The boats doubled round an angle in the river, and Andy was left in the
hands of Squire O'Grady still threatening vengeance; but Andy, as long
as the boats remained in sight, heard nothing but his own sweet voice
shouting at the top of its pitch, "They're going to murdher me!--Misther
Dick, Misther Dick, come back for the love o' God!"
"What are you roaring like a bull for?" said the Squire.
"Why wouldn't I roar, sir? A bull would roar if he had as much rayson."
"A bull has more reason than ever you had, you calf," said the Squire.
"Sure there he is, and can explain it all to you," said Andy, pointing
after the boats.
"Who is there?" asked the Squire.
"Misther Dick, and the jintleman that I dhruv there."
"Drove where?"
"To the Squire's."
"What Squire?"
"Squire Egan's, to be sure."
"Hold your tongue, you rascal; you're either drunk still, or telling
lies. The gentleman I mean wouldn't go to Mister Egan's; he was coming
to me."
"That's the jintleman I dhruv--that's all I know. He was in the shay,
and was nigh shootin' me; and Micky Doolin stopped on the road, when his
brother was nigh killed, and towld me to get up, for he wouldn't go no
farther, when the jintleman objected----"
"What did the gentleman object to?"
"He objected to Pether goin' into the shay."
"Who is Peter?"
"Pether Doolin, to be sure."
"And what brought Peter Doolin there?"
"He fell off the horses----"
"Wasn't it Mick Doolin you said was driving but a moment ago?"
"Ay, sir, but that was th' other shay."
"What other chaise, you vagabond?"
"Th' other shay, your honour, that I never see at all, good or
bad--only Pether."
"What diabolical confusion you are making of the story, to be sure!
There's no use in talking to you here, I see. Bring him after me," said
the Squire, to some of his people standing by. "I must keep him in
custody till something more satisfactory is made out about the matter."
"Sure it's not makin' a presner of me you'd be?" said Andy.
"You shall be kept in confinement, you scoundrel, till something is
heard of this strange gentleman. I'm afraid he's drowned."
"D----l a dhrowned. I dhruv him to Squire Egan's, I'll take my book
oath."
"That's downright nonsense, sir. He would as soon go into Squire Egan's
house as go to Fiddler's Green."[5]
[5] Fiddler's Green is supposed to be situated on this (the cooler)
side of the regions below.
"'Faith, then, there's worse places than Fiddler's Green," said Andy,
"as some people may find out one o' these days."
"I think, boys," said O'Grady, to the surrounding countrymen, "we must
drag the river."
"Dhrag the river if you plase," said Andy; "but, for the tendher mercy
o' Heaven, don't dhrag me to jail! By all the crosses in a yard o'
check, I dhruv the jintleman to Squire Egan's!--and there he was in that
boat I showed you five minutes agone."
"Bring him after me," said O'Grady. "The fellow is drunk still, or
forgets all about it; I must examine him again. Take him over to the
hall, and lock him up till I go home."
"Arrah sure, your honour," said Andy, commencing an appeal.
"If you say another word, you scoundrel," said the Squire, shaking his
whip at him, "I'll commit you to jail this minute. Keep a sharp eye
after him, Molloy," were the last words of the Squire to a stout-built
peasant, who took Andy in charge as the Squire mounted his horse and
rode away.
Andy was marched off to Neck-or-Nothing Hall; and, in compliance with
the Squire's orders, locked up in the justice-room. This was an
apartment where the Squire, in his magisterial capacity, dispensed what
he called justice, and what he possible meant to be such; but poor
Justice coming out of Squire O'Grady's hands was something like the
little woman in the song, who, having her petticoats cut short while she
was asleep, exclaimed on her waking--
"As sure as I'm a little woman, this is none of I:"
only that Justice, in the present instance, did not doubt her identity
from her nakedness, but from the peculiar dressing Squire O'Grady
bestowed upon her--she was so muffled up in O'Gradyism that her own
mother (who, by the same token, was Themis) wouldn't know her. Indeed,
if I remember, Justice is worse off than mortals respecting her
parentage; for while there are many people who do not know who were
their fathers, poets are uncertain who was Justice's mother:--some say
Aurora, some say Themis. Now, if I might indulge at this moment in a bit
of reverie, it would not be unreasonable to suppose that it is the
classic disposition of Ireland, which is known to be a very ancient
country, that tends to make the operations of Justice assimilate with
the uncertainty of her birth; for her dispensations there are as
distinct as if they were the offspring of two different influences. One
man's justice is not another man's justice; which, I suppose, must arise
from the difference of opinion as to who and what Justice is. Perhaps
the rich people, who incline to power, may venerate Justice more as the
child of Jupiter and Themis; while the unruly ones worship her as the
daughter of Titan and Aurora; for undoubtedly the offspring of _Aurora_
must be most welcome to "_Peep-o'-day boys_."
Well--not to indulge further in reverie--Andy, I say, was locked up in
the justice-room; and as I have been making all these observations about
Justice, a few words will not be thrown away about the room which she
was supposed to inhabit. Then I must say Squire O'Grady did not use her
well. The room was a cold, comfortless apartment, with a plastered wall
and an earthen floor, save at one end, where a raised platform of boards
sustained a desk and one high office-chair. No other seat was in the
room, nor was there any lateral window, the room being lighted from the
top, so that Justice could be in no way interested with the country
outside--she could only contemplate her native heaven through the
sky-light. Behind the desk were placed a rude shelf, where some "modern
instances," and old ones too, were lying-covered with dust--and a
gun-rack, where some carbines with fixed bayonets were paraded in show
of authority; so that, to an imaginative mind, the aspect of the books
and the fire-arms gave the notion of Justice on the shelf, and Law on
the rack.
But, Andy thought not of these things; he had not the imagination which
sometimes gives a prisoner a passing pleasure in catching a whimsical
conceit from his situation, and, in the midst of his anxiety, anticipating
the satisfaction he shall have in saying a good thing, even at the
expense of his own suffering. Andy only knew that he was locked up in
the justice-room for something he never did. He had only sense enough to
feel that he was wronged, without the spirit to wish himself righted;
and he sauntered up and down the cold, miserable room, anxiously waiting
the arrival of "his honour, Squire O'Grady," to know what his fate might
be, and wondering if they would hang him for upsetting a post-chaise in
which a gentleman _had been_ riding, rather than brooding future means
of redress for his false imprisonment.
There was no window to look out of; he had not the comfort of seeing a
passing fellow-creature--for the sight of one's kind _is_ a comfort. He
could not even behold the green earth and the freshness of nature,
which, though all unconsciously, has still a soothing influence on the
uncultivated mind; he had nothing but the walls to look at, and they
were blank, save here and there that a burnt stick in the hand of one of
the young O'Gradies emulated the art of a Sandwich Islander, and
sketched faces as grotesque as any Pagan could desire for his idol; or
figures after the old well-established school-boy manner, which in the
present day is called Persian painting, "warranted to be taught in three
lessons." Now, this bespeaks degeneracy in the arts; for, in the time we
write of, boys and girls acquired the art without any lessons at all,
and abundant proofs of this intuitive talent existed on the aforesaid
walls. Napoleon and Wellington were fighting a duel, while Nelson stood
by to see fair play, he having nothing better to do, as the battle of
Trafalgar, represented in the distance, could, of course, go on without
him. The anachronism of jumbling Buonaparte, Wellington, and Nelson
together, was a trifle amongst the O'Gradies, as they were nearly as
great proficients in history, ancient and modern, as in the fine arts.
Amidst these efforts of genius appeared many an old rhyme, scratched
with rusty nails by rustier policemen, while lounging in the
justice-room during the proceedings of the great O'Grady, and all these
were gone over again and again by Andy, till they were worn out, all but
one--a rough representation of a man hanging.
This possessed a sort of fascination for poor Andy; for at last,
relinquishing all others, he stood riveted before it, and muttered to
himself, "I wondher can they hang me--sure it's no murdher I done--but
who knows what witnesses they might get? and these times they sware
mighty hard; and Squire O'Grady has such a pack o' blackguards about
him, sure he could get anything swore he liked. Oh, wirra! wirra!
what'll I do at all! Faix! I wouldn't like to be hanged--oh! look at him
there--just the last kick in him--and a disgrace to my poor mother into
the bargain. Augh!--but it's a dirty death to die--to be hung up like a
dog over a gate, or an old hat on a peg, just that-away;" and he
extended his arm as he spoke, suspending his _caubeen_, while he looked
with disgust at the effigy. "But sure they _can't_ hang me--though now I
remember Squire Egan towld me long ago I'd be hanged some day or other.
I wondher does my mother know I'm tuk away--and Oonah, too, the
craythur, would be sorry for me. Maybe, if my mother spoke to Squire
Egan, his honour would say a good word for me:--though that wouldn't do;
for him and Squire O'Grady's bitther inimies now, though they wor once
good friends. Och hone! sure that's the way o' the world; and a cruel
world it is--so it is. Sure 't would be well to be out of it a'most, and
in a betther world. I hope there's no po'chaises in heaven!"
The soliloquy of poor Andy was interrupted by a low, measured sound of
thumping, which his accustomed ear at once distinguished to be the
result of churning; the room in which he was confined being one of a
range of offices stretching backward from the principal building and
next door to the dairy. Andy had grown tired by this time of his
repeated contemplation of the rhymes and sketches, his own thoughts
thereon, and his long confinement; and now the monotonous sound of the
churn-dash falling on his ear, acted as a sort of _busho_,[6] and the
worried and wearied Andy at last laid down on the platform and fell
asleep to the bumping lullaby.
[6] A soft, monotonous chant the nurses sing to children to induce
sleep.