CHAPTER XIV

"Such is the custom of Branksome Hall."

_Lay of the Last Minstrel._

NECK-OR-NOTHING HALL

CANTO I

Ten good nights and ten good days

It would take to tell thy ways,

Various, many, and amazing:

Neck-or-Nothing bangs all praising.

Wonders great and wonders small

Are found in Neck-or-Nothing Hall.

Racing rascals of ten a twain,

Who care not a rush for hail nor rain,

Messages swiftly to go or to come,

Or duck a taxman or harry a bum,[7]

Or "clip a server,"[8] did blithely lie

In the stable parlour next to the sky[9]

Dinners, save chance ones, seldom had they,

Unless they could nibble their beds of hay;

But the less they got, they were hardier all--

'T was the custom of Neck-or-Nothing Hall.

[7] A facetious phrase for bailiff, so often kicked.

[8] Cutting off the ears of a process-server.

[9] Hayloft.

One lord there sat in that terrible hall,

Two ladies came at his terrible call,--

One his mother and one his wife,

Each afraid of her separate life;

Three girls who trembled--four boys who shook

Five times a day at his lowering look,

Six blunderbuses in goodly show,

Seven horse-pistols were ranged below,

Eight domestics, great and small,

In idlesse did nothing but curse them all;

Nine state beds, where no one slept--

Ten for family use were kept;

Dogs eleven with bums to make free,

With a bold thirteen[10] in the treasury--

(Such its numerical strength, I guess

It can't be more, but it may be less).

Tar-barrels new and feathers old

Are ready, I trow, for the caitiff bold

Who dares to invade

The stormy shade

Of the grim O'Grade,

In his hunting hold.

[10] A shilling, so called from its being worth thirteen pence in

those days.

When the iron tongue of the old gate bell

Doth summon the growling grooms from cell,

Through cranny and crook

They peer and they look,

With guns to send the intruders to heaven.[11]

But when passwords pass

That might "serve a mass,"[12]

Then bars are drawn and chains let fall,

And you get into Neck-or-Nothing Hall.

[11] This is not the word in the MS.

[12] Serving mass occupies about twenty-five minutes.

CANTO II

And never a doubt

But when you are in,

If you love a whole skin,

I'll wager (and win)

You'll be glad to get out.

_Dr. Growling's Metrical Romance._

The bird's-eye view which the doctor's peep from Parnassus has afforded,

may furnish the imagination of the reader with materials to create in

his own mind a vague yet not unjust notion of Neck-or-Nothing Hall; but

certain details of the Hall itself, its inmates and its customs, may be

desired by the matter-of-fact reader or the more minutely curious, and

as the author has the difficult task before him of trying to please all

tastes, something more definite is required.

The Hall itself was, as we have said, a rambling sort of structure.

Ramifying from a solid centre, which gave the notion of a founder well

to do in the world, additions, without any architectural pretensions to

fitness, were _stuck_ on here and there, as whim or necessity suggested

or demanded, and a most incongruous mass of gables, roofs, and chimneys,

odd windows and blank walls, was the consequence. According to the

circumstances of the occupants who inherited the property, the building

was either increased or neglected. A certain old bachelor, for example,

who in the course of events inherited the property, had no necessity for

nurses, nursery-maids, and their consequent suite of apartments; and as

he never aspired to the honour of matrimony, the ball-room, the

drawing-room, and extra bed-chambers were neglected; but being a

fox-hunter, a new kennel and range of stables were built, the

dining-room enlarged, and all the ready money he could get at spent in

augmenting the plate, to keep pace with the racing-cups he won, and

proudly displayed at his drinking-bouts; and when he died suddenly

(broke his neck), the plate was seized at the suit of his wine-merchant;

and as the heir next in succession got the property in a ruinous

condition, it was impossible to keep a stud of horses along with a wife

and a large family, so the stables and kennel went to decay, while the

ladies and family apartments could only be patched up. When the house

was dilapidated, the grounds about it, of course, were ill kept. Fine

old trees were there, originally intended to afford shade to walks which

were so neglected as to be no more walkable than any other part of the

grounds--the vista of aspiring stems indicated where an avenue had been,

but neither hoe nor rolling-stone had, for many a year, checked the

growth of grass or weed. So much for the outside of the house: now for

the inside.

That had witnessed many a thoughtless, expensive, headlong and irascible

master, but never one more so than the present owner; added to which, he

had the misfortune of being unpopular. Other men, thoughtless, and

headlong, and irritable as he, have lived and had friends; but there was

something about O'Grady that was felt, perhaps, more than it could be

defined, which made him unpleasing--perhaps the homely phrase

"cross-grained" may best express it, and O'Grady was essentially a

cross-grained man. The estate, when he got it, was pretty heavily

saddled, and the "galled jade" did not "wince" the less for his riding.

A good jointure to his mother was chargeable on the property, and this

was an excuse on all occasions for the Squire's dilatory payment in

other quarters. "Sir," he would say, "my mother's jointure is sacred--it

is more than the estate can well bear, it is true, but it is a sacred

claim, and I would sooner sacrifice my life, my _honour_, sir, than see

that claim neglected!" Now all this sounded mighty fine, but his mother

could never see her jointure regularly paid, and was obliged to live in

the house with him: she was somewhat of _an oddity_, and had apartments

to herself, and, as long as she was let alone, and allowed to read

romances in quiet, did not complain; and whenever a stray ten-pound note

_did_ fall into her hands, she gave the greater part of it to her

younger grand-daughter, who was fond of flowers and plants, and

supported a little conservatory on her grand-mother's bounty, she paying

the tribute of a bouquet to the old lady when the state of her botanical

prosperity could afford it. The eldest girl was a favourite of an uncle,

and _her_ passion being dogs, all the presents her uncle made her in

money were converted into canine curiosities; while the youngest girl

took an interest in the rearing of poultry. Now the boys, varying in age

from eight to fourteen, had their separate favourites too--one loved

bull-dogs and terriers, another game-cocks, the third ferrets, and the

fourth rabbits and pigeons. These multifarious tastes produced strange

results. In the house, flowers and plants, indicating refinement of

taste and costliness, were strongly contrasted with broken plaster,

soiled hangings, and faded paint; an expensive dog might be seen lapping

cream out of a shabby broken plate; a never-ending sequence of wars

raged among the dependent favourites, the bull-dogs and terriers

chopping up the ferrets, the ferrets killing the game-cocks, the

game-cocks killing the tame poultry and rabbits, and the rabbits

destroying the garden, assisted by the flying reserve of pigeons. It was

a sort of Irish retaliation, so amusingly exemplified in the nursery

jingle--

The water began to quench the fire,

The fire began to burn the stick,

The stick began to beat the dog,

The dog began to bite the kid.

In the midst of all these distinct and clashing tastes, that of Mrs.

O'Grady (the wife) must not be forgotten; her weak point was a feather

bed. Good soul! anxious that whoever slept under her roof should lie

softly, she would go to the farthest corner of the county to secure an

accession to her favourite property--and such a collection of luxurious

feather beds never was seen in company with such rickety bedsteads and

tattered and mildewed curtains, in rooms uncarpeted, whose paper was

dropping off the wall,--well might it be called paper-hanging

indeed!--whose washing-tables were of deal, and whose delf was of the

plainest ware, and even that minus sundry handles and spouts. Nor was

the renowned O'Grady without his hobby, too. While the various members

of his family were thwarting each other, his master-mischief was

thwarting them all; like some wicked giant looking down on a squabble of

dwarfs, and ending the fight by kicking them all right and left. Then

_he_ had _his_ troop of pets too--idle blackguards who were

slingeing[13] about the place eternally, keeping up a sort of "cordon

sanitaire," to prevent the pestilential presence of a bailiff, which is

so catching, and turns to jail fever, a disease which had been fatal in

the family. O'Grady never ventured beyond his domain except on the back

of a fleet horse--there he felt secure; indeed, the place he most

dreaded legal assault in was his own house, where he apprehended

trickery might invade him: a carriage might be but a feint, and hence

the great circumspection in the opening of doors.

[13] An Hibernicism, expressive of lounging laziness.

From the nature of the establishment, thus hastily sketched, the reader

will see what an ill-regulated jumble it was. The master, in difficulties,

had disorderly people hanging about his place for his personal security;

from these very people his boys picked up the love of dog-fights,

cock-fights, &c.; and they, from the fights of their pets, fought

amongst themselves, and were always fighting with their sisters; so the

reader will see the "metrical romance" was not overcharged in its rhymes

on Neck-or-Nothing Hall.

When Furlong entered the hall, he gave his name to a queer-looking

servant with wild scrubby hair, a dirty face, a tawdry livery, worse

for wear, which had manifestly been made for a larger man, and hung upon

its present possessor like a coat upon a clothes-horse; his cotton

stockings, meant to be white, and clumsy shoes, meant to be black, met

each other half-way, and split the difference in a pleasing neutral

tint. Leaving Furlong standing in the hall, he clattered up-stairs, and

a dialogue ensued between master and man so loud that Furlong could hear

the half of it, and his own name in a tone of doubt, with that of

"Egan," in a tone of surprise, and that of his "sable majesty" in a tone

of anger, rapidly succeeded one another; then such broken words and

sentences as these ensued--"fudge!--humbug!--rascally trick!--eh!--by

the hokey, they'd better take care!--put the scoundrel under the pump!"

Furlong more than half suspected it was to him this delicate attention

was intended, and began to feel uncomfortable: he sharpened his ears to

their keenest hearing, but there was a lull in the conversation, and he

could ascertain one of the gentler sex was engaged in it by the ogre-like

voice uttering, "Fudge, woman!--fiddle-de-dee!" Then he caught the words,

"perhaps," and "gentleman," in a lady's voice; then out thundered "that

rascal's carriage!--why come in that?--friend!--humbug!--rascal's

carriage!--tar and feather him, by this and that!"

Furlong began to feel very uncomfortable; the conversation ended; down

came the servant, to whom Furlong was about to address himself, when the

man said, "He would be with him in a minit," and vanished; a sort of

reconnoitering party, one by one, then passed through the hall, eyeing

the stranger very suspiciously, any of them to whom Furlong ventured a

word scurrying off in double-quick time. For an instant he meditated a

retreat, and, looking to the door, saw a heavy chain across it, the

pattern of which must have been had from Newgate. He attempted to

unfasten it, and as it clanked heavily, the ogre's voice from up-stairs

bellowed, "Who the d----l's that opening the door?" Furlong's hand

dropped from the chain, and a low growling went on up the staircase. The

servant whom he first saw returned.

"I fear," said Furlong, "there is some misappwehension."

"A what, sir?"

"A misappwehension."

"Oh, no, sir! it's only a mistake the master thought you might be

making; he thinks you mistuk the house, maybe, sir?"

"Oh, no--I _wather_ think he mistakes me. Will you do me the favo',"

and he produced a packet of papers as he spoke--"the favo' to take my

cwedentials to Mr. O'Gwady, and if he throws his eye over these

pape's----"

At the word "papers," there was a shout from above, "Don't touch them,

you thief, don't touch them!--another blister,--ha! ha! By the 'ternal

this and that, I'll have him in the horse-pond!" A heavy stamping

overhead ensued, and furious ringing of bells; in the midst of the din,

a very pale lady came down-stairs, and pointing the way to a small

room, beckoned Furlong to follow her. For a moment he hesitated, for

his heart misgave him; but shame at the thought of doubting or refusing

the summons of a lady overcame his fear, and he followed to a little

parlour, where mutual explanations between Mrs. O'Grady and himself,

and many messages, questions, and answers, which she carried up and

down stairs, at length set Furlong's mind at ease respecting his

personal safety, and finally admitted him into the presence of the

truculent lord of the castle--who, when he heard that Furlong had been

staying in the enemy's camp, was not, it may be supposed, in a sweet

temper to receive him. O'Grady looked thunder as Furlong entered, and

eyeing him keenly for some seconds, as if he were taking a mental as

well as an ocular measurement of him, he saluted him with--

"Well, sir, a pretty kettle of fish you've made of this. I hope you have

not blabbed much about our affairs?"

"Why, I weally don't know--I'm not sure--that is, I won't be positive,

because when one is thwown off his guard, you know----"

"Pooh, sir! a man should never be off his guard in an election. But how

the d----l, sir, could you make such a thundering mistake as to go to

the wrong house?"

"It was a howwid postilion, Miste' O'Gwady."

"The scoundrel!" exclaimed O'Grady, stamping up and down the room.

At this moment, a tremendous crash was heard; the ladies jumped from

their seats; O'Grady paused in his rage, and his poor, pale wife

exclaimed--

"'T is in the conservatory."

A universal rush was now made to the spot, and there was Handy Andy,

buried in the ruins of flower-pots and exotics, directly under an

enormous breach in the glass roof of the building. How this occurred a

few words will explain. Andy, when he went to sleep in the justice-room,

slept soundly for some hours, but awoke in the horrors of a dream, in

which he fancied he was about to be hanged. So impressed was he by the

vision, that he determined on making his escape if he could, and to

this end piled the chair upon the desk, and the volumes of law books on

the chair, and, being an active fellow, contrived to scramble up high

enough to lay his hand on the frame of the sky-light, and thus make his

way out on the roof. Then walking, as well as the darkness would permit

him, along the coping of the wall, he approached, as it chanced, the

conservatory; but the coping being loose, one of the flags turned under

Andy's foot, and bang he went through the glass roof, carrying down in

his fall some score of flower-pots, and finally stuck in a tub, with

his legs upwards, and embowered in the branches of crushed geraniums

and hydrangeas.

He was dragged out of the tub, amidst a shower of curses from O'Grady;

but the moment Andy recovered the few senses he had, and saw Furlong,

regardless of the anathemas of the Squire, he shouted out, "There he

is!--there he is!" and rushing towards him, exclaimed, "Now, did I

dhrowned you, sir,--did I? Sure, I never murdhered you!"

'T was as much as could be done to keep O'Grady's hands off Andy, for

smashing the conservatory, when Furlong's presence made him no longer

liable to imprisonment.

"Maybe he has a vote," said Furlong, anxious to display how much he was

on the _qui vive_ in election matters.

"_Have_ you a vote, you rascal?"

"You may sarche me if you like, your honour," said Andy, who thought a

vote was some sort of property he was suspected of stealing.

"You are either the biggest rogue or the biggest fool I ever met," said

O'Grady. "Which are you now?"

"Whichever your honour plazes," said Andy.

"If I forgive you, will you stand by me at the election?"

"I'll stand anywhere your honour bids me," said Andy humbly.

"That's a thorough-going rogue, I'm inclined to think," said O'Grady,

aside to Furlong.

"He looks more like a fool in my appwehension," was the reply.

"Oh, these fellows conceal the deepest roguery sometimes under an

assumed simplicity. You don't understand the Irish."

"Und'stand!" exclaimed Furlong; "I pwonounce the whole countwy quite

incompwhensible!"

"Well!" growled O'Grady to Andy, after a moment's consideration, "go

down to the kitchen, you house-breaking vagabond, and get your supper!"

Now, considering the "fee, faw, fum" qualities of O'Grady, the reader

may be surprised at the easy manner in which Andy slipped through his

fingers, after having slipped through the roof of his conservatory; but

as between two stools folks fall to the ground, so between two rages

people sometimes tumble into safety. O'Grady was in a divided

passion--first his wrath was excited against Furlong for _his_ blunder,

and just as that was about to explode, the crash of Andy's sudden

appearance amidst the flower-pots (like a practical parody on "Love

among the roses") called off the gathering storm in a new direction,

and the fury sufficient to annihilate one, was, by dispersion, harmless

to two. But on the return of the party from the conservatory, after

Andy's descent to the kitchen, O'Grady's rage against Furlong, though

moderated, had settled down into a very substantial dissatisfaction,

which he evinced by poking his nose between his forefinger and thumb,

as if he meditated the abstraction of that salient feature from his

face, shuffling his feet about, throwing his right leg over his left

knee, and then suddenly, as if that were a mistake, throwing his left

over the right, thrumming on the arm of his chair, with his clenched

hand, inhaling the air very audibly through his protruded lips, as if

he were supping hot soup, and all the time fixing his eyes on the fire

with a portentous gaze, as if he would have evoked from it a

salamander.

Mrs. O'Grady in such a state of affairs, wishing to speak to the

stranger, yet anxious she should say nothing that could bear upon

immediate circumstances lest she might rouse her awful lord and master,

racked her invention for what she should say; and at last, with "bated

breath" and a very worn-out smile, faltered forth--

"Pray, Mr. Furlong, are you fond of shuttlecock?"

Furlong stared, and began a reply of "Weally, I _cawn't_ say

that----"

When O'Grady gruffly broke in with, "You'd better ask him, does he love

teetotum."

"I thought you could recommend me the best establishment in the

metropolis, Mr. Furlong, for buying shuttlecocks," continued the lady,

unmindful of the interruption.

"You had better ask him where you can get mouse-traps," growled

O'Grady.

Mrs. O'Grady was silent, and O'Grady, whose rage had now assumed its

absurd form of tagging changes, continued, increasing his growl, like a

_crescendo_ on the double-bass, as he proceeded:--"You'd better ask,

I think--mouse-traps--steel-traps--clap-traps--rat-traps--rattle-traps--

rattle-snakes!"

Furlong stared, Mrs. O'Grady was silent, and the Misses O'Grady cast

fearful sidelong glances at "Pa," whose strange irritation always

bespoke his not being in what good people call a "sweet state of mind;"

he laid hold of a tea-spoon, and began beating a tattoo on the

mantel-piece to a low smothered whistle of some very obscure tune, which

was suddenly stopped to say to Furlong, very abruptly--

"So Egan diddled you?"

"Why, he certainly, as I conceive, pwactised, or I might say, in

short--he--a--in fact----"

"Oh, yes," said O'Grady, cutting short Furlong's humming and hawing;

"oh, yes, I know--diddled you."

Bang went the spoon again, keeping time with another string of nonsense.

"Diddled you--diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped

over the moon--who was there?"

"A Mister Dawson."

"Phew!" ejaculated O'Grady with a doleful whistle; "Dick the devil! You

are in nice hands! All up with us--up with us--

Up, up, up,

And here we go down, down, down, down, derry down!

Oh, murther!" and the spoon went faster than before. "Any one else?"

"Mister Bermingham."

"Bermingham!" exclaimed O'Grady.

"A cle'gyman, I think," drawled Furlong.

"Bermingham!" reiterated O'Grady. "What business has he there, and

be ----!" O'Grady swallowed a curse when he remembered he was a

clergyman. "The enemy's camp--not his principles! Oh, Bermingham,

Bermingham,--B_rim_magem, B_rum_magem, Sheffield, Wolverhampton--Murther!

Any one else? Was Durfy there?"

"No," said Furlong; "but there was an odd pe'son, whose name wymes to

his--as you seem fond of wymes, Mister O'Gwady."

"What!" said O'Grady, quickly, and fixing his eyes on Furlong;

"Murphy?"

"Yes. Miste' Muffy."

O'Grady gave a more doleful whistle than before, and banging the spoon

faster than ever, exclaimed again, "Murphy!--then I'll tell you what it

is; do you see that?" and he held up the spoon before Furlong, who,

being asked the same question several times, confessed he _did_ see the

spoon. "Then I'll tell you what it is," said O'Grady again, "I wouldn't

give you _that_ for the election;" and, with a disdainful jerk, he threw

the spoon into the fire, after which he threw himself back in his chair

with an appearance of repose, while he glanced fiercely up at the

ceiling, and indulged in a _very_ low whistle indeed. One of the girls

stole softly round to the fire and gently took up the tongs to recover

the spoon; it made a slight rattle, and her father turned smartly round,

and said, "Can't you let the fire alone?--there's coal enough on it; the

devil burn 'em all--Egan, Murphy, and all o' them! What do you stand

there for, with the tongs in your hands, like a hairdresser, or a stuck

pig? I tell you, I'm as hot as a lime-kiln; go out o' that."

The daughter retired, and the spoon was left to its fate; the ladies did

not dare to utter a word; O'Grady continued his gaze on the ceiling and

his whistle; and Furlong, very uncomfortable and much more astonished,

after sitting in silence for some time, thought a retreat the best move

he could make, and intimated his wish to retire.

Mrs. O'Grady gently suggested it was yet early; which Furlong

acknowledged, but pleaded his extreme fatigue after a day of great

exertion.

"I suppose you were canvassing," said O'Grady, with a wicked grin.

"Ce'tainly not; they could sca'cely pwesume on such a thing as that, I

should think, in _my_ pwesence."

"Then what fatigued you?--eh?"

"Salmon-fishing, sir."

"What!" exclaimed O'Grady, opening his fierce eyes, and turning suddenly

round. "Salmon-fishing! Where the d----l were you salmon-fishing?"

"In the wiver, close by here."

The ladies now all stared; but Furlong advanced a vehement assurance,

in answer to their looks of wonder, that he had taken some very fine

salmon indeed.

The girls could not suppress their laughter; and O'Grady, casting a

look of mingled rage and contempt on the fisherman, merely uttered the

ejaculation, "Oh, Moses!" and threw himself back in his chair; but

starting up a moment after, he rang the bell violently. "What do you

want, my dear?" said his poor wife, venturing to lift her eyes, and

speaking in the humblest tone--"what do you want?"

"Some broiled bones!" said O'Grady, very much like an ogre; "I want

something to settle my stomach after what I've heard, for, by the

powers of ipecacuanha, 't is enough to make a horse sick--sick, by the

powers!--shivering all over like a dog in a wet sack. I must have

broiled bones and hot punch!"

The servant entered, and O'Grady swore at him for not coming sooner,

though he was really expeditious in his answer to the bell.

"Confound your lazy bones; you're never in time."

"'Deed, sir; I came the minit I heerd the bell."

"Hold your tongue!--who bid you talk? The devil fly away with you!--and

you'll never go fast till he does. Make haste now--go to the cook----"

"Yes, sir."

"Curse you! can't you wait till you get your message? Go to the devil

with you!--get some broiled bones--hot water and tumblers--don't forget

the whisky--and pepper them well. Mind, hot--everything hot--screeching

hot. Be off, now, and make haste--mind, make haste!"

"Yes, sir," said the servant, whipping out of the room with celerity,

and thanking Heaven when he had the door between him and his savage

master. When he got to the kitchen, he told the cook to make haste, if

ever she made haste in her life, "for there's owld Danger up-stairs in

the divil's temper, God bless us!" said Mick.

"Faix, he's always that," said the cook, scurrying across the kitchen

for the gridiron.

"Oh! but he's beyant all to-night," said Mick; "I think he'll murther

that chap up-stairs before he stops."

"Oh, wirra! wirra!" cried the cook; "there's the fire not bright, bad

luck to it, and he wantin' a brile!"

"Bright or not bright," said Mick, "make haste I'd advise you, or he'll

have your life."

The bell rang violently.

"There, do you hear him tattherin'?" said Mick, rushing up-stairs.

"I thought it was tay they wor takin'," said Larry Hogan, who was

sitting in the chimney-corner, smoking.

"So they are," said the cook.

"Then I suppose, briled bones is genteel with tay?" said Larry.

"Oh, no; it's not for tay, at all, they want them; it's only ould Danger

himself. Whenever he's in a rage, he ates briled bones."

"'Faith, they are a brave cure for anger," said Larry; "I wouldn't be

angry myself, if I had one."

Down rushed Mick, to hurry the cook--bang, twang! went the bell as he

spoke. "Oh, listen to him!" said Mick: "for the tendher mercy o' Heaven,

make haste!"

The cook transferred the bones from the gridiron to a hot dish.

"Oh, murther, but they're smoked!" said Mick.

"No matther," said the cook, shaking her red elbow furiously; "I'll

smother the smoke with the pepper--there!--give them a good dab o'

musthard now, and sarve them hot!"

Away rushed Mick, as the bell was rattled into fits again.

While the cook had been broiling bones for O'Grady below, he had been

grilling Furlong for himself above. In one of the pauses of the storm,

the victim ventured to suggest to his tormentor that all the mischief

that had arisen might have been avoided, if O'Grady had met him at the

village, as he requested of him in one of his letters. O'Grady denied

all knowledge of such a request, and after some queries about certain

portions of the letter, it became manifest it had miscarried.

"There!" said O'Grady; "there's a second letter astray; I'm certain they

put my letters astray on purpose. There's a plot in the post-office

against me; by this and that, I'll have an inquiry. I wish all the

post-offices in the world were blown up; and all the postmasters hanged,

postmaster-general and all--I do--by the 'ternal war, I do--and all the

mail coaches in the world ground to powder, and the roads they go on

into the bargain--devil a use in them but to carry bad news over the

universe--for all the letters with any good in them are lost; and if

there's a money enclosure in one, that's sure to be robbed. Blow the

post-office, I say--blow it, and sink it!"

It was at this moment Mick entered with the broiled bones, and while he

was in the room, placing glasses on the table, and making the necessary

arrangements for making "screeching hot punch," he heard O'Grady and

Furlong talking about the two lost letters.

On his descent to the kitchen, the cook was spreading a bit of supper

there, in which Andy was to join, he having just completed some

applications of brown paper and vinegar to the bruises received in his

fall. Larry Hogan, too, was invited to share in the repast; and it was

not the first time, by many, that Larry quartered on the Squire. Indeed,

many a good larder was opened to Larry Hogan; he held a very deep

interest in the regards of all the female domestics over the country,

not on the strength of his personal charms, for Larry had a hanging lip,

a snub nose, a low forehead, a large ugly head, whose scrubby grizzled

hair grew round the crown somewhat in the form of a priest's tonsure.

Not on the strength of his gallantry, for Larry was always talking

morality and making sage reflections, while he supplied the womankind

with bits of lace, rolls of ribbon, and now and then silk stockings. He

always had some plausible story of how they happened to come in his way,

for Larry was not a regular pedlar; carrying no box, he drew his chance

treasures from the recesses of very deep pockets contrived in various

parts of his attire. No one asked Larry how he came by such a continued

supply of natty articles, and if they had, Larry would not have told

them; for he was a very "close" man, as well as a "civil-spoken," under

which character he was first introduced to the reader on the memorable

night of Andy's destructive adventure in his mother's cabin. Larry Hogan

was about as shrewd a fellow as any in the whole country, and while no

one could exactly make out what _he_ was, or how he made the two ends of

his year meet, he knew nearly as much of every one's affairs as they did

themselves; in the phrase of the country, he was "as 'cute as a fox, as

close as wax, and as deep as a draw-well."

The supper-party sat down in the kitchen, and between every three

mouthfuls poor Mick could get, he was obliged to canter up-stairs at

the call of the fiercely rung bell. Ever and anon, as he returned, he

bolted his allowance with an ejaculation, sometimes pious, sometimes

the reverse, on the hard fate of attending such a "born devil," as he

called the Squire.

"Why he's worse nor ever, to-night," says the cook. "What ails him at

all--what is it all about?"

"Oh, he's blackguardin' and blastin' away about that quare

slink-lookin' chap, up-stairs, goin' to Squire Egan's instead of comin'

here."

"That was a bit o' your handy work," said Larry, with a grim smile at

Andy.

"And then," said Mick, "he's swearin' by all the murthers in the world

agen the whole counthry, about some letthers was stole out of the

post-office by somebody."

Andy's hand was in the act of raising a mouthful to his lips, when

these words were uttered; his hand fell, and his mouth remained open.

Larry Hogan had his eye on him at the moment.

"He swares he'll have some one in the body o' the jail," said Mick;

"and he'll never stop till he sees them swing."

Andy thought of the effigy on the wall, and his dream, and grew pale.

"By the hokey," said Mick, "I never see him in sitch a tattherin'

rage!"--bang went the bell again--"Ow, ow!" cried Mick, bolting a piece

of fat bacon, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his livery, and running

up-stairs.

"Misses Cook, ma'am," said Andy, shoving back his chair from the table;

"thank you, ma'am, for your good supper. I think I'll be goin' now."

"Sure, you're not done yet, man alive."

"Enough is as good as a feast, ma'am," replied Andy.

"Augh! sure the morsel you took is more like a fast than a feast," said

the cook, "and it's not Lent."

"It's not lent, sure enough," said Larry Hogan, with a sly grin; "it's

not _lent_, for you _gave_ it to him."

"Ah, Misther Hogan, you're always goin' on with your conundherums,"

said the cook; "sure, that's not the lent I mane at all--I mane Good

Friday Lent."

"Faix, every Friday is good Friday that a man gets his supper," said

Larry.

"Well, you _will_ be goin' on, Misther Hogan," said the cook. "Oh,

but you're a witty man; but I'd rather have a yard of your lace, any

day, than a mile o' your discourse."

"Sure, you ought not to mind my goin' _on_, when you're lettin'

another man go _off_, that-a-way," said Larry, pointing to Andy,

who, hat in hand, was quitting the kitchen.

"Faix an' he mustn't go," said the cook; "there's two words to that

bargain;" and she closed the door, and put her back against it.

"My mother's expectin' me, ma'am," said Andy.

"Throth, if 't was your wife was expectin' you, she must wait a bit,"

said the cook; "sure you wouldn't leave the thirsty curse on my

kitchen?--you must take a dhrop before you go; besides the dogs outside

the place would ate you onless there was some one they knew along wid

you: and sure, if a dog bit you, you couldn't dhrink wather afther, let

alone a dhrop o' beer, or a thrifle o' sper'ts: isn't that thrue,

Misther Hogan?"

"Indeed an' it is, ma'am," answered Larry; "no one can dhrink afther a

dog bites them, and that's the rayson that the larn'd fackleties calls

the disaise high-_dhry_----"

"High-dhry what?" asked the cook.

"That's what I'm thinkin' of," said Larry.

"High-dhry--high-dhry--something."

"There's high-dhry snuff," said the cook.

"Oh, no--no, no, ma'am!" said Larry, waving his hand and shaking his

head, as if unwilling to be interrupted in endeavouring to recall

"Some fleeting remembrance;"

"high-dhry--po--po--something about po; 'faith, it's not unlike

popery," said Larry.

"Don't say popery," cried the cook; "it's a dirty word! Say Roman

Catholic when you spake of the faith."

"Do you think _I_ would undhervalue the faith?" said Larry, casting up

his eyes. "Oh, Missis Mulligan, you know little of me; d' you think I

would undhervalue what is my hope, past, present, and to come?--_what_

makes our hearts light when our lot is heavy?--_what_ makes us love our

neighbour as ourselves?"

"Indeed, Misther Hogan," broke in the cook, "I never knew any one

fonder of calling in on a neighbour than yourself, particularly about

dinner-time----"

"What makes us," said Larry, who would _not_ let the cook

interrupt his outpouring of pious eloquence--"what makes us fierce in

prosperity to our friends, and meek in adversity to our inimies?"

"Oh! Misther Hogan!" said the cook, blessing herself.

"What puts the leg undher you when you are in throuble? why, your

faith: what makes you below desait, and above reproach, and on neither

side of nothin'?" Larry slapped the table like a prime minister, and

there was no opposition. "Oh, Missis Mulligan, do you think I would

desaive or bethray my fellow-crayture? Oh, no--I would not wrong the

child unborn,"--and this favourite phrase of Larry (and other rascals)

was, and is, unconsciously, true; for people, most generally, must be

born before they _can_ be much wronged.

"Oh, Missis Mulligan," said Larry, with a devotional appeal of his eyes

to the ceiling, "be at war with sin, and you'll be at paice with

yourself!"

Just as Larry wound up his pious peroration, Mick shoved in the door,

against which the cook supported herself, and told Andy the Squire said

he should not leave the Hall that night.

Andy looked aghast.

Again Larry Hogan's eye was on him.

"Sure I can come back here in the mornin'," said Andy, who at the

moment he spoke was conscious of the intention of being some forty

miles out of the place before dawn, if he could get away.

"When the Squire says a thing, it must be done," said Mick. "You must

sleep here."

"And pleasant dhrames to you," said Larry, who saw Andy wince under his

kindly worded stab.

"And where must I sleep?" asked Andy, dolefully.

"Out in the big loft," said Mick.

"I'll show you the way," said Larry; "I'm goin' to sleep there myself

to-night, for it would be too far to go home. Good night, Mrs.

Mulligan--good night, Mickey--come along, Andy."

Andy followed Hogan. They had to cross a yard to reach the stables; the

night was clear, and the waning moon shed a steady though not a bright

light on the enclosure. Hogan cast a lynx eye around him to see if the

coast was clear, and satisfying himself it was, he laid his hand

impressively on Andy's arm as they reached the middle of the yard, and

setting Andy's face right against the moonlight, so that he might watch

the slightest expression, he paused for a moment before he spoke; and

when he spoke, it was in a low mysterious whisper--low, as if he feared

the night breeze might betray it,--and the words were few, but potent,

which he uttered; they were these--"_Who robbed the post-office?_"

The result quite satisfied Hogan; and he knew how to turn his knowledge

to account. O'Grady and Egan were no longer friends; a political contest

was pending; letters were missing; Andy had been Egan's servant; and

Larry Hogan had enough of that mental chemical power, which, from a few

raw facts, unimportant separately, could make a combination of great

value.

Soon after breakfast at Merryvale the following morning, Mrs. Egan

wanted to see the Squire. She went to his sitting-room--it was bolted.

He told her, from the inside, he was engaged just then, but would see

her by-and-by. She retired to the drawing-room, where Fanny was singing.

"Oh, Fanny," said her sister, "sing me that dear new song of 'The

Voices,' 't is so sweet, and must be felt by those who, like me, have a

happy home."

Fanny struck a few notes of a wild and peculiar symphony, and sang her

sister's favourite.

THE VOICE WITHIN

I

You ask the dearest place on earth,

Whose simple joys can never die;

'T is the holy pale of the happy hearth,

Where love doth light each beaming eye.

With snowy shroud

Let tempests loud

Around my old tower raise their din;--

What boots the shout

Of storms without,

While voices sweet resound within?

O dearer sound

For the tempests round,

The voices sweet within!

II

I ask not wealth, I ask not power;

But, gracious Heaven, oh grant to me

That, when the storms of Fate may lower,

My heart just like my home may be!

When in the gale

Poor Hope's white sail

No haven can for shelter win,

Fate's darkest skies

The heart defies

Whose still small voice is sweet within

O, heavenly sound,

'Mid the tempests round,

That voice so sweet within!

Egan had entered as Fanny was singing the second verse; he wore a

troubled air, which his wife at first did not remark. "Is not that a

sweet song, Edward?" said she. "No one ought to like it more than you,

for your home is your happiness, and no one has a clearer conscience."

Egan kissed her gently, and thanked her for her good opinion, and asked

her what she wished to say to him. They left the room.

Fanny remarked Egan's unusually troubled air, and it marred her music;

leaving the piano, and walking to the window, she saw Larry Hogan

walking from the house, down the avenue.

CHAPTER XV

If the morning brought uneasiness and distrust to Merryvale, it dawned

not more brightly on Neck-or-Nothing Hall. The discord of the former

night was not preparatory to harmony on the morrow, and the parties

separating in ill-humour from the drawing-room were not likely to look

forward with much pleasure to the breakfast-parlour. But before

breakfast sleep was to intervene--that is, for those who could get

it--and the unfortunate Furlong was not amongst the number. Despite the

very best feather bed Mrs. O'Grady had selected for him from amongst her

treasures, it was long before slumber weighed down his feverish eyelids;

and even then, it was only to have them opened again in some convulsive

start of a troubled dream. All his adventures of the last four-and-twenty

hours were jumbled together in strange confusion--now on a lonely road,

while dreading the assaults of robbers, his course was interrupted not

by a highwayman, but a river, whereon embarking, he began to catch

salmon in a most surprisingly rapid manner, but just as he was about to

haul in his fish it escaped from the hook, and the salmon, making wry

faces at him, very impertinently exclaimed, "Sure, you wouldn't catch a

poor, ignorant, Irish salmon?" He then snapped his pistols at the

insolent fish--then his carriage breaks down, and he is suddenly

transferred from the river to the road; thieves seize upon him and bind

his hands, but a charming young lady with pearly teeth frees him from

his bonds, and conducts him to a castle where a party is engaged in

playing cards; he is invited to join, and as his cards are dealt to him

he anticipates triumph in the game, but by some malicious fortune his

trumps are transformed into things of no value, as they touch the board;

he loses his money, and is kicked out when his purse has been emptied,

and he escapes along a dark road pursued by his spoilers, who would take

his life, and a horrid cry of "broiled bones," rings in his ears as he

flies; he is seized and thrown into a river, where, as he sinks, shoals

of salmon raise a chorus of rejoicing, and he wakes out of the agonies

of dream-drowning to find himself nearly suffocated by sinking into the

feathery depths of Mrs. O'Grady's pet bed. After a night passed in such

troubled visions the unfortunate Furlong awoke unrefreshed, and, with

bitter recollections of the past and mournful anticipations of the

future, arose and prepared to descend to the parlour, where a servant

told him breakfast was ready.

His morning greeting by the family was not of that hearty and cheerful

character which generally distinguishes the house of an Irish squire;

for though O'Grady was not so savage as on the preceding evening, he

was rather gruff, and the ladies dreaded being agreeable when the

master's temper blew from a stormy point. Furlong could not help

regretting at this moment the lively breakfast-table at Merryvale,

nor avoid contrasting to disadvantage the two Miss O'Gradys with

Fanny Dawson. Augusta, the eldest, inherited the prominent nose of

her father, and something of his upper lip too, beard included; and these,

unfortunately, were all she was ever likely to inherit from him; and

Charlotte, the younger, had the same traits in a moderated degree.

Altogether, he thought the girls the plainest he had ever seen, and the

house more horrible than anything that was ever imagined; and he sighed

a faint fashionable sigh, to think his political duties had expelled him

from a paradise to send him

"The other way--the other way!"

Four boys and a little girl sat at a side-table, where a capacious jug

of milk, large bowls, and a lusty loaf were laid under contribution

amidst a suppressed but continuous wrangle, which was going forward

amongst the juniors; and a snappish "I will" or "I won't," a "Let me

alone" or a "Behave yourself," occasionally was distinguishable above

the murmur of dissatisfaction. A little squall from the little girl at

last made O'Grady turn round and swear that, if they did not

_behave_ themselves, he'd turn them all out.

"It is all Goggy, sir," said the girl.

"No, it's not, you dirty little thing," cried George, whose name was

thus euphoniously abbreviated.

"He's putting----" said the girl, with excitement.

"Ah, you dirty little----" interrupted Goggy, in a low, contemptuous

tone.

"He's putting, sir----"

"Whisht! you young devils, will you?" cried O'Grady, and a momentary

silence prevailed; but the little girl snivelled and put up her bib[14]

to wipe her eyes, while Goggy put out his tongue at her. Many minutes

had not elapsed when the girl again whimpered--

[14] Pinafore.

"Call to Goggy, papa; he's putting some mouse's tails into my milk,

sir."

"Ah, you dirty little tell-tale!" cried Goggy, reproachfully; "a

tell-tale is worse than a mouse's tail."

O'Grady jumped up, gave Master Goggy a box on the ear, and then caught

him by the aforesaid appendage to his head, and as he led him to the

door by the same, Goggy bellowed lustily, and when ejected from the room

howled down the passage more like a dog than a human being. O'Grady, on

resuming his seat, told Polshee[15] (the little girl) she was always

getting Goggy a beating, and she _was_ a little cantankerous cat and a

dirty tell-tale, as Goggy said. Amongst the ladies and Furlong the

breakfast went forward with coldness and constraint, and all were glad

when it was nearly over. At this period, Mrs. O'Grady half filled a

large bowl from the tea-urn, and then added to it some weak tea, and

Miss O'Grady collected all the broken bread about the table on a plate.

Just then Furlong ventured to "twouble" Mrs. O'Grady for a _leetle_ more

tea, and before he handed her his cup he would have emptied the sediment

in the slop-basin, but by mistake he popped it into the large bowl of

_miserable_ Mrs. O'Grady had prepared. Furlong begged a thousand

pardons, but Mrs. O'Grady assured him it was of no consequence, _as it

was only for the tutor_!

[15] Mary.

O'Grady, having swallowed his breakfast as fast as possible, left the

room; the whole party soon followed, and on arriving in the

drawing-room, the young ladies became more agreeable when no longer

under the constraint of their ogre father. Furlong talked slip-slop

common-places with them; they spoke of the country and the weather, and

he of the city; they assured him that the dews were heavy in the

evening, and that the grass was _so_ green in that part of the country;

he obliged them with the interesting information, that the Liffy ran

through Dublin, but that the two sides of the city communicated by means

of bridges--that the houses were built of red brick generally, and that

the hall-doors were painted in imitation of mahogany; to which the young

ladies responded, "La, how odd!" and added, that in the country people

mostly painted their hall-doors green, to match the grass. Furlong

admitted the propriety of the proceeding, and said he liked uniformity.

The young ladies quite coincided in his opinion, declared they all were

so fond of uniformity, and added that one of their carriage horses was

blind. Furlong admitted the excellence of the observation, and said, in

a very soft voice, that Love was blind also.

"Exactly," said Miss O'Grady, "and that's the reason we call our horse

'Cupid'!"

"How clever!" replied Furlong.

"And the mare that goes in harness with him--she's an ugly creature, to

be sure, but we call her 'Venus.'"

"How dwoll!" said Furlong.

"That's for uniformity," said Miss O'Grady.

"How good!" was the rejoinder.

Mrs. O'Grady, who had left the room for a few minutes, now returned and

told Furlong she would show him over the house if he pleased. He

assented, of course, and under her guidance went through many

apartments; those on the basement story were hurried through rapidly,

but when Mrs. O'Grady got him upstairs, amongst the bed-rooms, she dwelt

on the excellence of every apartment. "This I need not show you, Mr.

Furlong--'t is your own; I hope you slept well last night?" This was the

twentieth time the question had been asked. "Now, here is another, Mr.

Furlong; the window looks out on the lawn: so nice to look out on a

lawn, I think, in the morning, when one gets up!--so refreshing and

wholesome! Oh! you are looking at the stain in the ceiling, but we

couldn't get the roof repaired in time before the winter set in last

year; and Mr. O'Grady thought we might as well have the painters and

slaters together in the summer--and the house does want paint, indeed,

but we all hate the smell of paint. See here, Mr. Furlong," and she

turned up a quilt as she spoke; "just put your hand into that bed; did

you ever feel a finer bed?"

Furlong declared he never did.

"Oh, you don't know how to feel a bed!--put your hand into it--well,

that way;" and Mrs. O'Grady plunged her arm up to the elbow into the

object of her admiration. Furlong poked the bed, and was all

laudation.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

"Cha'ming!" replied Furlong, trying to pick off the bits of down which

clung to his coat.

"Oh, never mind the down--you shall be brushed after; I always show my

beds, Mr. Furlong. Now, here's another;" and so she went on, dragging

poor Furlong up and down the house, and he did not get out of her

clutches till he had poked all the beds in the establishment. As soon as

that ceremony was over, and that his coat had undergone the process of

brushing, he wished to take a stroll, and was going forth, when Mrs.

O'Grady interrupted him, with the assurance that it would not be safe

unless some one of the family became his escort, for the dogs were very

fierce--Mr. O'Grady was _so_ fond of dogs, and _so_ proud of a

particular breed of dogs he had, so remarkable for their courage--he

had better wait till the boys had done their Latin lesson. So Furlong

was marched back to the drawing-room.

There the younger daughter addressed him with a message from her

grandmamma, who wished to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance,

and hoped he would pay her a visit. Furlong, of course, was "quite

delighted," and "too happy," and the young lady, thereupon, led him to

the old lady's apartment.

The old dowager had been a beauty in her youth--one of the belles of

the Irish court, and when she heard "a gentleman from Dublin Castle"

was in the house she desired to see him. To see any one from the seat

of her juvenile joys and triumphs would have given her delight, were it

only the coachman that had driven a carriage to a levee or drawing-room;

she could ask him about the sentinels at the gate, the entrance-porch,

and if the long range of windows yet glittered with lights on St.

Patrick's night; but to have a conversation with an official from that

seat of government and courtly pleasure was, indeed, something to make

her happy.

On Furlong being introduced, the old lady received him very courteously,

at the same time with a certain air that betokened she was accustomed to

deference. Her commanding figure was habited in a loose morning wrapper,

made of grey flannel; but while this gave evidence she studied her

personal comfort rather than appearance, a bit of pretty silk

handkerchief about the neck, very knowingly displayed, and a becoming

ribbon in her cap showed she did not quite neglect her good looks; it

did not require a very quick eye to see, besides, a small touch of rouge

on the cheek which age had depressed, and the assistance of Indian ink

to the eyebrow which time had thinned and faded. A glass filled with

flowers stood on the table before her, and a quantity of books lay

scattered about; a guitar--not the Spanish instrument now in fashion,

but the English one of some eighty years ago, strung with wire and tuned

in thirds--hung by a _blue ribbon_ beside her; a corner cupboard,

fantastically carved, bore some curious specimens of china on one side

of the room; while, in strange discord with what was really scarce and

beautiful, the commonest Dutch cuckoo-clock was suspended on the

opposite wall; close beside her chair stood a very pretty little Japan

table, bearing a looking-glass with numerous drawers framed in the same

material; and while Furlong seated himself, the old lady cast a sidelong

glance at the mirror, and her withered fingers played with the fresh

ribbon.

"You have recently arrived from the Castle, sir, I understand."

"Quite wecently, madam--awived last night."

"I hope his Excellency is well--not that I have the honour of his

acquaintance, but I love the Lord Lieutenant--and the aides-de-camps

are so nice, and the little pages!--put a marker in that book," said

she, in an under-tone, to her granddaughter, "page seventy-four--ah,"

she resumed in a higher tone, "that reminds me of the Honourable

Captain Wriggle, who commanded a seventy-four, and danced with me at

the Castle the evening Lady Legge sprained her ankle. By-the-bye, are

there any seventy-fours in Dublin now?"

"I wather think," said Furlong, "the bay is not sufficiently deep for

line-of-battle ships."

"Oh dear, yes! I have seen quantities of seventy-fours there; though,

indeed, I am not quite sure if it wasn't at _Splithead_. Give me the

smelling salts, Charlotte, love; mine does ache indeed! How subject the

dear Duchess of Rutland was to headaches; you did not know the Duchess

of Rutland?--no, to be sure, what am I thinking of? you're too young;

but those were the charming days! You have heard, of course, the

duchess's _bon mot_ in reply to the compliment of Lord ----, but I must

not mention his name, because there was some scandal about them; but the

gentleman said to the duchess--I must tell you she was Isabella, Duchess

of Rutland--and he said, 'Isabelle _is_ a _belle_,' to which the duchess

replied, 'Isabelle _was_ a _belle_.'"

"Vewy neat, indeed!" said Furlong.

"Ah! poor thing," said the dowager, with a sigh, "she was beginning to

be a little _passée_ then;" she looked in the glass herself, and added,

"Dear me, how pale I am this morning!" and pulling out one of the little

drawers from the Japan looking-glass, she took out a pot of rouge and

heightened the colour on her cheek. The old lady not only heightened her

own colour, but that of the witnesses--of Furlong particularly, who was

_quite_ surprised. "Why am I so very pale this morning, Charlotte love?"

continued the old lady.

"You sit up so late reading, grandmamma."

"Ah, who can resist the fascination of the muses? You are fond of

literature, I hope, sir?"

"Extwemely," replied Furlong.

"As a statesman," continued the old lady--to whom Furlong made a deep

obeisance at the word "statesman"--"as a statesman, of course your

reading lies in the more solid department; but if you ever _do_

condescend to read a romance, there is the sweetest thing I ever met I

am just now engaged in; it is called 'The Blue Robber of the Pink

Mountain.' I have not come to the pink mountain yet, but the blue robber

is the most perfect character. The author, however, is guilty of a

strange forgetfulness; he begins by speaking of the robber as of the

middle age, and soon after describes him as a young man. Now, how could

a young man be of the middle age?"

"It seems a stwange inaccuwacy," lisped Furlong. "But poets sometimes

pwesume on the pwivelege they have of doing what they please with their

hewoes."

"Quite true, sir. And talking of heroes, I hope the Knights of St.

Patrick are well--I do admire them so much!--'t is so interesting to see

their banners and helmets hanging up in St. Patrick's Cathedral, that

venerable pile!--with the loud peal of the organ--sublime--isn't

it?--the banners almost tremble in the vibration of the air to the loud

swell of the 'A-a-a-men!'--the very banners seem to wave 'Amen!' Oh,

that swell is so fine!--I think they are fond of swells in the choir;

they have a good effect, and some of the young men are so good

looking!--and the little boys, too--I suppose they are choristers'

children?"

The old lady made a halt, and Furlong filled up the pause by declaring,

"He weally couldn't say."

"I hope you admire the service at St. Patrick's?" continued the old

lady.

"Ye-s, I think St. Paytwick's a vewy amusing place of wo'ship."

"Amusing," said the old lady, half offended. "Inspiring, you mean; not

that I think the sermon interesting, but the anthem!--oh, the anthem,

it is so fine!--and the old banners, those are my delight--the dear

banners covered with dust!"

"Oh, as far as that goes," said Furlong, "they have impwoved the

cathedwal vewy much, fo' they white-washed it inside, and put up

_noo_ banners."

"Whitewash and new banners!" exclaimed the indignant dowager; "the

Goths! to remove an atom of the romantic dust! I would not have let a

house-maid into the place for the world! But they have left the anthem,

I hope?"

"Oh, yes; the anthem is continued, but with a small diffewence:--they

used to sing the anthem befo' the se'mon, but the people used to go

away afte' the anthem and neve' waited fo' the se'mon, and the bishop,

who is pwoud of his pweaching, orde'ed the anthem to be postponed till

afte' the se'mon."

"Oh, yes," said the old lady, "I remember, now, hearing of that, and

some of the wags in Dublin saying the bishop was jealous of old

Spray;[16] and didn't somebody write something called 'Pulpit versus

Organloft'?"

[16] One of the finest tenors of the last century.

"I cawn't say."

"Well, I am glad you like the cathedral, sir; but I wish they had not

dusted the banners; I used to look at them all the time the service

went on--they were so romantic! I suppose you go there every Sunday?"

"I go in the summe'," said Furlong; "the place is _so_ cold in the

winte'."

"That's true indeed," responded the Dowager, "and it's quite funny,

when your teeth are chattering with cold, to hear Spray singing,

'Comfort ye, my people;' but, to be sure, _that_ is almost enough

to warm you. You are fond of music, I perceive?"

"Vewy!"

"_I_ play the guitar--(citra--cithra--or lute, as it is called by

poets). I sometimes sing, too. Do you know 'The lass with the delicate

air'? a sweet ballad of the old school--my instrument once belonged to

Dolly Bland, the celebrated Mrs. Jordan now--ah, there, sir, is a

brilliant specimen of Irish mirthfulness--what a creature she is! Hand

me my lute, child," she said to her granddaughter; and having adjusted

the blue ribbon over her shoulder, and twisted the tuning-pegs, and

thrummed upon the wires for some time, she made a prelude and cleared

her throat to sing "The lass with the delicate air," when the loud

whirring of the clock-wheels interrupted her, and she looked up with

great delight at a little door in the top of the clock, which suddenly

sprang open, and out popped a wooden bird.

"Listen to my bird, sir," said the old lady.

The sound of "cuckoo" was repeated twelve times, the bird popped in

again, the little door closed, and the monotonous tick of the clock

continued.

"That's my little bird, sir, that tells me secrets; and now, sir, you

must leave me; I never receive visits after twelve. I can't sing you

'The lass with the delicate air' to-day, for who would compete with the

feathered songsters of the grove? and after my sweet little warbler up

there, I dare not venture: but I will sing it for you to-morrow. Good

morning, sir. I am happy to have had the honour of making your

acquaintance." She bowed Furlong out very politely, and as her

granddaughter was following, she said, "My love, you must not forget

some seeds for my little bird." Furlong looked _rather_ surprised, for

he saw no bird but the one in the clock; the young lady marked his

expression, and as she closed the door she said, "You must not mind

grandmamma; you know she is sometimes a little queer."

Furlong was now handed over to the boys, to show him over the domain;

and they, young imps as they were, knowing he was in no favour with

their father, felt they might treat him as ill as they pleased, and

quiz him with impunity. The first portion of Furlong's penance

consisted in being dragged through dirty stable-yards and out-houses,

and shown the various pets of all the parties; dogs, pigeons, rabbits,

weasels, et cætera, were paraded, and their qualities expatiated upon,

till poor Furlong was quite weary of them, and expressed a desire to

see the domain. Horatio, the second boy, whose name was abbreviated to

Ratty, told him they must wait for Gusty, who was mending his spear.

"We're going to spear for eels," said the boy; "did you ever spear for

eels?"

"I should think not," said Furlong, with a knowing smile, who suspected

this was intended to be a second edition of quizzing _à la mode de

saumon_.

"You think I'm joking," said the boy, "but it's famous sport, I can

tell you; but if you're tired of waiting here, come along with me to

the milliner's, and we can wait for Gusty there."

While following the boy, who jumped along to the tune of a jig he was

whistling, now and then changing the whistle into a song to the same

tune, with very odd words indeed, and a burden of gibberish ending with

"riddle-diddle-dow," Furlong wondered what a milliner could have to do

in such an establishment, and his wonder was not lessened when his

guide added, "The milliner is a queer chap, and maybe he'll tell us

something funny."

"Then the milline' is a man?" said Furlong.

"Yes," said the boy, laughing; "and he does not work with needle and

thread either."

They approached a small out-house as he spoke, and the sharp clinking

of a hammer fell on the ear. Shoving open a rickety door, the boy

cried, "Well, Fogy, I've brought a gentleman to see you. This is Fogy,

the milliner, sir," said he to Furlong, whose surprise was further

increased, when, in the person of the man called the milliner, he

beheld a tinker.

"What a strange pack of people I have got amongst," thought Furlong.

The old tinker saw his surprise, and grinned at him. "I suppose it was

a nate young woman you thought you'd see when he towld you he'd bring

you to the milliner--ha! ha! ha! Oh, they're nate lads, the Master

O'Gradys; divil a thing they call by the proper name, at all."

"Yes, we do," said the boy, sharply; "we call ourselves by our proper

name. Ha! Fogy, I have you there."

"Divil a taste, as smart as you think yourself, Masther Ratty; you call

yourselves gentlemen, and that's not your proper name."

Ratty, who was scraping triangles on the door with a piece of broken

brick, at once converted his pencil into a missile, and let fly at the

head of the tinker, who seemed quite prepared for such a result, for,

raising the kettle he was mending, he caught the shot adroitly, and the

brick rattled harmlessly on the tin.

"Ha!" said the tinker, mockingly, "you missed me, like your mammy's

blessin';" and he pursued his work.

"What a very odd name he calls you," said Furlong, addressing young

O'Grady.

"Ratty," said the boy. "Oh, yes, they call me Ratty, short for Horatio.

I was called Horatio after Lord Nelson, because Lord Nelson's father

was a clergyman, and papa intends me for the Church."

"And a nate clargy you'll make," said the tinker.

"And why do they call you milline'?" inquired Furlong. The old man

looked up and grinned, but said nothing.

"You'll know before long, I'll engage," said Ratty; "won't he, Fogy?

You were with old Gran' to-day, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Did she sing to you 'The lass with the delicate air'?" said the boy,

putting himself in the attitude of a person playing the guitar,

throwing up his eyes, and mimicking the voice of an old woman--

"So they call'd her, they call'd her,

The lass--the lass

With a delicate air,

De--lick-it--lick-it--lick-it

The lass with a de--lick-it air."

The young rascal made frightful mouths, and put out his tongue every

time he said "lick-it," and when he had finished, asked Furlong, "Wasn't

that the thing?" Furlong told him his grandmamma had been going to sing

it, but this pleasure had been deferred till to-morrow.

"Then you did not hear it?" said Ratty.

Furlong answered in the negative.

"Och! murder! murder! I'm sorry I told you."

"Is it so _vewy_ pa'ticula', then?" inquired Furlong.

"Oh, you'll find out that, and more too, if you live long enough," was

the answer. Then turning to the tinker, he said, "Have you any milliner

work in hand, Fogy?"

"To be sure I have," answered the tinker; "who has so good a right to

know that as yourself? Throth, you've little to do, I'm thinkin', when

you ax that idle question. Oh, you're nate lads! And would nothin' sarve

you but brakin' the weathercock?"

"Oh, 't was such a nice cock-shot; 't was impossible not to have a shy

at it," said Ratty, chuckling.

"Oh, you're nice lads!" still chimed in the tinker.

"Besides," said Ratty, "Gusty bet me a bull-dog pup against a rabbit, I

could not smash it in three goes."

"Faix, an' he ought to know you betther than that," said the tinker;

"for you'd make a fair offer[17] at anything, I think, but an answer to

your schoolmasther. Oh, a nate lad you are--a nate lad!--a nice clargy

you'll be, your _rivirence_. Oh, if you hit off the tin commandments as

fast as you hit off the tin weathercock, it's a good man you'll be--an'

if I never had a headache till then, sure it's happy I'd be!"

[17] A "fair offer" is a phrase amongst the Irish peasantry, meaning

a successful aim.

"Hold your prate, old Growly," said Ratty; "and why don't you mend the

weathercock?"

"I must mend the kittle first--and a purty kittle you made of it!--and

would nothing sarve you but the best kittle in the house to tie to the

dog's tail? Ah, Masther Ratty, you're terrible boys, so yiz are!"

"Hold your prate, you old thief!--why wouldn't we amuse ourselves?"

"And huntin' the poor dog, too."

"Well, what matter!--he was a strange dog."

"That makes no differ in the _crulety_."

"Ah, bother! you old humbug!--who was it blackened the rag-woman's

eye?--ha! Fogy--ha! Fogy--dirty Fogy!"

"Go away, Masther Ratty, you're too good, so you are, your rivirince.

Faix, I wondher his honour, the Squire, doesn't murdher you sometimes."

"He would, if he could catch us," replied Ratty, "but we run too fast

for him, so divil thank him!--and you, too, Fogy,--ha, old Growly! Come

along, Mr. Furlong, here's Gusty;--bad scran to you, Fogy!" and he

slammed the door as he quitted the tinker.

Gustavus, followed by two younger brothers, Theodore and Godfrey (for

O'Grady loved high-sounding names in baptism, though they got twisted

into such queer shapes in family use), now led the way over the park

towards the river. Some fine timber they passed occasionally; but the

axe had manifestly been busy, and the wood seemed thinned rather from

necessity than for improvement; the paths were choked with weeds and

fallen leaves, and the rank moss added its evidence of neglect. The boys

pointed out anything _they_ thought worthy of observation by the way,

such as the best places to find a hare, the most covered approach to the

river to get a shot at wild ducks, or where the best young wood was to

be found from whence to cut a stick. On reaching their point of

destination, which was where the river was less rapid, and its banks

sedgy and thickly grown with flaggers and bulrushes, the sport of

spearing for eels commenced. Gusty first undertook the task, and, after

some vigorous plunges of his implement into the water, he brought up the

prey, wriggling between its barbed prongs. Furlong was amazed, for he

thought this, like the salmon-fishing, was intended as a quiz, and,

after a few more examples of Gusty's prowess, he undertook the sport; a

short time, however, fatigued his unpractised arm, and he relinquished

the spear to Theodore, or Tay, as they called him, and Tay shortly

brought up his fish, and thus, one after another, the boys, successful

in their sport, soon made the basket heavy.

Then, and not till then, they desired Furlong to carry it; he declared

he had no curiosity whatever in that line, but the boys would not let

him off so easy, and told him the practice there was, that every one

should take his share in the day's sport, and as he could not catch the

fish he should carry it. He attempted a parley, and suggested he was

only a visitor; but they only laughed at him--said that might be a very

good Dublin joke, but it would not pass in the country. He then

attempted laughingly to decline the honour; but Ratty, turning round to

a monstrous dog, which hitherto had followed them, quietly said, "Here!

Bloodybones; here! boy! at him, sir!--make him do his work, boy!" The

bristling savage made a low growl, and fixed his eyes on Furlong, who

attempted to remonstrate; but he very soon gave _that_ up, for another

word from the boys urged the dog to a howl and a crouch, preparatory to

a spring, and Furlong made no further resistance, but took up the basket

amid the uproarious laughter of the boys, who continued their sport,

adding every now and then to the weight of Furlong's load; and whenever

he lagged behind, they cried out, "Come along, man-Jack!" which was the

complimentary name they called him by for the rest of the day. Furlong

thought spearing for eels worse sport than fishing for salmon, and was

rejoiced when a turn homeward was taken by the party; but his annoyances

were not yet ended. On their return, their route lay across a plank of

considerable length, which spanned a small branch of the river; it had

no central support, and consequently sprang considerably to the foot of

the passenger, who was afforded no protection from handrail, or even a

swinging rope, and this rendered its passage difficult to an unpractised

person. When Furlong was told to make his way across, he hesitated, and,

after many assurances on his part that he could not attempt it, Gusty

said he would lead him over in security, and took his hand for the

purpose; but when he had him just in the centre, he loosed himself from

Furlong's hold, and ran to the opposite side. While Furlong was praying

him to return, Ratty stole behind him sufficiently far to have purchase

enough on the plank, and began jumping till he made it spring too high

for poor Furlong to hold his footing any longer; so squatting on the

plank, he got astride upon it, and held on with his hands, every

descending vibration of the board dipping his dandy boots in the water.

"Well done, Ratty!" shouted all the boys.

"Splash him, Tay!" cried Gusty. "Pull away, Goggy."

The three boys now began pelting large stones into the river close

beside Furlong, splashing him so thoroughly, that he was wringing wet

in five minutes. In vain Furlong shouted, "Young gentlemen! young

gentlemen!" and, at last, when he threatened to complain to their

father, they recommenced worse than before, and vowed they'd throw

him into the stream if he did not promise to be silent on the subject;

for, to use their own words, if they _were_ beaten, they might as well

duck him at once, and have the "worth of their licking." At last, a

compromise being effected, Furlong stood up to walk off the plank.

"Remember," said Ratty, "you won't tell we hoised[18] you?"

[18] A vulgarism for "hoisted."

"I won't indeed," said Furlong and he got safe to land.

"But I will!" cried a voice from a neighbouring wood; and Miss O'Grady

appeared, surrounded by a crowd of little pet-dogs. She shook her head

in a threatening manner at the offenders, and all the little dogs set up

a yelping bark, as if to enforce their mistress's anger. The snappish

barking of the pets was returned by one hoarse bay from "Bloodybones,"

which silenced the little dogs, as a broadside from a seventy-four would

dumbfounder a flock of privateers, and the boys returned the sister's

threat by a universal shout of "Tell-tale!"

"Go home, tell-tale!" they all cried; and with an action equally

simultaneous, they stooped one and all for pebbles, and pelted Miss

Augusta so vigorously, that she and her dogs were obliged to run for

it.

CHAPTER XVI

Having recounted Furlong's out-door adventures, it is necessary to say

something of what was passing at Neck-or-Nothing Hall in his absence.

O'Grady, on leaving the breakfast-table, retired to his justice-room to

transact business, a principal feature in which was the examination of

Handy Andy, touching the occurrences of the evening he drove Furlong to

Merryvale; for though Andy was clear of the charge for which he had been

taken into custody, namely, the murder of Furlong, O'Grady thought he

might have been a party to some conspiracy to drive the stranger to the

enemy's camp, and therefore put him to the question very sharply. This

examination he had set his heart upon; and reserving it as a _bonne

bouche_, dismissed all preliminary cases in a very off-hand manner, just

as men carelessly swallow a few oysters preparatory to dinner.

As for Andy, when he was summoned to the justice-room, he made sure it

was for the purpose of being charged with robbing the post-office, and

cast a sidelong glance at the effigy of the man hanging on the wall, as

he was marched up to the desk where O'Grady sat in magisterial dignity;

and, therefore, when he found it was only for driving a gentleman to a

wrong house all the pother was made, his heart was lightened of a heavy

load, and he answered briskly enough. The string of question and reply

was certainly an entangled one, and left O'Grady as much puzzled as

before whether Andy was stupid and innocent, or too knowing to let

himself be caught--and to this opinion he clung at last. In the course

of the inquiry, he found Andy had been in service at Merryvale; and

Andy, telling him he knew all about waiting at table, and so forth, and

O'Grady being in want of an additional man-servant in the house while

his honourable guest, Sackville Scatterbrain, should be on a visit with

him, Andy was told he should be taken on trial for a month. Indeed, a

month was as long as most servants could stay in the house--they came

and went as fast as figures in a magic lantern.

Andy was installed in his new place, and set to work immediately

scrubbing up extras of all sorts to make the reception of the honourable

candidate for the county as brilliant as possible, not only for the

honour of the house, but to make a favourable impression on the coming

guest; for Augusta, the eldest girl, was marriageable, and to her

father's ears "The Honourable Mrs. Sackville Scatterbrain" would have

sounded much more agreeably than "Miss O'Grady."

"Well--who knows?" said O'Grady to his wife; "such things have come to

pass. Furbish her up, and make her look smart at dinner--he has a good

fortune, and will be a peer one of these days--worth catching. Tell her

so."

Leaving these laconic observations and directions behind him, he set

off to the neighbouring town to meet Scatterbrain, and to make a

blow-up at the post-office about the missing letters. This he was the

more anxious to do, as the post-office was kept by the brother of

M'Garry, the apothecary; and since O'Grady had been made to pay so

dearly for thrashing him, he swore eternal vengeance against the whole

family. The post-master could give no satisfactory answer to the charge

made against him, and O'Grady threatened a complaint to headquarters,

and prophesied the postmaster's dismissal. Satisfied for the present

with this piece of prospective vengeance, he proceeded to the inn, and

awaited the arrival of his guest.

In the interim, at the Hall, Mrs. O'Grady gave Augusta the necessary

hints, and recommended a short walk to improve her colour; and it was

in the execution of this order that Miss O'Grady's perambulation was

cut short by the pelting her sweet brothers gave her.

The internal bustle of the establishment caught the attention of the

dowager, who contrived to become acquainted with its cause, and set

about making herself as fascinating as possible; for though, in the

ordinary routine of the family affairs, she kept herself generally

secluded in her own apartments, whenever any affair of an interesting

nature was pending, nothing could make her refrain from joining any

company which might be in the house;--nothing;--not even O'Grady

himself. At such times, too, she became strangely excited, and

invariably executed one piece of farcical absurdity, of which, however,

the family contrived to confine the exercise to her own room. It was

wearing on her head a tin concern, something like a chimney-cowl,

ornamented by a small weathercock, after the fashion of those which

surmount church-steeples; this, she declared, influenced her health

wonderfully, by indicating the variation of the wind in her stomach,

which she maintained to be the grand ruling principle of human

existence. She would have worn this head-dress in any company, had she

been permitted, but the terrors of her son had sufficient influence over

her to have this laid aside for a more seemly _coiffure_ when she

appeared at dinner or in the drawing-room; but while she yielded really

through fear, she affected to be influenced through tenderness to her

son's infirmity of temper.

"It is very absurd," she would say, "that Gustavus should interfere

with my toilette; but, poor fellow, he's very queer, you know, and I

_humour_ him."

This at once explains why Master Ratty called the tinker "the

milliner."

It will not be wondered at that the family carefully excluded the old

lady from the knowledge of any exciting subject; but those who know

what a talkative race children and servants are, will not be surprised

that the dowager sometimes got scent of proceedings which were meant to

be kept secret. The pending election, and the approaching visit of the

candidate, somehow or other, came to her knowledge, and of course she

put on her tin chimney-pot. Thus attired, she sat watching the avenue

all day; and when she saw O'Grady return in a handsome travelling

carriage with a stranger, she was quite happy, and began to attire

herself in some ancient finery, rather the worse for wear, and which

might have been interesting to an antiquary.

The house soon rang with bustle--bells rang, and footsteps rapidly

paced passages, and pattered up and down stairs. Andy was the nimblest

at the hall-door at the first summons of the bell; and, in a livery too

short in the arms and too wide in the shoulders, he bustled here and

there, his anxiety to be useful only putting him in everybody's way,

and ending in getting him a hearty cursing from O'Grady.

The carriage was unpacked, and letter-boxes, parcels, and portmanteaus

strewed the hall. Andy was desired to carry the latter to "the

gentleman's room," and, throwing the portmanteau over his shoulder, he

ran upstairs. It was just after the commotion created by the arrival of

the _Honourable_ Mr. Scatterbrain that Furlong returned to the

house, wet and weary.

He retired to his room to change his clothes, and fancied he was now

safe from further molestation, with an inward protestation that the

next time the Master O'Gradys caught him in their company, they might

bless themselves; when he heard a loud sound of hustling near his door,

and Miss Augusta's voice audibly exclaiming, "Behave yourself,

Ratty!--Gusty, let me go!"--when, as the words were uttered, the door

of his room was shoved open, and Miss Augusta thrust in, and the door

locked outside.

Furlong had not half his clothes on. Augusta exclaimed, "Gracious

me!"--first put up her hands to her eyes, and then turned her face to

the door.

Furlong hid himself in the bed-curtains, while Ratty, the vicious

little rascal, with a malicious laugh, said, "Now, promise you'll not

tell papa, or I'll bring him up here--and then, how will you be?"

"Ratty, you wretch!" cried Augusta, kicking at the door, "let me out!"

"Not a bit, till you promise."

"Oh, fie, Maste' O'Gwady!" said Furlong.

"I'll scream, Ratty, if you don't let me out!" cried Augusta.

"If you screech, papa will hear you, and then he'll come up and kill

that fellow there."

"Oh, don't squeam, Miss O'Gwady!" said Furlong, very vivaciously, from

the bed-curtains; "don't squeam, pway!"

"I'm not squeamish, sir," said Miss Augusta; "but it's dreadful to be

shut up with a man who has no clothes on him. Let me out, Ratty--let

me out!"

"Well, will you tell on us?"

"No."

"'Pon your honour?"

"'Pon my honour, no! Make haste! Oh, if papa knew of this!"

Scarcely had the words been uttered, when the heavy tramp and gruff

voice of O'Grady resounded in the passage, and the boys scampered off

in a fright, leaving the door locked.

"Oh, what will become of me!" said the poor girl, with the extremity of

terror in her look--a terror so excessive, that she was quite heedless

of the dishabille of Furlong, who jumped from the curtains, when he

heard O'Grady coming.

"Don't be fwightened, Miss O'Gwady," said Furlong, half frightened to

death himself. "When we explain the affair----"

"Explain!" said the girl, gasping. "Oh, you don't know papa!"

As she spoke, the heavy tramp ceased at the door--a sharp tap

succeeded, and Furlong's name was called in the gruff voice of the

Squire.

Furlong could scarcely articulate a response.

"Let me in," said O'Grady.

"I am not dwessed, sir," answered Furlong.

"No matter," said the Squire; "you're not a woman."

Augusta wrung her hands.

"I'll be down with you as soon as I am dwessed, sir," replied Furlong.

"I want to speak to you immediately--and here are letters for you--open

the door."

Augusta signified by signs to Furlong that resistance would be vain;

and hid herself under the bed.

"Come in, sir," said Furlong, when she was secreted.

"The door is fastened," said O'Grady.

"Turn the key, sir," said Furlong.

O'Grady unlocked the door, and was so inconsistent a person, that he

never thought of the impossibility of Furlong's having locked it, but,

in the richest spirit of bulls, asked him if he always fastened his

door on the outside. Furlong said he always did.

"What's the matter with you?" inquired O'Grady. "You're as white as the

sheet there;" and he pointed to the bed as he spoke.

Furlong grew whiter as he pointed to that quarter.

"What ails you, man?--Aren't you well?"

"Wather fatigued--but I'll be bette' pwesently. What do you wish with

me, sir?"

"Here are letters for you--I want to know what's in

them--Scatterbrain's come--do you know that?"

"No--I did not."

"Don't stand there in the cold--go on dressing yourself; I'll sit down

here till you can open your letters: I want to tell you something

besides." O'Grady took a chair as he spoke.

Furlong assumed all the composure he could; and the girl began to hope

she should remain undiscovered, and most likely she would have been so

lucky, had not the Genius of Disaster, with aspect malign, waved her

sable wand, and called her chosen servant, Handy Andy, to her aid. He,

her faithful and unfailing minister, obeyed the call, and at that

critical juncture of time gave a loud knock at the chamber-door.

"Come in," said O'Grady.

Andy opened the door and popped in his head. "I beg your pardon, sir,

but I kem for the jintleman's portmantle."

"What gentleman?" asked O'Grady.

"The Honourable, sir; I tuk his portmantle to the wrong room, sir; and

I'm come for it now, bekase he wants it."

"There's no po'tmanteau here," said Furlong.

"O yis, sir," said Andy; "I put it undher the bed."

"Well, take it and be off," said O'Grady.

"No--no--no," said Furlong, "don't distu'b my woom, if you please, till

I have done dwessing."

"But the Honourable is dhressing too, sir; and that's why he wants the

portmantle."

"Take it, then," said the Squire.

Furlong was paralysed, and could offer no further resistance: Andy

stooped, and lifting the valance of the bed to withdraw the portmanteau,

dropped it suddenly, and exclaimed, "O Lord!"

"What's the matter?" said the Squire.

"Nothin', sir," said Andy, looking scared.

"Then take the portmanteau, and be hanged to you."

"Oh, I'll wait till the jintleman's done, sir," said Andy, retiring.

"What the devil is all this about?" said the Squire, seeing the

bewilderment of Furlong and Andy. "What is it at all?" and he stooped as

he spoke, and lifted the valance. But here description must end, and

imagination supply the scene of fury and confusion which succeeded. At

the first fierce volley of imprecation O'Grady gave vent to, Andy ran

off and alarmed the family, Augusta screamed, and Furlong held for

support by the bedpost, while, between every hurricane of oaths, O'Grady

ran to the door, and shouted for his pistols, and anon returned to the

chamber to vent every abusive epithet which could be showered on man and

woman. The prodigious uproar soon brought the whole house to the spot;

Mrs. O'Grady and the two spare girls amongst the first; Mat, and the

cook, and the scullion, and all the housemaids in rapid succession; and

Scatterbrain himself at last; O'Grady all the time foaming at the mouth,

stamping up and down the room, shaking his fist at Furlong, and, after a

volley of names impossible to remember or print, always concluding with

the phrase, "Wait till I get my pistols!"

"Gusty, dear," said his trembling wife, "what is it all about?"

He glared upon her with his flashing eyes, and said, "Fine education

you give your children, ma'am. Where have you brought up your daughters

to go to, eh?"

"To church, my dear," said Mrs. O'Grady, meekly; for she being a Roman

Catholic, O'Grady was very jealous of his daughters being reared staunch

Protestants, and she, poor simple woman, thought that was the drift of

his question.

"Church, my eye, woman!--Church, indeed!--'faith, she ought to have

gone there before she came where I found her. Thunderan'ouns, where are

my pistols?"

"Where _has_ she gone to, my love?" asked the wife in a tremor.

"To the divil, ma'am. Is that all you know about it?" said O'Grady.

"And you wish to know where she is?"

"Yes, love," said his wife.

"Then look under that bed, ma'am, and you'll see her without

spectacles."

Mrs. O'Grady now gave a scream, and the girls and the housemaids joined

in the chorus. Augusta bellowed from under the bed, "Mamma! mamma!

indeed it's all Ratty--I never did it."

At this moment, to help the confusion, a fresh appearance made its way

into the room; it was that of the Dowager O'Grady--arrayed in all the

bygone finery of faded full-dress, and the tin chimney-pot on her head.

"What is all this about?" she exclaimed, with an air of authority;

"though my weathercock tells me the wind is nor'west, I did not expect

such a storm. Is any one killed?"

"No," said O'Grady; "but somebody will be soon. Where are my pistols?

Blood and fire! will nobody bring me my pistols?"

"Here they are, sir," said Handy Andy, running in.

O'Grady made a rush for the pistols, but his mother and his wife threw

themselves before him, and Scatterbrain shoved Andy outside the room.

"Confound you, you numscull! would you give pistols into the hands of a

frantic man?"

"Sure, he ax'd for them, sir."

"Go out o' this, you blockhead! Go and hide them somewhere, where your

master won't find them."

Andy retired, muttering something about the hardness of a servant's

case, in being scolded and called names for doing his master's bidding.

Scatterbrain returned to the room, where the confusion was still in

full bloom; O'Grady swearing between his mother and wife, while Furlong

endeavoured to explain how the young lady happened to be in his room;

and she kicking in hysterics amidst the maids and her sisters, while

Scatterbrain ran to and fro between all the parties, giving an ear to

Furlong, an eye to O'Grady, and smelling salts to his daughter.

The case was a hard one to a milder man than O'Grady--his speculation

about Scatterbrain all knocked on the head, for it could not be expected

_he_ would marry the lady who had been found under another man's bed. To

hush the thing up would be impossible, after the publicity his own fury

had given to the affair. "Would she ever be married after such an affair

was _éclaté_?" The question rushed into his head on one side, and the

answer rushed in at the other, and met it with a plump "No!"--the

question and answer then joined hands in O'Grady's mind, and danced down

the middle to the tune of "Haste to the wedding!"

"Yes," he said, slapping his forehead, "she must be married at once."

Then, turning to Furlong, he said, "You're not married, I hope?"

Furlong acknowledged he was not, though he regretted the moment he had

made the admission.

"'T is well for you," said O'Grady, "for it has saved your life. You

shall marry her, then!" He never thought of asking Furlong's

acquiescence in the measure. "Come here, you baggage!" he cried to

Augusta, as he laid hold of her hand, and pulled her up from her chair;

"come here! I intended you for a better man; but since you _have_ such a

hang-dog taste, why, go to him!" And he shoved her over to Furlong.

"There!" he said, addressing _him_, "take her, since you _will_ have

her. We'll speak of her fortune after."

The poor girl stood abashed, sobbing aloud, and tears pouring from her

downcast eyes. Furlong was so utterly taken by surprise, that he was

riveted to the spot where he stood, and could not advance a step towards

his drooping intended. At this awkward moment, the glorious old dowager

came to the rescue; she advanced, tin chimney-pot and all, and taking a

hand of each of the principals in hers, she joined them together in a

theatrical manner, and ejaculated, with a benignant air, "Bless you, my

children!"

In the midst of the mingled rage, confusion, fright, and astonishment of

the various parties present, there was something so exquisitely absurd

in the old woman's proceeding, that nearly every one felt inclined to

laugh; but the terror of O'Grady kept their risible faculties in check.

Fate, however, decreed the finale should be comic; for the cook,

suddenly recollecting herself, exclaimed, "Oh, murther! the goose will

be burned!" and ran out of the room; a smothered burst of laughter

succeeded, which roused the ire of O'Grady, who, making a charge right

and left amongst the delinquents, the room was soon cleared, and the

party dispersed in various directions, O'Grady's voice rising loud above

the general confusion, as he swore his way down-stairs, kicking his

mother's tin turban before him.

CHAPTER XVII

Canvassing before an election resembles skirmishing before a battle;--the

skirmishing was over, and the arrival of the Honourable Sackville

Scatterbrain was like the first gun that commences an engagement;--and

now both parties were to enter on the final struggle.

A jolly group sat in Murphy's dining-parlour on the eve of the day fixed

for the nomination. Hitting points of speeches were discussed--plans for

bringing up voters--tricks to interrupt the business of the opposite

party--certain allusions on the hustings that would make the enemy lose

temper; and, above all, everything that could cheer and amuse the

people, and make them rejoice in their cause.

"Oh, let me alone for _that_ much," said Murtough. "I have engaged

every piper and fiddler within twenty miles round, and divil a screech

of a chanter[19] or a scrape of catcut Scatterbrain can have for love or

money--that's one grand point."

[19] The principal tube of a bagpipe.

"But," said Tom Durfy, "he has engaged the yeomanry band."

"What of that?" asked Dick Dawson; "a band is all very well for making

a splash in the first procession to the hustings, but what good is it

in working out the details?"

"What do you call details?" said Durfy.

"Why, the popular tunes in the public-houses and in the tally-rooms,

while the fellows are waiting to go up. Then the dances in the

evening--Wow!--won't Scatterbrain's lads look mighty shy when they know

the Eganites are kicking their heels to 'Moll in the Wad,' while

_they_ haven't a lilt to shake their bones to?"

"To be sure," said Murphy; "we'll have the deserters to our cause from

the enemy's camp before the first night is over;[20] wait till the girls

know where the fiddles are--and won't they make the lads join us!"

[20] In those times elections often lasted many days.

"I believe a woman would do a good deal for a dance," said Doctor

Growling; "they are immensely fond of saltatory motion. I remember,

once in my life, I used to flirt with a little actress who was a great

favourite in a provincial town where I lived, and she was invited to a

ball there, and confided to me she had no silk stockings to appear in,

and without them her presence at the ball was out of the question."

"That was a hint to you to buy the stockings," said Dick.

"No--you're out," said Growling. "She knew I was as poor as herself;

but though she could not rely on my purse, she had every confidence in

my taste and judgment, and consulted me on a plan she formed for going

to the ball in proper twig. Now, what do you think it was?"

"To go in cotton, I suppose," returned Dick.

"Out, again, sir--you'd never guess it; and only a woman could have hit

on the expedient; it was the fashion in those days for ladies in full

dress to wear pink stockings, and she proposed _painting her

legs_!"

"Painting her legs!" they all exclaimed.

"Fact, sir," said the doctor; "and she relied on me for telling her if

the cheat was successful----"

"And was it?" asked Durfy.

"Don't be in a hurry, Tom. I complied on one condition--namely, that I

should be the painter."

"Oh, you villain!" cried Dick.

"A capital bargain!" said Tom Durfy.

"But not a safe covenant," added the attorney.

"Don't interrupt me, gentlemen," said the doctor. "I got some rose-pink

accordingly, and I defy all the hosiers in Nottingham to make a tighter

fit than I did on little Jinney; and a prettier pair of stockings I

never saw."

"And she went to the ball?" said Dick.

"She did!"

"And the trick succeeded?" added Durfy.

"So completely," said the doctor, "that several ladies asked her to

recommend her dyer to them! So you see what a woman will do to go to a

dance. Poor little Jinney!--she was a merry minx. By-the-bye, she boxed

my ears that night, for a joke I made about the stockings. 'Jinney,'

said I, 'for fear your stockings should fall down when you're dancing,

hadn't you better let me paint a pair of garters on them?'"

The fellows laughed at the doctor's quaint conceit about the garters,

but Murphy called them back to the business of the election.

"What next?" he said, "public-houses and tally-rooms to have pipers and

fiddlers--ay--and we'll get up as good a march, too, as Scatterbrain,

with all his yeomanry band;--think a cartfull of fiddlers would have a

fine effect!"

"If we could only get a double-bass amongst them!" said Dick.

"Talking of double-basses," said the doctor, "did you ever hear the

story of the sailor in an admiral's ship, who, when some fine concert

was to be given on board----"

"Hang your concerts and stories!" said Murphy; "let us go on with the

election."

"Oh, the doctor's story!" cried Tom Durfy and Dick Dawson together.

"Well, sir," continued the doctor, "a sailor was handing in, over the

side, from a boat which bore the instruments from shore, a great lot of

fiddles. When some tenors came into his hand he said those were real

good-sized fiddles; and when a violoncello appeared, Jack, supposing it

was to be held between the hand and the shoulder, like a violin,

declared 'He must be a strapping chap that fiddle belonged to!' But

when the double-bass made its appearance, 'My eyes and limbs!' cried

Jack, 'I _would_ like to see the chap as plays that!!!'"

"Well, doctor, are you done?" cried Murphy; "for, if you are, now for

the election. You say, Dick, Major Dawson is to propose your

brother-in-law?"

"Yes."

"And he'll do it well, too; the Major makes a very good straightforward

speech."

"Yes," said Dick; "the old cock is not a bad hand at it. But I have a

suspicion he's going to make a greater oration than usual and read some

long rigmarolish old records."

"That will never do!" said Murphy, "as long as a man looks Pat _in_ the

face, and makes a good rattling speech 'out o' the face,' Pat will

listen to him; but when a lad takes to heavy readings, Pat grows tired.

We must persuade the Major to give up the reading."

"Persuade _my_ father!" cried Dick. "When did you ever hear of his

giving up his own opinion?"

"If he could be prevailed on even to shorten----" said Murphy.

"Oh, leave him to me," said Dick, laughing; "I'll take care he'll not

read a word."

"Manage that, Dick, and you're a jewel!"

"I will," said Dick. "I'll take the glasses out of his spectacles the

morning of the nomination, and then let him read, if he can."

"Capital, Dick; and now the next point of discussion is----"

"Supper, ready to come up, sir," said a servant, opening the door.

"Then, that's the best thing we could discuss, boys," said Murphy to

his friends--"so up with the supper, Dan. Up with the supper! Up with

the Egans! Down with the Scatterbrains--hurrah!--we'll beat them

gaily."

"Hollow!" said Durfy.

"Not hollow," said Dick; "we'll have a tussle for it."

"So much the better," cried Murphy; "I would not give a fig for an easy

victory--there's no fun in it. Give me the election that is like a

race--now one ahead, and then the other; the closeness calling out all

the energies of both parties--developing their tact and invention, and,

at last, the return secured by a large majority."

"But think of the glory of a large one," said Dick.

"Ay," added Durfy, "beside crushing the hope of a petition on the part

of your enemy to pull down the majority."

"But think of Murphy's enjoyment," said the doctor, "in defending the

seat, to say nothing of the bill of costs."

"You have me there, doctor," said Murphy; "a fair hit, I grant you; but

see, the supper is on the table. To it, my lads; to it! and then a

jolly glass to drink success to our friend Egan."

And glass after glass they did drink in all sorts and shapes of

well-wishing toasts; in short, to have seen the deep interest those men

took in the success of their friend, might have gladdened the heart of

a philanthropist; though there is no knowing what Father Mathew, had he

flourished in those times, might have said to their overflowing

benevolence.

CHAPTER XVIII

The morning of nomination which dawned on Neck-or-Nothing Hall saw a

motley group of O'Grady's retainers assembling in the stable-yard, and

the out-offices rang to laugh and joke over a rude but plentiful

breakfast--tea and coffee, there, had no place--but meat, potatoes,

milk, beer, and whisky were at the option of the body-guard, which was

selected for the honour of escorting the wild chief and his friend,

the candidate, into the town. Of this party was the yeomanry-band of

which Tom Durfy spoke, though, to say the truth, considering Tom's

apprehensions on the subject, it was of slender force. One trumpet, one

clarionet, a fife, a big drum, and a pair of cymbals, with a "_real_

nigger" to play them, were all they could muster.

After clearing off everything in the shape of breakfast, the

"musicianers" amused the retainers, from time to time, with a tune

on the clarionet, fife, or trumpet, while they waited the appearance of

the party from the house. Uproarious mirth and noisy joking rang round

the dwelling, to which none contributed more largely than the trumpeter,

who fancied himself an immensely clever fellow, and had a heap of

cut-and-dry jokes at his command, and practical drolleries in which he

indulged to the great entertainment of all, but of none more than Andy,

who was in the thick of the row, and in a divided ecstasy between the

"_blaky-moor's_" turban and cymbals and the trumpeter's jokes and music;

the latter articles having a certain resemblance, by-the-bye, to the

former in clumsiness and noise, and therefore suited to Andy's taste.

Whenever occasion offered, Andy got near the big drum, too, and gave it

a thump, delighted with the result of his ambitious achievement.

Andy was not lost on the trumpeter: "Arrah, maybe you'd like to have a

touch at these?" said the joker, holding up the cymbals.

"Is it hard to play them, sir?" inquired Andy.

"Hard!" said the trumpeter; "sure they're not hard at all--but as soft

and smooth as satin inside--just feel them--rub your fingers inside."

Andy obeyed; and his finger was chopped between the two brazen plates.

Andy roared, the bystanders laughed, and the trumpeter triumphed in his

wit. Sometimes he would come behind an unsuspecting boor, and give,

close to his ear, a discordant bray from his trumpet, like the note of a

jackass, which made _him_ jump, and the crowd roar with merriment; or,

perhaps, when the clarionet or the fife was engaged in giving the people

a tune, he would drown either, or both of them, in a wild yell of his

instrument. As they could not make reprisals upon him, he had his own

way in playing whatever he liked for his audience; and in doing so

indulged in all the airs of a great artist--pulling out one crook from

another--blowing through them softly, and shaking the moisture from them

in a tasty style--arranging them with a fastidious nicety--then, after

the final adjustment of the mouth-piece, lipping the instrument with an

affectation exquisitely grotesque; but before he began he always asked

for another drink.

"It's not for myself," he would say, "but for the thrumpet, the

crayther; the divil a note she can blow without a dhrop."

Then, taking a mug of drink, he would present it to the bell of the

trumpet, and afterwards transfer it to his own lips, always bowing to

the instrument first, and saying, "Your health, ma'am!"

This was another piece of delight to the mob, and Andy thought him the

funniest fellow he ever met, though he _did_ chop his finger.

"Faix, sir, an' it is dhry work, I'm sure, playing the thing."

"Dhry!" said the trumpeter, "'pon my ruffles and tuckers--and that's a

cambric oath--it's worse nor lime-burnin', so it is--it makes a man's

throat as parched as pays."

"Who dar says pays?" cried the drummer.

"Howld your prate!" said the trumpeter, elegantly, and silenced all

reply by playing a tune. As soon as it was ended, he turned to Andy and

asked for a cork.

Andy gave it to him.

The man of jokes affected to put it into the trumpet.

"What's that for, sir?" asked Andy.

"To bottle up the music," said the trumpeter--"sure all the music would

run about the place if I didn't do that."

Andy gave a vague sort of "ha, ha!" as if he were not quite sure whether

the trumpeter was in jest or earnest, and thought at the moment that to

play the trumpet and practical jokes must be the happiest life in the

world. Filled with this idea, Andy was on the watch how he could possess

himself of the trumpet, for could he get one blast on it, he would be

happy: a chance at last opened to him; after some time, the lively owner

of the treasure laid down his instrument to handle a handsome blackthorn

which one of the retainers was displaying, and he made some flourishes

with the weapon to show that music was not his only accomplishment. Andy

seized the opportunity and the trumpet, and made off to one of the sheds

where they had been regaling; and, shutting the door to secure himself

from observation, he put the trumpet to his mouth and distended his

cheeks near to bursting with the violence of his efforts to produce a

sound; but all his puffing was unavailing for some minutes. At last a

faint cracked squeak answered a more desperate blast than before, and

Andy was delighted. "Everything must have a beginning," thought Andy,

"and maybe I'll get a tune out of it yet." He tried again, and increased

in power; for a sort of strangled screech was the result. Andy was in

ecstasy, and began to indulge visions of being one day a trumpeter; he

strutted up and down the shed like the original he so envied, and

repeated some of the drolleries he heard him utter. He also imitated his

actions of giving a drink to the trumpet, and was more generous to the

instrument than the owner, for he really poured about half a pint of

beer down its throat: he then drank its health, and finished by

"bottling up the music," absolutely cramming a cork into the trumpet.

Now Andy, having no idea the trumpeter made a sham of the action, made a

vigorous plunge of a goodly cork into the throat of the instrument, and,

in so doing, the cork went further than he intended: he tried to

withdraw it, but his clumsy fingers, instead of extracting, only drove

it in deeper--he became alarmed--and, seizing a fork, strove with its

assistance to remedy the mischief he had done, but the more he poked,

the worse; and, in his fright, he thought the safest thing he could do

was to cram the cork out of sight altogether, and having soon done that,

he returned to the yard, and laid down the trumpet unobserved.

Immediately after, the procession to the town started. O'Grady gave

orders that the party should not be throwing away their powder and

shot, as he called it, in untimely huzzas and premature music. "Wait

till you come to the town, boys," said he, "and then you may smash away

as hard as you can; blow your heads off, and split the sky."

The party of Merryvale was in motion for the place of action about the

same time, and a merrier pack of rascals never was on the march.

Murphy, in accordance with his preconceived notion of a "fine effect,"

had literally "a cart full of fiddlers;" but the fiddlers hadn't it all

to themselves, for there was another cart full of pipers; and, by way

of mockery to the grandeur of Scatterbrain's band, he had four or five

boys with gridirons, which they played upon with pokers, and half a

dozen strapping fellows carrying large iron tea-trays, which they

whopped after the manner of a Chinese gong.

It so happened that the two roads from Merryvale and Neck-or-Nothing

Hall met at an acute angle, at the same end of the town, and it chanced

that the rival candidates and their retinues arrived at this point

about the same time.

"There they are!" said Murphy, who presided in the cart full of fiddlers

like a leader in an orchestra, with a shillelah for his _baton_, which

he flourished over his head as he shouted, "Now give it to them, your

sowls!--rasp and lilt away, boys!--slate the gridirons, Mike!--smaddher

the tay-tray, Tom!"

The uproar of strange sounds that followed, shouting included, may be

easier imagined than described; and O'Grady, answering the war-cry, sung

out to his band--"What are you at, you lazy rascals?--don't you hear

_them_ blackguards beginning?--fire away, and be hanged to you!" His

rascals shouted, bang went the drum, and clang went the cymbals, the

clarionet squeaked, and the fife tootled, but the trumpet--ah!--the

trumpet--their great reliance--where was the trumpet? O'Grady inquired

in the precise words, with a diabolical addition of his own. "Where the

d---- is the trumpet?" said he; he looked over the side of the carriage

as he spoke, and saw the trumpeter spitting out a mouthful of beer which

had run from the instrument as he lifted it to his mouth.

"Bad luck to you, what are you wasting your time there for?" thundered

O'Grady in a rage; "why didn't you spit out when you were young, and

you'd be a clean old man? Blow and be d---- to you!"

The trumpeter filled his lungs for a great blast, and put the trumpet to

his lips--but in vain; Andy had bottled his music for him. O'Grady,

seeing the inflated cheeks and protruding eyes of the musician, whose

visage was crimson with exertion, and yet no sound produced, thought the

fellow was practising one of his jokes upon him, and became excessively

indignant; he thundered anathemas at him, but his voice was drowned in

the din of the drum and cymbals, which were plied so vigorously, that

the clarionet and fife shared the same fate as O'Grady's voice. The

trumpeter could judge of O'Grady's rage from the fierceness of his

actions only, and answered him in pantomimic expression, holding up his

trumpet and pointing into the bell, with a grin of vexation on his phiz,

meant to express something was wrong; but this was all mistaken by the

fierce O'Grady, who only saw in the trumpeter's grins the insolent

intention of jibing him.

"Blow, you blackguard, blow!" shouted the Squire. Bang went the drum.

"Blow--or I'll break your neck!" Crash went the cymbals.

"Stop your banging there, you ruffians, and let me be heard!" roared

the excited man; but as he was standing up on the seat of the carriage,

and flung his arms about wildly as he spoke, the drummer thought his

action was meant to stimulate him to further exertion, and he banged

away louder than before.

"By the hokey, I'll murder some o' ye!" shouted the Squire, who,

ordering the carriage to pull up, flung open the door and jumped out,

made a rush at the drummer, seized his principal drumstick, and giving

him a bang over the head with it, cursed him for a rascal for not

stopping when he told him; this silenced all the instruments together,

and O'Grady, seizing the trumpeter by the back of the neck, shook him

violently, while he denounced with fierce imprecations his insolence in

daring to practise a joke on him. The trumpeter protested his innocence,

and O'Grady called him a lying rascal, finishing his abuse by clenching

his fist in a menacing attitude, and telling him to play.

"I can't, yer honour!"

"You lie, you scoundrel."

"There's something in the trumpet, sir."

"Yes, there's music in it; and if you don't blow it out of it----"

"I can't blow it out of it, sir."

"Hold your prate, you ruffian; blow this minute."

"Arrah, thry it yourself, sir," said the frightened man, handing the

instrument to the Squire.

"D----n your impudence, you rascal; do you think I'd blow anything that

was in your dirty mouth? Blow, I tell you, or it will be worse for

you."

"By the vartue o' my oath, your honour----"

"Blow, I tell you!"

"By the seven blessed candles----"

"Blow, I tell you!"

"The trumpet is choked, sir."

"There will be a trumpeter choked, soon," said O'Grady, gripping him by

the neck-handkerchief, with his knuckles ready to twist into his throat.

"By this and that I'll strangle you, if you don't play this minute, you

humbugger."

"By the Blessed Virgin, I'm not humbiggin' your honour," stammered the

trumpeter with the little breath O'Grady left him.

Scatterbrain, seeing O'Grady's fury, and fearful of its consequences,

had alighted from the carriage and came to the rescue, suggesting to

the infuriated Squire that what the man said might be true. O'Grady

said he knew better, that the blackguard was a notorious joker, and

having indulged in a jest in the first instance, was now only lying to

save himself from punishment; furthermore, swearing that if he did not

play that minute he'd throw him into the ditch.

With great difficulty O'Grady was prevailed upon to give up the gripe

of the trumpeter's throat; and the poor breathless wretch, handing the

instrument to the clarionet-player, appealed to him if it were possible

to play on it. The clarionet-player said he could not tell, for he did

not understand the trumpet.

"You see there!" cried O'Grady. "You see he's humbugging, and the

clarionet-player is an honest man."