you had that much sense itself. Looking for you high and low we were,
after the polis had gone, that only come to get the number of our
chickens--counting the feathers on them next, I suppose they'll be--and
all romancing it was about anything happening the rick. But frightened I
was out of me wits, till little Joey said he seen you quitting out at
the gate. So then I come along to see what foolish thing you might be
about doing next."
"She's likely to be doing nothing foolisher than giving you a cup of
tay, Bridgie," Hugh interposed, soothingly. "And mightn't you be frying
us a few eggs in the pan, Julia? Old Nan Byrne's just after bringing in
two or three fresh ones she got back of the Quins' rick, where our hins
do be laying."
"'Twill be a handy place for finding them in," Mrs. Hugh said, blandly.
And both her experienced hearers accepted the remark as a sign that
these hostilities were over.
Maelshaughlinn at the Fair.
_From "My Irish Year."_
BY PADRAIC COLUM.
It was about horses, women, and music, and, in the mouth of
Maelshaughlinn, the narrative had the exuberance of the fair and the
colour of a unique exploit. I found Maelshaughlinn alone in the house in
the grey dawn succeeding his adventure. "This morning," he said, "I'm
the lonesome poor fellow without father or mother, a girl's promise, nor
my own little horse." He closed the door against a reproachful sunrise,
and, sitting on a little three-legged stool, he told me the story.
Penitentially he began it, but he expanded with the swelling narrative.
"This time last week," said Maelshaughlinn, "I had no thought of parting
with my own little horse. The English wanted beasts for a war, and the
farmers about here were coining money out of horseflesh. It seemed that
the buyers were under a pledge not to refuse anything in the shape of a
horse, and so the farmers made horses out of the sweepings of the
knackers' yards, and took horses out of ha'penny lucky-bags and sold
them to the English. Yesterday morning I took out my own little beast
and faced for Arvach Fair. I met the dealer on the road. He was an
Englishman, and above all nations on the face of the earth, the English
are the easiest to deal with in regard of horses. I tendered him the
price--it was an honest price, but none of our own people would have
taken the offer in any reasonable way. An Irishman would have cursed
into his hat, so that he might shake the curses out over my head. The
Englishman took on to consider it, and my heart went threshing my ribs.
Then he gave me my price, paid me in hard weighty, golden sovereigns and
went away, taking the little horse with him.
"I sat down on the side of a ditch to take a breath. Now you'll say that
I ought to have gone back to the work, and I'll say that I agree with
you. But no man can be wise at all times. Anyway, I was sitting on a
ditch, with a lark singing over every foot of ground, and nothing before
me but the glory of the day. A girl came along the road, and, on my
soul, I never saw a girl walking so finely. 'She'll be a head above
every girl in the fair,' said I, 'and may God keep the brightness on her
head.' 'God save you, Maelshaughlinn,' said the girl. 'God save you, my
jewel,' said I. I stood up to look after her, for a fine woman, walking
finely, is above all the sights that man ever saw. Then a few lads
passed, whistling and swinging their sticks. 'God give you a good day,'
said the lads. 'God give you luck boys,' said I. And there was I,
swinging my stick after the lads, and heading for the fair.
"'Never go into a fair where you've no business.' That's an oul' saying
and a wise saying, but never forget that neither man nor immortal can be
wise at all times. Satan fell from heaven, Adam was cast out of
Paradise, and even your Uncle broke his pledge.
"When I came into the fair there was a fiddler playing behind a tinker's
cart. I had a shilling to spend in the town, and so I went into Flynn's
and asked for a cordial. A few most respectable men came in then, and I
asked them to take a treat from me. Well, one drank, and another drank,
and then Rose Heffernan came into the shop with her brother. Young
Heffernan sent the glasses round, and then I asked Rose to take a glass
of wine, and I put down a sovereign on the counter. The fiddler was
coming down the street, and I sent a young lad out to him with silver. I
stood for a while talking with Rose, and I heard the word go round the
shop concerning myself. It was soon settled that I had got a legacy. The
people there never heard of any legacies except American legacies, and
so they put my fortune down to an uncle who had died, they thought, in
the States. Now, I didn't want Rose to think that my money was a common
legacy out of the States, so by half-words I gave them to understand
that I had got my fortune out of Mexico. Mind you, I wasn't far out when
I spoke of Mexico, for I had a grand-uncle who went out there, and his
picture is in the house this present minute.
"Well, after the talk of a Mexican legacy went round, I couldn't take
any treats from the people, and I asked everyone to drink again. I think
the crowds of the world stood before Flynn's counter. A big Connachtman
held up a Mexican dollar, and I took it out of his hand and gave it to
Rose Heffernan. I paid him for it, too, and it comes into my mind now,
that I paid him for it twice.
"There's not, on the track of the sun, a place to come near Arvach on
the day of a fair. A man came along leading a black horse, and the size
of the horse and the eyes of the horse would terrify you. There was a
drift of sheep going by, and the fleece of each was worth gold. There
were tinkers with their carts of shining tins, as ugly and quarrelsome
fellows as ever beat each other to death in a ditch, and there were the
powerful men, with the tight mouths, and the eyes that could judge a
beast, and the dark, handsome women from the mountains. To crown all, a
piper came into the town by the other end, and his music was enough to
put the blood like a mill-race through your heart. The music of the
piper, I think, would have made the beasts walk out of the fair on their
hind legs, if the music of the fiddler didn't charm them to be still.
Grace Kennedy and Sheela Molloy were on the road, and Rose Heffernan was
talking to them. Grace Kennedy has the best wit and the best discourse
of any woman within the four seas, and she said to the other girls as I
came up, 'Faith, girls, the good of the Mission will be gone from us
since Maelshaughlinn came into the fair, for the young women must be
talking about his coming home from the sermon.' Sheela Molloy has the
softest hair and the softest eyes of anything you ever saw. She's a
growing girl, with the spice of the devil in her. 'It's not the best
manners,' said I, 'to treat girls to a glass across the counter, but
come into a shop,' said I, 'and let me pay for your fancy.' Well, I
persuaded them to come into a shop, and I got the girls to make Sheela
ask for a net for her hair. They don't sell these nets less than by the
dozen, so I bought a dozen nets for Sheela's hair. I bought ear-rings
and brooches, dream-books and fortune books, buckles, and combs, and I
thought I had spent no more money than I'd thank you for picking up off
the floor. A tinker woman came in and offered to tell the girls their
fortunes, and I had to cross her hand with silver.
"I came out on the street after that, and took a few turns through the
fair. The noise and the crowd were getting on my mind, and I couldn't
think, with any satisfaction, so I went into Mrs. Molloy's, and sat for
a while in the snug. I had peace and quiet there, and I began to plan
out what I would do with my money. I had a notion of going into Clooney
on Tuesday, and buying a few sheep to put on my little fields, and of
taking a good craftsman home from the fair, a man who could put the fine
thatch on my little house. I made up my mind to have the doors and
windows shining with paint, to plant a few trees before the door, and to
have a growing calf going before the house. In a while, I thought, I
could have another little horse to be my comfort and consolation. I
wasn't drinking anything heavier than ginger ale, so I thought the whole
thing out quietly. After a while I got up, bid good-bye to Mrs. Molloy,
and stood at the door to watch the fair.
"There was a man just before me with a pea and thimble, and I never saw
a trick-of-the-loop with less sense of the game. He was winning money
right and left, but that was because the young fellows were before him
like motherless calves. Just to expose the man I put down a few pence on
the board. In a short time I had fleeced my showman. He took up his
board and went away, leaving me shillings the winner.
"I stood on the edge of the pavement wondering what I could do that
would be the beating of the things I had done already. By this time the
fiddler and the piper were drawing nigh to each other, and there was a
musician to the right of me and a musician to the left of me. I sent
silver to each, and told them to cease playing as I had something to
say. I got up on a cart and shook my hat to get silence. I said, 'I'm
going to bid the musicians play in the market square, and the man who
gets the best worth out of his instrument will get a prize from me.'
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than men, women and children
made for the market square like two-year-olds let loose.
"You'd like the looks of the fiddler, but the piper was a black-avis'd
fellow that kept a troop of tinkers about him. It was the piper who
said, 'Master, what's the prize to be?' Before I had time to think, the
fiddler was up and talking. 'He's of the oul' ancient race,' said the
fiddler, 'and he'll give the prizes that the Irish nobility gave to the
musicians--a calf, the finest calf in the fair, a white calf, with skin
as soft as the fine mist on the ground, a calf that gentle that the
smoothest field under him would look as rough as a bog.' And the fiddler
was that lifted out of himself that he nearly lept over a cart. Somebody
pushed in a young calf, and then I sat down on a stone, for there was no
use in saying anything or trying to hear anything after that. The
fiddler played first, and I was nearly taken out of my trouble when I
heard him, for he was a real man of art, and he played as if he were
playing before a king, with the light of heaven on his face. The piper
was spending his silver on the tinkers, and they were all deep in drink
when he began to play. At the first sound of the pipes an old
tinker-woman fell into a trance. It was powerful, but the men had to tie
him up with a straw rope, else the horses would have kicked the slates
off the market-house roof. Nobody was quiet after that. There were a
thousand men before me offering to sell me ten thousand calves, each
calf whiter than the one before. There was one party round the fiddler
and another party round the piper. I think it was the fiddler that won;
anyway, he had the strongest backing, for they hoisted the calf on to a
cart, and they put the fiddler beside it, and the two of them would
have got out of the crowd, only the tinkers cut the traces of the yoke.
I was saved by a few hardy men, who carried me through the market-house
and into Flynn's by a back way, and there I paid for the calf.
"When I came out of Flynn's the people were going home quiet enough. I
got a lift on Fardorrougha's yoke, and everybody, I think, wanted me to
come to Clooney on Tuesday next. I think I'd have got out of Arvach with
safety, only a dead-drunk tinker wakened up and knew me, and he gave a
yell that brought the piper hot-foot after me. First of all, the piper
cursed me. He had a bad tongue, and he put on me the blackest, bitterest
curses you ever heard in your life. Then he lifted up the pipes, and he
gave a blast that went through me like a spear of ice.
"The man that sold me the calf gave me a luck-penny back, and that's all
the money I brought out of Arvach fair.
"Never go into the fair where you have no business."
The Rev. J. J. Meldon and the Chief Secretary.
_From "Spanish Gold."_
BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM (1865--).
The Chief Secretary lay back in Higginbotham's hammock-chair. There was
a frown on his face. His sense of personal dignity was outraged by the
story he had just heard. He had not been very long Chief Secretary of
Ireland, and, though not without a sense of humour, he took himself and
his office very seriously. He came to Ireland intending to do justice
and show mercy. He looked forward to a career of real usefulness. He was
prepared to be opposed, maligned, misunderstood, declared capable of
every kind of iniquity. He did not expect to be treated as a fool. He
did not expect that an official in the pay of one of the Government
Boards would assume as a matter of course that he was a fool and believe
any story about him, however intrinsically absurd. He failed to imagine
any motive for the telling of such a story. There must, he assumed, have
been a motive, but what it was he could not even guess.
Meldon entered the hut without knocking at the door.
"Mr. Willoughby, I believe," he said, cheerily. "You must allow me to
introduce myself since Higginbotham isn't here to do it for me. My name
is Meldon, the Rev. J. J. Meldon, B.A., of T.C.D."
The Chief Secretary intended to rise with dignity and walk out of the
hut. He failed because no one can rise otherwise than awkwardly out of
the depths of a hammock-chair.
"Don't stir," said Meldon, watching his struggles. "Please don't stir. I
shouldn't dream of taking your chair. I'll sit on the corner of the
table. I'll be quite comfortable, I assure you. How do you like
Inishgowlan, now you are here? It's a nice little island, isn't it?"
Mr. Willoughby succeeded in getting out of his chair. He walked across
the hut, turned his back on Meldon, and stared out of the window.
"I came up here to have a chat with you," said Meldon. "Perhaps you
wouldn't mind turning round; I always find it more convenient to talk to
a man who isn't looking the other way. I don't make a point of it, of
course. If you've got into the habit of keeping your back turned to
people, I don't want you to alter it on my account."
Mr. Willoughby turned round. He seemed to be on the point of making an
angry remark. Meldon faced him with a bland smile. The look of
irritation faded in Mr. Willoughby's face. He appeared puzzled.
"It's about Higginbotham's bed," said Meldon, "that I want to speak.
It's an excellent bed, I believe, though I never slept in it myself.
But,----"
"If there's anything the matter with the bed," said Mr. Willoughby
severely, "Mr. Higginbotham should himself represent the facts to the
proper authorities."
"You quite misunderstand me. And, in any case, Higginbotham can't move
in the matter because he doesn't, at present, know that there's anything
wrong about the bed. By the time he finds out, it will be too late to
do anything. I simply want to give you a word of advice. Don't sleep in
Higginbotham's bed to-night."
"I haven't the slightest intention of sleeping in it."
"That's all right. I'm glad you haven't. The fact is"--Meldon's voice
sank almost to a whisper--"there happens to be a quantity of broken
glass in that bed. I need scarcely tell a man with your experience of
life that broken glass in a bed isn't a thing which suits everybody.
It's all right, of course, if you're used to it, but I don't suppose you
are."
Mr. Willoughby turned, this time towards the door. There was something
in the ingenuous friendliness of Meldon's face which tempted him to
smile. He caught sight of Higginbotham standing white and miserable on
the threshold. He made a snatch at the dignity which had nearly escaped
him and frowned severely.
"I think, Mr. Higginbotham," he said, "that I should like to take a
stroll round the island."
"Come along," said Meldon. "I'll show the sights. You don't mind
climbing walls, I hope. You'll find the place most interesting. Do you
care about babies? There's a nice little beggar called Michael Pat. Any
one with a taste for babies would take to him at once. And there's a
little girl called Mary Kate, a great friend of Higginbotham's. She's
the granddaughter of old Thomas O'Flaherty Pat. By the way, how are you
going to manage about Thomas O'Flaherty's bit of land? There's been a
lot of trouble over that?"
Mr. Willoughby sat down again in the hammock-chair and stared at Meldon.
"Of course, it's your affair, not mine," said Meldon. "Still, if I can
be of any help to you, you've only got to say so. I know old O'Flaherty
pretty well, and I may say without boasting that I have as much
influence with him as any man on the island."
"If I want your assistance I shall ask for it," said Mr. Willoughby,
coldly.
"That's right," said Meldon. "I'll do anything I can. The great
difficulty, of course, is the language. You don't talk Irish yourself, I
suppose. Higginbotham tells me he's learning. It's a very difficult
language, highly inflected. I'm not very good at it myself. I can't
carry on a regular business conversation in it. By the way, what is your
opinion of the Gaelic League?"
A silence followed. Mr. Willoughby gave no opinion of the Gaelic League.
Meldon sat down again on the corner of the table and began to swing his
legs. Higginbotham still stood in the doorway. Mr. Willoughby, with a
bewildered look on his face, lay back in the hammock-chair.
"I see," said Meldon, "that you've sent your yacht away. That was what
made me think you were going to sleep in Higginbotham's bed. I suppose
she'll be back before night."
"Really----" began Mr. Willoughby.
Meldon replied at once to the tone in which the word was spoken.
"I don't want to be asking questions. If there's any secret about the
matter you're quite right to keep it to yourself. I quite understand
that you Cabinet Ministers can't always say out everything that's in
your mind. I only mentioned the steamer because the conversation seemed
to be languishing. You wouldn't talk about Thomas O'Flaherty Pat's
field, and you wouldn't talk about the Gaelic League, though I thought
that would be sure to interest you. Now you won't talk about the
steamer. However, it's quite easy to get on some other subject. Do you
think the weather will hold up? The glass has been dropping the last two
days."
Mr. Willoughby struggled out of the hammock-chair again. He drew himself
up to his full height and squared his shoulders. His face assumed an
expression of rigid determination. He addressed Higginbotham:
"Will you be so good as to go up to the old man you spoke of----"
"Thomas O'Flaherty Pat," said Meldon. "That's the man he means, you
know, Higginbotham."
"And tell him----" went on Mr. Willoughby.
"If you're to tell him anything," said Meldon, "don't forget to take
someone with you who understands Irish."
"And tell him," repeated Mr. Willoughby, "that I shall expect him here
in about an hour to meet Father Mulcrone."
"I see," said Meldon. "So that's where the yacht's gone. You've sent for
the priest to talk sense to the old boy. Well, I dare say you're right,
though I think we could have managed with the help of Mary Kate. She
knows both languages well, and she'd do anything for me, though she is
rather down on Higginbotham. It's a pity you didn't consult me before
sending the steamer off all the way to Inishmore. However, it can't be
helped now."
Higginbotham departed on his errand and shut the door of the hut after
him. The Chief Secretary turned to Meldon.
"You've chosen to force your company on me this afternoon in a most
unwarrantable manner."
"I'll go at once if you like," said Meldon. "I only came up here for
your own good, to warn you about the state of Higginbotham's bed. You
ought to be more grateful to me than you are. It isn't every man who'd
have taken the trouble to come all this way to save a total stranger
from getting his legs cut with broken glass. However, if you hunt me
away, of course, I'll go. Only, I think, you'll be sorry afterwards if I
do. I may say without vanity that I'm far and away the most amusing
person on this island at present."
"As you are here," said Mr. Willoughby, "I take the opportunity of
asking you what you mean by telling that outrageous story to Mr.
Higginbotham. I'm not accustomed to having my name used in that way,
and, to speak plainly, I regard it as insolence."
"You are probably referring to the geological survey of this island."
"Yes. To your assertion that I employed a man called Kent to survey this
island. That is precisely what I refer to."
"Then you ought to have said so plainly at first, and not have left me
to guess at what you were talking about. Many men couldn't have guessed,
and then we should have been rambling at cross purposes for the next
hour or so without getting any further. Always try and say plainly what
you mean, Mr. Willoughby. I know it's difficult, but I think you'll find
it pays in the end. Now that I know what's in your mind, I'll be very
glad to thrash it out with you. You know Higginbotham, of course?"
"Yes."
"Intimately?"
"I met him this afternoon for the first time."
"Then you can't be said really to know Higginbotham. That's a pity,
because without a close and intimate knowledge of Higginbotham, you're
not in a position to understand that geological survey story. Take my
advice and drop the whole subject until you know Higginbotham better.
After spending a few days on the island in constant intercourse with
Higginbotham you'll be able to understand the whole thing. Then you'll
appreciate it. In the meanwhile, I'm sure you won't mind my adding,
since we are on the subject,--and it was you who introduced it--that you
ought not to go leaping to conclusions without a proper knowledge of the
facts. I said the same thing this morning to Major Kent, when he
insisted that you had come here to search for buried treasure."
Mr. Willoughby pulled himself together with an effort. He felt a sense
of bewilderment and hopeless confusion. The sensation was familiar. He
had experienced it before in the House of Commons when the Irish members
of both parties asked questions on the same subject. He knew that his
only chance was to ignore side-issues, however fascinating, and get back
at once to the original point.
"I'm willing," he said, "to listen to any explanation you have to offer;
but I do not see how Mr. Higginbotham's character alters, or can alter,
the fact that you told him what I can only describe as an outrageous
lie."
"The worst thing about you Englishmen is that you have such blunt minds.
You don't appreciate the lights and shades, the finer nuances, what I
may perhaps describe as the chiaroscuro of things. It's just the same
with my friend Major Kent. By the way, I ought to apologise for him. He
ought to have come ashore and called upon you this afternoon. It isn't a
want of loyalty which prevented him. He's a strong Unionist and on
principle he respects His Majesty's Ministers, whatever party they
belong to. The fact is, he was a bit nervous about this geological
survey business. He didn't know exactly how you'd take it. I told him
that you were a reasonable man, and that you'd see the thing in a proper
light, but he wouldn't come."
"Will you kindly tell me what is the proper light in which to view this
extraordinary performance of yours?"
"Certainly. It will be a little difficult, of course, when you don't
know Higginbotham, but I'll try."
"Leave Mr. Higginbotham out," said the Chief Secretary, irritably. "Tell
me simply this: Were you justified in making a statement which you knew
to be a baseless invention? How do you explain the fact that you told a
deliberate--that you didn't tell the truth?"
"I've always heard of you as an educated man. I may assume that you know
all about pragmatism."
"I don't."
"Well, you ought to. It's a most interesting system of philosophy quite
worth your while to study. I'm sure you'd like it if you understand it.
In fact, I expect you're a pragmatist already without knowing it. Most
of us practical men are."
"I'm waiting for an explanation of the story you told Mr. Higginbotham."
"Quite right. I'm coming to that in a minute. Don't be impatient. If
you'd been familiar with the pragmatist philosophy it would have saved
time. As you're not--though as Chief Secretary for Ireland I think you
ought to be--I'll have to explain. Pragmatism may be described as the
secularising of the Ritschlian system of theological thought. You
understand the Ritschlian theory of value judgments, of course?"