The workshops of Neck-or-Nothing Hall rang with the sounds of occupation
for two days after the demise of its former master. The hoarse grating
sound of the saw, the whistling of the plane, and the stroke of the
mallet denoted the presence of the carpenter; and the sharper clink of
a hammer told of old Fogy, the family “milliner,” being at work; but
it was not on millinery Fogy was now employed, though neither was it
legitimate tinker's work. He was scrolling out with his shears, and
beating into form, a plate of tin, to serve for the shield on O'Grady's
coffin, which was to record his name, age, and day of departure; and
this was the second plate on which the old man worked, for one was
already finished in the corner. Why are there two coffin-plates? Enter
the carpenter's shop, and you will see the answer in two coffins the
carpenter has nearly completed. But why two coffins for one death?
Listen, reader, to a bit of Irish strategy.
It has been stated that an apprehension was entertained of a seizure of
the inanimate body of O'Grady for the debts it had contracted in life,
and the harpy nature of the money-lender from whom this movement was
dreaded warranted the fear. Had O'Grady been popular, such a measure on
the part of a cruel creditor might have been defied, as the surrounding
peasantry would have risen _en masse_ to prevent it; but the hostile
position in which he had placed himself towards the people alienated the
natural affection they are born with for their chiefs, and any partial
defence the few fierce retainers whom individual interest had attached
to him could have made might have been insufficient; therefore, to save
his father's remains from the pollution (as the son considered) of a
bailiff's touch, Gustavus determined to achieve by stratagem what he
could not accomplish by force, and had two coffins constructed, the one
to be filled with stones and straw, and sent out by the front entrance
with all the demonstration of a real funeral, and be given up to the
attack it was feared would be made upon it while the other, put to its
legitimate use, should be placed on a raft, and floated down the river
to an ancient burial-ground which lay some miles below on the opposite
bank. A facility for this was afforded by a branch of the river running
up into the domain, as it will be remembered; and the scene of the
bearish freaks played upon Furlong was to witness a trick of a more
serious nature.
While all these preparations were going forward, the “waking” was kept
up in all the barbarous style of old times; eating and drinking in
profusion went on in the house, and the kitchen of the hall rang with
joviality. The feats of sports and arms of the man who had passed
away were lauded, and his comparative achievements with those of
his progenitors gave rise to many a stirring anecdote; and bursts of
barbarous exultation, or more barbarous merriment, rang in the house
of death. There was no lack of whisky to fire the brains of these
revellers, for the standard of the measurement of family grandeur was,
too often, a liquid one in Ireland, even so recently as the time we
speak of; and the dozens of wine wasted during the life it helped to
shorten, and the posthumous gallons consumed in toasting to the memory
of the departed, were among the cherished remembrances of hereditary
honour. “There were two hogsheads of whisky drank at my father's wake!”
was but a moderate boast of a true Irish squire, fifty years ago.
And now the last night of the wake approached, and the retainers
thronged to honour the obsequies of their departed chief with an
increased enthusiasm, which rose in proportion as the whisky got low;
and songs in praise of their present occupation--that is, getting
drunk--rang merrily round, and the sports of the field and the sorrows
and joys of love resounded; in short, the ruling passions of life
figured in rhyme and music in honour of this occasion of death--and as
death is the maker of widows, a very animated discussion on the subject
of widowhood arose, which afforded great scope for the rustic wits, and
was crowned by the song of “Widow Machree” being universally called for
by the company; and a fine-looking fellow with a merry eye and large
white teeth, which he amply displayed by a wide mouth, poured forth in
cheery tones a pretty lively air which suited well the humorous spirit
of the words:--
WIDOW MACHREE
“Widow _machree_, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree:
'Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown,
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your hair,
With that close cap you wear--
'Tis destroying your hair
Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! widow machree.
“Widow machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone! widow machree;
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum!
Och hone! widow machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares--
Why even the bears
Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone! widow machree.
“Widow machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! widow machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree,
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kittle sings songs
Full of family glee,
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit _you_ sup--
Och hone! widow machree.
“And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! widow machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld,
Och hone! widow machree.
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, 'Och hone! widow machree.'
“Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree,
And with my advice, 'faith I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree.
You'd have me to desire
Then to sit by the fire;
And sure hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree.”
The singer was honoured with a round of applause, and his challenge for
another lay was readily answered, and mirth and music filled the night
and ushered in the dawn of the day which was to witness the melancholy
sight of the master of an ample mansion being made the tenant of the
“narrow house.”
In the evening of that day, however, the wail rose loud and long; the
mirth which “the waking” permits had passed away, and the _ulican_, or
funeral cry, told that the lifeless chief was being borne from his hall.
That wild cry was heard even by the party who were waiting to make their
horrid seizure, and for _that_ party the stone-laden coffin was sent
with a retinue of mourners through the old iron gate of the principal
entrance, while the mortal remains were borne by a smaller party to the
river inlet and placed on the raft. Half an hour had witnessed a sham
fight on the part of O'Grady's people with the bailiffs and their
followers, who made the seizure they intended, and locked up their prize
in an old barn to which it had been conveyed, until some engagement on
the part of the heir should liberate it; while the aforesaid heir, as
soon as the shadows of evening had shrouded the river in obscurity,
conveyed the remains, which the myrmidons of the law fancied they
possessed, to its quiet and lonely resting-place. The raft was taken
in tow by a boat carrying two of the boys, and pulled by four lusty
retainers of the departed chief, while Gustavus himself stood on the
raft, astride over the coffin, and with an eel-spear, which had afforded
him many a day's sport, performed the melancholy task of guiding it.
It was a strangely painful yet beautiful sight to behold the graceful
figure of the fine boy engaged in this last sad duty; with dexterous
energy he plied his spear, now on this side and now on that, directing
the course of the raft, or clearing it from the flaggers which
interrupted its passage through the narrow inlet. This duty he had to
attend to for some time, even after leaving the little inlet; for the
river was much overgrown with flaggers at this point, and the increasing
darkness made the task more difficult.
In the midst of all this action not one word was spoken, even the sturdy
boatmen were mute, and the fall of the oar in the rowlock, the plash of
the water, and the crushing sound of the yielding rushes as the “watery
bier” made its way through them were the only sounds which broke the
silence. Still Gustavus betrayed no emotion; but by the time they
reached the open stream, and that his personal exertion was no longer
required, a change came over him. It was night,--the measured beat of
the oars sounded like a knell to him--there was darkness above him and
death below, and he sank down upon the coffin, and plunging his face
passionately between his hands, he wept bitterly. Sad were the thoughts
that oppressed the brain and wrung the heart of the high-spirited
boy. He felt that his dead father was _escaping_, as it were, to
the grave,--that even death did not terminate the consequences of an
ill-spent life. He felt like a thief in the night, even in the execution
of his own stratagem, and the bitter thoughts of that sad and solemn
time wrought a potent spell over after-years; that one hour of misery
and disgrace influenced the entire of a future life.
On a small hill overhanging the river was the ruin of an ancient early
temple of Christianity, and to its surrounding burial-ground a few of
the retainers had been despatched to prepare a grave. They were engaged
in this task by the light of a torch made of bog-pine, when the flicker
of the flame attracted the eye of a horseman who was riding slowly along
the neighbouring road. Wondering what could be the cause of light
in such a place, he leaped the adjoining fence and rode up to the
grave-yard.
“What are you doing here?” he said to the labourers. They paused and
looked up, and the flash of the torch fell upon the features of
Edward O'Connor. “We're finishing your work,” said one of the men with
malicious earnestness.
“My work?” repeated Edward.
“Yes,” returned the man, more sternly than before--“this is the grave of
O'Grady.”
The words went like an ice-bolt through Edward's heart, and even by the
torchlight the tormentor could see his victim grew livid.
The fellow who wounded so deeply one so generally beloved as Edward
O'Connor was a thorough ruffian. His answer to Edward's query sprang not
from love of O'Grady, nor abhorrence of taking human life, but from the
opportunity of retort which the occasion offered upon one who had once
checked him in an act of brutality.
Yet Edward O'Connor could not reply--it was a home thrust. The death
of O'Grady had weighed heavily upon him; for though O'Grady's wound
had been given in honourable combat, provoked by his own fury, and not
producing immediate death; though that death had supervened upon the
subsequent intractability of the patient; yet the fact that O'Grady had
never been “up and doing” since the duel tended to give the impression
that his wound was the remote if not the immediate cause of his death,
and this circumstance weighed heavily on Edward's spirits. His friends
told him he felt over keenly upon the subject, and that no one but
himself could entertain a question of _his_ total innocence of O'Grady's
death; but when from the lips of a common peasant he got the answer
he did, and _that_ beside the grave of his adversary, it will not be
wondered at that he reeled in his saddle. A cold shivering sickness
came over him, and to avoid falling he alighted and leaned for support
against his horse, which stooped, when freed from the restraint of the
rein, to browse on the rank verdure; and for a moment Edward envied the
unconsciousness of the animal against which he leaned. He pressed his
forehead against the saddle, and from the depth of a bleeding heart came
up an agonised exclamation.
A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder as he spoke, and, turning round,
he beheld Mr. Bermingham.
“What brings you here?” said the clergyman.
“Accident,” answered Edward. “But why should I say accident?--it is by a
higher authority and a better--it is the will of Heaven. It is meant as
a bitter lesson to human pride: we make for ourselves laws of _honour_,
and forget the laws of God!”
“Be calm, my young friend,” said the worthy pastor; “I cannot wonder you
feel deeply--but command yourself.” He pressed Edward's hand as he spoke
and left him, for he knew that an agony so keen is not benefited by
companionship.
Mr. Bermingham was there by appointment to perform the burial service,
and he had not left Edward's side many minutes when a long wild whistle
from the waters announced the arrival of the boat and raft, and the
retainers ran down to the river, leaving the pine-torch stuck in the
upturned earth, waving its warm blaze over the cold grave. During
the interval which ensued between the departure of the men and their
reappearance, bearing the body to its last resting-place, Mr. Bermingham
spoke with Edward O'Connor, and soothed him into a more tranquil
bearing. When the coffin came within view he advanced to meet it, and
began the sublime burial-service, which he repeated most impressively.
When it was over, the men commenced filling up the grave. As the clods
fell upon the coffin, they smote the hearts of the dead man's children;
yet the boys stood upon the verge of the grave as long as a vestige
of the tenement of their lost father could be seen; but as soon as the
coffin was hidden, they withdrew from the brink, and the younger boys,
each taking hold of the hand of the eldest, seemed to imply the need
of mutual dependence:--as if death had drawn closer the bond of
brotherhood.
There was no sincerer mourner at that place than Edward O'Connor, who
stood aloof, in respect for the feelings of the children of the departed
man, till the grave was quite filled up, and all were about to leave the
spot; but then his feelings overmastered him, and, impelled by a torrent
of contending emotions, he rushed forward, and throwing himself on his
knees before Gustavus, he held up his hands imploringly, and sobbed
forth, “Forgive me!”
The astonished boy drew back.
“Oh, forgive me!” repeated Edward--“I could not help it--it was forced
on me--it was--”
As he struggled for utterance, even the rough retainers were touched,
and one of them exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. O'Connor, it was a fair fight!”
“There!” exclaimed Edward--“you hear it! Oh, give me your hand in
forgiveness!”
“I forgive you,” said the boy, “but do not ask me to give you my hand
to-night.”
“You are right” said Edward, springing to his feet--“you are right--you
are a noble fellow; and now, remember my parting words, Gustavus:--Here,
by the side of your father's grave, I pledge you my soul that through
life and till death, in all extremity, Edward O'Connor is your sworn and
trusty friend.”