Tom Bourke lives in a low, long farm-house, resembling in outward
appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where
the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of
Kilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a
sort of black swans in Ireland: he is a wealthy farmer. Tom's father
had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no
inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his
landlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained as a return for his
civility a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than the
loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred pounds,
the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his son
Tom. But besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his
death-bed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches,
greatly as he prized and is still known to prize them. He was invested
with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of
communicating with those mysterious beings called "the good people."
Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five
years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but
rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new
clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed
with persons of a quick, but limited intellect--they are small, grey,
and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within,
which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and
intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character of
the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke you must act as
if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances a long
time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up boldly,
and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part sure to have
the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part with what you
wish to obtain; or another person has been speaking to him for the whole
of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most
favourable reception. "Very well, sir;" "That's true, sir;" "I'm very
thankful to your honour," and other expressions of kindness and
confidence greet you in reply to every sentence; and you part from him
wondering how he can have obtained the character which he universally
bears, of being a man whom no one can make anything of in a bargain. But
when you next meet him the flattering illusion is dissolved: you find
you are a great deal further from your object than you were when you
thought you had almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue express a total
forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an
instant; and you have to begin operations afresh, with the disadvantage
of having put your adversary completely upon his guard.
Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or
(as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth experience, so
distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is
no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board.
The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?)
a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received
from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and
successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during those
seasons, at least, when a man's business requires him to keep
possession of his senses. He has, therefore, a general rule, never to
get drunk but on Sundays. But in order that it should be a general one
to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to
better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many
exceptions; among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair
and market-days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days
in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place among his
friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions,
it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual in
his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his
friends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested
affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But
I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court
to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the
opposite conduct in the generality of mankind--a hope of future
benefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a
race as powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among
those who inhabit this world; often show their affection by easing the
objects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently
reward or punish the living according to the degree of reverence paid
to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.
Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently humane and
charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the other members of his
family, are known frequently to perform. A beggar has seldom left
their farm-yard with an empty wallet, or without obtaining a night's
lodging, if required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to
satisfy even an Irish beggar's appetite; in appeasing which, account
must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a hungry dog, and of
two or three still more hungry children, who line themselves well
within, to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the
neighbouring poor be seized with a fever, Tom will often supply the
sick wretch with some untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms
(for he has added one to his patrimony), or will send his labourers to
construct a shed at a hedge-side, and supply straw for a bed while the
disorder continues. His wife, remarkable for the largeness of her
dairy, and the goodness of everything it contains, will furnish milk
for whey; and their good offices are frequently extended to the family
of the patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of
wretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a father's or a
husband's labour.
If much of this arises from the hopes and fears to which I above
alluded, I believe much of it flows from a mingled sense of compassion
and of duty, which is sometimes seen to break from an Irish peasant's
heart, even where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of
avarice and fraud; and which I once heard speak in terms not to be
misunderstood: "When we get a deal, 'tis only fair we should give back
a little of it."
It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people, with
whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the
faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation
of it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his
high prerogative when any unfortunate being is _struck_ in his
neighbourhood. Still he will not be won unsued: he is at first
difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle
violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious,
and if one word of reward be mentioned he at once abandons the unhappy
patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural
superiors. It is true that, as the labourer is worthy of his hire,
most persons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a token of
gratitude from the patients or their friends _after_ their recovery.
It is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was once given to a
female practitioner in this occult science, who deserves to be
mentioned, not only because she was a neighbour and a rival of Tom's,
but from the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her son.
Her son's name was Owen, and she was always called _Owen sa vauher_
(Owen's mother). This person was, on the occasion to which I have
alluded, _persuaded_ to give her assistance to a young girl who had
lost the use of her right leg; _Owen sa vauher_ found the cure a
difficult one. A journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the
purpose, probably to visit one of the good people who resided at that
distance; and this journey could only be performed by _Owen sa vauher_
travelling upon the back of a white hen. The visit, however, was
accomplished; and at a particular hour, according to the prediction of
this extraordinary woman, when the hen and her rider were to reach
their journey's end, the patient was seized with an irresistible
desire to dance, which she gratified with the most perfect freedom of
the diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family. The gratuity
in this case was, as it surely ought to have been, unusually large,
from the difficulty of procuring a hen willing to go so long a journey
with such a rider.
To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have heard
from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many
months since he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman
living near him), who had been struck speechless after returning from
a funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly
refused receiving any compensation, saying that even if he had not as
much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case,
because the girl had offended at the funeral of one of the _good
people_ belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a
kindness, he could take none from her.
About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr.
Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom's, had some business to transact with
him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At
last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal
process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to
their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour between the
parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. Martin's
house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a glass of
punch, made of some excellent _poteen_, which was on the table: he had
long wished to draw out his highly-endowed neighbour on the subject of
his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was
rather a favourite of Tom's, this seemed a good opportunity.
"Well, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "that was a curious business of Molly
Dwyer's, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day."
"You may say that, sir," replied Tom Bourke; "but I had to travel far
for it: no matter for that now. Your health, ma'am," said he, turning
to Mrs. Martin.
"Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way
in your own family," said Mrs Martin.
"So I had, ma'am; trouble enough: but you were only a child at that
time."
"Come, Tom," said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, "take
another tumbler;" and he then added, "I wish you would tell us
something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am
told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and
that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the
physicians had given him over."
"'Tis true for you, sir," returned Tom; "your father, the doctor (God
be good to him, I won't belie him in his grave), told me, when my
fourth boy was a week sick, that himself and Dr. Barry did all that
man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going after the
rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished
to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did
not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I
would not be left trusting to two of 'em now."
"And how did you find it out, Tom?" inquired Mr. Martin.
"Why, then, I'll tell you, sir," said Bourke. "When your father said
what I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down
the little _bohereen_[31] you know, sir, that goes to the river-side
near Dick Heafy's ground; for 'twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to
think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I
thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not well know how to
face his mother with the news, for she doated down upon him. Besides,
she never got the better of all she cried at his brother's
_berrin_[32] the week before. As I was going down the _bohereen_ I met
an old _bocough_, that used to come about the place once or twice
a-year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the
neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. 'Bad enough, Shamous,'[33]
says I. 'I'm sorry for your trouble,' says he; 'but you're a foolish
man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do
what you ought with him.' 'What more can I do with him, Shamous?'
says I; 'the doctors give him over.' 'The doctors know no more what
ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,' says
Shamous; 'but go to such a one,' telling me his name, 'and try what
he'll say to you.'"
"And who was that, Tom?" asked Mr. Martin.
"I could not tell you that, sir," said Bourke, with a mysterious look;
"howsomever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this.
But I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, maybe
I'd have now some of them that's gone, and so Shamous often told me.
Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By
course, I did everything as he bid me. According to his order, I took
the little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was,
and made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay
down by his side in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell
asleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was
drawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_
on his chest, and was very bad--very bad entirely through the night. I
thought about twelve o'clock he was going at last, and I was just
getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no
occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to
take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child
and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting it, and that
was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough
of light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near
us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except
the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls.
"Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you--I won't belie my
father, sir, he was a good father to me--I saw him standing at the
bedside, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other on the
stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and
smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would
not lose the child. 'Is that you, father?' says I. He said nothing. 'If
that's you,' says I again, 'for the love of them that gone, let me
catch your hand.' And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a
child's. He stayed about as long as you'd be going from this to the gate
below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week
the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn't
to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the
town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains."
"But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "it appears as if you are more
indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous;
or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among
the good people, and that then your father----"
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, interrupting him; "but don't
call them my enemies. 'Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to
sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. Here's wishing
you a good health and long life."
"I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, "I meant no offence, Tom; but was
it not as I say?"
"I can't tell you that, sir," said Bourke; "I'm bound down, sir.
Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of and my father, and those
they know, settled it between them."
There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of
Tom whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a
pair of pigeons, at the time of his son's illness--circumstances often
mysteriously hinted at by Tom.
"See that, now," said he, turning to Mr. Martin, "how well she
remembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I gave the mistress, your
mother, when the doctors ordered her goats' whey?"
Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued, "Why, then, I'll
tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e'er goat ever was, for
a month after she was sent to Killaan, to your father's. The morning
after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother
was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the road,
and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth off the
church down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they
came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing
our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after
looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the
river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I
were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir?"
"Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin.
"Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to
cry. 'Whist, you fool?' says I; 'tis all for the better.' 'Twas true
for me. What do you think, ma'am; the goat that I gave your mother,
that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry
as a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing why, before Jack's
face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of
the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road. 'Twas at the same
time my woman saw them, as I just told you."
"'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr. Martin; "I wish you could
give us some explanation of it."
"I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's answer; "but I'm bound down. I
can't tell but what I'm allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let
walk more than his rounds."
"I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the
man that assisted in the cure of your son," said Mr. Martin.
"So I had, sir," returned Bourke. "I had a trial of that man. But
that's neither here nor there. I can't tell you anything about that,
sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?"
"Oh! very much, indeed," said Mr. Martin.
"But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him better
through the story," added Mrs. Martin.
Tom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition.
"Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow; his name is
Patrick. He was always a smart, 'cute[34] boy, and would be a great
clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my
mother's wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to
bury her. Her people and my father's people--I mean their friends,
sir, among the _good people_--had the greatest battle that was known
for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she'd
be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without
being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before
I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them
at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the
fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we
buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my father's people."
"He was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty
suppressing a smile. "But you were about to tell how he became so
skilful."
"So I will and welcome," replied Bourke. "Your health, ma'am. I'm
drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never
tasted the like of it; it goes down one's throat like sweet oil. But
what was I going to say? Yes--well--Patrick, many a long year ago, was
coming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by the
side of a river, opposite the big inch,[35] near Ballyhefaan ford. He
had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little merry, as you
may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon was shining,
for it was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as
bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the
fall of the water at the mill weir about a mile down the river, and
now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river.
All at once there was a noise of a great number of people laughing as
if they'd break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It
came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through
the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on
the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance, as he was of a glass, and
that's saying enough for him; so he whipped off his shoes and
stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting on his
shoes and stockings at the other side of the river he walked over to
the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He
thought, sir, that he'd show them better dancing than any of
themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and a good right he
had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or
treble with him. But pwah! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine
would be to the mistress' there. They did not seem as if they had a
bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire
them. Patrick was 'shamed within himself, for he thought he had not
his fellow in all the country round; and was going away, when a little
old man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he did not
like what was going on, came up to him. 'Patrick,' says he. Patrick
started, for he did not think anybody there knew him. 'Patrick,' says
he, 'you're discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you have a friend
near you. I'm your friend, and your father's friend, and I think
worse[36] of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though
they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call
for a lilt. Don't be afeard. I tell you the best of them did not do it
as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt
something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He
went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best double he
had. And sure enough, all that the others were able for was nothing to
him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a
feather, although the people could hear the music answered by his
steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the
piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a
table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the
whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when they saw
him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know
what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that ever
entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than
themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better
than him or any other man that ever went the long journey."
"And what was the cause of his great success?" inquired Mr. Martin.
"He could not help it, sir," replied Tom Bourke. "They that could make
him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done,
they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not
persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your
presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly
out of his mouth when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a
white cow grazing by his side."
"Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary
powers in the dance, Tom?" said Mr. Martin.
"I'll tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke, "when I come to it.
When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to
bed; and the next day they found he had got the fever, or something
like it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn't make
out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors
gave him over. But it's little they knew what ailed him. When he was,
as you may say, about ten days sick, and everybody thought he was
going, one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of
his, from Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I
can't tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby
saw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it,
out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same
every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as
stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long
time before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day
sometimes by the ditch-side, talking to himself, like as if there was
someone along with him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn't be
the man he is to-day."
"I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill," said
Mr. Martin.
"You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke. "Darby told him his
friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and
though they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd bring him over it, and
teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you
see, all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a
different faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he was a friend
of Patrick's family, and it went again his heart, you see, that the
others were so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear
'em boasting how they'd dance with any set in the whole country round.
So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the
skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure
it was only learning he was at that time when he was wandering in his
mind after the fever."
"I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan
ford," said Mr. Martin. "'Tis a great place for the good people, isn't
it, Tom?"
"You may say that, sir," returned Bourke. "I could tell you a great
deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by
moonlight, at th' other side of the river, looking at 'em playing goal
as if they'd break their hearts over it; with their coats and
waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and
red ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming's
big field. I saw 'em one night play till the moon set, without one
party being able to take the ball from th' other. I'm sure they were
going to fight, only 'twas near morning. I'm told your grandfather,
ma'am, used to see 'em there too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin.
"So I have been told, Tom," replied Mrs. Martin. "But don't they say
that the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just as favourite a place with
the good people as Ballyhefaan inch?"
"Why, then, maybe you never heard, ma'am, what happened to Davy Roche
in that same churchyard," said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin,
added, "'Twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He
was walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcumber, a little
merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he
walked along with it, and thought it very queer that he did not know a
mother's soul in the crowd but one man, and he was sure that man was
dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin till
they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and, faith, he went in and stayed
with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was
covered, what should they do but gather about a piper that _come_
along with 'em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy
longed to be among 'em (for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that
time, whatever he may now); but he was loth to begin, because they all
seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was
dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him.
'Davy,' says he, 'take out a partner, and show what you can do, but
take care and don't offer to kiss her.' 'That I won't,' says Davy,
'although her lips were made of honey.' And with that he made his bow
to the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance.
'Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th' admiration, do you
see, of all that were there. 'Twas all very well till the jig was
over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was
warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner,
according to custom. The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see,
than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him,
and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as
if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that
happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it
was a great many hours later than he thought it; 'twas near morning
when he came home; but they couldn't get a word out of him till the
next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock."
When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it
became quite evident that spirits, of some sort, were working too strong
within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people.
Tom seemed conscious of this. He muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina
magh_,[37] which were quite unintelligible, perhaps, to himself,
certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion
of the head upwards, as if he would say, "I can talk no more;" stretched
his arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and
with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair,
walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to
face his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to bid
them good-night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a
violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to
and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to
depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom's wife, who knew well what
sort of allurement detained him when he remained out after a certain
hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt that
he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that within
the last month he was, to use his own words, "as stout and hearty a man
as any of his age in the county Cork."
[Footnote 31: _Bohereen_, or _bogheen_, _i.e._, a green lane.]
[Footnote 32: _Berrin_, burying.]
[Footnote 33: _Shamous_, James.]
[Footnote 34: _'Cute_, acute.]
[Footnote 35: _Inch_, low meadow ground near a river.]
[Footnote 36: _Worse_, more.]
[Footnote 37: _Daoine maithe_, _i.e._, the good people.]