In proposing to write a series of “Tales for the Irish People,” the
author feels perfectly conscious of the many difficulties by which he
is surrounded, and by which he may be still met in his endeavors to
accomplish that important task. In order, however, to make everything as
clear and intelligible as possible, he deems it necessary, in the first
place, to state what his object is in undertaking it: that object is
simply to improve their physical and social condition--generally;
and through the medium of vivid and striking, but unobjectionable
narratives, to inculcate such principles as may enable Irishmen to think
more clearly, reason more correctly, and act more earnestly upon the
general duties, which, from their position in life, they are called upon
to perform. With regard to those who feel apprehensive that anything
calculated to injure the doctrinal convictions of the Catholic people
may be suffered to creep into these Tales, the author has only to assure
them--that such an object comes within the scope neither of his plan
or inclinations. It is not his intention to make these productions the
vehicles of Theology or Polemics; but studiously to avoid anything and
everything that even approaches the sphere of clerical duty. His
object, so far from that, is the inculcation of general, not peculiar,
principles--principles which neither affect nor offend any creed, but
which are claimed and valued by all. In this way, by making amusement
the handmaiden of instruction, the author believes it possible to let
into the cabin, the farm-house, and even the landlord's drawing-room,
a light by which each and all of them may read many beneficial
lessons--lessons that will, it is hoped, abide with them, settle down
in their hearts, and by giving them a, clearer sense of their respective
duties, aid in improving and regenerating their condition.
To send to the poor man's fireside, through the medium of Tales that
will teach his heart and purify his affections, those simple lessons
which may enable him to understand his own value--that will generate
self-respect, independence, industry, love of truth, hatred of deceit
and falsehood, habits of cleanliness, order, and punctuality--together
with all those lesser virtues which help to create a proper sense of
personal and domestic comfort--to assist in working out these healthful
purposes is the Author's anxious wish--a task in which any man may feel
proud to engage.
Self-reliance, manly confidence in the effect of their own virtues,
respect for the virtues that ought to adorn rank, rather than for
rank itself, and a spurning of that vile servility which is only the
hereditary remnant of bygone oppression, will be taught the people
in such a way as to make them feel how far up in society a high moral
condition can and ought to place them. Nor is this all;--the darker
page of Irish life shall be laid open before them--in which they will be
taught, by examples that they can easily understand, the fearful details
of misery, destitution, banishment, and death, which the commission of a
single crime may draw down, not only upon the criminal himself, but upon
those innocent and beloved connections whom he actually punishes by his
guilt.
It is, indeed, with fear and trembling that the Author undertakes such a
great and important task as this. If he fail, however, he may well say--
“_Quem si non tenuifc, tamon magnis excidit ausis_.”
Still he is willing to hope that, through the aid of truthful fiction,
operating upon the feelings of his countrymen, and on their knowledge of
peasant life, he may furnish them with such a pleasing Encyclopedia of
social duty--now lit up with their mirth, and again made tender with
their sorrow--as will force them to look upon him as a benefactor--to
forget his former errors--and to cherish his name with affection, when
he himself shall be freed forever from those cares and trials of life
which have hitherto been his portion.
In the following simple narrative of “The Broken Pledge,” it was his
aim, without leading his readers out of the plain paths of every-day
life or into the improbable creations of Romance, to detail the
character of such an individual as almost every man must have often seen
and noticed within the society by which he is surrounded. He trusts that
the moral, as regards both husband and wife, is wholesome and good,
and calculated to warn those who would follow in the footsteps of “Art
Maguire.”
Dubin, July 4, 1845.
It has been often observed, and as frequently inculcated, through the
medium of both press and pulpit, that there is scarcely any human being
who, how striking soever his virtues, or how numerous his good qualities
may be, does not carry in his moral constitution some particular
weakness or failing, or perhaps vice, to which he is especially subject,
and which may, if not properly watched and restrained, exercise an
injurious and evil influence over his whole life. Neither have the
admonitions of press or pulpit ended in merely laying down this obvious
and undeniable truth, but, on the contrary, very properly proceeded to
add, that one of the most pressing duties of man is to examine his own
heart, in order to ascertain what this particular vice or failing in his
case may be, in order that, when discovered, suitable means be taken to
remove or overcome it.
The man whose history we are about to detail for the reader's
instruction, was, especially during the latter years of his life, a
touching, but melancholy illustration of this indisputable truth; in
other words, he possessed the weakness or the vice, as the reader may
consider it, and found, when too late, that a yielding resolution, or,
to use a phrase perhaps better understood, a good intention, was but a
feeble and inefficient instrument with which to attempt its subjection.
Having made these few preliminary observations, as being suitable, in
our opinion, to the character of the incidents which follow, we proceed
at once to commence our narrative.
Arthur, or, as he was more familiarly called by the people, Art Maguire,
was the son of parents who felt and knew that they were descended from
higher and purer blood than could be boasted of by many of the families
in their neighborhood. Art's father was a small farmer, who held about
ten acres of land, and having a family of six children--three sons, and
as many daughters--he determined upon putting one or two of the former
to a trade, so soon as they should be sufficiently grown up for that
purpose. This, under his circumstances was a proper and provident
resolution to make. His farm was too small to be parceled out, as is too
frequently the case, into small miserable patches, upon each of which
a young and inconsiderate couple are contented to sit down, with the
prospect of rearing up and supporting a numerous family with wofully
inadequate means; for although it is generally a matter of certainty
that the families of these young persons will increase, yet it is a
perfectly well-known fact that the little holding will not, and the
consequence is, that families keep subdividing on the one hand, and
increasing on the other, until there is no more room left for them.
Poverty then ensues, and as poverty in such cases begets competition,
and competition crime, so we repeat that Condy Maguire's intention,
as being one calculated to avoid such a painful state of things, was a
proof of his own good sense and forethought.
Arthur's brother, Frank, was a boy not particularly remarkable for any
peculiar brilliancy of intellect, or any great vivacity of disposition.
When at school he was never in a quarrel, nor engaged in any of those
wild freaks which are sore annoyances to a village schoolmaster, and
daring outrages against his authority. He was consequently a favorite
not only with the master, but with all the sober, well-behaved boys
of the school, and many a time has Teague Rooney, with whom he was
educated, exclaimed, as he addressed him:
“Go to your sate, Frank abouchal; faith, although there are boys endowed
wid more brilliancy of intellect than has fallen to your lot, yet you
are the very youth who understands what is due to legitimate authority,
at any rate, an' that's no small gift in itself; go to your sate, sorrow
taw will go to your substratum this bout, for not having your lesson;
for well I know it wasn't idleness that prevented you, but the natural
sobriety and slowness of intellect you are gifted wid. If you are slow,
however, you are sure, and I'll pledge my reputaytion aginst that of the
great O'Flaherty himself, that you and your brinoge of a brother will
both live to give a beautiful illustration of the celebrated race
between the hare and the tortoise yet. Go to your sate wid impunity, and
tell your dacent mother I was inquiring for her.”
Such, indeed, was a tolerably correct view of Frank's character. He was
quiet, inoffensive, laborious, and punctual; though not very social or
communicative, yet he was both well-tempered and warm-hearted, points
which could not, without considerable opportunities of knowing him, be
readily perceived. Having undertaken the accomplishment of an object, he
permitted no circumstance to dishearten or deter him in working out
his purpose; if he said it, he did it; for his word was a sufficient
guarantee that he would; his integrity was consequently respected,
and his resolution, when he expressed it, was seldom disputed by his
companions, who knew that in general it was inflexible. After what we
have said, it is scarcely necessary to add that he was both courageous
and humane.
These combinations of character frequently occur. Many a man not
remarkable for those qualities of the head that impress themselves most
strikingly upon the world, is nevertheless gifted with those excellent
principles of the heart which, although without much show, and scarcely
any noise, go to work out the most useful purposes of life. Arthur, on
the contrary, was a contrast to his brother, and a strong one, too, on
many points; his intellect was far superior to that of Frank's, but,
on the other hand, he by no means possessed his brother's steadiness or
resolution. We do not say, however, that he was remarkable for the want
of either, far from it; he could form a resolution, and work it out as
well as his brother, provided his course was left unobstructed: nay,
more, he could overcome difficulties many and varied, provided only that
he was left unassailed by, one solitary temptation--that of an easy
and good-humored vanity. He was conscious of his talents, and of his
excellent qualities, and being exceedingly vain, nothing gave him
greater gratification than to hear himself praised for possessing
them--for it is a fact, that every man who is vain of any particular
gift, forgets that he did not bestow that gift upon himself, and that
instead of priding himself upon the possession of it, he should only be
humbly thankful to the Being who endowed him with it.
Art was social, communicative, and, although possessing what might be
considered internal resources more numerous, and of a far higher order
than did his brother, yet, somehow, it was clear that he had not the
same self-dependence that marked the other. He always wanted, as it.
were, something to lean upon, although in truth he did not at all
require it, had he properly understood himself. The truth is, like
thousands, he did not begin to perceive, or check in time, those early
tendencies that lead a heart naturally indolent, but warm and generous,
to the habit of relying first, in small things, upon external sources
and objects, instead of seeking and finding within itself those
materials for manly independence, with which every heart is supplied,
were its possessor only aware of the fact, and properly instructed how
to use them.
Art's enjoyments, for instance, were always of a social nature, and
never either solitary or useful in their tendencies; of this character
was every thing he engaged in. He would not make a ship of water
flaggons by himself, nor sail it by himself--he would not spin a top,
nor trundle a hoop without a companion--if sent upon a message, or to
dig a basket of potatoes in the field, he would rather purchase the
society of a companion with all the toys or playthings he possessed than
do either alone. His very lessons he would not get unless his brother
Frank got his along with him. The reader may thus perceive that he
acquired no early habit of self-restraint, no principle of either labor
or enjoyment within, himself, and of course could acquire none at all
of self-reliance. A social disposition in our amusements is not only
proper, but natural, for we believe it is pretty generally known, that
he who altogether prefers such amusements is found to be deficient
in the best and most generous principles of our nature. Every thing,
however, has its limits and its exceptions. Art, if sent to do a day's
work alone, would either abandon it entirely, and bear the brunt of his
father's anger, or he would, as we have said, purchase the companionship
of some neighbor's son or child, for, provided he had any one to whom he
could talk, he cared not, and having thus succeeded, he would finish it
triumphantly.
In due time, however, his great prevailing weakness, vanity, became well
known to his family, who, already aware of his peculiar aversion to any
kind of employment that was not social, immediately seized upon it,
and instead of taking rational steps to remove it, they nursed it into
stronger life by pandering to it as a convenient means of regulating,
checking, or stimulating the whole habits of his life. His family were
not aware of the moral consequences which they were likely to produce
by conduct such as this, nor of the pains they were ignorantly taking to
lay the foundation of his future misfortune and misery.
“Art, my good boy, will you take your spade and clane out the remaindher
o' that drain, between the Hannigans and us,” said his father.
“Well, will Frank come?”
“Sure you know he can't; isn't he weedin' that bit of _blanther_ in
Crackton's park, an' afther that sure he has to cut scraws on the
Pirl-hill for the new barn.”
“Well, I'll help him if he helps me; isn't that fair? Let us join.”
“Hut, get out o' that, avourneen; go yourself; do what you're bid, Art.”
“Is it by myself? murdher alive, father, don't ax me; I'll give him my
new Cammon if he comes.”
“Throth you won't; the sorra hand I'd ever wish to see the same Cammon
in but your own; faix, it's you that can handle it in style. Well now,
Art, well becomes myself but I thought I could play a Cammon wid the
face o' clay wanst in my time, but may I never sin if ever I could match
you at it; oh, sorra taste o' your Cammon you must part wid; sure I'd
rather scower the drain myself.”
“Bedad I won't part wid it then.”
“I'd rather, I tell you, scower it myself--an' I will, too. Sure if I
renew the ould cough an me I'll thry the _Casharawan_, (* Dandelion) that
did me so much good the last time.”
“Well, that's purty! Ha, ha, ha! you to go! Oh, ay, indeed--as if I'd
stand by an' let you. Not so bad as that comes to, either--no. Is the
spade an' shovel in the shed?”
“To be sure they are. Throth, Art, you're worth the whole o' them--the
sorra lie in it. Well, go, avillish.”
This was this fine boy's weakness played upon by those who, it is true,
were not at all conscious of the injury they were inflicting upon him at
the time. He was certainly the pride of the family, and even while they
humored and increased this his predominant and most dangerous foible, we
are bound to say that they gratified their own affection as much as they
did his vanity.
His father's family consisted, as we have said, of three sons and three
daughters. The latter were the elder, and in point of age Art, as we
have said, was the youngest of them all. The education that he and his
brothers received was such as the time and the neglected state of the
country afforded them. They could all read and write tolerably well, and
knew something of arithmetic. This was a proof that their education had
not been neglected. And why should it? Were they not the descendants of
the great Maguires of Fermanagh? Why, the very consciousness of their
blood was felt as a proud and unanswerable argument against ignorance.
The best education, therefore, that could be procured by persons in
their humble sphere of life, they received. The eldest brother, whose
name was Brian, did not, as is too frequently the case with the eldest
sons of small farmers, receive so liberal a portion of instruction as
Frank or Art. This resulted from the condition and necessities of his
father, who could not spare him from his farm--and, indeed, it cost the
worthy man many a sore heart. At all events, time advanced, and the two
younger brothers were taken from school with a view of being apprenticed
to some useful trade. The character of each was pretty well in
accordance with their respective dispositions. Frank had no enemies, yet
was he by no means so popular as Art, who had many. The one possessed
nothing to excite envy, and never gave offence; the other, by the very
superiority of his natural powers, exultingly paraded, as they were, at
the expense of dulness or unsuccessful rivalry, created many vindictive
maligners, who let no opportunity pass of giving him behind his back the
harsh word which they durst not give him to his face. In spite of all
this, his acknowledged superiority, his generosity, his candor, and
utter ignorance or hatred of the low chicaneries of youthful cunning,
joined to his open, intrepid, and manly character, conspired to render
him popular in an extraordinary degree. Nay, his very failings added
to this, and when the battle of his character was fought, all the
traditionary errors of moral life were quoted in his favor.
“Ay, ay, the boy has his faults, and who has not; I'd be glad to know?
If he's lively, it's betther to be that, than a mosey, any day. His
brother Frank is a good boy, but sure divil a squig of spunk or spirits
is in him, an', my dear, you know the ould proverb, that a standin'
pool always stinks, while the runnin' strame is sweet and clear to the
bottom. If he's proud, he has a right to be proud, and why shouldn't he,
seein' that it's well known he could take up more larnin' than half the
school.”
“Well, but poor Frank's a harmless boy, and never gave offence to
mortual, which, by the same token, is more than can be said of Art the
lad.”
“Very well, we know all that; and maybe it 'ud be betther for himself
if he had a sharper spice of the dioual in him--but sure the poor boy
hasn't the brain for it. Offence! oh, the dickens may seize the offence
poor Frank will give to man or woman, barrin' he mends his manners, and
gats a little life into him--sure he was a year and a day in the Five
Common Rules, an' three blessed weeks gettin' the Multiplication Table.”
Such, in general, was the estimate formed of their respective
characters, by those who, of course, had an opportunity of knowing them
best. Whether the latter were right or wrong will appear in the sequel,
but in the meantime we must protest, even in this early stage of our
narrative, against those popular exhibitions of mistaken sympathy, which
in early life--the most dangerous period too--are felt and expressed
for those who, in association with weak points of character, give strong
indications of talent. This mistaken generosity is pernicious to the
individual, inasmuch as it confirms him in the very errors which he
should correct, and in the process of youthful reasoning, which is
most selfish, induces him not only to doubt the whisperings of his
own conscience, but to substitute in their stead the promptings of the
silliest vanity.
Having thus given a rapid sketch of these two brothers in their
schoolboy life, we now come to that period at which their father thought
proper to apprentice them. The choice of the trade he left to their own
natural judgment, and as Frank was the eldest, he was allowed to choose
first. He immediately selected that of a carpenter, as being clean,
respectable, and within-doors; and, as he added--
“Where the wages is good--and then I'm tould that one can work afther
hours, if they wish.”
“Very well,” said the father, “now let us hear, Art; come, alanna, what
are you on for?”
“I'll not take any trade,” replied Art.
“Not take any trade, Art! why, my goodness, sure you knew all along that
you war for a trade. Don't you know when you and Frank grow up, and, of
course, must take the world on your heads, that it isn't this strip of a
farm that you can depend on.”
“That's what I think of,” said Frank; “one's not to begin the world wid
empty pockets, or, any way, widout some ground to put one's foot on.”
“The world!” rejoined Art; “why, what the sorra puts thoughts o' the
world into your head, Frank? Isn't it time enough for you or me to think
o' the world these ten years to come?”
“Ay,” replied Frank, “but when we come to join it isn't the time to
begin to think of it; don't you know what the ould saying says--_ha nha
la na guiha la na scuillaba_--it isn't on the windy day that you are to
look for your scollops.” *
* The proverb inculcates forethought and provision.
Scollop is an osier sharpened at both ends, by which
the thatch of a house is fastened down to the roof. Of
a windy day the thatch alone would be utterly useless,
if there were no scollops to keep it firm.
“An' what 'ud prevent you, Art, from goin' to larn a trade?” asked his
father.
“I'd rather stay with you,” replied the affectionate boy; “I don't like
to leave you nor the family, to be goin' among strangers.”
The unexpected and touching nature of his motive, so different from what
was expected, went immediately to his father's heart. He looked at his
fine boy, and was silent for a minute, after which he wiped the moisture
from his eyes. Art, on seeing his father affected, became so himself,
and added--
“That's my only raison, father, for not goin'; I wouldn't like to lave
you an' them, if I could help it.”
“Well, acushla,” replied the father, while his eyes beamed on him with
tenderness and affection, “sure we wouldn't ax you to go, if we could
any way avoid it--it's for your own good we do it. Don't refuse to go,
Art; sure for my sake you won't?”
“I will go, then,” he replied; “I'll go for your sake, but I'll miss you
all.”
“An' we'll miss you, ahagur. God bless you, Art dear, it's jist like
you. Ay, will we in throth miss you; but, then, think what a brave fine
thing it'll be for you to have a grip of a dacent independent trade,
that'll keep your feet out o' the dirt while you live.”
“I will go,” repeated Art, “but as for the trade, I'll have none but
Frank's. I'll be a carpenter, for then he and I can be together.”
In addition to the affectionate motive which Art had mentioned to his
father--and which was a true one--as occasioning his reluctance to learn
a trade, there was another, equally strong and equally tender. In the
immediate neighborhood there lived a family named Murray, between whom
and the Maguires there subsisted a very kindly intimacy. Jemmy Murray
was in fact one of the wealthiest men in that part of the parish, as
wealth then was considered--that is to say, he farmed about forty acres,
which he held at a moderate rent, and as he was both industrious and
frugal, it was only a matter of consequence that he and his were well
to do in the world. It is not likely, however, that even a passing
acquaintance would ever have taken place between them, were it not for
the consideration of the blood which was known to flow in the veins
of the Fermanagh Maguires. Murray was a good deal touched with
purse-pride--the most offensive and contemptible description of pride
in the world--and would never have suffered an intimacy, were it not for
the reason I have alleged. It is true he was not a man of such stainless
integrity as Condy Maguire, because it was pretty well known that in
the course of his life, while accumulating money, he was said to
have stooped to practices that were, to say the least of them, highly
discreditable. For instance, he always held over his meal, until there
came what is unfortunately both too well known and too well felt in
Ireland,--a dear year--a year of hunger, starvation, and famine. For the
same reason he held over his hay, and indeed on passing his haggard you
were certain to perceive three or four immense stacks, bleached by the
sun and rain of two or three seasons into a tawny yellow. Go into his
large kitchen or storehouse, and you saw three or four immense
deal chests filled with meal, which was reserved for a season of
scarcity--for, proud as Farmer Murray was, he did not disdain to fatten
upon human misery. Between these two families there was, as we have
said, an intimacy. It was wealth and worldly goods on the one side;
integrity and old blood on the other. Be this as it may, Farmer Murray
had a daughter, Margaret, the youngest of four, who was much about the
age of Arthur Maguire. Margaret was a girl whom it was almost impossible
to know and not to love. Though then but seventeen, her figure was full,
rich, and beautifully formed. Her abundant hair was black and glossy as
ebony, and her skin, which threw a lustre like ivory itself, had--not
the whiteness of snow--but a whiteness a thousand times more natural--a
whiteness that was fresh, radiant, and spotless. She was arch and full
of spirits, but her humor--for she possessed it in abundance--was so
artless, joyous, and innocent, that the heart was taken with it before
one had time for reflection. Added, however, to this charming vivacity
of temperament were many admirable virtues, and a fund of deep and
fervent feeling, which, even at that early period of her life, had made
her name beloved by every one in the parish, especially the poor and
destitute. The fact is, she was her father's favorite daughter, and he
could deny her nothing. The admirable girl was conscious of this, but
instead of availing herself of his affection for her in a way that
many--nay, we may say, most--would have done, for purposes of dress or
vanity, she became an interceding angel for the poor and destitute; and
closely as Murray loved money, yet it is due to him to say, that, on
these occasions, she was generally successful. Indeed, he was so far
from being insensible to his daughter's noble virtues, that he felt
pride in reflecting that she possessed them, and gave aid ten times
from that feeling for once that he did from a more exalted one. Such
was Margaret Murray, and such, we are happy to say--for we know it--are
thousands of the peasant girls of our country.
It was not to be wondered at, then, that in addition to the reluctance
which a heart naturally affectionate, like Art's, should feel on leaving
his relations for the first time, he should experience much secret
sorrow at being deprived of the society of this sweet and winning girl.
Matters now, however, were soon arranged, and the time, nay, the very
day for their departure was appointed. Art, though deeply smitten with
the charms of Margaret Murray, had never yet ventured to breathe to her
a syllable of love, being deterred naturally enough by the distance in
point of wealth which existed between the families. Not that this alone,
perhaps, would have prevented him from declaring his affection for her;
but, young as he was, he had not been left unimpressed by his father's
hereditary sense of the decent pride, strict honesty, and independent
spirit, which should always mark the conduct and feelings of any one
descended from the great Fermanagh Maguires. He might, therefore,
probably have spoken, but that his pride dreaded a repulse, and that he
could not bear to contemplate. This, joined to the natural diffidence of
youth, sufficiently accounts for his silence.
There lived, at the period of which we write, which is not a thousand
years ago, at a place called “the Corner House,” a celebrated carpenter
named Jack M'Carroll. He was unquestionably a first-rate mechanic, kept
a large establishment, and had ample and extensive business. To him had
Art and Frank been apprenticed, and, indeed, a better selection could
not have been made, for Jack was not only a good workman himself, but an
excellent employer, and an honest man. An arrangement had been entered
into with a neighboring farmer regarding their board and lodging,
so that every thing was settled very much to the satisfaction of all
parties.
When the day of their departure had at length arrived, Art felt his
affections strongly divided, but without being diminished, between
Margaret Murray and his family; while Frank, who was calm and
thoughtful, addressed himself to the task of getting ready such luggage
as they had been provided with.
“Frank,” said Art, “don't you think we ought to go and bid farewell to a
few of our nearest neighbors before we lave home?”
“Where's the use of that?” asked Frank; “not a bit, Art; the best plan
is jist to bid our own people farewell, and slip away without noise or
nonsense.”
“You may act as you plaise, Frank,” replied the other; “as for me, I'll
call on Jemmy Hanlon and Tom Connolly, at all events; but hould,” said
he, abruptly, “ought I to do that? Isn't it their business to come to
us?”
“It is,” replied Frank, “and so they would too, but that they think
we won't start till Thursday; for you know we didn't intend to go till
then.”
“Well,” said Art, “that's a horse of another color: I will call on them.
Wouldn't they think it heartless of us to go off widout seein' them? An'
besides, Frank, why should we steal away like thieves that had the hue
and cry at their heels? No, faith, as sure as we go at all, we'll go
openly, an' like men that have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Very well,” replied his brother, “have it your own way, so far as
you're consarned, as for me, I look upon it all as mere nonsense.”
It is seldom that honest and manly affection fails to meet its reward,
be the period soon or late. Had Art been guided by Frank's apparent
indifference--who, however, acted in this matter solely for the sake of
sparing his brother's feelings--he would have missed the opportunity of
being a party to an incident which influenced his future life in all he
ever afterwards enjoyed and suffered. He had gone, as he said, to bid
farewell to his neighbors, and was on his return home in order to take
his departure, when whom should he meet on her way to her father's
house, after having called at his father's “to see the girls,” as she
said, with a slight emphasis upon the word girls, but Margaret Murray.
As was natural, and as they had often done before under similar
circumstances, each paused on meeting, but somehow on this occasion
there was visible on both sides more restraint than either had ever yet
shown. At length, the preliminary chat having ceased, a silence ensued,
which, after a little time, was broken by Margaret, who, Art could
perceive, blushed deeply as she spoke.
“So, Art, you and Frank are goin' to lave us.”
“It's not with my own consint I'm goin', Margaret,” he replied. As he
uttered the words he looked at her; their eyes met, but neither could
stand the glance of the other; they were instantly withdrawn.
“I'll not forget my friends, at all events,” said Art; “at least,
there's some o' them I won't, nor wouldn't either, if I was to get a
million o' money for doin' so.”
Margaret's face and neck, on hearing this, were in one glow of crimson,
and she kept her eyes still on the ground, but made no reply. At
length she raised them, and their glances met again; in that glance the
consciousness of his meaning was read by both, the secret was disclosed,
and their love told.
The place where they stood was in one of those exquisitely wild but
beautiful green country lanes that are mostly enclosed on each side
by thorn hedges, and have their sides bespangled with a profusion
of delicate and fragrant wild flowers, while the pathway, from the
unfrequency of feet, is generally covered with short daisy-gemmed grass,
with the exception of a trodden line in the middle that is made solely
by foot-passengers. Such was the sweet spot in which they stood at the
moment the last glance took place between them.
At length Margaret spoke, but why was it that her voice was such music
to him now? Musical and sweet it always was, and he had heard it a
thousand times before, but why, we ask, was it now so delicious to his
ear, so ecstatic to his heart? Ah, it was that sweet, entrancing little
charm which trembled up from her young and beating heart, through its
softest intonations; this low tremor it was that confirmed the tale
which the divine glance of that dark, but soft and mellow eye, had just
told him. But to proceed, at length she spoke--
“Arthur,” said the innocent girl, unconscious that she was about to do
an act for which many will condemn her, “before you go, and I know I
will not have an opportunity of seein' you again, will you accept of a
keepsake from me?”
[Illustration: PAGE AM994-- At length Margaret spoke]
“Will I? oh, Margaret, Margaret!”--he gazed at her, but could not
proceed, his heart was too full.
“Take this,” said she, “and keep it for my sake.”
Ho took it out of her hand, he seized the hand itself, another glance,
and they sank into each other's arms, each trembling with an excess of
happiness. Margaret wept. This gush of rapture relieved and lightened
their young and innocent hearts, and Margaret having withdrawn
herself from his arms, they could now speak more freely. It is not our
intention, however, to detail their conversation, which may easily be
conjectured by our readers. On looking at the keepsake, Art found that
it was a tress of her rich and raven hair, which, we may add here, he
tied about his heart that day, and on that heart, or rather the dust of
that heart, it lies on this.
It was fortunate for Art that he followed! his brother's judgment in
selecting the same trade. Frank, we have said, notwithstanding his
coldness of manner, was by no means deficient in feeling or affection;
he possessed, however, the power of suppressing their external
manifestations, a circumstance which not unfrequently occasioned it to
happen that want of feeling was often imputed to him without any just
cause. At all events, he was a guide, a monitor, and a friend to his
brother, whom he most sincerely and affectionately loved; he kindly
pointed out to him his errors, matured his judgment by sound practical
advice: where it was necessary, he gave him the spur, and on other,
occasions held him in. Art was extremely well-tempered, as was Frank
also, so that it was impossible any two brothers could agree better, or
live in more harmony than they did. In truth, he had almost succeeded
in opening Art's eyes to the weak points in his character, especially
to the greatest, and most dangerous of all--his vanity, or insatiable
appetite for praise. They had not been long in M'Carroll's establishment
when the young man's foibles were soon seen through, and of course began
to be played upon; Frank, however, like a guardian angel, was always at
hand to advise or defend him, as the case might be, and as both, in a
physical contest, were able and willing to fight their own battles, we
need not say that in a short time their fellow-workmen ceased to play
off their pranks upon either of them. Everything forthwith passed very
smoothly; Art's love for Margaret Murray was like an apple of gold in
his heart, a secret treasure of which the world knew nothing; they saw
each other at least once a month, when their vows were renewed, and,
surely, we need not say, that their affection on each subsequent
interview only became more tender and enduring.
The period of Frank's and Art's apprenticeship had now nearly expired,
and it is not too much to say that their conduct reflected the highest
credit upon themselves. Three or four times, we believe, Art had been
seduced, in the absence of his brother, by the influence of bad company,
to indulge in drink, even to intoxication. This, during the greater part
of a whole apprenticeship, considering his temperament, and the almost
daily temptations by which he was beset, must be admitted on the whole
to be a very moderate amount of error in that respect. On the morning
after his last transgression, however, apprehending very naturally a
strong remonstrance from his brother, he addressed him as follows, in
anticipation of what he supposed Frank was about to say:--
“Now, Frank, I know you're goin' to scould me, and what is more, I know
I disarve all you could say to me; but there's one thing you don't know,
an' that is what I suffer for lettin' myself be made a fool of last
night. Afther the advices you have so often given me, and afther what
my father so often tould us to think of ourselves, and afther the solemn
promises I made to you--and that I broke, I feel as if I was nothin'
more or less than a disgrace to the name.”
“Art,” said the other, “I'm glad to hear you speak as you do; for it's
a proof that repentance is in your heart. I suppose I needn't say that
it's your intention not to be caught be these fellows again.”
“By the sacred--”
“Whisht,” said Frank, clapping his hand upon his mouth; “there's no use
at all in rash oaths, Art. If your mind is made up honestly and firmly
in the sight of God--and dependin' upon his assistance, that is enough
--and a great deal betther, too, than a rash oath made in a sudden fit
of repentance--ay, before you're properly recovered from your liquor.
Now say no more, only promise me you won't do the like, again.”
“Frank, listen to me--by all the--”
“Hould, Art,” replied Frank, stopping him again; “I tell you once more,
this rash swearin' is a bad sign--I'll hear no rash oaths; but listen
you to me; if your mind is made up against drinkin' this way again, jist
look me calmly and steadily in the face, and answer me simply by yes
or no. Now take your time, an' don't be in a hurry--be cool--be
calm--reflect upon what you're about to say; and whether it's your
solemn and serious intention to abide by it. My question 'll be very
short and very simple; your answer, as I said, will be merely yes or no.
Will you ever allow these fellows to make you drunk again? Yes or no,
an' not another word.”
“No.”
“That will do,” said Frank; “now give me your hand, and a single word
upon what has passed you will never hear from me.”
In large manufactories, and in workshops similar to that in which the
two brothers were now serving their apprenticeship, almost every
one knows that the drunken and profligate entertain an unaccountable
antipathy against the moral and the sober. Art's last fit of
intoxication was not only a triumph over himself, but, what was still
more, a triumph over his brother, who had so often prevented him from
falling into their snares and joining in their brutal excesses. It
so happened, however, that about this precise period, Art had,
unfortunately, contracted an intimacy with one of the class I speak of,
an adroit fellow with an oily tongue, vast powers of flattery, and
still greater powers of bearing liquor--for Frank could observe, that
notwithstanding all their potations, he never on any occasion
observed him affected by drink, a circumstance which raised him in his
estimation, because he considered that he was rather an obliging, civil
young fellow, who complied so far as to give these men his society, but
yet had sufficient firmness to resist the temptations to drink beyond
the bounds of moderation. The upshot of all this was, that Frank, not
entertaining any suspicion particularly injurious to Harte, for such
was his name, permitted his brother to associate with him much more
frequently than he would have done, had he even guessed at his real
character.
One day, about a month after the conversation which we have just
detailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took place
among that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates:--
“So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to _Drywig_”--this was a nickname
they had for Frank--“that he'd never smell liquor again.”
“A most solemnious promise,” said Harte ironically; “a most solemn and
solemnious promise; an' only that I know he's not a Methodist, I could
a'most mistake him for Paddy M'Mahon, the locality preacher, when he
tould me--”
“Paddy M'Mahon!” exclaimed Skinadre, the first speaker, a little thin
fellow, with white hair and red ferret eyes; “why, who the divil ever
heard of a Methodist Praicher of the name of Paddy M'Mahon?”
“It's aisy known,” observed a fellow named, or rather nicknamed, Jack
Slanty, in consequence of a deformity in his leg, that gave him the
appearance of leaning or slanting to the one side; “it's aisy known,
Skinadre, that you're not long in this part of the country, or you'd not
ax who Paddy M'Mahon is.”
“Come, Slanty, never mind Paddy M'Mahon,” said another of them; “he
received the gift of grace in the shape of a purty Methodist wife and
a good fortune; ay, an' a sweet love-faist he had of it; he dropped the
Padereens over Solomon's Bridge, and tuck to the evenin' meetins--that's
enough for you to know; and now, Harte, about Maguire?”
“Why,” said Harte, “if I'm not allowed to edge in a word, I had betther
cut.”
“A most solemn promise, you say?”
“A most solemn and solemnious promise, that was what I said; never again
by night or day, wet or dry, high or low, in or out, up or down, here
or there, to--to--get himself snimicated wid any liquorary fluid
whatsomever, be the same more or less, good, bad, or indifferent, hot or
could, thick or thin, black or white--”
“Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin', an' spake like a
Christian; do you think you can manage to circumsniffle him agin?”
“Ay,” said Harte, “or any man that ever trod on neat's leather--barrin'
one.”
“And who is that one?”
“That one, sir--that one--do you ax me who that one is?”
“Have you no ears? To be sure I do.”
“Then, Skinadre, I'll tell you--I'll tell you, sarra,”--we ought to add
here, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunken
man,--“I'll tell you, sarra--that person was Nelson on the top of the
monument in Sackville street--no--no--I'm wrong; I could make poor ould
Horace drunk any time, an' often did--an' many a turn-tumble he got off
the monument at night, and the divil's own throuble I had in gettin' him
up on it before mornin', bekaise you all know he'd be cashiered, or, any
way, brought to coort martial for leavin' his po-po-post.”
“Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?”
“_Drywig's_ his name,” replied Harte; “you all know one _Drywig_, don't
you?”
“Quit your cursed stuff, Harte,” said a new speaker, named Garvey; “if
you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk
about it.”
“Faith, an' it'll be a nice card to play,” replied Harte, resuming his
natural voice; “but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey's
lodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin', you may find him there; but don't
blame me if I fail.”
“No one's goin' to blame you,” said Slanty, “an' the devil's own pity it
is that that blasted _Drywig_ of a brother of his keeps him in leadin'
strings the way he does.”
“The way I'll do is this: I'll ask him up to look at the pattern of my
new waistcoat, an' wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it on
thick.”
“I doubt that,” said another, who had joined them; “when he came here
first, and for a long time afther, soapin' him might do; but I tell you
his eye's open--it's no go--he's wide awake now.”
“Shut your orifice,” said Harte; “lave the thing to me; 'twas I did it
before, although he doesn't think so, an' it's I that will do it again,
although he doesn't think so. Haven't I been for the last mortal month
guardin' him aginst yez, you villains?”
“To-morrow evenin'?”
“Ay, to-morrow evenin'; an' if we don't give him a gauliogue that'll
make him dance the circumbendibus widout music--never believe that my
name's any thing else than Tom Thin, that got thick upon spring wather.
Hello! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give him
a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor _Drywig_. Ah,
poor _Drywig!_ how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!”
Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Art
attended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took an
opportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speaking
to him apparently in a careless and indifferent way.
“Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunna
how it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an'
jinteeler than another.” This, by the way, was true, both of him and his
brother.
“Tut, it's but middlin',” said Art; “it's now but a has-been:--when it
was at itself it wasn't so bad.”
“Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein'
supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, in
every thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows.”
“Nonsense, Syl” (his name was Sylvester), “don't be comin' it soft over
me; how am I betther than any other?”
“Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among
us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;”--both these were
true--“an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole
pack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I have
you!”
An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last
observation, which also was true.
“Syl,” he replied, “behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you.”
“Know me!” exclaimed Syl; “why what do you know of me? Nothing that's
bad I hope, any way.”
“None of your palaver, at all events,” replied Art; “have you got any
tobaccy about you?”
“Sorra taste,” replied Harte, “nor had since mornin'.”
“Well, I have then,” said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to
him with the air of a superior; “warm your gums wid that, for altho' I
seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do.”
“Ah, begorra,” said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be
heard, “there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix
it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought
a waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it
on the condition of your likin' it.”
“Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow
alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me.”
“No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishment
wid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy,
you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'll
plaise anybody; see what it is,' says he, 'to have the fine high ould
blood in one's veins.' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' about
seven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pass your opinion for me?
Divil a dacent stitch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made up
before the ball night.” *
* Country dances, or balls, in which the young men pay
from ten to fifteen pence for whiskey “to trate the
ladies.” We hope they will be abolished.
“Well, upon my soundhers, Syl, I did not think you were such a fool; of
coorse I'll pass my opinion on it--about seven o'clock, you say.”
“About seven--thank you, Art; an' now listen;--sure the boys intind to
play off some prank upon you afore you lave us.”
“On me,” replied the other, reddening; “very well, Syl, let them do
so; I can bear a joke, or give a blow, as well as another; so divil may
care, such as they give, such as they'll get--only this, let there be
no attempt to make me drink whiskey, or else there may be harder hittin'
than some o' them 'ud like, an' I think they ought to know that by this
time.”
“By jing, they surely ought; well, but can you spell mum?”
“M-u-m.”
“Ha, ha, ha, take care of yourself, an' don't forget seven.”
“Never fear.”
“Frank,” said Art, “I'm goin' up to Syl Harte's lodgin's to pass my
opinion on the patthern of a waistcoat for him.”
“Very well,” said Frank, “of coorse.”
“I'll not stop long.”
“As long or short as you like, Art, my boy.”
“I hope, Frank, you don't imagine that there's any danger of drink?”
“Who, me--why should I, afther what passed? Didn't you give me your
word, and isn't your name Maguire? Not I.”
Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl,
when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, and
opening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a low
voice to remonstrate with some persons outside. At length Art could hear
the subject of debate pretty well--
“Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin', above all
evenin's in the year.”
“Why, sure we know he won't drink. I wish to goodness we knew he had
been here; we wouldn't ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn't.
“No matther for that, sorrow foot yez'll put acrass the thrashel this
evenin'; now, I'll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn't this blessed
minute, for all I've earned these six months, that ye came this
evenin';--I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have no
right to compare ourselves wid--you all know that.”
“We all know it, and there's nobody denyin' it; we haven't the blood in
our veins that he has, an' blood will show itself anywhere.”
“Well then, boys, for his sake--an' I know you'd do any day for his sake
what you wouldn't, nor what you oughtn't, for mine--for his sake, I say,
go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait till
to-morrow evenin'.”
“Out of respect for Art Maguire we'll go; an' divil another boy in the
province we'd pay that respect to; good-evenin', Syl!”
“Aisy, boys,” said Art, coming to the door, “don't let me frighten
you--come in--I'd be very sorry to be the means of spoilin' sport,
although I can't drink myself; that wouldn't be generous--come in.”
“Augh,” said Skinadre, “by the livin' it's in him, an' I always knew it
was--the rale drop.”
“Boys,” said Harte, “go off wid yez out o' this, I say; divil a foot
you'll come in.”
“Arra go to--Jimmaiky; who cares about you, Syl, when we have Art's
liberty? Sure we didn't know the thing ourselves half an hour ago.”
“Come, Syl, man alive,” said Art, “let the poor fellows enjoy their
liquor, an', as I can't join yez, I'll take my hat an' be off.”
“I knew it, an' bad luck to yez, how yez 'ud drive him away,” said Syl,
quite angry.
“Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we're off--that 'ud be too bad; yes, Syl,
you were right, it was very thoughtless of us: Art, we ax your pardon,
sorra one of us meant you any offence in life--come, boys.”
Art's generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to be
outdone--
“Aisy, boys,” said he; “sit down; I'll not go, if that'll plaise yez;
sure you'll neither eat me nor dhrink me.”
“Well, there's jist one word you said, Slanty, that makes me submit to
it,” observed Harte, “an' that is, that it was accident your comin' at
all;” he here looked significantly at Art, as if to remind him of their
previous conversation on that day, and as he did it, his face gradually
assumed a complacent expression, as much as to say, it's now clear that
this cannot be the trap they designed for you, otherwise it wouldn't be
accidental. Art understood him, and returned a look which satisfied the
other that he did so.
As they warmed in their liquor, or pretended to get warm, many sly
attempts to entrap him were made, every one of which was openly and
indignantly opposed by Harte, who would not suffer them to offer him a
drop.
It is not our intention to dwell upon these matters: at present it is
sufficient to say, that after a considerable part of the evening had
been spent, Harte rose up, and called upon them all to fill their
glasses--
“And,” he added, “as this is a toast that ought always to bring a full
glass to the mouth, and an empty one from it, I must take the liberty of
axin Art himself to fill a bumper.”
The latter looked at him with a good deal of real surprise, as the
others did with that which was of a very different description.
“Skinadre,” proceeded Harte, “will you hand over the cowld wather, for
a bumper it must be, if it was vitriol.” He then filled Art's glass with
water, and proceeded--“Stand up, boys, and be proud, as you have a
right to be; here's the health of Frank Maguire, and the ould blood of
Ireland!--hip, hip, hurra!”
“Aisy, boys,” said Art, whose heart was fired by this unexpected
compliment, paid to a brother whom he loved so well, and who, indeed,
so well, deserved his love; “aisy, boys,” he proceeded, “hand me the
whiskey; if it was to be my last, I'll never drink my brother's health
in cowld wather.”
“Throth an' you will this time,” said Harte, “undher this roof spirits
won't crass; your lips, an' you know for why.”
“I know but one thing,” replied Art, “that as you said yourself, if it
was vitriol, I'd dhrink it for the best brother that ever lived; I only
promised him that I wouldn't get dhrunk, an' sure, drinkin' a glass o'
whiskey, or three either, wouldn't make me dhrunk--so hand it here.”
“Well, Art,” said Harte, “there's one man you can't blame for this, and
that is Syl Harte.”
“No, Syl, never--but now, boys, I am ready.”
“Frank Maguire's health! hip, hip, hurra!”
Thus was a fine, generous-minded, and affectionate young man--who
possessed all the candor and absence of suspicion which characterize
truth--tempted and triumphed over, partly through the very warmth of
his own affections, by a set of low, cunning profligates, who felt only
anxious to drag him down from the moral superiority which they felt
he possessed. That he was vain, and fond of praise, they knew, and our
readers may also perceive that it was that unfortunate vanity which
gave them the first advantage over him, by bringing him, through its
influence, among them. Late that night he was carried home on a door, in
a state of unconscious intoxication.
It is utterly beyond our power to describe the harrowing state of
his sensations on awakening the next morning. Abasement, repentance,
remorse, all combined as they were within him, fall far short of what
he felt; he was degraded in his own eyes, deprived of self-respect, and
stripped of every claim to the confidence of his brother, as he was
to the well-known character for integrity which had been until then
inseparable from the name. That, however, which pressed upon him with
the most intense bitterness was the appalling reflection that he could
no longer depend upon himself, nor put any trust in his own resolutions.
Of what use was he in the world without a will of his own, and the power
of abiding by its decisions? None; yet what was to be done? He could not
live out of the world, and wherever he went, its temptations would beset
him. Then there was his beloved Margaret Murray! was he to make her the
wife of a common drunkard? or did she suspect, when she pledged herself
to him, that she was giving away her heart and affections to a poor
unmanly sot, who had not sense or firmness to keep himself sober? He
felt in a state between distraction and despair, and putting his hands
over his face, he wept bitterly. To complete the picture, his veins
still throbbed with the dry fever that follows intoxication, his stomach
was in a state of deadly sickness and loathing, and his head felt
exactly as if it would burst or fly asunder.
Alas! had his natural character been properly understood and judiciously
managed; had he been early taught to understand and to control his
own obvious errors; had the necessity of self-reliance, firmness, and
independence been taught him; had his principles not been enfeebled
by the foolish praise of his family, nor his vanity inflated by their
senseless appeals to it--it is possible, nay, almost certain, that he
would, even at this stage of his life, have been completely free
from the failings which are beginning even now to undermine the whole
strength of his moral constitution.