us," says he, "an' they'll see me iv I lep through the hedge," says he.
"Thry the pig-sty," says she, "mavourneen," says she, "in the name iv
God," says she.
"Well, darlint," says he, "for your sake," says he, "I'll condescend to
them animals," says he.
An' wid that he makes a dart to get in; bud, begorra, it was too
late--the pigs was all gone home, and the pig-sty was as full as the
Birr coach wid six inside.
"Och! blur-an'-agers," says he, "there is not room for a suckin'-pig,"
says he, "let alone a Christian," says he.
"Well, run into the house, Billy," says she, "this minute," says she,
"an' hide yourself antil they're quiet," says she, "an' thin you can
steal out," says she, "anknownst to them all," says she.
"I'll do your biddin'," says he, "Molly asthore," says he.
"Run in thin," says she, "an' I'll go an' meet them," says she.
So wid that away wid her, and in wint Billy, an' where did he hide
himself bud in a little closet that was off iv the room where the ould
man and woman slep'. So he closed the doore, and sot down in an ould
chair he found there convanient.
Well, he was not well in it when all the rest iv them comes into the
kitchen, an' ould Tim Donovan singin' the "Colleen Rue" for the bare
life, an' the rest i' them sthrivin' to humour him, an doin' exactly
everything he bid them, because they seen he was foolish be the manes of
the liquor.
Well, to be sure all this kep' them long enough, you may be sure, from
goin' to bed, so that Billy could get no manner iv an advantage to get
out iv the house, and so he sted sittin' in the dark closet in state,
cursin' the "Colleen Rue," and wondhering to the divil whin they'd get
the ould man into his bed. An', as if that was not delay enough, who
should come in to stop for the night but Father O'Flaherty, of
Cahirmore, that was buyin' a horse at the fair! An' av course, there was
a bed to be med down for his Raverance, an' some other attintions; an' a
long discoorse himself an' ould Mrs. Donovan had about the slaughter iv
Billy Malowney, an' how he was buried on the field of battle; an' his
Raverance hoped he got a dacent funeral, an' all the other convaniences
iv religion. An' so you may suppose it was pretty late in the night
before all iv them got to their beds.
Well, Tim Donovan could not settle to sleep at all at all, an' he kep'
discoorsin' the wife about the new cows he bought, an' the strippers he
sould, an' so on for better than an hour, ontil from one thing to
another he kem to talk about the pigs, an' the poulthry, and at last,
having nothing betther to discoorse about, he begun at his daughter
Molly, an' all the heartscald she was to him be raisin iv refusin' the
men. An' at last says he:
"I onderstand," says he, "very well how it is," says he. "It's how she
was in love," says he, "wid that bliggard, Billy Malowney," says he,
"bad luck to him!" says he; for by this time he was coming to his
raison.
"Ah!" says the wife, says she, "Tim darlint, don't be cursin' them
that's dead an' buried," says she.
"An' why would not I," says he, "if they desarve it?" says he.
"Whisht," says she, "an' listen to that," says she. "In the name of the
Blessed Vargin," says she, "what is it?" says she.
An' sure enough what was it bud Bill Malowney that was dhroppin' asleep
in the closet, an' snorin' like a church organ.
"Is it a pig," says he, "or is it a Christian?"
"Arra! listen to the tune iv it," says she; "sure a pig never done the
like iv that," says she.
"Whatever it is," says he, "it's in the room wid us," says he. "The Lord
be marciful to us!" says he.
"I tould you not to be cursin'," says she; "bad luck to you," says she,
"for an ommadhaun!" for she was a very religious woman in herself.
"Sure, he's buried in Spain," says he; "an' it is not for one little
innocent expression," says he, "he'd be comin' all that way to annoy the
house," says he.
Well, while they war talkin,' Bill turns in the way he was sleepin' into
an aisier imposture; and as soon as he stopped snorin' ould Tim
Donovan's courage riz agin, and says he.
"I'll go to the kitchen," says he, "an' light a rish," says he.
An' with that away wid him, an' the wife kep' workin' the beads all the
time, an' before they kem back Bill was snorin' as loud as ever.
"Oh! bloody wars--I mane the blessed saints above us!--that deadly
sound," says he; "it's going on as lively as ever," says he.
"I'm as wake as a rag," says his wife, says she, "wid the fair
anasiness," says she. "It's out iv the little closet it's comin'," says
she.
"Say your prayers," says he, "an' hould your tongue," says he, "while I
discoorse it," says he. "An' who are ye," says he, "in the name iv all
the holy saints?" says he, givin' the door a dab iv a crusheen that
wakened Bill inside.
"I ax," says he, "who you are?" says he.
Well, Bill did not rightly remember where in the world he was, but he
pushed open the door, an' says he:
"Billy Malowney's my name," says he, "an' I'll thank ye to tell me a
betther," says he.
Well, whin Tim Donovan heard that, an' actially seen that it was Bill
himself that was in it, he had not strength enough to let a bawl out iv
him, but he dhropt the candle out iv his hand, an' down wid himself on
his back in the dark.
Well, the wife let a screech you'd hear at the mill iv Killraghlin,
an'--
"Oh," says she, "the spirit has him, body an' bones!" says she. "Oh,
holy St. Bridget--oh Mother iv Marcy--oh, Father O'Flaherty!" says she,
screechin' murdher from out iv her bed.
Well, Bill Malowney was not a minute rememberin' himself, an' so out wid
him quite an' aisy, an' through the kitchen; bud in place iv the door iv
the house, it's what he kem to the door iv Father O'Flaherty's little
room, where he was jist wakenin' wid the noise iv the screechin' an'
battherin'; an', bedad, Bill makes no more about it, but he jumps, wid
one boult, clever an' clane into his Raverance's bed.
"What do ye mane, you uncivilised bliggard?" says his Raverance. "Is
that a venerable way," says he, "to approach your clargy?" says he.
"Hould your tongue," says Bill, "an' I'll do ye no harum," says he.
"Who are you, ye schoundhrel iv the world?" says his Raverance.
"Whisht!" says he, "I'm Bill Malowney," says he.
"You lie!" says his Raverance--for he was frightened beyont all
bearin'--an' he makes bud one jump out iv the bed at the wrong side,
where there was only jist a little place in the wall for a press, an'
his Raverance could not as much as turn in it for the wealth iv
kingdoms. "You lie," says he; "but for fear it's the thruth you're
tellin'," says he, "here's at ye in the name iv all the blessed saints
together!" says he.
An' wid that, my dear, he blazes away at him wid a Latin prayer iv the
strongest description, an', as he said to himself afterwards, that was
iv a nature that id dhrive the divil himself up the chimley like a puff
iv tobacky smoke, wid his tail betune his legs.
"Arra, what are ye sthrivin' to say," says Bill, says he; "if ye don't
hould your tongue," says he, "wid your parly voo," says he, "it's what
I'll put my thumb on your windpipe," says he, "an' Billy Malowney never
wint back iv his word yet," says he.
"Thunder-an-owns," says his Raverance, says he--seein' the Latin took no
infect on him, at all at all, an' screechin' that you'd think he'd rise
the thatch up iv the house wid the fair fright--"an' thundher and
blazes, boys, will none of yes come here wid a candle, but lave your
clargy to be choked by a spirit in the dark?" says he.
Well, be this time the sarvint boys and the rest iv them wor up an' half
dressed, an' in they all run, one on top iv another, wid pitchforks and
spades, thinkin' it was only what his Raverance slep' a dhrame iv the
like, by means of the punch he was afther takin' just before he rowl'd
himself into the bed. But, begorra, whin they seen it was raly Billy
Malowney himself that was in it, it was only who'd be foremost out agin,
tumblin' backways, one over another, and his Raverance roarin' an'
cursin' them like mad for not waitin' for him.
Well, my dear, it was betther than half an hour before Billy Malowney
could explain to them all how it raly was himself, for begorra they were
all iv them persuadin' him that he was a spirit to that degree it's a
wondher he did not give in to it, if it was only to put a stop to the
argiment.
Well, his Raverance tould the ould people then there was no use in
sthrivin' agin the will iv Providence an' the vagaries iv love united;
an' whin they kem to undherstand to a sartinty how Billy had a shillin'
a day for the rest iv his days, begorra they took rather a likin' to
him, and considhered at wanst how he must hav riz out of all his
nansinse entirely, or His gracious Majesty id never have condescinded to
show him his countenance every day of his life on a silver shillin'.
An' so, begorra, they never stopt till it was all settled--an' there was
not sich a weddin' as that in the counthry sinst. It's more than forty
years ago, an' though I was no more nor a gossoon meself, I remimber it
like yesterday. Molly never looked so purty before, an' Billy Malowney
was plisant beyont all hearin', to that degree that half the girls in it
was fairly tarin' mad--only they would not let on--they had not him to
themselves in place iv her. An' begorra, I'd be afeared to tell ye,
because you would not believe me, since that blessid man Father Mathew
put an ent to all soorts of sociality, the Lord reward him, how many
gallons iv pottieen whisky was dhrank upon that most solemn and tindher
occaison.
Pat Hanlon, the piper, had a faver out iv it; an' Neddy Shawn Heigue,
mountin' his horse the wrong way, broke his collar-bone, by the manes iv
fallin' over his tail while he was feelin' for his head; an' Payther
Brian, the horse-docther, I am tould, was never quite right in the head
ever afther; an' ould Tim Donovan was singin' the "Colleen Rue" night
and day for a full week; an', begorra the weddin' was only the
foundation iv fun, and the beginning iv divarsion, for there was not a
year for ten years afther, an' more, but brought round a christenin' as
regular as the sasins revarted.
A Pleasant Journey.
_From the Confessions of Harry Lorrequer._
BY CHARLES LEVER.
I, Harry Lorrequer, was awaiting the mail coach anxiously in the Inn at
Naas, when at last there was the sound of wheels, and the driver came
into the room, a spectacle of condensed moisture.
"Going on to-night, sir," said he, addressing me; "severe weather, and
no chance of its clearing--but, of course, you're inside."
"Why, there is very little doubt of that," said I. "Are you nearly full
inside?"
"Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at
the office if he could not have the whole inside for himself, and when
he heard that one place had been taken--yours, I believe, sir,--he
seemed like a scalded bear."
"You don't know his name, then?"
"No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is
two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside:
indeed, he never lets them from him, even for a second."
Here the guard's horn sounded.
As I passed from the inn-door to the coach, I congratulated myself that
I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that
raged without.
"Here's the step, sir," said the guard; "get in, sir, two minutes late
already."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said I, as I half fell over the legs of my
unseen companion. "May I request leave to pass you?" While he made way
for me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down and said
something to the guard, who, from his answer, had evidently been
questioned as to who I was.
"And how did he get here if he took his place in Dublin?" asked the
unknown.
"Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise-and-four," said the guard, as
he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.
"A severe night, sir," said I.
"Mighty severe," briefly and half-crustily replied the unknown, in a
strong Cork accent.
"And a bad road, too, sir," said I.
"That's the reason I always go armed," said the unknown, clinking at the
same moment something like the barrel of a pistol.
Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt
disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to
address myself to sleep as comfortably as I could.
"I'll just trouble ye to lean off that little parcel there, sir," said
he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow one of the paper
packages the guard had already alluded to.
In complying with this rather gruff demand one of my pocket pistols,
which I carried in my breast-pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which
he immediately started, and asked, hurriedly: "And are you armed, too?"
"Why yes," said I laughingly; "men of my trade seldom go without
something of this kind."
"I was just thinking that same," said the traveller with a half sigh to
himself.
I was just settling myself in my corner when I was startled by a very
melancholy groan.
"Are you ill, sir?" said I, in a voice of some anxiety.
"You may say that," replied he, "if you knew who you were talking to;
although, maybe, you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till
now."
"Without having that pleasure even yet," said I, "it would grieve me to
think you should be ill in the coach."
"Maybe it might. Did ye ever hear tell of Barney Doyle?" said he.
"Not to my recollection."
"Then I'm Barney," said he, "that's in all the newspapers in the
metropolis. I'm seventeen weeks in Jervis Street Hospital, and four in
the Lunatic, and the sorra bit better, after all. You must be a
stranger, I'm thinking, or you'd know me now."
"Why, I do confess I've only been a few hours in Ireland for the last
six months."
"Aye, that's the reason; I knew you would not be fond of travelling with
me if you knew who it was."
"Why, really, I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you."
"It's pleasure ye call it; then there's no accountin' for tastes, as Dr.
Colles said, when he saw me bite Cusack Rooney's thumb off."
"Bite a man's thumb off!"
"Aye," said he, with a kind of fiendish animation, "in one chop, I wish
you'd see how I scattered the consultation;--they didn't wait to ax for
a fee."
"A very pleasant vicinity," thought I. "And may I ask, sir," said I, in
a very mild and soothing tone of voice--"may I ask the reason for this
singular propensity of yours?"
"There it is now, my dear," said he, laying his hand upon my knee
familiarly, "that's just the very thing they can't make out. Colles says
it's all the cerebellum, ye see, that's inflamed and combusted, and some
of the others think it's the spine; and more the muscles; but my real
impression is, not a bit they know about it at all."
"And have they no name for the malady?" said I.
"Oh, sure enough they have a name for it."
"And may I ask----"
"Why, I think you'd better not, because, ye see, maybe I might be
troublesome to ye in the night, though I'll not, if I can help it; and
it might be uncomfortable to you to be here if I was to get one of the
fits."
"One of the fits! Why, it's not possible, sir," said I, "you would
travel in a public conveyance in the state you mention; your friends
surely would not permit it?"
"Why, if they knew, perhaps," slily responded the interesting
invalid--"if they knew, they might not exactly like it; but ye see, I
escaped only last night, and there'll be a fine hubbub in the morning
when they find I'm off; though I'm thinking Rooney's barking away by
this time."
"Rooney barking!--why, what does that mean?"
"They always bark for a day or two after they're bit, if the infection
comes first from the dog."
"You are surely not speaking of _hydrophobia_?" said I, my hair actually
bristling with horror and consternation.
"Ain't I?" replied he; "maybe you've guessed it, though."
"And you have the malady on you at present?" said I trembling for the
answer.
"This is the ninth day since I took to biting," said he, gravely.
"And with such a propensity, sir, do you think yourself warranted in
travelling in a public coach, exposing others----"
"You'd better not raise your voice that way. If I'm roused it'll be
worse for ye, that's all."
"Well, but, is it exactly prudent, in your present delicate state, to
undertake a journey?"
"Ah," said he, with a sigh, "I've been longing to see the fox-hounds
throw off near Kilkenny; these three weeks I've been thinking of nothing
else; but I'm not sure how my nerves will stand the cry; I might be
troublesome."
"Well," thought I, "I shall not select that morning for my debut in the
field."
"I hope, sir, there's no river or watercourse in this road; anything
else I can, I hope, control myself against; but water--running water
particularly--makes me troublesome."
Well knowing what he meant by the latter phrase, I felt the cold
perspiration settling on my forehead as I remembered that we must be
within about ten or twelve miles of a bridge, where we should have to
pass a very wide river. I strictly concealed this fact from him,
however. He now sank into a kind of moody silence, broken occasionally
by a low, muttering noise, as if speaking to himself.
How comfortable my present condition was I need scarcely remark, sitting
vis-a-vis to a lunatic, with a pair of pistols in his possession, who
had already avowed his consciousness of his tendency to do mischief,
and his inability to master it--all this in the dark, and in the narrow
limits of a mail-coach, where there was scarcely room for defence, and
no possibility of escape. If I could only reach the outside of the coach
I would be happy. What were rain and storm, thunder and lightning
compared with the chance that awaited me here?--wet through I should
inevitably be: but, then, I had not yet contracted the horror of
moisture my friend opposite laboured under. Ha! what is that?--is it
possible he can be asleep;--is it really a snore? Ah, there it is
again;--he must be asleep, surely;--now, then, is my time, or never. I
slowly let down the window of the coach, and, stretching forth my hand,
turned the handle cautiously and slowly; I next disengaged my legs, and
by a long, continuous effort of creeping, I withdrew myself from the
seat, reached the step, when I muttered something very like thanksgiving
to Providence for my rescue. With little difficulty I now climbed up
beside the guard, whose astonishment at my appearance was indeed
considerable.
Well, on we rolled, and very soon, more dead than alive, I sat a mass of
wet clothes, like a morsel of black and spongy wet cotton at the bottom
of a schoolboy's ink-bottle, saturated with rain and the black dye of my
coat. My hat, too, had contributed its share of colouring matter, and
several long, black streaks coursed down my "wrinkled front," giving me
very much the air of an Indian warrior who had got the first priming of
his war paint. I certainly must have been a rueful object, were I only
to judge from the faces of the waiters as they gazed on me when the
coach drew up at Rice and Walsh's Hotel.
Cold, wet, and weary as I was, my curiosity to learn more of my late
agreeable companion was strong as ever within me. I could catch a
glimpse of his back, and hurried after the great unknown into the coffee
room. By the time I entered, he was spreading himself comfortably, _a
l'Anglais_, before the fire, and displayed to my wandering and stupefied
gaze the pleasant features of Dr. Finucane.
"Why, Doctor--Doctor Finucane," cried I, "is it possible? Were you,
then, really the inside in the mail last night?"
"Not a doubt of it, Mr. Lorrequer; and may I make bould to ask were you
the outside?"
"Then what, may I beg to know, did you mean by your story about Barney
Doyle, and the hydrophobia, and Cusack Rooney's thumb--eh?"
"Oh!" said Finucane, "this will be the death of me. And it was you that
I drove outside in all the rain last night? Oh, it will kill Father
Malachi outright with laughing when I tell him." And he burst out into a
fit of merriment that nearly induced me to break his head with a poker.
"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Finucane, that this practical joke of
yours was contrived for my benefit and for the purpose of holding me up
to the ridicule of your acquaintances?"
"Nothing of the kind," said Fin., drying his eyes, and endeavouring to
look sorry and sentimental. "If I had only the least suspicion in life
that it was you, I'd not have had the hydrophobia at all--and, to tell
you the truth, you were not the only one frightened--you alarmed me,
too."
"I alarmed you! Why, how can that be?"
"Why, the real affair is this: I was bringing these two packages of
notes down to my cousin Callaghan's bank in Cork--fifteen thousand
pounds, and when you came into the coach at Naas, I thought it was all
up with me. The guard just whispered in my ear that he saw you look at
the priming of your pistols before getting in. Well, when you got
seated, the thought came into my mind that maybe, highwayman as you
were, you would not like dying an unnatural death, more particularly if
you were an Irishman; and so I trumped up that long story about the
hydrophobia, and the gentleman's thumb, and dear knows what besides;
and, while I was telling it, the cold perspiration was running down my
head and face, for every time you stirred I said to myself--Now he'll do
it. Two or three times, do you know, I was going to offer you ten
shillings in the pound, to spare my life; and once, God forgive me, I
thought it would not be a bad plan to shoot you by 'mistake,' do you
perceive?"
"Why, I'm very much obliged to you for your excessively kind intentions;
but, really, I feel you have done quite enough for me on the present
occasion. But, come now, doctor, I must get to bed, and, before I go,
promise me two things--to dine with us to-day at the mess, and not to
mention a syllable of what occurred last night: it tells, believe me,
very badly for both. So keep the secret; for if these fellows of ours
ever get hold of it I may sell out, and quit the army;--I'll never hear
the end of it!"
"Never fear, my boy; trust me. I'll dine with you, and you're as safe as
a church mouse for anything I'll tell them; so now, you'd better change
your clothes, for I'm thinking it rained last night."
The Battle of Aughrim.
_From "Anna Cosgrave," an unpublished Novel._
BY WILLIAM CARLETON.
Many of our readers will be surprised at what we are about to relate.
Nay, what is more, we fear they will not yield us credence, but impute
it probably to our own invention; whereas we beg to assure them that it
is strictly and literally true. The period of the scene we are about to
describe may be placed in the year 1806. At the time neither party
feeling nor religious animosity had yet subsided after the ferment of
the '98 insurrection and the division between the Catholic and
Protestant population was very strong and bitter. The rebellion, which
commenced in its first principles among the northern Presbyterians and
other Protestant classes in a spirit of independence and a love of
liberty, soon, in consequence of the influence of some bigots, assumed
the character of a civil war between the two religions,--the most
internecine description of war that ever devastated a country or
drenched it in blood.
A usual amusement at the time was to reproduce the "Battle of Aughrim,"
in some spacious barn, with a winnowing-cloth for the curtain. This
play, bound up with "The Siege of Londonderry," was one of the
reading-books in the hedge schools of that day, and circulated largely
among the people of all religions: it had, indeed, a most extraordinary
influence among the lower classes. "The Battle of Aughrim," however,
because it was written in heroic verse, became so popular that it was
rehearsed at almost every Irish hearth, both Catholic and Protestant,
in the north. The spirit it evoked was irresistible. The whole country
became dramatic. To repeat it at the fireside in winter nights was
nothing: the Orangemen should act it, and show to the whole world how
the field of Aughrim was so gloriously won. The consequence was that
frequent rehearsals took place. The largest and most spacious barns and
kilns were fitted up, the night of representation was given out, and
crowds, even to suffocation, as they say, assembled to witness the
celebrated "Battle of Aughrim."