answer, with a fresh gush of sorrow,
she replied, " Owen, since you must know-och,
may God pity us! —since you must know, it's wid
hunger-wid hunger! I kept, unknownst, a little
bit of bread to give the childhre this mornin',
and that was part of it that I gave you yesterday early-I'm near two days fastin' "
"Kathleen I Kathleen I Och! sure I know
your worth, avillish. You were too good a wife,
an' too good a mother, a'most! God forgive
me, Kathleen I I fretted about beginnin', dear;
but as my Heavenly Father's above me, I'm
now happier to beg wid you by my side, nor
if I war in the best house in the province widout you I  Hould up, avourneen, for a while.
Come on, childhre, darlins, an' the first house




82            TUBBER DERG; OR,
we meet we'll ax their char., their assist.
ance.  Come on, darlins, and all of yees. mihy
my heart's asier, so it is.  Sure we have your
mother, childhre, safe wid us, an' what signifies
anything so long as she's left to us?"
He then raised his wife tenderly, for she had
been compelled to sit from weakness, and they
bent their steps to a decent farm-house that
stood a few perches off the road, about a quarter of a mile before them.
As they approached the door, the husband
hesitated a moment; his face got paler than
usual, and his lip quivered as he said-" Kathleen-"
"I know what you're goin' to say, Owen.
No, acushla, y/ou won't; I'll ax it myself."
"Do," said Owen, with difficulty; "I can't do
it; but I'll overcome my pride afore long, I
hope.  It's thryin' to me, Kathleen, an' you
know it is-for you know how little I ever
expected to be brought to this."
" Husht, avillish! We'll thry, then, in the
name o' God."
As she spoke, the children, herself, and her
husband entered, to beg, for the first time in




THE RED WELL.             83
their lives, a morsel of food.  Yes! timidlywith a blush of shame, red even to crimson,
upon the pallid features of Kathleen-with
grief acute and piercing —they entered the
house together.
For some minutes they stood and spoke not.
The unhappy woman, unaccustomed to the language of supplication, scarcely knew in what
terms to crave assistance. Owen himself stood
back, uncovered, his fine, but much changed
features, overcast with an expression of deep
affliction.  Kathleen cast a single glance at
him, as if for encouragement. Their eyes met;
she saw the upright man-the last remnant of
the M'Carthy-himself once the friend of the
poor, of the unhappy, of the afflicted —standing
crushed and broken down by misfortunes which
he had not deserved, waiting with patience for a
morsel of charity.  Owen, too, had his remembrances.  He recollected the days when he
sought and gained the pure and fond- affections of his Kathleen: when beauty, and youth,
and innocence encircled her with their light and
their grace, as she spoke or moved; he saw her
a happy wife and mother in her own home, kind




84            TUBBER DERG; OR,
and benevolent to all who required her good
word or her good office, and remembered the
sweetness of her light-hearted song; but now
she was homeless.  He remembered, too, how
she used to plead with himself for the afflicted
It was but a moment; yet when their eyes met,
that moment was crowded by recollections that
flashed across their minds with a keen sense of a
lot so bitter and wretched as theirs. Kathleen
could not speak, although she tried; her sobs denied her utterance; and Owen involuntarily sat
upon a chair, and covered his face with his hand.
To an observing eye it is never difficult to
detect the cant of imposture, or to perceive distress when it is real. The good woman of the
house, as is usual in Ireland, was in the act of
approaching them, unsolicited, with a double
handful of meal-that is what the Scotch and
northern Irish call a gowpen, or as much as both
hands locked together can contain-when, no
ticing their distress, she paused a moment, eyed
them more closely, and exclaimed" What's ithis? Why there's something wrong
wid you, good people I But first an' foremost
take this, in the name an' honor of God."




THE RED WELL.                85
" May the blessin' of the same Man * rest
upon yees " replied Kathleen.  "This is a sorrowful thrial to us; for it's our first day to be
upon the world; an' this is the first help of the
kind we ever axed for, or ever got; an' indeed
now I find we haven't even a place to carry
it in.  I've no-b-b-cloth, or anything to
hould it."
"Your first, is it?" said the good woman.
"Your first! May the marciful queen o' heaven
look down upon yees, but it's a bitther day yees
war driven out in! Sit down, there, you poor
crathur. God pity you, I pray this day, for you
have a heart-broken look!  Sit down awhile,
near the fire, you an' the childhre! Come over,
darlins, an' warm yourselves. Och, oh! but it's
a thousand pities to see sich fine childhrehandsome an' good lookin' even as they are,
brought to this!  Come over, good man; get
near the fire, for you're wet an' could all of ye.
Brian, ludher them two lazy thieves o' dogs out
~ God is sometimes thus termed in Ireland. By "Man"
here is meant person or being. He is also called the " Man
above"; although this must have been intended for, and
often is applied to, Christ only.




86            TUBBER DERG; OR,
o' that.  Eiree suas, a wadlee bradagh, agms go
mah a shin!-be off wid yez, ye lazy divils,
that's not worth your feedin'!  Come over, honest man."
Owen and his family were placed near the
fire; the poor man's heart was full, and he
sighed heavily.
" May He that is pleased to thry us," he exclaimed, "reward you for this!  We are," he
continued, "a poor an' a sufferin' family; but
it's the will of God that we should be so, an'
sure we can't complain widout committin' sin.
All we ax now, is, that it may be plasin' to him
that brought us low, to enable us to bear up
undher our thrials.  We would take it to our
choice to beg an' be honest, sooner nor be
wealthy, an' wicked I  We have our failings,
an' our sins,'God help us; but still there's
nothin' dark  or heavy on  our consciences.
Glory be to the name o' God for it!"
"Throth, I believe you," replied the farmer's
wife; "there's thruth an' honesty in your face;
one may easily see the remains of dacency about
you all. Musha, throw your little things aside,
an' stay where ye are to-doiy: you can't bring




THE RED WELL.             87
out the childhre under the teem of rain an' sleet
that's in it.  Wurrah dheelish, but it's the bitther day all out!  Faix, Paddy will get a
dhrookin, so he will, at that weary fair wid
the stirks, poor bouchal —a son of ours that's
gone to Ballyboulteen to sell some cattle, an'
he'll not be worth three hapuns afore he comes
back.  I hope he'll have sinse to go into some
house, when he's done, an' dhry himself well,
any how, besides takin' somethin' to keep out
the could. Put by your things, an' don't think
of goin' out sich a day."
We thank you," replied Owen.  "Indeed
we're glad to stay undher your roof; for, poor
things, they're badly able to thravel sich a daythese childhre."
" AMusha, ye ate no breakfast, maybe?"
Owen and his family were silent. The children
looked wistfully at their parents, anxious that they
should confirm what the good woman surmised;
the father looked again at his famished brood
and his sinking wife, and nature overcame him.
" Food did not crass our lips this day," replied
Owen; "*an' I may say hardly anything yestherday."




88            TUBBER DERG; OR,
"Oh, blessed motherl Here, Katty, Murray,
drop scrubbin' that dresser, an' put down the
middlin' pot for stirabout. Be livin'l maqzinz an
diouol, woman alive, handle yourself; you might
a had it boilin' by this. God presarve us!-to
be two days widout atin': Be the crass, Katty,
if you're not alive, I'll give you a douse o' tlhe
churnstaff that'll bring the fire to your eyes I
Do you hear me?"
"I do hear you, an' did often feel you, too,
for fraid hearin' wouldn't do. Yo think there's
no places in the world but your own, I b'lieve.
Faix, indeed! it's well come up wid us, to be
randied about with no less a switch than a
churnstaff!"
"Is it givin' back talk, you are?  Bad end to
me, if you look crucked but I'll lave you a mark
to remimber me by. What woman'ud put up
wid you but myself, you shkamin flipe? It wasn't
to give me your bad tongue I hired you, but to
do your business; an' be the crass above us, if
you turn your tongue on me agin, I'll give you
the weight o' the churnstaff. Is it bekase they're
poor people that it plased God to bring to this,
that you turn up your nose at doin' anything to




THE RED WELL.              89
Jarve them?  There's not wather enough there,
I say-put in more.  What signifies all the
stirabout that'udn make?  Put plinty in: it's
betther always to have too much than too little.
Faix, I tell you, you'll want a male's meat anl
a night's lodgin' afore you die, if you don't mend
your manners."
" Och, musha, the poor girl is doin' her best,"
observed Kathleen; " an' I'm  sure she would'nt
be guilty of usin' pride to the likes of us, or to
any one that the Lord has laid his hand upon."
"She had betther not, while I'm to the fore,"
said her mistress.  "What is she herself?  Sure
if it was a sin to be poor, God help the world.
No; it's neither a sin nor a shame."
"Thanks be to God, no," said Owen; "it's
neither the one nor the other. So long as we
keep a fair name, an' a clear conscience, we can't
ever say that our case is hard."
After soime further conversation a comfortable
breakfast was prepared for them, of which they
partook with an appetite sharpened by their
long, abstinence from food.  Their stay here was
particularly fortunate, for as they were certain
of a cordial welcome, and an abundance of that
8*




90           TUBBER DERG; OR,
which they much wanted-wholesome food-the
pressure of immediate distress was removed.
They had time to think more accurately upon
the little preparations for misery which were
necessary, and, as the day's leisure was at
their disposal, Kathleen's needle and scissors
were industriously plied in mending the tattered
clothes of her husband and her children, in order
to meet the inclemency of the weather.
On the following morning, after another abundant breakfast, and substantial marks of kindness from their entertainers, they prepared to
resume their new and melancholy mode of life.
As they were about to depart, the farmer's wife
addressed them in the following terms —the
farmer himself, by the way, being but the
shadow of his worthy partner in lifeWiTfe-" Now, good people, you're takin' the
world on your heads    "
Fakrmer-" Ay, good people, you're takin' the
world on your heads   "
HWife-" Ilould your tongue, Brian, an' suck
your dhudeen.  It's me that's spakin' to them,
so none of your palaver, if you plase, till I'm
done, an' then you may prache till Tib's




THE RED WELL.              91
Eve, an' that's neither before Christmas nor
afther it."
Farmer-" Sure I'm  sayin' nothin', Elveen,
barrin' houldin' my tongue, a shuchar."*
~ Wife-" You're takin' the world on yez, an'
God knows'tis a heavy load to carry, poor
crathurs."
Farmer —" A heavy load, poor crathurs! God
he knows it's that."
Wife-" Brian!  Gluntho ma?"-did you
hear me? You'll be puttin' in your gab, an' me
spakin'?  lHow-an-iver, as I was sayin', our
house was the first ye came to, an' they say
there's a great blessin' to thim  that gives the
first charity to a poor man or woman settin' out
to look for their bit."
Farmer-" Throgs, ay!  Whin they set out
to look for their bit."
Wrife-" By the crass, Brian, you'd vex a
saint. What have you to say in it, you pittiogue?t  Hould your whisht now, an' suck your
dhudeen, I say; sure I allow you a quarther o'
* My sugar.
t Untranslateable-but means a womanly man-a poor
effeminate creature.




92            TUBBER DERG; OR,
tobaccy a week, an' what right have you to be
puttin' in your gosther when other people's
spakin'?"
Farmer-" Go an."
Tife-" So, you see, the long and the short
of it is, that whenever you happen to be in this
side of the counthry, always come to us.  You
know the ould sayin'-when the poor man comes
he brings a blessin', an' when he goes he carries
away a curse.  You have as much meal as will
last yez a day or two; an' God he sees you're
heartily welcome to all ye got?"
Farmers-"God he sees you're heartily welcome     ".Wife —"Chorp an diouol, Brian, hould your
tonlgue, or I'll turn you out o'the kitchen.  One
can't hear their own ears for you, you poor
squakin' dhrone.  By the crass, I'll-eh?  Will
you whisllt, now?"
Farmer-" Go an.  Amn't I dhrawin' my
pipe?"
Tvife-" Well, dhraw it; but don't draw mae
down upon you, barrin -. Do you hea:r,he?
an' the sthrange people to the fore, too!  M:!l,
the Lord be wid yez, an' bless yez!  But afore




THE RED WELL.             93
yez go, jist lave your blessin' wid us: for it's a
good thing to have the blessin' of the poor."
"The Lord bless you, an' yours!" said Owen,
fervently.  "May you an' them never-oh, may
you never —never suffer what we've suffered; nor
know what it is to want a male's mate, or a
night's lodgin'!"
"Amin!" exclaimed Kathleen; "may the
world flow upon you! for your good kind
heart desarves it."
Farmer —" An' whisper; I wish you'd offer
up a prayer for the rulin' o' the tongue.  The
Lord might hear you, but there's no great hopes
that ever he'll hear me; though I've prayed for
it amost ever since I was married, night an' day,
winther an' summer; but no use, she's as bad as
ever."
This was said in a kind of friendly insinuating
undertone to Owen; who, on hearing it, simply
nodded his head, but made no other reply.
They then recommenced their journey, after
having once more blessed, and been invited by,
their charitable entertainers, who made them
promise never to pass their house without stopping a night with them.




94           TUBBER DERG; OR,
It is not our intention to trace Owen M'Carthy and his wife through all the variety which a
wandering pauper's life affords. He never could
reconcile himself to the habits of a mendicant.
His honest pride and integrity of heart raised
him above it; neither did he sink into the whine
and cant of imposture, nor the slang of knavery.
No; there was a touch of manly sorrow about
him, which neither.time, nor familiarity with his
degraded mode of life, could take away from
him. His usual observation to his wife, and he
never made it without a pang of intense bitterness, was — " Kathleen, darlin', it's thrue we
have enough to ate an' to dhrink; but we
have no home-no home "  To a man like him
it was a thought of surpassing bitterness, indeed.
"Ah! Kathleen," he would observe, "if we
had but the poorest shed that could be built,
provided it was our ownl, wouldn't we be happy?
The bread we ate, avourneen, doesn't do us
good. We don't work for it; it's the bread of
shame and idleness: and yet it's Owen M'Carthy
that ates it! But, avourneen, that's past; an'
we'll never see our own home, or our own hearth




TIHE RED WELL.            95
agin. That's what's cuttin' into my heart, Kathleen. Never!-never!"
Many a trial, too, of another kind, was his
patience called upon to sustain; particularly
from the wealthy and the more elevated in life,
when his inexperience as a mendicant led him to
solicit their assistance.
"Begone, sirrah, off my grounds!" one would
say.  "Why don't you work, you sturdy impostor," another would exclaim, "rather than
stroll about so lazily, training your brats to
the gallows?"  "You should be taken up, fellow, as a vagrant," a third would observe; " and
if I ever catch you coming up my avenue again,
depend upon it, I will slip my dogs at you and
your idle spawn."
Owen, on these occasions, turned away in
silence; he did not curse them; but the pangs
of his honest heart went before Him who will,
sooner or later, visit upon the heads of such
men their cruel spurning and neglect of the
poor.
"Kathleen," he observed to his wife, one day,
about a year or more after they had begun to
beg; " Kathleen, I have been turnin' it in my




9 6           TUBBER DERG; OR,
mind, that some of these childhre might sthrive
to earn their bit an' sup, an' their little coverin'
of clo'es, poor things. We might put them to
herd cows in the summer, an' the girshas to
somethin' else in the farmers' houses. What do
you think, asthore?"
"For God's sake do, Owen; sure my heart's
crushed to see them-my own childhre, that I
could lay down my life for —beggin' from door
to door. Och, do something for them that way
Owen, an' you'll relieve the heart that loves
them. It's a sore sight to a mother's eye, Owen,
to see her childhre berggin' their morsel."
"It is, darlin'-it is; we'll hire out the three
eldest,-Brian, an' Owen, an' Pether, to herd
cows; an' we may get Peggy into some farmer's
house to do loose jobs an' run of messages.
Then we'd have only little Kathleen an' poor
Ned along wid us. I'll thry any way, an' if I
can get them places, who knows what may happen?  I have a plan in my head that I'll tell
you, thin."
"Arrah, what is it, Owen, jewel?  Sure if I
know it, maybe when I'm sorrowful, that thinkin' of it, an' lookin' forrid to it will make me




THE RED WELL.             97
happier. An' I'm sure, acushla, you would like
that."
" But, maybe, Kathleen, if it wouldn't come
to pass, that the disappointment'ud be heavy
on you?"
" How could it, Owen? Sure we can't lie
worse nor we are, whatever happens?"
"Thrue enough, indeed, I forgot that; an'
yet we might, Kathleen. Sure we'd be worse,
if we or the childhre had bad health."
" God forgive me thin for what I said I We
might be worse. Well, but what is the plan,
Owen?"
"Why, when we get the childhre places, I'll
sthrive to take a little house,'an' work as a cottar. Then, Kathleen,'we'd have a home of our
own.' I'd work from light to light; I'd work
before hours an' afther hours; ay, nine days in
the week, or we'd be comfortable in our own
little home. We might be poor, Kathleen, I
know that, an' hard pressed, too; but then, as
I said, we'd have our own home, an' our own
hearth; our morsel, if it'ud be homely, would
be sweet, for it would be the fruits of our own
labor."
9




98           TUBBER DERG; OR,
"Now, Owen, do you think you could manage
to get that?"
"Wait, acushla, till we get the childhre settled. Then I'll thry the other plan, for it's good
to thry anything that could take us out of this
disgraceful life."
This humble speculation was a source of great
comfort to them. Many a time have they forgotten their sorrows in contemplating the simple
picture of their happy little cottage.  Kathleen,
in particular, drew with all the vivid coloring of
a tender mother, and an affectionate wife, the
various sources of comfort and contentment to
be found even in a cabin, whose inmates are
blessed with a love of independence, industry,
and mutual affection.
Owen, in pursuance of his intention, did not
neglect, when the proper season arrived, to place
out his eldest children among the farmers. The
reader need not be told that there was that
about him  which  gained respect.  He had,
therefore, little trouble in obtaining his wishes
on this point, and to his great satisfaction, he
saw three of them hired out to earn their own
support.




THE RED WELL.             99
It was now a matter of some difficulty for
him to take k cabin and get employment. They
had not a single article of furniture, and neither
bed nor bedding, with the exception of blankets
almost worn past use. He was resolved, however, to give up, at all risks, the life of a mendicant. For this purpose, he and the wife agreed
to adopt a plan quite usual in Ireland, under
circumstances somewhat different from his: this
was, that Kathleen should continue to beg for
their support, until the first half year of their
children's service should expire; and in the
meantime, that he, if possible, should secure
employment for himself.  By this means, his
earnings, and that of his children, might remain
untouched, so that in half a year, he calculated
upon being able to furnish a cabin, and proceed,.as a cottier, to work for, and support his young
children and his wife, who determined, on her
part, not to be idle any more than her husband.
As the plan was a likely one, and as Owen was
bent on earning his bread, rather than be a
burden to others, it is unnecessary to say that it
succeeded. In less than a year he found himself
once more in a home, and the force of what he felt




100           TUBBER DERG; OR,
on sitting, for the first time since his pauperism,
at his hearth, may easily be conceived by the
reader. For some years after this, Owen got on
slowly enough; his wages as a daily laborer
being so miserable, that it required him to exert
every nerve to keep the house over their head.
What, however, will not carefulness and a virtuous determination, joined to indefatigable industry, do?
After some time, backed as he was by his
wife, and even by his youngest children, he
found himself beginning to improve.  In the
mornings and the evenings he cultivated his
garden and his rood of potato-ground.  He also
collected with a wheelbarrow, which he borrowed
from an acquaintance, compost from the neighboring road; scoured an old drain before his door;
dug rich earth, and tossed it into the pool
of rotten water beside the house, and in fact,
adopted several other modes of collecting manure.
By this means, he had, each spring, a large portion of rich stuff on which to plant his potatoes.
His landlord permitted him to spread this for
planting upon his land; and Owen, ere long,
instead of a rood, was able to plant half an acre,




THE RED WELL.             101
and ultimately, an acre of potatoes. The produce of this, being more than sufficient for the
consumption of his family, he sold the surplus, and
with the money gained by the sale was enabled
to sow half an acre. of oats, of which, when
made into meal, he disposed of the greater
share.
Industry is.capital; for even when unaided by
capital it creates it; whereas, idleness with
capital, produces only poverty and ruin.  Owen,
after selling his meal and as much potatoes as
he could spare, found himself able to purchase a
cow.  Here was the means of making more
manure; he had his cow, and he had also straw
enough for her provender during the winter.
The cow by affording milk to his family, enabled
them to live more cheaply; her butter they sold,
and this, in addition to his surplus meal and
potatoes every year, soon made him feel that he
had a few guineas to spare. He now bethought
him of another mode of helping himself forward
in the world; after buying the best "slip" of a
pig lie could find, a sty was built for her, and
ere long he saw a fine litter of young pigs within
a snug shed. These he reared until they were
9*




102           TUBBER DERG; OR,
about two months old, when he sold them, and
found that he had considerably gaiued by the
transaction.  This department, however, was
under the management of Kathleen, whose life
was one of incessant activity and employment.
Owen's children, during the period of his struggles and improvements, were, by his advice,
multiplying their little capital as fast as himself.
The two boys who had now shot up into the
stature of young men, were at work as laboring
servants in the neighborhood. The daughters
were also engaged as servants with the adjoining farmers. The boys bought each a pair of
two-year old heifers, and the daughter one.
These they sent to graze up in the mountains at
a trifling charge, for the first year or two: when
they became springers, they put them  to rich
infield grass for a few months, until they got a
marketable appearance, after which their father
brought them to the neighboring fairs, where
they usually sold to great advantage, in consequence of the small outlay required in rearing
them.
In fact, the principle of industry ran through
the family. There was none of them idle; none




THE RED WELL.              103
of them a burden or a check upon the profits
made by the laborer.  On the contrary, " they
laid their shoulders together," as the phrase is,
and proved to the world, that when the proper
disposition is followed by suitable energy and
perseverance, it must generally reward him who
possesses it.
It is certainly true that Owen's situation in
life now was essentially different from that which
it had been during the latter years of his struggles as a farmer. It was much more favorable,
and far better calculated to develop successful
exertion. If there be a class of men deserving
public sympathy, it is that of the small farmers
of Ireland.  Their circumstances are fraught
with all that is calculated to depress and ruin
them; rents far above their ability, increasing
noverty, and bad markets.  The land, which
auring the last war might have enabled the
renter to pay three pounds per acre, and yet
still maintain himself with tolerable comfort,
could not now pay more than one pound, or, at
the most, one pound ten; and yet, such is the
infatuation of landlords, that, in most instances,
the terms of leases taken out then are rigorously




104           TUBBER DERG; OR,
exacted.  Neither can the remission of yearly
arrears be said to strike at the root of the evils
under which they suffer. The fact of the disproportionate rent hanging over them is a disheartenin, circumstance, that paralyzes their exertion,
and sinks their spirits. If a landlord remit the
rent for one term he deals more harshly with
the tenant at the next; whatever surplus, if any,
his former indulgence leaves in the tenant's
hands, instead of being expended upon his
property as capital, and being permitted to lay
the-foundation of hope and prosperity, is drawn
from him, at next term, and the poor struggling
tenant is thrown back into as much distress,
embarrassment, and despondency as ever. There
are, I believe, few tenants in Ireland of the class
I allude to, who are not from one gale to three
in arrear.  Now, how can it be expected, that
such men will labor with spirit and earnestness
to raise crops which they may never reap? crops
which the landlords may seize upon to secure as
much of his rent as he can.
I have known a case in which the arrears
were not only remitted, but the rent lowered to
a reasonable standard, such as, considering the




TEE RED WELL.            105
markets, could be paid. And what was the
consequence? The tenant who was looked upon
as a negligent man, from whom scarcely any
rent could be got, took courage, worked his
farm with a spirit and success which he had not
evinced before; and ere long was in a capacity
to pay his gales to the very day; so that the
judicious and humane landlord was finally a
gainer by his own excellent economy. This was
an experiment, and it succeeded beyond expectation.
Owen M'Carthy did not work with more zeal
and ability as an humble cottier, than he did,
when a farmer; but the tide was against him as
a landholder, and instead of having advanced,
he actually lost ground until he became a pauper. No doubt, the peculiarly unfavorable run
of two hard seasons, darkened by sickness and
famine, were formidable obstacles to him; but
he must eventually have failed, even had they
not occurred.  They accelerated his downfall,
but did not cause it.
The Irish people, though poor, are exceedingly anxious to be independent. Their highest
ambition is to hold a farm.  So strong is this




1.06          TUBBER DERG; OR,
principle in them, that they will, without a single penny of capital, or any visible means to
rely on, without consideration or forethought,
come forward and offer a rent which, if they
reflected only for a moment, they must feel to
be unreasonably high. This, indeed, is a great
evil in Ireland. But what, in the mean time,
must we think of those imprudent landlords,
and their more imprudent agents, who let their
land to such persons, without proper inquiry into
their means, knowledge of agriculture, and general character as moral and industrious men?
A farm of land is to be let; it is advertised
through the parish; application is to be made
before such a day, to so and so. The day
arrives, the agent or the land-steward looks
over the proposals, and after singling out the
highest bidder, declares him tenant, as a matter
of course.  Now, perhaps this said tenant does
not possess a shilling in the world, nor a shilling's worth.  Most likely he is a new-married
man, with nothing but his wife's bed and
bedding, his wedding-suit, and his blackthorn
cudgel, which we may suppose him to keep in
reserve for the bailiff. However, he commences




THE RED WELL.             107
his farm; and then follow the shiftings, the
scramblings, and the fruitless struggles to succeed, where success is impossible.  His farm is
not half-tilled; his crops are miserable; the galeday has already passed; yet, he can pay nothing
until he takes it out of the land. Perhaps, he
runs away —makes a moonlight flitting —and, by
the aid of his friends, succeeds in bringing the
crop with him. The landlord, or agent, declares
he is a knave; forgetting that the man had no
other alternative, and that they were the greater
knaves and fools too, for encouraging him to
undertake a task that was beyond his strength.
In calamity, we are anxious to derive support
from the sympathy of our friends; in our success, we are eager to communicate to them the
power of participating in our happiness. When
Owen once more found himself independent and
safe, he longed to realise two plans on which he
had for some time before been seriously think.
ing. The first was to visit his former neighbors,
that they might at length know that Owen
M'Carthy's station in the world was such as
became his character. The second was, if possible, to take a farm in his native parish, that




1 08          TUBBER DERG; OR,
he might close his days among the companions
of his youth, and the friends of his maturer
years.  He had, also, another motive; there
lay the  burying-place of the M'Carthys, in
which slept the mouldering dust of his own
"golden-haired" Alley.  With  them —in his
daughter's grave —he intended to sleep his
long sleep. Affection for the dead is the memory of the heart.  In no other grave-yard could
he reconcile it to himself,to be buried; to it
had all his forefathers been gathered; and
though calamity had separated him from the
scenes where they had passed through existence, yet he was resolved that death should
not deprive him of its last melancholy consolation;-that of reposing with all that remained
of the "departed," who had loved him, and
whom  he had loved.  Hie believed, that to
neglect this, would be to abandon a sacred
duty, and felt sorrow at the thought of being
like an absent guest fiom  the assembly of his
owsn dead; for there is a principle of undying
hope in the heart, that carries, with bold and
beautiful imagery, the realities of life into the
silent recesses of death itself.




THE RED WELL.              109
IHaving formed the resolution of visiting his
old friends at Tubber Derg, he communicated it
to IKathleen and his family; his wife received
the intelligence with undisguised delight.
"Owen," she replied, "indeed I'm  glad you
mintioned it.  Many a time the thoughts of our
place, an' the people about it, comes over me.
I know, Owen, it'11 go to your heart to see it;
but still, avourneen, you'd like, too, to see the
ould faces an' the warm hearts of them that
pitied us, an' helped us, as well as they could,
whin we war broken down."
"I would, Kathleen; but.I'm not goin' merely
to see thim an' the place.  I intind, if I can, to
take a bit of land somewhere near Tubber Derg.
I'm unasy in my mind, for'fraid I'd not sleep in
the grave-yard where all belongin' to me lie."
A chord of the mother's heart was touched;
and in a moment the memory of their beloved
child brought the tears to her eyes.
"Owen, avourneen, I have one requist to ax
of you, all' I'm  sure you won't refuse it to me:
if I die afore you, let me be buried wid Alley.
Who has a right to sleep so near her as her owi
mother?"
10




110            TUBBER DERG; OR,
"The child's in my heart still," said Owen,
suppressing his emotion; "thinkin' of the unfortunate mornin' I wint to Dublin, brings her
back to me.  I see her standin', wid her fair
pale face —pale-oh, my God! —wid hunger an'
sickness-her little thin clo'es, all' her goolden
hairl, tossed about by the dark blast-the tears
in her eyes, an' the smile, that she once had,
on her face-houldin' up her mouth, an' sayin''Kiss me agin, father;' as if she knew, somehow,
that I'd never see her, nor her me, any more.
All' whin I looked back; as I was turnin' the
corner, there she stood, strainin' her eyes after
her father, that she was then takin' the last
sight of until the judgment-day."
His voice here became broken, and he sat in
silence for a few minutes.
"It's sthrange," he added, with more firmness,
"how she's so often in my mind I"
"But, Owen dear," replied Kathleen, "sure
It was the will of God that she should lave us.
She's now a bright angel in heaven, an' I dunna
if it's right —indeed, I doubt it's sinful for us to
think so much about her.  Who knows but her
innocent spirit is makin' inthercession for us all,




THE RED WELL.             111
before the blessed Mother o' God!  Who knows
but it was her that got us the good fortune that
flowed in upon us, an' that made our strugglin'
an' our laborin' turn out so lacky."
The idea of being lucky or unlucky is, in Ireland, an enemy to industry.  It is certainly
better that the people should believe success in
life to be, as it is, the result of virtuous exertion,
than of contingent circumstances, over which
they themselves have no control.  Still there
wras something beautiful in the superstition of
Kathleen's affections;' something that touched
the heart and its dearest associations.
"It's very true, Kathleen," replied her husband; " but God is ever ready to help them that
keeps an honest heart, an' do every thing in their
power to live creditably.  They may fail for a
time, or'he may thry them for awhile, but sooner
or later good intintions and honest labor will be
rewarded.  Look at ourselves-blessed be his
name!"
"But whin do you mane to go to Tubber
Derg, Owen?"
"In the beginnin' of the next week.  An'
Kathleen, ahagur, if you remimber the bitther




112           TUBBER DERG; OR,
mornin' we came upon the world-but we'll not
be spakin' of that now. I don't like to think
of it.  Some other time, maybe, when we're
settled among ould friends, I'll mintion it."
" Well, the Lord bless your endayvors, any
how!  Och, Owen, do thry an' get us a snug
farm somewhere near them.  But you didn't
answer me about Alley, Owen?"
" Why you must have your wish, Kathleen,
although I intended to keep that place for myself. Still we can sleep one on each side of her;
an' that may be asily done, for our buryin' ground
is large: so set your mind at rest on that head.
I hope God won't call us till we see our childhre
settled dacently in the world. But sure, at all
evints, let his blessed will be doneI"
"AminI amin! It's not right of any one to
keep their hearts fixed too much upon the
world; nor even, they say upon one's own
childhre."
"People may love their childhre as much as
they plase, Kathleen, if they don't let their grah
for them spoil the crathurs, by givin' them their
own will, till they become headstrong an' overbearin'. Now let my linen be as white as a bone




THE RED WELL.              113
before Monday, plase goodness; I hope, by that
time Jack Dougherty will have my new clo'es
made; for I intind to go as dacent as ever they
seen me in my best days."
"An' so you will, too, avillish. Throth, Owen,
it's you that'll be the proud man, steppin' in to
them in all your grandeur!  Ha, ha, hal The
spirit o' the M'Carthys is in you still, Owen."
"EHa, ha, ha!  It is, darlin'; it is, indeed; an'
I'd be sarry it wasn't.  I long to see poor
Widow Murray. I dunna is her son, Jemmy,
married.  Who knows, afther all we suffered,
but I might be able to help her yet?-that is,
if she stands in need of it. But I suppose, her
childhre's grown up now, an' able to assist her.
Now, Kathleen, mind Monday next; an' have
everything ready. I'll stay away a week or so,
at the most, an afther that I'll have news for
you about all o' them."
When Monday morning arrived, Owen found
himself ready to set out for Tubber Derg. The
tailor had not disappointed him; and Kathleen,
to do her justice, took care that the proofs of
her good housewifery should be apparent in the
whiteness of his linen.  After breakfast he
10*




114           TUBBER DERG; OR,
dressed himself in all his finery; and it would be
difficult to say whether the harmless vanity that
peeped out occasionally from his simplicity of
character, or the open and undisguised triumph
of his faithful wife, whose eyb rested on him with
pride and affection, was most calculated to produce a smile.
"Now, Kathleen," said he, when preparing
for his immediate departure, "I'm thinkin' of
what they'll say, when they see me so smooth
an' warm-lookin.' I'll engage they'll be axiu'
one another,' Musha, how did Owen M'Carthy
get an, at all, to be so well to do in the world,
as he appears to be, afther falin' on his ould
farm?I' "
" Well, but Owen you know how to manage
them."
"Throth, I do that.  But there is one thing
they'll never get out o' me, any way."
"You won't tell that to  any  o' them,
Owen?"
"Kathleen, if I thought they only suspected
it, I'd never show my face in Tubber Derg agin.
I think I could bear to be —an' yet it'ud be a
hard struggle wid me too-but I think I could




TIHE RED WELL.            115
bear to be buried among black strangers, rather
than it should be said, over my grave, among
my own,'there's where Owen M'Carthy lieswho was the only manl, of his name, that ever
begged his morsal on the king's highway.  There
he lies, the descendant of the great M'Carthy
Mores, an' yet he was a beggar.   I know,
Kathleen achora, it's neither a sin nor a shame
to ax one's bit from  our fellow-creatures, whin
fairly brought to it, widout any fault of our
own; but still I feel something in me, that I can't
bear to think of it widout shame an' heaviness
of heart."
"Well, it's one comfort, that nobody knows it
but ourselves. Tilec poor childhre, for their own
sakes, won't ever breathe it; so that it's likely
the secret i'll be berrid wid us."
"I hope so, acushla. Does this coat sit asy
atween the shouldhers? I feel it catch me a
little."
"The sorra nicer.  There; it was only your
waistcoat that was turned down in the collar.
Here-here hould your arm.  There now-it
wanted to be pulled down a little at the cuffs.
Owen, it's a beauty; an I think I have good




116           TUBBER DERG; OR,
right to be proud of it, for it's every thread my
own spinnit'."
" How do I look in it, Kathleen? Tell me
the thruth, now."
"Throth, you're twenty years younger; the
never a day less."
"I think I needn't be ashamed to afore my
old friends in it, any way. Now bring me my
staff, fiom undher the bed above; an' in the
name o' God I'll set out."
"Which o' them, Owen?  Is it the oak or
the blackthorn?"
"The oak, acushla.  Oh, no; not the black.
thorn.  It's it that I brought to Dublin wid me,
the unlucky thief, an' that I had while we wor a
shanghran.  Divil a one o' me but'ud blush in
the face, if I brought it even in my hand afore
them. The oak, ahacgur; the oak. You'll get
it atween the foot o' the bed an' the wall."
When Kathleen placed the staff in his hand,
he took off his hat and blessed himself, then put
it on, looked at his wife, and said-" Now darlin', in the name o' God, I'll go. Husht, avillish machree, don't be cryin'; sure I'll be back
to you in a week."




THE RED WELL.            117
"Och! I can't help it, Owen. Sure this is
the second time you war ever away from me
more nor a day; an' I'm thinkin' of what happened both to you an' me, the first time you
wint.  Owen, acushla,. I feel that if anything
happened you, I'd break my heart."
"Arrah, what'ud happen me, darlin', wid
God to protect me?  Now, God be wid you
Kathleen dheelish, till I come back to you wid
good news, I hope.  I'm not goin' in sickness
an' misery, as I wint afore, to see a man that
wouldn't hear my appale to him; an' I'm lavin'
you comfortable, agrah, an' wantin' for nothin'.
Sure it's only about five-an'-twenty miles from
this-a mere step. The good God bless an'
take care of you, my darlin' wife, till I come
home to you!"
He kissed the tears that streamed from her
eyes; and, hemming several times, pressed her
hand, his face rather averted, then grasped his
staff, and commenced his journey.
Scenes like this were important events to our
humble couple.  Life, when untainted by the
crimes and artificial manners which destroy its
purity, is a beautiful thing to contemplate




118            TUBBER DERG; OR,
among the virtuous poor; and, where the current of affection runs deep and smooth, the
slightest incident will agitate it.  So was it
with Owen M'Carthy and his wife.  Simplicity,
truth, and affection, constituted their character.  In  them  there was no complication of
incongruous elements.  The order of their virtues was not broken, nor the purity of their
affections violated, by the anomalous blending
together of opposing principles, such as are to
be found in those who are involuntarily contaminated by the corruption of human society.
Owen had not gone far, when Kathleen called
to him: "Owen, ahagur —stand, darlin'; but
don't come back a step, for fraid o' bad
luck." *
"Did I forget anything, Kathleen?" he inquired.  "Let me see; no; sure I have my
beads an' my tobaccy box, an' my two clane
shirts an' hankerchers in the bundle.  What is
it, acushla?"
* WVhen an Irish peasant sets out on a journey, or to transact business in fair or market, he will not, if possible, turn
back. It is considered unlucky; as it is also to be crossed
by a hare, or met by a red-haired woman.




THE RED WELL              119
"I needn't be axin' you, for I know you
wouldn't forget it; but for fraid you mightOwen, whin you're at Tubber Derg, go to little
Alley's grave, an' look at it; an' bring me back
word how it appears. You might get it cleaned
up, if there's weeds or anything growin' upon it;
an' Owen, would you bring me a bit o' the clay,
tied up in your pocket.  Whin you're there,
spake to her; tell her it was the lovin' mother
that bid you, an' say anything that you'd think
might keep her asy, an' give her pleasure. Tell
her we're not now as we wor whin she was wid
us; that we don't feel hunger, nor cowld, nor
want; an' that nothin' is a throuble to us, barrin' that we miss her —ay, even yet-a suillish
machree* that she was-that we miss her fair
face an' goolden hair from among us. Tell her
this; an' tell her it was the lovin' mother that
said it, an' that sint the message to her."
"I'll do it all, Kathleen; I'll do it all-all.
An' now go in, darlin', an' don't be frettin'.
Maybe we'll soon be near her, plase God, where
we can see the place she sleeps in, often."
They then separated again; and Owen, con* Light of my heart.




120            TUBBER DERG; OR,
siderably affected by the maternal tenderness of
his wife, proceeded on his journey. He had not,
actually, even at the period of his leaving home,
been able to determine on what particular friend
he should first call.  That his welcome would
be hospitable, nay, enthusiastically so, he was
certain. In the myeantime he vigorously pursued his journey; and partook neither of refreshment nor rest, until he arrived, a little after
dusk, at a turn of the well-known road, which,
had it been day-light, would have opened to him
a view of Tubber Derg. He looked towards the
beeches, however, under which it stood; but to
gain a sight of it was impossible.  His road
now lying a little to the right, he turned to the
house of his sterling friend, Frank Farrell, who
had given him and his family shelter and support, when he was driven, without remorse, from
his own holding.  In a short time he reached
Frank's residence, and felt a glow of sincere
satisfaction at finding the same air of comfort
and warmth about it as formerly.  Through the
kitchen window he saw the strong light of the
blazing fire, and heard, ere he presented himself,
the loudt hearty laugh of his friend's wife, pre



TIHE RED WELL.            121
cisely as light and animated as it had been
fifteen years before.
Owen lifted the latch and entered, with that
flutteringD of the pulse which every man feels on
meeting with a friend, after an interval of many
years.
"Musha, good people, can ye tell me is Frank
Farrell at home?"
" Why, thin, he's not jist widin now, but he'll
be here in no time entirely," replied one of his
daughters.  " Won't you sit down, honest man,
an' we'll sind for him."
" I'm thankful to you," said Owen.  "I'll sit,
sure enough, till he comes in."
"Why thin!-eh I it must-it can be no
other!" exclaimed Farrell's wife, bringing over a
candle and looking Owen earnestly in the face;
"sure I'd know that voice all the world over!
Why, thin, marciful Father —Owen  M'Carthy,-Oweu M'Carthy, is it your four qnarthers that's livin' an' well?  Queen o' heaven,
Owen M'Carthy  darlin', you're welcome!" the
word was here interrupted by a hearty kiss
from  the kind housewife;-" welcome a thousand an' a thousand times l  Vick na hoiah!
19*




1.22          TUBBER DERG; OR,
Owen dear, an' are you livin' at all? An'
Kathleen, Owen, an' the childhre, an' all of
yez-an' how are they?"
"Throth, we're livin' an' well, Bridget; never
was betther, thanks be to God an' you, in our
lives."
Owen was now surrounded by such of Farrell's
children, as were old enough to remember him;
every one of whom he shook hands with, and
kissed.
" Why, thin, the Lord save my soul, Bridget,"
said he, "are these the little bauchaleens an'
colleens that were runnin' about my feet whin I
was here afore? Well, to be sure! How they
do shoot up! An' is this Atty?"
"N1o: but this is Atty, Owen; faix, Brian
outgrew him; an' here's Mary, an' this is Bridget
Oge."
"Well!-well!  But, where did these two
young shoots come from? this boy, an' the colleen
here?  They worn't to the fore, in my time,
Bridget."
"This is Owen, called afther yourself, —an'
this is Kathleen. I needn't tell you who she
was called afther."




THE RED WELL.              123
"Gutsho, alannac? thurm pogue?-come here,
child, and kiss me," said Owen to his little namesake; "an' sure I can't forget the little woman
here; gutsho, a colleen, and kiss me too."
Owen took her on his knee, and kissed her twice
"Och, but, poor Kathleen," said he, "will be
the proud woman of this, when she hears it; in
throth she will be that."
"Arrah! what's comin' over me " said Mrs.
Farrell.  "Brian, run up to Micky Lowrie's, for
your father. An' see, Brian, don't say who's
wantin' him, till we give him a start. Mary,
come here, acushla," she added to her eldest
daughter in a whisper-take these two bottles,
an' fly up to Peggy Finigin's for the full o' them
o' whiskey.  Now be back before you're there,
or if you don't, that I mightn't, but you'll see
what you'll get. Fly, aroon, an' don't let the
grass grow undher your feet.  An' Owen, darlin'
-but first sit over to the fire:-here get over to
this side, it's the snuggest;-arrah, Owen-an'
sure I dunna what to ax you first. You're all
well? all to the fore?"
"All well, Bridget, an' thanks be to heaven,
all to the fore.'




124           TUBBER DERG; OR,
"Glory be to God!  Throth it warms my
heart to it. An' the childre's all up finely, boys
an' girls?"
"Throth, they are, Bridget, as good lookin' a
family o' childre as you'd wish to see..An'
what is betther, they're as good as they're goodlookin'."
"Throth, they couldn't but be that, if they
tuck  at all afther their father an' mother.
Bridget, aroon, rub the pan betther-an' lay the
knife down, I'll cut the bacon myself, but go an'
get a dozen o' the freshest ergs;-an' Kathleen,
Owen, how does poor Kathleen look? Does she
stand it as well as yourself?"
"As young as ever you seen her.  God help
her!-a thousand degrees betther nor whin you
seen her last."
" An' well to do, Owen?-now tell the thruth?
Och, musha, I forget who I'm spakin' to, or I
wouldn't disremimber the ould  sayin' that's
abroad this many a year:-who ever knew a
M'Carthy of Tubber Derg to tell a lie, break
his word, or refuse to help a friend in distress.
But, Owen, you're well to do in the world?"
"We're as well, Bridget, or may be betther,




TIHE RED WELL.           125
nor you ever knew us, except, indeed, afore the
ould lase was run out wid us."
"God be praised agin! Musha, turn round a
little, Owen, for'fraid Frank'ud get too clear a
sight of your face at first. Arrah, do you think
he'll know you?  Och, to be sure he will; I
needn't ax. Your voice would tell upon you,
any day."
"Know  me   Indeed Frank'ud know  my
shadow. He'll know me wid half a look."
And Owen was right, for quickly did the eye
of his old friend recognise him, despite of the
little plot that was laid to try his penetration.
To describe their interview would be to repeat
the scene we have already attempted to depict
between Owen and Mrs. Farrell. No sooner
were the rites of hospitality performed, than the
tide of conversation began to flow with greater
freedom. Owen ascertained one important fact,
which we will here mention, because it produces,
in a great degree, the want of anything like an
independent class of yeomanry in the country.
On inquiring after his old acquaintances, he dis-overed that a great many of them, owing to
nigh rents, had emigrated to America. They




126            TUBBER DERG; OR,
belonged to that class of independent farmers,
who after the expiration of their old leases, finding the little capital they had saved beginning
to diminish, in consequence of rents which they
could not pay, deemed it more prudent, while
anything remained in their hands, to seek  a
country where capital and industry might be
made ava.ilable.  Thus did the. landlords, by
their mismanagement and  neglect, absolutely
drive off their estates, the only men, who, if
properly encouraged, were capable of becoming
the strength and pride of the country. It is
this system, joined to the curse of middlemen
and sub-letting, which has left the country without any third grade of decent substantial yeomen, who might stand as a bond of peace
between the highest and the lowest classes. It
is this which has split the kingdom  into two
divisions, constituting the extreme ends of society
-the wealthy, and the wretched.  If this third
class existed, Ireland would neither be so political nor discontented as she is; but on the contrary, more remarkable for peace and industry.
At present, the lower classes, being too poor,
are easily excited by those who promise them




THE RED WELL.            127
a better order of things than that which
exists. These theorists step into the exercise of that legitimate influence which the
landed proprietors have lost by their neglect.
There is no middle classes in the country, who
can turn round to them and say, "Our circumstances are easy, we want nothing; carry your
promises to the poor, for that which you hold
forth to their hopes, we enjoy in reality."  The
poor soldier, who, because he was wretched,
volunteered to go on the forlorn hope, made a
fortune; but when asked if he would on a second
enterprise of a similar kind, shrewdly replied;
"General, I am now an independent man; send
some poor devil on your forlorn hope who wants
to make a fortune."
Owen now heard anecdotes and narratives of
all occurrences, whether interesting or strange,
that had taken place during his absence. Among
others, was the death of his former landlord, and
the removal of the agent who had driven him to
beggery.  Tubber Derg, he found, was then
the property of a humane and considerate man,
who employed a judicious and benevolent gentleman to manage it.




128           TUBBER DERG; OR,
" One thing, I can tell you," said Frank; " it
was but a short time in the new agent's hands,
when the dacent farmers stopped goin' to America."
"But Frank," said Owen, and he sighed on putting the question, "who is in Tubber Derg, now?"
"'Why, thin, a son of ould Rousin' Redhead's, of Tullyvernon-young Con Roe, or the
Ace o' Hearts-for he was called both by the
youngsters-if you remimber him.  His head's
as red, an' double as big, even, as his father's
was, an' you know that no hat would fit old
Con, until he sent his measure to Jemmy Lamb,
the hatter.  Dick Nugent put it out on him,
that Jemmy always made Rousin' Red-head's
hat, either upon the half-bushel pot, or a fivegallon keg of whiskey.'Talkin' of the keg,'
says Dick,'for the matther o' that,' says he,'divil a much differ the hat will persave; for
the one' —meanin' ould Con's head, who was a
hard dhrinker —'the one,' says Con,'is as much
a keg as the other —ha! ha! ha!' Dick met
Rousin' Red-head another day;'Arrah Con,'
says he,'why do you get your hats made upon
a pot, man alive?  Sure that's the rason that




THE RED WELL.             129
you're so fond o' poteen.' A quare mad crathur
was Dick, an' would go forty miles for a fight.
Poor fellow, he got his skull broke in a scrimmage betwixt the Redmonds and the O'Hanlon's; an' his last words were,'Bad luck to
you, Redmond-O'Hanlon, I never thought
you, above all men, dead an' gone, would be
the death o' me.'  Poor fellow! he was for
pacifyin' them, for a wondher; but instead o'
that, he got pacified himself."
"An' how is young Con doin', Frank?"
" Hut, divil a much time he has to do aither
well or ill, yit. There was'four tenants on Tubber Derg since you left it, an' he's the fifth. It's
hard to say how he'll do; but I believe he's the
best o' thim, for so far. That may be owin' to
the landlord. The rent's let down to him; an'
I think he'll be able to take bread, an' good
bread too, out of it."
" God send, poor man!"
"Now, Owen, would you like to go back to it?"
"I can't say that.  I love the place, but 1
suffered too much in it. No; but I'll tell you,
Frank, if there was e'er a snug farm near it that
I could get rasonable, I'd take it."
20




130           TUBBER DERG; OR
Frank slapped his knee exultingly.  " 1Ia
chuirp!-do you say so, Owen?"
"Indeed, I do."
"Thin, upon my song, that's the luckiest
thing I ever knew.  There's, this blessed minute, a farm o' sixteen acres, that the Lacys is
lavin' —goin' to America —an' it's to be set.
They'll go the week afther next, an' the house
needn't be cowld, for you can come to it the
very day afther they lave it."
"Well," said Owen, "I'm glad of that. Will
you come wid me to-morrow, an' we'll see about
it?"
"To be sure I will; an' what's betther, too;
the Agint is a son of ould MIisther Rogerson's,
a man that knows you an' the history o' them
you came from, well. An', another thing, Owen! I tell you, whin it's abroad that you want
to take the farm, there's not a man in the parish
would bid agin you. You may know that yourself."
" I think, indeed, they would rather sarve me
than otherwise," replied Owen; "an', in the
name o' God, we'll see what can be done. Misther Rogerson, himself,'ud spake to his son for




THE RED WELL.            131
me; so that I'll be sure of his intherest. Arrah,
Frank how is an ould friend o' mine, that I have
a great regard for-poor Widow Murray?"
"Widow Murray. Poor woman, she's happy."
"You don't mane she's dead?"
"She's dead, Owen, and happy, I trust, in
the Saviour. She died last spring was a two
years."
" God be good to her sowl! An' are the
childhre in her place still?  It's she that was
the dacent woman."
"Throth, they are; an' sorrow a betther doin'
family in the parish than they are.  It's they
that'll be glad to see you, Owen. Many a time
I seen their poor mother, heavens be her bed,
lettin' down the tears, whin she used to be spakin' of you, or mintionin' how often you sarved
her; espeshially, about some day or other that
you previnted her cows from bein' canted for
the rint.  She's dead now, an' God lie knows,
an honest hard-workin' woman she ever was."
" Dear me, Frank, isn't it a wondher to think
how the people dhrop off! There's Widow
Murray, one o' my ouldest frinds, an' Pether
M'Mahon, an' Barny Lorinan- not to forget




132           TUBBER DERG; OR,
pleasant Rousin' Red-head - all taken away!
Well!-well! Sure it's the will o' God! We
can't be here always."
After much conversation, enlivened by the
bottle, though but sparingly used on the part
of Owen, the hour of rest arrived, when the
family separated for the night.
The grey dawn of a calm beautiful summer's
morning found Owen up and abroad, long before
the family of honest Frank had risen. When
dressing hirnself, with an intention of taking an
early walk, he was asked by his friend why he
stirred so soon, or if he-his host-should accompany him.
"No," replied Owen; "lie still; jist let me
look over the counthry while it's asleep. Whin
I'm musin' this a-way I don't like any body to
be along wid me. I have a place to go an' see,
too-an' a message-a tendher message, from
poor Kathleen, to deliver, that I wouldn't wish
a second person to hear. Sleep, Frank. I'll
jist crush the head o' my pipe agin one o' the
hlalf-burned turf that the fire was raked wid, an'
walk out for an hour or two. Afther our breakfast we'll go an' look about this new farm."




THE RED WELL.            133
He sallied out as he spoke, and closed the
door after him in that quiet thoughtful way for
which he was ever remarkable. The season was
midsummer, and the morning wanted at least an
hour of sun-rise. Owen ascended a little knoll,
above Frank's house, on which he stood and
surveyed the surrounding country with a pleasing but melancholy interest. As his eyes rested
on Tubber Derg, he felt the difference strongly
between the imperishable glories of nature's
works, and those which are executed by man.
His house he would not have known, except by
its site. It was not, in fact, the same house,
but another which had been built in its stead.
T.is disappointed and vexed him.  An object
on which his affections had been placed was
removed.  A  rude stone house stood before
him, rough and unplastered; against each end
of which was built a stable and cow-house, sloping down from the gables to low doors at both
sides; adjoining these rose two mounds of filth,
large enough to be easily distinguished from the
knoll on which he stood. He sighed as he contrasted it with the Ileat and beautiful farmhouse, which shone there in his happy days,
20*




134           TUBBER DERG; OR,
white as a lily, beneath the covering of the lofty
beeches.
There was no air of comfort, neatness, or independence, about it; on the contrary, everything
betrayed the evidence of struggle and difficulty,
joined, probably, to want both of skill and of
capital. He was disappointed, and turned his
gaze upon the general aspect of the country,
and the houses in which either his old acquaintances or their children lived. The features of
the landscape were, certainly, the same; but
even here was a change for the worse.  The
warmth of coloring, which wealth and independence give to the appearance of a cultivated
country, was gone. Decay and coldness seenmed
to brood upon everything he saw. The houses,
the farm-yards, the ditches, and enclosures, were
all marked by the blasting proofs of national
decline.  Some exceptions there were to this
disheartening prospect; but they were only sufficient to render the torn and ragged evidences
of poverty, and its attendant — carelessness —
more conspicuous. He left the knoll, knocked
the ashes out of his pipe, and putting it into
his waistcoat pocket, ascended a larger hill,




THE RED WELL.             135
which led to the grave-yard where his child
lay buried.  On his way to this hill, which
stood about half a mile distant, he passed a
few houses of an humble description, with whose
inhabitants he had been well acquainted. Some
of these stood nearly as he remembered them;
but others were roofless, with their dark mud
gables either fallen in or partially broken down.
He surveyed their smoke-colored walls with sorrow; and looked, with a sense of the transient
character of all man's works, upon the chickweed, docks, and nettles, which had shot up so
rankly on the spot where many a chequered
scene of joy and sorrow had flitted over the circunscribed circle of humble life, ere the annihilating wing of ruin swept away them and their
habitations.
When he had ascended the hill, his eye took a
wider range. The more distant and picturesque
part of the country lay before him. "Ay!"
said he, in a soliloquy, "Lord bless us, how
sthrange is this world!-an' what poor crathurs
are men  There's the dark mountains, the hills,
the rivers, an' the green glens, all the same; an'
nothia' else amost but's changed I  The very




136           TUBBER DERG; OR,
song of that blackbird, in thim thorn-bushes an'
hazels below me, is like the voice of an ould
friend to my ears.  Och, indeed, hardly that,
for even the voice of man changes; but that
song is the same as I heard it for the best part
o' my life. That mornin' star, too, is the
same bright crathur up there that it ever was!
God help us!  Hardly any thing changes but
man, an' he seems to think that he can never
change; if one is to judge by his thoughtlessness,
folly, an' wickednessl"
A smaller hill, around the base of which went
the same imperfect road that crossed the glen
of Tubber Derg, prevented him from seeing the
grave-yard to which he was about to extend his
walk. To this road he directed his steps. On
reaching it he looked, still with a strong memory
of former times, to the glen in which his children, himself, and his ancestors had all, during
their day, played in the happy thoughtlessness
of childhood and youth. But the dark and
ragged house jarred upon his feelings.  He
turned from it with pain, and his eyes rested upon
the still green'valley with evident relief. He
thought of his "buried flower"-" his goolden



THE RED WELL.             137
haired darlin'," as he used to call her — and
almost fancied  that he saw  her once more
wandering waywardly through its tangled mazes,
gathering berries, or strolling along the green
meadow, with a garland of gowans about her
neck. Imagination, indeed, cannot heighten the
image of the dead whom we love; but even if it
could, there was no standard of ideal beauty in
her father's mind beyond that of her own. She
had been beautiful; but her beauty was pensive:
a fair yet melancholy child; for the charm that
ever encompassed her was one of sorrow and
tenderness. Had she been volatile and mirthful,
as children usually are, he would not have carried so far into his future life the love of her
which he cherished. Another reason why he
still loved her strongly, was a consciousness that
her death had been occasioned by distress and
misery; for, as he said, when looking upon the
scenes of her brief but melancholy existence"Avourneen machree, I remimber to see you
pickin' the berries; but asthore — asthore -- it
wasn't for play you did it. It was to keep away
the cuttin' of hunger from your heart! Of all
our childhre every one said that you wor the




138           TUBBER DERG; OR,
M'Carthy —never sayin' much, but the heart in
you ever full of goodness an' affection.  God
help me, I'm glad-an', now, that I'm comin'
near it-loth to see her grave."
He had now reached the verge of the graveyard. Its fine old ruin stood there as usual, but
not altogether without the symptoms of change.
Some persons had, for the purposes of building,
thrown down one of its most picturesque walls.
Still its ruins clothed with ivy, its mullions mosscovered, its gothic arches and tracery, grey with
age, were the same in appearance as he had ever
seen them.
On entering this silent palace of Death, he
reverently uncovered his head, blessed himself,
and, with feelings deeply agitated, sought the
grave of his beloved child. He approached it;
but a sudden transition from sorrow to indignation took place in his mind, even before he
reached the spot on which she lay. "Sacred
Mother!" he exclaimed, who has dared to bury
in our ground? Who has —what villain has
attimpted to come in upon the M'Carthys —upon
the M'Carthy Mores, of Tubber Derg?  Who
could-had I no friend to prev-eh?  Sacred




THE RED WELL.              139
Mother, what's this? Father of heaven forgive
me!  Forgive me, sweet Saviour, for this bad
feelin' I got into!  Who-who-could raise a
head-stone over the darlin' o' my heart, widout
one of us knowin' it! Who-who could do it?
But let me see if I can make it out. Oh, who
could do this blessed thing, for the poor an' the
sorrowful?" IHe be(an, and with difficulty read
as follows:
OF
ALICE MI'CARTHY,
The beloved daughter of Owen and Kathleen M'Carthy,
aged nine years. She was descended from
the M'Carthy Mores.
REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE.
This head-stone was raised over her by widow Murray,
and her son, James Murray, out of grateful respect
for Owen and Kathleen M'Carthy, who never
suffered the widow and orphan, or a distressed neighbor, to crave assistance
from them in vain, until it pleased
God to visit them with
affliction.
"Thanks to you, my Saviour!" said Owen,
dropping on his knees over the grave. "Thanks
an' praise be to your holy name, that in the
middle of all my poverty-I was not forgottenl




140           TUBBER DERG; OR,
nor my darlin' child let to lie widout honor in the
grave of her family I Make me worthy, blessed
Heaven, of what is written down upon me here!
An' if the departed spirit of her that honored
the dust of my buried daughter is unhappy, oh,
let her be relieved, an' let this act be remimbered
to her! Bless her son, too, gracious Father, an'
all belongin' to her on this earth! an', if it be
your holy will, let them never know distress, or
poverty, or wickedness!"
He then offered up a Pater Noster for the
repose of his child's soul, and another for the
kind-hearted and grateful widow Murray, after
which he stood to examine the grave with
greater accuracy.
There was, ill fact, no grave visible.  The
little mound, under which lay what was once
such a touching image of innocence, beauty,
and feeling, had sunk down to the level of the
earth about it. He regretted this, inasmuch as
it took away, he thought, part of her individuality. Still he knew it was the spot wherein
she had been buried, and with much of that
vivid feeling, and strong figurative language,
inseparable from  the habits of thought and




THE RED WELL.              141
language of the old Irish families, he delivered
the mother's message to the inanimate dust of
her once beautiful and heart-loved child.  HIe
spoke in a broken voice, for even the mention
of her name aloud, over the clay that contained
her, struck with a fresh burst of sorrow upon
his heart.
"Alley," he exclaimed in Irish, "Alley, nhien
machree, your father that loved you. more nor he
loved any other human crathur, brings a message to you from the mother of your heart,
avourneenl  She bid me call to see the spot
where you're lyin', my buried flower, an' to tell
you that we're not now, thanks be to God, as
we wor whin you lived wid us. We are well to
do now, acushla oge machree, an' not in hunger,
an' sickness, an' misery, as we wor whin you
suffered them all! You will love to hear this,
pulse of our hearts, an' to know that, through
all we suffered-an' bittherly we did suffer since
you departed-we never let you out of our memory. No, asthore villish, we thought of you, an'
cried afther our poor dead flower, many an'
many's the time. An' she bid me tell you,
darlin' of my heart, that we feel nothin' now so




142           TUBBER DERG; OR,
much as that you are not wid us to share our
comfort an' our happiness.  Oh, what wouldn't
the mother give to have you back wid her; but
it can't be-an' what wouldn't I give to have
you before my eyes agin, in health an' in lifebut it can't be. The lovin' mother sent this
message to you, Alley. Take it from her; she
bid me tell you that we are well an' happy;
our name is pure, and, like yourself, widout
spot or stain. Won't you pray for us before
God, an' get him an' his blessed Mother to look
on us wid favor an' compassion? Farewell,
Alley asthore! May you sleep in peace, an' rest
on the breast of your great Father in Heaven,
until we all meet in happiness together. It's
your father that's spakin' to you, our lost
flower; an' the hand that often smoothed your
goolden head is now upon your grave."
Hle wiped his eyes as he concluded, and after
lifting a little of the clay from her grave, he tied
it carefully up, and put it into his pocket.
Having left the grave-yard, he retraced his
steps towards Frank Farrell's house. The sun
had now risen, and as Owen ascended the larger
of the two hills which we have mentioned, he




THE RED WELL.             143
stood again to view the scene that stretched
beneath him.  About an hour before all was
still; the whole country lay motionless, as if
the land had been the land of the dead. The
mountains, in the distance, were covered with
the thin mists of morning; the milder and richer
parts of the landscape had appeared ill that
dim grey distinctness which gives to distant
objects such a clear outline. With the exception of the blackbird's song, everything seemed
as if stricken — tit6 sience; there was not a
breeze stirring; both animate and inanimate
nature reposed as if in a trance; the very
trees appeared asleep, and their leaves motion.
less, as if they had been of marble. But now
the scene was changed. The sun had flung its
splendor upon the mountain-tops, from which
the mists were tumbling ill broken fragments to
the valleys between them.  A thousand birds
poured their songs upon the ear; the breeze was
up, and the columns of smoke from the farmhouses and cottages played, as if in frolic, in
the air.  A white haze was beginning to rise
from the meadows; early teams were afoot;
and laborers going abroad to their employment.




144           TUBBER DERG; OR,
The lakes in the distance shone like mirrors;
and the clear springs on the mountain sides
glittered in the sun, like gems on which the eye
could scarcely rest. Life, and light, and motion,
appear to be inseparable. The dew of morning
lay upon nature like a brilliant veil, realising
the beautiful image of Horace, as applied to
woman:
Vultus nimium lubricus aspici.
By-and-by the songs of the early workmen
were heard; Nature had awoke; and Owen,
whose heart was strongly, though unconsciously,
alive to the influence of natural religion, participated in the general elevation of the hour, and
sought with freshened spirits the house of his
entertainer.
As he entered this hospitable roof, the early
industry of his friend's wife presented him with
a well-swept hearth and a pleasant fire, before
which had been placed the identical chair that
they had appropriated to his own use. Frank
was enjoying "a blast o' the pipe," after having
risen; to which luxury the return of Owen gave
additional zest and placidity. In fact, Owen's




THE RED WELL.             145
presence communicated a holiday spirit to the
family; a spirit, too, which declined not for a
moment during the period of his visit.
"Frank," said Owen, "to tell the thruth, I'm
not half plased wid you this mornin'.  I think
you didn't thrate me as I ought to expect to be
thrated."
" Musha, Owen M'Carthy, how is that?"
" Why, you said nothin' about widow Murray
raisin' a head-stone over our child.  You kep
me in the dark there, Frank, an' sich a start I
never got as I did this mornin', in the graveyard beyant.i'
"Upon my sowl, Owen, it wasn't my fau't,
nor any of our fau'ts; for, to tell you the thruth,
we had so much to think and discoorse of last
night, that it never sthruck me, good or bad.
Indeed it was Bridget that put it first in my
head, afther you wint out, an' thin it was too
late.  Ay, poor woman, the dacent strain was
ever in her, the heavens be her bed!"
" Frank, if any one of her family was to abuse
me till the dogs wouldn't lick my blood, I'd only
give them back good for evil afther that. Oh
Frank, that goes to my heart  To put a head
13




146            TUBBER DERG; OR,
stone over my weeny goolden-haired darlin', for
the sake of the little thrifles I sarved thim in!
Well! —may none belonging to her ever know
poverty or hardship  but if they do, an' that I
have it. HIow-an'-iver, no matther.  God
bless thim!  Wait till Kathleen hears it!"
"An' the best of it was, Owen, that she never
expected to see one of your faces. But, Owen,
you think too much about that child. Let us
talk of something else.  You've seen Tubber
Derg wanst more?"
"I did; an' I love it still, in spite of the state
it's ill."
" Ah! its different from what it was in your
happy days. I was spakin' to Bridget about the
farm, an' she advises us to go, widout losin' a
minute, an' take it if we can."
"It's near this place I'll die, Frank. I'd not
rest in my grave if I wasn't berrid among my
own; so we'll take the farm if possible."
"Well, then, Bridget, hurry the breakfast,
avourneen; an' in the name o' goodness, we'll set
out, an' clinch the business this very day."
Owen, as we said, was prompt in following up
his determinations.  After breakfast they saw




THE RED WELL.             147
the agent and his father, for both lived together.
Old Rogerson had been intimately acquainted
with the M'Carthy's, and, as Frank had anticipated, used his influence with the agent in pro.
curing for the son of his old friend and acquaintance the farm which he sought.
"Jack," said the old gentleman, "you don't
probably know the history and character of the
Tubber Derg M'Carthys, so well as I do.  No
man ever required the written bond of a
M'Carthy; and it was said of them, and is said
still, that the widow and orphan, the poor man
or the stranger, never sought their assistance in
vain. I, myself, will go security, if necessary,
for Owen M'Carthy."
"Sir," replid Owen, "I'm thankful to you;
I'm grateful to you. But I wouldn't take the
farm, or bid for it at all, unless I could bring
forrid enough to stock it as I wish, an' to lay in
all that's wantin' to work it well. It'ud be
useless for me to take it-to struggle a year or
two-impoverish the land —an' thin run away
out of it. No, no; I have what'll put me upon
it wid dacency an' comfort."
"Then, since my father has taken such an




148           TUBBER DERG; OR,
interest in you, M'Carthy, you must have the
farm. We shall get leases prepared, and the
business completed in a few days; for I go to
Dublin on this day week. Father, I now remember the character, of this family; and I
remember, too, the sympathy which was felt for
one of them, who was harshly ejected, about
seventeen or eighteen years ago, out of the lands
on which his forefathers had lived, I understand,
for centuries."
"I am that man, Sir," returned Owen. ";' It's
too long a story to tell now; but it was only
out o' part of the lands, Sir, that I was put.
What I held was but a poor patch compared to
what the family held in my grandfather's time.
A great part of it went out of our hands at his
death."
" It was very kind of you, Misther Rogerson,
to offer to go security for him," said Frank;
"but if security was wantin', Sir, I'd not be
willin' to let anybody but myself back him. I'd
go all I'm worth in the world-an' by my sowl,
double as much-for the same man."
"I know that, Frank, an' I thank you; but I
could put security in Mr. Rogerson's hands, here,




THE RED WELL.            149
if it was wanted. Good mornin' an' thank you
both, gintleman. To tell yez the thruth," he
added, with a smile, "I long to be among my
ould friends-manin' the people, an' the hills, an'
the green fields of Tubber Derg-an' thanks be
to Goodness, sure I will soon."
In fact, wherever Owen went, within the
bounds of his native parish, his name to use a
significant phrase of the people, was before him.
His arrival at Frank Farrell's was now generally
known by all his acquaintances, and the numbers
who came to see him were almost beyond belief.
During the two or three successive days, he went
amongst his old "cronies;" and no sooner was
his arrival at any particular house intimated,
than the neighbors all flocked to him. Scythes
was left idle, spades were stuck in the earth, and
work neglected for the time being; all crowded
about him with a warm and friendly interest,
not proceeding from idle curiosity, but from affection and respect for the man.
The interview between him and widow Murray's children was affecting. Owen felt deeply
the delicate and touching manner in which they
had evinced their gratitude for the services he had
13*




150           TUBBER DERG; OR,
rendered them; and young Murray remembered,
with a strong gush of feeling, the distresses
under which they lay when Owen had assisted
them. Their circumstances, owing to the strenuous exertions of the widow's eldest son,
soon afterwards improved; and, in accordance
with the sentiments of hearts naturally grateful, they had taken that method of testifying what they felt.  Indeed, so well had
Owen's unparalleled affection for his favorite
child been known, that it was the general
opinion about Tubber Derg that her death had
broken his heart.
"Poor Owen.! lie's dead," they used to say;
"the death of his weeny one, while he was away
in Dublin, gave him the finishin' blow. It broke
his heart."
Before the week was expired, Owen had the
satisfaction of depositing the lease of his new
farim, held at a moderate rent, in the hands of
Frank Farrell; who, tying it up along with his
own, secured it in the " black chest.": Nothing
remained now but to return home forthwith, and
communicate the intelligence to Kathleen. Frank
had promised, as soon as the Lacys should vacate




THE RED WELL.             151
the house, to come with a long train of cars, and
a number of his neighbors, in order to transfer
Owen's family and furniture to his new dwelling.
Everything, therefore, had been arranged; and
Owen had nothing to do but to hold himself in
readiness for the welcome arrival of Frank and
his friends.
Owen, however, had no sense of enjoyment
when not participated in by his beloved Kathleen.
If he felt sorrow, it was less as a personal feeling
than as a calamity to her. If he experienced
happiness, it was doubly sweet to him as reflected
from his Kathleen. All this was mutual between
them.  Kathleen loved Owen precisely as he
loved Kathleen.  Nor let our readers suppose
that such characters are not in humble life. It
is in humble life, where the springs of feeling are
not corrupted by dissimulation and evil knowledge,-that the purest, and tenderest, and
strongest virtues are to be found.
As Owen approached his home, he could
not avoid contrasting the circumstances of his
return  now with  those under.which, almost
broken-hearted after his journey to Dublin, he
presented himself to his sorrowing and bereaved




152           TUBBER DERG; OR,
wife about eighteen years before. He raised his
hat, and thanked God for the success which had,
since that period, attended him, and, immediately
after his silent thanksgiving, entered the house.
His welcome, our readers may be assured,
was tender and affectionate. The whole family
gathered about him, and, on his informing them
that they were once more about to reside on a
farm adjoining to their beloved Tubber Derg,
Kathleen's countenance brightened, and the tear
of delight gushed to her eyes.
" God be praised, Owen," she exclaimed.;
"we will have the ould place afore our eyes, an'
what is betther, we will be near where Alley is
lyin'. B]ut that's true, Owen," she added, "did
you give the light of our hearts the mother's
message?"
Owen paused, and his features were slightly
overshadowed, but only by the solemnity of the
feeling.
"Kathleen," said he, "I gave her your message; but, avourneen, I have sthrange news for
you about Alley."
"What, Owen?  What is it, acushla?  Tel
me quick!"




THE RED WELL.             153
"The blessed child was not neglec(.d: no,
but she was honored in our absence.  & headstone was put over her, an' stands ther; purtily
this minute."
" Mother of Glory, Owens"
"It's thruth. Widow Murray an' her son
Jemmy put it up, wid words upon it that
brought the tears to my eyes. Widow Murray is dead, but her childher's doin' well. May
God bless and prosper them, an' make her
happy!"
The delighted mother's heart was not proof
against the widow's gratitude, expressed, as it
had been, in a manner so affecting. She rocked
herself to and fro' in silence, whilst the tears fell
in showers down her cheeks. The grief, however, which this affectionate couple felt for their
child, was not always such as the reader has
perceived it to be. It was rather a revival of
emotions that had long slumbered, but never
died; and the associations arising from the journey to Tubber Derg, had thrown them back, by
the force of memory, almost to the period of
her death.  At times, indeed, their imagination had conjured her up strongly, but the




154            TUBBER DERG; OR,
present was an epoch in the history of their
sorrow.
There is little more to be said. Sorrow was
soon succeeded by cheerfulness and the glow
of expected pleasure, which is ever the more
delightful as the pleasure is pure. In about a
week their old neighbors, with their carts and
cars, arrive(d; and before the day was closed on
which Ovwen removed to his new residence, he
found himself once more sitting at his own
hearth, among the friends of his youth, and
the companions of his maturer years. Ere the
twelvemonth elapsed, he had his house perfectly
white, and as nearly resembling that of Tubber
Derg in its better days as possible. About two
years * ago we saw him one evening in the
month of June, as he sat on a bench beside
the door, singing with a happy heart his favorite song of " Colleen dhas crootha na mo."  It
was about an hour before sunset.  The house
stood on a gentle eminence, beneath which a
sweep of green meadow stretched away to the
skirts of Tubber Derg. Around him was a
* It is unnecessary to add, that years have passed since
this date was given.




THE RED WELL.              155
country naturally fertile, and in spite of the
national depression still beautiful to contemplate.
Kathleen and two servant-maids were milking, and the whole family were assembled about
the door.
"Well, childher," said the father, "didn't I
tell yez the bitther mornin' we left Tubber Derg,
not to cry or be disheartened —that'there was
a good God above, who might do somethin' for
us yet?' I never did give up my trust in Him,
anll' I never wzll. You see, afther all our little
troubles, he has wanst more brought us together, an' made us happy.  Praise an' glory
to his name!!"
I looked at him as he spoke.  He had raised
his eyes to heaven, and a gleam of elevated
devotion, perhaps worthy of being called sublime, irradiated his features.  The sun, too, in
setting, fell upon his broad temples and irongrey locks, with a light solemn and religious.
The effect to me, who knew his noble character,
and all that he had suffered, was as if the eye
of God then rested upon the decline of a virtuous man's life with approbation;-as if he had




156   TUBBER DERG; OR, THE RED WELL.
lifted up the glory of his countenance upon
him. Would that many of his thoughtless
countrymen had been present I They might
have blushed for their crimes, and been content to sit and learn wisdom at the feet of
Owen M'Carthy.




BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE;
OR.
DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.
BARNEY BRADY was a good-natured, placid
man, and never lost his temper, unless, as he
said himself, when he got "privication;" he was
also strict in attending his duty; a fact which
Mrs., or rather, as she was called, Ailey Brady,
candidly and justly admitted, and to which the
priest himself bore ample testimony. Barney,
however, had the misfortune to be married at a
time when a mystery was abroad among women.
Mysteries, resembling the Elusinian in nothing
but the exclusion of men, were then prevalent
among the matrons in all parts of the country.
Of the nature of these secret rites it would be
14




158      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
premature now to speak; in time the secret will
be revealed; suffice it to say, that the mysteries
were full of alarm to the husbands, and held by
them to be a grievous offence against their welfare and authority. The domestic manners of
my beloved countrywomen were certainly in a
state of awful and deplorable transition at the
time, and many a worthy husband's head ached
at a state of things  which no vigilance on his
part could alter or repress.  Many a secret consultation was held among the good men of the
respective villages throughout the country at
large, as to the best mode of checking this disastrous epidemic, which came home to their very
beds and bosoms, and many a groan was vainly
uttered from hearts that grew heavy in proportion as the evil, which they felt but could not
see, spread about through all directions of the
kingdom.
Nay, to such a height did this terrible business rise, that the aggrieved parties had notions
of petitioning the king to keep their wives virtuous; but this, upon second consideration, was
given up, inasmuch as the king himself, with
reverence be it spoken, was at the bottom of




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      159
the evil, and what was still worse, even the
queen was not ashamed to corrupt their wives
by her example. How then could things be in
a healthy state when the very villany of which
the good broken-hearted men complained descended from  the court to the people?  A
warning this to. all future sovereigns not without good forethought, and much virtuous consideration, to set a bad precedent to their subjects. What then could the worthy husbands
do unless to put their hands dolorously to their
heads and bear their grievances in silence;
which, however, the reader perceives they did
not.  After mutually, but with great caution,
disclosing their injuries, they certainly condoled
with each other; they planned means of redress,
sought out the best modes of detection, and
having entered into a general confederacy
against their respective wives, each man solemnly promised to become a spy and informer
in his own family. To come to this resolution was as much as they could do under
such unhappy circumstances, and of course they
did it.
Their wives, on the other hand, were anything




160      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
but idle.  They also sat in secret council upon
their own affairs, and discussed their condition
with au anxiety and circumspection which set
the vigilance of their husbands at complete defiance. And it may be observed here, just to
show the untractable obstinacy of women when
bent on gratifying their own wills, that not one
of them  ever returned home to her husband
from  these closed-door meetings, without having committed the very act of which she was
suspected.  Not that these cautious good women were, after all, so  successful in  every
instance as to escape detection.  Some occasional discoveries were actually made in consequence of the systematic espionage of their husbands, and one or two of them were actually
caught, as the law term has it, with the maner,
that is, in the very act of offence.  Now, contumacy is ever impudent and outrageous, and
disposed to carry everything with a high hand,
or at all events, with a loud tongue. This, the
husbands of those who had been detected soon
felt; for, no sooner had they proclaimed their
wrongs to their fellow-sufferers than they were
branded by their wives with the vile and trying




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHIBEG.           161
epithet of "stag,"* and intrepidly charged home
with letting themselves sink to the mean-spirited
office of informers against the wives of their
bosoms.
Some of the good  men now  took fire, and
demanded  an  explanation; others  looked  at
their wives with amazement, and stopped short,
as if irresolute how to act; and other some
shrugged their shoulders, took a silent and
meditative blast of the pipe upon the bob, and
said no more about it. So far, then, there was
no great victory either on the one side or the
other.   Now, the  state  of human  society is
never so bad, even in the most depraved times,
but that there are always to be found in it
many persons uncorrupted by the prevailing
contamination; and it was supposed to be so
here.  Barney Brady as yet hoped in heaven
* WVe need scarceqy tell our readers that in Ireland
"stag" means a person who becomes king's evidence
against his accomplices, or in some indirect way exposes
their crimes. If, for instance, a member of a Ribbon or
Orange Lodge betrayed the secrets of the body, le would
be termed a "stag;" and a husband betraying any weakness of his wife, such, for instance, as the fact of her being
addicted to liquor, would be termed a " stag " by his offended partner.
14*




162      RARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
that Alley had escaped the contagion, which
operated upon her sex so secretly, yet so surely.
For some time past he had held her under strict
su,rveillance; but with such judgment that she
did not even dream  of being suspected.  In
this manner did matters proceed between them
- Barney slyly on the alert, and Ailey on a
shrewd look-out for means and opportunity;
when one Friday he proposed to visit his aunt
Madge, up in Carrickmore, on the next Saturday evening, and accordingly informed Ailey
that he would not return until the Monday following. To this Ailey could offer no possible
olbjection; but, on the contrary, highly applauded him for showing such a mark of respect and
affection for his aunt, who, by the way, had
been very kind to them both since their marriage.  " It's only right," said she, "and your
duty besides, to go an' see her, for betwixt you
an' me, Barney, she has been the best feather in
our wing.  There's thim  Finnigans, the dirty
low pack, sure, bekase indeed they're the same
relations to her that we are, they'd kiss the dirt
of her feet, if they thought they cud bone a
penny by it, an' they're lavin' no stone unturned




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      163
to get the soft side of her, hopin', the. dirty
squad o' cabogues,* to cum in for what she has.
an' to cut us out from her. So go to her, Barney; an' if you don't palaver her, the sorra one
o' you's worth a pound o' goats' wool."
Barney, having then got on a clean shirt and
his holiday frieze coat, took his shilellah in hand,
and set out to visit his aunt Madge Brady, up
among the hills of Carrickmore, as a most
attached and disinterested nephew, who, as the
song says, "loved her for herself alone."  He
had not gone many yards from the door, however, when he returned.
"Madge," said he, "I'm jist goin' to mintion
to you afore I set out, that I'd as soon you'd
keep away from the Maguigans; I mane the
women of them. Both their husbands tould me
not a month o' Sundays agone, that they suspect
them to be not safe. So you see you can learn
nothing that's good from them. God's thruth
is, I'm afeared that they're tarred wid the same
stick that has marked the women o' the whole
neighborhood.  So now, that you know this, I
hope you'll keep your distance from them."
* Low person: a term of contempt.




164      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"Arra, what business, Barney, could I have
wid them?  The sorra eye I layed on one o'
them this fortnight back.  I have my own business on these two childre, the crathurs, to take
care of."
"That's a darlin', Madge, give us a smack;
an' now banag'ht lath till Monday, please goodness.  Kiss me, chlildhre.  Hadn't you betther
tie a bit of flannin about poor Barney's neck,
till that cough laves him?"
"Don't you see it dhryin' there, on the stool,
before the fire?"
"That's right. Now, you'll mind my words,
Ailey."
" Arra, bad scran be from me, but you'd-so
you would, arra- "
She spoke this with an indignant abruptness;
but the reader will please to observe, that she
made no prornise whatsoever.
"I'm off, I'm  off.  I know you won't.  God
bless yez all!"
And so Barney went to see his aunt Madge,
up in Carricklnore.
WVell! it is a sall thing to be a mere chronicler
of truth, whichl-, indeed, every man, who deline



DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      165
ates human nature must be; because unhappily
for him who lives in the world of human nature,
there is no fiction at hand. It is only those who
live out of it that can make fiction available to
their purposes. This has been forced from us,
not by Barney, however, but by his wife.
He had scarcely been half an hour gone, when
Ailey threw a bonnet on her head, a blue cloak
about her shoulders, and after having " made a
play" for tlie children, to keep them quiet, and
given them a slice of griddle bread each, she
locked the door, rolled the big stone upon the
hole that was under it, which the pig had grubbed away, in order to work himself a passage
into the house, and immediately proceeded to
visit the two tainted wives of the Maguigans!
The act was-but it is not for us to characterize
it; the consequences of it will speak for themselves. The two brothers to whom they were
united in wedlock, lived next door to each other,
or, what is called, under the same roof; and she,
consequently, found both their good women at
home. Two or three "slips" of both sexes, who
had been amusing themselves in the elder
brother's house, where the conference resulting




166      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
from her visit was about to be held, were immediately desired to play abroad, "an' not be gamestherin' an' rampadghin' through the house that
way, makin' a ruction, that people can't hear
their own ears wid yez; go along an' take the
sthreets on your head, and stretch your limbs,
ye pack o' young thieves, yez!"
The moment they bounded away, Ailey's face
assumed an air of considerable importance-a
circumstance which the others instantly noticed;
for nothing is so observant of symptoms that indicate its own discovery as a consciousness of error.
"Ailey," said one of them, alarmed, "you've
heard something? What is it?  Are we found
out, clane?"
" If you're not found out," replied Ailey, in
the same low guarded tone, "you're strongly
suspected; but the devil may care for that.
Barney is away up to his ould aunt Madge
Brady's, at Carrickmore above, an' won't be
back till Monday; so that the coast's clear till
then, any way. All you have to do is to slip up
about dusk, for there'll be nobody but ourselves,
an' I'll put the childhre to bed, not that they
dare tell him any thing they'd see."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       167
"So, thin, we are suspicted?" said the other,
with much chagrin.
" It's truth.  Dick an' Harry confessed it to
Barney; an' he tould me."
"Troth, an' we'll outdo them, if they wor ten
times as sharp," replied Mrs. Dick Maguigan, or
Betty, as she was called.  "Indeed, I knew
myself that he was for a good while past
peepin' and pokin' about, as if he expected to
find a leprechaun or a mare's next; an' faith sure
enough, he was wanst widin' an ace of catchin'
us; but, as luck would have it, he didn't search
undher the bed."
"And I suppose that Barney's backin' them
in all this," observed Mrs. Harry Maguigan, or,
as we shall call her, Bid.
"Throth, you may swear that," replied his
faithful wife; "an' warned me strongly afore he
went to the aunt's to hould away from yez both,
for he said ye wor tainted, tarred with the same
stick that has marked all the rotten sheep in the
country."
The three audacious conspirators, instead of
expressing either regret or repentance at the
conduct which had justified the well-founded




168      BARNEY BRADYIS GOOSE; OR,
suspicions of their husbands, burst out, on the
contrary, into one united and harmonious chorus
of laughter, which lasted at least five minutes!
"Well," said Ailey, hastily getting up and
throwing the cloak about her, "I can't stop a
jiffey, for there's no one at home but the childhre
that I locked in; and I'm always unaisy when I
lave the crathurs that way, for fraid they might
go too near the fire, or that that sarra of a pig'ud work the stone from undher the door an' get
in. So as the coast's clear, you'll both slip up
about dusk."
This they promised; and accordingly, when
darkness had completely set in, the door of
Barney Brady's house was closed, and bolted
inside with all possible security; and this was
necessary, for truly a surprise would have been
an awful but a, just, winding up of their iniquities.
What peculiar mysteries or rites took place there,
on that night, it is not our province, good reader,
to disclose; but of this you may rest assured,
that each fulfilled the old and excellent adage,
"that stolen enjoyments are the sweetest."
With what feelings Betty and Bid Maguigan
faced their husbands, they themselves best know.




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       169
but that each was received with suspicion, and
severely cross-examined upon the cause of their
absence, we can inform the reader.
But what did that avail? The delinquents, on
their way home, had fabricated a story —and
they are never good that possess a faculty at
fabricating stories,-to which both were determined to adhere with most inflexible pertinacity.
"They had jist ran up to see little Madge Brady,
for Ailey had been down to tell them that she
was afeared it was takin' the mazles; but it was
nothin' but a small rash that came out upon its
breast, the crathur, though Bid (her sister-inlaw), thought it was the hives; an' indeed, after
all, she didn't know herself but it was. But
God send it safe over whatsomever it was, poor
thing! Amin, this night!"
Now, who would think?-but no matter;
there is still worse to come! The reader will
not believe our word, when we assure him that
these two women, Betty and Bid Maguigan, did
not scruple, though loaded with the just suspicions of their husbands, to kneel down and say
their prayers on that very night before they
went to bed.
15




1o0      BARNEY RRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
The next day being Sunday, and their husbands having more leisure, it is scarcely necessary to say that the two good men kept a sharp
eye upon their spouses, who found themselves
dodged in every motion.  Several times they
attempted a stolen visit to Ailey Brady's, but
were detected just in the act of putting on their
cloaks and bonnets.  In fact, they were so
completely hampered, that they resolved, at
length, to brazen it out, having lost temper considerably by seeing that all their designs were
fairly contravened, and that whatever must be done
as to reaching the scene of their transgression,
must be done with honest, open defiance. They
once more, therefore, had recourse to the cloaks
and bonnets, and were in the very act of setting
out, when their husbands, who sat smoking each
a pipe, after having coolly eyed them for some
time, calmly inquired" Where are yez bound for, good women?"
"Up to Ailey Brady's, to see the child, poor
thing l'Deed, it's a burnin' shame that we
didn't call sooner, espishilly as Barney's not at
home wid her. She may want something, an'
has no one to send out for it."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       1l
"Well," said Dick, addressing his own wife
Betty, "grantin' all that, isn't one o' you enough
to go?"
"Plenty," replied his sister-in-law Bid; "but
I've some notion' of goin' up  as far as
my mother's, while Betty's sittin' wid Ailey
Brady."
"By the tarlin' sweep I" exclaimed Harry,
taking the pipe hastily out of his mouth, and
casting a keen, indignant glance at the last
speaker —"yez are enough to bate down the
patience of a saint. How can you look us in
the face, ye schamers o' the devil? Goin' to see
Ailey Brady's child, indeedl Why, I was up wid
Ailey Brady this very mornin', an' there's not
a blast o' wind wrong wid either of her childre,
not, as much as a hair turned on theml What
have yez to say, now?  An' yit ye came both
iome last night wid a lie in your mouths; that
Ailey Brady's child was gettin' the mazles,'
stays one;'it has a rash,' says the other;'but
sure God send it safe over whatsomever it has,
poor thingl' Be the miortal man, I won't bear
this. There now, to show yez I won't."
As he spoke the last word he took the pipe




172      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
out of his mouth and shivered it to atoms
against the opposite wall. His brother seeing
his energetic display, resolved not to be outdone
in the vigor of his indignation.
"Yes, be me sowl, nor I aither," he exclaimed,
hurling his dudeen in an opposite direction, and
immediately kicking the stool on which he sat to
the lower end of the kitchen.
"That's to show yez that ye won't have your
tongues in your cheeks at uz," he added; " an'
be this an' be that for three straws I'd not lave
a thraneen's worth on the dhresser but I'd smash
to smithereens. An' I'll tell yez what it is," he
proceeded, rising his voice to its highest pitch,
and stamping furiously on the hearth, "I tell
yez what it is, yez must put an end to this work,
wanst for all. Our substance isn't to go this
way. We'll have no collogin' among yez; no
huggermuggerin' between you an' the other
black sheep o' the neighborhood. Don't think
but we know what's goin' on, an' what brought
you both up to Ailey Brady's last night. Too
well we know it; an' now I tell yez again that
yez must avoid that woman; she's not a safe
neighbor, an' her own husband suspects her to




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       173
be as bad as the worst among them.  Ay, an'
he'll catch her yet, known as she thinks herself."
"Be the book, I'll turn another pin in your
lose, my lady," said Harry, addressing Bid;'never fear but I will. I'll make you that you
~on't have yourself the talk o' the neighbors,
Ul' me, too, that doesn't desarve it. The curse
o' Cromwell on me if I don't.:Now "
" Why thin now," said Bid calmly turning to
Betty, "in the name of all that's beautiful, what
are these two dunghill cocks at? are they mad?
or is it only dhrunk they are?"
" No," replied Betty, "but goin' to bate us I
suppose i"
"Ay, very likely, returned the other; " any
how they may be proud o' themselves, to join*
two women as if we wor fit to fight them.
Throth I'm glad their own childhre's not to
the fore to see their fine manly behavior.
Come, Betty, are you goin' up to Ailey's?
Whether the child's sick or not, the crathur's
lonely, as Barney's from home, an' it's a charity
to sit awhile wid her. Are you comin'?"
# To fall upon-to attack.
15*




114      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"No,: nor you aither; the divil a one toe,"
iaid her husband.
"The divil take them that says to the conthrary; come, Betty."
" Ay, if I like," said he.
"Ay, whether you like or not, dear; the sarra
wan o' me'ill be stopped by you this day."
" You won't?"
"I won't, now."
"Never heed her, Harry," said Dick: "let
her go to ould Nick her own way; ay, both o'
them; off wid you now; but you'll see what'ill
come of it at the long run."
"Where's the Catechiz?" said Harry: "I'll
take my book oath this minute, that for a
month to come, I'll not let you on the one side
of the house wid me any how. Will no one tell
me where the Catechiz is?"
"An' is that to vex. me, Harry? a.rra, why
don't you make it twelve months while yer
hand's in? I wouldn't be worth your while to
switch the primer for a bare four weeks, man
alive?"
"Be me sowl, it's you ought to be switched
instead o' the primer."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.     175
"Very well," replied his imperturable and
provoking spouse; "I suppose the next thing
you'll do will be to bate us sure enough-but
sure We can't help it, only it will be a fine story
to have to tell the neighbors. You'll look well
fther it; you may then hould up your head like
a man! Oh, ye-   but I won't let myself down
to scould wid ye. Come, Betty."
"No," said Betty, "I wouldn't be squabblin'
wid.-them about goin'. It's nothin' to us one
wa -or the other, so we'll sit here. Oh, thin,
God he knows but we're the-well-matched women
at all evints. Sure if we were the worst that
ever riz this day-ay, if we wor so bad that the
very dogs wouldn't lap our blood, we couldn't
be thrated worse than we are by thim two
men."
"I say again," observed Harry, seeing his
wife somewhat irresolute, "that if you go, your
breath won't come near me in haste."
"Oh, hould your tongue man," replied Bid, I
seen the day you thought enough about my
breath."
"Faith, an' that was bekase I didn't know
you then as well as I do now."'




1716     BARNEY BRADYIS GOOSE; OR,
"That's not what you thought, or what you
said aither, when I was ill last harvest, and
goin' to die.  Sure you wor roarin' about the
house like a suckin' calf that has lost its mother,
wid your two eyes as red as a pair of sunburnt
onions."'"-Never heed her," said his brother; "you
know she'd bate both of us at the tongue; she's
now in her glory."
"Betty," said Bid, addressing her sister-inlaw, in a voice exceedingly calm and quiet; that
is to say, in the voice of a woman whose contempt alone prevented her from continuing the
controversy; "go out, alanna, an' cut me a bit
o' greens to put down wid that bacon for the
dinner; after that, we'll clane ourselves up, an'
be in time for the twelve o'clock mass."
"But what if somebody would run away wid
us?" said Betty, laughing.
"Oh, sure," said the other, "that's all they'd
want.  They'd thin get shut of the two sich
villains as we are. Go, alanna, and never mind
them-they're not worth our breath, little as
they think about it."
"A purty Sunday's mornin' they've made us




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.     1 
spind-but no matther —God forgive them for
wrongin' us as they're doin'I"
Their two husbands did not go to mass that
day, having in fact devoted it to the purpose of
ferreting out evidence against their wives. Their
exertions, however, were fruitless, although we
are bound honestly to state that they left no
stone unturned to procure it.  The children
were taken to task and severely interrogated,
but they could prove nothing, except that their
mothers were sometimes out for a considerable
time, and that they themselves were often sent
to play, and that on returning of an odd time
sooner than was expected, they found the doors
bolted, and heard strange voices within.  Of
these facts, however, the good man had been
apprized before; so that the sum of all they
obtained was nothing more than an accession
to their uneasiness, without any addition to their
knowledge.  Both men, indeed; were unusually
snappish the whole day, especially after the hour
of dinner; for each of their wives could observe
that her husband often put his hand quietly over
to the bole of the hob, and finding that the pipe
was not there, vented his spleen upon the cat or




178      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
dog, if either came in his way, and not unfrequently even upon his own children.
At length Dick got up and was about to go
out, when Betty asked in her turn, "Where he
was goin'?"
"Not far," he replied. "I'll be back in a
quarther of an hour-too soon for you to have
an opportunity of bein' at your ould work."' If you're afeard o' that," she replied, "hadn't
you betther not go at all?"
To this he made no reply, but putting his
hands over his brows, he stalked gloomily out
of tue house.
Almost precisely similar was the conduct of
his brother, who, after exchanging a random
shot or two with Bid, slunk out soon after Dick,
but each evidently attempted to conceal from the
wife of the other that he had gone out —a/ circumstance that was clearly proved by Dick declining to pass Harry's door, and Harry Dick's.
Alas! and must I say it? —I must-I mustunhappily the interests of truth compel me to
make the disclosure.  The two men were no
sooner gone, than their irreclaimable wives had
an immediate consultation.




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.     179
"Where's Dick?" asked Bid.
"Why, sure, I thought I'd split," replied
Betty, "to see him frettin' the heart out of
himself after his pipe. The norra be in me,
but it was a'most too much for me to look at
him searchin' the hob every five minutes for the
dudeen he broke upon the wall in his tantrems
this mornin'.  I know he's away over to Billy
Fulton's to buy one."
"'Twas the same wid Harry," said Bid; "he
didn't know which end of him he was sittin' on.
He's off too, to the same place; for I watched
him  through the windy; an' now that the
coast's clear, let's be off to Ailey, an' have all
over afore our two gintlemen comes back; or,
in troth they'll skiver us clane."
"The never a lie in that; the house wouldn't
hould them if they found us out. But wasn't
it lucky that they lost their temper and broke
their pipes? If they had kept cool, we would
have now no opportutlity-come."'
And so they proceeded once more to Ailey
Brady's; and again the door was locked and
bolted; and, as before, the: mysteries, whatever
they may have been, were re-enacted, and the




180      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
vigilance and terrors of their husbands became
the subject of open ridicule, and much mirth
went forward, as might easily be conjectured
from the hearty, but somewhat suppressed
laughter which an experienced ear might have
heard through the door-we say suppressed, for
their mirth was expressed, notwithstanding the
high spirit of enjoyment which ran through
it, in that timid and cautious undertone that
dreads discovery.
As their object was now to reach home before
the return of their husbands, so was the period
of their enjoyments on this evening much more
brief than on the preceding.  They had very
little time to spare, however, for scarcely were
the cloaks and bonnets thrown aside, and an
air of most decorous and matronly composure
assumed, when the good men entered.
"Musha, but that's a long quarther of an
hour you stayed," said Betty; "where on airth
wor you all.tbi.time?"
"I was upsn business," returned Dick, "gettin' somethin' to keep me cool against your behavor. Hand me a double sthraw out of the bed
there, till I light my pipe. Wor you out since?"




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      181
"Was I out since!" returned his wife, with
the look of a deeply offended woman; "hut,
ay, to be sure-Bid an' myself wor up at Ailey
Brady's, an' you niver saw such a piece o' fun
as we had. Sure, we're only come in this minnit. Why, upon my throth, Dick, you'd vex
an angel from  heaven.  Was I out! —arra.,
don't I look very like a woman that was
out?"
"Well, well," rejoined her husband, whiffing
away rather placidly from his new pipe, " don't
be flyin' out at us like Bid; I'm not sayin' you
wor out this evenin'; so hould your whisht
about it."
" No, but to think-the sorra one —"
"Very well-that's enough-be done."
And so the adroit wife grumbled gradually
into silence.
The skirmish between Harry and Bid was of
a. brisker and more animated description, but
we need not say on which side the victory settled. The pipe, however, soon produced something like tranquility, and after a hard bout at a
united prayer in the shape of a Rosary betweei
the deceiver and the deceived, both went to bet
16




182      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
on very good terms with each other, as indeed
after all, did Dick and Betty, not, any more
than the others, forgetting their devotions.
The next morning was that on which our
absent friend, Barney Brady, was expected
home, and about ten or eleven o'clock,. Ailey
was descanting in conversation with a neighbor
upon the kindness and generosity of Aunt
Madge, and the greater warmth of affection
which, on all occasions, she had manifested towards her and Barney, than ever she had shown
to that sleeveen pack of cabogues, the Finnigans, when who should appear but the redoubtable Barney himself, bearing, under his right
arm, a fat grey goose, alive and kicking.
"Musha, Barney, what is this?" exclaimed
Ailey, as her husband laid the goose down on
the floor.
"Why," he replied good humoredly, "don't
you see it's a leg o' mutton that Aunt Madge
sent for our dinner on Sunday next? What's
that, indeed!"
The goose was immediately taken up-handled like a wonder-balanced, that they might
guess its weight-felt, that they might know




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      183
how fat it was, and examined from beak to
claw with the most minute inspection.  The
children approached it with that eager but
fearfa4 curiosity for which childhood is remarkable.  They touched it, retreated with apprehension, took fresh courage, patted it timidly on
the back, and after many alternations of terror
and delight, the eldest at length ventured to
take it up in his arms. This was a disastrous
attempt; for the goose, finding him unable to
hold it firmly, naturally fluttered its pinions, and
the young hero threw it hastily down, and ran
screaming behind his mother, where his little
sister joined the chorus.
Barney and his wife thei entertained the
neighbor we spoke of with a history of Aunt
Madge's wealth, assuring him confidentially, that
they themselves were down for every penny and
penny's worth belonging to her, pointing to the
goose at the same time as a triumphant illustration of their expectations.
No sooner had their friend left them, than
Barney, having given Ailey a faithful account
of every thing respecting Aunt Madge, said he
hoped she had not forgotten his parting advice




184      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
on Saturday, that she had kept aloof from the
tainted wives of the Maguigans, and "neither
coshered or harbored with them," in his absence.
"Musha, throthll, Barney, afore I'd lead this
life, an' be catechized at every hand's turn, I'd
rather go out upon the world, and airn my bread
honestly, wid my own two hands, as I did afore
I met you.  The wives o' the MaguigansI
Why, what'ud I be doin' wid the wives o' the
Maguigans? or what'ud the wives o' the Maguigans be doin' wid me? It's little thim or their
consarns throubles me-I have my house an'
childhre to look afther, an' that's enough for
any one woman, I'm thinkin'."
" Well, but sure you needn't be angry wid me
for puttin' you on your guard."
"It's not to say that I'm angry wid you-but
sure wanst to say a thing ought to be enoughbut here you keep gnawin' an' aiten at me about
the wives o' the Maguigans. Musha, I wish to
marcy, the same wives o' the Maguigans wor far
enough out o' the counthry, for they're the
heart-scald to me anyhow."
"Well, well, Ailey; to the sarra wid them;




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       185
but about another thing,-what'll we do wid
this goose? Whether is it betther to roast it
or boil it?"
" Arra, Barney, what if we'd not kill it at all,
but keep it an' rear a flock ourselves. There'!
plinty of wather an' grazin' for them  about the
place."
"Throth, you're right; come or go what will,
we had betther not kill it, the crathur."
"Throth, we won't; I don't stand blood well
myself; an' I'd as soon, to tell you the thruth,
you'd not ax me to kill this one now, Barney.
I don't think it'ud sarve me."
"Very well," said her husband, yielding to her
suggestion with singular good humor; "as it is
your wish, the divil resave the drop will lave its
carcass this bout-so let it be settled that we'll
rear a flock ourselves; an' as you say, Ailey,
who knows but the same goose may be sent to
us for good luck."
It was so arranged; but as a solitary fowl of
that species is rather an unusual sight about a
countryman's house, they soon procured it a
companion, as they had said, after which they
want to bed every night anxious to dream that
16*




186      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
all its eggs might turn out golden ones to them
and their children.
Now, perhaps, the sagacious reader may have
already guessed that the arrival of the goose,
whatever it might have been to honest Barney,
was an excellent apology for a capital piece of
by-play to his wife. The worthy fowl had not
in fact been twenty-four hours at their place,
when in came "the two tainted wives of the
Maguigans!"  This visit was an open one and
paid in the evening, a little before the men
returned from  their daily labor.  Great was
Barney's astonishment then, when on reaching
home, he found Bid and Betty Maguigan in conference with Ailey; and what appeared to him
remarkably strange, if not rather hardy on their
part, was the fact that they carried on the conversation without evincing the slightest consciousness of offense.  It is true this had not
hitherto been actually proved, but it is needless
to say that the suspic-ion entertained against them
was nearly tantamount to proof. Their absences
were so difficult to be accounted for, and the
situations in which they were found so critical,
that it was impossible even for the warmest




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       187
friends to assert that they were blameless. As
Barney entered the house, they addressed him
with singular good humor and kindness, but it
was easy to infer from his short and monosyllabic
replies that they had in his case a strong prejudice to overcome.
"Musha, how are you, Barney?"
"At the present time not comfortable."
This was accompanied by a quick suspicious
glance from them to his wife.
" Why, there's nothin' wrong wid you, we hope?"
" Maybe that's more than I can say."
"You're not unwell, sure?"
" No."
"Barney," said the wife; "Bid an' Betty
came runnin' up to look at the goose; an' the
sorra one o' them but says it's the greatest bully
they seen this many a day."
This was meant as a soother;-" for Barney
himself," to use the words of Ailey, " was as
proud as e'er a one o' the childhre out of the
same goose."
His brow cleared a little at this adroit appeal
to his vanity, and he sat down with a look of
more suavity.




1.88     BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"Why, thin, Barney, it's a nice present all
out."
"It's more than the Finnigans would get
from Aunt Maldge, any way," said Ailey, "for
Barney's her favorite."
"Is that by way of news?" asked Barney,
whose vanity was highly tickled notwithstanding
his assumed indifference.  "Every fool knows I
was always that."
"It's no secret," observed Betty, who, as well
as Bid, knew his weakness here; " an' its only a
proof of her own sinse into the bargain. They're
a mane pack, thim Finnigans."
"Oh, the scruff of the airth," exclaimed Bid;
"why would you mintion thim an' a dacent man
in the one day?"
"Come, Betty," said the other; "my goodness, we haven't a minute now, the. good men'ill
swear we're about no good if they find us out
when they come home."
" Hut," said Barney, " sit a while, can't yez?
You can do no harm here any how."
" Nor anywhere else, I hope," said Bid; "but,
indeed, Barney, you don't know the men they
are, or you'd hunt us home like bag-foxes."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      189
"Don't be axin' them  to stay, thin," said
Ailey; "what they say I believe is thrue
enough; an' for my own part, I wouldn't wish
to hlave our little place mintioned one way or
other, in any dispute that yez may have, Betty."
"Troth," said Bid, "I don't b'lieve they'd
think us safe in a chapel; an' God forgive them
for it.  Come, Betty, if we wish to avoid a
battle, we have not a minute to spare. Oh
thin, Ailey Brady, it's you that has the goodnathur'd and sinsible husband, that doesn't keep
you night and day in a state of heart-scald.
Throth you're a happy woman. May God spare
him to youI"
"Throth, not that he's to the fore himself,"
rejoined his wife, "I'll say this, that a betther
husband never drew  breath this day.  Divil
a word he turns on me wanst in the twelve
months."
" W e believe it," they replied; "the dacent
man's above it; he wouldn't demane himself by
skulkin' about, an' watchin' and pokin' his nose
into every hole an' corner, the way our mane
fellows does be doin, till we can't —bless ourselves for them."




190      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"No, the sorra thing o' the kind he does;
sure I must tell the truth any way."
"Well, God be wid yez; we must be off.
Good bye, Barney, sure you can bear witness
for us this bout."
"That I can, Bid, an' will too; God bless yez!"
As they apprehended, their husbands, on
returning from their work, were once more in
a fume, on finding the good women absent.
" Soh!" said Dick, "is it a fair question to ax
where yez war?"
" Fair enough," said Bid.
" You wor at the ould.work," observed Harry;
"but I tell you what, by the holy St. Countryman! we won't suffer this much longer-that's
one piece o' thruth for yez!"
" Where war yez I say?" asked his brother
sternly; "no desate, now; tell us plump an' at
wanst where yez war?"
"Why, then, if you want to know," replied
Betty, "we wor up  seein' Barney Brady's
goose."
"Barney Brady's goose!" exclaimed Harry,
with a look as puzzled as ever was visible on a
human face.




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       191
"Barney Brady's goose I" repeated Dick,
with a face quite as mystified. The two brothers looked at each other for nearly a minute,
but neither could read in the other's countenance any thing like intelligence.
" What are they at?" asked Dick.
" Why, that they have their tongues in their
cheeks at us, to be sure?" replied the other.
"Why, where else would we have them," said
Bid; " it isn't in our pockets you'd have us to
carry them?"
"I wish to Jamini they wor any where but
where they are," returned her husband. " What
do you mnane?"
"Jist what we say, that we wor up takin' a
look at Barney Brady's goose."
"Why, the curse o' the crows upon you, don't
you know that Barney Brady never had a goose
in his life?"
" lie has one now then," replied Bid.
" Ay," added her sister, " an' as fine a bully
of a goose as ever I seen wid my two livin'
eyes."
"Sure," said Bid, "if you won't believe us,
can't yez go up an' see?"




192      RARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
This, after all, was putting the matter to a
very fair issue, and the two men resolved to
take her at her word, each feeling quite satisfied of the egregious falsehood their wives had
attempted to make them swallow.
"Come, Dick," said Harry, "put on your
hat: the sorra step further we'll let this go
till we see it out; an' all I can say is," he
added, addressing the women, "that you hlad
betther not be here before us when we come
back, if we find you out in a falsity."
They had not gone fifty yards from the door
when the laughter of the two women was loud
and vehement at the scene which had just occurred, especially at the ingenuity with which Bid
had sent them abroad, and thus got the coast
clear for their purposes.
" Out wid yez childre, and play awhilehoniom-an-dioual!  Is it ever an' always burnin'
your shins over the fire yez are? Away out o'
this, an' don't come back till we call yez."
When the children were gone, they brought
in two neighbor's wives, who lived immediately
beside them, shut and bolted the door, and
again did the mysterious rites of which we have




DAI'K DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      193
so often written, proceed as before.  On this
occasion, however, there was much caution
used, every now and then the door was stealthily opened, and a face might be seen peeping
out to prevent a surprise.  The conversation
was carried on in a tone unusually loW, and the
laughter, Which was frequent, and principally at
the expense of their husbands, could scarcely be
heard through the door.
In due time, however, the parties dispersed;
and when Dick and Harry returned, they found
their wives each industriously engaged in the
affairs of the household, which, indeed, they
went through with an air of offended dignity,
and a tartness of temper that contrasted
strongly with the sheepish and somewhat crestfallen demeanor of their spouses.
" Musha bad luck to you for a dog an' lave
my way, you dirty crooked cur, you," exclaimed
Bid, to the dog that innocently crossed her path;' it's purty lives we lead one way or other. We
have enough, dear knows, to thry our temper
widout. you comin' acrass us —ha! you divil's
limb! out wid you!  Well," she added, after a
short pause, "you see we're here before you for
17




194      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
all your big threats; but I'll tell you what it is,
Harry, upon my sowl you must turn a new lafe
or I'll lose a fall.  If you or Dick have any
thing against us, why don't you prove it manfully at wanst, and not be snakin' about the
bush the way yez do. The sorra aither of us
will lie undher your low, mane thoughts any
longer. I hope you seen Barney Brady's goose
on your thravels?  Faugh upon ye!  Throth
you ought to be ashamed to rise your head this
month to come!"
"Ay, now you're at it," exclaimed Harry, rising and putting on his hat; "but for my part
I'll lave you to fight the walls till your tongue
tires. All you want is some one to jaw back to
you, just tb keep the ball goin'. Bannaght lalth
for a while!"
Outside the door he met his brother.
"I was goin' to sit awhile wid you," said
Dick; "I can't stand that woman's tongue
good or bad."
" Faith, an' I was jist goin' in to yomt,"l replied
the other; " Bid's in her glory; there's no facin'
her. Let us go an' sit awhile wid Charley Magrath."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      195
" Bad luck to Barney Brady's goose, any
how; it'll be a long day till we hear the end
of it."
"The curse o' Cromwell on it, but it's the
unlucky bird to us this night, sure enough,"
re-echoed his brother. "Come an' let us have
a while's shanahas wid Charley till these women
settle."
They accordingly went, and ere a lapse of
many minutes their wives were together agrain
for the purpose of comparing notes, and of indulging, in another hearty laugh at their husbands.
Barney Brady's goose now began to be a
goose of some eminence.  In  short, it was
much talked of, and had its character and
qualities debated pro and con.  One thing,
however, was very remarkable in this business;
and that thing was, that the male portion of
the neighblllors hated it with a cordiality which
they could not disguise, whilst their wives, on
the other hand, defended it most strenuously
against all the calumnious attacks of its enemies. The dreaded change, to which we have
before alluded, was now going on rapidly, and




196      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
it somehow happened that scarcely a family
feud connected with it took took place within a
certain circle of Barney Brady's house, in which
his goose was not either directly or indirectly
concerned.
Barney himself, whose suspicions had been for
a long time lulled by the interest he took in a
bird of his own procuring, at length began to
look queer at certain glimpses which he caught
of what was going forward.
" Ailey," said he, with a good deal of uneasiness, "what brings up them wives o' the Maguigans here, that I spoke so much about?"
"Why, throth, Barney, I thought there was
something wrong wid the poor goose, an' I sent
down for them."
" By the mortual man, I wish," replied Barney, "that I had never brought the dirty drab
of a crathur about the place.  Why, if all
you say about it is true, it never had -a daiy's
health since it came to us, an' yet I'll take my
oath it's as fat a goose this minute as ever
wagged."
"An' right well you know, Barney, it got
delicate afthbur it came to us: an' it stands to




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       197
raison,-the crathur' fretted afthur thenl it left
behind it."
"No, confusion to the fret; it had no raison
in life when it got a comrade to keep it company.  Be me sowl it's I that fretted, an' I
dutnna but I'm the greatest goose o' the two for
not wringin' it's head off, an' puttin' a stop to a
crew o' women comin' to the place on the head
of it. What's wrong wid it now?"
"Why, throth, I didn't know myself till Bid
Maguigan tould me.  I thought it was sick, but
it's not. Sure the poor thing's goin' to clock,
an' I must set the ergs for it to-inorrow."
"I hope you'll keep your word then," said
Barney, "for although it would go against me
to harm the crathur, still, I tell you, that if the
crew I'm  spaken of does be comin' about the
place undher pretence of it, be the crass I'll be
apt to give it a dog's knock sometime; an' take
care, Ailey, that more geese than one won't
come in for a knock."
In this instance, however, it so happened that
Alley had truth on her side; the fact, indeed,
was-unquestionable, and enabled the good women
of the neighborhood to keep their angry hus17'




198      BARNEY BRADYYS GOOSE; OR,
bands quiet for a considerable time afterwards.
With some of the latter the report gained
ground very slowly, but on ascertaining that
it was a fact, many of them felt considerably
relieved.
The reader already sees that Barney Brady's
goose was really a goose of importance, whose
out-goinlgs and in-comings, whose health or illness, weal or woe, involved the ease and comfort,
or the doubt and anxiety of a considerable
number of persons in the surrounding district.
Barney himself, however, felt that her incubation
was rather a matter of discomfort to him than
otherwise; for had she been up and stirring, he
knew that she might be liable to all the " skyey
influences" that geese are heirs to.  Now, however, Ailey had no apology arising from her to
receive visits fiom the black sheep of the neighborhood, and yet he often detected them, either
in his house or leaving it.  This troubled him
very much, but still Ailey failed not in her excuse, and as he knew she seldom went out, he
did not suspect, much- less believe, that his own
house would or could be made the scene of those
private meetings, held by such women as the




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      199
MTaguigaus, or others still farther sunk in the
-ractices which were abroad.
Thirgs, however, were ripening, for whilst
Barney gravely meditated upon the moral prospect that presented itself in the country, the
task of incubation was crowned by the birth of
a fine brood of goslings, amounting to eleven
out of the twelve, every one of which appeared
to be healthy, and to give promise in due time
of arriving at the full proportion of a goodly
goose, allowance being made as usual for fate
and foxes.
Our readers are now to suppose two things,
first, that the goodly brood is reared; and,
secondly, that the mysterious but predominant
vice of the neighborhood  is fast increasing
Barney had promised himself a handsome return
from the sale of the geese, and hoped in a year
or two, to be able, from the proceeds, to buy a
cow or a heifer, and never, besides, to be without a good fat dinner at Michaelmas.  All this
was creditable, and becoming an industrious
man. In the meantime he thought that, somehow, the flock appeared lessened in his eye; that
is to say, that they looked as a whole, to be




200      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
rather diminished in number. The thing had
struck him before, but in that feeble and indistinct manner in which, in easy minds, leaves not
an impression behind it which ever leads to the
following up of the suggestion.  But on this
occasion, great was his dismay and astonishment
when on reckoning them, he found that three
were most unaccountably missing. Here was
more mystery; and, unfortunately, this discovery
was made at a time when he had every reason
to suspect that Aileen had at length been drawn
into the prevalent practices. The fact was, that
many secret and guarded movements had been
of late noticed by him, of which, from motives
of deep and sagacious policy, he had determined
to take no open cognizance, being resolved to
allow Aileen to lull herself into that kind of
false security which is usually produced by indifference or stupidity on the part of the husband.
Here was a matter, however, that could not
be overlooked, and accordingly he demanded an
explanation; but this in a manner so exceedingly
sage and cunning, that we are sure our readers
cannot witihhold from  him  the mark of their
approbation.




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      201
"Aileen," said he, without appearing to labor
under any suspicion whatsoever, "you had betther look afther them  crathurs o' geese this
mornin'; there's three o' them missin'. I can
reckon only eight, not countin' the gandher."
"Bad cess to your curiosity, Barney; you're
as bad as a woman, so you are, countin' the
geese! Musha, go to heaven!"
" No, divil a foot," said her husband, starting
up in a passion, "an' be the holy vestment, if
you don't tell me on the nail what bekem of
them, I won't lave a goose o' them alive inl
twenty minnits.  An' more than that, take care
an' don't   take care I say-don't aggrawate
mnc, I tell you."
"Well, throth, Barney, this is good I afore
your own childher too. An' now, if you want
to know, I did nothin' wrong wid thim, in regard
that I know well enough you'd bring me over
the coals about it; ay, did I. You gave me two
an' six pence to pay my Aisther dues; an' I met
my aunt, an' my sisther an' her bachelor, Charley
Cleary, an' I axed thim  in an' thrated them
dacently wid your money, an' of coorse I had to
sell one o' the geese to make it up."




202      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"Then of coorse, too, you ped your dues."
" Divil send you news whether I did or not.
I'll tell you what, Barney, sooner than I'd lead
such a life, I'd —— "
"You'd what? you'd what?  But I'll curb
myself. To-morrow's market day. Now I tell
you out you'll trudge step for step along wid
myself; an' be the mortual man, two o' the same
geese must go afore you lave the town. At
your elbow I'll stay till their sould; an' every
market day till they're gone, a pair o' them
must go."
" Why, then, you mane-spirited pittiouge, is it
to sell geese —arra, what'll you come to at last,
you blanket you? Sure if I did wrong, can't
you beat me? So you'll stand at my elbow till
I sell my geese! Be me sowl if you do I'll
bring a blush in your face, if there's such a thing
in it, which there's not, or you wouldn't make an
ould woman —a Molshy-of yourself as you're
doin'. Upon my dickens I wondher you didn't
sit on the eggs yourself; but, sure, I'll say you
did, to-morrow, an' then they'll bring three
prices   Saver above, but I'm  leadin' a happy
life wid you an' your geese!  Musha, bad luck be




DARK DOINGS- AT SLATHBEG.     203
from them every day they rise, but they have
been a bitther pill to me from  the beginnin'.
Sure yourself an' them's a common by-word.
Can either of us go to mass or market that the
neighbors doesn't be axin' wid a grin,'how is
Barney Brady's goose?'"
It would be acting rather unbecoming the
dignity of a historian were we to dwell too
minutely on the bitter feuds which followed the
sale of every goose until the last of the clutch
was disposed of. The truth is, that Barney, in
spite of all his authority and watchfulness and
conscious wisdom to boot, was never able to lay
a finger upon a single penny of the proceeds,
nor could he with all his acuteness of scent,
smell out the purpose to which Aileen applied it.
No: we are wrong in this. lie did find it out,
and as we have said, strongly suspect it too; but
he was hitherto able in no instance to detect
Aileen so as perfectly to satisfy himself and
bring the proof home against her.
A circumstance, however, now occurred which
brought the whole dark secracy of this proceeding to light. Barney, one day, while searching
in some corner for a hatchet, which he wanted,




204      BARNEY BRADY S GOOSE; OR,
stumbled upon a smooth round vessel with a
handle on one side, a pipe on the other, and a
close fitting lid on the top.  Cruikshank or
Brooke would have enjoyed the grin of malignant triumph which played upon his features, as,
with one hand stretched under the bed, he lay
curiously feelings and examining the vessel in
question. Very fortunately for him Aileen was
cutting some greens in the garden for their
dinner, and was consequently totally ignorant of
the discovery. The opportunity was too good
to be lost, and Barney, who, although he knew
not the use to which the vessel was applied,
having never seen one before, yet suspecting
that it was part and parcel of the wicked system
which prevailed, resolved, now that the coast was
clear, to carry it to those who could determine
its use and application. He immediately whipped it out, took a hasty glance, and, hiding it
under his big coat, stole off, unperceived by
Aileen, to consult the two Maguigans. Here,
however, was no chance of solving the mystery,
the Maguigans never having, any more than
himself, seen to their knowledge any vessel of
the kind before. Long and serious was their




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      205
deliberation respecting the steps necessary to be
taken upon this important occasion; one suggesting one thing, another another.  At length
it occurred to them, that their best plan would
be to consult Kate Doorish, an old woman who
was considered an infallible authority. Barney,
accordingly, once more putting this delfic enigma
under his coat, set off to Kate's house, with
something like a prophetic assurance of success.
In this again he was doomed to be disappointed.
Kate, in truth, was the very last person from
whom, had he known as much as his wife, he
wo'uld or ought to have expected information.
She it was her who had chiefly corrupted the
good wives of the village, both by precept and
example, and on her head of course did the
orig(inal sin of the whole neighborhood lie.
Barney found her at home, and took it for
granted that the difficulty must now be solved
without further trouble.
" God save you, Kate."
"God save you kindly, Barney.  How is
Aileen and the childher?"
" All as tight as tuppence, Kate.  What's
the news? any births or marriages abroad?"
18




206      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
" Ay, is there, as many as ever; an' will be,
plase God, to the end o' the chapther, man."
"Why, thin, I believe you're right, Kate.
While the sun shines an' the wind blows, the
world will still be goin'; but Kate, betuxt you
an' me, is it thrue that there's a dale o' bad
work goin' on among ourselves?"
"Faix, I suppose so; you men never wor good."
"Don't lift me till I fall, Kate; I mane
among the women. I'm tould there's hardly
one of them what she ought to be."
"Why, barrin' the grace o' God, that's thrue;
for, Barney, where's the man or woman aither
that is as they ought to be? Glory be to God!"
"To tell the thruth, Kate, I'm  afeard my
own wife's not much betther than the rest."
" Faith, if she's as good, man, you have no
right to complain.  Isn't she good enough for
you anyhow?  Is it a lady you want?  Musha,
cock you up, indeedl"
"There's thim eleven geese, they're gone now,
and not a farden ever I touched of the price of
any one o' them, only two hogs I got to help to
buy leather for a pair of brogues."
"Well!"




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       20t
"But I say, Kate, it's not well. Now where
did it go to?-answer me that.  I tell you
she's as bad as the Maguigans, an' of the three,
worse.  I can't keep them asundher, and the
lies they tell us is beyant belief. An' not only
that, but when they get together, we're their
sport and maygame, an' you know that very
well."
"No, nor you don't."
"Don't I?  I tell you I cotch them."
"Cotch them I at what? pullin' down churches?
eh?"
"Any way I as good as cotch them; an' here's
a piece o' their villany," he added, producing the
mystery from under his coat.  "Now, Kate, I'll
give you share of half a pint'if you tell me the
right name of this consarn."
"Why," replied Kate, "did you never see one
o' these before; an' is it possible you don't know
the name of it?"
" No; but I suspect."
"An' so you came here to know the name of
it, an' what it's for?"
"Divil a thing else brought me."
"An' you expect me to turn informer against




208      BARNEY BRATDYS GOOSE; OR,
the dacent woman to satisfy your curiosity I
Get out, you mane-spirited blaggard, how dare
you come to me on sich a business?  It's a salt
herrin' you ought to have tied to your tail, an'
be turned out before a drag-hunt, you skulkin'
vagabone. Begone out o' this!"
Discomfited and grieved he returned home,
almost despairing of ever ascertaining the purpose for which the mysterious and strang)elyshapen vessel was employed.
Now it so happened that the priest of the
parish, Father O'Flaherty, held a station that
day in the next townland, and thither did hon.
est Barney repair, that he might have his reverence's opinion upon the vessel which he carried
under his coat. He accordingly bent his steps
in that direction, and arrived just as the priest
had concluded the business of the day.
"Well, Barney," said the priest, "I hope
there's nothing wrong."
Barney shook his head with a good deal of
solemnity, and replied" It's hard to say, your reverence; but I'd be
glad to have a word or two in private wid you,
if it's agreeable."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       209
The priest brought him into the room where
he had been confessing, and inquired what was
the matter.
"But first sit down, Barney," said he; " and
how is the wife and children?"
"I'm much obliged to you, sir," replied Barney; but it's not jist convenient to me to sit, in
regard of what I'm  carryin'-the childre's all
well, sir, thank God and your reverence; an'
Aileen too, sir, as far as health is consarned."
" But why don't you sit down, man?"
"The divil a one of me can, sir, as I said;
I've a thing here that I want to ax your reverence's opinion on; for to tell you the truth, sir,
I suspect it to be nothing more or less than a
piece of the divil's invintion."
" Where did you get it?"
" Why, sir, I was gropin' about to-day lookinrg for a hatchet, an' I stumbled on it by accident."  As he spoke, he slowly unfolded the
skirts of his cothamore, and produced the
"mystery of iniquity" to the priest.
The priest, who was a bit of a humorist in
his way, on seeing what Barney carried with
such secrecy, laughed heartily, and commenced
18*




210      BARNEY RRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
a stave or two of the old song, familiar by the
name of-" Oh, Tea-pot, are you there?"
Oh, for the muse of old Meonides, or that
tenth Lady from Helicon who jogged the poetic
elbow of our own Mark Bloxam!  Oh, for-but
this is useless-one line of Virgil will paint honest Barney, on ascertaining from the priest that
the utensil he bore about with all the apparent
importance and caution of an antiquarian, was
after all the damnable realization of his worst
terrors, and the confirmation of his unprincipled
wife's guilt, an accursed tea-pot:" Obstupuit,.steteruntque comm, et vox faucibus haesit."
Truly his dismay and horror could scarcely be
painted; he started as if he had seen a spirit,
his fingers spread, his eyebrows were uplifted,
and his eyes protruded almost out of their
sockets; his very hair, as the poet says, stood
upright, and speech for nearly a minute was
denied him.
But this paroxysm of Barney's, on discovering
what the mystic vase actually was, demands a
few words of explanation. We believe it is




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       211
pretty well known to most of our aged readers
(if it so happen that any old lady or gentleman
will condescend to peruse us), that about half a
century ago, or even latter, ere civilization had
carried many of its questionable advantages so
far into the remote recesses of humble life as it
does in the present day, there existed among the
lower classes a prejudice against tea-drinking,
that was absolutely revolting. It is, to be sure,
difficult, properly to account for this; but the
reader may rest assured that so it was. In the
time of which we speak, any woman, especially
a married one, suspected of " tay dhrinkin'," was
looked upon as a marked sheep, and if detected
in the act, she was considered a disgrace to her
sex, and her name a reproach to her connexions.
Many circumstances went to create this not
unwholesome prejudice, and we shall mention a
few of them.
In the first place, tea at that time was by no
means so cheap a luxury as it is now; and,
besides, it brought still more luxuries in its train.
They could not use tea without sugar; and it
was found that a loaf of "white bread" and
butter were a decided improvement. This costly




21.2     BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
indulgence was naturally and justly looked upon
as an act of domestic profligacy, altogether
unjustifiable on the part of the poor and struggling classes, who must have distressed themselves and wasted their means in striving to procure it. Nor was this all. It was too frequently
found that wives and daughters did not scruple
to steal, or otherwise improperly make away
with the property of their husbands and fathers,
rather than live without this fascinating beverage, which had then the zest of novelty to
recommend it.  Neither did its injurious consequences, in a moral point of view, end here.
Wives and daughters have been known to entail
still deeper disgrace upon their families, in order
to obtain it. The sons of half-sirs, and of independent farmers, might have been less successful
in their gallantries among the females of their
father's tenantry, were it not for the silly weakness which often yielded to temptation in this
shape.  These facts of themselves were sufficient
to create an abhorrence against tea among the
male portion of the lower classes, and to render
it almost infamy for any woman to be known to
drink it.  OuW catalogue of prejudices, however,




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.     213
does not end even here.  It was reported-by
the husbands, we presume-that tea was every
way unlucky about a house, and that no poor
family in which it was drunk was ever known to
thrive,-and for this reason, that the devil was
worshipped in the country from whence it came,
and that it was consequently "the devil's plant."
But independently of this, did not they all know
the wickedness that took place in the high families, when men and women, married and single,
from the lord-lieutenant to the squire, met in the
middle of the night, and in the pitch dark, to
drink, every two of them —that is man and
woman-their RAKING POT OF TEA! Sure it was
well known that the devil was always present,
and made the " tay " himself; and as most of the
lords and gentlemen were members of the Hellfire Club, it stood to reason that the devil and
they were all in their glory.
Now all this came of "tay dhrinking;" and
how, then, could it happen but that the old, boy
must have had a hard grip of any woman that
took it. Our readers, we trust, can now understand not only our friend Barney's horror, on
discovering that the vessel he carried about with




214      BARNEY BRADYS: GOOSE; OR,
him was nothing more or less than an unholy
tea-pot, but also the distress, and indignation,
and jealous vigilence with which he and the
~Maguigans kept watch upon the motions of their
inoffensive wives. Indeed, much of the simplicity of character which then existed, is now
gone; and we have every reason to regret it,
although not more than the unhappy people
themselves. It was truly amusing to witness
the harmless but covert warfare which went on
between the husbands and wives of a village,
who assailed each other as if from masked
batteries, whilst a firm and incorruptible esprit
du. corps knit the individuals on each side
together-thus joining themselves into a most
cunning league for the purpose of circumventing
the opposite party. And in later times, when
tea was sanctioned at least once a week-to wit,
on Sunday morning-it was highly diverting to
witness the manoeuvres resorted to by the good
wife or her daughters, in order to have a cup of
it more Prevauently.  Sometimes they salted the
pjorridge made for breakfast so villainously, that
there was nothing for it but the "cup of tay;"
sometimes the schoolmaster was to breakfast




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.      215
with them, and when the strongest and most
fragrant was ready drawn and awaiting him, it
was discovered that the whole matter was a
hoax, got up by the females of the family, that
they might secure it to themselves. But alas!
those good innocent days are gone, and we fear
for ever!-But to return" Heaven and earth, your reverence!" exclaimed Barney, when he had recovered himself,
"what's to be done?  I'm a ruined man, an' my
wife's worse."
Now nobody living understood the nature of
Barney's grievance better than the priest, to whom,
upon the woful subject of tea-drinking, many a
sore complaint, heaven knows, had been carried.
"Why, Barney," said he, pretending ignorance, "what is wrong?"
"Wrong! By the mortual man, your reverence -God pardon me for swearin' in your
presence-she's at it hard and fast for the last
nine months."
"Nine months! how is that? what do you
mean?"
"The devil's plant, the tay, sir. Aileen, my
wife's to the back bone into it. She an' them




216      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
two rotten sheep, the Maguigans' wives. Ay,
are they; an' the truth, the naked truth, is, sir,
that they're all roddled wid the same stickdivil a thing but truth I'm tellin' you."
" Tut! you're dreaming, Barney.  How could
your wifei afford to drink tea?  Where could
she get t'-e money for it?  You have none to
spare, I bElieve; and if you had, I don't think
you'd allo v it to her for such a purpose."
"It arti. all along out of a damnable-heaven
forgive me again takin' its name afore you, sirout of a d,mnable goose I got from an aunt o'
mine; and may all the plagues of Aygip light
upon her, an' on the dotin' ould goose of
gandher thkt's along wid her 1"
"Why, -That has the goose to do with your
wife's tea-L,-inking?"
"Every thing, and be cursed to her-the
dirty blackguard fowl made me a laughin'-stock
to the neighbors in the beginnin', and now my
wife has made me worse.  God only knows
what she has made me; a tay-dhrinker, your
reverence knows, will do any thing."
"But the goose, Barney? I can't connect
the goose with your wife's tea-drinking."




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       217
"Thonom an dioual, sir-the same goose
brought us a clackin' of eleven as fine fat birds
as ever you tasted in your life; an' confusion to
the one of them but she drank in tea, barrin'
two shillings she gave me to buy leather for a
pair o' brogues, when my heels were on the
stones."
"Is it the goose or your. wife you're speaking of?"
"My wife, the thief."
"You don't mean that it was she brought
you the clackin' of —"
"No, sir," replied Barney with a grin, which
he could not suppress; "nor, be me sowl it
wasn't the goose drank the tay aither.  But
what's to be done, your reverence?"
" Is the goose fat now, Barney?"
"Faith, sir, Squire Warnock's a skilleton to
her; she'd want an arm chair to be rolled
about in."
"Well, Barney, to get out of trouble, send
me the goose and gander, and make your mind
easy. I'll cure the tea-drinking; or at all events,
I'll undertake that your wife won't taste a single
cup without your knowing it."




218     HBARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
"You shall have them, sir; but faith I say
it's a bould undertaking. God grant you may
succeed in it-hopin' always that it mayn't be
too late, so far as I'm consarned; for they say
that a tay-dbrinker has no scruples good or bad.
Oh, murdherl God pity the man that has a taydhrinkin' wife, an' undhertakes to rear geesel
I'm nothing but a marthyr to them."
"Barney, I'll tell you what you'll do," says
the priest.  "Take this same tea-pot back to
your own house, and leave it, unknown to your
wife, exactly in the spot where you got it.
After this, keep singing,'Tea-pot, are you
there?' during the remainder of the day; and
you may throw out a hint to her that you have
lately seen such a thing; then watch her well,
and in a day or two let me know how she'll act.
Come now, put it under your tail and be off. I
have given you proper instructions.
Barney thanked the priest, rolled it up in the
vail of his great-coat as before, and made towards home; but not without a determination
first to see and consult with the Maguigans.
This, indeed, was a bitter meeting. INo sooner
had his two neighbors satisfied themselves that




DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       219
it was a bona fida tea-pot, than they solemnly
pledged themselves, heart and hand, to support
Barney in any plan that might enable them to
put an end to tea-drinking for ever. They then
separated, having as good as sworn an oath
that they would mutually sustain and back one
another in this severe and opprobrious trial.
It was very fortunate for Barney that Aileen
had gone to bring in a pitcher of water for the
supper, when he reached home, as by that means
he had an opportunity of replacing the tea-pot
without the possibility of her seeing him. Great,
however, was her astonishment, or rather consternation, when on entering the house she heard
Barney singing, " O tea-pot, are you there?" in
a tone so jolly and full of spirits, that she knew
not in what light to consider this unusual inclination to melody-whether as the result of accident or design.
"Barney, dear," said she with more affection
than usual, "where wor you?"
"In several places, Aileen my honey. I seen
many strange sights to-day, Aileen."
"What wor they, Barney, darling? Tell us
one o' them."




220      RARNEY BRADY2S GOOSE; OR,
"Why, I was lookin' about to-day, Aileen,
for an article I wanted-a hatchet, it was to
mend a gate-and, upon my throth I found a
jinteel tea-pot in anything but jinteel company.'0 tea-pot are you there?" etc., etc., and he
gave her very sturdily a second stave of the
same melody.
This melodious system of bitter jocularity he
continued like a man on the rack for two or
three days, during which period he observed that
several secret conferences took place between
Aileen and the tainted wives of her neighbors,
as was evident from her occasional absence and
the rapid expresses that passed from time to
time between them. The fact was that the finding of the tea-pot proved a very fortunate discovery, and was attended by a no less important
result than the breaking up of the tea-drinking
confederacy that existed in the village.
We have now solved and explained this great
mystery-and, like all other mysteries, discovery
put an end to it. Aileen made humble and
sufficient apologies for having been drawn into
the grievous immorality of tea-drinking., As a
token that the wickedness was for ever aban



DARK DOINGS AT SLATHBEG.       221
doned, the tea-pot was brought out, and smashed
with all due ceremony. Father O'Flaherty too. was induced to issue from the altar so severe an
interdict against the forbidden beverage, as altogether suppressed the practice throughout the
parish.




TOM  GRESSIEY,
THE IRISH SENACHIE.
THE state of Irish society has changed so
rapidly within the last thirty or forty years,
that scarcely any one could believe it possible
for the present generation to be looked upon in
many things as the descendants of that which
has immediately gone before it. The old armorial bearings of society which were empanelled
upon the ancient manners of our country, now
hang like tattered scutcheons over the tombs of
customs and usages which sleep beneath them;
and, unless rescued from the obliterating hand
of time, scarcely a vestige of them will be left
even to tradition itself. That many gross absurdities have been superseded by a social condition more enlightened and healthy, is a fact




THE IRISH SENACHIE.         223
which must gratify every one who wishes to see
the general masses actuated by those principles
which follow in the train of knowledge and civilization.  But at the same time it is undeniable
that the simplicity which accompanied those
old vestiges of harmless ignorance has departed
along with them; and, in spite of education and
science, we miss the old familiar individuals who
stood forth as the representatives of manners,
whose very memory touches the heart and affections more strongly than the hard creations of
sterner but more salutary truths. For our own
part, we have always loved the rich and ruddy
twilight of the rustic hearth, where the capricious tongues of blazing light shoot out from
between the kindling turf, and dance in vivid
reflection in the well-scoured pewter and delft
as they stand neatly arranged on the kitchen
dresser-loved, did we say? ay, and ever preferred it to philosophy, with all her light and
fashion, with all her heartlessness and hypocrisy. For this reason it is, that whilst retracing,
as it were, the steps of our early life, and bringing back to our memory the acquaintances of
our youthful days, we feel our heart touched




224            TOM GRESSIEY,
with melancholy and sorrow, because we know
that it is like taking our last farewell of old
friends whom we shall never see again, from
whom we never experienced any thing but
kindness, and whose time-touched faces were
never turned upon us but with pleasure, and
amusement, and affection.
In this paper it is not with the Senachie,
whose name and avocations are associated with
high and historical dignity, that we have any
thing to do. Our sketches do not go very far
beyond the manners of our own times; by
which we mean that we paint or record nothing
that is not remembered and known by those
who are now living. The Senachie we speak
of is the dim and diminished reflection of him
who filled a distinct calling in a period that
has long gone by. The regular Senachie-the
herald and historian of individual families, the
faithful genealogist of his long-descended patron-has not been in existence for at least a
century and a half, perhaps two.  He with
whom we have to do is the humble old man
who, feeling himself gifted with a strong memory for genealogical history, old family anec




THE IRISH SENACIIIE.        225
dotes, and legendary lore in general, passes a
happy life in going from family to family, comfortably dressed and much respected-dropping
in of a Saturday night without any previous notice, bringing eager curiosity and delight to the
youngsters of the house he visits, and filling the
sedate ears of the old with tales and legends,
in which, perhaps, individuals of their own name
and blood have in former ages been known to
take a remarkable and conspicuous part.
Indeed, there is no country in the world where,
from the peculiar features of its social and political changes, the chronicles of the Senachie would
be more likely to produce such a powerful effect
as in Ireland. When we consider that it was
once a country of princes and chiefs, each of
whom was followed and looked up to with such
a spirit of feudal enthusiasm and devoted attachment as might be naturally expected from a people remarkable for the force of their affection
and their power of imagination, it is not surprising that the man who, in a state of society
which presented to the minds of so many nothing but the records of fallen greatness or the
decay of powerful names, and the downfall of




226            TOMI GRESSIEY,
rude barbaric grandeur, together with the ruin
of fanes and the prostration of religious institutions, each invested with some local or national
interest-it is not surprising, we say, that such
a man should be welcomed, and listened to, and
honored, with a feeling far surpassing that which
was awakened by the idle jingle of a Provengal
Troubadour, or the gorgeous dreams begotten
by Arabian fiction. Neither the transition state
of society, however, nor the scanty diffusion of
knowledge among the Irish, allowed the Senachie to produce any permanent impression upon
the people; and the consequence was, that as
the changes of society hurried on, he and his
audience were carried along with them; his traditionary lore was lost in the ignorance which
ever arises when a ban has been placed upon
education; and from the recital of the high
deeds and heroic feats of by-gone days, he
sank down into the humble chronicler of hoary
legends and dim traditions, for such only has he
been within the memory of the oldest man living, and as such only do we intend to present
him to our readers.
The most accomplished Senachie of this kind




THE IRISH SENACHIE.        221
that ever came within our observation, was a
man called Tom  Gressiey, or Tom  the Shoemaker.  He was a very stout well-built man,
about fifty years of age, with a round head
somewhat bald, and an expansive forehead that
argued a considerable reach of natural intellect.
His knowing organs were large, and projected
over a pair of deep-set lively eyes, that scintillated with strong twinklings of humor.  His
voice was loud, his enunciation rapid, but distinct; and such was the force and buoyancy of
his spirits, added to the vehemence of his manner, that altogether it was impossible to resist
him.  His laughter was infectious, and so loud
that it might be heard of a calm summer evening at an incredible distance. Indeed, Tom possessed niany qualities that rendered him a most
agreeable companion: he could sing a good song
for instance, dance a hornpipe as well as any
dancing-master, and we need not say that he
could tell a good story. He could also imitate
a Jew's harp or trump upon his lips, with his
mere fingers, in such a manner that the deception was complete; and it was well known that
flocks of the country people used to crowd about




228            TOM GRESSIEY,
him for the purpose of hearing his performance
upon the ivy leaf, which he played upon by putting it in his mouth, and uttering a most melodious whistle. Altogether, he was a man of great
natural powers, and possessed such a memory as
the writer of this never knew any other human
being to be gifted with. He not only remembered every thing he saw or was concerned in,
but every thing he heard also.  His language,
when he spoke Irish, was fluent, clear, and
sometimes eloquent; but when he had recourse
to the English, although his fluency remained,
yet it was the fluency of a man who made an
indiscriminate use of a vocabulary which he did
not understand. His pedantry on this account
was highly ludicrous and amusing, and his wit
and humor surprisingly original and pointed.
He had never received any education, and was
consequently completely illiterate, yet he could
repeat every word of Gallaher's Irish Sermons,
Donlevy's Catechism, Think Well On't, the
Seven Champions of Christendom, and the substance of Pastorini's and Kolumb Kill's Prophecies, all by heart.  Many a time have we seen
him read, as he used to call it, one of Dr. Gal



THE IRISH SENACHIE.         229
laher's Sermons out of the skirt of his big-coat;
a feat which was looked upon with twice the
wonder it would have produced had he merely
said that he repeated it. But to read it out
of the skirt of his coat   Heavens, how we
used to look on with awe and veneration, as
Tom, in a loud rapid voice, "rhymed it out of
him," for such was the term we gave to his
recital of it!  His learning, however, was not
confined to mere English and Irish, for Tom was
also classical in his way, and for want of a better substitute it was said could serve mass, which
must always be done in Latin. Certain it was
that he could repeat the De profulndis and the
Dies Ire, in that language. We need scarcely
add, that in these learned exhibitions he dealt
largely in false quantities, and took a course
for himself altogether independent of syntax
and prosody; this, however, was no argument
against his natural talents, or the surprising
force of his memory.
Tom was also an easy and happy Improviser
both in prose and poetry; his invention was
indeed remarkably fertile, but his genius knew
no medium between encomium  and satire.  He




230            TOM GRESSIEY,
either lashed his friends, for the duce an enemy
he had, with rude and fearful attacks of the
latter, or gave them, as Pope did to Berkerley,
every virtue, under heaven, and indeed a good
many more than ever were heard of beyond his
own system of philosophy and morals.
Tom was a great person for attending wakes
and funerals, where he was always a busy man,
comforting the afflicted relatives with many
learned quotation, repeating ranns, or spiritual
songs, together with the De profundis or Dies
Ir-e, over the corpse, directing even the domestic
concerns, paying attention to strangers, looking
after the pipes and tobacco, and in fact making
himself not only generally useful, but essentially
necessary to them, by his happiness of manner,
the cordiality of his sympathy, and his unextinguishable humor.
At one time you might see him engaged in
leading a Rosary for the repose of the soul of
the departed, or singing the Hermit of Killarney,
a religious song, to edify the company; and this
duty being over, he would commence a series of
comic tales and humorous anecdotes, which he
narrated with an ease and spirit that the best




THE IRISH SENACHIE.         231
of us all might envy. The Irish heart passes
rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremnes of humor; and as a proof of this, we can
assure our readers that we have seen the nearest
and most afflicted relatives of the deceased
carried away by uncontrollable laughter at the
broad, grotesque, and ludicrous farce of his
narratives. It was here also that he shone in a
character of which he was very proud, and for
the possession of which he was looked up to With
great respect by the- people; we mean that of a
polemtic, or, as it is termed, " arguer of Scripture," for when a man in the country parts of
Ireland wins local fame as a controversialist, he
is seldom mentioned in any other way than as a
great arguer of Scripture. To argue Scripture
well, therefore, means the power of subduing
one's antagonist in a religious contest. Many
challenges of this kind passed between Tom and
his polemical opponents, in most of all of which
he was successful. His memory was infallible,
his wit prompt and dexterous, and his humor
either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient to apply it. In these dialectic displays
he spared neither logic nor learning: where an




232            TOM GRESSIEY,
English quotation failed he threw in one of Irish;
and where that was understood, he posed them
with a Latin one, closing the quotation by
desiring them to give a translation of it; if this
too were accomplished, he rattled out the five or
six first verses of John, in Greek, which some
one had taught him; and as this was generally
beyond their reading, it usually closed the discussion in his favor. Without doubt he possessed a mind of great natural versatility and
power; and as these polemical exercitations
were principally conducted in wake-houses, it is
almost needless to say that the wake at which
they expected him was uniformly a crowded
one.
Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to
sing the old Irish songs of our country with
singular pathos and effect.  He sang P'eggy
Slevin, the Red-haired Man's Wife, and Slleela
Na Guira with a feeling that early impressed
itself upon our heart.  Indeed we think that his
sweet but artless voice still rings in our ears;
and whilst we remember the tears which the
enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks,
and the quivering pause in the fine old melody




THE IRISH SENACHIE.         233
which marked what he felt, we cannot help
acknowledging that the memory of these things
is mournful, and that the hearts of many, in
spite of new systems of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after the homely
but touching traits which marked the harmless
Senachie, and the times in which he lived.
But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments
are gone, and we will never more have our hearts
made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good
humor of the Senachie, nor ever again pay the
artless tribute of our tears to his pathetic songs
of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the
ideal miseries of tale or legend, as they proceeded in mournful recitation from his lips.
Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is
not happiness.
Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom's
life. It was one-of ease and comfort, without a
care to disturb him, or a passion that was not
calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity of
his heart.  His wishes were few, and innocently
and easily gratified. The great delight of his
soul was not that he should experience kindness
at the hands of others, but that he should corn20*




234. TOM GRESSIEY,
municate to them the simple vanity of his heart,
that degree of amusement and instruction and
knowledge which made them look upon him as a
wonderful man, gifted with rare endowments;
for in what light was not that man to be looked
upon who could trace the old names up to times
when they were great, who could climb a genealogical tree to the top branch, who could tell
all the old Irish tales and legends of the country,
and beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse
jockey, who had the whole Bible by heart, at
arguingr Scripture? Harmless ambition! humble
as it was, and limited in compass, to thee it was
all in all; and yet thou wert happy in feeling
that it was gratified. This little boon was all
thou didst ask of life, and it was kindly granted
thee. The last night we ever had the pleasure
of being amused by Tom, was at a wake in the
neighborhood; for it somehow happened that
there was seldom either a wake or a dance
within two or three miles of us that we did not
attend; and, God forgive us! when old Poll
Doolin was on her death bed, the only care that
troubled us was an apprehension that she might
recover, and thus defraud us of a right merry




THE IRISH SENACHIE.        235
wake! Upon the occasion we allude to, it being
know'n that Tom Gressiey would be present, of
course the house was crowded. And when he
did come, and his loud good-humored voice was
heard at the door, heavens! how every young
heart bounded with glee and delight I
The first thing he did on entering was to go
where the corpse was laid out, and in a loud
rapid voice repeat the De profulndis for the
repose of her soul, after which he sat down and
smoked a pipe. Oh, well do we remember how
the whole house was hushed, for all was expectation and interest as to what he would do or
say. At length he spoke —" Is Frank Magavern
there?"
"All that's left o' me's here, Tom."
"An' if the sweep-chimly-general had his due,
Frank, that wouldn't be much; and so the
longer you can keep him out of that same,
the betther for yourself."
"Folly on, Tom! you know there's none of us
all able to spake up to you, say what you will."
"It's not so when you're beside a purty girl,
Frank. But sure that's not surprisin'; you were
born wid butthler in your mouth, an' that's what




236            TOM GRESSIEY,
makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft
and meltin', ha, ha, hal Well, Frank, never
mind; there's worse where ycu'll go to: keep
your own counsel fast: let's salt your gums, an'
you'll do yet. Whisht, boys; I'm goin' to sing
a rann, an' afther that Frank an' I will pick a
couple o' dozen out o' yez'to box the Connaughtman."' Boxing the Connaughtman is a
play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, besides,
of comic sentiment and farcical humor.
He then commenced an Irish rann or song,
the substance of which was as follows, according to his own translation:
" St. Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his way to chapel to
say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches
weren't then invented at any rate) an' a great
pedestriuma [pedestrian], he took the shortest
cut across the mountains. In one of the lonely
glens he met a herd-caudy, who spent his time
in eulogizin' his masther's cattle, accordin' to the
precepts of them times, which was not by any
means so lamed  an' primogenitive as now.
The countenance of the day was clear an' ex



THE IRISH SENACHIE.         237
tremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest,
barring the little river before him, an' indeed
one would think it flowed on wid more decency
an' betther behavior than upon other sympathizing, occasions. The birds, to be sure, were
singin', but it was aisy to see that they chirped
out their best notes in honor of the day.'Good
morrow on you,' said St. Patrick;'what's the
raison you're not goin' to prayers, my fine little
fellow?'
"'What's prayers?' axed the boy. St. Patrick looked at him  with a very pitiful and
calamitous expression in his face.'Can you
bless yourself?' said he.'No,' said the boy,'I don't know what it means?''Worse and
worse,' thought St. Patrick.
"'Poor bouchal, it isn't your fault. An' how
do you pass your time here?'
"'Why, my mate [food]'s brought to me,
an' I do be makin' kings' crowns out of my
rushes, whin I'm not watching the cows and
sheep.'
"St. Patrick sleeked down his head wid great
dereliction, an' said,'Well, acushla, you do be
operatin' kings' crowns, but I tell you you're




238            TOM GRESSIEY,
born to wear a greater one nor a king's, an'
that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.'
"' I can't lave my cattle,' said the other,'for
fraid they might go astray.'
"'Right enough,' said St. Patrick,'but I'll
let you see that they won't.' Now, any how,
St. Patrick understood cattle irresistibly himself,
havin' been a herd-caudy [boyl in his youth: so
he clapped his thumb to his thrapple, an' gave
the Loy-a-loa to the sheep, an' behould you
they came about him wid great relaxation
an' respect.'Keep yourselves sober and fictitious,' says he, addressin' them,'till this boy
comes back, an' don't go beyant your owner's
property; or if you do, it'll be worse for yez.
If you regard your health durin' the approximatin' season, mind an' attend to my words.
The rot this year's likely to be rife I can tell
yez.'
"Now, you see, every sheep, while he was
spakin', lifted the right fore-leg, an' raised the
head a little, an' behould when he finished, they
kissed their foot, an' made him a low bow as a
mark of their estimation an' superfluity. He
thin clapped his finger an' thumb in his mouth,




THE IRISH SENACHIE.         239
gave a loud whistle, an' in a periodical time he
had all the other cattle on the hill about him, to
which he addressed the same ondeniable oration,
an' they bowed to him wid the same polite gentility. He then brought the lad along wid him,
an' as they made progress in the journey, the
little fellow says,
"'You seem frustrated by the walk, an' if
you let me carry your bundle, I'll feel obliged
to you.'
"'Do so,' said the saint;'an' as it's rather
long, throw the bag that the things are in over
your shoulder; you'll find it the aisiest way to
carry it.'
" Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an'
they went ambiguously along till they reached
the chapel.
"'Do you see that house?' said St. Patrick.
"'I do,' said the other;'it.has no chimney
on it.'
"'No,' said the saint,'it has not; but in that
house Christ, he that saved you, will be present
to-day.' An' the boy thin shed tears, whin he
thought of the goodness of Christ in saving one
that was a stranger to him.  So they entered




240            TOM GRESSIEY,
the chapel, an' the first thing the lad was struck
with was the beams of the sun that came in
through the windy, shinin' beside the altar.
Now, he had never seen the like of it in a
house before, an' thinkin' it was put there for
socme use or other in the intarior, he threw the
wallet, which was like a saddle-bag, across the
sunbeams, an' lo an' behould you, the sunbeams
supported it, an' at the same time, a loud sweet
voice was heard, sayin''This is my servant St.
Kieran, an' he's welcome to the house of God.'
St. Patrick then tuck him an' instructed him in
the various edifications of the larned languages
until he became one of the greatest saints that
ever Ireland saw with the exception and liquidation of St. Patrick himself.'
Such is a faint outline of the tone and manner
peculiar to the narratives of Tom Gressiey. Indeed, it has frequently surprised not only us, but
all who knew him, to think how and where and
when he got together such an incredible number
of hard and difficult words. Be this as it may,
one thing was perfectly clear, that they cost him
little trouble and no study in their application.
His pride was to speak as learnedly as possible,




THE IRISH SENACHIE.        241:
and of course he imagined that the most successful method of doing this was to use as many susquepedalian expressions as he could crowd into
his language, without any regard whatsoever as
to their propriety.
Immediately after the relation of this legend,
he passed at once into a different spirit.  He
and Frank Magavren marshaled their forces,
and in a few minutes two or three dozen young
fellows were hotly engaged in the humorous
game of "Boxing the Connaughtman."  EBoxing the Connaughtman was followed by the'Standing Brogue" and the "Sitting Brogue,"
two other sports practised only at wakes. And
here we may remark generally, that the amusements resorted to on such occasions are never
to be found elsewhere, but are exclusively peculiar to the house of mourning, where they are
benevolently introduced for the purpose of alleviating sorrow.  Having gone through a few
more such sports, Tom took a seat, and addressed a neighboring farmer, named Gordon,
as follows: —" Jack Gordon, do you know
the history of your own name, and its original
fluency?"
21




9429        TOM GRESSIEY, ETC.
"Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do."
"Well, boys, if yez derogate your noise a
little, I'll tell yez the origin of the name of
Gordon; * it's only about ould Oliver Crummle,
whose tongue is on the look out for a drop
of wather ever since he went to the lower
story."
e See the following legend.




THE
CASTLE OF AUGHIENTAIN;
OR,
X trgna    nf ttJ 1Druu (uat.
NARRATED BY TOM GRESSIEY, THE IRISH SENACHIE.
THE hum of general conversation now gradually subsided into silence, and every face assumed
an expression of curiosity and interest, with the
exception of Jemsy Baccagh, who was rather
deaf, and blind George M'Girr, so called because
he wanted an eye; both of whom, in high and
piercing tones, carried on an angry discussion
touching a small lawsuit that had gone against
Jemsy in the Court Leet, of which George was
a kind of rustic attorney. An outburst of impatient rebuke was immediately poured upon
them from fifty voices. "Whist wid yez, ye pair
of devil's limbs, an' Tom goin' to tell us a story.




244   THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
Jemsy, your sowl's as crooked as your lame leg,
you sinner; an' as for blind George, if roguery'ud save a man, he'll escape the devil yet. Tarenation to yez, an' be quiet till we hear the story."' Ay," said Tom, "Scripthur says that when
the blind leads the blind, both'11 fall into the
ditch; but God help the lame that have blind
George to lead them; we may aisily guess where
he'd guide them to, especially such a poor innocent as Jemsy there." This banter, as it was
not intended to give offence, so was it received
by the parties to whom it was addressed, with
laughter and good humor.
"Silence, boys," said Tom; "I'll jist take a
dhraw of the pipe till I put my mind in a proper
state of transmigration for what I was goin' to
narrate."
He then smoked on for a few minutes, his
eyes complacently but meditatively closed, and
his whole face composed into the philosophic
spirit of a man who knew and felt his own superiority, as well as what was expected from him.
When he had sufficiently arranged the materials
in his mind, he took the pipe out of his mouth,
rubbed the shank-end of it against the cuff




& LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.   245
of his coat, then handed it to. his next neighbor,
and having given a short preparatory cough, thus
commenced his legend:"You must know that afther Charles the
First happened to miss his head one day, havin'
lost it while playin' a game of'Heads an' Points'
with the Scotch, that a man called Nolly Rednose, or Oliver Crummle, was sent over to Ireland with a parcel of breekless Highlanders, an'
English Bodaghs to subduvate the Irish, an' as
many of the Prodestans as had been friends to
the late king, who were called Royalists. Now,
it appears by many learned transfigurations that
Nolly Rednose had in his army a man named
Balgruntie, or the Hog of Cupar; a fellow who
was as coorse as sackin', as cunnin' as a fox, an'
as gross as the swine he was named afther.
Rednose, there is no doubt of it, was a nate
hand at takin' a town or castle as ever went
about it; but then, any town that didn't surrendher at discretion was sure to experience
little mitigation at his hands; an' whenever he
was bent on wickedness, he was sure to say his
prayers at the commencement of every siege or
battle-that is, that he intended to show no
21*




246   THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
marcy in-for he'd get a book, an' openin' it at the
head of his army, he'd cry,'Ahem, my brethren,
let us praise God by endeavorin' till sing sich or
sich a psalm;' an' God help the man, woman, or
child, that came before him afther that. Well
an' good: it so happened that a squadron of his
psalm-singers were dispatched by him from
Enniskillen, where he stopped to rendher assistance to a party of his army that O'Neill was
leatherin' down near Dungannon, an' on their
way they happened to take up their quaithers
for the night at the Mill of Aughentain. Now,
above all the men in the creation, who should
be appointed to lead this same squadron but the
Hog of Cupar.'Balgruntie, go off wid yoI,'
said Crummle, when administering his instructions to him;'but be sure that whenever you meet
a fat royalist on the way, to pay your respects
to him as a Christian ought,' says he;'an', above
all things, my dear brother Bulgruntie, don't
neglect your devotions, otherwise our arms can't
prosper, and be sure,' says he, with a pious
smile,'that if they promulgate opposition, you
will make them bleed any how, either in purse or
person; or if they provoke the grace of God




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.   247
take a little from  them  in both; an' so the
Lord's name be praised, yeamen.'
"Balgruntie sang a psalm of thanksgivin' for
bein' elected by his commander to sich a holy
office, set out on his march, an' the next night
he an' his choir slept in the mill of Aughentain,
as I said. Now, Balgruntie had in this same
congregation of his a long-legged Scotchman
named Sandy Saveall, which name he got by
way of etymology, for his charity; for it appears
by the historical elucidations that Sandy was
perpetually ratinizin'- about sistherly affection an'
brotherly, love: an' what showed more taciturnity
than anything else was, that while this same
Sandy had the persuasion to make every one
believe that he thought of nothing else, he shot
more people than any ten men in the squadron.
He was indeed what they called a dead shot,
for no one ever knew him to miss anything he
fired at. He had a musket that would throw
point blank an English mile, an' if he only saw
a man's nose at that distance, he used to say
that, with aid from above, he could blow it for
him with a leaden handkerchy, manin' that he
could blow it off his face wid a musket bullet;




248   THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
and so by all associations he could, for indeed
the faits he performed were very insinivating an'
problematical.
"Now, it so happened, that at this period
there lived in the castle a fine wealthy ould
royalist, named Graham or Grimes, as they
are often denominated, who had but one child,
a daughter, whose beauty an' perfections wor
mellifluous far an' near over the country, an' who
had her health drunk, as the toast of Ireland,
by the Lord-lieutenant in the Castle of Dublin,
undher the sympathetic appellation of'the Rose
of Aughentain.' It was her son that afterwards
ran through the estate, and was forced to part
wid the castle-; an' it's to him the proverb
colludes, which mentions'ould John Grame,
that swallied the castle of Aughentain.'
" Howsomever, that bears no prodigality to
the story I'm  narratin'.  So what could you
have of it, but Balgruntie, who had heard of the
father's wealth and the daughter's beauty, took
a holy hankerin' afther both; an' havin' as usual
said his prayers and suntg a psalm, he determined
for to clap his thumb upon the father's money,
thinkin' that the daughter would be the more




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.   249
aisily superinduced to folly it. In other words,
he made up his mind to sack the castle, carry
off the daughter an' marry her righteously,
rather, he said, through a sincere wish to bring
her into a state of grace by a union with a Godfearin' man, whose walk he trusted was Zionward, than from any cardinal detachment for
her wealth or beauty. He accordingly sent up
a file of the most pious men he bad, picked
chaps, with  good  psalm-singin' voices and
strong noses, to request that John Graham
would give them possession of the castle for a
time, an' aftherwards join them at prayers, as a
proof that he was no royalist, but a friend to
Crummle and the Commonwealth. Now, you
see, the best of it was, that the very man they
demanded this from was commonly denominated
by the people as'Gunpowder Jack,' in consequence of the great signification of his courage;
an', besides, he was known as a member of the
Hell-fire Club, that no person could join that
hadn't fought three duels, and killed at least one
man; and in ordher to show that they regarded
neither God nor hell, they were obligated to dip
one hand in blood an' the other in fire, before




250    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
they could be made members of the club. It's
aisy to see, then, that Graham was not likely to
quail-before a handful of the very men he hated
wid all the vociferation in his power, an' he
accordingly put his head out of the windy, an'
axed then their tergiversation for being there.
"'Begone about your business,' he said;'I
owe you no regard. What brings you before
the castle of a man who despises you?  Don't
think to determinate me, you canting rascals,
for you- can't.  My castle's well provided wid
men an' ammunition an' food; an' if you don't
be off, I'll make you sing a different tune from a
psalm one.'  Begad he did, plump to them, out
of the windy.
" When Crummle's men returned to Balgruntie in the mill, they related what had tuck
place, and he said that afther prayers he'd sind
a second- message in writin', an' if it wasn't
attended to, they'd put their trust in God, an'
storm the castle. The squadron he commanded
was not a numerous one, an' as they had no
artillery, an' were surrounded by enemies, the
takin' of the castle, which was a strong one,
might cost them  some snufflication.  At all




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.   251
events, Balgruntie was bent on makin' the
attempt, especially afther he heard that the
castle was well vittled, an' indeed he was
meritoriously joined by his men, who piously
licked their lips on hearin' of such glad tidin's.
Graham was a hot-headed man, without much
ambi-dexterity or deliberation, otherwise he
might have known that the bare mintion of
the beef and mutton in his castle was only fit
to make such a hungry pack desperate. But,
be that as it may, in a short time Balgruntie
wrote him a letter, demandin' of him, in the
name' of:Nolly Rednose an' the Commonwealth,
to sitrrendher the castle, or if not, that, o*d as
he was, he would make him as soople as a twoyeav-ould. Graham, after readin' it, threw the
letter back to the messengers, wid a ce.ll
recommendation to Balgruntie regarding it; but
whether the same recommendation was followed
up and aed on so soon as he wished, historical'retaliations do not inform.
"On their return, the military narrated to
their commander the reception they resaved a
second time from Graham, an' he then resolved
to lay regular siege to the castle; but as he




252    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
knew he could not aisily take it by violence, he
determined, as they say, to starve the garrison
leisurely and by degrees.  But, first an' foremost, a thought struck him, an' he immediately
called Sandy Saveall behind the mill-hopper,
which he had now turned into a pulpit for the
purpose of expoundin' the word, an' givin' exhortations to his men.
"'Sandy,' sis he,'are you in a state of justification to-day?'
"'Towards noon,' replied Sandy,'I had some
strong wrestlings with the enemy; but I am
able, under praise, to say that I defated him in
three attacks, and I consequently feel my righteousness much recruited. I had some wholesome communings with the miller's daughter —a
comely lass, who may yet be recovered from the
world, and led out of the darkness of Aigyp, by
a word in saison.'
"'Well, Sandy,' replied the other,'I lave
her to your own instructions: there is another
poor benighted maiden, who is also comely, up
in the castle of that godless sinner, who belongeth to the Perdition Club; an' indeed, Sandy,
until he is somehow removed, I think there is




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    253
little hope of plucking her like a brand from
the burning.'
" He serenaded Sandy in the face as he spoke,
an' thin cast an extemporary glance at the musket, that was as much as to say,'can you translate an insinivation?' Sandy concocted a smilin'
reply, an' takin' up the gun, rubbed the barrel,
an' patted it as a sportsman'ud pat the neck of
his horse or dog, wid reverence for comparin' the
villain to either one or the other.
"'If it was known, Sandy,' said Balgruntie,
it would harden her heart against me; an' as he
is hopeless at all events, bein' a member of that
Perdition Club"
"'True,' said Sandy,'but you lave the miller's
daughter to me?'
"'I said so.'
"'Well, if his removal will give you any consolidation in the matther, you may say no more.'
"'I could not, Sandy, justify it to myself to
take him away by open violence, for you know
that I bear a conscience if any thing too tendher
an' dissolute. Also, I wish, Sandy, to presarve
an undeniable reputation for humanity; an', be
sides, the daughter might become as reprobat
22




254    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
as the father, if she suspected me to be personally consarned in it.  I have heard a good deal
about him, an' am sensibly informed that he
has been shot at twice before, by the sons, it is
thought, of an enemy that he himself killed
rather significantly in a duel.'
"'Very well,' sis Sandy;'I would myself
feel scruples; but as both our consciences is
touched in the business, I think I am justified.
Indeed, captain, it is very likely afther all that
we are but mere instruments in it, an' that it is
through us that this ould unrighteous sinner is
to be removed by a more transplendant judgment.'
" Begad, neighbors, whin a rascal's bent on
wickedness, it is aisy to find cogitations enough
to back him in his villany. An' so was it wid
Sandy Saveall and BaIgruutie.
"That evelin' ould Graham was shot through
the head standin' in the windy of his own castle,
an' to extenuate the suspicion of such an act
from  Crummle's men, Balgruntie himself went
up the next day, beggin' very politely to have a
friendly explanation wid Squire Graham, sayin'
that he had harsh orders, but that if the castle




A LEGEND OF TIE BROWN GOAT.   255
was peaceably delivered to him, he would, for
the sake of the young lady, see that no injury
should be offered either to her or her father.
" The young lady, however, had the high
drop in her, and becoorse the only answer he
got was a flag of defiance.  This nettled the
villain, an' he found there was nothin' else for it
but to place a strong guard about the castle, to
keep all that was in, in —an' all that was out,
out.
"In the meantime the very appearance of the
Crumwellians in the neighborhood struck such
terror into the people, that the country, which
was then only very thinly inhabited, became
quite desarted, an' for miles about the face of
a human bein' couldn't be seen, barrin' their
own, sich as they were. Crummle's thrack was
always a bloody one, an' the people knew that
they were wise in putting the hills and mountain
passes between him and them. The miller and
his daughter bein' encouraged by Sandy, staid
principally for the sake of Miss Graham; but
except them, there was not a man or woman
in the barony to bid good morrow to, or say
Salvey Dominey. On the beginnin' of the third




256    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
day, Balgruntie, who knew his officialities extremely well, an' had sent down a messenger to
Dungannon to see whether matters were so bad
as they had been reported, was delighted to hear
that O'Neill had disappeared from the neighborhood.  Hie immediately informed Crummle of
this, an' tould him that he had laid siege to one
of the leadin' passes of the north, an' that, by
gettin' possession of the two castles of Aughentain and Augher, he could keep O'Neill in
check, an' command that part of the counthry.
Nolly approved of this, an' ordhered him to
proceed, but was sorry that he could send him
no assistance at present;'however,' said he,'wid a good cause, sharp swords, an' aid from
above, there is no fear of us.'
" They now set themselves to take the castle
in airnest. Balgruntie an' Sandy undherstood
one another, an' not a day passed that some
one wasn't dropped in it.  As soon as ever a
race appeared, pop went the deadly musket, an'
down fell the corpse of whoever it was aimed at.
Miss Graham herself was spared for good reasons, but in the coorse of ten or twelve days
she was nearly alone. Ould Graham, though a




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    257
man that feared nothing, was only guilty of a
profound swagger when he reported the strength
of the castle and the state of the provisions to
Balgruntie an' his crew.  But above all things,
that which eclipsed their distresses was the want
of wather. There was none in the castle, an'
although there was a beautiful well beside it,
yet, fareer gair, it was of small responsibility
to thim.  Here, thin, was the poor young lady
placed at the marcy of her father's murdherer;
for however she might have doubted in the
beginnin' that he was shot by the Crumwellians, yet the death of nearly all the servants of
the house in the same way was a sufficient proof
that it was like masther like man in this case.
What, however, was to be done?  The whole
garrison now consisted only of AMiss Graham
herself, a fat man-cook advanced in years, who
danced in his distress in ordher that he might
suck his own perspiration, and a little orphan
boy that she tuck undher her purtection.  It
was a hard case, an' yet, God bless her, she
held out like a man.
" It's an ould sayin', that there's no tyin' up
the tongue of Fame, an' it's also a true one.
22*




258    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
The account of the siege had gone far an' near
in the counthry, an' none of the Irish, no matter
what they were, who ever heard it, but wor
sorry. Sandy Saveall was now the devil an' all.
As there was no more in the castle to shoot, he
should find something to regenerate his hand
upon: for instance, he practised upon three or
four of Graham's friends, who undher one pretence or other were seen skulkin' about the
castle, an' none of their relations dar come to
take  away their bodies in  ordher to bury
them.  At length things came to that pass,
that poor Miss Graham  was at the last gasp
for something to drink; she had ferreted out,
as well as she could, a drop of moisture here
and there in the damp corners of the castle,
but now all that was gone; the fat cook had
sucked himself to death, an' the little orphan
boy died calmly away a few hours afther him,
lavin' the helpless lady with a tongue swelled
and furred, an' a mouth parched an' burned, for
want of drink.  Still the blood of the Grahams
was in her, and yield she would not to the villain
that left her as she was.  Sich then was the
transparency of her situation, whin, happenin'




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    259
to be on the battlements, to catch, if possible,
a little of the dew of heaven, she was surprised
to see something flung up, that rolled down towards her feet: she lifted it, an' on examinin'
the contents, found it to be a stone covered wid
a piece of brown paper, inside of which was a
slip of white, containin' the words,'Endurerelief is near you.' But, poor young lady, of
what retrospection could these tidins be to one
in her situation?-she could hardly see to read
them; her brain was dizzy, her mouth like a
cinder, her tongue swelled an' black, an' her
breath felt as hot as a furnace.  She could
barely braithe, an' was in the very act of lyin'
down undher the triumphant air of heaven to
die when she heard the shrill voice of a young
kid in the castle yard, and immediately remembered that a brown goat which her lover, a
gentleman named Simpson, had, when it was a
kid, made her a present of, remained ill the
castle about the stable durin' the whole siege.
She instantly made her way slowly down stairs,
got a bowl, and havin' milked the goat, she tuk
a little of the milk, which I need not asseverate
at once relieved her.  By this means she re



260    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
covered, an' findin' no' further anticipation from
druth, she resolved like a hairo to kht-p the
Crumwellians out, an' to wait till either God or
man might lend her a helpin' hand.
"Now, you must know that the miller's purty
daughter had also a  sweetheart, called Suil
Gair Maguire, or  sharp-eyed  Maguire, an
humble branch of the great Maguires of Enniskillen; an' this same Suil Gair was servant an'
foster-brother to Simpson, the intended husband
of Miss Graham.  Simpson, who lived some
miles off, on hearin' the condition of the castle,
gathered together all the royalists far an' near;
and as Crummle was honestly hated by both
Romans an' Prodestans, faith, you see, Maguire
himself promised to send a few of his followers
to the rescue.  In  the meantime Suil Gair
dressed himself up like a fool or idiot, an' undher
the purtection of the miller's daughter, who
blarneyed Saveall in great style, was allowed to
wandher about and joke wid the sogers; but
especially he took a fancy to Sandy, and challenged him to put one stone out of five in one of
the port-holes of the castle, at a match of finger
stone.  Sandy, who was nearly as famous a




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    261
that as the musket, was rather relaxed when lie
saw that Suil Gair could at least put in every
fifth stone, and that he himself could hardly put
one in out of twenty. Well, at all events it was
durin' their sport that fool Paddy, as they
called him, contrived to fling the scrap of writin'
I spoke of across the battlements at all chances;
for whin he undhertook to go to the castle, he
gev up his life as lost;. but he didn't care for
that, in case he was able to save either his
foster-brother or Miss Graham.  But this is not
at all indispensible, for it is well known that
many a foster-brother sacrificed his life the same
way, and in cases of great danger, when the
real brother would beg to decline the compliment.
"Things were now in a very connubial state
entirely.  Balgruntie  heard  that relief was
comin' to the castle, an' what to do he did not
know; there was little time to be lost, however,
an' something must be done.  He  praiched
flowery discoorses twice a day from the millhopper, an' sang psalms for grace to be directed
in his righteous intentions; but as yet he derived
no Darticular predilection from  either.  Sandy




262    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
appeared to have got a more bountiful modelnm
of grace nor his captain, for he succeeded at last
in bringin' the miller's daughter to sit undher
the word at her father's hopper.  Fool Paddy,
as they called Maguire, had now become a great
favorite wid the. sogers, an' as he proved to be
quite harmless and inoffensive, they let him run
about the place widout opposition. The castle,
to be sure, was still guarded, but Miss Graham
kept her heart up in consequence of the note,
for she hoped every day to get relief from her
friends.  Balgruntie, now seein' that the miller's
daughter was becomin' more serious undher the
tachin' of Saveall, formed a plan that he thought
might enable him to penethrate the castle, an'
bear off the lady an' the money.  This was to
strive with a very delicate meditation to prevail
on the miller's daughter, through the renown
that he thought Sandy had over her, to open a
correspondency wid Miss Graham; for he knew
that if one of the gates was unlocked, an' the
unsuspectin' girl let in, the whole squadron
would soon be in afther her.  Now, this plan
was the  more  dangerous to Miss Graham,
because the miller's daughter had intended to




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    263
bring about the very same denouncement for a
different purpose. Between her friends an' her
enemies it was clear the poor lady had little
chance; an' it was Balgruntie's intention, the moment he had sequestrated her an' the money, to
make his escape, an' lave the castle to whosomever might choose to take it. Things, however,
were ordhered to take a different bereavement:
the Hog of Cupar was to be trapped in the
hydrostatics of his own hypocrisy, an' Saveall to
be overmatched in his own premises.  Well, the
plot was mentioned to Sandy, who was promised
a good sketch of the prog; an' as it was jist the
very thing he dreamt about night an' day, he
snapped at it as a hungry dog would at a
sheep's trotter. That night the miller's daughter
— whose name I may as well say was Nannie
Duffy, the purtiest girl an' the sweetest singer
that ever was in the counthry —was to go to the
castle an' tell Miss Graham  that the sogers wor
all gone, Crummle killed, an' his whole army
massacrayed to atoms.  This was a different
plan from poor iannie's, who now saw clearly
what they were at. But never heed a woman
for bein' witty when hard pushed.




264    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
"'I don't like to do it,' sis she,'for it looks
like thrachery, espishilly as my father has left
the neighborhood, and I don't know where he is
gone to; an' you know thrachery's ondacent in
either man or woman. Still, Sandy, it goes hard
for me to refuse one that I —I    well, I wish I
knew where my father is-I would like to know
what he'd think of it.'
"'Hut,' said Sandy,'where's the use of such
scruples in a good cause? —when we get the
money, we'll fly.  It is principally for the sake
of waining you an' her from the darkness of
idolatry, that we do it. Indeed, my conscience
would not rest well if I let a soul an' body like
yours remain a prey to Sathan, my darlin'.'
"'Well,' said she,'doesn't the captain exhort
this evenin'?'
"'He does, my beloved, an' with a blessin'
will expound a few verses from the song of Solomon.'
"'It's betther then,' said she,'to sit under
the word, an' perhaps some light may be given
to us.'
"This delighted Saveall's heart, who now
looked upon pretty Nannie as his own; indeed,




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.   265
he was obliged to go gradually and cautiously
to work, for cruel though Nolly Rednose was,
Sandy knew that if any violent act of that kind
should raich him, the guilty party would sup
sorrow. Well, accordin' to this pious arrangement, Balgruntie assembled all his men, who
were not on duty, about the hopper, in which
he stood as usual, an' had commenced a powerful exhortation, the substratum of which was
devoted to Nannie; he dwelt upon the happiness of religious love; said that scruples were
often suggested by Satan, an' that a heavenly
duty was but terrestial when put in comparishment wid an earthly one. He also made collusion to the old Squire that was popped by
Sandy; said it was often a judgment for the
wicked man to die in his sins; an' was gettin'
on wid great eloquence an' emulation, when a
low rumblin' noise was heard, an' Balgruntie,
throwin' up his clenched hands an' grindin' his
teeth, shouted out,'Hell and d    n, I'll be
ground to death! The mill's goin'. Murdherl
murdherI I'm gone!'
"Faith, it was true enough-she had been
wickedly set a-goin' by some one; an' before




266    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
they had time to stop her, the Hog of Cupar
had the feet and legs twisted off him before
their eyes-a fair illustration of his own doctrine, that it is often a judgment for the wicked
man to die in his sins. When the mill was stopped, he was pulled out, but didn't live twenty
minutes, in consequence of the loss of blood.
Time was pressin', so they ran up a shell of a
coffin, and tumbled it into a pit that was hastily
dug for it on the mill-common.
"This, however, by no - manner of manes
relieved poor Nannie from her difficulty, for
Saveall, now finding himself first in command,
determined not to lose a moment in tolerating
his plan upon the castle.
"'You see,' said he,'that a way is opened
for us that we didn't expect; an' let us not close
our eyes to the light that has been given, lest it
might be suddenly taken from us again. In this
instance I suspect that fool Paddy has been
made the chosen instrument; for it appears
upon inquiry, that he too has disappeared.
However, heaven's will be donei we will have
the more to ourselves, my beloved —ehem! It
is now dark,' he proceeded,'so I shall go an'




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    267
take my usual stnoke at the mill window,
an' in about a quarther of an hour I'll be
ready.'
"' But I'm all. in a tremor after sich a frightful accident,' replied Nannie:'an' I want to get
a few minutes' quiet before we engage upon our
undhertakin'.'
" This was very natural, and Saveall accordingly took his usual seat at a little windy in the
gable of the mill, that faced the miller's house;
an' from the way the bench was fixed, he was
obliged to sit with his face exactly towards the
same direction. There we leave him meditatin'
upon his own righteous approximations, till we
folly Suil Gair Maguire, or fool Paddy, as
they called him, who practicated all that was
done.
"Maguire and Nannie, findin' that no time
was to be lost, gave all over as ruined, unless
somethin' could be acted on quickly.  Suil Gair
at once had thought of settin' the mill a-goin',
but kept the plan to himself, any farther than
tellin' her not to be surprised at any thing she
might see. He then told her to steal him a gun,
but if possible let it be Saveall's, as he knew it




268    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
could be depended on.' But I hope you won't
shed any blood if you can avoid it,' said she;'that I don't like.''Tut,' replied Suil Gair,
makin' evasion to the question,'it's good to
have it about me for my own defence!'
" He could often have shot either Balgruntie
or Saveall in daylight, but not without certain
death to himself, as he knew that escape was
impossible.  Besides, time was not before so.pressin' upon them, an' every day relief was
expected.  Now, however, that relief was so
near-for Simpson with a party of royalists an'
Maguire's men must be within a couple of hours'
journey —it would be too intrinsic entirely to
see the castle plundhered, and the lady carried
off by such a long-legged skybill as Saveall.
fannie, consequentially, at great risk, took an
opportunity of slippin' his gun to Suil Gair,
who was the best shot of the day in that or
any other part of the country; and it was in
consequence of this that he was called Suil Gair,
or Sharp Eye.  But, indeed, all the AMaguires
were famous shots; an' I'm tould there's one of
them now in Dublin that could hit a pigeon's
egg, or a silver sixpence at the distance of a




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN'GOAT.    269
hundred yards.*  Suil Gair did not merely raise
the sluice when he set the mill a-goin', but he
whipped it out altogether an' threw it into the
dam, so that the possibility of saving the Hog
of Cupar was irretrievable. He made off, however, an' threw himself among the tall ragweeds
that grew upon the common, till it got dark,
when Saveall, as was his custom, should take
his evenin' smoke at the windy. Here he sat
for some period, thinkin' over many ruminations,
before he lit his cutty pipe, as he called it.
"'1Now,' said he to himself,'what is there to
hindher me from takin' away, or rather from
makin' sure of the grand lassie, instead of the
miller's dochter?  If I get intil the castle, it
can be soon effected; for if she has ony regard
for her reputation, she will be quiet.  I'm  a
braw handsome lad enough, a wee thought high
in the cheek-bones, scaly in the skin, an' knockknee'd a trifle, but stout an' lathy, an' tough as
a withy. But, again, what is to be done wi'
Nannie?  Hut, she's but a miller's dochter, an'
may be disposed of if she gets troublesome.  I
The celebrated Brian Maguire, the first shot of his day,
was at this time living in Dublin.




270    THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
know she's fond of me, but I dinna blame her
for that.  However, it wadna become me now
to entertain scruples, seein' that the way is
made so plain for me. But, save us! eh, sirs,
that was an awful death, an' very like a judgment on the Hog of Cupar I It is often a judgment for the wicked to die in their sins. Balgruntie wasna that'-    - Whatever he intended
to say further, cannot be analogized by man, for,
just as he had uttered the last word, which he
did while holding the candle to his pipe, the
bullet of his own gun entered between his eyes,
and the next moment he was a corpse.
" Suil Gair desarved the name he got, for
truer did never bullet go to the mark from
Saveall's own aim than it did from his. There
is now little more to be superadded to my story.
Before daybreak  the next mornin', Simpson
came to the relief of his intended wife; Crumm!e's party were surprised, taken, an' cut to
pieces; an' it so happened that from that day
to this the face of a soger belongin' to him was
never seen near the mill or castle of Aughentain, with one exception only, and that was
this:  You all know that the mill is often




A LEGEND OF THE BROWN GOAT.    2'1
heard to go at night when nobody sets her
a-goin', an' that the' most seven-dable screams
of torture come out of the hopper, an' that
when any one has the courage to look in,
they're sure to see a man dressed like a soger,
with a white mealy face, in the act, so to say,
of hlavin' his legs ground off him.  Many
guess was made about who the spirit could be,
but all to no purpose. There, however, is the
truth for yez; the spirit that shrieks in the hopper is Balgruntie's ghost, an' he's to be ground
that way till the day of judgment.
"Be coorse, Simpson and Miss Graham were
married, as war Nannie Duffy an' Suil Gair; an'
if they all lived long an' happy, I wish we may
all live ten times longer an' happier; an' so we
will, but in a betther world than this, plaise
God."
"Well, but, Tom," said Gordon, "how does
that account for my name, which you said you'd
tell me?"
"Right," said Tom; "begad I was near forgettin' it. Why, you see, sich was their veneration for the goat that was the manes, undher
God, of savin' Miss Graham's life, that they




2T2   THE CASTLE OF AUGHENTAIN; OR,
changed the name of Simpson to Gordon, which
signifies in Irish gor dhun, or a brown goat, that
all their posterity might know the obligations
they lay undher to that reverend animal."
"An' do you mane to tell me," said Gordon,
"that my name was never heard of until Oliver
Crummle's time?"
"I do. Never in the wide an' subterrancous
earth was sich a name known till afther the
prognostication I tould you; an' it never would
either, only for the goat, sure. I can prove it by
pathepathetics. Denny Mullin, will you give us
another draw o' the pipe?"
Tom's authority in these matters was unquestionable, and, besides, there was no one
present learned enought to contradict him, with
any chance of success, before such an audience.
The argument was consequently, without further
discussion, decided in his favor, and Gordon was
silenced touching the origin and etymology of his
own name.




WHITE HORSE OF THE PEPPERS.
IT was the night of the second of July, in the
year 1690, that a small remnant of a discomfited'
army was forming its position in no very good
order, on the slope of a wild hill on the borders
of the county of Dublin. In front of a small,
square tower, a sentinel was pacing up and down,
darkly brooding over the disastrous fight of the
preceding day, and his measured tread was sometimes broken by the fierce stamp of his foot upon
the earth, as some bitter thought and muttered
curse arose, when the feelings of the man overcame the habit of the soldier. The hum of the
arrival of a small squadron of horse came from
the vale below, borne up the hill on the faint
breeze that sometimes freshens a summer's nighlt,




27 4         THE WHITE HORSE
but the laugh, or the song, that so often enliven
a military post, mingled not with the sound.
The very trumpet seemed to have lost the inspiring tingle of its tone, and its blast sounded
heavily on the ear of the sentinel.
"There come more of our retreating comrades," thought he, as he stalked before the low
portal it was his duty to guard.-" Retreatingcurse the word! —shall we never do anything but
fall back and back before this Dutchman and his
followers? And yesterday, too, with so fine an
opportunity of cutting the rascals to pieces,and all thrown away, and so much hard fighting
to go for nothing. Oh, if Sarsefield had led us!
we'd have another tale to tell." And here he
struck the heavy heel of his war boot into the
ground, and hurried up and down. But he was
roused from his angry musing by the sound of a
horse's tramp that indicated a rapid approach to
the tower, and he soon perceived, through the
gloom, a horseman approaching at a gallop.
The sentinel challenged the cavalier, who returned the countersign, and was then permitted
to ride up to the door of the tower. He was
mounted on a superb charger, whose silky coat




OF THE PEPPERS.          275
of milk white was much travel-stained, and the
heaviness of whose breathing told of recent hard
riding. The horseman alighted: his dress was
of a mixed character, implying that war was not
his profession, though the troubled nature of the
times had engaged him in it.  His head had no
defensive covering, he wore the slouched hat
of a civilian common to the time, but his body
was defended by the cuirass of a trooper, and a
heavy sword, suspended by a broad cross-belt,
was at his side-these alone bespoke the soldier,
for the large and massively mounted pistols that
protruded from the holsters at his saddle-bow,
were no more than any gentleman, at the time,
might have been provided with.
"Will you hold the rein of my horse," said he
to the sentry, " while I remain in the caste?"
"I am a sentinel, Sir," answered the soldier,
"and cannot."
" I will not remain more than a few minutes."
"I dare not, Sir, while I'm on duty-but I
suppose you will find some one in the castle that
will take charge of your horse."
The stranger now knocked at the door of the
tower, and after some questions and answers in




276          THE WHITE HORSE
token of amity had passed between him and
those inside, it was opened.
"Let some one take charge of my horse," said
he, " I do not want him to be stabled, as I shall.
not remain here long, but I have ridden him
hard, and he is warm, so let him be walked up
and down until I am ready to get into the
saddle again."
He  then  entered  the  tower, and  was
ushered into a small and rude apartment,
where a man of between fifty and sixty years of
a.age, seated on a broken chair, though habited in
a rich robe de chambre, was engaged in conversation with a general officer, a man of fewer years,
whose finger was indicating certain points upon
a map, which, with many other papers, lay on a
rude table before them. Extreme dejection was
the prevailing expression that overspread the
countenance of the elder, while there mingled
with the sadness that marked the noble features
of the other, a tinge of subdued anger, as certain
suggestions he offered, when he laid his finger,
from time to time, on the map, were received
with coldness, if not with refusal.
" Here at least we can make a bold stand,"




OF THE PEPPERS.          2V7
said the general, and his eye flashed, and his
brow knit as he spoke.
"I fear not, Sarsefield," said the king, for it
was the unfortunate James the Second who
spoke.
Sarsefield  withdrew   his  hand  suddenly
from the map, and folding his arms, became
silent.
"May it please you, my liege," said the
horseman, whose entry had not been noticed by
either Sarsefield or his sovereign.  "I hope I
have not intruded on your majesty."
"Who speaks?" said the king, as he shaded
his eyes from the light that burned on the table,
and looked into the gloom where the other was
standing.
"Your enemies, my liege," said Sarsefield,
with some bitterness, "would not be so slow to
discover a tried friend of your majesty-'tis the
White Horseman;" and Sarsefield, as he spoke,
gave a look full of welcome and joyous recognition towards him.
The horseman felt, with the pride of a gallant
spirit, all that the general's look and manner
conveyed, and he bowed his head respectfully
24




2 7 8        THE WHITE HORSE
to the leader, whose boldness and judgment he
had so often admired.
" Ha! my faithful White Horseman," said the
king.
"Your majesty's poor and faithful subject,
Gerald Pepper," was the answer.
"You have won the name of the White
Horseman," said Sarsefield, "and you deserve
to wear it."
The horseman bowed.
"The general is right," said the king. "I
shall never remember you under any other name.
You and your white horse have done good service."
" Would that they could have done more, my
liege," was the laconic and modest reply.
" Would that every one," laying some stress
on the word, " had been as true to the cause
yesterday!" said Sarsefield.
"And what has brought you here?" said the
king, anxious perhaps to escape from the thought
that his general's last words had suggested.
" I came, my liege, to ask permission to bid
your majesty farewell, and beg the privilege to
kiss your royal hand."




OF THE PEPPERS.           2 9
" Farewell?" echoed the king, startled at the
word. "Are you, too, going?-every one deserts me!" There was intense anguish in the
tone of his voice, for, as he spoke, his eye fell
upon a ring he wore, which encircled the portrait of his favorite daughter, Anne, and the
remembrance that she, his own child, had excited the same remark from the lips of her
father-that bitter remembrance came across
his soul and smote him to the heart.  He was
suddenly silent —his brow contracted-he closed
his eyes in anguish, and one bitter tear sprang
from under either lid at the thought. He passed
his hand across his face, and wiped away the
womanish evidence of his weakness.
"Do not say I desert you, my liege," said
Gerald Pepper. " I leave you,'tis true, for the
present, but I do not leave you until I can see
no way in which I can be longer useful. While
in my own immediate district, there were many
ways in which my poor services might be made
available;- my knowledge of the county, of its
people and its resources, its passes and its weak
points, were of no service. But here, or farther
soufihward, where your majesty is going,, I can




280          THE WHITE HORSE
no longer do any thing which might win the distinction that your majesty and General Sarsefield
are pleased to honor me with."
" You have still a stout heart, a clear head, a
bold arm, and a noble horse," said Sarsefield.
"I have also a weak woman and helpless
children, general," said Gerald Pepper.
The appeal was irresistible-Sarsefield was
silent.
"But though I cannot longer aid with my
arm-my wishes and my prayers shall follow
your majesty-and whenever I may be thought
an agent to be made useful, my king has but to
command the willing services of his subject."
" Faithfully promised," said the king.
"The promise shall be as faithfully kept," said
his follower; " but before I leave, may I beg the
favor of a moment's private conversation with
your majesty?"
"Speak any thing you have to communicate
before Sarsefield," said the king.
Gerald Pepper hesitated for a moment; he
was struggling between his sovereign's command
and his own delicacy of feeling; but overcoming
the latter, in deference to the former, he said



OF THE PEPPERS.          281
"Your majesty's difficulties with respect to
money supplies."
"I know, I know," said the king, somewhat impatiently, "I owe you five hundred
pieces."
"Oh I my liege," said the devoted subject,
dropping on his knee before him, " deem me not
so unworthy as to seek to remind your majesty
of the trifle you did me the honor to allow me
to lay at your disposal; I only regret I had not
the means of contributing more. It is not that;
but I have brought here another hundred pieces,
it is all that I can raise at present, and if your
majesty will further honor me by the acceptance
of so poor a pittance, when the immediate necessities of youi' army may render every trifle a
matter of importance, I shall leave you with a
more contented spirit, conscious that I have
done all within my power for my king."  And,
as he spoke, he laid on a table a purse containing the gold.
" I cannot deny that we are sorely straitened,"
said the king, " but I do not like."
"Pray do not refuse it, my liege," said Gerald,
still kneeling-" do not refuse the last poor ser
24*




282           THE WHITE HORSE
vice your subject may ever have it in his power
to do in your cause."
"Well," said the king, "I accept it-but I
would not do so if I were not sure of having,
one day, the means of rewarding your loyalty
and generosity." And thus allowing himself to
be the dupe of his own fallacious hopes, he took
from poor Gerald Pepper the last hundred guineas he had in his possession, with that happy
facility that kings have always exhibited in
accepting sacrifices from enthusiastic and selfdevoted followers.
"My mission here is ended now," said Gerald. "May I be permitted to kiss my sovereign's
hand?"
"Would that all my subjects were as faithful,"
said James, as he held out his hand to Gerald
Pepper, who kissed it respectfully, and then
arose.
" What do you purpose doing when you leave
me?" said the king.
" To return to my home as soon as I may, my
liege."
"If it be my fate to be driven from my kingdom by my unnatural son-in-law, I hope he may




OF THE PEPPERS.             283
be merciful to my people, and that none may
suffer from their adherence to the cause of their
rightful sovereign."
"I wish, my liege," said Gerald, "that he
may have half the consideration for his Irish
subjects that your majesty had for your Eng'lish
ones;" * and he shook his head doubtfully as he
spoke, and his countenance suddenly fell.
A hard-drawn sigh escaped from Sarsefield,
and then, biting his lip, and with knitted brow,
he exchanged a look of bitter meaning with
Gerald Pepper.
"Adieu, then," said the king, "since you will
go. See our good friend to his saddle, Sarsefield.  Once more, good night; King James will
not forget the White Horseman."  So saying,
he waved his hand in adieu,-Gerald Pepper
bowed low to his sovereign, and Sarsefaeld followed him from  the chamber.  They were both
silent till they arrived at the portal of the tower,
and when the door was opened, Sarsefield crossed
the threshold with the visitor, and stepped into
* At the battle of the Boyne. when the Irish were driving
the enemy with great slaughter before them, James was
heard often to exclaim,'1Oh! spare my English subjects."




284            THE WHITE HORSE
the fresh air, which he inhaled audibly three or
four times, as if it were a relief to him.
" Good  night,  General Sarsefield,"  said
Gerald.
" Good night, my gallant friend," said Sarsefield, in a voice that expressed much vexation
of spirit.
" Don't be too much cast down, general," said
Gerald, "better days may come, and fairer
fields be fought."
" Never, never!" said Sarsefield.  " Never was
a fairer field than that of yesterday, never was a
surer game if it had been rightly played. But
there is a fate, my friend, hangs over our cause,
and I fear that destiny throws against us."
" Speak not thus, general,-think not thus."
" Would that I could think otherwise-but I
fear I speak prophetically."
" Do you then give up the cause?" said Gerald in surprise.
"iNo;" said Sarsefield, firmly, almost fiercely.
"lNever-I may die in the cause, but I will
never desert it, as long as I have a troop to follow me- but I must not loiter here.  Farewell!
Where is your horse?"




OF THE PEPPERS.           285
"I left him in the care of one of the attendants."
" I hope you are well mounted?"
" Yes; here comes my charger."
"What!" said Sarsefield, " the white horse!"
" Yes; surely," said Gerald; "you never saw
me back any other."
" But after the tremendous fatigue of yesterday," said Sarsefield in surprise, " is it possible
he is still fresh?"
"Fresh enough to serve my turn for tonight," said Gerald, as he mounted into the
saddle. The white horse gave a loud neigh
of seeming satisfaction as his master resumed
his seat.
" Noble brute I" said Sarsefield, as he. patted
the horse on the neck, which was arched into the
proud bend of a bold steed who knows a bold
rider is on his back.
"And now farewell, general," said Gerald,
extending his hand.
"Farewell, my friend.  Fate is unkind to
deny the charm of a victorious cause to so gallant a spirit."
"There is more gallantry in remaining un



286            TIHE WHITE HORSE
shaken under defeat; and you, general, are a
bright example of the fact."
"Good night,' good night," said Sarsefield,
anxious to escape from hearing his own praise,
and wringing the hand that was presented to
him with much warmth; he turned towards the
portal of the tower, but before he entered,
Gerald again addressed him.
" Pray tell me, general, is your regiment here?
before I go, I would wish to take leave of the'officers of that gallant corps, in whose ranks I
have had the honor to draw a sword."
" They are not yet arrived. They are on the
road, perhaps, by this time; but I ordered they
should be the last to leave Dublin, for as, yesterday, they suffered the disgrace of being led the
first out of the battle*, I took care they should
have the honor of being the last in the rear tonight, to cover our retreat."
"Then remember me to them," said Gerald.
"They can never forget the White Horseman," said Sarsefield; " and they shall hear you
* Sersefield's regiment, after having repeatedly repulsed
the enemy, was obliged to leave the field in order to protect
the person of the king, who chose to fly unnecessarily soon.




OF THE PEPPERS.          287
left the kind word of remembrance for them.
Once more, good night."
"Good night, general; God's I lessing be
upon you I"
"Amen I" said Sarsefield; " and with you."
They then wrung each other's hand in silence.
Sarsefield re-entered the tower, and Gerald Pepper giving the rein to his stead, the white horse
left the spot as rapidly as he bad approached it.
[Pepper having remained some time in Dublin
to find out what was going forward, on discovering that his property is forfeited, sets off for
home, in order to save as many moveables as
possible. On the way he meets his foster brother, Rory Oge, who being informed of what was
about to occur, takes means to delay the progress of the trooper to whom the property had
been granted-the many manoeuvres to accomplish this are drawn out to such a length as to
prevent our giving more than an outline. The
story, we should have observed, is divided into
three chapters-the Legend of the White Horse,
if "legend" it can be called, is nearly complete
in the first and last, the intermediate chapter
being almost altogether occupied with " The




288          THE WHITE HORSE
Little Weaver of Duleek Gate," another legend,
introduced by way of episode, to entertain the
trooper. In the third chapter Mr. Lover continues:]
Let the division I have made in my chapters
serve, in the mind of the reader, as an imaginary
boundary between the past day and the ensuing
morning. Let him, in his own fancy, also, settle
how the soldier watched, slept, dreamt, or waked
through this interval. Rory did not make his
appearance, however; he had left the public on
the preceding evening, having made every necessary arrangement for carrying on the affair he
had taken in hand; so that the Englishman, on
inquiry, found that Rory had departed, being
" obliged to lave the place early on his own
business, but sure his honor could have any
accommodation in life that he wanted, in the
regard of a guide, or the like o' that."
" Now, for this, Rory had provided also, having arranged with the keepers of the public, to
whom he confided every thing connected with
the affair, that in case the trooper should ask
for a guide, they should recommend him a certain young imp, the son of Rory's cousin, the




OF THE PEPPERS.          289
blacksmith, and one of the most mischievous,
knowing, and daring young vagabonds in the
parish.
To such guidance, therefore, did the Englishman commit himself on this, the third day of his
search after the lands of the Peppers, which still
remained a Terra Incognita to him; and the
boy, being previously tutored upon the duties he
was to perform in his new capacity, was not one
likely to enlighten him upon the subject. The
system of the preceding day was acted upon,
except the casting of the horse's shoe; but
by-roads and crooked lanes were put in requisition, and every avenue, but the one really
leading to his object, the trooper was made to
traverse.
The boy affected simplicity or ignorance, as
best suited his purposes, to escape any incorivenient interrogatory or investigation on the part
of the stranger, and at last, the young guide
turned up a small rugged lane, down whose
gentle slope some water was slowly trickling
amongst stones and mud.  On arriving at its
extremity, he proceeded to throw down some
sods, and pull away some brambles, that seemet
25




290          THEk WHITE HORSE
to be placed there as an artificial barrier to an
extensive field that lay beyond the lane.
"What are you doing there?" said the soldier.
" Makin' a convenience for your honor to get
through the gap," said the boy.
" There is no road there," said theother.
" Oh, no, plaze your honor," said the young
rascal, looking up in his face with an affectation
of simplicity that might have deceived Machiavel himself.-" It's not a road, Sir, but a short
cut."
" Cut it as short then as you can, my boy,"
said the soldier (the only good thing he ever
said in his life), "for your short cuts in this
country are the longest I ever knew-I'd rather
go around."
"So we must go round, by the bottom o' this
field, Sir, and then, over the hill beyant there,
we come out an the road."
" Then there is a road beyond the hill."
"A fine road, Sir," said the boy, who, having
cleared a passage for the horsemnian, proceeded
before him at a smart run, and led him down
the slope of the hill to a small valley, intersected
by a sluggish stream that lay at its foot. When




OF THE PEPPERS.           291
the boy arrived at this valley, he ran briskly
across it, though the water splashed up about
his feet at every bound he gave, and dashing on
through the stream, he arrived at the othei side
by the time the trooper had reached the nearer
one.: ere the latter was obliged to pull up,
for his horse, at the first step, sank so deep,
that the animal instinctively withdrew his foot
from tAe treacherous morass.
The trooper called after his guide, who was
proceeding up the opposite acclivity, and the
boy turned round.
"I can't pass, this, boy," said the soldier.
The boy faced the hill again, without any
reply, and recommenced his ascent at a rapid
pace.
" Come back, you young scoundrel, or I'll
shoot you," said the soldier, drawing his pistol
from his holster. The boy still continued his
flight, and the trooper fired, but ineffectually,
upon which the boy stopped, and after making
a contemptuons action at the Englishman, rushed up the acclivity, and was soon beyond the
reach of small arms, and shortly after out of
sight, having passed the summit of the hill.




292          THE WHITE HORSE
The Englishman's vexation was excessive, at
finding himself thus left in such a helpless situation. For a long time he endeavored to find a
spot in the marsh he might make his crossing
good upon, but in vain,-and after nearly an
hour spent in this useless endeavor, he was forced
to turn back and strive to unravel the maze of
twisting and twining through which he had been
led, for the purpose of getting on some highway,
where a chance passenger might direct him in
finding his road.
This he failed to accomplish, and darkness at
length ovortook him, in a wild country to which
he was an utter stranger. He still continued,
however, cautiously to progress along the road
on which. he was benighted, and at length the
twinkling of a distant light raised some hope of
succor in his heart.
Keeping this beacon in view, the benighted
traveler made his way, as well as he might,
until, by favor of the glimmer he so opportunely
discovered, he at last found himself in front of
the house whence the light proceeded.  He
knocked at the door, which, after two or three
loud summonses, was opened to him, and then




OF THE PEPPERS.           293
briefly stating the distressing circumstances in
which he was placed, he requested shelter for
the night.
The domestic who opened the door retired to
deliver the stranger's message to the owner of
the house, who immediately afterwards made his
appearance, and, with a reserved courtesy, invited the stranger to enter.
"Allow me first to see my horse stabled," said
the soldier.
"'He shall be cared for," said the other.' Excuse me, Sir," returned the blunt Englishman, " if I wish to see him in his stall. It has
been a hard day for the poor brute, and I fear
one of his hoofs is much injured; how far I am
anxious to see."
"As you please, Sir," said the gentleman, who
ordered a menial to conduct the stranger to the
stable.
There, by the light of a lantern, the soldier
examined the extent of injury his charger had
sustained, and had good reason to fear that the
next day would find him totally unserviceable.
After venting many a hearty curse on Irish roads
and Irish guides, he was retiring from the stable,
25*




'2(9}4       THE WHITE HORSE
when his attention was attracted by a superb
white horse, and much as he was engrossed by
his present annoyance, the noble proportions of
the animal were too striking to be overlooked;
after admiring all his points, he said to the attendant, "What a beautiful creature this is!"
" Throth, you may say that," was the answer.
" What a charger he would make l"
" Sure enough."
" He must be very fleet."
"As the win'."
" And leaps."
"Whoo! —over the moon, if you axed him."
" That horse must trot at least ten miles the
hour."
" Tin!-faix it wouldn't be convaynient to him
to trot undher fourteen," and with this assurance
on the part of the groom, they left the stable.
On being led into the dwelling-house, the
stranger found the table spread for supper, and
the owner of the mansion, pointing to a chair,
invited him to partake of the evening meal.
The reader need scarcely be told that the invitation came from Gerald Pepper, for, I suppose, the white horse in the stable has already




OF THE PEPPERS.           295
explained whose house chance had directed the
trooper to, though all his endeavors to find it
had proved unavailing.
Gerald still maintained the bearing which
characterized his first meeting with the Englishman on his threshold-it was that of reserved
courtesy. Magdalene, his gentle wife, was seated near the table, with an infant child sleeping
upon her lap; her sweet features were strikingly
expressive of sadness; and as the stranger entered the apartment, her eye was raised in one
timorous glance upon the man whose terrible
mission she was too well aware of, and the long
lashes sank downwards again upon the pale
cheek that recent sorrows had robbed of its
bloom.
"Come, Sir," said Gerald, "after such a day
of fatigue as yours has been, some refreshment
will be welcome;" and the Englishman, presently, by deeds, not words, commenced giving ample
evidence of the truth of the observation. As
the meal proceeded, he recounted some of the
mishaps that had befallen him, all of which Gerald knew before, through Rory Oge, who was in
the house at that very moment, though, for ob



296           THE WHITE HORSE
vious reasons he did not make his appearance;
and, at last, the stranger put the question to his
host, if he knew any one in that neighborhood
called Gerald Pepper.
Magdalene felt her blood run cold, but Gerald
quietly replied, there was a person of that name
thereabouts.
"Is his property a good one?" said the
trooper.
" Very much reduced of late," said Gerald.
" Ballygarth they call it," said the soldier;
"is that far from here?"
" It would puzzle me to tell you how to go to
it from this place," was the answer.
" It is very provoking," said the trooper; " I
have been looking for it these three days and
cannot find it, and nobody seems to know where
it is."
Magdalene, at these words, felt a momentary
relief, yet still she scarcely dared to breathe.
"The truth is," continued the soldier, "that
I am entitled, under the king's last commission,
to that property, for all Pepper's possessions
have been forfeited.
The baby, as it slept in its mother's lap,




OF THE PEPPERS.           297
smiled as its legalised despoiler uttered these
words, and poor Magdalene, smote to the heart
by the incident, melted into tears; but, by a
powerful effort, she repressed any audible evidence of grief, and, shading her eyes with her
hand, her tears dropped in silence over her
sleeping child.
Gerald observed her emotion, and found it
difficult to master his own feelings.
" Now it is rather hard," continued the soldier, "that I have been hunting up and down
the country for this confounded place, and can't
find it. I thought it a fine thing, but I suppose
it's nothing to talk of, or somebody would know
of it; and more provoking still, we soldiers have
yet our hands so full of work, that I only got
four days' leave, and to-morrow night I am
bound to return to Dublin, or I shall be guilty
of a breach of duty; and how I am to return,
with my horse in the disabled state that this detestable country has left him, I cannot conceive."
" You will be hard run to accomplish it," said
Gerald.
"' Now will you make a bargain with me?"
said the soldier.




298          THE WHITE HORSE
"Of what nature?" said Gerald.
" There "-said the soldier, throwing down on
the table a piece of folded parchment,-" there
is the debenture entitling the holder thereof to
the property I have named. Now, I must give
up looking for it, for the present, and I am tired
of hunting after it, into the bargain; besides,
God knows when I may be able to come here
again. You are on the spot, and may make use
of this instrument, which empowers you to take
full possession of the property whatever it may
be; to you it may be valuable. At a word then,
if I give you this debenture, will you give me
the white horse that is standing in your stable?"
Next to his wife and children, Gerald Pepper
loved his white horse; and the favorite animal
so suddenly and unexpectedly named startled
him, and, strange as it may appear, he paused
for a moment; but Magdalene, unseen by the
soldier, behind whom she was seated, clasped
her outstretched hands in the action of supplication to her husband, and met his eye with
an imploring look that, at once produced his
answer.
"Agreed!" said Gerald.




OF THE PEPPERS.          299
"'Tis a bargain," said the soldier; and he
tossed the debenture across the table as the property of the man. whom it was intended to leave
destitute.
Having thus put the man into possession of
his own property, the soldier commenced spending the night pleasantly, and it need not be
added  that Gerald Pepper was in excellent
humor to help him.
As for poor Magdalene, when the bargain
was completed, her heart was too full to permit
her to remain longer, and hurrying to the apartment where the elder children were sleeping, she
kissed them passionately, and, throwing herself
on her knees between their little beds, wept proflsely, as she offered the fervent outpourings of a
grateful heart to heaven, for the ruin so wonderfully averted from their innocent heads.
The next morning the English soldier was
in his saddle at an early hour, and he seemed
to entertain all the satisfaction of an habitual
horseman, in feeling the stately tread of the bold
steed beneath him. The white horse champed
his bit, and, by his occasional curvettings, evinced
a consciousness that his -accustomed rider was




eC0  THE WHITE HORSE OF THE PEPPERS.
not on his back; but the firm seat and masterly
hand of the soldier shortly reduced- such slight
marks of rebellion into obedience, and he soon
bade Gerald Pepper farewell.
The parting was rather brief and silent; for
to have been other, would not have accorded
with the habits of the one, nor suited the immediate humor of the other. In answer to the spur
of the soldier, the white horse galloped down
the avenue of his former master's domain, and
left behind him the fields in which he had been
bred. Gerald Pepper looked after his noble
steed while he remained within sight, and
thought no one was witness to the tear he
dashed from his eye when he turned to re-enter
his house.




MICKEY  M'ROREY,
THE IRISH FIDDLER.
WHAT a host of light-hearted associations are
revived by that living fountain of fun and frolic,
an Irish fiddlerl  Every thing connected with
him is agreeable, pleasant, jolly. All his anecdotes, songs, jokes, stories, and secrets, bring us
back from the pressure and cares of life, to
those happy days and nights when the heart
was as light as the heel, and both beat time to
the exhilarating sound of his fiddle.
The harper is a character looked upon by the
Irish rather as a musical curiosity, than a being
specially created to contribute to their enjoyment.  There is something about him which
they do not feel to be in perfect sympathy
26




302           MICKEY M'ROREY,
with their habits and amusements: he is above
them, not of them; and although they respect
him, and treat him kindly, yet he is never
received among them  with that spontaneous
ebullition of warmth and cordiality with which
they welcome their own musician, the fiddler.
The harper, in fact, belongs, or rather did belong, to the gentry, and to the gentry they are
willing to leave him. They listen to his music
when he feels disposed to play for them, but it
only gratifies their curiosity, instead of enlivening their hearts-a fact sufficiently evident from
the circumstance of their seldom attempting -to
dance to it.  This preference, however, of the
fiddle to the harp, is a feeling generated by
change of times and circumstances, for it is
well known that in days gone by, when Irish
habits were purer, older, and more hereditary
than they are now, the harp was the favorite
instrument of young and old, of high and low.
The fiddle, however, is the instrument of all'others most essential to the enjoyment of an
Irishman. Dancing and love are very closely
connected, and of course the fiddle is never
thought or heard of, without awakening the




THE IRISH FIDDLER.          303
tenderest and most agreeable emotions.  Its
music, soft, sweet, and cheerful, is just the thing
for Paddy, who, under its influence, partakes of
its spirit, and becomes soft, sweet, and cheerful
himself. The very tones of it act like a charm
upon him, and produce in his head such a bland
and delightful intoxication, that he finds himself
making love just as naturally as he would eat
his meals. It opens all the sluices of his heart,
puts mercury in his veins, gives honey to a
tongue that was, heaven knows, sufficiently
sweet without it, and gifts him with a pair of
feather heels that Mercury might envy; and to
crown all, endows him, while pleading his cause
in a quiet corner, with a fertility of invention,
and an easy unembarrassed assurance, which
nothing can surpass. In fact, with great respect
for my friend Mr. Bunting, the fiddle it is that
ought to be our national instrument, as it is that
which is most closely and agreeably associated
with the best and happiest impulses of the Irish
heart. The very language of the people themselves is a proof of this; for whilst neither harp
nor bagpipe is ever introduced as illustrating
peculiarities of feeling by any reference to their




304           MICKEY M'ROREY,
influence, the fiddle is an agreeable instrument
in their hands in more senses than one. Paddy's
highest notion of flattery towards the other sex
is boldly expressed by an image drawn from it,
for when he boasts that he can, by honied
words, impress such an agreeable delusion upon
his sweetheart as to make her imagine "that
there is a fiddler on every rib of, the house,"
there can be no metaphor conceived more
strongly or beautifully expressive of the charm
which flows from that sweet instrument. Paddy, however, is very often hit by his own metaphor, at a time when he least expects it. When
pleading his cause, for instance, and promising
golden days to his fair one, he is not unfrequently met by " Ay, ay, it's all very well now;
you're sugary enough, of coorse; but wait till
we'd be a year married, an' maybe, like so many
others that promised what you do, you'd never
come home to me widout'hangin' up your
fiddle behind the door;"' by which she means
to charge him with the probability of being
agreeable when abroad, but morose in his own
family.
Having thus shown that the fiddie and its




THE IRISH FIDDLER.          305
music are mixed up so strongly with our language, feelings, and amusements, it is now time
to say something of the fiddler. In Ireland it
is impossible, on looking through all classes of
society, to find any individual so perfectly free
from care, or, in stronger words, so completely
happy, as the fiddler, especially if he be blind,
which he generally is.  His want of sight circumscribes his other wants, and whilst it diminishes his enjoyments, not only renders him unconscious of their loss, but gives a greater zest to
those that are left him, simple and innocent as
they are.  He is in truth a man whose lot in
life is happily cast, and whose lines have fallen
in pleasant places.  The phase of life which is
presented to him, and in which he moves, is
one of innocent mirth and harmless enjoyment.
Marriages, weddings, dances, and merry-makings of all descriptions, create the atmosphere
of mirth and happiness which he ever breathes.
With the dark designs, the crimes and outrages
of mankind, he has nothing to do, and his light
spirit is never depressed by their influence. Indeed he may be said with truth to pass through
none but the festivals of life, to hear nothing
26*




306           MICKEY M'ROREY,
but mirth, to feel nothing but kindness, and to
communicate nothing but happiness to all around
him. He is at once the source and the centre of
all good ahd friendly feelings. By him the aged
man forgets his years, and is agreeably cheated
back into youth; the laborer snatches a pleasant
moment from his toil, and is happy; the careworn ceases to remember the anxieties that press
him down; the boy is enraptured with delight;
and the child is charmed with a pleasure that he
feels to be wonderful.
Surely such a man is important, as filling up
with enjoyment so many of the pauses in human
misery.  He is a thousand times better than a
politician, and is a true philosopher without
knowing it. Every man is his friend, unless it
be a rival fiddler, and he is the friend of every
man, with the same exception.  Every house,
too, every heart, and every hand, is open to
him; he never knows what it is to want a bed,
a dinner, or a shilling.  Good'heavens! what
more than this can the cravings of a human
heart desire?  For my part, I do not know
what others might aim at; but I am of opinion
that in such a world as this, the highest proof of




THE IRISH FIDDLER.         307
a wise man would be, a wish to live and die an
Irish fiddler.
And yet, alas I there is no condition of life
without some remote or contingent sorrow.
Many a scene have I witnessed connected with
this very subject, that would wring tears from
any eye, and find a tender melancholy alternative that devotes the poor sightless lad to an
employment that is ultimately productive of so
much happiness to himself and others.  This
alternative is seldom resorted to, unless when
some poor child-perhaps a favorite-is deprived
of sight by the terrible ravages of the small-pox.
In life there is scarcely anything more touching
than to witness in the innocent invalid the first
effects, both upon himself and his parents, of
this woful privation. The utter helplessness of
the pitiable darkling, and his total dependence
on those around him —his unacquaintance with
the relative situation of all the places that were
familiar to him —his tottering and timid step,
his affecting call of " Mammy, where are you?"
joined to tle bitter consciousness on her part
that the light of affection and innocence will
never sparkle in those beloved eyes again —all




308           MICKEY M'ROREY,
this constitutes a scene of deep and bitter sorrow. When, however, the sense of his bereavement passes away, and the cherished child grows
up to the proper age, a fiddle is procured for
him by his parents, if they are able, and if not,
a subscription is made up among their friends
and neighbors to buy him one. All the family,
with tears in their eyes, then kiss and take leave
of him; and his mother, taking him by the hand,
leads him, as had been previously arranged, to
the best fiddler in the neighborhood, with whom
he is left as an apprentice. There is generally
no fee required, but he is engaged to hand his
master all the money he can make at dances,
from the time he is proficient enough to play at
them. Such is the simple process of putting a
blind boy in the way of becoming acquainted
with the science of melody.
In my native parish there were four or five
fiddlers-all good in their way; but the Paganini of the district was the far-famed Mickey
M'Rorey.  Where Mickey properly lived, I
never could actually discover, and for the best
reason in the world- he was not at home once
in twelve months. As Colley Cibber says in the




TIIE IRISH FIDDLER.       309
play, he was "a kind of a here-and-thereiana stranger nowhere." This, however, mattered
little; for though perpetually shifting day after
day from place to place, yet it somehow happened that nobody ever was at a loss where to
find him. The truth is, he never felt disposed to
travel incog., because he knew that his interest
must suffer by doing so; the consequence was,
that wherever he went, a little nucleus of local
fame always attended him, which rendered it an
easy matter to find his whereabouts.
Mickey was blind from his infancy, and, as
usual, owed to the small-pox the loss of his
sight. He was about the middle size, of rather
a slender make, and possessed an intelligent
countenance, on which beamed that singular
expression of inward serenity so peculiar to the
blind. His temper was sweet and even, but
capable of rising through the buoyancy of his
own humor to a high pitch of exhilaration and
enjoyment.  The dress he wore, as far as I can
remember, was always the same in color and
fabric-to wit, a brown coat, a sober-tinted cotton waistcoat, grey stockings, and black corduroys. Poor Mickey! I think I see him before




310          MICKEY M'ROREY,
me, his head erect, as the heads of all blind men
are, the fiddle-case under his left arm, and. his
hazel staff held out like a feeler, exploring with
experimental pokes the nature of" the ground
before him, even although some happy urchin
leads him onward with an exulting eye; an
honor of which he will boast to his companions
for many a mortal month to come.
The first time I ever heard Mickey play was
also the first I ever heard a fiddle. Well and
distinctly do I remember the occasion.  The
season was summer-but summer was summer
then —and a new house belonging to Frank
Thomas had been finished, and was just ready
to receive him and his family. The floors of
Irish houses in the country generally consist' at
first of wet clay, and when this is sufficiently
well smoothed and hardened, a dance is known
to be an excellent thing to bind and prevent
them from cracking. On this occasion the evening had been appointed, and the day was nearly
half advanced, but no appearance of the fiddler.
The state of excitement in which I found myself,
could not be described. The name of Mickey
M'Rorey had been ringing in my ears for God




THE IRISH FIDDLER.        311
knows how long, but I had never seen him, or
even heard his fiddle. Every two minutes I was
on the top of a little eminence looking out for
him, my eyes straining out of their sockets, and
my head dizzy with the prophetic expectation of
rapture and delight. Human patience, however,
could bear this painful suspense no longer, and I
privately resolved to find Mickey, or perish. 1
accordingly proceeded across the hills, a distance
of about three miles, to a place called Kilnahushogue, where I found him waiting for a guide.
At this time I could not have been more than
seven years of age; and how I wrought out my
way over the lonely hills, or through what mysterious instinct I was led to him, and that by a
path, too, over which I had never traveled before, must be left unrevealed until it shall please
that Power which guides the bee to its home,
and the bird for thousands of miles through the
air, to disclose the principle upon which it iw
accomplished.
On our return home I could see the young
persons of both sexes flying out to the little
eminence I spoke of, looking eagerly towards
the spot we traveled from, and immediately




312           MICKEY M ROREY,
scampering in again, clapping their hands and
shouting with delight.  Instantly the whole
village was out, young and old, standing for
a moment to satisfy themselves that the intelligence was correct; after which, about a dozen
of the youngsters sprang forward, with the
speed of so many antelopes, to meet us, whilst
the elders returned with a soberer, but not less
satisfied, manner into the houses. Then commenced the usual battle, as to whom should be
honored by permission to carry the fiddle-case.
Oh I that fiddle-case! For seven long years it
was an honor exclusively allowed to myself,
whenever Mickey attended a dance anywhere
near us; and never was the Lord Chancellor's
mace-to which, by the way, with great respect
for his Lordship, it bore a considerable resemblance-carried with a prouder heart or a more
exulting eye. But so it is"These little things arp great to little men."
"Blood alive, Mickey, you're welcome!"
"How is every bone of you, Mickey? Bedad
we gev you up." " No, we didn't give you up,
Mickey; never heed him; sure we knew very




THE IRISH FIDDLER.        313
well you'd not desart the Towny boys-whoo!Fol de rol loll"  "Ah, Mickey, won't you sing'There was a wee devil came over the wall?"'
"To be sure he will, but wait till he-comes home
and gets his dinner first.  Is it off an empty
stomach you'd have him to sing?"  "Mickey
give me the fiddle-case, won't you, Mickey?"
"No, to me, Mickey."  "Never heed them,
Mickey: you promised it to me at the dance in
Carntaul."
"Alsy, boys, aisy. The truth is, none of yez
can get the fiddle-case. Sllibby, my fiddle hasn't
been well for the last day or two, and can't bear
to be carried by any one barrin' myself."
"Blood alive! sick is it, Mickey?-an' what
ails her?"
"Why, some o' the doctors says there's a frog
in her, an' others that she has got the cholic;
but I'm goin' to give her a dose of balgriffauns
when I get up to the house above. Ould Harry
Connolly says she's with-fiddle; an' if that's true,
boys, maybe some o' yez won't be in luck. I'll
be able to spare a young fiddle or two among
yez."
Mahy a tiny hand was clapped, and many an
27




314           MICKEY M'ROREY
eye was lit up with the hope of getting a young
fiddle; for gospel itself was never looked upon
to be more true than this assertion of Mickey's..
And no wonder. The fact is, he used to amuse
himself by making small fiddles of deal and
horse-hair, which he carried about with him, as
presents for such youngsters as he took a fancy
to. This he made a serious business of, and carried it on with an importance becoming the intimation just given. Indeed, I remember the time
when I watched one of them, which I was so
happy as to receive from him, day and night,
with the hope of being able to report that it
was growing larger; for my firm belief was, that
in due time it would reach the usual size.
As we went along, Mickey, with his usual tact,
got out of us all the information respecting the
several courtships of the neighborhood that had
reached us, and as much, too, of the village gossip and scandal as we knew.
Nothing can exceed the overflowing kindness
and affection with which the Irish fiddler is
received on th9 occasion of a, dance or merrymaking; and to do him justice he loses no
opportunity of exaggerating his own import



THE IRTSH FIDDLER.         315
ance. From habit, and his position among the
people, his wit and power of repartee are necessarily cultivated and sharpened. Not one of his
jokes ever fails —a circumstance which improves
his humor mightily; for nothing on earth sustains it so much as knowing, that, whether good
or bad it will be laughed at. Mickey, by the
way, was a bachelor, and, though blind, was
able, as he himself used to say, to see through
his ears better than another could through the
eyes.  He knew every voice at once, and every
boy and girl in the parish by name, the moment
he heard them speak.
On reaching the house he is bound for, he
either partakes of, or at least is offered, refreshment, after which comes the ecstatic moment to
the youngsters: but all this is, done by due and
solemn preparation. First he calls for a pair of
scissors, with which he pares or seems to pare
his nails; then asks for a piece of rosin, and in
an instant half a dozen boys are off at a breakneck pace, to the next shoe-maker's, to procure
it; whilst in the mean time he deliberately pulls
a piece out of his pocket and rosins his bow.
But, heavens! what a ceremony the opening of




316          MICKEY M'ROREY,
that fiddle-case is!  The manipulation of the
blind man as he runs his hand down to the keyhole-the turning of the key-the taking out of
the fiddle-the twang twang —and then the first
ecstatic sound, as the bow is drawn across the
strings; then comes a screwing; then a delicious
saw or two; again another screwing —twang
twang-and away he goes with the favorite tune
of the good woman, for such is the etiquette
upon these occasions. The house is immediately
thronged with the neighbors, and a preliminary
dance is taken, in which the old folks, with goodhumored violence, are literally dragged out, and
forced to join. Then come the congratulations
-" Ah, Jack, you could do it wanst," says
Mickey, "an' can still; you have a kick in you
yet."  "Why, Mickey, I seen dancin' in my
time," the old man will reply, his brow relaxed
by a remnant of his former pride, and the hilarity of the moment, "but you see the'breath isn't
what it used to be wid me, when I could dance
the Baltehorum Jig on the bottom of a ten-gallon cask. But I think a glass o' whiskey will do
us no harm after that. Heighho!-well, well —
I'm sure I thought mny dancing days wor over."




THE IRISH FIDDLER.        317
"Bedad an' you wor matched any how,"
rejoined the fiddler. " Molshy carried as light
a heel as ever you did; sorra a woman of her
ycNl::s ever I seen could cut the buckle wid her.
You would know the tune on her feet still."
"Ah, Mickey, the truth is," the good woman
would say, "we have no sich dancin' now as
there was in my days. Thry that glass."
"But as good fiddlers, Molshy, eh?  Here's
to you both, and long may ye live to shake the
toe! Whoo! be dad that's great stuff. Come
now sit down, Jack, till I give your ould favorite,' Cannie Soogah.' "
These were happy moments and happy times,
which might well be looked upon as picturing
the simple manners of country life with very little of moral shadow to obscure the cheerfulness
which lit up the Irish heart and hearth into
humble happiness. Mickey, with his usual good
nature, never forgot the younger portion of his
audience. After entertaining the old and fullgrown, he would call for a key, one end of
which he placed in his mouth, in order to make
the liddle sing for the children their favorite
song, beginning with
27*




318           MICKEY MCROREY,
"Oh! grand-mamma, will you squeeze my wig?
This he did in such a manner, through the medium of the key, that the words seemed to be
spoken by the instrument, and not by himself.
After this was over, he would sing us, to his
own accompaniment, another favorite, "There
was a wee devil looked over the wall," which
generally closed that portion of the entertainment, so kindly designed for us.
Upon those moments I have often witnessed
marks of deep and pious feeling, occasioned by
some memory of the absent or the dead, that
were as beautiful as they were affecting. If, for
instance, a favorite son or daughter happened
to be removed by death, the father or mother,
remembering the air which was loved best by
the departed, would pause a moment, and with
a voice- full of sorrow, say, "Mickey, there is
one tune that I would like to hear; I love to
think of it, and to hear it; I do, for the sake of
them that's gone-my darlin' son that's lyin' low:
it was he that loved it. His ear is closed against
it now; but for his sake —ay, for your sake, avourneen machree-we will hear it wallst more."




THE IRISH FIDDLER.        319
Mickey always played such tunes in his best
style, and amidst a silence that was only broken
by sobs, suppressed moanings, and the other
tokens of profound sorrow. These gushes, however, of natural feeling soon passed away. In a
few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke
out again, and the lively dance went on as if
their hearts had been incapable of such affection
for the dead-affection at once so deep and tender. But many a time the light of cheerfulness
plays along the stream  of Irish feeling, when
cherished sorrow lies removed from the human
eye far down from the surface.
These preliminary amusements being now
over, Mickey is conducted to the dance-house,
where he is carefully installed in the best chair,
and immediately the dancing commences. It is
not my purpose to describe an Irish dance here,
having done it more than once elsewhere. It is
enough to say that Mickey is now in his glory;
and proud may the young man be who fills the
honorable post of his companion, and sits next
him.  He is a living store-house of intelligence,
a traveling directory for the parish-the lover's
text-book-the young woman's best companion;




320          ]MICKEY M ROREY,
for where is the courtship going on of which he
is not cognizant? where is there a marriage on
the tapis, with the particulars of which he is not
acquainted? He is an authority whom nobody
would think of questioning. It is now, too, that
he scatters his jokes about; and so correct and
well trained is his ear, that he can frequently
name the young man who dances, by the peculiarity of his step.
"Ah ha! Paddy Brien, you're there?  Sure
I'd know the sound of your smoothin'-irons any
where.  Is it thrue, Paddy, that you wor sint
for down to Errigle Keerogue, to kill the clocks
for Dan M'Mahon? But, nabuklish! Paddy,
what'll you have?"
" Is that Grace Reilly on the flure? Faix,
avourneen, you can do it; devil o' your likes I
see any where. I'll lay Shibby to a penny trump
that you could dance your own namesake-the
Caleen dhas dAun, the bonny brown girl —upon
a spider's cobweb, without breakin' it. Don't
be in a hurry, Grace dear, to tie the knot; I'll
wait for you."
Several times in the course of the night a
plate is brought round, and a collection made




THE IRISH FIDDLER.        321
ror the fiddler: this was the moment when
Mickey used to let the jokes fly in every direction. The timid he shamed into liberality, the
vain he praised, and the niggardly he assailed
by open hardy satire; all managed, however,
with such an under-current of good humor, that
no one could take offence. No joke ever told
better than that of the broken string. Whenever this happened at night, Mickey would call
out to some soft fellow, "Blood alive, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle? I've broken a
string." The unthinking young man, forgetting
that he was blind, would take the candle in a
hurry, and fetch it to him.
"Faix, Ned, I knew you wor jist fit for't;
houldin' a candle to a dark man! Isn't he a
beauty, boys?-look at him, girls-as'cute as a
pancake."
It is unnecessary to say, that the mirth on
such occasions was convulsive. Another similar joke was also played off by him against
such as he knew to be ungenerous at the collection.
"' Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. ~ I'm
goin' across the counthry as far as Ned Don



32a            MICKEY M ROREY,
nelly's, and I want you to help me:along the
road, as the night is dark."
" To be sure, Mickey. I'll bring you over
as snug as if you wor on a clane plate, man
alive!"
"Thank you, Paddy; throth you've the dacency in you; an' kind father for you, Paddy.
Maybe I'll do as much for you some other
time."
Mickey never spoke of this until the trick
was played off, after which, he published it to
the whole Parish; and Paddy of course was
made the standing jest for being so silly as to
think that night or day had any difference to a
man who could not see.
Thus passed the life of Mickey M'IRorey, and
thus pass the lives of most of his class, serenely
and happily.  As the sailor to his ship, the
sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler attached
to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though
limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light,
for he comes in contact with the best and
brightest side of life and nature; and the con.
sequence is, that their mild and mellow lights
are reflected on and from himself. I am igno



THE IRISH FIDDLER.           323
rant whether poor Mickey is dead or not; but I
dare say he forgets the boy to whose young
spirit he communicated so much delight, and
who often danced with a buoyant and careless
heart to  the  pleasant notes  of his fiddle.
Mickey M'Rorey, farewell!  Whether living
or dead, peace be with you.*
* Mickey, who is still living, remembers the writer of
this well, and felt very much flattered on hearing the
above notice of himself read.-W. C., 1845.
THE END.




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THE
POOR SCHOLAR,
OTIIER TALES OF IRISH LIFE.
BY
WILLIAM  CARLETON,
AUTHOR OF  VALENTINE M'CLUTCHY," "ART. MAGU"IRI,
"TUBBER DERG," IrC.
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OINTREAL' fOR. OF NOTRE DAMS AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIR sa
1860.








SADLIERS' FIRESIDE LIBRARY,
No. VI.
Page
THE POOR SCHOLAR,..... 
A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE,........ 269
TALBOT AND GAYNOR, THE IRISH PIPERS,... 283
FRANK FINNIEGAN, THE FOSTER BROTHER,.. 300








INTRODUCTIJON.
The following account of the origin of the tale of
"The Poor Scholar," is taken from Mr. Carleton's introduction to a new and revised edition of his " Traits
and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," published in Dublin in 1843.
"It was about six months after our removal to Springtown, that an incident in my early life occurred which
gave rise to one of the most popular tales, perhaps,
with the exception of the Miser, that I have writtenthat is the Poor Scholar. There being now no classical
school within eighteen or twenty miles of Springtown,
it was suggested to our family by a nephew of the
parish priest, then a young man of six or eight and
twenty, that, under the circumstances, it would be a
prudent step on their part to prepare an outfit, and
send me up to Munster as a Poor Scholar, to complete
my education. Pat Frayne, who by the way had been
a poor scholar himself, had advised the same thing
before, and as the name does not involve disgrace, I
felt no reluctance in going, especially as the priest's
nephew, who proposed it, had made up his mind on
1*




Vi               INTRODUCTION.
accompanying me for a similar purpose. Indeed, the
poor scholars who go to Munster are indebted for
nothing but their bed and board, which they receive
kindly and hospitably from the parents of the scholars.
The masters are generally paid their full terms by these
pitiable beings, but this rule, like all others, of course
has its exceptions. At all events, my outfit was got
ready, and on a beautiful morning in the month of
May I separated from my family to go in quest of education. There was no collection, however, in my case,
as mentioned in the tale; as my own family supplied
the funds supposed to be necessary. I have been present, however, at more than one collection made for
similar purposes, and heard a good-natured sermon not
very much differing from that given in the story.
"The priest's nephew, on the day we were to start.
suddenly changed his mind, and I consequently had to
undertake the journey alone, which I did with a heavy
heart. The further I got from home the more my
spirits sank, or, in the beautiful image of Goldsmith,
"'I dragged at each remove a lengthening chain.''I traveled as far as the town of Granard, and during
the journey, it is scarcely necessary to say, that the
almost parental tenderness and hospitality which I
received on my way could not be adequately described.
The reader will find an attempt at it in the story. The
parting from home and my adventures on the road
are real.




INTRODUCTION. Fii
"}Having reached Granard my courage began to fail,
and my family at home, now that I had departed from
them, began also to feel something like remorse for
having permitted one so young and inexperienced as I
then was, to go abroad alone upon the world. My
mother's sorrow, especially, was deep, and her cry was,'Oh, why did I let my boy go? Maybe I will never
see him again!'
" On reaching Granard, I felt of course fatigued, and
soon went to bed, where I slept soundly. It was not,
however, a dreamless sleep: I thought I was going
along a strange path to some particular place, and that
a mad bull met me on the road, and pursued me with
such speed and fury that I awoke in a state of singular
terror. That was sufficient; my mind had been already
wavering and the dream determined me. The next
morning after breakfast I bent my steps homewards,
and, as it happened, my return took a weighty load of
grief from the heart of my mother and family. The
house I stopped at in Granard was a kind of small inn,
kept by a man whose name was Peter Grehan. Such
were the incidents which gave rise to the tale of' The
Poor Scholar."








THE POO00  SCHOLAR.
ONE day about the middle of November, in
the year 18-, Dominick M'Evoy and his son
Jemmy were digging potatoes on the side of a
hard, barren hill; called Esker Dhu. The day
was bitter and wintry, the men were thinly clad,
and as the keen blast swept across the hill with
considerable violence, the sleet-like rain which
it bore along, pelted into their garments with
pitiless severity. The father had advanced into
more than middle age; and having held, at a
rack-rent, the miserable waste of farm which he
occupied, he was compelled to exert himself in
its cultivation, despite either obduracy of soil,
or inclemency of weather. This day, however,
was so unusually severe, that the old man began
to feel incapable of continuing his toil.  The




10           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
SOL bore it better; but whenever a cold rush of
stormy rain came over them, both were compelled to stand with their sides against it, and
their heads turned, so as that the ear almost
rested back upon the shoulder, in order to throw
the rain off their faces. Of each, however, that
cheek which was exposed to the rain and storm
was beaten into a red hue; whilst the other
part of their faces was both pale and hungerpinched.
The father paused to take breath, and, supported by his spade, looked down upon the sheltered inland which, inhabited chiefly by Protestants and Presbyterians, lay rich and warmlooking under him.
"Why thin," he exclaimed to the son-a
lad about fifteen, -" sure I know well I
oughtn't to curse yez, anyway, you black set I
an' yit, the Lord forgive me my sins, I'm almost
timpted to give yez a volley, an' that from
my heart out I Look at thim, Jimmy agraonly look at the black thieves I how warm an'
wealthy they sit there in our own ould possessions, an' here we must toil till our fingers are
worn to the stumps, upon this thievin' bent.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           11
The curse of Cromwell on it!-You might as
well ax the divil for a blessin', as expect anything like a dacent crop out of it.-Look at
thim two ridges I —such a poor sthriug o' praties is in it l —one here an' one there-an' yit
we must turn up the whole ridge for that same!
Well, God sind the time soon, when the right
will take place, Jimmy agrah I"
"An' doesn't Pasthorini say it? Sure whin
Twenty-five comes, we'll have our own agin:
the right will overcome the might-the bottomless pit will be locked-ay, double boulted,
if St. Pether gets the kays, for he's the very
boy that will accommodate the heretics wid awarm corner; an' yit, faith, there's many o'
thim that myself'ud put in a good word for,
afther all."
"Throth, an' here's the same, Jimmy. There's
Jack Stuart, an' if there's a cool corner in hell,
the same Jack will get it-an' that he may, I
pray Gor this day, an' amin. The Lord sind it
to him I for he richly desarves it. Kind, neighborly, and frindly, is he an' all belongin' to
him; an' I wouldn't be where a hard word'ud
be spoken of him, nor a dog in connexion wid




12            THE POOR SCHOLAR.
the family ill thrated; for which rason may he
get a cool corner in hell, I humbly sufflicate."
" What do you think of Jack Taylor? Will
he be cosey?"
"Throth, I doubt so-a blessed youth is
Jack; yit myself'ud hardly wish it. He's a
heerum-skeerum, divil-may-care fellow, no doubt
of it, an' laughs at the priests, which same I'm
thinkin' will get him below stairs more nor a
new-milk  heat, any way; but thin, agin, he
thrates thim dacent, an' gives thim good dinners,
an' they take all this rolliken in good part, so
that it's likely he's not in aiinest in it, an'
surely they ought to know best, Jimmy."
"What do you  think of Yallow  Sam?honest Sam, that they say was born widout a
heart, an' carries the black wool in his ears,
to keep out the cries of the widows an' the
orphans, that are long rotten in their graves
through his dark villany? —He'll get a snug
birth!"*
* This was actually said of the person alluded to-a celebrated usurer and agent to two or three estates, who was a
little deaf, and had his ears occasionally stuffed with black
wool.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           13
"Yallow Sam," replied the old man, slowly,
and a dark shade of intense hatred blackened
his weather-beaten countenance, as he looked
in the direction from which the storm blew:
"'twas he left us where we're standin," Jimmy
-undher this blast, that's cowldher an' bittherer nor a step-mother's breath, this cuttin'
day!'Twas he turned us on the wide world,
whin your poor mother was risin' out of her
faver.'Twas he squenched the hearth, whin she
wasn't able to lave the house, till I carried her
in my arms into Paddy Cassidy's-the tears
fallin' from my eyes upon her face, that I loved
next to God.  Didn't he give our farm to his
bastard son, a purple Orangeman? Out we
went, to the winds an' skies of heaven, bekase
the rich bodag'h made intherest against us. I
tould him whin he chated me out o' my fifteen
goolden guineas, that his masther, the landlord,
should hear of it; but I could never get next or
near him, to make my complaint. Eh?-a
snug birth! I'm only afeard that hell has no
corner hot enough for him-but lave that to the
divil himself: if he doesn't give him the best
thratement hell can afford, why I'm not here."
2




14          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Divil A one o' the ould boy's so bad as they
say, father; he gives to thirn hot an' heavy, at
all evints."
" Why even if he was at a loss about Sam,
depind upon it, he'd get a hint from his betthers above, that'ud be sarviceable."
"They say he visits him as it is, an' that
Samn can't sleep widout some one in the room
wid him.  Dan Philips says the priest was
there, an' had a Mass in every room in the
house; but Charley Mack tells me there's no
thruth in it. Ite was advised to it, he says; but
it seems the ould boy has too strong a hoult of
him, for Sam said he'd have the divil any time
sooner nor the priest, and its likest what he
would say."
"Och, och, Jimmy, avick, I'm  tir'd out!
We had betther give in; the day's too hard, an'
there's no use in standin' agin the weather
that's in it. Lave the ould villain to God, who
he can't chate, any way."
"Well, may our curse go along wid the rest
upon him, for dhrivin' us to sich an unnatural'pot as this! Hot an' heavy, into the sowl an'
marrow of him may it penethrate I An' sure




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           15
that's no more than all the counthry's wishin'
him, whether or not-not to mintion the curses
that's risin' out o' the grave agin him, loud an'
piercin'!"
"God knows it's not slavin' yourself on sich
a day as this you'd be, only for him. Had' we
kep our farm, you'd be now well an' in your
larnin' for a priest-an' there'ud be one o' the
family sure to be a gintleman, any how; but
that's gone too, agra. Look at the smoke, how
comfortable it rises from Jack Sullivan's, where
the priest has a Station to-day.'Tisn't fishin'
for a sthray pratie he is, upon a ridge like this.
But it can't be helped; an' God's will be done!
Not himself! —faix, it's he that'll get the height
of good thratemenf, an' can ride liome, well lined,
both inside an' outside. Much good may it do
him!-'tis but his right."
The lad now paused in his turn, looked down
on Jack Sullivan's comfortable house, sheltered
by a clump of trees, and certainly saw such a
smoke tossed up from the chimney, as gave unequivocal evidence of preparation for a good
dinner.  He next looked "behind the wind,"
with a visage made more blank and meagre by




16           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
the contrast; after which he reflected for a few
minutes, as if working up his mind to some sudden determination. The deliberation, however,
was short: he struck his open hand upon the
head of the spade with much animation, and
instantly took it in both hands, exclaiming:
" Here, father, here goes; to the divil once
an' for ever I pitch slavery,"* and, as he spoke,
the spade was sent as far from him as he had
strength to throw it.  "To the divil I pitch
slavery I An' now, father, wid the help o' God,
this is the last day's work I'll ever put my hand
to. There's no way of larnin' Latin here; but
off to Munster I'll start, an' my face you'll
never see in this parish, till I come home either
a priest an' a gintleman!  But that's not all,
father dear; I'11 rise you out of your distress, or
die in the struggle. I can't bear to see your
grey hairs in sorrow and poverty."
"Well, Jimmy-well, agra-God enable you,
avourneen;'tis a good intintion. The divil a
one o' me will turn another spadeful aither, for
this day: I'm dhrookin't wid the rain. We'll
go home an' take an air o' the fire-we want it;
* Toil-labor.        t Dripping-very wet.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            1 
and aftherwards we can talk about what you're
on * for."
It is usual to attribute to the English and
Scotch character, exclusively, a cool and persevering energy in the pursuit of such objects as
inclination or interest may propose for attainment; whilst Irishmen are considered too much
the creatures of impulse to reach a point that
requires coolness, condensation of thought, and
efforts successively repeated. This is a mistake.
It is the opinion of Englishmen and Scotchmen
who know not the Irish character thoroughly.
The fact is, that in the attainment of an object,
"where a sad-faced Englishman would despair, an
Irishman will, probably, laugh, drink, weep, and
fight, during his progress to accomplish it.  A
Scotchman will miss it, perhaps, but, having
done all that could be done, he will try another
speculation. The Irishman may miss it too; but
to console himself he will break the head of any
man who may have impeded him in his efforts, as
a proof that he ought to have succeeded; or if
he cannot manage that point, he will crack the
pate of the first man lie meets, or he will get
* Determined on.
2*




18           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
drunk, or he will marry a wife, or swear a gauger
never to show his face in that quarter again;
or he will exclaim, if it be concerning a farm,
with a countenance full of simplicity-" God bless
your honor, long life and honor to you, Sir!
Sure an''t was but a thrifle, any how, that your
Reverence will make up for me another time.
An''tis well I know your Lordhip'ud be the
last man on airth to give me the cowld shoulder,
so you would, an' I an ould residenthur on your
own father's estate, the Lord be praised for that
same! An''tis a happiness, an' nothin' else, so it
is, even if I payed double rint —wherein, maybe,
I'm not a day's journey from that same, manin'
the double rint, yer honor; only that one would
do a great deal for the honor an' glory of livin'
under a raal gintleman —an that's but rason."
There is, in short, a far-sightedness in an
Irishman which is not properly understood, because it is difficult to understand it. I do not
think there is a nation on earth, whose inhabitants mix up their interest and their feelings together more happily, shrewdly, and yet less
ostensibly, than Irishmen contrive to do: An
Irishman will make you laugh at his joke, while




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           19
the object of that joke is wrapped up from you
in the profoundest mystery, and you will consequently make the concession to a certain point
of his character, which has been really obtained
by a faculty you had not penetration to discover,
or, rather, which he had too much sagacity to
exhibit.  Of course, as soon as your back is
turned, the brpad grin is on him, and one of his
cheeks is stuck out two inches beyond the other,
because his tongue is in it-at your stupidity,
simplicity, or folly. Of all the national characters on this habitable globe, I verily believe that
that of the Irish is the most profound and unfathomable; and the most difficult on which to
form a system, either social, moral, or religious.
It would be difficult, for example, to produce
a more signal instance of energy, system, and
perseverance than that exhibited in Ireland
during the struggle for Emancipation. Was
there not flattery to the dust? blarney to the
eyes? heads broken?  throats cut?  houses
burned? and  cattle  houghed?  And why?
Was it for the mere pleasure of blarney —of
breaking heads (I won't dispute the last point,
though, because I scorn to give up the glory of




20           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
the national character),-of cutting throatsburning houses-or houghing cattle?  No; but
to  secure Emancipation.  In  attaining that
object was exemplified the Irish method of gaining a point.
".Yes," said Jemmy, "to the divil I pitch
slavery! I will come home able to rise yez from
your poverty, or never show my face in the
parish of Ballysogarth agin."
When the lad's determination was mentioned
to his mother and the family, there was a loud
and serious outcry against it: for no circumstance is relished that ever takes away a member from an Irish hearth, no matter what the
nature of that circumstance may be.
" Och, thin, is it for that bocaun * of a boy
to set off wid himself, runnin' through the wide
world afther larnin', widout money or friends!
Avourneen, put it out of yer head. No; struggle on as the rest of us is doin', an' maybe ye'll
come as well off at the long run."
"Mother dear," said the son, "I wouldn't
wish to go agin what you'd say; but I made a
promise to myself to rise yez out of your poverty
* Soft, innocent person




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           21
if I can, an' my mind's made up on it; so don't
cross me, or be the manes of my havin' bad
luck on my journey, in regard of me goin' aginst
yer will, when you know'twould be the last
thing I'd wish to do."
" Let the gossoon take his way, Vara. Who
knows but it was the Almighty put the thoughts
of it into his head. Pasthorini says that there
will soon be a change, an''tis a good skame it'ill be to have him a sogarth when the fat livins
will be walkin' back to their ould owners."
"Oh, an' may the Man above grant that, 1
pray Jamini this day I for are n't we harrished
out of our lives, scrapin' an' scramblin' for the
black thieves, what we ought to put on our
backs, an' into our own mouths. Well, they say
it's not lucky to take money from a priest, because it's the price o' sin, an' no more it can,
seein' that they want it themselves; but I'm
sure it's their* money that ought to carry the
bad luck to them, in regard of their gettin' so
many bitther curses along wid it."
When a lad from the humblest classes resolves
so go to Munster as a poor scholar, there is but
* The Protestant clergy.




22           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
one course to be pursued in preparing his outfit.
This is by a collection at the chapel among the
parishioners, to whom the matter is made known
by the priest, from the altar, some Sunday previous to his departure. Accordingly, when the
family had all given their consent to Jemmy's
project, his father went, on the following day,
to communicate the matter to the priest, and to
solicit his co-operation in making a collection in
behalf of the lad, on the next Sunday but one:
for there is always a week's notice given, and
sometimes more, that the people may come
prepared.
The conversation already detailed between
father and son took place on Friday, and on
Saturday, a day on which the priest never holds
a Station, and, of course, is generally at home,
Dominick M'Evoy went to his house with the
object already specified in view. The priest was
at home; a truly benevolent man, but like the
worthies of his day, not overburdened with learning, though brimful of kindness and hospitality
mixed up with drollery and simple cunning.
"Good morning, Dominick!" said the priest,
as Dominick entered.




TEE POOR SCHOLAR.           23
"Good morrow kindly, Sir," replied Dominick:
"I hope your Reverence is well, ad/ in good
health."
"Troth I am, DominickI I hope there's
nothing wrong at home; how is the wife and
children?"
" I humbly thank your Reverence for axin' I
Troth there's no rason for complainin' in regard
o' the health; sarra one o' them but's bravely,
consitherin' all things: I believe I'm the worst o'
them, myself, yer Reverence. I'm gettin' ould,
you see, an' stiff, an' wake; but that's only in the
coorse o' nathur; a man can't last always. Wait
till them that's young an' hearty now, harrows as
much as I ploughed in my day, an' they won't
have much to brag of. Why, thin, but ycr
Reverence stands it bravely —faix, wondherfully itself-the Lord be praised! an' it warms
my own heart to see you look so well."
"Thank you, Dominick. Indeed, my health,
God be thankied, is very good. Ellish," he:-,dded, calling to an old female servant-" you'll
take a glass, Dominick, the day is cowldishEllish, here take the kay, and get some spiritst e pcteen, Ellish-to the right hand in the cup



24           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
board. Indeed, my health is very good, Dominick.  Father Murray says he invies me my
appetite, an' I tell him he's guilty of one of the
Seven deadly sins."
"Ha, ha, ha!-Faix, an' Invy is one o' them
sure enough; but a joke is a joke in the mane
time. A pleasent gintleman is the same Father
Murray, but yer Reverence is too deep for him
in the jokin' line, for all that. Ethen, Sir, but
it's you that gave ould Cokely the keen cut about
his religion —ha, ha, ha! Myself laughed till I
was sick for two days afther it-the ould thief!"
"Eh?-Did you hear that, Dominick?  Are
you sure that's the poteen, Ellish? Ay, an' the
best of it all was, that his pathrun, Lord Foxhunter, was present. Come, Dominick, try that
-it never seen wather. But the best of it all
waes— "' Well, Father Kavanagh,' said he,'who
put you into the church?  Now,' said he,'you'll
come over me wid your regular succession from
St. Peter, but I won't allow that."
"'Why, Mr. Cokely,' says I, back to him,'I'll give up the succession;' says I,'and what
is more, I'll grant that iUoi have been called by




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           25
the Lord, and that I have not; but the Lord
that called you,' says I,'was Lord Foxhunter.'
Man, you'd tie his Lordship wid a cobweb, he
laughed so heartily."
"'Bravo, Father Kavanagh,' said he.'Cokely,
you're bate,' said he;'and upon my honor, you
must both dine with me to-day,' says he-and
capital claret he keeps."
"Your health, Father Kavanagh, an' God
spare you to us I   ahl I wather I Oh, the
divil a taste itself did the same stuff see! Why,
thin, I think your Reverence an' me's about an
age. I bleeve I'm a thrifle oulder; but I don't
bear it so well as you do. The family, you see,
all' the childhre, an' the cares o' the world, pull
me down: throth, the same family's a throuble
to me. I wish I had them all settled safe, any
way."
"What do you intend to do with them,
Dominick?"
"In throth, that's what brought me to yer
Reverence.  I've one boy —Jimmy-a smart
chap entirely, an' he has taken it into his head
to go as a poor scholar to Munster. He's fond
o' the larnin,' there's not a doubt o' that, an
2




26          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
small blame to him to be sure; but then again,
what can I do? IHe's bint on goin', an' I'm not
able to help him, poor fellow, in any shape; so I
made bould to see yer Reverence about it, in
hopes that you might be able to plan out something for him more betther nor I could do. I
have the good wishes of the neighbors, and
indeed of the whole parish, let the thing go as
it may."
"I know that, Dominick, and for the same
rason we'll have a collection at the three althars.
I'll mintion it to them after Mass to-morrow,
and let them be prepared for Sunday week,
when we can make the collection. Hut, man,
never fear; we'll get as much as will send him
halfway to the priesthood; and I'll tell you what,
Dominick, I'll never be the man to refuse giving
him a couple of guineas myself."
"May the heavenly Father bless an' keep
your Reverence. I'm sure'tis a good right the
boy has, as well as all of us, to never forget
your kindness. But as to the money-he'll be
proud of your assistance the other way, Sir-so
not a penny-'tis only your good-will we wanthem-except indeed, that you'd wish yourself to




THE POOR SCHOLAR.              2.7
make a piece of kindness of it to the poor boy.
Oh, not a drop more, Sir-I declare it'll be apt
to get into my head.  Well, well-sure  an'
we're not to disobey our clargy, whether or not:
so here's your health over again, your Reverence
an' success to the poor child that's bint on
good!"
"Two guineas his Reverence is to give you
from himself, Jimmy," said the father, on relating the success of this interview with the
priest;" an' faix I was widin one of refusin' it,
for feard it might bring something unlucky* wid
it; but, thought I on the spur, it's best to take
it, any way. We can asily put it off on some o'
these black-mouthed Presbyterians or Orange*
men, by way of changin' it, an' if there's any
hard fortune in it, let them have the full benefit
of it, ershi mzisha."t
It is by trifles of this nature that the unreasonable though enduring, hatred with which the
religious sects of Ireland look upon those of a
different creed is best known.   This feeling,
however, is sufficiently mutual. Yet on both
* There is a superstitious belief in some parts of Ireland,
that priest's money is unlucky.
t SayI.




28           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
sides there is something more speculative than
practical in its nature. When they, speak of
each other as a distinct. class, the. animosity,
though abstracted, appears to be most deep; but
when they mingle in the necessary intercourse of
life, it is curious to see them frequently descend,
on both sides, from the general rule to those
exceptions of good-will and kindness, which
natural benevolence and mutual obligation,
together with a correct knowledge of each
other's real characters, frequently produce. Even
this abstracted hatred, however, has been the
curse of our unhappy country; it has kept us
too much asunder, or when we met, exhibited us
to each other in our darkest and most offensive
aspects.
Dominick's conduct in the matter of the
priest's money was also a happy illustration of
that mixture of simplicity and shrewdness with
which an Irishman can frequently make points
meet, which superstition, alone without such
ingenuity, would keep separate for ever. Many
another man might have refused the money from
an ignorant dread of its proving  Inlducky; but
his mode of reasoning on the subject was




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           29
satisfactory to himself, and certainly the most
ingenious which, according to his belief, he
could have adopted-that of foisting it upon a
heretic.
The eloquence of a country priest, though
rude, and by no means elevated, is sometimes
well adapted to the end in view, to the feelings
of his auditory, and to the nature of the subject
on which he speaks. Pathos and humor are the
two levers by which the Irish character is raised
or depressed; and these are blended in a manner
too anomalous to be ever properly described.
Whoever could be present at a sermon on the
Sunday when a Purgatorian Society is to be
established, would hear pathos and see grief of
the first water. It is then he would get a
"nate" and glowing description of Purgatory,
and see the broad, humorous, Milesian faces, of
three or four thousand persons of both sexes,
shaped into an expression of the most grotesque
and clamorous grief. The priest, however, on
particular occasions of this nature, very shrewdly
gives notice of the sermon, and of the purpose
for which it is to be preached:-if it be grave,
the people are prepared to cry; but if it
3*




30           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
be for a political, or any other purpose not
decidedly religious, there will be abundance of
that rough, blunt satire and mirth, so keenly
relished by the peasantry, illustrated, too, by
the most comical and ridiculous allusions. That
priest, indeed, who is the best master of this
latter faculty is uniformly the greatest favorite.
It is no unfrequent thing to see the majority of
an Irish congregation drowned in sorrow and
tears, even when they are utterly ignorant of the
language spoken; particularly in those districts
where the Irish is still the vernacular tongue.
This is what renders notice of the sermon and
its purport necessary; otherwise the honest
people might be seriously at a loss whether to
laugh or cry.
"Ellish avourneen, gho dhe dirsha?-Ellish,
my dear, what is he saying?"' Och, muzsha niel eshighum, ahagur —ta sha er
Purgathor, ta barlhum. — Och, I dunna that,
jewel; I believe he's on Purgatory."
"Och, och, oh-och, och, oh-oh, i, oh, i, oh!"
And on understanding that Purgatory is the
subject, they commence their grief with a rocking motion, wringing their hands, and unconsci



THE POOR SCHOLAR.            31
ously passing their beads through their fingers,
whilst their bodies are bent forward towards
the earth.
On the contrary, when the priest gets jocular
-which I should have premised, he never does
in what is announced as a solemn sermon-you
might observe several faces charged with mirth
and laughter, turned, even while beaming with
this expression, to those who kneel beside them,
inquiring:
"Arrah, Barny, what is it-ha, ha, ha!
-what is it he's sayin'? The Lord spare him
among us, any how, the darlin' of a man! Eh,
Barny, you that's in the inside the English?"
This, of course, is spoken in Irish.
Barny, however, is generally too much absorbed in the fun to become interpreter just then;
but as soon as the joke is nearly heard out, in
compliance with the importunity of his neighbors,
he gives them a brief hint or two, and instantly
the full chorus is rung out, long, loud, and
jocular.
On the Sunday in question, as the subject could
not be called strictly religious, the priest, who
knew that a joke or two would bring in many




32           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
an additional crown to Jemmy's caubeen,* was
determined that they should at least have a
laugh for their money. The man, besides, was
benevolent, and knew the way to the Irish heart;
a knowledge which he felt happy in turning to
the benefit of the lad in question.
With this object in view, he addressed the
people somewhat in the following language:
"Blessed is he that giveth his money to him that
standeth in' need of it.
"These words, my brethren, are taken from
St. Paul, who, among ourselves, knew the value
of a friend in distress as well as any other apostle in the three kingdoms-hem.  It's a nate
text, my friends, any how. He manes, however,
when we have it to give, my own true, well-tried,
ould friends!-when we have it to give.  Its absence althers the case, in toto; because you have
all heard the proverb-' there is no takin' money
out of an empty purse;' or, as an ould ancient
author said long ago upon the same subject:'Cantabit whackuus coram lathrone whiathur 1'
He that carries an empty purse may whistle at
* Such collections were generally made in hats-the usual
name for an Irish peasant's hat being caubeen.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           33
the thief. It's sin, in the Latin; but sing or
whistle, in my opinion, he that goes wid an
empty purse seldom sings or whistles to a pleasant tune. Melancholy music I'd call it, an'
wouldn't, may be, much astray afther. —Eem.
At all evints, may none of this present congregation, whin at their devotions, ever sing or whistle to the same tune! No; let it be to'money
in both pockets,' if you sing at all; and as long
as you have that, never fear but you'll also have
the'priest in his boots' into the bargain —(" Ha,
ha, ha!-God bless him, isn't he the pleasant
gentleman, all out-ha, ha, ha! —moreover, an'
by the same. a token, it's thrue as Gospel, so it
is,")-for well I know that you're the highspirited people, who wouldn't see your priest
without them, while a fat parson, with half-adozen chins upon him, red and rosy, goes about
every day in the week bogged in boots, like a
horse-trooper!-(Ha, ha, ha — good, Father
Dan!  More power to you-ha, ha, ha! We're
the boys that wouldn't see you in want o' them,
sure enough. Isn't he the droll crathur?")
"But suppose a man hasn't money, what is he
to do?  Now this divides itself into what is




34           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
called Hydrostatics an' Metaphuysics, and must
be proved logically in the following manner:
"First, we suppose him?wt to have the
money-there I may be wrong or I may be
right; now for the illustration and the logic.
" Pether Donovail."
" Here, your Reverence."
" Now, Pether, if I suppose you to have wo
money, am I right, or am I wrong?"
"Why, thin, I'd be sarry to prove your Reverence to be wrong, so I would; but, for all that,
I believe I must give it aginst you."
" How much have you got, Pether?"
" Ethen, but'tis yer Reverence that's comin'
close upon me; two or three small notes an'
some silver."
" How much silver, Pether?"'
" I'll tell your Reverence in a jiffy. I ought
to have a ten shillin', barrin' the price of a quarther o' tobaccy that I bought at the crass-roads
beyant. Nine shillins an' some hapuns, yer
Reverence."
"Very good, Pether, you must hand me the
silver, till I give the rest of the illustration wid
it."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           35
"But does yer Reverence mind another ould
proverbq?-'a fool an' his money's asy parted.'
Sure an' I know you're goin' to do a joke upon
me."
("Give him the money, Pether," from a hunm
dred voices-" give his Reverence the money,
you nager you —give him the silver, you dirty
spalpeen you-hand it out, you misert.")
" Pether, if you don't give it dacently, I'll not
take it; and in that case-"
" Here, here, your Reverence-here it is; sure
I wouldn't have your ill-will for all I'm worth."
"Why, you nager, if I wasn't the first orathor
livin', barrin' Cicero or Demosthenes himself,
I couldn't schrew a penny out o' you! INow,
Pether, there's a specimen of logic for you; an'
if it wasn't good, depind upon it the money
would be in your pocket still. I've never known
you to give a penny for any charitable purpose,
since ever I saw your face: but I'm doin' a good
action in your behalf for once; so if you have
any movin' words to say to the money in question, say them, for you'll never finger it more."
A burst of the most uproarious mirth followed
this manceuvre, in which the simnle nriest him



36           THE POOR' SCHOLAR.
self joined heartily; whilst the melancholy of
Pether's face was ludicrously contrasted with the
glee which characterised those that surrounded
him.
"Hem!-Secondly-A  man, you see, may
have money, or he may not, when his fellowcreature who stands in need of it mnalkes an
appale to his dacency and his feelings; and sorry
I'd be to think that there's a man before me, or
a woman either, who'd refuse to assist the distresses of any one, of any creed, church, or
persuasion, whether white, black, or yallow-no;
I don't except the bluebellies themselves. It's
what I never taught you, nor never will tache
you to the day of my death! To be sure, a
fellow-creature may say,'help me, my brother, I
am distressed,' or,'I am bent on a good purpose,
that your kindness can enable me to accomplish.'
But suppose that you have not the money about
yoru at the time, wouldn't you feel sorry to the
back-bone? Ay, would yez-to the very core
of the heart itself. Or if any man-an' he'd be
nothing else than a bodagh that would say itif any man would tell me that you would not,
I'd —yes-I'd give him his answer, as good as I




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           37
gave to ould Cokely long ago, and you all know
what that was."
"The next point is, what would you do if you
hadn't it about you? It's I that can tell you
what you'd do:-you'd say,'I haven't got it,
brother,' —for every created bein' of the human
kind is your brother, barrin' the women, an' they
are your sisters-[this produced a grin upon
many faces]-' but,' says you,'if you, wait a bit
for a day or two, or a week, or maybe for a
fortnight, I'll try what I can do to help you.'
"Picture to yourselves a fellow-creature in
distress-suppose him to have neither hat, shoe,
nor stocking —[this was a touch of the pathetic]
-and altogether in a state of utter destitution!
Can there be a more melancholy picture than
this? No, there can't. But'tisn't the tithe of
it!-a barefaced robbery is the same tithethink of him without father, mother, or friend
upon the earth-both dead, and ne'er another to
be had for love or money-maybe he has poor
health-maybe he's sick, an' in a sthrange
country-[here Jemmy's mother and friends
sobbed aloud, and the contagion began to spreae
-the priest, in fact, knew where to touch]-hi
4




38           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
face is pale-his eyes sunk with sickness and
sorrow in his head-his bones are cuttin' the
skin-he knows not where to turn himselfhunger and sickness are strivin' for him. —[Here
the grief became loud and general, and even the
good-natured preacher's own voice got somewhat
unsteady.] —He's in a bad state entirelymiserable I more miserable I! most miserable I I!
[och, och, oh I] sick, sore, and sorry 1 —he's to
be pitied, felt for, and  compassionated!-[a
general outcry]-'tis a faver he has, or an ague,
or a rhumatism, or a lumbago on the limbs, or
the king's evil, or a consumption, or a decline,
or God knows but it's the falling-sickness- [och,
och, oh — och, och, oh I from the whole congregation, whilst the simple old man's eyes were
blinded with tears from the force of the picture
he drew.]-Ay, maybe it's the falling-sickness,
and in that case how on earth can he stand it.[tie can't, he can't, wurra strew, wurra strew I
-och, och, oh — ogh, ogh, ogh!]-The Lord
in heaven look down upon him-[amin, amin,
this blessed an' holy Sunday that's in it!-och,
oh I]-pity him-[amin, amin!-och, och, an'
amin'!] —with miseracordial feeling and benedic



THE POOR SCHOLAR.          39
tion! He hasn't a rap in his company!moneyless, friendless, houseless, an' homeless!
Ay, my friends, you have all homes-but he has
none!  Thrust back by every hard-hearted
spalpeen, and he, maybe, a better father's son
than the Turk that refuses him! Look at your
own childre, my friends I Bring the case home to
yourselves I!  Suppose he was one of themalone on the earth, and none to pity him in his
sorrows! Your own childre, I say, in a strange
land.-[Here the outcry became astounding;
men, women, and children in one general uproar
of grief.]-An' this may all be Jemmy M'Evoy's
case, that's going in a week or two to Munster,
as a poor scholar-may be his case, I say, except
you befriend him and show your dacency and
feelings, like Christians and Catholics; and for
either dacency or kindness, I'd turn yez against
any other congregation in the diocess, or in the
kingdon —ay, or against Dublin itself, if it was
convanient, or in the neighborhood."
Now here was a coup de main-not a syllable
mentioned about Jemmy M'Evoy until he had
melted them down, ready for the impression,
which he accordingly made to his heart's content.




40           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Ay," he went on, "an''tis the parish of
Ballysogarth that has the name, far and near,
for both, and well they deserve it. You won't
see the poor gorsoon go to a sthrange country
with empty pockets. He's the son of an honest
man-one of yourselves; and although he's a
poor man, you know't was Yallow Sam that
made him so-that put him out of his comfortable farm and slipped a black-mouth* into it.
You won't turn your backs on the son in regard
of that, any way. As for Sam, let him pass;
he'll not grind the poor nor truckle to the rich,
when he gives up his stewardship in the kingdom
come. Lave him to the friend of the poor-to
his God; but the son of them that he oppressed,
you will stand up for. He's going to Munster,
to learn,'to go upon the Mission;' and, on
Sunday next, there will be a collection made
here, and at the other two althars for him; and,
as your own characters are at stake, I trust it
will be neither mane nor shabby. There will be
Protestants here, I'll engage, and you must act
dacently before them, if it was only to set them
* In the north of Ireland the word blackmouth means a
Presbyterian.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          41
a good example. And now I'll tell yez a story
that the mintion of the Protestants brings to
my mind:" There was, you see, a Protestant man and a
Catholic woman once married together. The
man was a swearing, drinking, wicked rascal,
and his wife the same: between them they were
a blessed pair to be sure. She never bent her
knee under a priest until she was on her deathbed; nor was he known to enter a church door,
or to give a shilling in'charity but once, that
being as follows: —He was passing a Catholic
place of worship one Sunday, on his way to fowl
-for he had his dog and gun with him;-'t was
beside a road, and many of the congregation
were kneeling out across the way. Just as he
passed they were making a collection for a poor
scholar-and surely they that love the larning
desarve to be encouraged! Well, behold you,
says one of them,'will you remember the poor
scholar,' says he,' and put something in the hat?
You don't know,' says he,'but his prayers will
be before you.'*'True enough, maybe,' says
the man,'and there's a crown to him, for God's
* In the other world.
4*




42           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
sake.' Well and good; the man died, and so
did the wife: but' some days before her departure,
she got a scapular, and died in it. She had one
sister, however, a good crature, that did nothing
but fast and pray, and make her sowl. This
woman had strong doubts upon her mind, and
was very much troubled as to whether or not her
sister went to heaven; and she begged it as a
favor from the blessed Virgin, that the state of
her sister's sowl might be revealed to her. Her
prayer was granted. One night, about a week
after her death, her sister came back to her,
dressed all in white, and circled round by a veil
of glory.
"'Is that Mary?' said the living sister.
"'It is,' said the other;'I have got liberty
to appear to you,' says she,'and to tell you that
I'm happy.'
"' May the Holy Virgin be praised!' said the
other.'Mary, dear, you have taken a great
weight off of me,' says she:'I thought you'd
have a bad chance, in regard of the life you led.'
"'When I died,' said the spirit,'and was on
my way to the other world, I came to a place
where the road divided itself into three parts;



THE POOR SCHOLAR.           43
one to heaven, another to hell, and a third to
purgatory. There was a dark gulf between me
and heaven, and a breach between me and purgatory that I couldn't step across, and if I had
missed my foot there, I would have dropped into
hell. So I would, too, only that the blessed
Virgin put my own scapular over the breach,
and it became firm, and I stepped on it, and got
over. The Virgin then desired me to look into
hell, and the first person I saw was my own husband, standing with a green sod under his feet!
" He got that favor," said the blessed Virgin,
" in consequence of the prayers of a holy priest,
that had once been a poor scholar, that he gave
assistance to, at a collection made for him in
such a chapel," says she. Then,' continued the
sowl,'Mary,' says she,'but there's some great
change in the world since I died, or why would
the people live so long? It can't be less than
six thousand years since I departed, and yet I
find every one of my friends just as I left them.'
"'Why,' replied the living sister,'you're only
six days dead.'
"'Ah, avourneen!' said the other,'it can't
be-it can't be! for I have been thousands on




44             THE POOR SCHOLAR.
thousands of years in pain!'-and as she spoke
this she disappeared.
" Now there's a proof of the pains of purgatory, where one day seems as long as a thousand
years; and you know we oughn't to grudge a
thrifle to a fellow-crature, that we may avoid it.
So you see, my friends, there's nothing like good
works. You know not when or where this lad's
prayers may benefit you. If he gets ordained,
the first mass he says will be for his benefactors;
and in every one he celebrates after that, they
must also be remembered: the words are —ro
omnibus benefactoribus meis, per omnia  secula
seculorum!
"Thirdly-hem-I now  lave the  thing  to
yourselves.
" But wasn't I a match for Pether Donovan,
that would brake a stone for the marrow*-Eh?
* I know not whether this may be considered worthy of a
note or not. I have myself frequently seen and tasted what
is appropriately termed by the peasantry " Stone Marrow."
It is found in the heart of a kind of soft granite, or perhaps
I should rather say freestone. The country people use it
medicinally, but I cannot remember what particular disease
it is said to cure. It is a soft saponaceous substance, not
unpleasant to the taste, of a bluish color, and melts in the
mouth, like the fat of cold meat, leaving the palate greasy.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.              45
-(a broad laugh at Pether's rueful visage.)Pether, you Turk, will your heart never softenwill you never have dacency, an' you the only
man of your family that's so?  Sure they say
you're going to be marrid some of these days.
Well, if you get.your wife in my parish, I tell
you, Pether, I'll give you a fleecin', for don't
think I'll marry you as chape as I would a poor
honest man. I'll make you shell out the yallowboys, and'tis that will go to your heart, you
nager you; and then I'll eat you out of house
and home at the Stations. May the Lord grant
us, in the mane time, a dacent appetite, a blessing which I wish you all, -etc."
At this moment the congregation was once
more in convulsions of laughter at the dressing
which Peter, whose character was drawn with
much truth and humor, received at the hands of
the worthy pastor.
Our readers will perceive that there was not
How far an investigation into its nature and properties
might be useful to the geologist or physician, it is not for
me to conjecture. As the fact appeared to be a curious one,
and necessary, moreover, to illustrate the expression used in
the text, I thought it not amiss to mention it. It may be a
bonne bouche for the geologists.




46           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
a single prejudice, or weakness, or virtue, in the
disposition of his auditory, left untouched in this
address. He moved their pride of character,
their dread of hell and purgatory, their detestation of Yellow Sam, and the remembrance of the
injury so wantonly inflicted on M'Evoy's family,
he glanced at the advantage to be derived from
the lad's prayers, the example they should set to
Protestants, made a passing hit at tithes; and
indulged in the humorous, the pathetic, and the
miraculous. In short, he left no avenue to their
hearts untouched; and in the process by which
he attempted to accomplish his object he was
successful.
There is, in fact, much rude, unpolished eloquence among the Roman Catholic priesthood,
and not a little which, if duly cultivated by study
and a more liberal education, would deserve to
be ranked very high
We do not give this as a specimen of their
modern pulpit eloquence, but as a sample of that
in which some of those Irish clergy shone, who,
before the establishment of AMaynooth, were admitted to orders immediately from the hedgeschools, in consequence of the dearth of priests




THE POOR SCHOLAR.             47
which then existed in Ireland. It was customary in those days to ordain them even before
they departed for the continental colleges, in
order that they might, by saying masses and
performing other clerical duties, be enabled to
add something to the scanty pittance which was
appropriated to their support. Of the class to
which Father Kavanagh belonged, there are few,
if any, remaining. They sometimes were called
"Hedge-priests,"* by way of reproach; though
for our own parts, we wish their non-interference
in politics, unaffected piety, and simplicity of
character, had remained behind them.
On the Sunday following, Dominick M'Evoy
and his son Jemmy attended mass, whilst the
other members of the family, with that sense of
honest pride which is more strongly inherent in
Irish character than is generally supposed, remained at home, from a reluctance to witness
what they could not but consider a degradation.
This decency of feeling was anticipated by the
priest, and not overlooked by the people; for the
* This nickname was first bestowed upon them by the continental priests, who generally ridiculed them for their vulgarity. They were, for the most part, simple but worthy
llen.




48           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
former, the reader may have observed, in the
whole course of his address never once mentioned
the word "charity;" nor did the latter permit
the circumstance to go without its reward, according to the best of their' ability. So keen
and delicate are the perceptions of the Irish, and
so acutely alive are they to those nice distinctions of kindness and courtesy, which have in
their hearts a spontaneous and sturdy growth,
that mocks at the stunted virtues of artificial
life.
In the parish of Ballysogarth there were three
altars, or places of Roman Catholic worship;
and the reader may suppose that the collection
made at each place was considerable. In truth,
both father and son's anticipations were far
under the sum  collected.  Protestants and
Presbyterians attended with their contributions,
and those of the latter who scrupled to be present
at what they considered to be an idolatrous
worship, did not hesitate to send their quota by
some Roman Catholic neighbor.
Their names were accordingly announced with
an encomium from the priest, which never failed
to excite a warm-hearted murmur of approbation.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           49
Nor was this feeling transient, for, we will venture to say, that had political excitement flamed
up even to rebellion and mutual slaughter, the
persons and property of those individuals would
have been held sacred.
At length Jemmy was equipped; and sad and
heavy became the hearts of his parents and
immediate relations as the morning appointed
for his departure drew nigh.  On the evening
before, several.of his more distant relatives came
to take their farewell of him, and, in compliance
with the usages of Irish hospitality, they were
detained for the night. They did not, however,
come empty-handed: some brought money; some
brought linen, stockings, or small presents —
"jist Jimmy asthore, to keep me in yer memory,
sure-and nothin' else it is for, mavourneen."
Except Jemmy himself, and one of his
brothers who was to accompany him part of the
way, none of the family slept.  The mother
exhibited deep sorrow, and Dominick, although
he made a show of firmness, felt, now that the
crisis was at hand, nearly incapable of parting
with the boy. The conversation of their friends
and the cheering, effects of the poteen, enabled
5




50           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
them to sustain his loss better than they othervlse would have done, and the hope of seeing
him one day "an ordained priest," contributed
more than either to support them.
When the night was nearly half spent, the
mother took a candle and privately withdrew to
the room in which the boy slept. The youth was
fair, and interesting to look upon-the clustering
locks of his white forehead were divided; yet
there was on his otherwise open brow, a shade
of sorrow, produced by the coming separation,
which even sleep could not efface. The mother
held the candle gently towards his face, shading
it with one hand, lest the light might suddenly
awake him; she then surveyed his features
long and affectionately, whilst the tears fell in
showers from her cheeks.
"There you lie," she softly sobbed out, in
Irish, " the sweet pulse of your mother's heart;
the' flower of our flock, the pride of our eyes,
and the music of our hearth! Jimmy, avourneen
machree, an' how can I part wid you, my darlia'
son! Sure, when I look at your mild face, and
think that you're takin' the world on your head
to rise us out of our poverty, isn't my heart




THE POOR SCHOLAR.                 51
brakin'!  A  lonely house we'll have afthber you,
acushla!  Goin' out or comin' in, at home or
abroad, your voice won't be in my ears, nor your
eye smilin' upon  me; an' thin  to think  of what
you may suffer in  a sthrange land!  If your
head aches, on what tendher breast will it lie?
or  who  will bind -.- he  ribbon  of  comfort*
* The following quotation taken from a sketch called
"The Irish Midwife," by the author, gives an illustration
of this passage: —-" The first, meaning pain in the head, she
cures by a very formal and serious process called' measuring
the head.' This is done by a ribbon, which she puts round
the cranium, repeating during the admeasurement a certain
prayer or charm from which the operation is to derive its
whole efficacy. The measuring is performed twice-in the
first instance, to show that its sutures are separated by disease, or, to speak more plainly, that the bones of the head
are absolutely opened, and that as a natural consequence the
head must be much larger than when the patient is in a
state of health. The circumference of the first admeasurement is marked upon a ribbon, after which she repeats the
charm that is to remove the headache, and measures the
cranium,igain, in order to show, by a comparison of the two
ribbons, that the sutures have been closed, the charm successful, and the headache immediately removed. It is
impossible to say how the discrepency in the measurement is
brought about; but be that as it may, the writer of this has
frequently seen the operation performed in such a way as to
defy the most scrutinising eye to detect any appearance of imposture, and he is convinced that in the majority of cases
there is not the slightest imposture intended. The operator
is in truth the dupe to a strong and delusive enthusiasm."




52           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
round it? or wipe your fair brow in sickness?
Oh, Blessed Mother! —hunger, sickness, and
sorrow may come upon you when you'll be far
from your own, an' from them that loves you!"
This melancholy picture was too much for the
tenderness of the mother; she sat down beside
the bed, rested her face ( her open hand, and
wept in subdued but bitter grief.  At this
moment his father, who probably suspected the
cause of her absence, came in and perceived her
distress.
"Vara," said he in Irish also, "is my dariin'
son asleep?"
She looked up with streaming eyes, as he
spoke, and replied to him in a manner so exquisitely affecting, when the circumstances of the
boy, and the tender allusion made by the sorrowing mother, are considered-that in point of fact
no heart-certainly no Irish heart-could withstand it. There is an old Irish melody unsurpassed in pathos, simplicity, and beauty-named
in Irish " Tha ma machulla's na foscal me,' —or
in English, "I am asleep, and don't waken me."
The position of the boy caused the recollection
of the old melody to flash into the mother's




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           53
heart —she simply pointed to him as the words
streamed in a low melodious murmur, but one
full of heartrending sorrow, from her lips. The
old sacred association-for it was one which she
had sung for him a thousand times-until warned
to desist by his tears-deepened the tenderness
of her heart, and she'aid with difficulty, whilst
she involutarily held over the candle to gratify
the father's heart by a sight of him.
"I was keepin' him before my eye," she said;
"God knows but it may be the last night we'll
ever see him undher our own roof! Dominick,
achora, I doubt I can't part wid him from my
heart."
"Then  how  can  I, Vara?" he replied.
"Wasn't he my right hand in everything?
When was he from me, ever since he took a
man's work upon him?  And when he'd finish
his own task for the day, how kindly he'd begin
an' help me wid mine I No, Vara, it goes to my
heart to let himi go away upon sich a plan, and
I wish he hadn't taken the notion into his head
at all."
"It's not too late, maybe," replied his mother:
" I think it wouldn't be hard to put him off of
5*




54           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
it; the crathur's own heart is failin' him to lave
us. He has sorrow upon his face where he lies."
The father looked at the expression of affectionate melancholy which shaded his features as
he slept; and the perception of the boy's internal struggle against his own domestic attachments in accomplishing his first determination,
powerfully touched his heart.
"Yara," said he, "I know the boy-he won't
give it up; and't would be a pity-maybe a sin
-to put him from it. Let the child get fair
play, and thry his coorse. If he fails, he can
come back to us, an' our arms an' hearts will be
open to welcome him!  But, if God prospers
him, wouldn't it be a blessin' that we never expected, to see him in the white robes, celebratin'
one mass for his paarents. If these ould eyes
could see that, I would be continted to close
them in pace an' happiness for ever."
"An' well you'd become them, avourneen
machreeI Well would your mild and handsome
countenance look wid the long heavenly stole of
innocence upon youI and although it's atin' into
my heart, I'll bear it for the sake of seein' the
same blessed sight. Look at that face, Domi



THE POOR SCHOLAR.           55
nick; mightn't many a lord of the land be proud
to have sich a son? May the heavens shower
down its blessin' upon him!"
The father burst into tears.  "It is-it is I"
said he. "It is the face that'ud make many a
noble heart proud to look at it! Is it any wondher it'ud cut our hearts, thin, to have it taken
from afore our eyes? Come away, Vara, come
away, or I'll not be able to part wid it. It is
the lovely face-an' kind is the heart of my
darlin' child I" As he spoke, he stooped down
and kissed the youth's cheek, on which the warm
tears of affection fell, soft as the dew from
heaven. The mother followed his example, and
they both left the room.
"We must bear it," said Dominick, as they
passed into another apartment; "the money's
gathered, an' it wouldn't look well to be goin'
back wid it to them that befrinded us.  We'd
have the blush upon our face for it, an' the child
no advantage."
"Thrue for you, Dominick; and we must make
up our minds to live widout him for a while."
The following morning was dark and cloudy,
but calm and without rain. When the family




56           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
were all assembled, every member of it evinced
traces of deep feeling, and every eye was fixed
upon the serene but melancholy countenance of
the boy with tenderness and sorrow. Hte himself maintained a quiet equanimity, which, though
apparently liable to be broken by the struggles
of domestic affection, and in character with his
meek and unassuming disposition, yet was supported by more firmness than might be expected
from a mind in which kindness and sensibility
were so strongly predominant. At this time,
however, his character was not developed, or at
least not understood, by those that surrounded
him. To strong feelings and enduring affections,
he added a keenness of perception and a bitterness of invective, of which, in his conversation
with his father concerning Yellow Sam, the
reader has already had sufficient proofs.  At
breakfast little or nothing was eaten; the boy
himself could not taste a morsel, nor any other
person in the family. When the form  of the
meal was over, the father knelt down-" It's
right," said he, "that we should all go to our
knees, and join in a Rosary in behalf of the child
that's goin' on a good intintion. He won't thrive




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            51
the worse bekase the last words that he'll hear
from his father and mother's lips is a prayer for
bringiu' the blessin' of God down upon his endayvors."
This was accordingly performed, though not
without tears and sobs, and frequent demonstrations of grief; for religion among the peasantry
is often associated with bursts of deep and powerful feeling.
When the prayer was over, the boy rose and
calmly strapped to his back a satchel covered
with deer-skin, containing a few books, linen,
and a change of very plain apparel. While engaged in this, the uproar of grief in the house
was perfectly heart-rending. When just ready
to set out, he reverently took off his hat, knelt
down, and with tears streaming from his eyes,
craved humbly and meekly the blessing and forgiveness of his father and mother. The mother
caught him in her arms, kissed his lips, and
kneeling also, sobbed out a fervent benediction
upon his head; the father now, in the grief of a
strong man, pressed. him to his heart, until the
big burning tears fell upon the boy's face; his
brothers and sisters embraced him wildly; next




58           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
his more distant relations; and lastly, the neighbors who were crowded about the door. After
this he took a light staff in his hand, and, first
blessing himself after the form of his church,
proceeded to a strange land in quest of education.
ie had not gone more than a few perches
from the door, when his mother followed him
with a small bottle of holy water.  " Jimmy, a
lanna vog/t,"* said she, " here's this, an' carry it
about you-it will keep evil from you; an' be
sure to.take good care of the written correckther
you got from the priest an' Square Benson; an',
darlin', don't be lookin' too often at the cuff o'
your coat, for feard the people might get a notion that you have the bank-notes sewed in it
An', Jimmy agra, don't be too lavish upon their
Munster crame, they say it's apt to give people
the ague. Kiss me agin, agra; an' the heavens
above keep you safe and well till we see you
once more!"
She then tenderly, and still with melancholy
pride- settled his shirt collar, which she thought
did not sit well about his neck: and kissing him
* My poor child.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            59
again, with renewed sorrow left him to pursue
his journey;
M'Evoy's house was situated on the side of a
dark hill-one of that barren description which
an- be called.:neither inland nor mountain.  It
commanded a wide and extended prospect, and
the- road- along which the lad travelled: was visible for a considerable distance from it. On a
small hillock before the door, sat Dominick and
his wife, who, as long as their son was visible,
kept theilr eyes, which were nearly blinded with
tears, rivetted upon his person. JIt was now
they gave full vent to their grief, and discussed
with painful and melancholy satisfaction, all the
excellent'qualities which he possessed. As James
himself advanced, one neighbor after another
fell:away from the train which accompanied him,
not, however, until they had affectionately embrace-d and bid him adieu, and, perhaps, slipped
wit.h peculiar delicacy an additional mite into
his waist-coat pocket. After the neighbors, then
followed the:gradual separation from his friends
-one by one left him, as ir the great journey
of-life;iand. in a. few hours he found himself
accompanied only by-his favorite brother.




60           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
This to him was the greatest trial he had yet
felt; long and heart-rending was their embrace.
Jemmy soothed and comforted his beloved
brother, but in vain. The lad threw himself on
the spot at which they parted, and remained
there until Jemmy turned an angle of the road
which brought him out of his sight, when the
poor boy kissed the marks of his brother's feet
repeatedly, and then returned home, hoarse and
broken down with the violence of his grief.
He was now alone, and for the first time, felt
keenly the strange object on which he was bent,
together with all the difficulties connected with
its attainment.  He was young and uneducated,
and many years, he knew, must elapse e'er he
could find himself in possession of his wishes.
But time would pass at home, as well as abroad,
he thought; and as there lay no impediment of
peculiar difficulty in his way, he collected all his
firmness and proceeded.
There is no country on the earth in which
either education, or the desire to procure it, is so
much reverenced as in. Ireland. Next to the
claims of the priest and schoolmaster come those
of the poor scholar for the respect of the people.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           61
It matters not how poor or how miserable he
may be; so long as they see him struggling with
poverty in the prosecution of a purpose so
laudable, they will treat him with attention and
kindness. Here there is no danger of his being
sent to the workhouse, committed as a vagrantor passed from parish to parish, until he reaches
his own settlement. Here the humble lad is not
met by the sneer of purse-proud insolence, or his
simple tale answered only by the frown of heartless contempt. No-no-no. The best bit and
sup are placed before him; and whilst his poor,
but warm-hearted entertainer can afford only
potatoes and salt to his own half-starved family,
he will make a struggle to procure something
better for the poor scholar; " Bekase he's far
from his own, the crathur! An' sure the intintion in him is good, any how; the Lord prosper
him, an' every one that has the heart set upon
the larnin' I"
As Jemmy proceeded, he found that his
satchel of books and apparel gave as clear an
intimation of his purpose, as if he had carried a
label to that effect upon his back.
"God save you, a bouchal I" said a warm,
6




62           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
honest-looking countryman, whom he met driving
home his cows in the evening, within a few
miles of the town in which he purposed to sleep.
"God save you kindly 1"
"Why, thin,'tis a long journey you have
before you, alanna, for I know well it's for
Munster you're bound."
" Thrue for you,'tis there wid the help of God
I'm goin'. A great scarcity of larnin' was in my
own place, or I wouldn't have to go at all," said
the boy, whilst his eyes filled with tears.
"'Tis no discredit in life," replied the countryman, with untaught natural delicacy, for he
perceived that a sense of pride lingered about
the boy, which made the character of poor
scholar sit painfully upon him; "'tis no discredit,
dear, nor don't be cast down. I'll warrant you
that God will prosper you; an' that he may,
avick, I pray this day!" and as he spoke, he
raised his hat in reverence to the Being whom
he invoked. "An' tell me, dear-where do you
intend to sleep to-night?"
"In the town forrid here," replied Jemmy.'I'm  in hopes I'll be able to reach it before
lark."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          63
" Pooh I asy you will. Have you any friends
or acquaintances there that'ud welcome you,
a bouchal dhas (my handsome boy)?"
"No, indeed," said Jemmy, "they're all strangers to me; but I can stop in'dhry lodgin',' for
it's chaper."
"Well, alanna, I believe you; but I'm _no
stranger to you-so come home wid me to-night;
where you'll get a good bed, an' betther thratement nor in any of their dhry lodgins. Give me
your books, an' I'll carry them for you. Ether,
but you have a great batch o' them entirely.
Can you make any hand o' the Latin at all
yet?"
"No, indeed," replied  Jemmy, somewhat
sorrowfully; "I didn't ever open a Latin book,
at all at all."
" Well, acushla, everything has a beginnin';you won't be so. An' I know by your face that
you'll be bright at it, an' a credit to them that
owes* you.  There's my house in the fields
beyant, where you'll be well kept for one night,
any way, or for twinty, or for ten times twinty
if you wanted them."
* Owns.




64           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
The honest farmer then commenced the song
of Colleen dhas Crotha, na Mho,* which he sang in
a clear mellow voice, until they reached the house.
"Alley," said the man to his wife, on entering,
"here's a stranger I've brought you."
"Well," replied Alley, "he's welcome sure,
any way; Kead millia failta ghud, alanna I sit
over to the fire.  Brian, get up dear," said
she to one of the children, "an' let the stranger
to the hob."
" He's goin' on a good errand, the Lord bless
him l" said the husband, "up the country for
the larnin'.  Put thim books over on the settle;
an' whin the girshas are done milkin', give him a
brave dhrink of the sweet milk; it's the stuff to
thravel on."
"Throth, an' I will, wid a heart and a half,
wishin' it was betther I had to give him. Here,
Nelly, put down a pot o' wather, an' lave soap
an' a praskeen, afore you go to milk, till I bathe
the dacent boy's feet. Sore an' tired they are
afther his journey, poor young crathur."
When Jemmy placed himself upon the hob,
he saw that some peculiarly good fortune had
* The pretty girl milking her cow.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           65
conducted him to so comfortable a resting-place.
He considered this as a good omen, and felt, in
fact much relieved, for the sense of loneliness
among strangers was removed.
The house evidently belonged to a wealthy
farmer, well to do in the world; the chimney
was studded with sides upon sides of yellowsmoke-dried bacon, hams, and hung beef in
abundance. The kitchen tables were large, and
white as milk; and the dresser rich in its shining
array of delf and pewter.  Everything, in fact,
was upon a large scale. Huge meal chests were
ranged on one side, and two or three settle beds
on the other, conspicuous, as I have said, for
their uncommon cleanliness; whilst hung from
the ceiling were the glaiks, a machine for churning; and beside the dresser stood an immense
churn, certainly too unwieldly to be managed
except by machinery. The farmer was a ruddyfaced Milesian, who wore a drab frieze coat,
with a velvet collar, buff waistcoat, corduroy
small-clothes, and top-boots well greased from
the tops down.* He was not only an agricul* This, almost in every instance, is the dress of a wealthy
Irish farmer.
6*




66           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
turist, but a grazier-remarkable for shrewdness
and good sense, generally attended fairs and
markets, and brought three or four large droves
of fat cattle to England every year. From his
fob hung the brass chain and almost rusty key
of a watch, which he kept certainly more for use
than ornament.
"A  little sup o' this," said he, "won't take
your life," approaching Jemmy with a bottle of
as good poteen as ever escaped the eye of an
exciseman; "it'll refresh you —for you're tired,
or I wouldn't offer it, by rason that one bint on
what you're bint on, oughtn't to be makin' freedoms wid the same dhrink. But there's a time
for everything, an' there's a time for this.Thank you, agra," he added, in reply to Jemmy,
who had drunk his health. "Now, don't be
frettin' —but make yourself as aisy as if you
were at your own father's hearth. You'll have
everything to your heart's contint for this night;
the carts are goin' in to the market to-morrow
airly-you can sit upon them, an' maybe you'll
get somethin' more nor you expect: sure the
Lord has given it to me, an' why wouldn't I
share it wid them that wants it more nor I do?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           6 
The lad's heart yearned to the generous
farmer, for he felt that his kindness had the
stamp of truth and sincerity upon it. He could
only raise his eyes in a silent prayer, that none
belonging to him might ever be compelled, as
strangers and way-farers, to commit themselves,
as he did, to the casualties of life, in pursuit of
those attainments which poverty cannot otherwise command. Fervent, indeed, was his prayer;
and certain we are, that because it was sincere,
it must have been heard.
In the meantime, the good woman, or vanlithee, had got the pot of water warmed, in which
Jemmy was made to put his feet. She then
stripped up her arms to the elbows, and, with
soap and seedy meal, affectionately bathed his
legs and feet: then, taking the praskeen, or
coarse towel, she wiped them with a kindness
which thrilled to his heart.
"And now," said she, "I must give you a
cure for blisthers, an' it's this:-In the mornin',
if we're all spared, as we will, plase the Almighty, I'll give you a needle an' some white
woollen thread, well soaped. When your blisthers
gets up, dhraw the soapy thread through them,




68           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
clip it on each side, an', my life for yours, they
won't throuble you. Sure I thried it the year I
went on my Station to Lough Derg, an' I know
it to be the rale cure."
"Here, Nelly," said the farmer,-who  sat.with a placid benevolent face, smoking his pipe
on the opposite hob-to one of the maids who
came in from milking-" bring up a noggin of
that milk, we want it here: let it be none of
your washy foremilk, but the strippins, Nelly,
that has the strinth in it. Up wid it here, a
colleen."
"The never a one o' the man but's doatin'
downright, so he is," observed the wife, "to go
to fill the tired child's stomach wid plash. Can't
you wait till he ates a thrifie o' somethin' stout,
to keep life in him, afther his hard journey?
Does your feet feel themselves cool an' asy now,
a hagur?"
" Indeed," said Jemmy, " I'm almost as fresh
as when I set out.'Twas little thought I had,
when I came away this mornin', that I'd meet
wid so much friendship on my journey. I hope
it's a sign that God's on my side in my under.
takin'!"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          69
"I hope so, avourneen —I hope so, an' it is,
too," replied the farmer, taking the pipe out of
his mouth, and mildly whiffing away the smoke,
" an' God'11 be always on your side, as long as
your intentions are good. Now ate somethin'you must want it by this; an' thin, when you
rest yourself bravely, take a tass into a good
feather-bed, where you can sleep rings round
you.* Who knows but you'll be able to say
mass for me or some o' my family yit. God
grant that, any way, avick!"
Poor James's heart was too full to eat much;
he took, therefore, only a very slender portion
of the refreshments set before him; but his hospitable entertainer had no notion of permitting
him to use the free exercise of his discretion on
this important point. When James put away
the knife and fork, as an indication of his having
concluded the meal, the farmer and his wife
turned about, both at the same moment, with a
kind of astonishment"Eh? is it givin' over that way you are?
Why, a lanna, it's nothin' at all you've tuck;
-are little Brian there would make a fool of you,
* As much as you please.




70           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
so he would, at the atin'. Come, come, a bouchal
-don't be ashamed, or make any way sthrange
at all, but ate hearty."
"I declare I have ate heartily, thank you," replied James; " oceans itself, so I did. I couldn'
swally a bit more if the house was full."
"Arrah, Brian," said the wife, "cut him up
more o' that hung beef, it's ashamed the crathur
is! Take it, avick; don't we know the journey
you had? Faix, if one o' the boys was out on a
day's thravellin', you'd see how he'd handle himself."
"Indeed," said James, " I can't-if I could I
would. Sure I would be no way backward at
all, so I wouldn't."
"Throth, an' you can an' must," said the
farmer: "the never a rise you'll rise, till you
finish that "-putting over a complement out of
all reasonable proportion with his age and size
"There now's a small taste, an' you must
finish it. To go to ate nothin' at all! Hut tut!
by the tops o' my boots, you must put that clear
an' clane out o' my sight, or I'll go mad an' burn
them."
The lad recommenced, and continued to eat




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           ~ 1
as long as he could possibly hold out; at length
he ceased:
"I can't go on," said he; "don't ax me: I
can't indeed."
" Bad manners to the word I'll hear till you
finish it: you know it's but a thrifle to spake of.
Thry agin, avick, but take your time; you'll be
able for it."
The poor lad's heart was engaged on other
thoughts and other scenes; his home, and its beloved inmates-sorrow, and the gush of young
affections, were ready to burst forth.
"I cannot ate," said he, and he looked imploringly on the farmer and his wife, whilst the
tears started to his eyes-" don't ax me, for my
heart's wid them I left behind me, that I may
never see agin;" and he wept in a burst of grief
which he could not restrain.
Neither the strength nor tenderness of the
lad's affection was unappreciated by this excellent couple. In a moment the farmer's wife was
also in tears; nor did her husband break the
silence for some minutes.
"The Almighty pity an' strengthen him!"
said the farmer's wife, "but he has the good an'




72           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
the kind heart, an' would be a credit to any
family.-Whisht, acushla machree-whisht, we
won't ax you to ate-no indeed. It was out o'
kindness we did it: don't be cast down aither;
sure it isn't the ocean you're crossin'; but goin'
from one county like to another. God'll guard
an' take care o' you, so he will. Your intintion's
good, an' he'll prosper it."
"He will, avick," said the farmer himself"he will. Cheer up, my good boyI I know
thim that's larned an' creditable clargy this day,
that went as you're goin'-ay, an' that ris an'
helped their parents, an' put them above poverty
an' distress; an never fear, wid a blessin', but
you'll do the same."
"That's what brings me at all," replied the
boy, drying his tears; "if I was once able to
take them out o' their distresses, I'd be happy:
only I'm afear1 the cares o' the world will break
my father's heart before I have it in my power
to assist him."
" No such thing, darlin'," said the good woman.
"Sure his hopes out o' you, an' his love for you,
will keep him up; an' you dunna but God may
give him a blessin' too, avick."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            73
"Mix another sup o' that for him," said the
farmer: "he's low spirited, an' it's too strong
to give him any more of it as it is. Childhre,
where's the masther from us-eh?  Why, thin,
God help them, the crathurs-wasn't it thoughtful* o' them to lave the place while be was at
his dinner, for fraid he'd be dashed-manin' them
young crathurs, Alley.  But can you tell us
where the'masther' is? Isn't this his night
wid us? I know he tuck his dinner here."
"Ay did he; but it's up to Larry Murphy's
he's gone, to thry his son in his book-keepin'.
MIavrone, but he had time enough to put him
well through it afore this, any way."
As she spoke, a short thickset man, with black
twinkling eyes and ruddy cheeks entered. This
personage was no other than the schoolmaster
of that district, who circulated, like a newspaper,
from one farmer's house to another, in order to
expound for his kind entertainers the news of
the day, his own learning, and the very evident
extent of their ignorance.
The moment he came in, the farmer and his
wife rose with an air of much deference, and
* Considerate.
7




74           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire,
leaving a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal durst presume to
sit.
"Misther Corcoran," said the farmer, presenting Jemihy's satchel, through which the shapes
of the books were quite plain, "thig in thu
shinn?* and as he spoke he looked significantly
at its owner.
" Ah!" replied the man of letters, "thigum,
thigum.t  God be wid the day when I carried
the likes of it.'Tis a badge of polite genius,
that no boy need be ashamed of. So my young
suckling of litherature, you're bound for Munster?-for that counthry where the swallows fly
in conic sections-where the magpies and the
turkeys confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric Greek-bo-a-o-clamo.
What's your pathronymic?-quo nomine gowdes,
Domine doctissime?"
The lad was silent; but the farmer's wife
turned up the whites of her eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition
of the "masther."
* Do you understand this   ft I understand-I understand.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           75
"I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the
elementary prznczpza of the languages; well-the
honor is still before you. What's your name?"
"James M'Evoy, sir."
Just now the farmer's family began to assemble round the spacious hearth; the young
lads, whose  instruction  the worthy teacher
claimed as his own peculiar task, came timidly
forward, together with two or three pretty bashful girls with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances full of feeling and intelligence. Behind
on the settles, half-a-dozen servants of both sexes
sat in pairs-each boy placing himself beside
his favorite girl. These appeared to be as strongly interested in the learned conversation which
the master held, as if they were masters and
mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek
themselves; but an occasional thump cautiously
bestowed by no slender female hand upon the
sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough
from one of the young men, fabricated to drown
the coming blow, gave slight indications that
they contrived to have a little amusement among
themselves, altogether independent of Mr. Corcoran's erudition.




'76        TTHE POOR SCHOLAR.
When the latter came in, Jemmy was taking
the tumbler of punch which the farmer's wife
had mixed for him; on this he fixed an expressive glance, which instantly reverted to the
vanithee, and from her to the large bottle which
stood in a window to the right of the fire. It is
a quick eye, however, that can anticipate Irish
hospitality.
"Alley," said the farmer, ere the wife had
time to comply with the hint conveyed by the
black, twinkling eye of the schoolmaster; "why,
Alley "-' Sure, I am," she replied, " an' will have it
for you in less than no time."
She accordingly addressed herself to the bottle, and in a few minutes handed a reeking jug
of punch to the Farithee, or good man.
"Come Masther, by the hand o' my body, I
do'nt like dhry talk so long as I can get anything to moisten the discoorse.  Here's your
health, Masther," continued the farmer, winking
at the rest, "and a speedy conclusion to what
you know I In throth, she's the pick of a good
girl-not to mintion what she has for her portion.
I'm a frind to the same family, an' will put a




THE POOR SCHOLAR.  7
spoke in your wheel, Masther, that'll sarve'yU."
"Oh, Mr. Lanigan, very well, sir-very well
-you're becoming quite facetious upon me," said
the little man, rather confused; "but upon my
credit and reputation, except the amorous inclination in regard to me is on her side," and he
looked sheepishly at his hands, " I can't say that
the arrows of Cupid have as yet pinethrated the
sintimintal side of my heart.  It is not with me
as it was wid Dido-hemNon' hiret lateri lethalis arundo,'
as Virgil says. Yet I can't say, but if a friend
were to become spokesman for me, and insinuate
in my behalf a small taste of amorous sintimintality, why-hem, hem, hem!  The company's health! Lad, James M'Evoy, your
health, and success to you, my good boy! —hem,
hem!"
"Here's wishin' him  the same!" said the
farmer.
"James,"  said the schoolmaster, "you are
goin' to Munsther, an' I can say that I have
travelled it from end to end, not to a bad purpose, I hope-hem!  Well, a bouchal, there are
7*




78            THE POOR SCHOLAR.
hard days, and nights before you, so keep a firm
heart. If you have money, as'tis like you have,
don't let a single rap of it into the hands of the
schoolmaster, although the first thing he'll do
will be to bring you home to his own house, an'
palaver you night an' day, till he succeeds in
persuading you to leave it in his hands for security.
You might, if not duly pre-admonished, surrender it to his solicitations, for-' Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit.'
Michael, what case is mortalium?" added lie,
suddenly addressing one of the farmer's sons:
"come, now, Michael, where's your brightness!
What case is mortaliurnz?"
The boy was taken by surprise, and for a few
minutes could not reply.
"Come man," said the father, "be sharp,
spake out bravely, an' don't be afeard; nor
don't be in a hurry aither, we'll wait for
you."
" Let him alone-let him alone," said Corcoran: " I'll face the same boy agin the county for
cuteness.  If he doesn't expound that, I'll never
consthre a line of Latin, or Greek, or Masoretic, while I'm livin'."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            9
His cunning master knew right well that the
boy, who was only confused at the suddenness
of the question, would feel no difficulty in
answering it to his satisfaction. Indeed, it was
impossible for him to miss it, as he was then
reading the seventh book of Virgil, and the
fourth of Homer. It is, however, a trick with
some masters to put simple questions of that
nature to their pupils, when at the houses of
their parents, as knotty and difficult, and when
they are answered, to assume an air of astonishment at the profound reach of thought displayed
by the pupil.
When Michael recovered himself, he instantly
replied, " /lortalium is the ginitive case of ntemo,
by' Nonzina Partitiva.' "
Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was
in the act of raising to his lips, and looked at
the lad with an air of surprise and delight, then
at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and
shook his head with much mystery.  "Michael,"
said he to the lad, "will you go out, and tell us
what the night's doin'."
The boy accordingly went out-" Why," said
Corcoran, in his absence, "if ever there was a




80           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
phanix, and that boy will be the bird-an Irish
phanix he will be, a
Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno!
There's no batin' him at anything he undhertakes.
Why, there's thim that are makin' good bread
by their larnin', that couldn't resolve that; and
you all saw how he did it widout the book!
Why, if he goes on at this rate, I'm afraid he'll
soon be too many for myself-hem!"
"Too many for yourself I Fill the masther's
tumbler, Alley. Too many for yourself I No,
no! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright as
he is, an' cute. That's it-put a hape upon it.
Give me your hand, masther. I thank you for
your attintion to him, an' the boy is a credit to
us.  Come over, Michael, avourneen.  Here,
take what's in this tumbler, an' finish it. Be a
good boy, an' mind your lessons, an' do everything the masther here-the Lord bless him!bids you; an' you'll never want a frind, masther,
nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a guinea, while the
Lord spares me aither the one or the other."
"I know it Mr. Lanigan, I know it; and I
will make that boy the pride of Ireland, if I'm
spared. I'll show him cramboes that would puzzl




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           81
the great Scaliger himself; and many other difficulties I'll let him into, that I have never let out
yet, except to Tim Kearney, that bate them all
at Thrinity College in Dublin up, last June."
"Arrah, how was that, Masther?"
"Tim, you see, went in to his Entrance
Examinayshuns, and one of the Fellows came to
examine him, but divil a long it was till Tim
sacked him.
"'Go back agin,' says Tim,'and sind some
one that's able to tache me, for you're not.'
"'So another greater scholar agin came to
thry Tim, and did thry him, and Tim made a
hare of him, before all that was in the placefive or six thousand ladies and gintlemen, at
laste I
"The great learned Fellows thin began to look
odd enough; so they picked out the best scholar
among them but one, and slipped him at Tim:
but well becomes Tim, the never a long it was
till he had him too, as dumb as a post. The
fellow went back —
"' Gintlemen,' says he to the rest,'we'll be
disgraced all out,' says he'for except the
Prowost sacks that Munsther spalpeen, he'll bate




82           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
us all, an' we'll never be able to hould up our
heads afther.'
"Accordingly, the Prowost attacks Tim; and
such a meetin' as they had, never was seen in
Thrinity College since its establishment. At last
when they had been nine hours and a half at it,
the Prowost put one word to him  that Tim
couldn't expound, so he lost it by one word only.
For the last two hours the Prowost carried an
the examinashun in Hebrew, thinking, you see,
he had Tim there; but he was mistaken, for Tim
answered him in good Munsther Irish, and it so
happened that they understood each other, for
the two language are first cousins, or, at all
evints, close blood relations. Tim was then pronounced to be the best scholar in Ireland except
the Prowost; though among ourselves, they
might have thought of the man that taught him.
That, however, wasn't all. A young lady fell in
love wid Tim, and is to make him a present of
herself and her great fortune (three estates) the
moment he becomes a counsellor; and in the
meantime she allows him thirty pounds a year to
bear his expenses, and live like a gintleman.
"Now to return to the youth in the corner:




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           83
Nemo mortalium  omnibus horis sapit. Jemmy,
keep your money, or give it to the priest to
keep, and it will be safest; but by no means let
the Hyblean honey of the schoolmaster's blarney
deprive you of it, otherwise it will be a vale, vale,
lovlgum vale between you.  Crede experto!"
"  asther," said the farmer, "many a strange
accident you met wid on yer thravels through
Munsther?"
"No doubt of that, Mr. Lanigan. I and
another boy thravelled it in society together.
One day we were walking towards a gintleman's
house on the road side, and it happened that we
met the owner of it in the vicinity, although we
didn't know him to be such.
"'Salvete, Domini r said he, in good fresh
Latin.
"'Ta eis salvus, quoque!? said I to him, for
my comrade wasn't cute, an' I was always
orathor.
"' Unde venitis?' said he, comin' over us wid
another deep piece of larnin', the construction
of which was,'where do yez come from?'
" I replied,'Per varios casus et tot discrimina
rerum, venimus a Mayo.'




84           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"' Good!' said he,'you're bright; follow
me.'
"So he brought us over to his own house, and
ordered us bread and cheese and a posset; for it
was Friday, an' we couldn't touch mate. He,
in the mane time, sat an' chatted along wid us.
The thievin' cook, however, in making the posset,
kept the curds tto herself, except a slight taste,
here and there, that floated on the top; but she
was liberal enough of the whey, any how.
" Now I had been well trained to fishing in
my more youthful days; and no gorsoon could
grope a trout wid me. I accordingly sent the
spoon through the pond before me wid the skill
of a connoisseur; but to no purpose-it came up
wid nothin' but the whey.
"So, said I off hand to the gintleman, houlding up the bowl, and looking at it with a disappointed face,
Apparent rari mantes in gurgite vasto.'This,' says I,'plase your hospitality, may be
Pactolus, but the divil a taste o' the proper sand
is in the bottom of it.'
"The wit of this, you see, pleased him, and
we got an excellent treat in his studium, or




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            85
study; for he was determined to give myself
another trial.
"'What's the wickedest line in Virgil?' said
he.
" Now I had Virgil at my fingers' ends, so I
answered him:'Flectere si nequeo superos,.qcheronta movebo.'
"'Very good,' said he,' you have the genius,
and will come to somethin' yet: now tell me the
most moral line in Virgil.'
"I answered:'Discere justitiam moniti, et non temnere divos.'
"'Depend upon it,' said he,'you will be a luminary. The morning-star will be but a farthing
candle to you; and if you take in the learning as
you do the cheese, in a short time there won't
be a man in Munsther fit to teach you,' and he
laughed, for you see he had a tendency to jocosity.
" He did not give me up here, however, being
determined to go deeper wid me.
"'Can you translate a newspaper into Latin
prose?' said he.
* He is evidently drawing the long-bow here; this anecdote has been told before.
8




86          TIHE POOR SCHOLAR.
" Now the divil a one o' me was just then sure
about the prose, so I was goin' to tell him; but
before I had time to speak, he thrust the paper
into rly hand, and desired me to thranslate halfa-dozen barbarous advertisements.
" The first that met me was about a reward
offered for a Newfoundland dog and a terrier,
that had been stolen from a fishing-tackle manufacturer, and then came a list of his shabby merchandize, ending with a long-winded encomium
upon his gunpowder, shot, and double-barrelled
guns. Now, may I be shot wid a blank cartridge, if I ever felt so much at an amplush in my
life, and I said so.
"'Your honor has hooked me wid the fishinghooks,' said I;'but I grant the cheese was good
bait, any how.'
" So he laughed heartily, and bid me go on.
" Well, I thought the first was difficult; but
the second was Masoretic to it-something about
~drawbacks, excisemen, and a long custom-house
list, that would puzzle Publius Virgilius Maro,
if he was set to translate it. However, I went
through wid it as well as I could; where I
couldn't find Latin, I laid in the Greek, and




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           87
where the Greek failed me, I gave the Irish,
which to tell the truth, in consequence of its
vernacularity, I found to be the most convanient.
Och, och, many a lamed scrimmage I have signalised myself in, during my time. Sure my
name's as common as a mail-coach in Thrinity
College; and'tis well known there isn't aFellow
in it but I could sack, except, may be, the Prowost. That's their own opinion.'Corcoran,'
says the Prowost,'is the most larned man in
Ireland; an' I'm not ashamed,' says he,'to
acknowledge that I'd rather decline meeting him
upon deep points.' Ginteels, all your healthshem! But among ourselves I could bog him in
a very short time; though I'd scorn to deprive
the gintleman of his reputaytion or his place,
even if he sent me a challenge of larnin' tomorrow, although he's too cute to venture on
doing that-hem, hem!"
To hear an obscure creature, whose name was
but faintly known in the remote parts even of
the parish in which he lived, draw the long-bow
at such a rate, was highly amusing. The credulous character of his auditory, however, was no
slight temptation to him; for he knew that next




88           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to the legends of their saints, or the Gospel
itself, his fictions ranked in authenticity; and he
was determined that it should not be his fault
if their opinion of his learning and talents were
not raised to the highest point.
The feeling experienced by the poor scholar,
when he.awoke the next morning, was one both
of satisfaction and sorrow. He thought once.more of his home and kindred, and reflected that
it might be possible he had seen the last of his
beloved relations.  His grief, however, wan
checked when he remembered the warm and
paternal affection with which he was received on
the preceding night by his hospitable countryman. He offered up his prayers to God; humbly
besought his grace and protection; nor did he
forget to implore a blessing upon those who had
thus soothed his early sorrows, and afforded him,
though a stranger and friendless, shelter, comfort,
and sympathy.
"I hope," thought he, " that I will meet many
such, till I overcome my difficulties, an' find
myself able to assist my poor father an'
mother I"
And he did meet many such among the




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           89
humble and despised, and neglected  of his
countrymen; for-and we say it with pridethe character of this excellent farmer is thoroughly that of our peasantry within the range
of domestic life.
When he had eaten a comfortable breakfast,
and seen his satchel stuffed with provision for
his journey, the farmer brought him up to his
own room, in which were also his wife and
children.
" God," said he, "has been good to me;
blessed be his holy name! —betther it appears,
in one sinse, than he has been to you, dear,
though maybe I don't desarve it as well. But
no matther, acushla; I have it, an' you want it;
so here's a thrifle to help you forrid in your
larnin'; an' all I ax from you is to offer up a
bit of a prayer for me, of an odd time, an' if
ever you live to be a priest, to say, if it wouldn't
be throublesome, one Mass for me an' those that
you see about me. It's not much, James agraonly two guineas. They. may stand your friend,
whin friends will be scarce wid you; though, I
hope, that won't be the case aither."
The tears were already streaming down Jemn




90          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
my's cheeks. "Oh," said the artless boy, " God
for ever reward you! but sure I have a great
dale of money in the —in the-cuff o' my coat.
Indeed, I have, an' I won't want it!"
The farmer, affected by the utter simplicity of
he lad, looked at his wife and smiled, although
a tear stood in his eye at the time. She wiped
her eyes with her apron, and backed the kind
offer of her husband.
" Take it, asthore;" she added, " in your cuff I
Musha, God help you! sure it's not much you or
the likes of you can have in your cuff, avourneen!
Don't be ashamed, but take it; we can well
afford it, glory be to God for it! It's not, agra,
bekase you're goin' the way you are-though
that same's an honor to you-but bekase our
hearts warmed to you, that we offered it, an'
bekase we would wish you to be thinkin' of us
now an' thin, when you are in a strange part of
the country. Let me open your pocket an' put
them into it. That's a good boy, thank you, an'
God bless all' prosper you! I'm sure you wor
always biddable."
"Now, childher," said the farmer, addressing
his sons and daughters, " never see the sthranger




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          91
widout a frind, nor wantin' a bed or a dinner,
when you grow up to be men an' women.
There's many a turn in this world; we may be
strangers ourselves: an' think of what I would
feel if any of you was far from me, widout
money or friends, when I'd hear that you met a
father in a strange counthry that lightened your
hearts by his kindness. Now, dear, the carts'11
be ready in no time-eh? Why, there they are
at the gate waitin' for you. Get into one of
them, an' they'll lave you in the next town.
Come, man, bud-an' age, be stout-hearted, an'
don't cry; sure we did nothin' for you to spake of."
He shook the poor scholar by the hand, and
drawing his hat over his eyes, passed hurriedly
out of the room. Alley stooped down, kissed
his lips, and wept; and the children each embraced him with that mingled feeling of compassion and respect which is uniformly entertained
for the poor scholar in Ireland.
The boy felt as if he had been again separated
from his parents; with a sobbing bosom and wet
cheeks he bid them farewell, and mounting one
of the carts was soon beyond sight and hearing
of the kind-hearted farmer and his family.




92           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
When the cart had proceeded about a mile, it
stopped, and one of the men who accompanied
it, addressing a boy who passed with two sods
of turf under his arm, desired him to hurry on
and inform his master that they waited for him.
"Tell Misther Corcoran to come into coort,"
said the man, laughing, "my Lordship's waitil'
to hear his defince for intindin' not to run away
wid Miss Judy Malowny. Tell him Lord Carty's
ready to pass sintince on him for not stalin' the
heart of her wid his Rule o' Three.  Hal by
the holy farmer you'll get it for stayin' from
school to this hour. Be quick, abouchalI"
In a few minutes the trembling urchin, glad
of any message that might serve to divert the
dreaded birch from himself, entered the uproarious " Siminary," caught his forelock, bobbed
down his head to the master, and pitched his
"two sods" into a little heap of turf which lay
in the corner of the school.
"Arrah, Pat Roach, is this an hour to inter
into my establishment wid impunity? Eh, you
Rosicrusian?"
"Masther, sir," replied the adroit monkey
"I've a message for you, sir, i' you plase."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           93
"An' what might the message be, Masther
Pat Roach? To dine to-day wid your worthy
father, abouchal?"
"No, sir; its from one o' Mr. Lanigan's boys
-him that belongs to the carts, sir; he wants
to spake to you, sir, i' you plase."
" An' do you give that by way of an apologetical oration for your absence from the advantages of my tuition until this hour? However,
non constat, Patrici; I'll pluck the crow wid you
on my return. If you don't find yourself a wellflogged youth for your'mitchin',' never say that
this right hand can administer condign punishment to that part of your physical theory which
constitutes the antithesis to your vaciuum caput.
En et ece, you villain," he added, pointing to the
birch, " it's newly cut and trimmed, and pregnant
wid alacrity for the operation. I correct, Patricius, on fundamental principles, which you'll
soon feel to your cost."
"Masther, sir," replied the lad, in a friendly,
conciliating tone, "my fadher'ud be oblaged to
you, if you'd take share of a fat goose wid him
to-morrow."
" Go to your sate, Paddy, avourneen; divil a




94           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
dacent boy in the siminary I joke so much wid,
as I do wid yourself; an' all out of respect for
your worthy parents. Faith, I've a great regard for them, all out, an' tell them so."
He then proceeded to the carts, and approaching Jemmy, gave him such advice touching his
conduct in Munster, as he considered to be most
serviceable to an inexperienced lad of his years.
"Here," said the kind hearted soul-" here,
James, is my mite; it's but bare ten shillings;
but if I could make it a pound for you, it would
give me a degree of delectability which I have
not enjoyed for a long time.  The truth is,
there's something like the nodus matrimonii, or
what they facetiously term the priest's gallows,
dangling over my head, so that any little thrifle
I may get must be kept together for that crisis,
James, abouchal; so that must be my apology
for not giving you more, joined to the naked
fact, that I never was remarkable for a superfluity of cash under any circumstances. Remember what I told you last night. Don't let a
shilling of your money into the hands of the
masther you settle wid. Give it to the parish
priest, and dhraw it from him when you want it.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           95
Don't join the parties or the factions of the
school. Above all, spake ill of nobody; and if
the masther is harsh upon you, either bear it
patiently, or mintion it to the priest, or to some
other person of respectability in the parish, and
you'll be protected. You'll be apt to meet cruelty enough, my good boy; for there are larned
Neros in Munster, who'd flog if the province was
in flames.
"Now, James, I'll tell you what you'll do,
when you reach the larned south. Plant yourself on the highest hill in the neighborhood
wherein the academician with whom you intend
to stop, lives. Let the hour of reconnoitring be
that in which dinner is preparing. When seated
there, James, take a survey of the smoke that
ascends from the chimneys of the farmers' houses,
and be sure to direct your steps to that from
which the highest and merriest column issues.
This is the old plan, and it is a sure one. The
highest smoke rises from the largest fire, the
largest fire boils the biggest pot, the biggest pot
generally holds the fattest bacon, and the fattest
bacon is kept by the richest farmer.  It's a
wholesome and comfortable cimax, my boy, and




96           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
one by which I myself was enabled to keep a
dacent portion of educated flesh between the
master's birch and my ribs. The science itself
is called Gastric Geography, and is peculiar only
to itinerant young gintlemen who seek for know
ledge in the classical province of Munster.
"Here's a book that thravelled along wid
myself through all my peregrinations-Creech's
Translation of Horace.  Keep it for my sake;
and when you accomplish your education, if you
return home this way, I'd thank you to give me
a call. Farewell! God bless you and prosper
you as I wish, and as I am sure you desarve."
He shook the lad by the hand; and aait was
probable that his own former struggles with
poverty, when in the pursuit of education, came
with all the power of awakened recollection to
his mind, he hastily drew his hand across his
eyes, and returned to resume the brief but harmless authority of the ferula.
After arriving at the next town, Jemmy found
himself once more prosecuting his journey alone.
In proportion as he advanced into a strange
land, his spirits became depressed, and his heart
cleaved more and more to those whom he had




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           91
left behind him. There is, however, an enthusiasm in the visions of youth, in the speculations
of a young heart, which frequently overcomes
difficulties that a mind taught by the experience
of life would often shrink from encountering.
We may all remember the utter recklessness of
danger with which, in our youthful days, we
crossed floods, or stood upon the brow of yawning precipices-feats which, in after years, the
weakth of kingdoms could not induce us to perform. Experience, as well as conscience, makes
cowards of us all.
The poor scholar in the course of his journey
had the satisfaction of finding himself an object
of kind and hospitable attention to his countrymen. His satchel of books was literally a passport to their hearts. For instance, as he wended
his solitary way, depressed and travel-worn, he
was frequently accosted by laborers from behind
a ditch on the road-side, and, after giving a
brief history of the object he had in view,
brought, if it was dinner-hour, to some farmhouse or cabin, where he was made to partake
of their meal. Even those poor creatures who
gain a scanty subsistence by keeping what are
9




98           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
called "dhry lodgins," like lucus a non lucendo,
because they never keep out the rain, and have
mostly a bottle of whiskey for those who know
how to call for it,-even they, in most instances,
not only refused to charge the poor scholar for
his bed, but declined receiving any remuneration
for his subsistence.
"Och, och, no, you poor young crathur, not
from you. No, no; if we wouldn't help the likes
o' you, who ought we to help? No dear; but
instead o' the airighad,* jist lave us your blessin',
an' maybe we'll thrive as well wid that, as we
would wid your little pences, that you'll be
wantin' for yourself, whin your frinds won't be
near to help you."
Many, in fact, were the little marks of kindness and attention which the poor lad received
on his way. Sometimes a ragged peasant, if he
happened to be his fellow-traveller, would carry
his satchel so long as they travelled together, or
a carman would give him a lift on his empty car.;
or some humorous postilion, or tipsy " shay-boy,"
with a comical lear in his eye, would shove him
into his vehicle, remarking* Money.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           99
"Bedad, let nobody say you're a poor scholar
now, an' you goin' to school in a coachl  Be the
piper that played afore Moses, if ever any rascal
upbraids you wid it, tell him, says you-' You
damned rap,' says you,'I wint to school in a
coach! an' that,' says you,'was what none o' yer
beggarly gineration was ever able to do,' says
you;'an' moreover, be the same token,' says
you,'be the holy farmer, if you bring it up to
me, I'll make a third eye in your forehead wid
the butt o' this whip,' says you. Wbish! darlinsI
That's the go!  There's drivin', Barny! Eh?"
At length, after much toil and travel, he
reached the South, having experienced as he
proceeded a series of affectionate attentions,
which had, at least, the effect of reconciling him
to the measure he had taken, and impressing
upon his heart a deeper confidence in the kindness and hospitality of his countrymen.
Upon the evening of the day on which he terminated his journey, twilight was nearly falling;
the town in which he intended to stop for the
night was not a quarter of a mile before him,
yet he was scarcely able to reach it; his short,
yielding steps were evidently those of a young




100         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
and fatigued traveller: his brow was moist with
perspiration; he had just begun, too, to consider
in what manner he should introduce himself to
the master who taught the school at which he
had been advised to stop, when he heard a step
behind him, and on looking back, he discovered a
tall, well-made, ruddy-faced young man, dressed in
black, with a book in his hand, walking after him.
" Unde et quo viator?" said the stranger on
coming up with him.
"Oh, Sir," replied Jemmy, " I have not Latin
yet."
"You are on your way to seek it, however,"
replied the other. " Have you travelled far?"
"A long way, indeed, Sir; I came from the
County -, Sir,-the upper part of it."
" Have you letters from your parish priest?"
" I have, Sir, and one from my father's landlord, Square Benson, if you ever heard of him"
"What's your object in learning Latin?"
" To be a priest, Sir, wid the help o' God; an'
to rise my poor father an' mother out of their
poverty."
His companion, after hearing this reply, bent
a glance upon him, that indicated the awakening




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           101
of an interest in the lad much greater than he
probably otherwise would have felt.
" It's only of late," continued the boy, " that
my father an' mother got poor; they were once
very well to do in the world.  But they were put
out o' their farm in ordher that the agint might
put a man that had married a get* of his own
into it. My father intended to lay his case before Colonel B-, the landlord; but he couldn't
see him at all, bekase he never comes near the
estate. The agint's called Yallow Sam, Sir;
he's rich through cheatery an' dishonesty; puts
money out at intherest, then goes to law, an'
brakes the people entirely; for, somehow, he
never was known to lose a law-suit at all, Sir.
They say it's the divil, Sir, that keeps the lawyers on his side; an' that when he an' the lawyers
do be dhrawin' up their writins, the devil-God
betune me an' harm!-does be helpin' them!"
"And is Colonel B  -  actually-or, rather,
was he your father's landlord?"
" He was, indeed, Sir; it's thruth I'm tellin'
you."
"Singular enough!  Stand beside me here —, A term implying illegitimacy.
9*




102          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
do you see that large house to the right among
the trees?"
"I do, Sir; a great big house. entirely-like
a castle, Sir."
"The same. Well, that house belongs to
Colonel B-, and 1 am very intimate with
him. I am Catholic curate of this parish; and
I was, before my ordination, private tutor in his
family for four years."
" Maybe, Sir, you might have intherest to get
my father back into his farm?"
" I do not know that, my good lad, for I am
told that Colonel B- is rather embarrassed,
and, if I mistake not, in the power of the man
you call Yellow Sam, who has, I believe, heavy
mortgages upon his property. But no matter; 
if I cannot help your father, I shall be able to
serve yourself. Where do you intend to stop for
the night?"
"In dhry lodgin', Sir, that's where my father
an' mother bid me stop always. They war very
kind to me, Sir, in the dhry lodgins."'
"Who is there in Ireland who would not be
kind to you, my good boy?  I trust you do not
neglect your religious duties?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          103
"Wid the help o' God, Sir, I strive to attind
to them as well as I can; particularly since I
left my father and mother. Every night an'
mornin', Sir, I say five Pathers, five Aves, an' a
Creed; an' sometimes when I'm walkin' the road,
I slip up an odd Pather, Sir, an' Ave, that God
may grant me good luck."
The priest smiled at his candor and artlessness, and could not help feeling -the interest which
the boy had already excited iu him increase.
" You do right," said he, "and take care that
you neglect not the worship of God. Avoid
bad company; be not quarrelsome at school;
study to improve yourself diligently; attend
mass regularly; and be punctual in going to
confession."
After some further- conversation the priest
and he entered the town together.
"This is my house," said the former, " or if
not altogether mine-at least, that in which I
lodge; let me see you here at two o'clock tomorrow. In the mean time, follow me, and I
shall place you with a family where you will
experience every kindness and attention that
can make you comfortable."




104         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
He then led him a few doors up the street, till
he stopped at a decent-looking " House of Entertainment," to the proprietors of which he
introduced him.
" Be kind to this strange boy," said the worthy clergyman, " and whatever the charges of his
board and lodging may be until we get him settled, I shall be accountable for them."
" God forbid, your Reverence, that ever a
penny belongin' to a poor boy lookin' for his
larnin' should go into our pockets, if he was wid
us twelve months in the year. No-no!  He
can stay with the bouchaleens;* let them be
thryin' one another in their books. If he is
fardher on in the Latin then Andy, he can help
Andy; an' if Andy has the foreway of him, why
Andy can help him. Come here, boys, all of yez.
HTere's a comrade for yez-a dacent boy that's
lookin' for his larnin', the Lord enable him I
Now be kind to him, an' whisper," he added, in
an under-tone, "don't be bringin' a blush to the
gorsoon's face. Do ye hear? Ma chorp! if ye
do! -Now mind it. Ye know what I can do
whin I'm well vexed! Go, now, an' get him
* Little boys.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         105
somethin' to ate an' dhrink, an' let him sleep wid
Barney in the feather bed."
During the course of the next day, the benevolent curate introduced him to the parish priest,
who, from the frequent claims urged by poor
scholars upon his patronage, felt no particular
interest in his case. He wrote'a short letter,
however, to the master with whom Jemmy intended to become a pupil, stating that " he was
an honest boy, the son of legitimate parents, and
worthy of consideration."
The curate, who saw further into the boy's
character than the parish priest, accompanied
him on the following day to. the school; introduced him to the master in the most favorable
manner, and recommended him in general to the
hospitable care of all the pupils. This introduction did not serve the boy so much as might
have been expected; there was nothing particular in the letter of the parish priest, and the
curate was but a curate —no formidable personage in any church, where the goodwill of the
rector has not been already secured.
Jemmy returned that day to his lodgings, and
the next morning, with his Latin Grammer




106          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
under his arm, he went to the school, to taste
the first bitter fruits of the tree of knowledge,
On entering it, which he did with a beating
heart, he found the despot of a hundred subjects
sitting behind a desk, with his hat on, a brow
superciliously severe, and his nose crimped into
a most cutting and vinegar curl. The truth was,
the master knew the character of the curate, and
felt that because he had taken Jemmy under
his protection, no opportunity remained for him
of fleecing the boy, under the pretence of securing his money, and that consequently the arrival
of the poor scholar would be no windfall, as he
had expected.
When Jemmy entered, he looked first at the
master for his welcome; but the master, who
verified the proverb, that there are none so'blind as those who will not see, took no notice
whatsoever of him.  The boy then  looked
timidly about the school in quest of a friendly
face, and indeed few faces except friendly ones
were turned upon him.
Several of the scholars rose up simultaneously
to speak to him; but the pedagogue angrily




THE POOR SCHOLAR.-          10o
inquired why they had left their seats and their
business.
"Why, Sir," said a young Munsterman, with
a fine Milesian face-" be Gorra, Sir, I believe
if we don't welcome the poor scholar, I think
you won't.  This is the boy, Sir, that Mr.
O'Brien came along wid yistherday, an' spoke so
well of."
"I know that, Thady; and Misther O'Brien
thinks, that because he himself first passed
through that overgrown hedge-school wid slates
upon the roof of it, called Thrinity College, and
matriculated in Maynooth afther, that he has
legal authority to recommend every young vagrant
to the gratuitous benefits of legitimate classicality. An', I suppose, that you are acting the
Pathrun, too, Thady, and intind to take this
young wild-goose under your protection?"
"Why, Sir, isn't he a poor scholar?"  Sure
he mustn't want his bit an' sup, nor his night's
lodgin', any how. You're to give him his larnin'
only, Sir."
" I suppose so, Mr. Thaddeus; but this is the
penalty of celebrity. If I weren't so celebrated
a man for classics as I am, I would have none




108          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
of this work. I tell you, Thady, if I had fifty
sons I wouldn't make one o' them celebrated."
"Wait till you have one first, Sir, then you
may make him  as great a numskull as you
plase, Masther."
" But in the mean time, Thady, I'll have no
dictation from you, as to whether I'll have one
or fifty; or as to whether he'll be an ass or
a ]N'ewton. I say, that a dearth of larnin' is
like a year of famine in Ireland. When the
people are hard pushed, they bleed the fattest
bullocks, and live on their blood; an' so it is
wid us Academicians. It's always he that has
the most larned blood in his veins, and the
greatest quantity of it, that such hungry leeches
fasten on."
"Thrue for you, Sir," said the youth with a
smile; "but they say the bullocks always fatten
the betther for it. I hope you'll bleed well now,
Sir."
"Thady, I don't like the curl of your nose;
an', moreover, I have always found you prone to
sedition. You remember your conduct at the'Barring out.' I tell you it's well that you,
worthy father is a dacent wealthy man, or I'd be




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          109
apt to give you a memoria technica on the subtratum, Thady."
" God be praised for my father's wealth, Sir I
But I'd never wish to have a good memory in
the way you mention."
"Faith, an' I'll be apt to add that to your
other qualities, if you don't take care of
yourself."
"I want no such addition, Masther: if you
do you'll be apt to subtract yourself from this
neighborhood, an', may be, there won't be more
than a cipher gone out of it, afther all."
"Thady, you're a wag," exclaimed the crestfallen pedagogue; "take the lad to your own
sate, and show him his task. How is your
sister's sore throat, Thady?"
"Why, Sir," replied the benevolent young wit,
"she's betther than I am. She can swallow
more, Sir."
"Not of larnin', Thady; there you've the
widest gullet in the parish."
"My father's the richest man in it, Masther,"
replied Thady.  "I think, Sir, my guliet and
his purse are much about the same size-wi(0L/10."
lO




1 10         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Thady, you're first-rate at a reply; but exceedingly deficient in the retort corteous. Take
the lad to your sate, I say, and see how far he
is advanced, and what he is fit for. I suppose,
as you are so ginerous, you will volunteer to
tache him yourself."
"I'll do that wid pleasure, Sir; but I'd like
to know whether you intind to tache him  or
not."
"An' I'd like to know, Thady, who's to pay
me for it, if I do.  A purty return Michael
Rooney made me for making him such a linguist
as he is.'You're a tyrant,' said he, when he
grew up,'and instead of expecting me to thank
you for your instructions, you ought to thank
me for not preparing you for the county hospital
as a memento of the cruelty and brutality you
mnade me feel, when I had the misfortune to be a
poor scholar under you.' And so, because he
became curate of the parish, he showed me the
outside of it."
" But will you tache this poor young boy,
Sir?"
" Let me know who's to guarantee his payments."




THIE POOR SCHOLAR.         111
"I have money myself, Sir, to pay you for
two years," replied Jemmy.  "They told me,
Sir, that you were a great scholar, an' I refused
to stop in other schools by iason of the name
you have for Latin and Greek."
"Terbum sat.," exclaimed the barefaced knave.
"Come here.  Now, you see, I persave you
have dacency.  Here is your task; get that half
page by heart. You have a cute look, an' I've
no doubt but the stuff's in you. Come to me
afther dismiss,'till we have a little talk together."
He accordingly pointed out the task, after
which he placed him at his side, lest the inexperienced boy might be put on his guard by any
of the scholars. In this intention, however, he
was frustrated by Thady, who, as he thoroughly
detested the knavish tyrant, resolved to caution
the poor scholar against his dishonesty. Thady,
indeed, most heartily despised the mercenary
pedagogue, not only for his obsequiousness to
the rich, but on account of his severity to the
children of the poor.  About two o'clock the
young wag went out for a few minutes, and immediately returned in great haste to inform th




112          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
master, that Mr. Delany, the parish priest, and
two other gentlemen, wished to see him over at
the Cross-Keys, an inn which was kept at a
place called the Nine Mile House, within a few
perches of the school. The parish priest, thongh
an ignorant insipid old man, was the master's
patron, and his slightest wish a divine law to him.
The little despot, forgetting his prey, instantly
repaired to the Cross-Keys, and in his absence,
Thady, together with the larger boys of the
school, made M'Evoy acquainted with the fraud
about to be practised on him.
" His intintion," said they, "is to keep you at
home to-night, in ordher to get whatever money
you have into his own hands, that he may keep
it safe for you; but if you give him a penny, you
may bid farewell to it. Put it in the curate's
hands," added Thady, "or in my father's, an'
thin it'll be safe. At all evints, don't stay wid
him this night.  He'll take your money and
then turn you off in three or four weeks."
" I didn't intind to give him my money," replied Jemmy; "a schoolmaster I met on my
way here, bid me not to do it. I'll give it to
the priest."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          113
"Give it to the curate," said Thady-" wid
him it'll be safe; for the parish priest doesn't
like to throuble himself wid anything of the
kind."
This was agreed upon; the boy was prepared
against the designs of the master, and a plan
laid down for his future conduct. In the mean
time, the latter re-entered the school in a glow
of indignation and disappointment.
Thady, however, disregarded him; and as the
master knew that the influence of the boy's
father could at any time remove him from the
parish, his anger subsided without any very violent consequences. The parish priest was his
avowed patron, it is true; but if the parish priest
knew that Mr. O'Rorke was dissatisfied with
him, that moment he would join Mr. O'Rorke
in expelling him from the neighborhood. Mr.
O'Rorke was a wealthy and a hospitable man,
but the schoolmaster was neither the ouie near
the other.
During school-hours that day, many a warmhearted urchin entered into conversation with
the poor scholar; some mnoved by curiosity to
hear his brief and simple history; others anxious
10*




114          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to offer him a temporary asylum in their fathers'
houses; and several to know if he had the requisite books, assuring him that if he had not, they
would lend them to him. These proofs of artless
generosity touched the homeless youth's heart
the more acutely, inasmuch as he could perceive
but too clearly that the eye of the master rested
upon him, from time to time, with no auspicious
glance.
WVhen the scholars were dismissed, a scene
occurred which was calculated to produce a
smile, although it certainly placed the poor
scholar in a predicament by no means agreeable.
It resulted from a contest among the boys as to
who should first bring him home. The master
who, by that cunning for which the knavish are
remarkable, had discovered in the course of the
day that his design upon the boy's money was
understood, did not ask him to his house. The
contest was, therefore, among the  scholars;
who, when the master had disappeared from the
school-room, formed themselves into a circle, of
which Jemmy was the centre, each pressing his
laim to secure him.
"The right's wid me," exclaimed Thady; " I




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          115
stood to him all day, an' I say I'll have him for
this night. Come wid me, Jimmy. Didn't I do
most for you to-day?"
" I'll never forget your kindness," replied poor
Jemmy, at the boisterous symptoms of pugilism
which already began to appear. In fact, many
a tiny fist was shut, as a suitable accompaniment to the arguments with which they enforced
their assumed rights.
"There, now," continued Thady, "that puts
an ind to it; he says he'll never forget my kindness. That's enough; come wid me, Jimmy."
" Is it enough?" said a lad, who, if his father
was less wealthy than Thady's, was resolved to
put strength of arm against strength of purse.
" Maybe it isn't enoughl Isay I bar it, if your
fadher was fifty times as rich! —Rich  Arrah,
don't be comin' over us in regard of your riches,
man alivel I'll bring the sthrange boy home
this very night, an' it isn't your father's dirty
money that'll prevint me."
"I'd advise you to get a double ditch about
your nose," replied Thady, "before you begin to
say anything disrespectful aginst my father.-'Don't think to ballyrag over me. I'll bring the




116         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
boy, for I have the best right to him. Didn't I
do* the masther on his account?"
" A double ditch about my nose?"
"'; Aiye i"
" Are you able to fight me?"
"I'm able to thry it, any how, an' willin'
too."
"Do you say you're able to fight me?"
" I'll bring the boy home whether or not."
"Thady's not your match, Jack Ratigan,"
said another boy. "Why don't you challenge
your match?"
"If you say a word, I'll half-sole your eye.
Let him say whether he's able to fight me like a
man or not. That's the chat."
" Ialf-sole my eye! Thin here I am, an' why
don't vou do it. You're crowin' over a boy that
you're bigger than. I'll fight you for Thady.
Now half-sole my eye if you dar! Eh? Here's
my eye, now! Arrah, be the holy man, I'dDon't we know the white hen's in you. Didn't
Barny Murtagh cow you at the back-pool, on
Thursday last, whin we wor bathin'?"
"Come, Ratigan," said Thady, "peel, an
Outwit.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          117
turn out. I say, I am able to fight you; an' I'll
make you ate your words against my father, by
way of givin' you your dinner. An' I'll make
the dacent strange boy walk home wid me over
your body-that is, if he'd not be afraid to dirty
his feet."
Ratigan and Thady immediately set to, and
in a few minutes there were scarcely a little pair
of fists present that were not at work, either on
behalf of the two first combatants, or with a
view to determine their own private rights in
being the first to exercise hopitality towards the
amazed poor scholar. The fact was, that while
the two largest boys were arguing the point,
about thirty or forty minor disputes all ran
parallel to theirs, and their mode of decision was
immediately adopted by the pugnacious urchins
of the school. In this manner they were engaged, poor Jemmy attempting to tranquillise
and separate them, when the master, armed in
all his terrors, presented himself.
With the tact of a sly old disciplinarian, he
first secured the door, and instantly commenced
the agreeable task of promiscuous castigation.
Heavy and vindictive did his arm descend upon




118          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
those whom he suspected to have cautioned the
boy against his rapacity; nor amongst the
warm-hearted lads, whom he thwacked so cunningly, was Thady passed over with a tender
hand. Springs, bouncings, doublings, blowing
of fingers, scratching of heads, and rubbing of
elbows-shouts of pain, and doleful exclamations, accompanied by action that displayed
surpassing agility-marked, the effect with which
he plied the instrument of punishment.  In
the mean time, the spirit of reaction, to use
a modern phrase, began to set in. The master,
while thus engaged in dispensing justice, first
received a rather vigorous thwack on the ear
from behind, by an anonymous contributor, who
gifted him with what is called a musical ear for
it sang during five minutes afterwards.  The.
monarch, when turning round to ascertain the
traitor, received another insult on the most
indefensible side, and that with a cordiality of
manner, that induced him to send his right hand
a reconnoitring the invaded part. He wheeled
round a second time with more alacrity than
before; but nothing less than the head of Janus
could have secured him on the occasion. The




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          119
anonymous contributor sent him a fresh article.
This was supported by another kick behind: the
turf began to fly; one after another came in
contact with his head and shoulders so rapidly,
hat he found himself, instead of being the
assailant, actually placed upon his defence. The
insurrection spread, the turf flew more thickly;
his subjects closed in upon him in a more compact
body; every little fist itched to be at him; the
larger boys boldly laid in the facers, punched
him in the stomach, treated him most opprobriously behind, every kick and cuff accompanied
by a memento of his cruelty; and in short, they
compelled him, like Charles the Tenth ignominiously to fly from his dominions.
On finding the throne vacant, some of them
suggested that it ought to be overturned altogether. Thady, however, who was the ringleader of the rebellion, persuaded them to be
satisfied with what they had accomplished, and
consequently succeeded in preventing them from
destroying the fixtures.
Again they surrounded the poor scholar, who,
feeling himself the cause of the insurrection,
appeared an object of much pity. Such was his




120          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
grief that he could scarcely reply to them.
Their consolation on witnessing his distress was
overwhelming.  They desired him  to  think
nothing of it; if the master, they told him,
should wreck his resentment on him, "be the
holy farmer, they would pay* the masther."
Thady's claim was now undisputed. With only
the injury of a black eye, and a lip swelled to
the size of a sausage, he walked home in triumph,
the poor scholar accompanying him.
The master who feared the open contempt of
his authority, running up, as it did, into a very
unpleasant species of retaliation, was something
like a signal for him to leave the parish, felt
rather more of the penitent the next morning
than did any of his pupils. He was by no
means displeased, therefore, to see them drop in
about the usual hour. They came, however, not
one by one, but in compact groups, each officered
by two or three of the larger boys; for they
feared that, had they entered singly, he might
have punished them singly, until his vengeance
should be satisfied. It was by bitter and obstinate struggles that they succeeded in repressing
* Punish.
10




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          121
their mirth, when he appeared at his desk with
one of his eyes literally closed, and his nose considerably improved in size and richness of color.
When they were all assembled, he hemmed
several times, and, in a woe-begone tone of
voice, split-by a feeble attempt at maintaining
authority, and suppressing his terrors-into two
parts, that jarred most ludicrously, he briefly
addressed them as follows:
" Gintlemen classics, I have been now twentysix years engaged in the propagation of Latin
and Greek litherature, in conjunction wid mathe.
matics, but never, until yesterday, has my influence been spurned; never, until yesterday, have
sacrilegious hands been laid upon my person;
never, until yesterday, have I been kicked- insidiously, ungallantly, and treacherously kickedby my own subjects.  No, gintlemen-and
whether I ought. to bestow that respectable
epithet upon you after yesterday's proceedings is
a matter which admits of dispute —lnever before
has the lid of my eye been laid drooping, and
that in such a manner that I must be blind to
the conduct of half of my pupils, whether I will
or not. You have complained, it appears, of my
11




122          THE POOR SCHOLAR
want of impartiality; but, God knows, you have
compelled me to be partial for a week to come.
Neither blame me if I may appear to look upon
you with scorn for the next fortnight; for I am
compelled to turn up my nose at you much against
my own inclination. You need never want an
illustration of the naso adunco of Horace again;
I'm  a living example of it.  That, and the
doctrine of-projectile forces, have been exemplified in a manner that will prevent me from
ever relishing these subjects in future. No king
can consider himself properly such, until after
he has received the oil of consecration; but you,
it appears, think differently. You have unkinged
me first, and anointed me afterwards; but I say,
no potentate would relish such unction.  It
smells confoundedly of republicanism.  Maybe
this is what you understand by the Republic of
Letters; but, if it be, I would advise you to
change your principles. You treated my ribs as
if they were the ribs of a common man; my
shins you took liberties with even to excoriation;
my head you made a target of, for your hardest
turf; and my nose you dishonored to my face.
Was this ginerous? was it discreet? was it




TIHE POOR SCHOLAR.         123
subordinate? and, above all, was it classical?
However, I will show you what greatness of
mind is. I will convince you that it is more
noble and god-like to forgive an injury, or rather
five dozen injuries, than to avenge one; when —
hem-yes, I say, when I-I —might so easily
avenge it. I now present you wid an amnesty:
return to your allegiance; but never, while in
this seminary, under my tuition, attempt to take
the execution of the laws into your own hands.
Homerians, come up!"
This address, into which he purposely threw
a dash of banter and mock gravity, delivered
with the accompaniments of his swelled nose and
drooping eye, pacified his audience more readily
than a serious one would have done. It was received without any reply or symptom of disrespect,
unless the occasional squeak of a suppressed
laugh, or the visible shaking of many sides with
inward convulsions, might be termed such.
In the course of the day, it is true, their powers of maintaining gravity were put to a severe
test, particularly when, while hearing a class, he
began to adjust his drooping eye-lid, or coax
back his nose into its natural position.  On




124          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
these occasions a sudden pause might be noticed
in the business of the class; the boy's voice, who
happened to read at the time, would fail him;
and, on resuming his sentence by command of
the master, its tone was tremulous, and scarcely
adequate to the task of repeatibng the words
without his bursting into laughter. The master
observed all this clearly enough, but his mind
was already made up to take no further notice
of what had happened.
All this, however, conduced to render the
situation of the poor scholar much more easy, or
rather less penal, than it would otherwise have
been. Still the innocent lad was on all possible
occasions a butt for this miscreant. To miss a
word was a pretext for giving him a cruel blow.
To arrive two or three minutes later than the
appointed hour was certain on his part to be
attended with immediate punishment. Jemmy
bore it all with silent heroism. Hte shed no
tear-he uttered no remonstrance; but, under
the anguish of pain so barbarously inflicted, he
occasionally looked round upon his schoolfellows
with an expression of silent entreaty that was
seldom lost upon them. Cruel to him the master




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            125
often was; but to inhuman barbarity the large
scholars never permitted'him to descend. Whenever any of the wealthier farmers' sons had neglected their lessons, or deserved chastisement,
the mercenary creature substituted a joke for
the birch; but as soon as the son of a poor man,
or, which was better still, the poor scholar came
before him, he transferred that punishment
which the wickedness or idleness of respectable
boys deserved, to his for their shoulders. For
this outrageous injustice the hard-hearted old
villain had some plausible excuse ready, so that
it was in many cases difficult for Jemmy's generous companions to interfere in his behalf, or
parry the sophistry of such a petty tyrant.
In this miserable way did he pass over the
tedious period of a year, going about every night
in rotation with the scholars, and severely beaten
on all possible occasions by the master. His
conduct and manners won him the love and
esteem of all except his tyrant instructor.  His
assiduity was remarkable, and his progress in
the elements of English and classical literature
surprisingly rapid. This added considerably to
his character, and procured him additional re11*




126          TIIE POOR SCHOLAR.
spect. It was not long before he made himself
useful and obliging to all the boys beneath his
standing in the school. These services he rendered with an air of such kindness, and a grace
so naturally winning, that the attachment of his
schoolfellows increased towards him from day to
day. Thady was his patron on all occasions:
neither did the Curate neglect him. The latter
was his banker, for the boy had very properly
committed his purse to, his keeping. At the
expiration of every quarter the schoolmaster
received the amount of his bill, which he never
failed to send in, when due.
Jemmy had not, during his first year's residence in the south, forgotten to request the kind
Curate's interference with the landlord, on behalf of his father. To be the instrument of restoring his family to their former comfortable
holding under Colonel B-, would have afforded him, without excepting the certainty of his
own eventual success, the highest gratification.
Of this, however, there was no hope, and nothing
remained for him but assiduity in his studies,
and patience under the merciless scourge of his
teacher.  In addition to an engaging person and




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          127
agreeable manners, nature had gifted him with
a high order of intellect, and great powers of
acquiring knowledge. The latter he applied to
the business before him with indefatigable industry. The school at which he settled was
considered the first in Munster; and the master,
notwithstanding his known severity, stood high,
and justly so, in the opinion of the people, as an
excellent classical and mathematical scholar.
Jemmy applied himself to the study of both, and
at the expiration of his second year had made
such progress, that he stood without a rival in
the school.
It is usual, as we have said, for the poor
scholar to go night after night, in rotation, with
his schoolfellows; he is particularly welcome in
the houses of those farmers whose children are
not so far advanced as himself. It is expected
that he should instruct them in the evenings,
and enable them to prepare their lessons for the
following day, a task which he always performs
with pleasure, because in teaching them he is
confirming( his own mind in the knowledge which
he has previously acquired. Towards the end of
the second year, however, he ceased to circulate




128          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
in this manner. Two or three of the most independent parishioners, whose sons were only
commencing their studies, agreed to keep him
week about;' an arrangement highly convenient
to him, as by that means he was not so frequently dragged, as he had been, to the remotest
parts of the parish. Being an expert penman,
he acted also as secretary of grievances to the
poor, who frequently employed him to draw up
petitions to obdurate landlords, or to their more
obdurate agents, and letters to soldiers in all
parts of the world, from their anxious and affectionate relations.  All these little services he
performed kindly and promptly; many a blessing was fervently invoked upon his head; the
" good word" and "the prayer" were all they
could afford, as they said, "to the bouchal dhas
oge * that tuck the world an him  for sake o'
the larnin', an' that hasn't the kindliness o' the
mother's breath an' the mother's hand near him,
the crathur."
About the middle of the third year he was
once more thrown upon the general hospitality
* The pretty young boy. Boy in Ireland does not always
imply youth.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          129
of the people. The three farmers with whom he
had lived for the preceding six months, emigrated to America, as did many others of that class
which, in this country, most nearly approximates
to the substantial yeomanry of England. The
little purse, too, which he had placed in the
hands of the kind priest, was exhausted; a season of famine, sickness, and general distress had
set in; and the master, on understanding that
he was without money, became diabolically savage. In short, the boy's difficulties increased to
a perplexing degree.  Even Thady and his
grown companions, who usually interposed in
his behalf when the master became excessive in
correcting him, had left the school, and now the
prospect before him was dark and cheerless
indeed. For a few months longer, however, he
struggled on, meeting every difficulty with meek
endurance. From his very boyhood he had reverenced the sanctity of religion, and was actuated
by a strong devotional spirit.  ile trusted in
God, and worshipped him night and morning
with a sincere heart.
At this crisis he was certainly an object of
pity; his clothes, which for some time before had




130 0        THE POOR SCHOLAR.
been reduced to tatters, he had replaced by a
cast-off coat and small-clothes, a present from
his friend the Curate, who never abandoned him.
~This worthy young man could not afford him
money, for as he had but fifty pounds a-year,
with which to clothe, subsist himself, keep a
horse, and pay rent, it was hardly to be expected
that his benevolence could be extensive. In addition to this, famine and contagious disease
raged with formidable violence in the parish;
so that the claims upon his bounty of hu.dreds
who lay huddled together in cold cabins, in outhouses, and even behind ditches, were incessant
as well as heart-rending. The number of interments that took place daily in the parish was
awful; nothing could be seen but funerals attended by groups of ragged and emaciated creatures, from whose hollow eyes gleamed forth the
wolfish fire of famine.  The wretched mendicants were countless, and the number of coffins
that lay on the public roads-where, attended
by the nearest relatives of the deceased, they had
been placed for the purpose of procuring charity
-were greater than ever had been remembered
by the oldest inhabitant.




TEE POOR SCHOLAR.          131
Such was the state of the parish when our
poor scholar complained one day in school of
severe illness. The early symptoms of the prevailing epidemic were well known; and, on examining more closely into his situation, it was
clear that, according to the phraseology of the
people, he had "got the faver on his back"had caught " a heavy load of the faver." The
Irish are particularly apprehensive of contagious
maladies. The moment it had been discovered
that Jemmy was infected, his school-fellows
avoided him with a feeling of terror scarcely
credible, and the inhuman master was delighted
at any circumstance, however calamitous, that
might afford him a pretext for driving-the friendless youth out of the school.
" ale," said he, "every thing belongin' to
you out of my establishment: you were always
a plague to me, but now more so than ever. Be
quick, sarra, and nidificate for yourself somewhere else. Do you want to thranslate my siminary into an hospital, and myself into Lazarus,
as president?  Go off, you wild goose! and conjugate Tcgroto wherever you find a convenient
spot to do it in."




132          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
The poor boy silently and with difficulty arose,
collected his books, and, slinging on his satchel,
looked to his schoolfellows, as' if he had said,
"Which of you will afford me a place where to
lay my aching head?" All, however, kept aloof
from him; he had caught the contagion, and the
contagion, they knew, had swept the people
away in vast numbers.
At length he spoke.  "Is there any boy
among you," he inquired, " who will bring me
home? You know I am a stranger, an' far from
namy own, God help me!"
This was followed by a profound silence. Not
one of those who had so often befriended him, or
who would on any other occasion, share their
bed and their last morsel with him, would even
touch his person, much less allow him, when thus
plague-stricken, to take shelter under their roof.
Such are the effects of selfishness, when it is
opposed only by the force of those natural qualities that are not elevated into a sense of duty
by clear and profound views of Christian truth.
It is one thing to perform a kind action from
constitutional impulse, and another to perform it
as a fixed duty, perhaps contrary to that impulse.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          133
Jemmy on finding himself avoided like a Hebrew leper of old, silently left the school, and
walked on without knowing whither he should
ultimately direct his steps. He thought of his
friend the priest, but the distance between him
and his place of abode was greater, he felt, than
his illness would permit him  to travel.  He
walked on, therefore, in such a state of misery
as can scarcely be conceived, much less described.
His head ached excessively, an intense pain shot
like death-pangs through his lower back and
loins, his face was flushed, and his head giddy.
In this state he proceeded, without money or
friends; without a house to shelter him, or a bed
on which to lie, far from his own relations, and
with the prospect of death, under circumstances
peculiarly dreadful, before him!  He tottered
on, however; the earth, as he imagined, reeling
under him; the heavens, he thought, streaming
with fire, and the earth indistinct and discolored.
HIome, the paradise of the absent —home, the
heaven of the affections-with all its tenderness
and blessed sympathies, rushed upon his heart.
His father's deep but quiet kindness, his mother's
sedulous love; his brothers, all that they had
12




134          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
been to him-these, with their thousand heartstirring associations, started into life before him
again and again. But he was now ill, and the
mother-Ah! the enduring sense of that mother's
love placed her brightest, and strongest, and
tenderest, in the far and distant group which his
imagination bodied forth.
"Mother I" he exclaimed-" oh, mother, why
-why did I ever lave you?  Mother the son
you loved is dyin' without a kind word, lonely
and neglected, in a strange land I Oh, my own
mother! why did I ever lave you?"
The conflict between his illness and his affections overcame him; he staggered-he grasped
as if for assistance at the vacant air-he fell,
and lay for some time in a state of insensibility.
The season was then that of midsummer, and
early meadows were falling before the scythe.
As the boy sank to the earth, a few laborers
were eating their scanty dinner of bread and
milk so near him, that only a dry low ditch ran
between him and them. They had heard his
words indistinctly, and one of them was putting
the milk bottle to his lips when, att racted by the
voice, he looked in the direction of the speaker,




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         135
and saw him fall. They immediately recognised
" the poor scholar," and in a moment was
attempting to recover him.
" Why thin, my poor fellow, what's a shaughran wid you?"
Jemmy started for a moment, looked about
him, and asked, "Where am I?"
"Faith, thin, you're in Rory Connor's field,
widin a few perches of the high-road. But what
ails you, poor boy? Is it sick you are?"
"It is," he replied; " I have got the faver. I
had to lave school; none o' them would take me
home, an'.I doubt I must die in a Christian
counthry undher the open canopy of heaven.
Oh, for God's sake don't lave me  Bring me to
some hosprtal, or into the next town, where
people may know that I'm sick, an' maybe some
kind Christian will relieve me."
The moment he mentioned " faver," the men
mvomntary drew back, after having laid him
reclining against the green ditch.
"Thin, thundher, an' turf, what's to be done?"
exclaimed one of them, thrusting his spread
fingers into his hair. "Is the poor boy to die
widout help among Christyeens like uz?"




136          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"'But hasn't he the sickness?" exclaims
another; "an' in that case, Pether, what's to be
done?"
"Why, you gommoch, isn't that what I'm
wantin' to know? You wor ever and always an
ass, Paddy, except before you wor born, an' thin
you wor like Major M'Curragh, worse nor,
nothin'.  Why the sarra do you be spakin'
about the sickness, the Lord protect us, whin
you know I'm so timersome of it?"
"But considher," said another, edging off
from Jemmy, however, " that he's a poor scholar,
an' that there's a great blessin' to thim that
assists the likes of him."
"Ay, is there that, sure enough, Dan; but
you see-blur-an-age, what's to be done? He
can't die this way, wid nobody wid him but
himself."
"Let us help him I" exclaimed another, " for
God's sake, an' we won't be apt to take it thin."
"Ay, but how can we help him, Frank? Oh,
bedad, it'ud be a murdherin' shame, all out, to
let the crathur die by himself, widout company,
so it would."
"No one will take him in, for fraid o' the




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          137
sickness. Why, I'll tell you what we'll do:Let us shkame the remainder o' this day off o'
the Major, an' build a shed for him on the roadside here, jist against the ditch. It's as dhry as
powdher. Thin we can go through the neighbors, an' get them to sit near him time about,
an' to bring him little dhreeniens o' nourishment."
"Divil a purtier!  Come thin, let us get a lot
o' the neighbors, an' set about it, poor bouchal.
Who knows but it may bring down a blessin'
upon us, aither in this world or the next."
An Irishman never works for wages with half
the zeal which he displays when working for
love. Ere many hours passed, a number of the
neighbors, had assembled, and Jemmy found
himself on a bunch of clean straw, in a little
shed erected for him at the edge of the road.
Perhaps it would be impossible to conceive a
more gloomy state of misery than that in which
young M'Evoy found himself.  Stretched on
the side of the public road, in a shed formed of
a few loose sticks covered over with "scraws,"
that is, the sward of the earth pared into thin
stripes-removed above fifty perches from any
12*




138          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
human habitation-his body racked with a furious and oppressive fever-his mind conscious of
all the horrors by which he was surroundedwithout the comforts even of a bed or bed-clothes
-and, what was worst of all, those from whom
he might expect kindness, afraid to approach
himI Lying helpless, under these circumstances,
it ought not to be wondered at, if he wished
that death might at once close his extraordinary
sufferings, and terminate those struggles which
filial piety had prompted him to encounter.
This certainly is a dark picture, but our
humble hero knew that' even there the power
and goodness of God could support him. The
boy trusted in God; and when removed into his
little shed, and stretched upon his clean straw,
he felt his situation was in good sooth, comfortable when contrasted with what it might have
been, if left to perish behind a ditch, exposed to
the scorching heat of the sun by day, and the
dews of heaven by night. He felt the handi of
God even in this, and placed himself, with a
short but fervent prayer, under his fatherly protection.
Irishmen, however, are not just that descrip



THE POOR SCHOLAR.           139
tion of persons who can pursue their usual avocations, and see a fellow-creature die, without
such attentions as they can afford him; not precisely so bad as that, gentle reader!  Jemmy
had not been two hours on his straw, when a
second shed much larger toana his own, was raised
within a dozen yards of it.  In this a fire was lit;
a small pot was then procured, milk was sent in,
and such other little comforts brought together,
as they supposed necessary for the sick boy.
iaving accomplished these matters, a kind of
guard was set to watch and nurse-tend him; a
pitchfork was got, on the prongs of which they
intended to reach him bread across the ditch;
and a long-shafted -shovel was borrowed, on
which to furnish him drink with safety to themselves.  That inextinguishable vein of humor,
which in Ireland mingles even with death and
calamity, was also visible here. The ragged
half-starved creatures laughed heartily at- the
oddity of their own inventions, and enjoyed the
ingenuity with which they made shift to meet
the exigencies of the occasion, without in the
slightest degree having their sympathy and concern for the afflicted youth lessened.




140          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
When their arrangements were completed, one
of them (he of the scythe) made a little whey,
which, in lieu of a spoon, he stirred with the
end of his tobacco-pipe; he then extended it
across the ditch upon the shovel, after having
put it in a tin porringer.
" Do you want a taste o' whay, avourneen?"'
" Oh, I do," replied Jemmy; "give me a
drink for God's sake."
" There it is, a bouchal, on the shovel. Musha
if myself rightly knows what side you're lyin'
an', or I'd put it as near your lips as I could.
Come, man, be stout, don't be cast down at all
at all; sure, bud-an-age, we're shovelin' the
whay to you, any how."
" I have it," replied the boy —" oh, I have it.
May God never forget this to you, whoever you
are."
"Faith, if you want to know who I am, I'm
Pether Connor the mower, that never seen tomorrow. Be Gorra, poor boy, you mustn't let
your spirits down at all at all. Sure the neighbors is all bint to watch an' take care of you.May I take away the shovel?-an' they've built
a brave snug shed here beside yours, whert




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          141
they'll stay wid you time about until you get
well. We'll feed you wid whay enough, bekase
we've made up our minds to stale lots o' sweet
milk for you. Ned Branagan an' I will milk
Rody Hartigan's cows to-night, wid the help o'
God. Divil a bit sin in it, so there isn't, an' if
there is, too, be my sowl there's no harm in it
any way-for he's but a nager himself, the same
Rody.'So, acushla, keep a light heart, for, be
Gorra, you're sure o' the thin pair o' throwsers,
any how.  Don't think you're desarted-for
you're not. It's all in regard o' bein' afeard o'
this faver, or it's not this way you'd be; but, as
I said a while agone, when you want anything,
spake, for you'll still find two or three of us beside you here, night an' day. Now won't you
promise to keep your mind asy, when you know
that we're beside you?"
" God bless you," replied Jemmy, you've taken
a weight off of my heart. I thought I'd die wid
nobody near me at all."
"Oh, the sorra fear of it. Keep your heart
up. We'll stale lots o' milk for you. Bad scran'o the baste in the parish but we'll milk, sooner
nor you'd want the whay, you crathur you."




142         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
The boy felt relieved, but his malady increased;
and were it not that the confidence of being
thus watched and attended to supported him, it
is more than  probable he would have sunk
under it.
When the hour of closing the day's labo
arrived, Major -.  came down to inspect the
progress which his mowers had made, and the
goodness of the crop upon his meadows.  No
sooner was he perceived at a distance, than the
scythes were instantly resumed, and the mowers
pursued their employment with an appearance
of zeal and honesty that could not be suspected.
On arriving at the meadows, however, he was
evidently startled at the miserable day's work
they had performed.
"Why, Connor," said he, addressing the
nurse-tender, " how is this? I protest you have
not performed half a day's labor! This is miserable and shameful."
" Bedad, Major, it's thrue for your honor, sure
enough. It's a poor day's work, the never a
doubt of it. But be all the books that never
was opened or shut, busier men than we wor
since mornin' couldn't be had for love or money




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          14-3
You see, Major, these meadows, bad luck to
theml -God pardon me for cursin' the harmless
crathurs, for sure'tisn't their fau't, Sir: but you
see, Major, I'll insinse you into it. Now look
here, your honor. Did you ever see deeper meadow nor that same, since you war foal-hemsince you war born, your honor?  Maybe, your
honor, Major,'ud just take the scythe an' sthrive
to cut a swaythe?"
"Nonsense, Connor; don't you know*I cannot."
" Thin, be Gorra, Sir, I wish you could thry
it. I'd kiss the book, we did more labor, an'
worked harder this day, nor any day for the last
fortnight. If it was light grass, Sir-see here,
Major, here's a light bit-now, look at how the
scythe runs through it!  Thin look at here agin
-just observe this, Major-why, murdher alive,
don't you see how slow she goes through that
where the grass is heavy!  Bedad, Major, you'll
be made up this sason wid your hay, any how.
Divil carry the finer meadow ever I put scythe
in nor this same meadow, God bless it!"
"Yes, I see sit, Connor; I agree with you as
to its goodness. But the reason of that is, Con



144          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
nor, that I always direct my steward. myself in
laying it down for grass. Yes, you're right,
Connor; if the meadow were light, you could
certainly mow comparatively a greater space in
a day."
"Be the livin' farmer, God pardon me for
swearin', it's a pleasure to have dalins wid a gintleman like you, that knows things as cute as if
you war a mower yourself, your honor. Bedad,
I'll go bail, Sir, it wouldn't be hard to tache
you that same."
"Why, to tell you the truth, Connor, you
have hit me olf pretty well. I'm  beginning to
get a taste for agriculture."
"But," said Connor, scratching his head,
" won't your honor allow us the price of a glass,
or a pint o' porther, for our hard day's work.
Bad cess to me, Sir, but this meadow'ill play
the puck wid us afore we get it finished.
Atween ourselves, Sir-if it wouldn't be takin'
freedoms-if you'd look to your own farmin'
yourself. The steward, Sir, is a dacent kind of
a man; but, sowl, he couldn't hould a candle to
your honor in seein' to the best way of doing a
thing, Sir. Won't you allow us glasses, a-piece,




THE POOR SCHOLAR           145
your honor? Faix, we're, kilt entirely, so we
are."
"Here is half-a-crown among you, Connor;
but don't get drunk."
" Dhrunk! Musha, long may you reign, Sir!
Be the scythe in my hand, I'd rather-Och, faix
you're one o' the ould sort, Sir-the raal Irish
gintleman, your honor. An' sure your name's
far and near for that, any how."
Connor's face would have done the heart of
Brooke or Cruickshank good, had either of them
seen it charged with humor so rich as that which
beamed from it, when'the Major left them to enjoy their own comments upon what had happened.
"Oh, be the livin' farmer," said Connor, "are
we alive at all afther doin' the Major I Oh, thin,
the curse o' the crows upon you, Major darlin',
but you are a /Ianus! *  The damn' rip o' the
world, that wouldn't give the breath he breathes
to the poor for God's sake, and he'll threwn a
man half-a-crown that'11 blarney him for farmin',
and him doesn't know the differ atween a Corkred an' a Yallow-leg." t
"Faith, he's the boy that knows how to mak
* A soft booby easily hoaxed. t Different kinds of potatoes
13




146          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
a Judy of himself any way, Pether," exclaimed
another. "The divil a hapurth asier nor to give
these Qualfty the bag to hould, so there isn't.
An' they think themselves so eute, too I"
"AIugh!" said a third, "couldn't a man find
the soft side o' them as asy as make out the way
to his own nose, widout being led to it. Divil a
sin it is to do thetn, any way. Sure, he thinks we
wor tooth an', nail at the meadow all day; an'
me thought I'd never recover it, to see Pether
here-the rise he tuck out of him I  Ha, ha,
ha, —och, och, murdher, oh I"
"Faith," exclaimed Connor, "'twas good,
you see, to help the poor scholar; only for it
we couldn't get shkamin' the half-crown out of
him. I think we ought to give the crathur half
of it, an' him so sick: he'll be wantin' it worse
nor ourselves."
" Oh, be Gorra, he's fairly entitled to that. 1
vote him fifteen pince."
"Surely I "  they  exclaimed  unanimously
"Tundler-an'-turf I wasn't he the manes of
gettin' it for us?"
"Jemmy, a bouchal," said Connor, across the
ditch to M'Evoy, "are you sleepin'?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          14.
"Sleepin I Oh, no," replied Jemmy; "I'd
give the wide world for one wink of asy sleep."
"Well, aroon, here's fifteen pince for you, that
we shkam-Will I tell him how we got it?"
"No don't," replied his neighbors; "the
boy is given to devotion, an' maybe might seruple to take it."
"' Here's fifteen pince, avourneen, on the shovel,
that we.'re givin you-for God's sake. If you over *
this, won't you offer up a prayer for us-? Won't
you, avick?"
"I can never forget your kindness," replied
Jemmy; " I will always pray for you, and may
God for ever bless you and yours! "
" Poor crathur I  May the Heavens above
have prosthration on him I  Upon my sowl, it's
good to have his blessin' an' his prayer. Now
don't fret, Jemmy; we're lavin' you wid a lot o'
neighbors here. They'll watch you time about,
so that whin you want anything, call, avourneen,
an' there'11 still be some one here to answer.
God bless you, an' restore you, till we come wid
the milk we'll stale for you, wid the help o' God.
Bad cess to me, but it'd be a mortual sin, so it
~ That is- -to get over-to survive.




148          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
would, to let the poor boy die at all, an' nim so
far from home."
It would be utterly impossible to detail the
affliction which our poor scholar suffered in- this
wretched shed, for the space of a fortnight, notwithstanding the efforts of those kind-hearted
people to render his situation comfortable.
The little wigwam they had constructed near
him, was never, even for a moment, during his
whole illness, without two or three persons ready
to attend him. In the evening their numbers
increased; a fire was always kept burning, over
which a little pot for making whey or gruel was
suspended. At night they amused each other
with anecdotes and laughter, and occasionally
with songs, when certain that their patient was
not asleep. Their exertions to steal milk for
him were performed with uncommon glee, and
related among themselves with great humor.
These thefts would have been unnecessary, had
not the famine which then prevailed through the
province been so excessive. The crowds that
swarmed about the houses of wealthy farmers,
supplicating a morsel to keep body and soul
together, resembled nothing which our English




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          149
readers ever had an opportunity of seeing.
Ragged, emaciated creatures, tottered about
with an expression of wildness and voracity in
their gaunt features; fathers and mothers reeled
under the burthen of their beloved children, the
latter either sick, or literally expiring for want
of food; and the widow, in many instances, was
compelled to lay down her head to die, with the
wail, the feeble wail, of her withered orphans
mingling with her last moans! In such a state
of things it was difficult to procure a sufficient
quantity of milk to allay the unnatural thirst
even of one individual, when parched by the
scorching heat of a fever.  Notwithstanding
this, his wants were for the most part anticipated, so far as their means would allow them;
his shed was kept waterproof; and either shovel
or pitchfork always ready to be extended to him,
I)y way of substitution for the right hand of fellowship.
When he called fer anything, the usual observation was,' Husht I the crathur's callin'; I
must take the shovel an' see what he wants."
There were times, it is true, when the mirth
of the poor fellows was very low, for hunger was
13*




150          THE POOR SCHOIAR.
generally among themselves; there were times
when their own little shed presented a touching
and melancholy spectacle- perhaps we ought
also to add, a noble one; for, to contemplate a
number of men, considered rude and semi-barbarous, devoting themselves, in the midst of privations the most cutting and oppressive, to the
care and preservation of a strange lad, merely
because they knew him to be without friends
and protection, is to witness a display of virtue
truly magnanimous. The food on which some
of the persons were occasionally compelled to
live, was blood boiled up with a little oatmeal;
for when a season of famine occurs in Ireland,
the people usually bleed the cows and bullocks
to preserve themselves from actual starvation.
It is truly a sight of appalling misery to behold
feeble women gliding across the country, carrying their cans and pitchers, actually trampling
upon fertility and fatness, and collected in the
corner of some grazier's farm, waiting, gaunt
and ravenous as Gouls, for their portion of
blood.  During these melancholy periods of
want, everything in the shape of an esculent
disappears.  The miserable creatures will pick




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           151
up chicken-weed, nettles, sorrell, bugloss, preshagh, and sea-weed, which they will boil and
eat with the voracity of persons writhing under
the united agonies of hunger and death!  Yet,
ingular to say, the very country thus groaning
under such a terrible sweep of famine is actually
pouring from all her ports a profusion of food,
day after day; flinging it from her fertile bosom,
with the wanton excess of a prodigal oppressed
by abundance.
Despite, however, of all that the poor scholar's
nurse-guard suffered, he was attended with a
fidelity of care and sympathy which no calamity
could shake. Nor was this care fruitless; after
the fever had passed through its usual stages, he
began to recover. In fact, it has been observed
very truly, that scarcely any person has been
known to die under circumstances similar to
those of the poor scholar. These sheds, the erection of which is not unfrequent in case of fever,
have the advantage of pure free air, by which
the patient is cooled and refreshed.  Be the
cause of it what it may, the fact has been
established, and we feel satisfaction in being able
to adduce our humble hero as an additional proof




152          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
of the many recoveries which take place in situations apparently so unfavorable to human life.
But how is it possible to detail what M'Evoy
suffered during this fortnight of intense agony?.Not those who can command the luxuries of life
-not those who can reach its comforts-nor
those who can supply themselves with its bare
necessaries-neither the cotter who struggles to
support his wife. and helpless children-the
mendicant who begs from door to door-nor
even the felon in his cell-can imagine what he
felt in the solitary misery of his feverish bed.
Hard is the heart that cannot feel his sorrows,
when, stretched beside the common way, without a human face to look on, he called upon the
mother whose brain, had she known his situation,
would have been riven-whose affectionate heart
would have been broken by the knowledge of
his affliction. It was a situation which afterwards appeared to him dark and terrible.
The pencil of the painter could not depict it, nor
the pen of the poet describe it, except like a
dim vision, which neither the heart nor the
imagination are able to give the world as a tal
steeped in the sympathies excited by reality.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          153
His whole heart and soul, as he afterwards
acknowledged, were during his trying illness, at
home. The voices of his parents, of his sisters,
and of his brothers, were always in his ears;
their countenances surrounded his cold and
lonely shed; their hands touched him; their
eyes looked upon him in sorrow —and their
tears bedewed him. Even there, the light, of his
mother's love, though she herself was distant,
shone upon his sorrowful couch; and he has
declared, that in no past moment of affection
did his soul ever burn with a sense of its presense so strongly as it did in the heart-dreams
of his severest illness. But God is love, "and
tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb."
Much of all his sufferings would have been
alleviated, were it not that his two best friends
in the parish, Thady and the curate, had been
both prostrated by the fever at the same time
with himself. There was consequently no person
of respectability in the neighborhood cognizent
of his situation. He was left to the humbler
class of the peasantry, and honorably did they,
with all their errors and ignorances, discharge
those duties which greater wealth and greater




154          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
knowledge would, probably, have left unperformed.
On the morning of the last day he ever intended to spend in the shed, at eleven o'clock,
he heard the sound of horses' feet passing along
the road.  The circumstance was one quite
familiar to him; but these horsemen, whoever
they might be, stopped, and immediately after,
two respectable looking men, dressed in black,
approached him. His forlorn state and frightfully-wasted appearance startled them, and the
younger of the two asked, in a tone of voice
which went directly to his heart, how it was
that they found him in a situation so desolate.
The kind interest implied by the words, and
probably a sense of his utterly destitute state,
affected him strongly, and he burst into tears.
The strangers looked at each other, then at
him; and if looks could express sympathy,
theirs expressed it.
"My good boy," said the first, " how is it
that we find you in a situation so deplorable
and wretched as this? Who are you, or why
is it that you have not a friendly roof to shelter
you?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          155
"I'm a poor scholar," said Jemmy, "the son
of honest but reduced parents: I came to this
part of the country with the intention of preparing myself. for Maynooth, and, if it might
plase God, with the hope of being able to raise
them out of their distress."
The strangers looked more earnestly at the
boy; sickness hbad touched his fine intellectual
features into a purity of expression almost ethereal. His fair skin appeared nearly transparent,
and the light of truth and candor lit up his
countenance with a lustre which -affliction could
not dim.
The other stranger approached him more
nearly, stooped for a moment, and felt his
pulse.
"How long have you been in this country?"
he inquired.
"Nearly three years."
" You have been ill of the fever which is so
prevalent; but how did you come to be left to
the chance of perishing upon the highway?"
"Why, Sir, the people were afraid to. let me
into their houses in consequence of the faver. I
got ill in school, Sir, but no boy would venture




156          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to bring me home, an' the master turned me out,
to die, I believe. May God forgive him!"
" Who was your master, my child?"
" The great Mr. -, Sir. If Mr. O'Brien,
the curate of the parish, ihadn't been ill himself
at the same time, or if Mr. O'Rorke's son,
Thady, hadn't been laid on his back, too, Sir, I
wouldn't suffer what I did."
" Has the curate been kind to you?"
" Sir, only for him and the big boys I couldn't
stay in the school, on account of the master's
cruelty, particularly since my money was out."
" You are better now-are you not?" said the
other gentleman.
"Thank God, Sirl-oh, thanks be to the Almighty, I am! I expect to be able to lave this
place to-day or to-morrow."
"And where do you intend to go when you
recover?"
The boy himself had not thought of this, and
the question came on him so unexpectedly, that
he could only reply"Indeed, Sir, I don't know."
"Had you," inquired the second stranger,
testimonials from your parish priest?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         15[
"I had, Sir: they are in the hands of Mr.
O'Brien. I also had a character from my
father's landlord."
"But how," asked the other, "have you existed here during yourillness? Have you been
long sick?"
"Indeed I can't tell you, Sir, for I don't know
how the time passed at all; but I know, Sir, that
there were always two or three people attendin'
me. They sent me whatever they thought I
wanted, upon a shovel or a pitchfork, across the
ditch, because they were afraid to come near
me."
During the early part of the dialogue, two or
three old hats, or caubeens, might have been
seen moving steadily over from the wigwam to
the ditch which ran beside the shed occupied by
M'Evoy. Here they remained stationary, for
those who wore them were now within hearing
of the conversation, and ready to give their convalescent patient a good word, should it be
necessary.
" How were you supplied with drink and medicine?" asked the younger stranger.
" As I've just told you, Sir," replied Jemmy;
14




158          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"the neighbors here let me want for nothing
that they had. They kept me in more whey
than I could use; and they got me medicine, too,
some way or other.  But indeed, Sir, during a
great part of the time I was ill, I can't say how
they attended me: I wasn't sensible, Sir, of what
was goin' on about me."
One of those who lay behind the ditch now
arose, and after a few hems and scratchings of
the head, ventured to join in the conversation.
"Pray have you, my man," said the elder of
the two, "been acquainted with the circumstances of this boy's illness?"
" Is it the poor scholar, my Lord?* Oh, thin
bedad it's myself that has that.  The poor
crathur was in a terrible way all out, so he was.
He caught the faver in the school beyant, one
day, an' was turned out by the nager o' the
world that he was larnin' from."
"Are you one of the persons who attended
him?"
"Och, och, the crathur! what could unsignifled people like us do for him, barrin' a thrifle?
* The peasantry always address a Roman Catholic Bishop
as "My Lord."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          159
Any how, my Lord, it's the meracle o' the world
that he was ever able to over it at all. Why,
Sir, good luck to the one of him but suffered as
much, wid the help o' God, as'ud overcome fifty
men!"
" How did you provide him with drink at such
a distance from any human habitation?"
"Troth, hard enough we found it, Sir, to do
that same: but sure, whether or not, my Lord,
we couldn't be sich nagers as to let him die all
out, for want o' somethin' to moisten his throath
wid."
"I hope," inquired  the other, "you had
nothing to do in the milk-stealing which has
produced such an outcry in  this immediate
neighborhood?"
"Milk-stalin'  Oh, bedad, Sir, there never
was the likes known afore in the counthry. The
Lord forgive them that did it!  Be gorra, Sir,
the wickedness o' the people's mighty improvin',
if one'ud take warnin' by it, glory be to Godl"
" Many of the farmers' cows have been milked
at night, Connor-perfectly drained. Even my
own cows have not escaped; and we who have
suffered are certainly determined, if possible, to




160          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
Ascertain those who have committed the theft.
I, for my part, have gone even beyond my ability in relieving the wants of the poor, during this
period of sickness and famine; I therefore deserved this the less."
"By the powdhers, your honor, if any gintleman desarved to have his cows unniilkced, it's
yourself. But, as I said this minute, there's no
end to the wickedness o' the people, so there's
not. I suppose they thought it only a white sin,
Sir, to take the milk, the thieves o' the world."
"Maybe, your honor," said another, " that it
was only to keep the life in some poor sick
crathur that wanted it more nor'you or the farmers, that they did it. There's some o' the same
farmers desarve worse, for they're keepin' up the
prices o' their male an' praties upon the poor, an'
did so all along, that they might make money
by our outher distitution."
"That is no justification for theft," observed
the graver of the two.  "Does any one among
you suspect those who committed it in this
instance? If you do, I command you, as your
Bishop, to mention them."
" How, for instance," added the other, "were




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         161
you able to supply this sick boy with whey
during his illness?"
"Oh thin, gintlemen," replied Connor, dexterously parrying the question, "but it's a mighty
improvin' thing to see our own Bishop,-God
spare his lordship to us!-an' the Protestant
minister o' the parish joinin' together to relieve
an' give good advice to the poor I Bedad, it's
settin' a fine example, so it is, to the Quality, if
they'd take patthern by it."
" Reply," said the Bishop, rather sternly, "to
the question we have asked you."
"The quistions, your Lordship?  It's proud
an' happy we'd be to do what you want; but the
sarra man among us can do it, barrin' we'd say
what we ought not to say. That's the thruth,
my Lord; an' surely'tisn't your Gracious Reverence that'ud want us to go beyant that?"
" Certainly not," replied the Bishop.  "I
warn you against both falsehood and fraud;
two charges which might frequently be brought
against you in your intercourse with the gentry
of the country, whom you seldom scruple to deceive and mislead, by gliding into a character,
when speaking to them, that is often the reverse
14*




162          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
of your real one; whilst, at the same time, you
are both honest and sincere to persons of your
own class.  Put away this practice, for it is
both sinful and discreditable."
" God bless your Lordship! an' many thanks
o your Gracious Reverence for advisin' us I
Well we know that it's the blessed thing to
folly your words."
" Bring over that naked, starved-looking man,
who is stirring the fire under that pot," said the
Rector.  " He looks like Famine itself."
" Paddy Dunn! will you come over here to
his honor, Paddy!  He's goin' to give you
somethin'," said Connor, adding of his own
accord the last clause of the message.
The tattered creature approached him with a
gleam of expectation in his eyes that appeared
like insanity.
" God bless your honor for your goodness! "
exclaimed Paddy. " It's me that's in it, Sir!Paddy Dunn, Sir, sure enough; but, indeed, I'm
the next thing to my own ghost, Sir, now, God
help me! "
" What, and for whom, are you cooking?"
"Jist the smallest dhrop in life, Sir, o' gruel,




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          162
to keep the sowl in that lonely crathur, Sir, the
poor scholar."
"Pray how long is it since you have eaten
anything yourself?"
The tears burst from the eyes of the miserable
creature as he replied" Before God in glory, your honor, an' in the
presence of his Lordship here, I only got about
what'ud make betther nor half a male widin the
last day, Sir.'Twas a weeshy grain o' male that
I got from a friend; an' as Ned Connor here
tould me that this crathur had nothin' to make
the gruel for him, why I shared it wid him,
bekase he couldn't even beg it, Sir, if he wanted
it, an' him not able to walk yit."
The worthy pastor's eyes glistened with a
moisture that did him honor. Without a word
of observation he slipped a crown into the hand
of Dunn, who looked at.it as if he had been
paralysed.
"Oh thin," said he, fervently, "may every hair
on your honor's head become a mould-candle to
light you into gloryI The world's goodness is
in your heart, Sir; and may all the blessin's of
Heaven rain down upon you an' yours!"




164          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
The two gentlemen then gave assistance to
the poor scholar, whom the Bishop addressed in
kind and encouraging language: —
" Come to me, my good boy," he added, "and
if, on further inquiry, I find that your conduct
has been such as I believe it to have been, you
may rest assured, provided also you continue
worthy of my good opinion, that I shall be a
friend and a protector to you. Call on me when
you get well, and I will speak to you at greater
length."
"Well," observed Connor, when they were
gone, "the divil's own hard puzzle the Bishop
had me in, about stalin' the milk. It wint agin
the grain wid me to tell hlim the lie, so I had to
invint a bit o' truth to keep my conscience clear;
for sure there was not a man among us that could
tell him, barrin' we said what we ougbhtn't to say.
Doesn't all the world know that a man oughtn't
to corndimn himself?  That was thruth, any way;
but divil a scruple I'd have in bammin' the
other-not but that he's one o' the best of his
sort. Paddy Dunn, quit lookin' at that crown,
but get the shovel an' give the boy his dhrink —
he's wantin' it."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          165
The agitation of spirits produced by Jemmy's
cheering interview with the Bishop was, for two
or three days afterwards, somewhat prejudicial
to his convalescence.  In less than a week,
however, he was comfortably settled with Mr.
O'Rorke's family, whose kindness proved to him
quite as warm as he had expected.
When he had remained with them a few days,
he resolved to recommence his studies under his
tyrant master.  He certainly knew  that his
future attendance at the school would be penal
to him, but he had always looked forward to the
accomplishment of his hopes as a task of difficulty and distress. The severity to be expected
from the master could not, he thought, be
greater than that which he had already suffered;
he therefore decided, if possible, to complete his
education under him.
The school, when Jemmy appeared in it, had
been for more than an hour assembled, but the
thinness of the attendance not only proved the
woful prevalence of sickness and distress in the
parish, but sharpened the pedagogue's vinegar
aspect into an expression of countenance singularly peevish and gloomy. When the lad entered,




166G         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
a murmur of pleasure and welcome ran through
the scholars, and joy beamed forth from every
countenance but that of his teacher. When the
latter, noticed this, his irritability rose above
restraint, and he exclaimed" Silence! and apply to business, or I shall
cause some of you-to denude immediately. No
school ever can prosper in which that hirudo,
called a poor scholar, is permitted toleration. I
thourght, sarrabh, I told you to nidificate and
hatch your wild project undher some other wing
than mine."
" I only entrate you," replied our poor hero,
"to suffer me to join the class I left while I was
sick, for about another year.  I'll be very quiet
and humble, and, as far as I can, will do everything you wish me."
"Ah! you are a crawling reptile," replied the
savage, "and, in my opinion, nothing but a chate
and impostor. I think you have imposed yourself
upon Mr. O'Brien for what you are not; that is,
the son of an honest man. I have no doubt but
many of your nearest relations died after having
seen their own funerals. Your mother, you runa,
gate, wasn't your father's wife, I'll be bail."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           167
The spirit of the boy could bear this no longer;
his eyes flashed, and his sinews stood out in the
energy of deep indignation.
"It is false," he exclaimed; "it is as false as
your own cruel and cowardly heart, you wicked
and unprincipled tyrant I  In everything you
have said of my father, mother, and friends, and
of myself, too, you are a liar, from the hat on
your head to the dirt undher your feet-a liar, a
coward, and a villain I"
The fury of the miscreant was ungovernable:
he ran at the still feeble lad, and, by a stroke of
his fist, dashed him senseless to the earth. There
were now no large boys in the school to curb his
resentment, he therefore kicked him in the back
when he fell. Many voices exclaimed in alarm"Oh, mastlher! Sir I don't kill him! Oh, Sirl
dear, don't kill him I Don't kill poor Jemmy,
Sir, an' him still sick I"
"Kill him I" replied the master; "kill him,
indeed I Faith, he'd be no common man who
could kill him; he has as many lives in him as a
cat!  Sure, he can live behind a ditch, wid the
faver on his back, widout dying; and he would
live if he was stuck on the spire of a steeple."




168          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
In the mean time the boy gave no symptoms
of returning life, and the master, after desiring a
few of the scholars to bring him out to the air,
became pale as death with apprehension. He
immediately withdrew to his private apartment
which joined the school-room, and sent out his
wife to assist in restoring him to animation.
With some difficulty this was accomplished.
The unhappy boy at once remembered what had
just occurred; and the bitter tears gushed from
his eyes, as he knelt down, and exclaimed,
"Merciful Father of heaven and earth, have
pity on me! You see my heart, great Godl and
that what I did, I did for the best!"
"Avourneen," said the woman, "he's passionate, an' never mind him. Come in an' beg
his pardon for callin' him a liar, an' I'll become
spokesman for you myself.  Come, acushla,
an' I'll get lave for you to stay in the school
still."
" Oh, I'm hurted!" said the poor youth: " I'm
hurted inwardly-somewhere about the back, and
about my ribs!' The pain he felt brought the
tears down his pale cheeks. "I wish I was at
home I" said he. " I'll give up all and go home!"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          169
The lonely boy then laid his head upon his hands,
as he sat on the ground, and indulged in a long
burst of sorrow.
"Well," said a manly-looking little fellow,
whilst the tears stood in his eyes, "I'll tell my
father this, any how. I know he won't let me
come to this school any more. Here, Jemmy,
is a piece of my bread, maybe it will do you
good."
"I could'nt taste it, Frank dear," said Jemmy;
"God bless you! but I couldn't taste it."
"Do," said Frank; "maybe it will bate back
the pain."
"Don't ask me, Frank dear," said Jemmy; "I
couldn't ate it: I'm hurted inwardly."
"Bad luck to me!" exclaimed the indignant
boy, " if ever my ten toes will darken this school
door agin. By the livin' farmer, if they ax me
at home to do it, I'll run away to my uncle's, so
I will. Wait, Jemmy, I'll be big yit; an', be
the blessed Gospel that's about my neck, I'll
give the same masther a shirtful of sore bones,
the holy an' blessed minute I'm able to do it."
Many of the other boys declared that they
would acquaint their friends with the master's
15




1 0         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
cruelty to the poor scholar; but Jemmy requested them not to do so, and said that he was
determined to return home the moment he should
be able to travel.
The affrighted woman could not prevail upon
him to seek a reconciliation with her husband,
although the expressions of the other scholars
induced her to press him to it, even to entreaty.
Jemmy arose, and with considerable difficulty
reached the Curate's house, found him at home,
and, with tears in his eyes, related to him the
atrocious conduct of the master.
"Very well," said this excellent man, "I am
glad that I can venture to ride as far as Colonel
B-  s to-morrow. You must accompany me;
for decidedly such brutality cannot be permitted
to go unpunished."
Jemmy knew the Curate was his friend; and
although he would not himself have thought of
summoning the master to answer for his barbarity, yet he acquiesced in the curate's opinion.
He stopped that night in the house of the
worthy man to whom Mr. O'Brien had recommended him on his first entering the town.  It
appeared in the morning, however, that he was




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         l11
unable to walk; the blows which he had received
were then felt by him to be more dangerous than
had been supposed.  Mr. O'Brien, on being
informed of this, procured a jaunting-car, on
which they both sat, and, at an easy pace,
reached the Colonel's residence.
The Curate was shown into an ante-room, and
Jemmy sat in the hall: the Colonel joined the
former in a few minutes.  He had been in
England and on the Continent, accompanied by
his family, for nearly the last three years, but
had just returned, in order to take possession of
a very large property in land and money, to
which he succeeded at a very critical moment,
for his own estates were heavily encumbered.
He was now proprietor of an additional estate,
the rent-roll of which was six thousand per
annum, and also master of eighty-five thousand
pounds in the funds.
Mr. O'Brien, after congratulating him upon
his good fortune, introduced the case of our hero
as one which, in his, opinion, called for the
Colonel's interposition as a magistrate.
"I have applied to you, Sir," he proceeded,
"rather than to any other of the neighboring




172         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
gentlemen, because I think this friendless lad
has a peculiar claim upon any good offices you
could render him."
"A claim upon me I! How is that, Mr.
O'Brien?"
"The boy, Sir, is not a native of this province.
His father was formerly a tenant of yours, a
man, as I have reason to believe, remarkable for
good conduct and industry. It appears that his
circumstances, so long as he was your tenant,
were those of a comfortable independent farmer.
If the story which his son relates be true-and
I, for one, believe it-his family have been dealt
with in a manner unusually cruel and iniquitous.  Your present agent, Colonel, who is
known in his own neighborhood by the nickname of Ydlow Sam, thrust him out of his farm,
when his wife was sick, for the purpose of putting into it a man who had married his illegitimate daughter.  If this be found a correct
account of the transaction, I have no hesitation
in saying, that you, Colonel B, as a gentleman of honor and humanity, will investigate the
conduct of your agent, and see justice done to
an honest man, who must have been oppressed




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          1 3
in your name, and under color of your authority."
"If my agent has dared to be unjust to a
worthy tenant," said the Colonel, "in order to
provide for his bastard, by my sacred honor, he
shall cease to be an agent of mine! I admit,
certainly, that from some circumstances which
transpired a few years ago, I have reason to
suspect his integrity.  That, to be sure, was
only so far as he and I were concerned; but, on
the other hand, during one or two visits I made
to the estate which he manages, I heard the
tenants thank and praise him with much grati.
tude, and all that sort of thing.  There was'Thank your honor'-' Long may you reign over
us, Sir!'-and,'Oh, Colonel, you've a mighty
good man to your agent!' and so forth. I do
not think, Mr. O'Brien, that he has acted so
harshly, or that he would dare to do it. Upon
my honor, I heard those warm expressions of gratitude from the lips of the tenants themselves."
" If you knew the people in general, Colonel,
so well as I do," replied the Curate, " you would
admit, that such expressions are often either cuttingly ironical, or the result of fear. You will
15*




174          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
ilways find, Sir, that the independent portion of
the people have least of this forced dissimulation
among them. A dishonest and inhuman agent
has in his own hands the irresponsible power of
harassing and oppressing the tenantry under
him. The class most hateful to the people, are
those low wretches who spring up from nothing
into wealth, accumulated by dishonesty and rapacity. They are proud, overbearing, and jealous,
even to vindictiveness, of the least want of respect. It is to such upstarts that the poorer
classes are externally most civil; but it is also
such persons whom they most hate and abhor.
They flatter them to their faces'tis true, even
to nausea; but they seldom spare them in their
absence. Of this very class, I believe, is your
agent, Yellow Sam; so that any favorable expressions you may have heard from your tenantry
towards him, were most probably the result of
dissimulation and fear. Besides, Sir, here is a
testimonial from Mr. M'Evoy's parish-priest, in
which his father is spoken of as an honest, moral,
and industrious man."
" If what you say, Mr. O'Brien, be correct,"
observed the Colonel, "you know the Irish pea



THIE POOR SCHOLAR.         175
santry much better than I do. Decidedly, J
have always thought them in conversation exceedingly candid and sincere. With respect tc
testimonials from priests to landlords in behalf
of their tenants, upon my honor I am sick of
them. I actually received, about four years ago,
such an excellent character of two tenants, as
induced me to suppose them worthy of encouragement.  But what was the fact?  Why, Sir,
they were two of the greatest firebrands on my
estate, and put both me and my agent to great
trouble and expense. No, Sir, I wouldn't give
a curse for a priest's testimonial upon such an
occasion. These fellows were subsequently convicted of arson on the clearest evidence, and
transported."
" Well, Sir, I grant that you may have been
misled in that instance. However, from what
I've observed, the two great faults of Irish landlords are these:-rIn the first place, they suffer
themselves to remain ignorant of their tenantry;
so much so, indeed, that they frequently deny
them access and redress when the poor people
are anxious to acquaint them with their grievances; for it is usual with landlords to refer them




176          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to those very agents against whose cruelty and
rapacity they are appealing. This is a carte
blanche to the agent to trample upon them if he
pleases. In the next place, Irish landlords too
frequently employ ignorant and needy men to
manage their estates; men who have no character, no property, or standing in society, beyond
the reputation of being keen, shrewd, and active. These persons, Sir, make fortunes; and
what means can they have of accumulating
wealth, except by cheating either the landlord
or his tenants, or both? A history of their conduct would be a black catalogue of dishonesty,
oppression, and treachery. Respectable men,
resident on or near the estate, possessing both
character and property, should always be selected for this important trust. But, above all
things, the curse of a tenantry is a per-centage
agent. He racks, and drives, and oppresses,
without consideration either of market or produce, in order that his receipts may be ample
and his own income large."
"Why, O'Brien, you appear to be better
acquainted with all this sort of thing than I,
who am a landed proprietor."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          17T
"By the by, Sir, without meaning you any
disrespect, it is the landlords of Ireland who
know least about the great mass of its inhabitants; and I might also add, about its history,
its literature, the manners of the people, their
customs, and their prejudices.  The peasantry
know this, and too often practise upon their
ignorance.  There is a landlord's Vade mecum
sadly wanted in Ireland, Colonel."
"Ah  very good, O'Brien, very good!  Well,
I shall certainly inquire into this case, and if
I find that Yellow Sam has been playing the
oppressor, out he goes. I am now able to
manage him, which I could not readily do before, for, by-the-by, he had mortgages on my
property."
"I would take it, Colonel, as a personal favor,
if you would investigate the transaction I have
mentioned."
"Undoubtedly I shall, and that very soon.
But about this outrage committed against the
boy himself? We had better take his informations, and punish the fellow."
"Certainly; I think that is the best way.
jIis conduct to the poor youth has beeq merci



17s8         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
less and detestable. We must put him out of
this part of the country."
" Call the lad in. In this case I shall draw
up the informations myself, although Gregg usually does that."
Jemmy, assisted by the Curate, entered th
room, and the humane Colonel desired him, as he
appeared ill, to sit down.
"What is your name?" asked the Colonel.
"James M'Evoy," he replied.  " I'm the son,
Sir, of a man who was once a tenant of yours."
"Ay! and pray how did he cease to be a
tenant of mine?"
" Why, Sir, your agent, Yallow Sam, put him
out of our farm, when my poor mother was on
her sick-bed. He chated my father, Sir, out of
some money-part of our rent it was, that he
didn't give him a receipt for. When my father
went to him afterwards for the receipt, Yallow
Sam abused him, and called him a rogue, and
that, Sir, was what no man ever called my father
either before or since. My father, Sir, threatened to tell you about it, and you came to the
country soon after; but Yallow Sam got very
great wid my father at that time, and sent him




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            119
to sell bullocks for him about fifty miles off, but
when he come back again you had left the
country. Thin, Sir, Yallow Sam said nothing
till the next half-year's rent became due, whin
he came down on my father for all-that is, what
he hadn't got the receipt for, and the other gale
— and, without any warning in the world, put
him out. My father offered to pay all; but he
said he was a rogue, and that you ordered him
off the estate. In less than a week after this he
put a man that married a bastard daughter of
his own into our house and place.  That's God's
truth, Sir; and you'll find it so, if you inquire
into it. It's a common trick of his to keep back
receipts, and make the tenants pay double."*
"Sacred Heaven, O'Brien! can this be possible?"
"Your best way, Colonel, is to inquire into
it."
"Was not your father able to educate you at
home, my boy?"
"No, Sir.  We soon got into poverty after
* This is the fact. lThe individual here alluded to, frequently kept back receipts when receiving rents, under pretence of hurry, and afterwards compelled the tenants to pay
the same gale twice!




180          TTHE POOR SCHOLAR.
we left your farm; and another thing, Sir, there
was no Latin school in our neighborhood.
"For what purpose did you become a poor
scholar?"
"Why, Sir, I hoped one day or other to be
able to raise my father and mother out of the
distress that Yellow Sam brought on us."
" By Heavenl a noble aim, and a noble setiment. And what has this d-d fellow of a
schoolmaster done to you?"
"Why, Sir, yesterday when I went back to the
school, he abused me, and said that he supposed
most of my.relations we hanged; spoke ill of my
father; and said that my mother"-Here the
tears started to his eyes-he sobbed aloud.
"Go on, and be cool," said the Colonel.
" What did he say of your mother?"
"He said, Sir, that she was never married to
my father. I know I was wrong, Sir; but if it
was the king on his throne that said it of my
mother, I'd call him a liar. I called him a liar,
and a coward, and a villain: ay, Sir, and if I
had been able, I would have trampled him
under my feet;"
The Colonel looked steadily at him, but the




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          181
open clear eye which the boy turned upon him
was fiull of truth and independence.
"And you will find," said the soldier, " that
this spirited defense of your mother will be the
most fortunate action of your life. Well; lie
struck you then, did he?"
" He knocked me down, Sir, with his fistthen kicked me in the back and sides. I think
some of my ribs are broke."
" Ay!-no doubt, no doubt," said the Colonel..
"And you were only after recovering from this
fever which is so prevalent?"
"I wasn't a week out of it, Sir."
"Well, my boy, we shall punish him  for
you.1"
"Sir, would you hear me for a word or two,
if it would be pleasing to you?"
"Speak on," said the Colonel."
"I would rather change his punishment toI would-that is-if it would be agreeable to
you —It's this, Sir-I wouldn't throuble you now
against the master, if you'd be pleased to rightify
my father, and punish Yellow Sam. Oh, Sir, for
God's'sake, put my heart-broken father into h's
farm again!: If you would, Sir, I could shed my
16




182         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
blood, or lay down my life for you, or for any
belonging to you. I'm but a poor boy, Sir, low
and humble; but they say there's a greater
Being than the greatest in this world, that
listens to the just prayers of the poor and friendless. I was never happy, Sir, since we left itneither was any of us; and when we'd sit cowld
and hungry, about our hearth, we used to be
talking of the pleasant days we spent in it, till
the tears would be smothered in curses against
him that put us out of it. Oh, Sir, if you could
know all that a poor and honest family suffers,
when they are thrown into distress by want of
feeling in their landlords, or by the dishonesty
of agents, you would consider my father's case.
I'm his favorite son, Sir, and good right have I
to speak for him.  If you could know  the.
sorrow, the misery, the drooping down of the
spirits, that lies upon the countenances and the
hearts of such people, you wouldn't, as a man
and a Christian, think it below you to spread
lhappiness and contentment among them again.
In the morning they rise to a day of hardship,
no matter how bright and cheerful it may be to
others-nor is there any hope of a brighter day




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           183
for them; and at night they go to their hard
beds to strive to sleep away their hunger in spite
of cowld and want.  If you could see how the
father of a family, after striving to bear up,
sinks down at last; if you could see the look he
gives at the childre that he would lay down his
heart's blood for, when they sit naked and
hungry about him; and the mother, too, with
her kind word and sorrowful smile, proud of
them in all their destitution, but her heart breaking silently all the time, her face wasting away,
her eye dim, and her strength gone! —Sir, make
one such family happy -for all this has been in
my father's housel  Give us back our light
spirits, our pleasant days, and our cheerful hearts
again!  We lost them  through the villany of
your agent.  Give them back to us, for you can
do it; but you can never pay us for what we
have suffered.  Give us, Sir, our farm, our green
fields, our house, and every spot and nook that
we had before.  We love the place, Sir, for its
own sake; —it is the place of our fathers, and
our hearts are in it. I often think I see the
smooth river that runs through it, and the
meadows that I played in when I was a child;



184          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
the glen behind our house, the mountains that
rose before us when we left the door, the thornbush at the garden, the hazels in the glen, the
little bleach-green beside the river-Oh, Sir,
don't blame me for crying, for they are all before
my eyes, in my ears, and in my heart! Many a
summer evening have I gone to the march-ditch
of the farm that my father's now in, and looked
at the place I loved, till the tears blinded me,
and I asked it as a favor of God to restore us to
it! Sir, we are in great poverty at home;
before God we are; and my father's heart is
breaking."
The Colonel drew his breath deeply, rubbed
his hands, and as he looked at the fine countenance of the boy-expressing, as it did, enthusiassm and sorrow- his eye lighted with a gleam
of indignation. It was not against the poor
scholar; no, gentle reader, but against his own
agent.
" O'Brien," said he, "what do you think?
And this noble bQy is the son of a man who
belongs to a class of which I am ignorant!
By Heaven, we landlords are, I fear, a guilty
race."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         185
"' Nlot all, Sir," replied the Curate.  "There
are noble exceptions among them; their faults
are more the faults of omission than commission."
"Well, well, no matter. Come, I will draw
up the informations against this man; afterwards
I hoave something to say to you, my boy," he
added, addressing Jemmy, " that will not, I trust,
be unpleasant."
He then drew up the informations as strongly
as he could word them, after which Jemmy
deposed to their truth and accuracy, and the
Colonel rubbing his hands again, said"I will have the fellow secured. When you
go into town, Mr. O'Brien, I'll thank you to call
on Meares, and hand him these. He will lodge
the miscreant in limbo this very night."
Jemmy then thanked him, and was about to
withdraw, when the Colonel desired him to remain a little longer.
"Now," said he, "your father has been treated inhumanly, I believe; but no matter. That
is not the question. Your sentiments, and conduct, and your affection for your parents, are
noble, my boy. At present, I say, the question
16*




186           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
is not whether the history of your father's wrongs
be true or false; you, at least, believe it to be
true.  From this forward-but by-the-by, I forgot; how could your becoming a poor scholar
relieve your parents?"
"I intended to become a priest, Sir, and then
to help them."
"Ay! so I thought; and, provided your
father were restored to his farm, would you be
still disposed to become a priest?"
"I would, Sir; next to helping my father, that
is what I wish to be."
" O'Brien, what would it cost to prepare him
respectably for the priesthood?-I mean, to defray his expenses until he completes his preparatory education, in the first place, and afterwards during his residence in Maynooth?"
" I think two hundred pounds, Sir, would do
it easily and respectably."
"I do not think it would.  However, do you
send hil —but. first let me ask what progress he
has already made?"
" Ie has read —in fact he is nearly prepared
to enter AMaynooth.  His progress has been very
rapid."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          187
"Put him to some respectable boarding-school
for a year; then let him enter Maynooth, and I
will bear the expense. But remember I do not
adopt this course iu consequence of his faler's
history. Not I, by Jupiter; I do it on his own
account. He is a noble boy, and full of fine
qualities, if they be not nipped by neglect and
poverty. I loved my father myself, and fought
a duel on his account; and I honor the son who
has spirit to defend his absent parent."
"This is a most surprising turn in the boy's
fortunes, Colonel."
" He deserves it. A soldier, Mr. O'Brien, is
not without his enthusiasm, nor can he help admiring it in others, when nobly and virtuously
directed. To.see a boy in the midst of poverty,
encountering the hardships and difficulties of life,
with the hope of raising up his parents from distress to independence, has a touch of sublimity
in it."
" Ireland, Colonel, abounds with instances of
similar virtue, brought out, probably, into fuller
life and vigor by the sad changes and depressions which are weighing down the people. In
her glens, on her bleak mountain sides, and in




188          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
her remotest plains, such examples of pure affection, uncommon energy, and humble heroism, are
to be seen; but, unfortunately, few persons of
rank or observation mingle with the Irish people,
and their many admirable qualities pass away
without being recorded in the literature of their
country. They are certainly a strange people,
Colonel, almost an anomaly iii the history of the
human race. They are the only people who
can rush out from the very virtues of private life
to the perpetration of crimes at which we shudder. There is, to be sure, an outcry about their
oppression; but that is wrong. Their indigence
and ignorance are rather the result of neglect;
— of neglect, Sir, from the government of the
country-from  the earl to the squireen.  They
have been taught little that is suitable to their
stations and duties in life, either as tenants who
cultivate our lands, or as members of moral or
Christian society."
"Well, well: I believe what you say is too
true.  But touching the records of virtue in
humble life, pray who would record it when nothing goes down now-a-days but what is either
monstrous or fashionable?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          189
"Very true, Colonel; yet in my humble opinion, a virtuous Irish peasant is far from being
so low a character as a profligate man of rank."
"Well, well, well!  Come, O'Brien, we will
drop the subject., In the meantime, touching
this boy, as I said, he must be looked to, for he
has that in him which ought not to be neglected.
We shall now see that this d-d pedagogue be
punished for his cruelty."
The worthy Colonel in a short time dismissed
poor Jemmy with an exulting heart; but not
until he had placed a sufficient sum in the Curate's hands for enabling him to make a respectable appearance. Medical advice was also procured for him, by which he sooner overcame the
effects of his master's brutality.
On their way home Jemmy related to his
friend the conversation which he had had with
his Bishop in the shed, and the kind interest
which that gentleman had taken in his situation
and prospects. Mr. O'Brien told him that the
Bishop was an excellent man, possessing much
discrimination and benevolence; "And so," said
le, "is the Protestant clergyman who accompanied him. They have both gone among the




190          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
people during this heavy visitation of disease and
famine, administering advice and assistance; restraining them from those excesses which they
sometimes commit, when, driven by hunger, they
attack provision-carts, bakers' shops, or the
houses of farmers who are known to possess a
stock of meal or potatoes.  God knows, it is an
excusable kind of robbery; yet it is right to
restrain them."
" It is a pleasant thing, Sir, to see clergymen
of every religion working together to make the
people happy."
" But now about your own prospects; I think
you should go and see your family as soon as
your health permits you."
" I would give my right hand," replied Jemmy,
"just to see them, if it was only for five minutes:
but I cannot go. I vowed that I would never
enter my native parish until I should' become a
Catholic clergyman.  I vowed  that, Sir, to
God —and with his assistance I will keep my
vow."
"Well," said the curate, "you are right.
And now let me give you a little advice. In
the first place, learn to speak as correctly as you




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         191
can; lay aside the vulgarisms of conversation
peculiar to the common people; and speak precisely as you would write. By the bye, you
acquitted yourself to admiration with the Colonel. A little stumbling there was in the beginning; but you got over it. You see, James, the
force of truth and simplicity. I could scarcely
restrain my tears while you spoke."
"If I had not been in earnest, Sir, I could
never have spoken as I did."
"You never could. Truth, James, is the foundation of al{ eloquence; he who knowingly speaks
what is not true, may dazzle and perplex; but
he will never touch with that power and pathos
which spring from truth. Fiction is successful
only by borrowing  her habiliments.  Now,
James, for a little more advice. Don't let the
idea of having been a poor scholar deprive you
of self-respect; neither let your unexpected turn
of fortune cause you to forget what you have
suffered. Hold a middle course; be firm and
independent; without servility on the one hand,
or vanity on the other. You have also too much
good sense, and, I hope, too much religion, to
ascribe what this day has brought forth in your




192          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
behalf, to any other cause than God.  It has
pleased him to raise you from misery to ease and
comfort; to him, therefore, be it referred, and to
him be your thanks and prayers directed. You
owe him  much, for you now can perceive the
value of what he has done for you!  May his
name be blessed! "
Jemmy was deeply affected by the kindness
of his friend, for such, in friendship's truest
sense, was hle to him.  He expressed the obligations which he owed him, and promised to follow
the excellent advice he had just received.
The schoolmaster's conduct to the poor scholar
had, before the close of the day on whiich it occurred, been known through the parish. Thady
O'Rorke, who had but just recovered from the
epidemic, felt so bitterly exasperated at the outrage, that he brought his father to the parish
priest, to whom he gave a detailed account of
all that our hero and the poorer children of the
school had suffered.  In addition to this, he
went among the more substantial farmers of
the neighborhood, whose co-operation he succeeded in obtaiuing, for the laudable purpose
of driving the tyrant out of the parish.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         193
Jemmy. who still lived at the " House of Entertainment," on hearing what they intended to
do, begged Mr. O'Brien to allow him, provided
the master should be removed from the school,
to decline prosecuting him.
"He has been cruel to me, no doubt," he
added; "still I cannot forget that his cruelty
has been the means of changing my condition in
life so much for the better. If he is put out of
the parish it will be punishment enough; and,
to say the truth, Sir, I can now forgive everybody. Maybe, had I been still neglected, I might
punish him; but, in the meantime, to show him
and the world that I didn't deserve his severity,
I forgive him."
Mr. O'Brien was not disposed to check a sentiment that did the boy's heart so much honor;
he waited on the Colonel the next morning,
acquainted him with Jemmy's wishes, and the
indictment was quashed immediately after the
schoolmaster's removal from his situation.
Our hero's personal appearance was by this
time incredibly changed for the better.  His
countenance, naturally expressive' of feeling,
firmness, and intellect, now appeared to addi17




194      BARNEY BRADY'S GOOSE; OR,
all your big threats; but I'll tell you what it is,
Harry, upon my sowl you must turn a new lafe
or I'll lose a fall.  If you or Dick have any
thing against us, why don't you prove it manfully at wanst, and not be snakin' about the
bush the way yez do. The sorra aither of us
will lie undher your low, mane thoughts any
longer. I hope you seen Barney Brady's goose
on your thravels?  Faugh upon ye!  Throth
you ought to be ashamed to rise your head this
month to corne!"
"Ay, now you're at it," exclaimed Harry, rising and putting on his hat; "but for my part
I'll lave you to fight the walls till your tongue
tires. All you want is some one to jaw back to
you, just tb keep the ball goin'. Bannaght latUh
for a while!"
Outside the door he met his brother.
"I was goin' to sit awhile wid you," said
Dick; "I can't stand that woman's tonguo
good or bad."
" Faith, an' I was jist goin' in to yout," replied
the other; " Bid's in her glory; there's no facin'
her. Let us go an' sit awhile wid Charley Magrath."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         195
Jemmy, by the advice of his friend, now waited
upon the Bishop, who was much surprised at the
uncommon turn of fortune which had taken place
in his favor.  He also expressed his willingness
to help him forward, as far as lay in his power,
towards the attainment of his wishes. In order
to place the boy directly under suitable patronage, Mr. O'Brien suggested that the choice of
the school should be left to the Bishop. This,
perhaps, flattered him a little, for who is without his weaknesses? A school near the metropolis was accordingly fixed upon, to which Jemmy, now furnished with a handsome outfit, was
accordingly sent.  There we will leave him,
reading with eagerness and assiduity, whilst we
return to look after Colonel B. and his agent.
One morning after James's departure, the
Colonel's servant waited upon Mr. O'Brien with
a note from his master, intimating a wish to see
him.  He lost no time in waiting upon that
gentleman, who was then preparing to visit the
estate which he had so long neglected.
"I am going," said he,' to see how amy agent,
Yellow Sam, as they call him, and my tenants
agree.  It is my determination, Mr. O'Brien,




196          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to investigate, the circumstances attending the
removal of our protege's father.  I shall, moreover, look closely into the state and feelings of
my tenants in general. It is probable I shall
visit many of them, and certain that I will
inquire into the character of this man."
"It is better late than never, Colonel; but
still, though I am a friend to the people, yet I
would recommend  you to be guided by great
caution, and the evidence of respectable and
disinterested men only. You must not certainly
entertain all the complaints you may hear,
without clear proof, for I regret to say, that too
many of the idle and political portion of the
peasantry are apt to throw the blame of their
own folly and  ignorance-yes, and  of their
crimes, also —upon those who in no way have
occasioned either their poverty or their wickedness. They are frequently apt to consider themselves oppressed, if concessions are not made,
to which they, as idle and indolent men, who
neglect their own business, have no fair claim.
Bear this in mind, Colonel-be cool, use discrimination, take  your proofs from  others besides the parties concerned, or their friends,




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          197
and depend  upon it you will arrive at the
truth."
"O'Brien, you would make an  excellent
agent."
"I have studied the people, Sir, and know
them. I have breathed the atmosphere of their
prejudices, habits, manners, customs, and superstitions. I have felt them all myself, as they
feel them; but I trust I have got above their
influence where it is evil, for there are many fine
touches of character among them, which I should
not willingly part with. No, Sir, I should make
a bad agent, having no capacity for transacting
business.  I could direct and overlook, but
nothing more."
"Well, then, I shall set out to-morrow; and
in the meantime, permit me to say that I am
deeply sensible of your kindness in pointing out
my duty as an Irish landlord, conscious that I
have too long neglected it."
"What stay do you intend to make, Colonel?"
"I think about a month.  I shall visit some
of my old friends there, from whom  I expect a
history of the state and feelings of the country."
17*




198          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"You will hear both sides of the question
before you act?"
"Certainly.  I have written to my agent to
say that I shall look very closely into my own
affairs on this occasion. I thought it fair to give
him notice."
" Well, Sir, I wish you all success."
"Farewell, Mr. O'Brien; I shall see you
immediately after my return."
The Colonel performed his journey by slow
stages, until he reached "the hall of his fathers,"
-for it was such, although he had not for years
resided in it. It presented the wreck of a fine
old mansion, situated within a crescent of stately
beeches, whose moss-covered and ragged trunks
gave symptoms of decay and neglect.  The
lawn had been once beautiful, and the demesne
a noble one; but that which blights the industry
of the tenant-the curse of absenteeism-had
also left the marks of ruin stamped upon every
object around him. The lawn was little better
than a common; the pond was thick with weeds
and sluggish water-plants, that almost covered
its surface; and a light elegant bridge, that
spanned a river which ran before the house, was




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          199
also moss-grown and dilapidated. The hedges
were mixed up with briers, the gates broken, or
altogether removed, the fields were rank with
the ruinous luxuriance of weeds, and the grass.
grown avenues spoke of solitude and desertion.
The still appearance, too, of the house itself, and
the absence of smoke from its time-tinged
chimneys-all told a tale which constitutes one,
perhaps the greatest, portion of Ireland's misery!
Even then he did not approach it with the intention of residing there during his sojourn in the
country. It was not habitable, nor had it been
so for years. The road by which he travelled
lay near it, and he could not pass without looking upon the place where a long line of ancestors had succeeded each other, lived their span,
and disappeared in their turn.
He contemplated it for some time in a kind of
reverie. There it stood, sombre and silent;its gray walls mouldering away-its windows
dark and broken; —like a man forsaken by the
world, compelled to bear the storms of life without the hand of a friend to support him, though
age and decay render him less capable of -enduringr them.  For a moment fancy repeopled it;



200          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
again the stir of life, pastime, mirth, and hospitality echoed within its walls; the train of his
long-departed relatives returned; the din of rude
and boisterous enjoyment peculiar to the times;
the cheerful tumult of the hall at dinner; the
family feuds and festivities; the vanities and the
passions of those who now slept in dust;-all —
all came before him once more, and played their
part in the vision of the moment!
As he walked on, the flitting wing of a bat
struck him lightly in its flight; he awoke from
the remembrances which crowded on him, and,
resuming his journey, soon arrived at the inn of
the nearest town, where he stopped that night.
The next morning he saw his agent for a short
time but declined entering upon business. For
a few days more he visited most of the neighboring gentry, from  whom  he received sufficient
information to satisfy him, that neither he himself nor his agent was popular among  his
tenantry.  AMany flying reports of the agent's
dishonesty and tyranny were mentioned to him,
and ill every instance he took downi the names
of the parties, in order to ascertain the truth.
M'Evoy's case had occurred more than ten years




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           201
before, but he found that the remembrance of
the poor man's injury was strongly and bitterly
retained in the recollections of the people-a
circumtance which extorted from the blunt, but
somewhat sentimental soldier, a just observation: —"I think," said he, "that there are no
people in the world who remember either an
injury or a kindness so long as the Irish."
When the tenants were apprised of his presence among them, they experienced no particular feeling upon the subject.  During all his
former visits to his estate, he appeared merely
the creature and puppet of his agent, who never
acted the bully, nor tricked himself out in his
brief authority more imperiously than he did before him. The knowledge of this damped them,
and rendered any expectations of redress or
justice from the landlord a matter not to be
thought of.
"If he wasn't so great a man," they observed,
"who thinks it below him to speak to his tenants, or hear their complaints, there'ud be some
hope. But that rip of hell, Yallow Sam, can
wind him round his finger like a thread, an' does,
too. There's no use in thinkin' to petition him,




202          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
or to lodge a complaint againt Stony Heart,
for the first thing he'd do'ud be to put it into
the yallow-boy's hands, an' thin, God be marciful to thim that'ud complain. No, no; the
best way is to wait till Sam's masther* takes
him; an' who knows but that'ud be sooner nor
we think."
"They say," another would reply, " that the
Colonel is a good gintleman for all that, an' that
if he could once know the truth, he'd pitch the'yallow boy' to the'ould boy.'"
1N'o sooner was it known by his tenantry that
the head landlord was disposed to redress their
grievances, and hear their complaints, than the
smothered attachment, which long neglect had
nearly extinguished, now burst forth with uncommon power.
"Augh! by this an' by that, the thrue blood's
in him still. The rale gintleman to dale wid, for
ever!  We knew he only wanted to come at the
thruth, an' thin he'd back us agin the villain that
harrished us!  To the divil wid skamin' upstarts,
that hasn't the ould blood in thim! What are
* The devil;-a familiar name for him when mentioned in
connexion with a villain.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          203
they but sconces an' chates, every one o' thim,
barrin' an odd one, for a wondher!"
The Colonel's estate now presented a scene of
gladness and bustle. Every person who felt in
the slightest degree aggrieved, got his petition
drawn up; and, but that we fear our sketch is
already too long, we could gratify the reader's
curiosity by submitting a few of them. It is
sufficient to say, that they came to him in every
shape-in all the variety of diction that the poor
English language admits of-in the schoolmaster's best copy-hand, and choicest sesquipedalianism of pedantry-in the severer, but more Scriptural terms of the parish clerk-in the engrossing- hand and legal phrase of the attorney-in
the military form, evidently redolent of the
shrewd old pensioner-and in the classical style
of the young priest;-for each and all of the
foregoing were enlisted in the cause of those
who had petitions to send.in "to the Colonel
himself, God bless him!"
Early in the morning of the day on which the
Colonel had resolved to compare the complaints
of his tenantry wit.h the character which his
agent gave him of the complainants, he sent




204          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
for the former, and the following dialogue took
place between them.
" Good morning, Mr. Carson!  Excuse me
for requesting your presence to-day earlier than
usual. I have taken it into my head to know
something of my own tenantry, and as they have
pestered me with petitions, and letters, and complaints, I am anxious to have your opinion, as
you know them better than I do."
" Before we enter on business, Colonel, allow
me to inquire if you feel relieved of that bilious
attack you complained of the day before yesterday?  I'm  of a bilious habit myself, and
know something about the management of digestion!"
"A good digestion is an excellent thing, Carson; as for me, I drank too much claret with my
friend B-  y; and there's the secret. I don't
like cold wines, they never agree with me."
"Nor do I; they are not constitutional.
Your father was celebrated for his wines, Colonel: I remember an anecdote told me by Captain
Ferguson-by-thle-by, do you know where Ferguson colld be found, now, Sir?"
" Not 1. What wines do you drink, Carson?"




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          205
" A couple of glasses of sherry, Sir, at dinner;
and about ten o'clock, a glass of brandy and
water."
" Carson, you are sober and prudent. Well,
about these cursed petitions; you must help me
to dispose of them.' Why, a man would think
by the tenor of them, that these tenants of mine
are ground to dust by a tyrant."
" Ah! Colonel, you know little about these
fellows. They would make black white.  Go
and take a ride, Sir, return about four o'clock,
and I will have everything as it ought to be."
"I wish to heaven, Carson, I had your talents
for business. Do you think my tenants attached
to me?"
" Attached I! Sir, they are ready to cut your
throat or mine, on the first convenient opportunity. You could not conceive their knavishness
and dishonesty, except you happened to be an
agent for a few years."
"So I have been told, and I am resolved to
remove every dishonest tenant from my estate.
Is there not a man, for instance, called Brady?
He has sent me a long-winded petition here
What do you think of him.?"
18




206          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
" Show me the petition, Colonel."
" I cannot lay my hand on it just now; but
you shall see it. In the mean time what's your
opinion of the fellow?"
" Brady! Why I know the man particularly
well. He is one of my favorites. What the
deuce could the fellow petition about, though?
I promised the other day to renew his lease for
him."
"Oh, then, if he be a favorite of yours, his
petition may go to the devil, I suppose? Is the
man honest?"
" Remarkably so; and has paid his rents very
punctually. He is one of our safest tenants."
" Do you know a man called Cullen?"
" The most litigious scoundrel on the estate."
"Indeed! Oh, then, we must look into the
merits of his petition, as he is not honest. Had
he been honest like Brady, Carson, I should
have dismissed it."
" Cullen, Sir, is a dangerous fellow. Do you
know, that rascal has charged me with keeping
back his receipts, and with making him  pay
double rent!-ha, ha, hal Upon my honor,
it's fact."




THIE POOR SCHOLAR.         207
"The scoundrel! We shall sift him to some
purpose, however."
"If you take my advice, Sir, you will send
him about his business; for if it be once known
that you listen to malicious petitions, my authority over such villains as Cullen is lost."
" Well, I set him aside for the present. Here's
a long list of others, all of whom have been oppressed, forsooth. Is there a man called M'Evoy
on my estate?-Dominick M'Evoy, I think."
"M'Evoy!  Why that rascal, Sir, has not
been your tenant for ten years! His petition,
Colonel, is a key to the nature of their grievances in general."
"I believe you, Carson-most implicitly do I
believe that. Well, about that rascal?"
" Why, it is so long since, that, upon my honor,
I cannot exactly remember the circumstances of
his misconduct.  He ran away."
" Who is in his farm now, Carson?"
"A very decent man, Sir.  One Jackson, an
exceedingly worthy, honest, industrious fellow.
I take some credit to myself for bringing Jack
son on your estate."
" Is Jackson married?   Has he a family?"




208          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Married!  Let me see! Why-yes-I be.
liece he is. Oh, by-the-by, now I think of it, he
is married, and to a very respectable woman, too.
Certainly, I remember-she usually accompanies
]im when he pays his rents."
" Then your system must be a hood one, Carson; you weed out the idle and profligate, to
replace them by the honest and industrious?"
" Precisely so, Sir; that is my system.":
" Yet there are agents who invert your system
in some cases; who drive out the honest and industrious, and encourage the idle and profligate;
who connive at them, Carson, and fill the estates
they manage with their own dependents, or relatives, as the case may be. You have been
always opposed to this, and I'm  glad to hear
it."
"No man, Colonel B      -,filling the situation
which I have the honor to hold under you, could
study your interests with greater zeal and assiduity.  God knows, I have had so many quarrels, and feuds, and wranglings, with these fellows, in order to squeeze money out of them to
meet your difficulties, that upon my honor, I
think if it required five dozen oaths to hang me.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          209
they could be procured upon your estate. An
agent, Colonel, who is faithful to the landlord, is
seldom popular with the tenants."
"I can't exactly see that, Carson; and I
have known an unpopular landlord rendered
highly popular by the judicious management of
an enlightened and honest agent, who took no
bribes, Carson, and who neither extorted from
nor ground the tenantry under him-something
like a counterpart of yourself. But you may be
right in general."
"Is there anything particular, Colonel, in
which I can assist you now?"
" Not now. I was anxious to hear the character of those fellows from you who know them.
Come down about ten or twelve o'clock; these
petitioners will be assembled, and you may be
able to assist me."
"Colonel, remember I forewarn you, that you
are plunging into a mesh of difficulties, which you
will never be able to disentangle. Leave the
fellows to me, Sir; I know how to deal with
them. Besides, upon my honor, you are not
equal to it, in point of health. You look ill.
Pray allow me to take home their papers, and
18*




210          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
I shall have all clear and satisfactory before two
o'clock. They know my method, Sir."
"They do, Carson, they do; but I am anxious
they should also know mine.  Besides, it will
amuse me, for I want excitement. Good day,
for the present; you will be down about twelve,
or one at the farthest."
"Certainly, Sir. Good morning, Colonel."
The agent was too shrewd a man not to perceive that there were touches of cutting irony in
some of the Colonel's expressions, which he did
not like. There was a dryness, too, in the tone
of his voice and words, blended with a copiousness of good humor, which, taken altogether,
caused him to feel uncomfortable.  He could
have wished the Colonel at the devil; yet had
the said Colonel never been more familiar in his
life, nor, with one or two exceptions, readier to
agree with almost every observation made to
him.
" Well," thought he, "he may act as he pleases;
I have feathered my nest, at all events, and disregard him."
Colonel B  -, in fact, ascertained with extreme regret, that something was necessary to




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           211
be done, to secure the good-will of his tenants;
that the conduct of his agent had been marked
by rapacity and bribery almost incredible. He
had exacted from the tenantry in general, the
performance of duty-labor to such an extent, that
his immense agricultural farms were managed
with little expense to himself. If a poor man's
corn were drop ripe, or his hay in a precarious
state, or his turf undrawn, he must suffer his
oats, hay, and turf, to be lost, in order to secure
the crops of the agent. If he had spirit to refuse, he must expect to become a martyr to his
resentment.  In renewing leases his extortions
were exorbitant; ten, thirty, forty; and fifty
guineas he claimed as a fee for his favor, according to the ability of the party; yet this was
quite distinct from the renewal fine, and went
into his own pocket. When such "glove money"
was not to be had, he would accept of a cow or
horse, to which he usually made a point to take
a fancy; or he wanted to purchase a firkin of
butter at that particular time; and the poor people usually made every sacrifice to avoid his
vengeance.  It is due to Colonel B-  to say,
that he acted in the investigation of his agent's




212          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
conduct with the strictest honor and impartial.
ity. He scrutinised every statement thoroughly,
pleaded for him as temperately as he could;
found, or pretended to find, extenuating motives
for his most indefensible proceedings;'but all
would not do. The cases were so clear and evident against him, even in the opinion of the
neighboring  gentry, who had been for years
looking upon the system of selfish misrule which
he practised, that at length the generous Colonel's blood boiled with indignation in his veins
at the contemplation of his villany.  He accused
himself bitterly for neglecting his duties as a
landlord, and felt both remorse and shame for
having wasted his time, health, and money, in
the fashionable dissipation of London and Paris;
whilst a cunning unprincipled upstart played
the vampire with his tenants, and turned his estate into a scene of oppression and poverty.
Nor was this all; he had been endeavoring to
bring the property more and more into his own
clutches, a point which he would ultimately have
gained, had not the Colonel's late succession to so
large a fortune enabled him to meet his claims.
At one o'clock the tenants were all assembled




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         213
about the inn door, where the Colonel had
resolved to hold his little court. The agent himself soon arrived, as did several other gentlemen,
the Colonel's friends, who knew the people, and
could speak to their character.
The first man called was Dominick M'Evoy.
No sooner was his name uttered than a mild,
poor-looking man, rather advanced in years,
came forward.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said Carson,
"here is some mistake; this man is not one of
your tenants. You may remember I told you so
this morning."
"I remember it," replied the Colonel; "this
is'the rascal' you spoke of-is he not?
MI'Evoy," the Colonel proceeded, "you will
reply to my questions with strict truth. You
will state nothing but what has occurred between you and my agent; you must not even
turn a circumstance in your own favor, nor
against Mr. Carson, by either adding to or
taking away from it, more or less than the
truth. I say this to you, and to all present;
for, upon my honor, I shall dismiss the first case
in which I discover a falsehood."




214         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Wid the help o' the Almighty, Sir, I'll state
nothing but the bare thruth."
"How long are you off my estate?"
" Ten years, your honor, or a little more."
" How came you to run away out of your
farm?"
"Run away, your honor!  God, he knows;
I did'nt run away, Sir. The whole counthry
knows that."
"Yes, run awayI Mr. Carson, here, stated
to me this morning, that you ran away. He is
a gentleman of integrity, and would not state a
fasehood."
"I beg your pardon, Colonel, not positively.
I told you I did not exactly remember the
circumstances; I said I thought so; but I may
be wrong, for indeed, my memory of facts is not
good. M'Evoy, however, is a very honest vman,
and I have no doubt will state everything as it
happened, fairly and without malice."
"An honest'rascal,' I suppose you mean, Mr.
Carson," said the Colonel, bitterly. "Proceeld,
M'Evoy."
M'Evoy stated the circumstances precisely as
the reader is already acquainted with them;




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          215
after which the Colonel turned round to his
agent and inquired what he had to say in
reply.
"You cannot expect, Colonel B," he
replied, " that with such a multiplicity of business on my hands, I could remember, after a
lapse of ten years, the precise state of this
particular case.  Perhaps I may have some
papers, a memorandum or so, at home, that may
throw light upon it. At present I can'only say,
that the man failed in his rents, I- ejected him,
and put a better tenant in his place. I cannot
see a crime in that."
"Plase your honor," replied MI'Evoy, "I can
prove by them that's standin' to the fore this
minute, as well as by this written Affidavit, Sir,
that I offered him the full rint, havin', at the
same time, as God is my judge, ped part of it
afore."'That is certainly false-an untrue and malicious statement," said Carson.  "I now remember that the cause of my resentment-yes, of my
just resentment against you, was your reporting
that I received your rent and withheld your
receipt."




216          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Then," observed the Colonel, "there has
been more than one charge of that nature brought
against you?  You mentioned another to me
this morning, if I mistake not."
"I have made my oath, your honor, of the
thruth of it; an' here is a dacent man, Sir, a
Protestant, that lent me the money, an' was
present when I offered it to him. Mr. Smith,
come forrid, Sir, an' spake up for the poor man,
as you're always willin' to do."
" I object to his evidence," said Carson: "he
is my open enemy."
"I am your enemy, Mlr. Carson, or rather the
enemy of your corruption and want of honesty,"
said Smith: "but, as you say, an open one. I
scorn to say behind your back what I wouldn't
say to your face.  Right well you know  I
was present when he tendered you his rent. I
lent him part of it. But why did you and your
bailiffs turn him out, when his wife was on her
sick bed?  Allowing that he could not pay his
rent, was that any reason you should do so
barbarous an act as to drag a woman from her
sick bed, and she at the point of death? But
we know your reasons for it."




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          217
" Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "pray what
character do M'Evoy and Smith here bear in
the country?"
" We have known them both for years to be
honest, conscientious men," said those whom he
addressed: "such is their character, and in our
opinion they well deserve it."
"God bless you, gintlemen!" said M'Evoy —
"God bless your honors, for your kind words!
I'm sure, for my own part, I hope I'il always
desarve your good opinion, although but a poor
man now, God help me!"
"Pray, who occupies the farm at present, Mr.
Carson?"
"The mail I mentioned to you this morning,
Sir.  His name is Jackson."
"And pray, Mr. Carson, who is his wife?"
" Oh, by the by, Colonel, that's a little too
close!  I see the gentlemen smile; but they
know I must beg to decline answering that
question —not that it matters much. We have
all sown our wild oats in our time-myself as
well as another-ha, ha, ha!"
" The fact, under other circumstances," ob
served the Colonel, "could never draw al
19




218          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
inquiry from me; but as it is connected with, or
probably has occasioned, a gross, unfeeling, and
an unjust act of oppression towards an honest
man, I therefore alluded to it, as exhibiting the
motives from which you acted. She is your illegitimate daughter, Sir!"
" She's one o' the baker's dozen o' them, plase
your honor," observed a humorous little Presbyterian, with a sarcastic face, and sharp northern
accent -" for feth, Sir, for my part, A thenk
he, hes one on every hill head. A'll count, your
honor, on my fingers a roun' half-dozen, aall on
your estate, Sir, featherin their nests as fast as
they can."
" Is this Jackson a good tenant, Mr. Carson?"
"I gave you his character this morning, Colonel B."
" lout, Colonell" said the Presbyterian, "deil
a penny rent the man pays, at aall, at aall. A'11
swear A hev it from Jackson's own lips. He
made him a Bailey, Sir; he suts rent free. Ask
the man, Sir, for his receipts, an' A'll warrant
the truth will come out."
"I have secured Jackson's attendance," said




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         219
the Colonel: "let him be called in."  The-man
in a few minutes entered.
"Jackson," said the Colonel, "how long is it
since you paid Mr. Carson here any rent?"
Jackson looked at Carson for his cue; but the
Colonel rose up indignantly: "Fellow!" he proceeded, "if you tamper with me a single moment,
you shall find Mr. Carson badly able to protect
you.  If you speak falsehood, be it at your
peril."
"By Jing, Sir," said Jackson, "A'll say
nothin' aginst my father-in-laa, an' A don't care
who teks it well or ull. A was jist tekin a guan *
with a fren' or two-an' d — me, A say, A'll
stick to my father-in-laa, for he bes stuck to
me."
"You appear to be a hardened drunken
wretch," observed the Colonel.  "Will you be
civil enough to show your last receipt for rent?"
" Waull A show it? A dono whether A wull
or not, nor A dono whether A hev it or not;
but ef aal the receipts in Europe wur burnt,
d     my blood, but A'll stick to my father-inlaa."
* A half-tumbler of punch.




220          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Your father-in-law may be proud of you,"
said the Colonel.
"By h1, A'll back you en that," said the
fellow nodding his head, and looking round him
~onfidently. "By h, A say that, too!"
" And I am sorry to be compelled to add,"
continued the Colonel, " that you may be equally
proud of your father-in-law."
"A say, right agane! D      me, bit A'll
back that too!" and he nodded confidently,
and looked around the room once more. "A
wull; d-  my blood, bit no man can say
agane it. A'm married to his daughther; an',
by the sun that shines, A'll still stan' up for my
father-in-laa."
"Mr. Carson," said the Colonel, "can you
disprove these facts? Can you show that you
did not expel M'Evoy from his farm, and put
the husband of your illegitimate daughter into
it? That you did not receive his rent, decline
giving him a receipt, and afterwards compel him
to pay twice, because he could not produce the
receipt which you withheld?"
" Gentlemen," said Carson, not directly replying to the Colonel, "there is a base conspiracy




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          221
got up against me; and I can perceive, moreover, that there is evidently some unaccountable
intention on the part of Colonel B. to insult my
feelings, and injure my character. When paltry
circumstances that have occurred above ten
years ago, are raked up in my teeth, I have
little to say, but that it proves how very badly
off the Colonel must have been for an imputation against my conduct and discretion as his
agent, since he finds himself compelled to hunt
so far back for a charge."
" That is by no means the heaviest charge I
have- to bring against you," replied the Colonel.
"There is no lack of them; nor shall you be
able to complain that they are not recent, as well
as of longer standing. Your conduct in the case
of poor honest M'Evoy here, is black and iniquitous. He must be restored to his farm, but by
other hands than yours, and that ruffian instantly
expelled from it. From this moment, Sir, you
cease to be my agent. You have betrayed the
confidence I reposed in you; you have misled
me as to the character of my tenants; you have
been a deceitful, cringing, cunning, selfishi and
rapacious tyrant. My people you have ground
19*




222           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
to dust; my property you have lessened irn value
nearly one-half, and for your motives in doing
this, I refer you to certain transactions and legal
documents which passed between us.  There is
nothing cruel or mercenary which you did not
practise, in order to enrich yourself.  The whole
tenor of your conduct is before me. Your profligacy is not only discovered, but already proved;
and you played those villanous pranks, I suppose, because I have been mostly an Absentee.
Do not think, however, that you shall enjoy the
fruits of your extortion? I will place the circumstances, and the proofs of the respective charges
against you, in the hands of my solicitor, and,
by the sacred heaven above me! you shall disgorge the fruits of your rapacity.  My good
people, I shall remain among you for another
fortnight, during which time I intend  to go
through my estate, and set everything to rights
as well as I can, until I may appoint a humane
and feeling gentleman as my agent-such a one
as will have, at least, a character to lose. I also
take this opportunity of informing you, that in
future I shall visit you often, will redress your
grievances, should you have any to complain of,




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          223
and will give such assistance to the honest and
industrious among you-but to them only-as I
trust may make us better pleased with each
other than we have been. —Do not you go,
M'Evoy, until I speak to you."
During these observations Carson sat with a
smile, or rather a sneer upon his lips.  It was
the sneer of a purse-proud villain, confident that
his wealth, no matter how ill-gotten, was still
wealth, and worth its value.
"Colonel," said he, "I have heard all you
said, but you see me'so strong in honesty,' that
I am not moved.  In the course of a few weeks
I shall have purchased an estate of my own,
which I will manage differently, for my fortune is
made, Sir. I intend also to give up my other
agencies: I am rather old, and must retire to
enjoy a little of the otium cum dignitate.  I wish
you all good morning! "
The Colonel turned away in abhorrence, but
disdained any reply.
" A say, Sam," said the Presbyterian, " bring
your son-in-laa wuth you."
"An' A say that too," exclaimed the drunken
ruffian-" A say that; A do. A'ln married to




224          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
his daughter; an' A say stull, that d-n my
blood, bit A'11 stick to my father-in-laa! That's
the point! "-and again he nodded his head, and
looked round him with a drunken swagger:"A'll stick to my father-in-laa! A'11 do that;
feth, A wull!" *
It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader,
that the Colonel's address to Carson soon got
among the assembled tenantry, and a vehement
volley of groans and hisses followed the discarded agent up the street.
"Ha! bad luck to you for an ould villain I
You were made to hear on the deaf side o' your
head at last! You may take the black wool out
o' your ears, now, you rip! The cries an' curses
o' the widows an' orphans that you made and
oppressed, has ris up agin you at the long run I
Ha! you beggarly nager! maybe you'll make us
neglect our own work to do yours agin! Go an'
gather the dhry cow-cakes, you misert, an' bring
them home in your pocket, to throw on the dunghill! "
" Do you remimber the day," said others,
"you met Mr. M. an' you goin' up the street
* This dialect is local.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          225
wid a cake of it in your fists, undher your
shabby skirts; an' whin the gintleman wint to
shake hands wid you, how he discovered your
maneness? Three groans for Yallow Sam, the
extortioner! A short coorse to him!  Your
corner's warm for you, you villain! "
" But now, boys, for the Colonel!" they exclaim-ed.-" Iluzza for noble Colonel B-, the
rale Irish gintleman, that wouldn't see his tenants put upon by a villain  l —Huzza! Hell
resave yees, shout I EIuzza! Huzza! Huzza!
lHuz - tundher-an'-ounze, my voice is cracked!
Where's his coach?-where's his honor's coach?
Come, boys, out wid it! —out wid it! Tattheration to yees, come! We'll dhraw it to the divil,
to hell, an' back agin, if it piases him!  Success
to Colonel B -!  Blood-an-turf! what'11 we
do for a fight I Long life to noble Colonel
B, the poor man's friend! —long life to him
for ever an' a day longer!  Whool my darlins!
iuzza! " &c.
The warm interest which the Colonel took in
M'Evoy's behalf, was looked upon by the other
tenants as a guarantee of his sincerity in all he
promised.  Their enthusiasm knew no bounds.




226          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
They got out his carriage from the Inn-yard, and
drew it through the town, though the Colonel
himself, beyond the fact of their shouting, remained quite ignorant of what was going forward.
After Carson's departure, the Colonel's friends,
having been first asked to dine with him at the
inn, also took their leave, and none remained
but M'Evoy, who waited with pleasing anxiety
to hear what the Colonel proposed to say-for
lie felt certain that it would be agreeable.
"M'Evoy," said the Colonel, "I am truly sorry
for what you have suffered through the villany of
my agent; but I will give you redress, and allow
you for what you have lost by the transaction.
It is true, as I have been lately told by a person
who pleaded your cause nobly and eloquently,
that I can never repay you for what you have
suffered.  However, what we can, we will do.
You are poor, I understand?"
"God he sees that, Sir; and afflicted too,
plase your honor."
" Afflicted? How is that?"
" I had a son, Sir —a blessed boyI a darlin'
boy!-once our comfort, an' once we thought
he'd be our pride an' our staff, but "



THE POOR SCHOLAR.         227
The poor man's tears here flowed fast; he
took up the skirt of his " Cotha Iore," or
great-coat, and, after wiping his eyes, and clearing his voice, proceeded:"He was always, as I said, a blessed boy, and
we looked up to him always, Sir. He saw our
poverty, your honor, an' he felt it, Sir, keen
enough, indeed, God help him!  How-an'-iver,
he took it on him to go up to Munster, Sir,
undher hopes of raisin' us-undher the hopes,
poor child-an' God knows, Sir,-if-oh, Jemmy avourneen machree! —I doubt-I doubt you
sunk undher what proved too many for you!I doubt my child's dead, Sir-him that all our
hearts wor fixed upon; and if that'ud happen
to be the case, nothin'-not even your kindness
in doin' us justice, could make us happy. We
would rather beg wid him, Sir, nor have the
best in the world widout him. His poor young
heart, Sir, was fixed upon the place your honor
is restorin' to us; an' I'm afeard his mother, Sir,
would break her heart if she thought he couldn't
share our good fortune! And we don't know
whether he's livin' or dead! That, Sir, is what's
afflictin' us. I had some notion of goin' to look




228          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
for him; but he tould us he would never write,
or let us hear from him, till he'd be either one
thing or other."
"I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that
your son is well, M'Evoy.  Believe me, le is
well-I know it."
" Well! Before God, does your honor spake
truth? Well! Oh, Sir, for His sake that died
for us, an' for the sake of his blessed mother,
can you tell me is my darliu' son alive?"
"He is living; is in excellent health; is as
well dressed as I am; and has friends as rich
and as capable of assisting him as myself.  But
how is this?  What's the matter with you?
You are pale    Good God!  Here, waiter!
Waiter! Waiter, I say!"
The Colonel rang the bell violently, and two
or three waiters entered at the same moment.
" Bring a little wine and water, one of you,
and let the other two remove this man to the
open window.  Be quick.  What do you stare
at?"
In a few minutes the old n~an recovered, and
untying the narrow coarse cravat which he wore,
wiped the perspiration off his pale face.




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          229
"Pray, don't be too much affected," said
the Colonel.  "Waiter, bring up refreshmentbring wine-be quiet and calm-you are weak,
poor fellow-but we will strengthen you byand-by."
"I am wake, Sir," he replied; "for, God help
us! this was a hard year upon us; and we suffered what few could bear. But he's livin' Colonel.
Our darlin' is livin'! Oh, Colonel, your kindness
went to my heart this day afore, but that was
nothin'-he's livin' an' well! On my two knees,
before God, I thank you for them words I I
thank you a thonsand an' a thousand times more
for them words, nor for what your honor did
about Yallow Sam."
"Get up," said the Colonel-" get up. The
proceedings of the day have produced a revulsion
of feeling which has rendered you incapable of
sustaining intelligence of your son. He is well,
I assure you. Bring those things to this table,
waiter."
" But can your honor tell me anything in particular about him, Sir?  What he's doin'-or
what he intends to do?"
"Yes! he is at a respectable boarding-school."
20




230         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Boordin'-school  But isn't boordin'-schools
Protestants, Sir?"
"Not at all; he is at a Catholic boardingschool, and reading hard to be a priest, which, I
hope, he will soon be. He has good friends, and
you may thank him for being restored to your
farm."
" Glory be to my Maker for that  Oh, Sir,
your tenants wor desaved in youI They thought,
Sir, that you wor a hard-hearted gintleman, that
didn't care whether they lived or died."
"I feel that I neglected them  too long,
M'Evoy. Now take some refreshment: eat
something, and afterwards drink a few glasses of
wine. Your feelings have been much excited,
and you will be the better for it. Keep up your
spirits. I am going to ride, and must leave you:
but if you call on me to-morrow, at one o'clock,
I shall have more good news for you. We must
stock your farm, and enable you to enter upon it
creditably."
" Sir," said M'Evoy, " you are a Protestant;
but, as I hope to enther glory, I an' my wife an'
childhre will pray th'at your bed may be made
in heaven, this night; and that your honor




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          231
may be led to see the truth  an' the right
coorse."
The Colonel then left him; and the simple
man, on looking at the cold meat, bread, and
wine before him, raised his hands and eyes to
wards heaven, to thank God for his goodness,
and to invoke a blessing upon his noble a;nd
munificent benefactor.
But how shall we describe the feelings of his
family, when, after returning home, he related
the occurrences of that day. The severe and
pressing exigences under which they labored had
prevented his sons from attending the investigation that was to take place in town. Their expectations, however, were raised, and they looked
out with intense anxiety for the return of their
father.
At length, he was seen coming slowly up the
hill; the spades were thrown aside, and the
whole family assembled to hear "what was
done."
The father entered in silence, sat down, and
after wiping his brow, and laying down his hat,
placing his staff across it upon the floor he drew
his breath deeply.




232          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Dominick," said the wife, "what news?
What was done?"
"YVara," replied Dominick, "do you remimber
the day-fair and handsome you wor thenwhen I first kissed your lips, as my own darlin'
wife?"
"Ah, avourneen, Dominick, don't spake of
them times. The happiness we had then is long
gone, acushla, in one sense."
"It's before me like yestherday, Vara,-the
delight that went through my heart, jist as clear
as yestherday, or the blessed sun that's shinin'
through the broken windy on the floor there. I
remimber, Vara, saying to you that day-I don't
know whether you remimber it or not-but I
remimber sayin' to you, that if I lived a thousand years, I could never feel sich happiness as
I did when I first pressed you to my heart as
my own wife."
"Well, but we want to hear what happened,
Dominick, anchora."
" Do you remimber the words, Vara?"
" Och! I do, avourneen. Didn't they go into
Mfy heart at the time, an' how could I forget them?
But I can't bear, somehow, to look back at what




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          233
we wor then, bekase I feel my heart brakin',
acushla!"
"Well, Yara, look at me. Amn't I a poor
wasted crathur now, in comparishment to what
I was thin?"
" God he sees the change that's in you darlin'!
But sure'twasn't your fau't, or mine either,
Dominick, avillish!"
"Well, Vara, you see me now-I'm happierbefore God, I'm happier-happier, a thousand
degrees, than I was thinl Come to my arms,
asthore machree-my heart's breakin'-but it's
wid happiness-don't be frightened-it's'wid joy
I'm sheddin' these tears-it's wid happiness and
delight I'm  cryin'!  Jemmy is livin', an' well,
childhre-he's livin' an' well, Vara-the star of
our hearts is livin', an' well, an' happy!  Kneel
down, childhre-kneel down!  Bend before the
great God, an' thank him for his kindness to
your blessed brother-to our blessed son. Bless
the Colonel, childhre; bless him  whin you're
down, Protestant an' all, as he is. Oh, bless
him as if you prayed for myself, or for Jemmy,
that's far away from us!"
He paused for a few minutes, bent his head




234          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
upon his hands as he knelt in supplication at the
chair, then resumed his seat, as did the whole
family, deeply affected.
"Now, childhre," said he, "I'll tell yez all;
but don't any of you be so poor a crathur as I
was to-day. Bear it mild an' asy, Vara, acushla,
for I know it will take a start out of you. Sure
we're to go back to our own ould farm! Ay, an'
what's more-oh, God of heaven, bless him!what's more, the Colonel is to stock it for us,
an' to help us; an' what is more, Yallow Sam is
out! OUT!! "
" Out!" they exclaimed: "Jemmy well, an'
Yallow Sam out!  Oh, father, surely"
" Now behave, I say. Ay, and never to come
in again!  But who do you think got him out?"
"Who?-why God lie knows. Who could
get him out?"
"Our son, Vara-our son, childhre: Jemmy
got him out, an got ourselves back to our farmI
I had it partly from  the noble Colonel's own
lips, an' the remainder from  Mr. Moutray, that
I met on my way home. But there's more to
come:-sure Jemmy has friends aquil to the
Colonel himself: an' sure he's at a Catholic




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           235
boordin'-school, among gintlemen's childhre, an'
in a short time he'll be a priest in full ordhers."
We here draw a veil over the delight of
the family.  Questions upon questions, replies
upon replies, sifting and cross-examinations, followed in rapid succession, until all was known
that the worthy man had to. communicate.
Another simple scene followed, which, as an
Irishman, I write with sorrow. When the joy of
the family had somewhat subsided, the father put
his hand in his coat-pocket, pulled out several
large slices of mutton.
"Along wid all, childhre," said he, "the
Colonel ordhered me my dinner. I ate plinty
myself, an' slipped these slices in my pocket for
you: but the devil a one o' me knows what kind
o' mate it is. An' I got wine, too! OhI!Well, they may talk, but wine is the dhrink!
Bring me the ould knife, till I make a fair divide
of it m-onolg. Musha, what kind o' mate can it
be, for myself doesn't remimber atiin' any sort, barrin' bacon, an' a bit o' slink-veal of an odd time?"
They all ate it with an experienced air of
sagacity that was rather amusing.  None, however, had ever tasted mutton before, and con



236           THE POOR SCHOLAR.
sequently the name of the meat remained, on
that occasion, a profound secret to M'Evoy and
his family.*  It is true, they supposed it to be
mutton; but not one of them could pronounce
it to be such, from any positive knowledge of its
peculiar flavor.
" Vell," said Dominick, "it's no matther what
the name of it is, in regard that it's good mate,
any way, for them that has enough of it."
With a fervent heart and  streaming eyes
did this virtuous family offer up their grateful
prayers to that God whose laws they had not
knowingly violated, and to whose providence
they owed so much. Nor was their benefactor
forgotten. The strength and energy of the Irish
language, being that in which the peasantry
usually pray, were well adapted to express the
depth of their gratitude towards a man who had,
as they said, "humbled himself to look into
their wants, as if he was like one o~tlemse1ves!1"
For upwards of ten years they had not gone
to bed free from the heaviness of care, or the
wasting grasp of poverty. Now their hearth
* There are hundreds of thousands-yes, millions-of the
poorer classes in Ireland, who have never tasted mutton!




THE POOR SCHIOLAR.          237
was once more surrounded by peace and contentment; their burthens were removed, their
pulses beat freely, and the language of happiness again was heard under their humble roof.
Even sleep could not repress the vivacity of their
enjoyments: they dreamt of their brother-for
in the Irish heart the domestic affections hold
the first place; —they dreamt of the farm to
which those affections had so long yearned.
They trod it again as its legitimate possessors.
Its fields were brighter, its corn waved with
softer murmurs to the breeze, its harvests were
richer, and the song of their harvest home more
cheerful than before. Their delight was tumultuous, but intense; and when they arose in the
morning to
A sober certainty of waking bliss,
they again knelt in worship to God with exulting
hearts, and again offered up their sincere prayers
in behalf of the just man who had asserted their
rights against the oppressor.
Colonel B. was a man who, without having
been aware of it, possessed an excellent capacity
for business. The neglect of his property resulted not from want of feeling, but merely from




238          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
want of consideration.  There had moreover
been no precedent for him to follow. He had
seen no Irishman of rank ever bestow a moment's attention on his tenantry.  They had
been, for the most part, absentees like himself,
and felt satisfied if they succeeded in receiving
their half-yearly remittance in due course, without ever reflecting for a moment upon the situation of those from whom it was drawn.
Nay, what was more-he had not seen even
the resident gentry enter into the state and
circumstances of those who lived upon their
property.  It was a mere accident that determined him to become acquainted with his
tenants; but no sooner had he seen his duty.,
and come to the resolution of performing it,
than the decision of his character became ap
parent. It is true, that, within the last few
years, the Irish landlords have advanced in
knowledge.  Many of them  have introduced
more improved systems of agriculture, and instructed their tenants in the best methods of
applying them; but during the time of which we
write, an Irish landlord only saw his tenants
when canvassing them for their votes, and in



THE POOR SCHOLAR.          239
structing them in dishonesty and perjury, not
reflecting that he was then teaching them to
practise the arts of dissimulation and fraud
against himself. This was the late system: let
us hope that it will be superseded by a better
one; and that a landlord will think it a duty,
but neither a trouble nor a condescension, to
look into his own affairs, and keep an eye upon
the morals and habits of his tenantry.
The Colonel, as he had said, remained more
than a fortnight upon his estate; and, as he
often declared since, the recollections arising from
the good which he performed during that brief
period, rendered it the portion of his past life
upon which he could look with most satisfaction.
He did not leave the country till he saw M'Evoy
and his family restored to their farm, and once
more independent;-until he had redressed
every well founded complaints, secured the affections of those who had before detested him, and
diffused peace and comfort amongst every family
upon his estate. From thenceforth he watched
the interests of his tenants, and soon found that
in promoting their welfare, and instructing them
in their duties, he was more his own benefactor




240          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
than theirs. Before many years had elapsed,
his property was wonderfully improved; he himself was called the " Lucky Landlord," " bekase,"
said the people, "ever since he spoke to, an'
advised his tenants, we find that it's lucky to
to live undher him. The people has heart to
work wid a gintle that won't grind them; an' so
sign's on it, every one thrives upon his land; an'
dang my bones, but I believe a rotten stick'ud
grow on it, set in case it was thried."
In sooth; his popularity became proverbial;
but it is probable, that not even his justice and
humanity contributed so much to this, as the
vigor with which he prosecuted his suit against
"Yallow Sam," whom he compelled literally to
"disgorge" the fruits of his heartless extortion.
This worthy agent died soon after his disgrace,
without any legitimate issue; and his property,
which amounted to about fifty thousand pounds,
is now inherited by a gentleman of the strictest
honor and integrity. To this day his memory is
detested by the people, who, with that bitterness
by which they stigmatise a villain, have erected
him into a standard of dishonesty. If a man
become remarkable for want of principle, they




THE POOR SCHOLAR.            241
usually say-" he's as great a rogue as Yallow
Sam;" or, "he is the greatest sconce that ever
was in the country, barrin' Yallow Sam."
We now dismiss him, and request our readers,
at the same time, not to suppose that we have
held him  up as a portrait of Irish'agents in
general.  On the contrary, we believe that they
constitute a most respectable class of men, who
have certainly very difficult duties to perform.
The Irish landlords, we are happy to say, taught
by experience, have, for the most part, both seen
and felt the necessity of appointing gentlemen of
property to situations so very important, and
which require so much patience, consideration,
and humanity, in those who fill them.  We trust
they will persevere in this plan;* but we can assure them, that all the virtues of the best agent
can never compensate, in the opinion of the people, for neglect in the " Head Landlord." One
visit or act, even of nominal kindness, from him,
will at any time produce more attachment and
gratitude among them, than. a whole life spent in
* This tale. has been written nearly twelve years, but the
author deeply regrets that the Irish landlords have disentitled themselves to the favorable notice taken of them in the
text.
21




242          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
good offices by all agent. Like Sterne's French
Beggar, they would prefer a pinch of snuff from
the one, to a guinea from the other. The agent
only renders them a favor, but the Head Landlord does them an honor.
Colonel B., immediately after his return home,
sent for Mr. O'Brien, who waited on him with
a greater degree of curiosity than perhaps he
had ever felt before. The Colonel smiled as he
extended his.hand to him.
" Mr. O'Brien," said he, "I knew you would
feel anxious to hear the result of my visit to
the estate which this man with the nickname
managed for me."" Mllanaged, Sir? Did you say managed?"
" I spoke in the past time, O'Brien: he is out."
" Then your protegees story was correct, Sir?"
"True to a tittle. O'Brien, there is something extraordinary in that boy; otherwise, how
could it happen that a sickly, miserable-looking
creature, absolutely in tatters, could have impressed us both so strongly with a sense of the
injustice done ten years ago to his father? It is,'ndeed, remarkable."
"The boy, Colonel, deeply felt that act of




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         243
injustice, and the expression of it came home
to the heart."
"I have restored his father, however. The
poor man and his family are once more happy.
I have stocked their old farm for them; in fact,
they now enjoy comfort and independence."
" I am glad, Sir, that you have done them justice. That act, alone, will go far to redeem your
character from the odium which the conduct of
your agent was calculated to throw upon it."
"There is not probably in Ireland a landlord so popular as I am this moment-at least
among my tenants on that property. Restoring
M'Evoy, however, is but a' small part of what I
have done.  Carson's pranks were incredible.
He was a rack-renter of the first water. A
person named Brady had paid him twenty-five
guineas as a douceur-in other words, as a bribe
-for renewing a lease for him; yet, after having
received the money, he kept the poor man dangling after him, and at length told him that he
was offered a larger sum by another. In some
cases he.kept back the receipts, and made the
poor people pay twice, which was still more
iniquitous. Then, Sir, be would not take bank




244          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
notes in payment. No; he was so wonderfully
conscientious, and so zealously punctual, in fulfilling my wishes, as he told them on the subject,
that nothing would pass in payment but gold.
This gold, Sir, they were compelled to receive
from himself, at a most oppressive premium; so
that he actually fleeced them under my name, in
every conceivable manner and form of villany.
He is a usurer, too; and, I am told, worth forty
or fifty thousand pounds: but, thank heavenI he
is no longer an agent of mine."
"It gives me sincere pleasure, Sir, that you
have at length got correct habits of thinking
upon your duties as an Irish landlord; for, believe me, Colonel B., as a subject involving a
great portion of national happiness or national
misery, it is entitled to the deepest and most
serious consideration, not only of the class to
which you belong, but of the legislature. Something should be done, Sir, to improve the condition of the poorer classes. A rich country and
poor inhabitants is an anomaly; and whatever is
done should be prompt and effectual. If the
Irish landlords looked directly ihlto the state of
their tenantry, and set themselves vigorously te




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         245
the task of bettering their circumstances, they
would, I am certain, establish the tranquillity
and happiness of the country at large.  The
gre2t secret, Colonel, of the dissensions that
prevail among us is the poverty of the people.
They are poor, and therefore the more easily
wrought up to outrage; they are poor, and think
that any change must be for the better; they are
not only poor, but imaginative, and the fittest
recipients for those vague speculations by which
they are deluded. Let their condition be improved, and the most fertile source of popular
tumult and crime is closed. Let them be taught
how to labor: let them not be bowed to the
earth by rents so far above the real value of
their lands. The pernicious maxims which float
among them must be refuted —not by theory,
but by practical lessons performed before their
eyes for their own advantage.  Let them be
taught how to discriminate between their real
interests and their prejudices; and none can
teach them all this so effectually as their landlords, if they could be roused from their apathy,
and induced to undertake the task. Who ever
saw a poor nation without great crimes?"
21*




246          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Very true, O'Brien: quite true. I am resolved to inspect personally the condition of
those who reside on my other estates. But now
about our protegd'?  How is he doing?"
" Extremely well. I have had a letter from
him a few days ago, in which he alludes to the
interest you have taken in himself and his
family, with a depth of feeling truly affecting."
" When you write to him, let him know that
I have placed his father in his old farm; and
that Carson is out. Say I am sure he will conduct himself properly, in which case I charge
myself with his expenses until he shall have
accomplished his purpose. After that he may
work his own way through life, and I have no
doubt but he will do it well and honorably."
Colonel B-'s pledge on this occasion was
nobly redeemed. Our humble hero pursued his
studies with zeal and success. In due time he
entered Maynooth, where he distinguished himself not simply for smartness as a student, but
as a young man possessed of a mind far above
the common order. During all this time nothing
occurred worthy of particular remark, exoept
that, in fulfillment of his former vow, he never




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         247
wrote to any of his friends; for the reader
should have been told, that this was originally
comprehended in the determination he had
formed.  He received ordination at the hands
of his friend the Bishop, whom we have already
introduced to the reader, and on the same day
he was appointed by that gentleman to a curacy
in his own parish. The Colonel, whose regard
for him never cooled, presented him with fifty
pounds, together with a horse, saddle, and bridle; so that he found himself in a capacity to
enter upon his duties in a decent and becoming
manner. Another circumstance that added considerably to his satisfaction, was the appointment
of Mr. O'Brien to a parish adjoining that of the
Bishop. James's afflictions had been the means
of bringing the merits of that excellent man
before his spiritual superior, who became much
attached to him, and availed himself of the earliest opportunity of rewarding his unobtrusive
piety and benevolence.
No sooner was his ordination completed, than
the long suppressed yearnings after his home and
kindred came upon his spirit with a power that
could not be restrained. He took leave of his




24 8        THE POOR SCHOLAR.
friends with a beating heart, and set out on a
delightful summer morning to revisit all that
had been, notwithstanding his long absence and
severe trials, so strongly wrought into his memory and affections. Our readers may, therefore,
suppose him on his journey home, and permit
themselves to be led in imagination to the house
of his former friend, Lanigan, where we must
lay the scene for the present.
Lanigan's residence has the same comfortable
and warm appearance which always distinguishes
the habitation of the independent and virtuous
man. What, however, can the stir, and bustle,
and agitation which prevail in it mean? The
daughters run out to a little mound, or natural
terrace, beside the house, and look anxiously
towards the road; then return, and almost immediately appear again, with the same intense
anxiety to catch a glimpse of some one whom
they expect. They look keenly; but why is it
that their disappointment appears to be attended
with such dismay? They go into their father's
house once more, wringing their hands, and betraying all the symptoms of affliction. Here is
their mother, too, coming to peer into the dis




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          249
tance, she is rocking with that motion peculiar
to Irishwomen when suffering distress.  She
places her open hand upon her brows that she
may collect her sight to a particular spot; she
is blinded by her tears; breaks out into a low
wail, and returns with something like the darkness of despair on her countenance. She goes
into the house, passes through the kitchen, and
enters into a bed-room; seats herself on a cl-air
beside the bed, and renews her low buit bi ter
wail of sorrow. Her husband is lying in tiat
state which the peasantry know usually precedes
the agonies of death.
"For the sake of the livin' God," said he on
seeing her, " is there any sign o' them?"
"Not yet, a suillish; * but they will soonthey must soon, asthore, be here, an' thin your
mind will be asy."
"Oh, Alley, Alley, if you could know what I
suffer for'fraid I'd die widout the priest, you'd
pity mel"
"I do pity you, asthore: but don't be cast
down, for I have my trust in God that he won't
Jesart you in your last hour. You did what ynu
" My light.




250          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
could, my heart's pride; you bent before him
night an' mornin', and sure the poor neighbor
never wint from your door widout lavin' his
blessin' behind him."
The dying man raised his hands feebly from
the bed-clothes; "Ah I" he exclaimed,"
thought I did a great dale, Alley: but nowbut now-it appears nothin' to what I ought to
a' done when I could. Still, avourneen, my life's
not unpleasant when I look back at it; for I
can't remimber that I ever purposely offended a
livin' mortal. All I want to satisfy me is the
priest."
"No, avourneen, you did not; for it wasn't in
you to offind a child."
"Alley, you'll pardon me an' forgive me
acushla, if ever-if ever I did what was displasin' to you I An' call in the childhre, till I
see them about me-I want to have their forgiveness, too. I know I'll have it —for they
wor good childhre, an' ever loved me."
The daughters now entered the room, exclaiming-" Ahir  dheelish  (beloved  father),
Pether is comin' by himself, but no priest!
Blessed Queen of Heaven, what will we doI




THE POOR SCHO:LAR.         251
Oh! father darlin', are you to die widout the
Holy Ointment?"
The sick man clasped his hands, looked towards heaven, and groaned aloud.
"Oh, it's hard, this," said he.  "It's hard.
upon me I Yet I won't be cast down. I'll
trust in my good God; I'll trust in his blessed
name!"
His wife on hearing that ner son was returned
without the priest, sat, with her face shrouded
by her apron, weeping in grief that none but
they who knew the dependence which those belonging to her church place in its last rites can
comprehend. The children appeared almost distracted; their grief had more of that stunning
character which attends unexpected calamity,
than of sorrow for one who is gradually drawn
from life.
At length the messenger entered the room,
and almost choked with tears, stated that both
priests were absent that day at Conference, and
would not return till late.
The hitherto moderated grief of the wife arose
to a pitch much wilder than the death of her husband could, under ordinary circumstances, occa



252          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
sion. To die without absolution-to pass away
into eternity " unanointed, unanealed "-without
being purified from the inherent stains of humanity-was to her a much deeper affliction than her
final separation from him. She cried in tones of
the most piercing despair, and clapped her hands,
as they do who weep over the dead.  Had he
died in the calm confidence of having received
the Viaticum, or Sacrament before death, his
decease would have had nothing remarkably
calamitous in it, beyond usual occurrences of a
similar nature.  Now the grief was intensely
bitter in consequence of his expected departure
without the priest.  His sons and daughters
felt it as forcibly as his wife; their lamentations
were full of the strongest and sharpest agony.
For nearly three hours did they remain in this
situation; poor Lanigan sinking by degrees into
that collapsed state from which there is no possibility of rallying.  He was merely able to
speak, and recognise his family; but every moment advanced him, with awful certainty, nearer
and nearer to his end.
A great number of the neighbors were now
assembled, all participating in the awful feeling




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          253
which predominated, and anxious to compensate
by their prayers for the absence of that confidence derived by Roman Catholics during the
approach' of death, from the spiritual aid of the
priest. They were all at prayer; the sick room
and kitchen were crowded with his friends and
acquaintances, many of whom knelt out before
the door, and joined with loud voices in the Rosary which was offered up in his behalf.
In this crisis were they, when a horseman,
dressed in black, approached the house. Every
head was instantly turned round, with a hope
that it might be the pai'ish priest or his curate;
but, alas! they were doomed to experience a
fresh disappointment. The stranger, though
clerical enough in his appearance, presented a
countenance with which none of them was acquainted. On glancing at the group who knelt
around the door, he appeared to understand the
melancholy cause which brought them together.
" How is this?" he exclaimed.  "Is there any
one here sick or dying?"
" Poor Misther Lanigan, Sir, is jist departin',
glory be to God! An' what is terrible all ou
upon himself and family, he's dyin' widout th
22




254          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
priest. They're both at Conwhirence, Sir, and
can't come —Mr. Dogherty an' his curate."
"Make way!" said the stranger, throwing him.
self off his horse, and passing quickly through
the people. "Show me to the sick man's room
— be quick, my friends-I am a Catholic clergyman."
In a moment a passage was cleared, and the
stranger found himself beside the bed of death.
Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his
presence stilled it despite of what they pelt.
" My dear friends," said he, "you know there
should be silence in the apartment of a dying
maln. For shame!-for shame I Cease this
clamor, it will but distract him for whom you
weep, and prevent him from composing his mind
for the great trial that is before him."
" Sir," said Lanigan's wife, seizing his hand
in both hers, and looking distractedly in his
face, " are you a priest?  For heaven's sake
tell us!"
"I am," he replied; "leave the room every
one of you. I hope your husband is not speechless?"
"Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her




THE POOR SCHOLAR.           25f5
name be praised! but near it, your Reverencewidin little or no time of it."
Whilst they spoke, he was engaged in putting
the stole about his neck, after which he cleared
the room, and commenced hearing Lanigan's
confession.
The appearance of a priest, and the consolation it produced, rallied the powers of life in
the benevolent farmer.  He became more collected; made a clear and satisfactory confession;
received the sacrament of Extreme Unction;
and felt himself able to speak with tolerable distinctness and precision. The effects of all this
were astonishing. A placid serenity, full of hope
and confidence, beamed from the pale and worn
features of him who was but a few minutes before in a state'of terror altogether indescribable.
When his wife and family after having been
called in, observed this change, they immediately
participated in his tranquillity. Death had been
deprived of its sting, and grief of its bitterness;
their sorrow was still deep, but it was not darkened by the dread of future misery. They felt
for him as a beloved father, a kind husband,
and a dear friend, who had lived a virtuous life




256         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
feared God, and was now about to pass into
happiness.
When the rites of the church were administered, and the family again assembled round the
bed, the priest sat down in a position which enabled him to see the features of this good man
more distinctly.
" I would be glad," said Lanigan, " to know
who it is that God in his goodness has sent to
smooth my bed in death, if it'ud be plasin',
Sir, to you to tell me?"
"Do you remember," replied the priest, " a
young lad whom you met some years ago on his
way to Munster, as a poor scholar? You and
your family were particularly kind to him; so
kind that he has never since forgotten your
affectionate hospitality."
"We do, your Reverence, we do. A mild,
gentle crathur he was, poor boy. I hope God
prospered him."
"You see him now before you," said the
priest.
"I am that boy, and I thank God that I
can testify, however slightly, my deep sense of
the virtues which you exercised towards me;




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          257
although I regret that the occasion is one of
such affliction."
The farmer raised his eyes and feeble hands
towards heaven.  "Praise an' glory to your
name, good God!" he exclaimed.  "Praise an'
glory to your holy name! Now I know that I'm
not forgotten, when you brought back the little
kindness I did that boy for your sake, wid so
many blessins' to me in the hour of my affliction
an' sufferin'! Childher remimber this, now that
I'm goin' to lave yez for ever I Remimber always to help the stranger, an' thim that's poor
an' in sorrow. If you do, God won't, forget it
to you; but will bring it back to yez when
you stand in need of it, as he done to me this
day. You see, childhre dear, how small thrifles
o' that kind depend on one another. If I hadn't
thought of helpin' his Reverence here when he
was young and away from his own, he wouldn't
think of callin' upon us this day as he was passin'.
You see the hand of God is in it, childhre: which
it is, indeed, in every thing that passes about us,
if we could only see it as we ought to do. Thin,
but I'd like to look upon your face, Sir, if it's
plasin' to you?.A little more to the light, Sir
22*




258          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
There, I now see you. Ay, indeed, it's changed
for the betther it is-the same mild, clear countenance, but not sorrowful, as when I seen it
last. Suffer me to put my hand on your head,
Sir; I'd like to bless you before I die, for I
can't forget what you unndhertook to do for your
parents."
The priest sat near him; but finding that he
was scarcely able to raise his hand to his head,
he knelt down, and the farmer, before he communicated the blessing, inquired" Musha, Sir, may I ax, wor you able to do
anything to help your family as you expected?"
"God," said the priest, "made me the instrumnent of raising them  from their poverty; they
are now comfortable and happy."
"Ay!  Well I knew at the time, an' I said
it, that a blessin' would attind your endayvors.
An' now resave my blessin'.  May you never
depart from the right way  May the blessin'
of God rest upon you for ever -Amin!
Childlire, I'm gettin' wake; come near me, till,
till I bless you, too, for the last time! They
wor good childhre, Sir-they were ever an'
always good to me, and to their poor mother,




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         259
your Reverence; an' —God forgive me if it's a
sin! —but I feel a great dale o' my heart an' my
love fixed upon them. But sure, I'm their father,
an' God, I hope, will look over it! Now,
larlins, afore I bless yez, I ax your forgiveness
if ever I washiarsher to yez than I ought I"
The children with a simultaneous movement
encircled the bed, and could not reply for some
minutes.
"Never, father darlin'l Oh, never did you
offind us  Don't speak in that way, or you'll
break our hearts; but forgive us, father asthoreI
Oh, forgive an' bless us, an' don't remimber
against us, our folly an' disobedience, for it's
only now that we see we warn't towards you as
we ought to be. Forgive us an' pardon usI"
He then made them all kneel around his bed,
and with solemn words, and an impressive
manner, placed his hand upon their heads, and
blessed them with a virtuous father's last blessing.
He then called for his wife, and the scene
became not only more touching, but more
elevated. There was an exultation in her manner, and an expression of vivid hope in her eye,
arising from  the fact of her husband having




260          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
received, and been soothed by the rites of her
church, that gave evident proof of the unparalleled attachment borne by persons of her
class to the Catholic religion. The arrival of
our hero had been so unexpected, and the
terrors, of the tender wife for her husband's soul
so great, that the administration of the sacrament
almost superseded from her heart every other
sensation than that of devotional triumph.
Even now, in the midst of her tears, that
triumph kindled in her eye, with a light that
shone in melancholy beauty upon the bed of
death. In proportion, however, as the parting
scene-which was to be their last-began to
work with greater power upon her sorrow, so
did this expression gradually fade away.  Grief
for his loss resumed his dominion over her heart
so strongly, that their last parting was afflicting
even to look upon.
When it was over, Lanigan once more addressed the priest:"ZNow, Sir," he observed, but with great
difficulty, "let me have your blessin' an' your
prayers; an' along wid that, your Reverence, if
you remimber a request I once made to you"



THE POOR SCHOLAR.         261
"I remember it well," replied the priest; " you
allude to the masses which you wished me to
say for you, should I ever receive Orders. Make
your mind easy on that point. I not only shall
offer up mass for the repose of your soul, but I
assure you that I have mentioned you by name
in every mass which I celebrated since my ordination."
He then proceeded to direct the mind of his
dying benefactor to such subjects as were best
calculated to comfort and strengthen him.
About day-break the next morning, this man
of many virtues, after struggling rather severely
for two hours preceding his death, passed into
eternity, there to enjoy the recompense of a wellspent life.
When he was dead, the priest, who never left
him during the night, approached the bed
and after surveying his benevolent features,
now composed in the stillness of death,:xclaimed"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,
for they rest from their labors, and their works
do follow them!"
Having uttered the words aloud, he sat down




262          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
beside the bed, buried his face in his handkerchief, and wept.
He was now only a short day's journey from
home, and as his presence, he knew would be
rather a restraint upon a family so much in
affliction, he bade them farewell, and proceeded
on his way. He travelled slowly, and, as every
well-known hill or lake appeared to him, his
heart beat quickly, his memory gave up its early
stores, and his affections prepared themselves
for the trial that was before them.
"It is better for me not to arrive," thought
he, "until the family shall have returned from
their daily labor, and are collected about the
hearth."
In the meantime, many an impression of profound and fervid piety came over him, when he
reflected upon the incontrovertible proofs of providential protection and interference which had
been, during his absence from home, under his
struggles, and, in his good fortune, so clearly
laid before him. " Deep," he exclaimed, "is the
gratitude I owe to God for this; may I never
forget to acknowledge it!"
lit was now about seven o'clock; the evening




THE POOR SCHOLAR.          263
was calm, and the sun shone with that clear
amber light which gives warmth, and the power
of exciting tenderness to natural scenery. He
had already gained the ascent which commanded
a view of the rich sweep of country that reposed
below.  There it lay-his native home-his
native parish-bathed in the light and glory of
the hour. Its fields were green-its rivers
shining like loosened silver, its meadows already
studded with hay-cocks, its green pastures covered with sheep, and its unruffled lakes reflecting
the hills under which they lay.  Here and there
a gentleman's residence rose among the distant
trees, and well did he recognise the church spire
that cut into the western sky on the right.  It
is true, nothing of the grandeur and magnificence
of nature was there; everything was simple in
its beauty. The quiet charm, the serene light,
the air of happiness and peace that reposed upon
all he saw, stirred up a thousand tender feelings
in a heart whose gentle character resembled that
of the prospect which it felt so exquisitely. Thle
smoke of a few farm-houses and cottages rose in
blue graceful columns to the air, giving just that
appearance of life which was necessary; and a




2064         THE POOR SCHOLAR.
figure or two, with lengthened shadows, moved
across the fields and meadows a little below
where he stood.
But our readers need not be told, that there
was one spot which, beyond all others, rivetted
his attention. On that spot his eager eye rested
long and intensely. The spell of its remembrance had clung to his early heart: lie had
never seen it in his dreams without weeping;
and often had the agitation of his imaginary
sorrow awoke him with his eyelashes steeped in
tears.  He looked down on it steadily.  At
length he was moved with a strong sensation
like grief: he sobbed twice or thrice, and the
tears rolled in showers from his eyes. His gathering affections were relieved by this: he felt
lighter, and in the same slow manner rode onward to his father's house.
To this there were two modes of access: one by
a paved bridle-way, or boreen, that ran up directly
before the door-the other by a green lane, that
diverged from the boreen about a furlong below
the house.  He took the latter, certain that the
family could not notice his approach, nor hear
the noise of his horse's footsteps, until he could




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         265
arrive at the very threshold. On dismounting, he
felt that he could scarcely walk. He approached
the door, however, as steadily as he could. He
entered-and the family, who had just finished
their supper, rose up, as a mark of their respect
to the stranger.
"Is this," he inquired, " the house in which
Dominick M'Evoy lives?"
" That's my name, Sir," replied Dominick.
"The family, I trust, are-all-well?  I have
been desired    but no-no-I cannot-I cannot-FATHER!-MOTHER! "
" It's him!" shrieked the mother-" It's himself!-Jemmy!"
"Jemmy! — Jemmy!!" shouted the father,
with a cry of joy which might be heard far
beyond the house.
" Jemmy I!-our poor Jemmy — Jemmy! I " exclaimed his brothers and sisters.
"Asy, childhre," said the father -" asy; let
the mother to him-let her to him. Who has
the right that she has?  Vara, asthore-Vara,
think of yourself. God of heaven! what is
comin' over her?- Her brain's turned!"
"Father, don't remove her," said the son.
23




266          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
"Leave her arms where they are: it's long
since they encircled my neck before. Oftenoften would I have given the wealth of the universe to be encircled in my blessed and beloved
mother's arms!  Yes, yes! —Weep, my fatherweep, each of you. You see those tears;-conrider them as a proof that I have never forgotten you! Beloved mother! recollect yourself:
she knows me not-her eyes wander! —I fear
the shock has been too much for her. Place a
chair at the door, and I will bring her to the
air."
After considerable effort, the mother's faculties
were restored so far as to be merely conscious
that our hero was her son.  She had not yet
shed a tear, but now she surveyed his countenance, smiled and named him, placed her hands
upon him, and examined his dress with a singular
blending of conflicting emotions, but still without
being thoroughly collected.
"I will speak to her," said Jemmy, "in Irish,
it will go directly to her heart: —2lhair, avourneen, tha ma, laht, anish!-Motber, my darling,
I am with you at last."
"Shamus, aroon, tick machlree, wuil thu ihum?




THE POOR SCHOLAR.         267
wuil thu-wuil thu Ihum? —Jemmy, my beloved,
son of my heart, are you with me?-are youare you with me?"
" Ish ma/een a tha in, a vair dheelish vmachree.It is I who am with you, beloved mother of my
heart!"
She smiled again —but only for a moment.
She looked at him, laid his head upon her
bosom, bedewed his face with her tears, and
muttered out, in a kind of sweet, musical cadence, the Irish cry of joy.
We are incapable of describing this scene further. Our readers must be contented to know,
that the delight and happiness of our hero's
whole family were complete. Their son, after
many years of toil and struggle, had at length
succeeded, by a virtuous course of action, in raising them fiom poverty to comfort, and in effecting his own object, which was, to become a member of the Catholic priesthood.  During all his
trials he never failed to rely on God; and it is
seldom that those who rely upon Him, when
striving to attain a laudable purpose, are ever
ultimately disappointed.
*      *      *      *      *      *




268          THE POOR SCHOLAR.
We regret to inform our readers, that the
poor scholar is deadl He did not, in fact, long
survive the accomplishment of his wishes.  But
as we had the particulars of his story from his
nearest friends, we thought his virtues of too exalted a nature to pass into oblivion without some
record, however humble.  He died as he had
lived —the friend of God and of man.




PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
THE county assizes had commenced in my
native town, when a new batch of Irish tithe
arrangers were brought in prisoners by a strong
party of police.  They had attacked only the
previous evening a gentleman's house, for the
purpose of rifling it of arms-had been repulsed
by the police, who, aware of their intentions,
lay in ambush for them, and lives were lost on
both sides. I was idling on one of the bridges,
when they passed by to the jail, bound with
ropes and with buckles to the common cars of
the country-some of them were wounded too,
a brow, or hand, or clothing giving vivid evidence of the fact.
But, although the general impression made
by the whole of the wretched groups was pain23*




270         A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
ful, one face among them strongly interested me
It was that of a young man, not more than nine
teen or twenty; his features were comely, and, I
would have it, full of goodness and gentleness.
His clear blue eye too was neither sulky, noi
savage, nor reckless, but seemed to express only
great awe of his situation, unless when, from
some sudden mental recurrence to home-perhaps it quailed or became suffused with tears.
I involuntarily followed the melancholy procession towards the jail, thinking of that young
man. After all the prisoners had been ushered
into their new abode, a popular anti-tithe attorney, whom I knew, accosted me. Ite was
always ready to conduct, gratis, the defences
of poor wretches similarly situated, and he
told me his intention of going into the jail
that moment, to try and collect materials for
savirn the lives, at least, of some of the new
comers. I expressed a wish to assist him in his
task: he readily consented, observing that as
the unfortunate men would certainly be put on
their trials the next day, no offer of aid, in their
favor, was to be disregarded; so we entered the
jail together.




A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.      271
It fell to my lot to visit the cell, among
others, of the lad who had so much interested
me.  His assertions, supported, or, not contradicted, by most of his band, seemed to argue,
that I had not formed a wrong opinion of his
character-nay, better still, that there was a
good chance of snatching from  the gallows,
even though he must leave his native land for
ever.  He had been forced, he said, to accompany the others upon their fatal sortie -had
never been "out" before-and had not pulled a
trigger or raised a hand against the police; his
more guilty associates supported, or else did not
contravene his statement.  So, confident that
the police would also bear him out at the
really critical moment, I took notes of his defence for my friend the attorney, and passed on
to other cells, but of the results of my continued
investigations I will not now speak.
The sagacious attorney was right. By twelve
o'clock next day four of the men, including my
favorite client, were placed at the bar of their
country: three others were too ill of their
wounds to be at present produced. All was
soon over-and over to my affliction and almost




272        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
consternation.  Instead of swearing that the
young man had been comparatively forbearing
during the battle outside the gentleman's house,
the police, one and all, from some strange mistake-for surely they thought they were in the
right, distinctly deposed that his was the hand
which slew one of their force, and badly wounded another.  In vain did he protest, with the
energy of a young man pleading for dear, dear
life, and all its array of happy promise, against
their evidence: in vain did his fellow-prisoners
support him: he and they were found guilty in
common: but his fate was the terrific one-of
him the example was to be made; and while the
other men were only sentenced to transportation
for life, he was doomed to be hanged by the neck
within forty-eight hours, and his body given for
dissection.
As the Judgce ushered in the last words of
his sentence, a shriek, I shall never forget ita woman's shriek —and a young woman's too,
pierced up to the roof of the silent court-house,
and then I heard a heavy fall. The young culprit had been trembling and swaying from side
to side, during his sentence: at the soul-shrilling




A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.      273
sound he started into upright and perfect energy; his hands, which had grasped the bar of the
dock, were clapped together with a loud noise;
the blood mounted to his very forehead; his lips
parted widely, and, having almost shouted out"Moya! it's she  I knew she'd be here!" he
suddenly made a spring to clear the back of the
dock-obviously no impulse to escape dictated
the action; he wanted to raise Moya- his betrothed Moya-from  the floor of the courthouse, and clasp her in his arms —and that was
all. And, doubtless, in his vigorous and thrice
nerved strength, he must have succeeded in his
wild attempt, but that the sleeve of one arm,
and the hand of another became impaled on the
sharp iron spikes which surmounted the formidable barrier before him. Thus cruelly impeded,
however, he was easily secured, and instantly
let down, through a trap-door in the bottom of
the dock, to his "condemned cell," continuing
till his voice was lost in the depths beneath us,
to call out, " Moya, cuishla-ma-chree, Moya!"
I hastened, with many others, into the body
of the court, and there learned, from her father
and mother, and other friends, the connexion be26*




274        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
tween her and the sentenced lad. They were to
have been married at Easter. This did not lessen my interest in him-my attorney joined me,
and we spoke of all possible efforts to obtain a
commutation of sentence, after Mayo's parents
had forced her out of the court-house, on the
way to their home, rejecting all her entreaties
to be led into the jail, and-married..
We thought of hearing what the wounded
policeman might say.  But he was fourteen
miles distant, where the affray had occurred,
and, even though his evidence might be favorable, we knew we must be prepared to forward
it to Dublin, as the Judge would leave our town
that day. We set to work, however, mounted
two good horses, and within three hours learned
from the lips of the wounded man that the
Rockite who had fired at him was an elderly
and ill-favored fellow. It was our next business to convey our new evidence into the town;
we did so, in a carriage borrowed from the person whose house had been attacked.  He was
confronted with all the prisoners; we cautioned
him to say nothing that might give a false hope
to the object of our interest; —but, after leaving




A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.      215
the cell he persisted in exculpating him from
having either killed his comrade or wounded
himself, and, moreover, pointed out the real
culprit among those who had not yet been
put on their trial.
This was a good beginning. An affidavit was
soon prepared, which the policeman signed. A
few minutes afterwards the attorney, helped in
his expenses for the road by some friends, myself among the number, started for Dublin, as
fast as four horses could gallop. Ten hours, out
of the forty-eight allowed to the condemned to
prepare for death, had already elapsed.  Our
good attorney must now do the best he could
within thirty-seven hours-it was fearful not to
leave an hour to spare-to calculate time when
it would just be merging into eternity. But we
had good hopes. If horses did not fail on the
road, going and returning, and if the Judge,
and, after him, the Lord Lieutenant, could be
rapidly approached, it was a thing to be done.
lrhat if, however! —I scarce slept a wink
through the night.  Next morning  early I
called on the clergyman whose sad duty it
was to visit the poor lad in his condemned'




2'6        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
cell; he and I had been school-fellows; and he
was a young man of most amiable character.
He told nle "his poor penitent" was not unfit
to die, nor did he dread the fate before him,
notwithstanding his utter anguish of heart at
so sudden and terrible a parting from his young
mistress.  I communicated the hopes we had,
and asked the clergyman's opinionas to the
propriety of alleviating the lad's agony by a
slight impartation of them. My reverend young
friend would not hear of such a thing: his conscience did not permit him. It was his duty, he
said, his sacred duty, to allow nothing to distract
the mind and heart of his penitent from resignation to his lot: and should he give him a hope
of life, and then see that hope dashed, he would
have helped to kill a human soul, not to save
one. I gave up the point, and endeavored to
seek occupations and amusements to turn my
thoughts from the one subject which absorbed
and fevered them.  But in vain; and when
night came, I had less sleep than on the first.
Early on the second morning I took a walk
into the country, along the Dublin road, vaguely
hoping to meet, even so early, our zealous attor



A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.      277
ney returning to us, with a white handkerchief
streaming from the window of his post-chaise:
that idea had got into my head, like a picture
and would recur every moment. I met him not.
I lingered on the road. I heard our town-clock
pealing twelve —the boy had but an hour to live
I looked towards the county jail, whither he had
been removed for execution-the black flag was
waving over its drop-door. Glancing once more
along the Dublin road, I ran as fast as I could
towards the jail. Arrived at the iron gate of
its outer yard, I was scarce conscious of the
multitude who sat on a height, confronting it, all
hushed and silent, or of the strong guard of soldiers at the gate, till one of them refused me
way. I bribed the serjeant to convey my name
to the governor of the prison, and was admitted,
first, into the outer yard, then by the guard-room
door, and along a colonnade of pillars, connected
with iron work at either hand, into the inner
courts of the jail.  The guard-room was under
the execution-room, and both formed a building
in themselves, separated from the main pile; the
colonnade of which I have spoken, leading from
one to the other.- What had sent me where I
24




278        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
now found myself, was an impulse to beseech the
Sheriff, (whom I knew, and who was necessarily
in the jail to accompany the condemned to the
door of the execution-room,) for some short
postponement of the fatal moment. He came
out to me, in one of the courts at either side of
the colonnade; we spoke in whispers, as the
good and kind-hearted governor had donethough there was not a creature to overhear us,
in' the deserted and sunny places all around. I
knew the Sheriff would at his peril make any
change in the hour; but I told him our case,
and his eyes brightened with zeal and benevolence, while he put back his watch three quarters of an hour, and asseverated, with my uncle
Toby's oath, I believe, that he would swear it
was right, and that all their clocks were wrong,
and "let them  hang himself for his mistake."
Our point arranged, we sunk into silence. It
was impossible to go on talking, even in our
conscious whispers: one o'clock soon struck!
The governor, pale and agitated, appeared,
making a sad signal to the sheriff. We beckoned him over to us, and he was shewn the infallible watch, and retired again, without a word.




A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.      219
My friend and I continued standing side by side
in resumed silence. And all was silence around
us too, save some few most melancholy, most
appalling sounds: one caused by the step of a
sentinel under the window of the condemned
cell, at an unseen side of the prison; another
by the audible murmurings of the condemned
and his priest, heard through that window —
both growing more fervent in prayer since the
jail clock had pealed one; and a third was
made by some person, also unseen, striking a
single stroke with a wooden mallet, about every
half minute, upon a large muffled bell, at the
top of the prison. —Yes-I can recall two other
sounds which irritated me greatly: the chirping
of sparrows in the sun —and I thought that
their usually pert note was now strangely sadand the tick, tick, of the sheriff's watch, which
I heard distinctly in his fob. The minutes flew.
I felt pained in the throat-burning with thirst,
and losing my presence of mind. The governor
appeared again. My friend entered the prison
with him. I remained alone confused and agonized. In a few minutes the governor came out,
bareheaded, and tears on his cheeks. The cler



280        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
gyman and his penitent followed; the former
had passed an arm through one of the manacled
ones of the latter, and the hands of both were
clasped, and both were praying audibly,  My
old school-fellow wept like a child.  My poor
client had passed the threshold into the colonnade, with a firm step, his knees kept peculiarly
stiff, as he paced along, and his cheeks and forehead were scarlet, while his eyes widened and
beamed, and was fixed on the steps going up
to the execution-room, straight on before him.
He did not yet see me gazing at him. As the
sheriff appeared behind him and his priest, also
bareheaded, I rapidly snatched my hat from my
head. The action attracted his attention, our
glances met-and oh! how the flush instantly
forsook his forehead and his cheeks-and how
his eyes closed —while cold perspiration burst
out on his brow, and he started, stopped, and
faltered!  Did he recognize me as the person
who had spoken kindly to him in his cell, before his trial, and perhaps with all my precaution, given him a vague hope? or, was it that
the unexpected appearance of a human creature,
staring at him in utter commisseration, in that




A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.       281
otherwise lonely court-yard, had touched the
chord of human associations, and called him
back to earth, out of his enthusiastic vision
of heaven? I know not, I cannot even guess;
who can? As he faltered, the young priest
passed his arm  round his body, and gently
urged him to his knees and knelt with him,
kissing his cheeks, his lips, pressing his hands,
and in tender whispers manning him again for
facing shame, and death, and eternity.  The
governor, the sheriff, and I, instinctively assumed the attitude of prayer at the same moment.
But I hate to give a character of clap-trap to a
real though wonderful occurrence, by continuing
too circumstantially.  Moya's "own boy " never
even mounted the steps of the execution-room.
We were first startled, while we all knelt, by, as
it afterwards proved-her shrieks at the outer
gates: she had escaped from the restraint of
her family, and had come to the jail insisting on
being married to him "wid the rope itself round
his neck, to live a widow for him for ever "-and
next there was a glorious shout from the multitude on the rural heights before the prison, and
my one ceaseless idea of our attorney, with a
24*




282        A PEASANT GIRL'S LOVE.
white handkerchief streaming through the window of his post-chaise was realized, though
every one saw it but I.  And Moya, selftransported for life, went out to Van Dieman's
land, some weeks afterwards, a happy and contented wife, her family having yielded to her
wishes at the instance of more advocates than
herself, and put some money in her purse also.




TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
THE IRISH  PIPERS.
THose who minister to amusement are every
where popular characters, and fully as much so
in Ireland as in other countries. Here, amongst
the people at large, no sort of person is more
kindly regarded than the wandering fiddler or
piper, two classes of artists who may be said to
have the whole business of keeping Paddy in
good humor upon their shoulders. The piper is
especially a favorite in the primitive provinces
of Munster and Connaught.  In Leinster they
are not so common, and in the North may be
described as rare, though I am not sure but
that, for this very reason, they are as welcome
in Ulster as in the other provinces, their notes




284          TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
producing an impression which is agreeable in
proportion to its novelty.
Of course it is but natural that there should
exist a striking resemblance between the respective habits and modes of life that characterize
the fiddler and the piper; and of the latter, as
well as the former, it may be observed, that,
although most of his associations are drawn
from the habits of the people, in contradistinction to those of the higher classes, yet it is
unquestionably true that he is strongly imbued
with the lingering remains of that old feudal
spirit which has now nearly departed from the
country. Even although generally neglected by
the gentry, and.almost utterly overlooked by the
nobility, yet it is a melancholy but beautiful trait
of "the old feeling" which prompts him always
to speak of them with respect and deference.
He will admit, indeed, that there is a degeneration; that "the good ould stock is gone;" and
that "the big house is not what it used to be,
whin the square's father would bring him into
the parlor before all the quality, an' make him
play his two favorite tunes of the Fox-Hwnther's
Jig and the Hare in the Corn.  Instead of that,




THE IRISH PIPERS.          285
the sorra ha'porth now will sarve them but a
kind of musical coffin, that they call a piana
thirty, or forty, or something that way, that to
hear it'ud make a dog sthrike his father, if he
cdidn't behave himself."
This is the utmost length to which he carries
his censure, and even this is uttered' more in
sorrow than in anger." O0 the contrary, nothing can be more amusing than the simple and
complacent pride with which he informs his
hearers that "as he passed the big house, the
young square brought him in-an' it's himself
that knows what the good ould smack of the
pipes is, an' more betoken, so he ought-an'
kind father for him to do so-it's the ould
square himself that had the true Irish relish
for them. I played him all his father's favorites, both in the light way and in the sorrowful.
Whin I was done, he slipped five shillings into
my hand.'Take this,' sis he,'for the sake o'
thim that's gone, an' of the ould times.' He
spoke low an' in a hurry, as if his heart was in
what he said; an' somehow I felt a tear an my'heek at the time; for it is a sorrowful thing to
think how the blessed ould airs of our coun



286         TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
thry-tne only ones that go to the heart-are
now so little known and thought of, that a
fashionable lady of the present day would feel
ashamed to acknowledge them, or play them in
company. Fareer gair! it's a bad sign of th
times, any how-may God mend them!"
The Irish piper, from the necessary monotony
of his life, is generauy a man of much simplicity
of character —not, however, without a cast of
humor, which is at once single-minded and
shrewd.  His little jealousies and heart-burnings-and he has his share-form the serious
evil of his life; but it is remarkable that
scarcely in a single instance are these indulged
in at the expense of the agreeable fiddler, who
is by no means looked upon as a rival. Not so
his brother piper; for, in truth, the high and
doughty spirit of competition by which they are
animated, never passes out of their own class,
but burns with heroic rage amongst themselves.
The lengths to which this spirit has been frequently carried, are ludicrous almost beyond belief. The moment a piper's reputation is established on his beat, that moment commences his
misery. Those from the neighboring beats as



THE IRISH PIPERS.          28T
sail him by challenges, that contain any thing
but principles of harmony.  Sometimes, it is
true, they are cunning enough to come disguised
to hear him; and if they imagine that a trial of
skill is not likely to redound to their credit, they
slink off without allowing any one, unless some
particular confidant, to become cognizant of
their secret.
These comical contests were, about forty or
fifty years ago, much more frequent than they
have been of late.  In the good old times, however, when the farmers of Ireland brewed their
own beer, and had whiskey for a shilling a
quart, the challenges, defeats, escapes, and pure
suits, which took place between persons of this
class, were rich in dramatic effect, and afforded
great amusement to both the gentry and the
people   I remember hearing the history of a
chase, is vhich a piper named Sullivan pursued
a rival for eighteen months through the whole
province of Munster before he caught him, and
all in order to ascertain, by a trial of skill,
whether his antagonist was more entitled to
have the epithet "great" prefixed to his name
than he himself.  It appears that the friends




288         TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
and admirers of the former were in the habit of
calling him "the Great Piper Reillaghan," a
circumstance which so completely roused the
aspiring soul of his opponent, that he declared
he would never rest, night or day, until he
stripped him of the epithet " great" and transferred it to his own name. He was beaten,
however, and that by a manceuvre of an extraordinary kind. Reillaghan offered to play against
him while drunk —Sullivan to remain sober.
Sullivan, thrown off his guard, and anxious
under any circumstances to be able to boast of a
victory over such an antagonist, agreed, and was
consequently overcome; the truth being, that
his opponent, like Carolan, when composing on
the harp, was never able properly to distinguish
himself as a performer unless when under the
inspiration of whiskey.
Sullivan, not at all aware of the trick that
the other had played upon him, of course took
it for granted that, as he had stood no chance
with Reillaghan when drunk, he must have a
still less one in his sobriety; and the consequence
was, that the next morning it was found he had
taken leave in the course of the night.




THE IRISH PIPERS.         289
There was some years ago, playing in the
taverns of Dublin, a blind piper named Talbot,
whose peformance was singularly powerful and
beautiful. This man, though blind from his infancy, possessed mechanical genius of a high
order, and surprisingly delicate and exact manipulation, not merely as a musician but as a
mechanic. He used to perform in Ladly's tavern in Capel-street, where he arrived every night
about eight o'clock, and played till twelve, or,
as the case might be, one. He was very social,
and, when drawn out, possessed much genuine
Irish humor, and rich conversational powers.
Sometimes, at a late period of the night, he was
prevailed upon to attach himself to a particular
party of pleasant fellows, who remained after the
house was closed, to enjoy themselves at full
swing. Then it was that Talbot shone, not
merely as a companion but as a performer. The
change in his style and manner of playing was
extraordinary: the spirit, the power, humor,
and pathos which he infused into his execution, were observed by every one; and when
asked to account for so remarkable a change
his reply was, " My Irish heart is warmed; I'n
25




290         TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
no)t now playing for money, but to please myself."
" But could you not play as well during the
evening, Talbot, if -you wished, as you do now?'!
"No, if you' were to hang me. My heart
must get warmed, and Irish-I must be as I am
this minute."
This, indeed, was very significant, and strongly
indicative of the same genius which distinguished
Neil Gow, Carolan, and other eminent musicians.
Talbot, though blind, used to employ his leisure hours in tuning and stringing organs and
pianos, and mending almost every description of
musical instrument that could be named. His
own pipes, which he called the "grand pipes,"
were at least eight feet long; and for beauty of
appearance, richness and delicacy of workmanship, surpassed anything of the kind that could
be witnessed; and when considered as the production of his own hands, were indeed entitled
to be ranked as an extraordinary natural curiosity. Talbot played before George IV., and appeared at most of the London theatres, where
his performances were received with the most
enthusiastic applause. In person, Talbot was a




THE IRISH PIPERS.          291
large, portly-looking man, red faced, and goodlooking, though strongly marked- by traces of
the small-pox. He always wore a blue coat,
fully made, with gilt buttons, and had altogether
the look of what we call in Ireland a welldressed badagh,* or half-sir, which means a kin
of gentleman-farmer.
His pipes, indeed, were a very wonderful instrument, or rather combination of instruments,
being so complicated that no one could play
upon them  but himself.  The tones which he
brought out of them might be imagined to proceed from almost every instrument in an orchestra-now resembling the sweetest and most attenuated notes of the finest Cremona violin,
and again the deep and solemn diapason of the
organ. Like every Irish performer of talent
that we have met with, he always preferred the
rich old songs and airs of Ireand to every other
description of music; and when lit up into the
enthusiasm of his profession and his love of country, he has often deplored, with tears in his
* Badagh signifies a churl, and was originally applied as
a word of offence, to the English settlers. The offensive
meaning, however, is not always attached to it, although is
often is.




292          TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
sightless eyes, the inroads which modern fashion
had made, and was making, upon the good old
spirit of the by-gone times.  Nearly the last
words I ever heard from his lips were highly
touching, and characteristic of the man as well
as the musician: "If we forget our own old
music," said he, "what is there to remember in
its place?"-words alas! which are equally
fraught with melancholy and truth.
The man, however, who ought to sit as the
true type and representative of the Irish piper,
is he whose whole life is passed among the peasantry, with the exception of an occasional elevation to the lord's hall or the squires parlorwho is equally conversant with the Irish and
English languages —has neither wife nor child,
house nor home, but circulates from one village
or farm-house to another, carrying mirth,
amusement, and a warm  welcome with him,
wherever he goes, and filling the hearts of the
young with happiness and delight. The true
Irish piper must wear a frieze coat, corduroy
breeches, grey-woollen stockings, smoke tobacco,
drink whiskey, and take snuff; for it is absolutely necessary, from his peculiar position among




THE IRISH PIPERS.          293
the people, that he should be a walking encyclopoedia of Irish social usages. And so he
generally is; for to the practice and cultivation
of these the simple tenor of his inoffensive life
is devoted.
The most perfect specimen of this class we ever
were acquainted with, was a blind man known by
the name of "Piper Gaynor."  His beat extended through the county of Louth, and occasionally through those of Meath and Monaghan.
Gaynor was precisely such a man as I have just
described, both as to dress, a knowledge of English and Irish, and a thorough feeling of all
those mellow old tints, which an incipient
change in the spirit of Irish society threatened
even then to obliterate.  I have said he was
blind, but, unlike Talbot's, his face was smooth;
and his pale placid features, while playing on his
pipes, were absolutely radiant with enthusiasm
and genics. He was a widower, and had won
one of the fairest and most modest girls in the
rich agricultural county of Louth, in spite of
the competition and rivalry of many wealthy and
independent suitors. But no wonder; for who
could hear his magic performances without at
25*




294         TALBOT AND GAYNOR.
once surrendering the whole heart and feelings
to the almost preternatural influence of this miraculous enchanter?  Talbot?-no, no!-after
hearing Gaynor, the very remembrance of the
music which proceeded from the " grand pipes "
was absolutely indifferent. And yet the pipes
on which he played were the meanest in appearance you could imagine, and in point of size the
smallest I ever saw. It is singular, however,
but no less true, that we can scarcely name
a celebrated Irish piper whose pipes were
not known to be small, old-looking, greasy,
and marked by the stains and dinges which
indicate an indulgence in the habits of convivial
life.
Many a distinguished piper have we heard,
but never at all any whom we could think for
a moment of comparing with Gaynor. Unlike
Talbot, it mattered not when or where he played;
his ravishing notes were still the same, for he
possessed the power of utterly abstracting his
whole spirit into his music, and any body who
looked upon his pale and intellectual countenance, could perceive the shadows and lights of
the Irish heart flit over it, with a change and




THE IRISH PIPERS.          295
rapidity which nothing but the soul of genius
could command.
Gaynor, though comparatively unknown to
any kind of fame but a local one, was yet not
unknown to himself. In truth, though modest,
humble, and unassuming in his manners, he
possessed the true pride of genius. For instance,
though willing to play in a respectable farmer's
house for the amusement of the family, he never
could be prevailed on to play at a common
dance; and his reasons, which I have often heard
him urge, were such as exhibit the spirit and
intellect of the man. " My music," said he, " isn't
for the feet or the floor, but for the ear an' the
heart; you'll get plinty of foot pipers, but I'm
none of thim."
I will now give a brief sketch of the last evening I ever spent in his society: and as some of
his observations bore slightly upon Scotch music,
they may probably be perused with the more
interest by Caledonian readers.
He was seated when I entered at the spacious
hearth of a wealthy farmer in the neighborhood,
surrounded by large chests, clean settles. and an
ample dresser, whose well-scoured pewter reflect



296        ~IALBOT AND GAYNOR,
ed the dancing blaze of a huge turf fire. The
ruddy farmer and his comely wife were placed
opposite him, their family of sons and daughters
in a wide circle at a due distance, whilst behind,
on the settles, were the servant men and maids,
with several of the neighbors, young and old,
some sitting on chairs, and others leaning
against the dresser, the tables, and the meal
chests. Within the chimney-brace depended
large sides and flitches of fat beacon, and dark
smoke-dried junks of hung beef, presenting altogether that agreeable manifestation of abundance
which gives such a cheerful sense of solid comfort
to the interior of a substantial farmer's house.
When I made my appearance in the kitchen,
he was putting a tobacco-pipe into his mouth,
but held it back for a moment, and exclaimed,
"I ought to know that footl" after which he
extended his hand, and asked me by name how
I did. He then sat a while in silence-for such
was his habit-and having "sucked his dooden,"
as they say, he began to blow his bellows, and
played Scots wha hae. When he had finished it,
"Well," I observed, "what a fine piece of mar
tial music that is" 




THE IRISH PIPERS.          297
"No, no," he replied, shaking  his head,
"there's more tears than blood in it. It's too
sorrowful for war: play it as you will, it's not
the thing to rise the heart, but to sink it."
" But what do you think, Gaynor, of the
Scotch music in general?"
"Would you have me to spake ill of my
own?" he replied with a smile; " sure they had
it from uz."
" Well, even so; they've not made a bad use
of it."
"God knows they haven't," he replied; " the
Scotch airs-many o' them-is the very breath of
the heart itself."
Even then I was much struck with the force
of this expression; but I was too young fully to
perceive either its truth or beauty. The conversation then became general, and he addressed
himself with great nazdiete to the youngsters, who
began to banter him on the subject of a second
wife.
"How can dark men choose a wife, Mr.
Gaynor?"
" God, avourneen, makes up in one sense what
they want in another.'Tis the ear,'tis the ear,"




298         TALBOT AND GAYNOR,
continued he with apparent emotion; "that's
what will never desave you. It did not desave
me, an' it never will desave any body-no, indeed I"
"Why, how do you prove that, Ned?"
"It isn't the song," continued Ned; "no, nor
the laugh; for.I knewn them  that could sing
like angels, and, to all appearance, were merry
enough too, an' God forgive them, there was
little but bittherness in them after all; but it's
the every-day voice, aisy and natural; if there's
sweetness in that, you may depind there's music
in the heart it comes from; so that, as I said,
childhre, it's the ear that judges."
This, coming from a man who had not his
sight, was, indeed, very characteristic; and we
certainly believe that the observation contains
a great deal of moral truth-at least Shakspeare was certainly of the same opinion.
"Now, childhre," said he, "hadn't we betther
have a dance, and afther that I'll play all your
favorites. So now, trim your heels for a dance.
What's the world good for, if we don't take it
aisy?"
After playing the old bard's exquisite air, the




THE IRISH PIPERS.          299
youngsters, myself among the rest, joined in the
dance   The punch being then introduced, a
happy night was spent in chat, nmusic, rich old
legends and traditions, principally furnished by
Gaynor himself; who, in addition to his many
social and amusing qualities, possessed in a high
degree the free and fluent powers peculiar to the
old Irish senachie.
Such is a very feeble and imperfect sketch of
the Irish piper, a character whom his country.
men love and respect, and in every instance
treat with the kindness and cordiality due to a
relation. Indeed, the musicians of Ireland are
as harmless and inoffensive a class of persons as
ever existed; and there can be no greater proof
of this than the very striking fact, that, in the
criminal statistics of the country, the name of
an Irish piper or fiddler, etc., has scarcely, if
ever, been known to amppear.




FRANK FINNEGAN,
THE FOSTER BROTHER.
THERE is scarcely a trait of human nature
ihvolved in more mystery, or generally less
understood, than the singular strength of affection which binds the humble peasant of Irish
life to his foster brother, and more especially if
the latter be a person of rank or consideration.
This anomalous attachment, though it may be
to a certain extent mutual, is nevertheless very
seldom known to be equal in strength between
the parties. Experience has sufficiently proved
to us, that whilst instances of equality in feeling
have been known to characterize it, the predominant power of its spirit has always been found to
exist in the person of the humbler party. How




THE FOSTER BROTHER.          301
to account for this, would certainly require a
more philosophical acquaintance with human
nature than has fallen to our lot; we must
therefore be content to know that the fact is
precisely as we have stated it.  Irish history
and tradition furnish us with sufficient materi
als on which to ground clear and distinct proofs
that the attachment of habit and contiguity in
these instances far transcends that of natural
affection itself.  It is very seldom  that one
brother will lay down his life for another, and
yet instances of such high and heroic sacrifices
have occurred in the case of the foster brother,
whose affection has thus not unfrequently triumphed over death itself.  It is certainly impossible to impute this wild but indomitable
attachment to the force of domestic feeling,
because, whilst we maintain that the domestic
affections in Ireland are certainly stronger than
those of any other country in the world, still
instances of this inexplicable devotion have
occurred in the persons of those in whom the
domestic ties were known to be very feeble. It
is true, there are many moral anomalies in the
human heart with which we are as yet but im2G




302          FRANK FINNEGAN,
perfectly acquainted; and as they arise from
some wayward and irregular combination of its
impulses, that operate independently of any
known principles of action, it is not likely that
we shall evel thoroughly understand them.
There is another peculiarity in Irish feeling,
which, as it is analogous to this, we cannot
neglect to mention it: we allude to the parisheen, a term which we must explain at further
length to our readers. When the Dublin
Foundling Hospital was in existence, the poor
infants whom an unhappy destiny consigned to
that gloomy and withering institution, were
transmitted to different parts of the country
to be nursed by the wives of the lower classes
of the peasantry-such as day-laborers, cottiers,
and small farmers, who cultivated from three
to six or eight acres of land. These children
were generally, indeed almost always, called
Parisheens-a word which could be properly
applied to such only as, having no known
parents, were supported by the parish in which
they happened to be born. It was transferred
to the Foundlings, however, although, with the
-xception of the metropolis, which certainly paid




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        303
a parish tax for their maintenance, they were
principally supported by a very moral act of
parliament, which, by the wise provision of a
large grant, held out a very liberal bounty to
profligacy. At all events, the opprobrious epithet of Parisheen was that usually fixed upon
them.
Now, of all classes of our fellow-creatures, one
might almost naturally suppose that those deserted and forsaken beings would be apt, consigned as they uniformly were to the care of
mercenary strangers, to experience neglect, illtreatment, or even cruelty itself; and yet, honor
be to the generous hearts and affectionate feelings of our humble peoplel it has been proved,
by the incontestible authority of a Commission
expressly appointed to examine and report on
the working of the very Hospital in question,
that the care, affection, and tenderness with
which these ill-fated creatures were treated by
the nurses to whom they were given out, were
equal, if not superior, to those bestowed upon
their own children. Even when removed from
these nurses to situations of incomparably more
comfort-situations in which they were lodged,




304           FRANK FINNEGAN,
fed, and clothed in a far superior manner-they
have been known in innumerable instances to
elope from their masters and mistresses, and return to their old abodes, preferring the indulgence of their affection, with poverty and distress,
to anything else that life could offer.
All this, however, was very natural and reasonable, for we know that even the domestic
animal will love the hand that feeds him. But
that which we have alluded to as constituting
the strong analogy between it and the attachment of the foster brother, is the well-known
fact, that the affection of the children to the
nurses, though strong and remarkable, was as
nothing when compared' with that which the
nurses felt for them. This was proved by a force
of testimony which no skepticism could encounter.
The parting scenes between them were affecting,
and in many instances agonizing, to the last
degree. Nay, nurses have frequently come to
Dublin, and with tears in their eyes, and in accents of the most unfeigned sorrow, begged-that
the orphans might be allowed to stay with them,
undertaking, rather than part with them, that
they would support them at their own expense.




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        305
It would be very difficult to produce a more
honorable testimony to the moral honesty, generosity, and exquisite kindness of heart which
characterize our people, than the authentic facts
we have just mentioned. They fell naturally in
our way when treating of the subject that preceded them, and we could not, in justice to circumstances so beautiful and striking, much less
in justice to the people themselves, pass them
over in silence.
We shall now relate -a short story, illustrating
the attachment of a foster brother; but as we
have reason to believe that the circumstances
are true, we shall introduce fictitious names instead of real ones.
The rebellion of ninety-eight was just at its
height when the incidents we are about to mention took place. A gentleman named MIoore
had a daughter remarkable for her beauty and
accomplishments.  Indeed, so celebrated had
she become, that her health was always drunk
as the toast of her native county. Many suitors she had, of course, but among the rest two
were remarkable for their assiduous attentions
to her and an intense anxiety to secure her
26*




306          FRANK FINNEGAN,
affections. Henry Irwin was a high loyalist, as
was her own father, whose consent to gain the
affections of his daughter had been long given
to his young friend. The other, a young gentle
man named Hewson, who in point of fact had
already secured-her affections, was, unfortunately, deeply involved in, or, we should rather say,
an open leader on, the insurgent side. His principles having become known to Moore, as a
republican, for some time before the breaking
out of the insurrection, he was, in consequence,
forbidden the house, and warned against holding communication with any member of his
family. He had succeeded, however, before this,
by the aid of Miss Moore herself, who was aware
of his principles, in placing as butler in her
father's family his own foster brother, Frank
Finnegan-an arrangement which never would
have been permitted, had Moore known of the
peculiar bond of affection which subsisted between them. Of this, however, he was ignorant; and in admitting Finnegan into his family,
he was not aware of the advantages he afforded
to the proscribed suitor of his daughter. This
interdiction, however, came too late for the pur



THE FOSTER BROTHER.         307
poses of prudence. Ere it was issued, Hewson
and his daughter had exchanged vows of mutual
affection; but the national outbreak which immediately ensued, by forcing Hewson to assume
his place as an insurgent leader, appeared to
have placed a barrier between him and her,
which was naturally considered to be insurmountable.  In the meantime, Moore himself,
who was a local magistrate, and also a captain
of yeomanry, took an extremely active part in
quelling the insurrection, and in hunting down
and securing the rebels. Nor was Irwin less
zealous in following the footsteps of the man to
whom he wished to recommend himself as his
future son-in-law. They acted together; and so
vigorous were the measures of the young loyalist, that the other felt it necessary in some instances to check the exuberance of his loyalty.
This, however, was not known to the opposite
party; for as Irwin always seemed to act under
the instructions of his friend Moore, so was it
obviously enough inferred that every harsh act
and wanton stretch of authority which he committed, was either sanctioned or suggested by
the other. The consequence was, that Moore




308           FRANK FINNEGAN,
became, if possible, more odious than Irwin, who
was looked upon as a rash, hot-headed zealot;
whilst the veteran was marked as a cool and
wily old fox, who had ten times the cunning and
cruelty of the senseless puppet he was managing.
In this, it is unnecessary to say, they were egregiously mistaken.
In the meantime the rebellion went forward,
and many acts of cruelty and atrocity were
committed on both sides. Moore's house and
family would have been attacked, and most probably murder and ruin might have visited him
and his, were it not for the influence of Hewson
with the rebels. Twice did the latter succeed,
and on each occasion with great difficulty, in
preventing him  and his household from falling
victims to the vengeance of the insurgents.
Moore was a man of great personal courage, but
apt to underrate the character and enterprise of
those who were opposed to him. Indeed, his
prudence was by no means on a par with his
bravery or zeal, for he has often been known to
sally out at the head of a party in quest of his enemies, and leave his own mansion, and the lives of
those who were in it, exposed and defenceless.




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        309
On one of these excursions it was that he
chanced to capture a small body of insurgents,
headed by an intimate friend and distant relative of Hewson's. As the law at that unhappy
period was necessarily quick in its operations,
we need scarcely say, that, having been taken
openly armed against the king and the constitution, they were tried and executed by the
summary sentence of a court-martial. A deep
and bloody vengeance was now sworn against
him and his by the rebels, who for some time
afterwards lay in wait for the purpose of retaliating in a spirit prompted by the atrocious
character of the times.
Hewson's attachment to Moore's daughter,
however, had been long known, and his previous interference on behalf of her father had
been successful on that account only.  Now,
however, the plan of attack was laid without
his cognizance, and that with the most solemn
injunctions to every one concerned in it not to
disclose their object to any human being not
officially acquainted with it, much less to Hew-,on, who they calculated would once more take
such steps as might defeat their sanguinary pur



310           FRANK FINNEGAN,
pose.  These arrangements having been made,
matters were allowed to remain quiet for a little, until Moore should be off his guard; for we
must observe here, that he had felt it necessary,
after the execution of the captured rebels, to
keep his house strongly and resolutely defended
The attack was therefore postponed until the
apprehensions created by his recent activity
should gradually wear away, and his enemies
might with less risk undertake the work
of bloodshed and destruction.  The night at
length was appointed on which the murderous
attack must be made.  All the dark details
were arranged with a deliberation at which,
removed as we now are from the sanguinary
excitement of the times, the very soul shudders
and gets sick. A secret, however, communicated, even under the most solemn sanction, to
a great number, stands a great chance of being
no secret at all, especially during civil war,
where so many interests of friendship, blood,
and marriage, bind the opposing parties together, in spite of the public principles under
which they act.  Miss Moore's maid had a
brother, for instance, who, together with sev



THE FOSTER BROTHER.        311
eral of his friends and relatives, being appointed
to aid in the attack, felt anxious that she should
not be present on that night, lest her acquaintance with them might be ultimately dangerous
to the assailants.  He accordingly sought an
opportunity of seeing her, and in earnest language urged.her to absent herself from  her
master's house on the appointed night. The
girl was not much surprised at the ambiguity
of his hints, for the truth was, that no persol,
man or woman, possessing common sense, could
be ignorant of the state of the country, or of
the evil odor in which Moore and Irwin, and all
those who were active on the part of the government, were held. She accordingly told him
that she would follow his advice, and spoke to
him in terms so shrewd and significant, that he
deemed it useless to preserve further secrecy.
The plot was thus disclosed, and the girl
warned to leave the house, both for her own
sake and for that of those who were to wreak
their vengeance upon Moore and his family.
The poor girl, hoping that her master and the
rest might fly from the impending danger, communicated the circumstances to Miss Moore,




312           FRANK FINNEGAN,
who forthwith communicated them to her
father, who, again, instead of flying, took measures to collect about his premises, during the
early part of the dreaded night, a large and
well-armed force from the next military station.
Now, it so happened that this girl, whose name
was Baxter, had a leaning towards Hewson's
foster brother Finnegan, her fellow-servant, who
in plain language was her accepted lover. If
love will not show itself in a case of danger, it
is good for nothing. We need scarcely say that
Peggy Baxter, apprehensive of danger to her
sweetheart, confided the secret to him also in
the early part of the day of the attack. Finnegan was surprised, especially when he heard from
Peggy that Hewson had been kept in ignorance
of the whole design (for so her brother had told
her), in consequence of his attachment to her
young mistress. There was now no possible
way of warding off such a calamity unless by
communicating with Hewson; and this, as Finnegan was a sound United Irishman, he knew
he could do without any particular danger. lie
lost no time, therefore, in seeing him; and we
need scarcely say that his foster brother felt




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        313
stunned and thunderstruck at the deed about
to be perpetrated without his knowledge. Finnegan then left him, but ere he reached holne
the darkness had set in, and on arriving, he
sought the kitchen and its comforts, ignorant,
as were indeed most of the servants, that th
upper rooms and out-houses were literally crammed with fierce and well-armed soldiers.
Matters were now coming to a crisis. Hewson, aware that there was little time to be lost,
collected a small party of his own immediate and
personal friends, not one of whom, from their
known attachment to him,' had been, any more
than himself, admitted to a knowledge of the attack upon Moore. Determined, therefore, to be
beforehand with the others, he and they met at
an appointed place, from whence they went
quickly, and with all possible secrecy, to Moore's
house, for the purpose not only of apprizing him
of the fate to which he and his were doomed,
but also witli an intention of escorting him and
all his family as far from his house as might be
consistent with the safety of both parties. Our
readers are of course prepared for the surprise
and capture of honest Hewson and his friends,
27




314          FRANK FINNEGAN,
of whose friendly intentions they are aware. It
is too true. Not expecting to find the house
defended they were unprepared for an attack or
sally; and the upshot was that in a few minutes
two of them were shot, and most of the rest,
among whom was Hewson, taken prisoners on
the spot. Those who escaped communicated to
the other insurgents an account of the strength
with which Moore's house was defended, and the
latter instead of making an attempt to rescue
their friends, abandoned the meditated attack
altogether, and left Hewson and his party to
their fate. A gloomy fate that was. Assertions and protestations of their innocence were
all in vain. An insurgent party were expected
to attack the house, and of course they came,
headed by Hewson himself, who, as Moore said,
no doubt intended to spare none of them but his
daughter, and her only in order that she might
become a rebel's wife. Irwin, too, his rival in
love and his foe in politics, was on the courtmartial; and what had he to expect? Death;
and nothing but the darkness of the night prevented his enemies from putting it into immediate execution upon him and his companions.




TIlE FOSTER BROTHER.       315
Hewson maintained a dignified silence; and
upon seeing his friends guarded from the hall
where they were now assembled, into a large
barn, he desired to be placed along with
them.
"No," said Moore; "if you are a rebel ten
times over, you are a gentleman, and must not
herd with them; and besides, Mr. Hewson, with
great respect to you, we shall place you in a
much safer place: in the highest room in a house
unusually high, we shall lodge you, out of which
if you escape, we will say you are an innocent
man. Frank Finnegan, show him and those two
soldiers up to the observatory, get him refreshments, and leave him in their charge. Guard
his door, men, for you shall be held responsible
for his appearance in the morning."
The men, in obedience to these orders, escorted him to the door, outside of which was their
station for the night. When Frank and he entered the observatory, the former gently shut
the door, and turning to his foster brother, exclaimed in accents of deep distress, but lowering
his voice, "There is not a moment to be lost:
you must escape."




316          FRANK FINNEGAN,
" That is impossible," replied Hewson, "unless I had wings and could use them."
"We must try," returned Frank; "we can
only fail-at the most, they can only take your
life, and that they will do at all events."
"I know that," said Hewson, "and I am prepared for' it."
"Hear me," said the other: "I will come up
by-and-bye with refreshment, say in about half
an hour; be you stripped when I come: we are
both of a size; and as these fellows don't know
either of us very well, I wouldn't say but you
may go out in my clothes. I'll hear nothing,"
he added, seeing Hewson about to speak; " I'm
here too long, and these fellows might begin to
suspect something. Be prepared when I come.
Good bye, Mlr. Hewson," he said aloud, as he
opened the door; " in troth and conscience I'm
sorry to see you here; but that's the consequence
of turnin' rebel against King George, an' glory
to him-soon an' sudden," he added in an undertone. " In about half an hour I'll bring you
up some supper, sir. Keep a sharp eye on him,"
e whispered to the two soldiers, giving them at
he same time a knowing and confidential wink;




THE FOSTER BROTHER.         317
"'these same rebels is like eels, an' will slip as
aisily through your fingers-an' the devil's bitther one yez have in there;" and as he spoke,
he pointed over his shoulder with his inverted
thumb to the door of the observatory.
Much about the time he had promised to return, a crash was heard upon the stairs, and Finnegan's voice in a high key exclaiming, " The
curse o' blazes on ye for stairs, an' hell presume
all the rebels in Europe, I pray heavens this
night! There's my nose broke between you all."
He then stooped down, and in a torrent of bitter
imprecations-all conveyed, however, in mock
oaths-he collected and placed again upon the
tray on which they had been, all the materials
for HIewson's supper. He then ascended, and
on presenting himself at the prisoner's door, the
blood was copiously streaming from his nose.
the soldiers-who by-the-way were yeomen-on
seeing him, could not avoid laughing at his rueful appearance-a circumstance which seemed to
nettle him a good deal.
"Yez may laugh I" he exclaimed, "but I'd
hould a wager I've shed more blood for his
majesty this night than either of you ever did in
27*




318          FRANK FINNEGAN,
all your lives. May hell renounce all rebels any
how."
This only heightened their mirth, in the midst
of which he entered Hewson's room, and ere
the action could be deemed possible, they had
exchanged clothes.
"Now," said he, "fly. Behind the garden
Miss Moore is waitin' for you: she knows all.
Take the bridle-road through the broad bog, an'
get into Captain Corney's demesne. Take my
advice, too, an' go both of you to America, if
you can. But aisy. God forgive me for pullin'
you by the nose instead of shakin' you by the
hand, an' me may never see you more."
The poor fellow's voice became unsteady with
emotion, although the smile at his own humor
was upon his face at the time.
"As I came in with a bloody nose," he proceeded, giving that of IHewson a fresh pull,
" you know you must go out with one. An' now
God's blessin' be with youI Think of one who
loved you as none else did."
The next morning there was uproar, tumult,
and confusion in the house of the old loyalist
magistrate, when it was discovered that his




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        319
daughter and the butler were not forthcoming.
But when, on examining the observatory, it was
ascertained that Finnegan was safe and Hewson
gone, no language can describe the rage and
fury of Moore, Irwin, and the military in general. Our readers may anticipate what occurred.
The noble fellow was brought to the drum-head,
tried and sentenced to be shot where he stood;
but ere the sentence was put into execution,
Moore addressed him, "Now, Finnegan," said
he, "I will get you off, if you tell us where
Hewson and my daughter are. I pledge my
honor publicly that I'll save your life, and get
you a free pardon, if you enable us to trace and
recover them."
" I don't know where they are," he replied,
"but even if I did I would not betray
them."
"Think of what has been said to you," added
Irwin. " I give you my pledge also to the same
effect."
"Mr. Irwin," he replied, "I have but one
word to say. When I did what I did, I knew
very well that my life would go for his; an' I
know that if he had thought so, he would be




320           FRANK FINNEGAN3
standin' now in my place. Put your sentence
into execution; I'm prepared."
"Take five minutes," said Moore.  "Give
him up and live."'
"Mr. Moore," said he, with a decision and
energy which startled them all, "I AM HIS FOS-.TER BROTHER."
This was felt to be sufficient; he stood at the
appointed place, calm and unshrinking, and at
the first discharge fell instantaneously dead.
Thus passed a spirit worthy of a place in a
brighter page than that of our humble miscellany, and which, if the writer of this lives, shall
be more adequately recorded.
Hewson, finding that the insurgent cause was
becoming hopeless, escaped, after two or three
other unsuccessful engagements, to America,
instigated  by the solicitations of his young
wife.  Old Moore died in a few years afte'wards, but he survived his resentment, for he
succeeded in reconciling the then government
to his son-in-law, who returned to Ireland; and
it was found by his will, much to the mortification of many of his relatives, that he had left
the bulk of his property to Mrs. Hewson, who




THE FOSTER BROTHER.        321
had always been his favorite child, and whose
attachment to Hewson he had himself originally
encouraged.
There are two records more connected with
this transaction, with which we shall close. In
a northern newspaper, dated some fifteen years
afterwards, there occurs the following paragraph:"AFFAIR OF HONOR-FATAL DUEL.-Yesterday morning, at the early hour of five o'clock, a
duel was fought between A. Irwin, Esq. and J.
Hewson, Esq., of Mooredale; the former of
whom, we regret to say, fell by the second fire.
We hope the words attributed to one of the
parties are not correctly reported.' The blood
of Frank Finnegan is now avenged.'"
The other record is to be found in the churchyard of --, where there is a handsome monument erected, with the following inscription:



322 FRANK FINNEGAN, THE FOSTER BROTHER.
Zatrtb  to tOf fRtfnorx   of
FRANCIS FINNEGAN,
Whose death presented an instance of the greatest Virtue
Of which Human Nature is capableThat of laying down his Life for his Friend.
This Monument is erected to his Memory by
JAMES HEWSON,
His Friend and Foster-Brother,
To save whose more unworthy life, he nobly sacrificed
his own
ll Ma.