women's apartments, followed by lamentable wailings. He made but one
bound to the door. It resisted, but his despair was strong. He rushed
against it with a force, that burst it from its hinges, and precipitated
him into the midst of the chamber. It was empty and dark; so was the
next, and the next. At last he reached the inner and most sacred
apartment. He beheld the lifeless form of Amra extended on the ground.
Over her face was thrown an embroidered veil: her head rested on the lap
of her nurse, whose features appeared rigid with horror. The rest of the
women, who were weeping and wailing, covered their heads, and fled at
his approach. Faizi called upon the name of her he loved: he snatched
the veil from that once lovely face--that face which had never been
revealed to him but in tender and soul-beaming beauty. He looked, and
fell senseless on the floor.
The unhappy Amra, in recovering from her long swoon, had fallen into
a stupor, which her attendants mistook for slumber, and left her for a
short interval. She awoke, wretched girl! alone, she awoke to the sudden
and maddening sense of her lost state, to all the pangs of outraged
love, violated faith, shame, anguish, and despair. In a paroxysm of
delirium, when none were near to soothe or to save, she had made her own
luxuriant and beautiful tresses the instrument of her destruction, and
choked herself by swallowing her hair.
When the emissaries of the sultan entered this house of desolation, they
found Faizi still insensible at the side of her he had so loved. He was
borne away before recollection returned, placed in the litter which had
been prepared for Amra, and earned to Ferrukabad, where the sultan was
then hunting with his whole court. What became of the old Brahman is
not known. He passed away like a shadow from the earth, "and his place
knew him not." Whether he sought a voluntary death, or wore away his
remaining years in secret penance, can only be conjectured, for all
search was vain.
Eastern records tell, that Faizi kept his promise sacred, and never
revealed the mysteries intrusted to him. Yet he retained the favour of
Akbar, by whose command he translated from the Sanscrit tongue several
poetical and historical works into the choicest Persian. He became himself
an illustrious poet; and, like other poets of greater fame, created
"an immortality of his tears." He acquired the title of _Sheich_, or
"the learned," and rose to the highest civil offices of the empire. All
outward renown, prosperity, and fame, were his; but there was, at least,
retributive justice in his early and tragical death.
Towards the conclusion of Akbar's reign, Abul Fazil was sent upon a
secret mission into the Deccan, and Faizi accompanied him. The favour
which these celebrated brothers enjoyed at court, their influence over
the mind of the sultan, and their entire union, had long excited the
jealousy of Prince Selim,[25] the eldest son of Akbar, and he had vowed
their destruction. On their return from the south, with a small escort,
they were attacked by a numerous band of assassins, disguised as robbers,
and both perished. Faizi was found lying upon the body of Abul Fazil,
whom he had bravely defended to the last. The death of these illustrious
brothers was lamented, not only within the bounds of the empire, but
through all the kingdoms of the East, whither their fame had extended;
and by the sultan's command they were interred together, and with
extraordinary pomp. One incident only remains to be added. When the
bodies were stripped for burial, there was found within the inner vest
of the Sheich Faizi, and close to his heart, a withered Lotus leaf
inscribed with certain characters. So great was the fame of the dead for
wisdom, learning, and devotion, that it was supposed to be a talisman
endued with extraordinary virtues, and immediately transmitted to the
sultan. Akbar considered the relic with surprise. It was nothing but
a simple Lotus leaf, faded, shrivelled, and stained with blood; but on
examining it more closely, he could trace, in ill-formed and scarcely
legible Indian letters, the word AMRA.
And when Akbar looked upon this tender memorial of a hapless love, and
undying sorrow, his great heart melted within him, and he wept.
HALLORAN THE PEDLAR.[26]
"It grieves me," said an eminent poet once to me, "it grieves and
humbles me to reflect how much our moral nature is in the power of
circumstances. Our best faculties would remain unknown even to ourselves
did not the influences of external excitement call them forth like
animalculae, which lie torpid till awakened into life by the transient
sunbeam."
This is generally true. How many walk through the beaten paths of
every-day life, who but for the novelist's page would never weep or
wonder; and who would know nothing of the passions but as they are
represented in some tragedy or stage piece? not that they are incapable
of high resolve and energy; but because the finer qualities have never
been called forth by imperious circumstances; for while the wheels of
existence roll smoothly along, the soul will continue to slumber in her
vehicle like a lazy traveller. But for the French revolution, how many
hundreds--_thousands_--whose courage, fortitude, and devotedness have
sanctified their names, would have frittered away a frivolous, useless,
or vicious life in the saloons of Paris! We have heard of death in its
most revolting forms braved by delicate females, who would have screamed
at the sight of the most insignificant reptile or insect; and men
cheerfully toiling at mechanic trades for bread, who had lounged away
the best years of their lives at the toilettes of their mistresses. We
know not of what we are capable till the trial comes;--till it comes,
perhaps, in a form which makes the strong man quail, and turns the
gentler woman into a heroine.
The power of outward circumstances suddenly to awaken dormant
faculties--the extraordinary influence which the mere instinct of
self-preservation can exert over the mind, and the triumph of mind thus
excited over physical weakness, were never more truly exemplified than
in the story of HALLORAN THE PEDLAR.
The real circumstances of this singular case, differing essentially from
the garbled and incorrect account which appeared in the newspapers some
years ago, came to my knowledge in the following simple manner. My
cousin George C * * *, an Irish barrister of some standing, lately
succeeded to his family estates by the death of a near relative; and no
sooner did he find himself in possession of independence than, abjuring
the bar, where, after twenty years of hard struggling, he was just
beginning to make a figure, he set off on a tour through Italy and
Greece, to forget the wrangling of courts, the contumely of attornies,
and the impatience of clients. He left in my hands a mass of papers,
to burn or not, as I might feel inclined: and truly the contents of
his desk were no bad illustration of the character and pursuits of
its owner. Here I found abstracts of cases, and on their backs copies
of verses, sketches of scenery, and numerous caricatures of judges,
jurymen, witnesses, and his brethren of the bar--a bundle of old briefs,
and the beginnings of two tragedies; with a long list of Lord N----'s
best jokes to serve his purposes as occasion might best offer. Among
these heterogeneous and confused articles were a number of scraps
carefully pinned together, containing notes on a certain trial, the first
in which he had been retained as counsel for the crown. The intense
interest with which I perused these documents, suggested the plan of
throwing the whole into a connected form, and here it is for the
reader's benefit.
In a little village to the south of Clonmell lived a poor peasant named
Michael, or as it was there pronounced Mickle Reilly. He was a labourer
renting a cabin and a plot of potatoe-ground; and, on the strength
of these possessions, a robust frame which feared no fatigue, and a
sanguine mind which dreaded no reverse, Reilly paid his addresses to
Cathleen Bray, a young girl of his own parish, and they were married.
Reilly was able, skilful, and industrious; Cathleen was the best spinner
in the county, and had constant sale for her work at Clonmell: they
wanted nothing; and for the first year, as Cathleen said, "There wasn't
upon the blessed earth two happier souls than themselves, for Mick was
the best boy in the world, and hadn't a fault to _spake_ of--barring
he took a drop now and then; an' why wouldn't he?" But as it happened,
poor Reilly's love of "_the drop_" was the beginning of all their
misfortunes. In an evil hour he went to the Fair of Clonmell to sell a
dozen hanks of yarn of his wife's spinning, and a fat pig, the produce
of which was to pay half a year's rent, and add to their little
comforts. Here he met with a jovial companion, who took him into a
booth, and treated him to sundry potations of whiskey; and while in his
company his pocket was picked of the money he had just received, and
something more; in short, of all he possessed in the world. At that
luckless moment, while maddened by his loss and heated with liquor, he
fell into the company of a recruiting serjeant. The many-coloured and
gaily fluttering cockade in the soldier's cap shone like a rainbow of
hope and promise before the drunken eyes of Mickle Reilly, and ere
morning he was enlisted into a regiment under orders for embarkation,
and instantly sent off to Cork.
Distracted by the ruin he had brought upon himself, and his wife,
(whom he loved a thousand times better than himself,) poor Reilly sent a
friend to inform Cathleen of his mischance, and to assure her that on a
certain day, in a week from that time, a letter would await her at the
Clonmell post-office: the same friend was commissioned to deliver her
his silver watch, and a guinea out of his bounty-money. Poor Cathleen
turned from the gold with horror, as the price of her husband's blood,
and vowed that nothing on earth should induce her to touch it. She
was not a good calculator of time and distance, and therefore rather
surprised that so long a time must elapse before his letter arrived.
On the appointed day she was too impatient to wait the arrival of the
carrier, but set off to Clonmell herself, a distance of ten miles: there,
at the post-office, she duly found the promised letter; but it was not
till she had it in her possession that she remembered she could not
read: she had therefore to hasten back to consult her friend Nancy, the
schoolmaster's daughter, and the best scholar in the village. Reilly's
letter, on being deciphered with some difficulty even by the learned
Nancy, was found to contain much of sorrow, much of repentance, and yet
more of affection: he assured her that he was far better off than he had
expected or deserved; that the embarkation of the regiment to which he
belonged was delayed for three weeks, and entreated her, if she could
forgive him, to follow him to Cork without delay, that they might "part
in love and kindness, and then come what might, he would demane himself
like a man, and die asy," which he assured her he could not do without
embracing her once more.
Cathleen listened to her husband's letter with clasped hands and drawn
breath, but quiet in her nature, she gave no other signs of emotion than
a few large tears which trickled slowly down her cheeks. "And will I
see him again?" she exclaimed; "poor fellow! poor boy! I knew the heart
of him was sore for me! and who knows, Nancy dear, but they'll let me
go out with him to the foreign parts? Oh! sure they wouldn't be so
hard-hearted as to part man and wife that way!"
After a hurried consultation with her neighbours, who sympathised with
her as only the poor sympathise with the poor, a letter was indited by
Nancy and sent by the carrier that night, to inform her husband that she
purposed setting off for Cork the next blessed morning, being Tuesday,
and as the distance was about forty-eight miles English, she reckoned
on reaching that city by Wednesday afternoon; for as she had walked to
Clonmell and back (about twenty miles) that same day, without feeling
fatigued at all, "_to signify_," Cathleen thought there would be no
doubt that she could walk to Cork in less than two days. In this
sanguine calculation she was, however, overruled by her more experienced
neighbours, and by their advice appointed Thursday as the day on which
her husband was to expect her, "God willing."
Cathleen spent the rest of the day in making preparations for her
journey: she set her cabin in order, and made a small bundle of a few
articles of clothing belonging to herself and her husband. The watch and
the guinea she wrapped up together, and crammed into the toe of an old
shoe, which she deposited in the said bundle, and the next morning, at
"sparrow chirp," she arose, locked her cabin door, carefully hid the
key in the thatch, and with a light expecting heart commenced her long
journey.
It is worthy of remark, that this poor woman, who was called upon to
play the heroine in such a strange tragedy, and under such appalling
circumstances, had nothing heroic in her exterior: nothing that in
the slightest degree indicated strength of nerve or superiority of
intellect. Cathleen was twenty-three years of age, of a low stature, and
in her form rather delicate than robust: she was of ordinary appearance;
her eyes were mild and dove-like, and her whole countenance, though not
absolutely deficient in intelligence, was more particularly expressive
of simplicity, good temper, and kindness of heart.
It was summer, about the end of June: the days were long, the weather
fine, and some gentle showers rendered travelling easy and pleasant.
Cathleen walked on stoutly towards Cork, and by the evening she had
accomplished, with occasional pauses of rest, nearly twenty-one miles.
She lodged at a little inn by the road side, and the following day set
forward again, but soon felt stiff with the travel of two previous days:
the sun became hotter, the ways dustier; and she could not with all
her endeavours get farther than Rathcormuck, eighteen miles from Cork.
The next day, unfortunately for poor Cathleen, proved hotter and more
fatiguing than the preceding. The cross road lay over a wild country,
consisting of low bogs and bare hills. About noon she turned aside to
a rivulet bordered by a few trees, and sitting down in the shade, she
bathed her swollen feet in the stream: then overcome by heat, weakness,
and excessive weariness, she put her little bundle under her head for
a pillow, and sank into a deep sleep.
On waking she perceived with dismay that the sun was declining: and
on looking about, her fears were increased by the discovery that her
bundle was gone. Her first thought was that the good people, (i. e.
_the fairies_) had been there and stolen it away; but on examining
farther she plainly perceived large foot-prints in the soft bank,
and was convinced it was the work of no unearthly marauder. Bitterly
reproaching herself for her carelessness, she again set forward; and
still hoping to reach Cork that night, she toiled on and on with
increasing difficulty and distress, till as the evening closed her
spirits failed, she became faint, foot-sore and hungry, not having
tasted any thing since the morning but a cold potatoe and a draught
of buttermilk. She then looked round her in hopes of discovering
some habitation, but there was none in sight except a lofty castle
on a distant hill, which raising its proud turrets from amidst the
plantations which surrounded it, glimmered faintly through the gathering
gloom, and held out no temptation for the poor wanderer to turn in there
and rest. In her despair she sat her down on a bank by the road side,
and wept as she thought of her husband.
Several horsemen rode by, and one carriage and four attended by
servants, who took no farther notice of her than by a passing look;
while they went on their way like the priest and the Levite in the
parable, poor Cathleen dropped her head despairingly on her bosom.
A faintness and torpor seemed to be stealing like a dark cloud over
her senses, when the fast approaching sound of footsteps roused her
attention, and turning, she saw at her side a man whose figure, too
singular to be easily forgotten, she recognized immediately: it was
Halloran the Pedlar.
Halloran had been known for thirty years past in all the towns and
villages between Waterford and Kerry. He was very old, he himself did
not know his own age; he only remembered that he was a "tall slip of a
boy" when he was one of the ---- regiment of foot, and fought in America
in 1778. His dress was strange, it consisted of a woollen cap, beneath
which strayed a few white hairs, this was surmounted by an old military
cocked hat, adorned with a few fragments of tarnished gold lace; a frieze
great coat with the sleeves dangling behind, was fastened at his throat,
and served to protect his box of wares which was slung at his back; and
he always carried a thick oak stick or _kippeen_ in his hand. There was
nothing of the infirmity of age in his appearance: his cheek, though
wrinkled and weather-beaten, was still ruddy: his step still firm, his
eyes still bright: his jovial disposition made him a welcome guest in
every cottage, and his jokes, though not equal to my Lord Norbury's,
were repeated and applauded through the whole country. Halloran was
returning from the fair of Kilkenny, where apparently his commercial
speculations had been attended with success, as his pack was considerably
diminished in size. Though he did not appear to recollect Cathleen, he
addressed her in Irish, and asked her what she did there: she related
in a few words her miserable situation.
"In troth, then, my heart is sorry for ye, poor woman," he replied,
compassionately; "and what will ye do?"
"An' what _can_ I do?" replied Cathleen, disconsolately; "and how will
I even find the ford and get across to Cork, when I don't know where
I am this blessed moment?"
"Musha, then, it's little ye'll get there this night," said the pedlar,
shaking his head.
"Then I'll lie down here and die," said Cathleen, bursting into fresh
tears.
"Die! ye wouldn't!" he exclaimed, approaching nearer; "is it to me,
Peter Halloran, ye spake that word; and am I the man that would lave a
faymale at this dark hour by the way-side, let alone one that has the
face of a friend, though I cannot remember me of your name either, for
the soul of me. But what matter for that?"
"Sure, I'm Katty Reilly, of Castle Conn."
"Katty Reilly, sure enough! and so no more talk of dying; cheer up, and
see, a mile farther on, isn't there Biddy Hogan's? _Was_, I mane, if
the house and all isn't gone: and it's there we'll get a bite and a
sup, and a bed, too, please God. So lean upon my arm, ma vourneen, it's
strong enough yet."
So saying, the old man, with an air of gallantry, half rustic, half
military, assisted her in rising; and supporting her on one arm, with
the other he flourished his kippeen over his head, and they trudged on
together, he singing Cruiskeen-lawn at the top of his voice, "just,"
as he said, "to put the heart into her."
After about half an hour's walking, they came to two crossways,
diverging from the high road: down one of these the pedlar turned, and
in a few minutes they came in sight of a lonely house, situated at a
little distance from the way-side. Above the door was a long stick
projecting from the wall, at the end of which dangled a truss of straw,
signifying that within there was entertainment (good or bad) for man
and beast. By this time it was nearly dark, and the pedlar going up
to the door, lifted the latch, expecting it to yield to his hand; but
it was fastened within: he then knocked and called, but there was no
answer. The building, which was many times larger than an ordinary
cabin, had once been a manufactory, and afterwards a farm-house. One end
of it was deserted, and nearly in ruins; the other end bore signs of
having been at least recently inhabited. But such a dull hollow echo
rung through the edifice at every knock, that it seemed the whole place
was now deserted.
Cathleen began to be alarmed, and crossed herself, ejaculating, "O God
preserve us!" But the pedlar, who appeared well acquainted with the
premises, led her round to the back part of the house, where there were
some ruined out-buildings, and another low entrance. Here, raising his
stout stick, he let fall such a heavy thump on the door that it cracked
again; and a shrill voice from the other side demanded who was there?
After a satisfactory answer, the door was slowly and cautiously opened,
and the figure of a wrinkled, half-famished, and half-naked beldam
appeared, shading a rush candle with one hand. Halloran, who was of a
fiery and hasty temper, began angrily: "Why, then, in the name of the
great devil himself, didn't you open to us?" But he stopped suddenly,
as if struck with surprise at the miserable object before him.
"Is it Biddy Hogan herself, I see!" he exclaimed, snatching the candle
from her hand, and throwing the light full on her face. A moment's
scrutiny seemed enough, and too much; for, giving it back hastily, he
supported Cathleen into the kitchen, the old woman leading the way, and
placed her on an old settle, the first seat which presented itself. When
she was sufficiently recovered to look about her, Cathleen could not
help feeling some alarm at finding herself in so gloomy and dreary a
place. It had once been a large kitchen, or hall: at one end was an
ample chimney, such as are yet to be seen in some old country houses.
The rafters were black with smoke or rottenness: the walls had been
wainscoted with oak, but the greatest part had been torn down for
firing. A table with three legs, a large stool, a bench in the chimney
propped up with turf sods, and the seat Cathleen occupied, formed the
only furniture. Every thing spoke utter misery, filth, and famine--the
very "abomination of desolation."
"And what have ye in the house, Biddy, honey?" was the pedlar's first
question, as the old woman set down the light. "Little enough, I'm
thinking."
"Little! It's nothing, then--no, not so much as a midge would eat have
I in the house this blessed night, and nobody to send down to Balgowna."
"No need of that, as our good luck would have it," said Halloran, and
pulling a wallet from under his loose coat, he drew from it a bone of
cold meat, a piece of bacon, a lump of bread, and some cold potatoes.
The old woman, roused by the sight of so much good cheer, began to blow
up the dying embers on the hearth; put down among them the few potatoes
to warm, and busied herself in making some little preparations to
entertain her guests. Meantime the old pedlar, casting from time to time
an anxious glance towards Cathleen, and now and then an encouraging
word, sat down on the low stool, resting his arms on his knees.
"Times are sadly changed with ye, Biddy Hogan," said he at length, after
a long silence.
"Troth, ye may say so," she replied, with a sort of groan. "Bitter bad
luck have we had in this world, any how."
"And where's the man of the house? And where's the lad, Barny?"
"Where are they, is it? Where should they be? may be gone down to
Ahnamoe."
"But what's come of Barny? The boy was a stout workman, and a good
son, though a devil-may-care fellow, too. I remember teaching him the
soldier's exercise with this very blessed stick now in my hand; and by
the same token, him doubling his fist at me when he wasn't bigger than
the turf-kish yonder; aye, and as long as Barny Hogan could turn a sod
of turf on my lord's land, I thought his father and mother would never
have wanted the bit and sup while the life was in him."
At the mention of her son, the old woman looked up a moment, but
immediately hung her head again.
"Barny doesn't work for my lord now," said she.
"And what for, then?"
The old woman seemed reluctant to answer--she hesitated.
"Ye didn't hear, then, how he got into trouble with my lord; and
how--myself doesn't know the rights of it--but Barny had always a bit of
wild blood about him; and since that day he's taken to bad ways, and the
ould man's ruled by him quite entirely; and the one's glum and fierce
like--and t'other's bothered; and, oh! bitter's the time I have 'twixt
'em both!"
While the old woman was uttering these broken complaints, she placed the
eatables on the table; and Cathleen, who was yet more faint from hunger
than subdued by fatigue, was first helped by the good-natured pedlar to
the best of what was there: but, just as she was about to taste the food
set before her, she chanced to see the eyes of the old woman fixed upon
the morsel in her hand with such an envious and famished look, that from
a sudden impulse of benevolent feeling, she instantly held it out to
her. The woman started, drew back her extended hand, and gazed at her
wildly.