--Visit to Beech Grove.--The Herbalist
Woodward now amused himself by walking and riding about the country
and viewing its scenery, most of which he had forgotten during his long
absence from home. It was not at all singular in that dark state of
popular superstition and ignorance, that the shower of blood should,
somehow or another, be associated with him and his detested mother. Of
course, the association was vague, and the people knew not how to apply
it to their circumstances. As they believed, however, that Mrs. Lindsay
possessed the power of overlooking cattle, which was considered an evil
gift, and in some mysterious manner connected with the evil spirit, and
as they remembered--for superstition, like guilt, always possesses a
good memory--that even in his young days, when little more than a child,
her son Harry was remarkable for having eyes of a different color, from
which circumstance he was even then called _Harry na Suil Gloir_, they
naturally inferred that his appearance in the country boded nothing
good; that, of course, he had the Evil Eye, as every one whose eyes
differed, as his did, had; and that the thunder and lightning, the
rain which drowned the bonfires, but, above all, the blood-shower, were
indications that the mother and son were to be feared and avoided as
much as possible, especially the latter. Others denied that the
devil had anything to do with the shower of blood, or the storm which
extinguished the fires, and stoutly maintained that it was God himself
who had sent them to warn the country against having any intercourse
that could possibly be avoided, with them. Then there was the Black
Spectre that was said to follow her family; and did not every one know
that when it appeared three times to any person, it was a certain proof
that that person's coffin might be purchased? We all know how rapidly
such opinions and colloquies spread, and we need scarcely say that in
the course of a fortnight after the night of the bonfires all these
matters had been discussed over half the barony. Some, in fact, were
for loading him with the heavy burden of his mother's unpopularity;
but others, more generous, were for waiting until the people had an
opportunity of seeing how he might turn out--whether he would follow in
his mother's footsteps, or be guided by the benevolent principles of his
step-father and the rest of the family. Owing to these circumstances,
need we say, that there was an unusual interest, almost an excitement,
felt about him, which nothing could repress. His brother Charles was
as well-beloved and as popular as his father, but, then, he excited no
particular interest, because he was not suspected to possess the Evil
Eye, nor to have any particular connection with the devil.
In this case matters stood, when one day Woodward, having dressed
himself with particular care, ordered his horse, saying that he would
ride over to Beech Grove and pay a visit to the Goodwins. There were
none in the room at the time but Charles and his mother. The former
started, and seemed uneasy at this intelligence; and his mother, having
considered for a time, said: “Charles, I wish to speak to Harry.”
Charles took the hint, and left the mother and son to the following
dialogue:--
“Harry,” said she, “you spoke very warmly of that cunning serpent who
defrauded you of your inheritance, and all of us out of our right. May
I ask for what purpose you wish to cultivate an intimacy with such a
scheming and dishonest crew as that?”
“Faith, mother, to tell you the truth, you don't detest them, nor feel
the loss of the property more than I do; but the truth is, that the game
I wish to play with them will be a winning one, if I can induce them
to hold the cards. I wish to get the property, and as I feel that that
can't be done without marrying their milk-and-curd of a daughter, why,
it is my intention to marry her accordingly.”
“Then you don't marry a wife to be happy with her?”
“In one sense not I--in another I do; I shall make myself happy with her
property.”
“Indeed, Harry, to tell you the truth, there is very little happiness in
married life, and they are only fools that expect it. You see how I am
treated by Lindsay and my own children.”
“Well, but you provoke them--why disturb yourself with them? Why not
pass through life as quietly as you can? Imitate Lindsay.”
“What! make a sot of myself--become a fool, as he is?”
“Then, why did you marry him?”
“Because I was the fool then, but I have suffered for it. Why, he
manages this property as if it wasn't mine--as if I didn't bring it to
him. Think of a man who is silly enough to forgive a tenant his gale
of rent, provided he makes a poor mouth, and says he is not able to pay
it.”
“But I see no harm in that either; if the man is not able to pay, how
can he? What does Lindsay do but make a virtue of necessity. He cannot
skin a flint, can he?”
“That's an ugly comparison,” she replied, “and I can't conceive why
you make it to me. I am afraid, Harry, you have suffered yourself to be
prejudiced against the only friend--the only true friend, you have in
the house. I can tell you, that although they keep fair faces to you,
you are not liked here.”
“Very well; if I find that to be true, they will lose more than they'll
gain by it.”
“They have been striving to secure your influence against me. I know it
by your language.”
“In the devil's name, how can you know it by my language, mother?”
“You talked about skinning a flint; now, you had that from them
with reference to me. It was only the other day that an ill-tongued
house-maid of mine, after I had paid her her wages, and 'stopped' for
the articles she injured on me, turned round, and called me a skinflint;
they have made it a common nickname on me. I'd have torn her eyes out
only for Lindsay, who had the assurance to tell me that if he had not
interfered I'd have had the worst of it--that I'd come off second best,
and such slang; yes, and then added afterwards, that he was sorry he
interfered. That's the kind of a husband he is, and that's the life
I lead. Now, this property is mine, and I can leave it to any one I
please; he hasn't even a life interest in it.”
“O,” exclaimed the son, in surprise, “is that the case?”
“It is,” she replied, “and yet you see how I am treated.”
“I was not aware of that, my dear mother,” responded worthy Harry. “That
alters the case entirely. Why, Lindsay, in these circumstances, ought to
put his hands under your feet; so ought they all I think. Well, my dear
mother, of one thing I can assure you, no matter how they may treat you,
calculate firmly upon my support and protection; make yourself sure
of that. But, now, about Miss Milk-and-curds--what do you think of my
project?”
“I have been frequently turning it over in my mind, Harry, since the
morning you praised her so violently, and I think, as you cannot get the
property without the girl, you must only take her with it. The notion of
its going into the hands of strangers would drive me mad.”
“Well, then, we understand each other; I have your sanction for the
courtship.”
“You have; but I tell you again, I loathe her as I do poison. I never
can forgive her the art with which she wheedled that jotter-headed old
sinner, your uncle, out of twelve hundred a year. Unless it returns to
the family, may my bitter malediction fall upon her and it.”
“Well, never mind, my dear mother, leave her to me--I shall have the
girl and the property--but by hook or crook, the property. I shall ride
over there, now, and it will not be my fault, if I don't tip both her
and them the saccharine.”
“By the way, though, Harry, now that I think of it, I'm afraid you'll
have opposition.”
“Opposition! How is that?”
“It is said there is a distant relation of theirs, a gentleman named
O'Connor, a Ferdora O'Connor, I think, who, it is supposed, is likely
to be successful there; but, by the way, are you aware that they are
Catholics?”
“As to that, my dear mother, I don't care a fig for her religion; my
religion is her property, or rather will be so when I get it. The other
matter, however, is a thing I must look to--I mean the rivalry; but on
that, too, we shall put our heads together, and try what can be done. I
am not very timid; and the proverb says, you know, a faint heart never
won a fair lady.”
Our readers may perceive, from the spirit of the above conversation,
that the son was worthy of the mother, and the mother of the son. The
latter, however, had, at least, some command over his temper, and a
great deal of dexterity and penetration besides; whilst the mother,
though violent, was clumsy in her resentments, and transparent in her
motives. Short as Woodward's residence in the family was, he saw at
a glance that the abuse she heaped upon her husband and children was
nothing more nor less than deliberate falsehood. This, however, to him
was a matter of perfect indifference. He was no great advocate of truth
himself, whenever he found that his interests or his passions could be
more effectually promoted by falsehood; although he did not disdain even
truth whenever it equally served his purpose. In such a case it gave him
a reputation for candor under which he could, with more safety, avail
himself of his disingenuity and prevarication. He knew, as we said, that
his mother's description of the family contained not one atom of truth;
and yet he was too dastardly and cunning to defend them against her
calumny. The great basis of his character, in fact, was a selfishness,
which kept him perpetually indifferent to anything that was good or
generous in itself, or outside the circle of his own interests, beyond
which he never passed. Now, nothing, on the other hand, could be more
adversative to this, than the conduct, temper, and principles of his
brother and sister. Charles was an amiable, manly, and generous young
fellow, who, with both spirit and independence, was, as a natural
consequence, loved and respected by all who knew him; and as for his
sweet and affectionate sister, Maria, there was not living a girl more
capable of winning attachment, nor more worthy of it when attained; and
severely, indeed, was the patience of this admirable brother and sister
tried, by the diabolical temper of their violent and savage mother. As
for Harry, he had come to the resolution, now that he understood the
position of the property, to cultivate his mother's disposition upon
such a principle of conduct as would not compromise him with either
party. As to their feuds he was perfectly indifferent to them; but now
his great object was, to study how to promote his own interests in his
own way.
Having reached Beech Grove, he found that unassuming family at home,
as they usually were; for, indeed, all their principal enjoyments lay
within the quiet range of domestic life. Old Goodwin himself saw him
through the parlor window as he approached, and, with ready and sincere
kindness, met him in the hall.
“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Woodward,” said he. “Allow me to conduct
you to the drawing-room, where you will meet Mrs. Goodwin, Alice, and a
particular friend of ours. I cannot myself stop long with you, because
I am engaged on particular business; but you will not miss an old fellow
like me when you have better company. I hope my old friends are all
well. Step in, sir. Here is Mr. Woodward, ladies; Mr. Woodward, this
gentleman is a friend of ours, Mr. Ferdora O'Connor; Ferdora, this is
Mr. Woodward; and now I must leave you to entertain each other; but I
shall return, Mr. Woodward, before you go, unless you are in a great
harry. Bridget, see that luncheon is ready; but you must lay it in the
front parlor, because I have these tenants about me in the dining-room,
as it is so much larger.”
“I have already given orders for that,” replied his wife. He then
hurried out and left them, evidently much gratified by Woodward's visit.
O'Connor and the latter having scanned each other by a glance or two,
bowed with that extreme air of politeness which is only another name for
a want of cordiality. O'Connor was rather a plain-looking young fellow,
as to his person and general appearance; but his Milesian face was
handsome, and his eye clear and candid, with a dash of determination
and fire in it. Very different, indeed, was it from the eye that was
scrutinizing him at that moment, with such keenness and penetration.
There are such things as antipathies; otherwise why should those two
individuals entertain, almost in a moment's time, such a secret and
unaccountable disrelish towards each other? Woodward did not love Alice,
so that the feeling could not proceed from jealousy; and we will so far
throw aside mystery as to say here, that neither did O'Connor; and,
we may add still further, that poor, innocent, unassuming Alice was
attached to neither of them.
“I hope your brother is well, sir,” said O'Connor, anxious to break the
ice, and try the stuff Woodward was made of. “I have not seen him for
some time.”
“O! then, you are acquaintances?” said Woodward.
“We are more, sir,” replied O'Connor, “we are friends.”
“I hope you are all well,” interrupted kind-hearted Mrs. Goodwin.
“Quite well, my dear madam,” he replied. Then turning to O'Connor: “To
be a friend to my brother, sir,” he said, “next to finding you a friend
and favorite in this family, is the warmest recommendation to me. My
long absence from home prevented me from knowing his value until now;
but now that! I do know him, I say it, perhaps, with too much of the
partiality of a brother, I think that any man may feel proud of his
friendship; and I say so with the less hesitation, because I am sure
he would select no man for his friend who was not worthy of it;” and he
bowed courteously as he spoke.
“Faith, sir,” replied O'Connor, “you have hit it; I for one am proud
of it; but, upon my conscience, he wouldn't be his father's son if he
wasn't what he is.”
Alice was sewing some embroidery, and seemed to take no notice, if one
could judge by her downcast locks, of what they said. At length she
said, with a smile:
“As you, Ferdora, have inquired for your favorite, I don't see why I
should not inquire after mine; how is your sister, Mr. Woodward?”
“Indeed, she's the picture of health, Miss Goodwin; but I will not”--he
added, with a smile to balance her own--“I will not be answerable for
the health of her heart.”
Alice gave a low laugh, that had the slightest tincture of malice in it,
and glanced at O'Connor, who began to tap his boot with his riding whip.
“She is a good girl as ever lived,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “and I hope will
never have a heartache that may harm her.”
“Heaven knows, madam,” replied Woodward, “it is time only that will tell
that. Love is a strange and sometimes rather a painful malady.”
“Of course you speak from your own experience, Mr. Woodward,” replied
Alice.
“Then you have had the complaint, sir,” said O'Connor, laughing. “I
wonder is it like small-pox or measles?”
“How is that, sir?” said Woodward, smiling.
“Why, that if you've had it once you'll never have it a second time.”
“Yes, but if I should be ill of it now?” and he glanced at Alice, who
blushed.
“Why, in that case,” replied O'Connor, “it's in bed you ought to be; no
man with an epidemic on him should be permitted to go abroad among his
majesty's liege subjects.”
“Yes, Ferdora,” said Alice, “but I don't think Mr. Woodward's complaint
is catching.”
“God forbid that the gentleman should die of it, though,” replied
Ferdora, “for that would be a serious loss to the ladies.”
“You exaggerate that calamity, sir,” replied Woodward, with the
slightest imaginable sneer, “and forget that if I die you survive me.”
“Well, certainly, there is consolation in that,” said O'Connor,
“especially for the ladies, as I said; isn't there, Alley?”
“Certainly,” replied Alice; “in making love, Ferdora, you have the
prowess of ten men.”
“Do you speak from experience, now, Miss Goodwin?” asked Woodward,
rather dryly.
“O! no,” replied Alice, “I have only his own word for it.”
“Only his own word. Miss Goodwin! Do you imply by that, that his own
word requires corroboration?”
Alice blushed again, and felt confused.
“I assure you, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, “that when my word requires
corroboration, I always corroborate it myself.”
“But, according to Miss Goodwin's account of it, sir, that's not likely
to add much to its authenticity.”
“Well, Mr. Woodward,” said O'Connor, with the greatest suavity of
manner, “I'll tell you my method under such circumstances; whenever I
meet a gentleman that doubts my word, I always make him eat his onion.
“There's nothing new or wonderful in that,” replied the other; “it has
been my own practice during life.”
“What? to eat your own words!” exclaimed O'Connor, purposely mistaking
him; “very windy feeding, faith. Upon my honor and conscience, in that
case, your complaint must be nothing else but the colic, and not love at
all. Try peppermint wather, Mr. Woodward.”
Alice saw at once, but could not account for the fact, that the
worthy gentlemen were cutting at each other, and the timid girl became
insensibly alarmed at the unaccountable sharpness of their brief
encounter. She looked with an anxious countenance, first at one, and
then at the other, but scarcely knew what to say. Woodward, however, who
was better acquainted with the usages of society, and the deference due
to the presence of women, than the brusque, but somewhat fiery Milesian,
now said, with a smile and a bow to that gentleman:
“Sir, I submit; I am vanquished. If you are as successful in love as you
are in banter, I should not wish to enter the list against you.
“Faith, sir,” replied O'Connor, with a poor-humored laugh, “if your
sword is as sharp as your wit, you'd be an ugly customer to meet in a
quarrel.”
O'Connor, who had been there for some time, now rose to take his leave,
at which Alice felt rather satisfied. Indeed, she could not avoid
observing that, whatever the cause of it might be, there seemed to exist
some secret feeling of dislike between them, which occasioned her no
inconsiderable apprehension. O'Connor she knew was kind-hearted and
generous, but, at the same time, as quick as gunpowder in taking and
resenting an insult. On the other hand, she certainly felt much regret
at being subjected to the presence of Woodward, against whom she
entertained, as the reader knows, a strong feeling that amounted
absolutely to aversion. She could not, however, think of treating him
with anything bordering on disrespect, especially in her own house, and
she, consequently, was about to say something merely calculated to pass
the time. In this, however, she was anticipated by Woodward, who, as he
had his suspicions of O'Connor, resolved to sound her on the subject.
“That seems an agreeable young fellow,” said he; “somewhat free and easy
in his deportment.”
“Take care, Mr. Woodward,” said her mother, “say nothing harsh against
Ferdora, if you wish to keep on good terms with Alley. He's the
white-headed boy with her.”
“I am not surprised at that, madam,” he replied, “possessed as he is of
such a rare and fortunate quality.”
“Pray, what is that, Mr. Woodward?” asked Alice, timidly.
“Why, the faculty of making love with the power of ten men,” he replied.
“You must be a very serious man,” she replied.
“Serious, Miss Goodwin! Why do you think so?”
“I hope you are not in the habit of receiving a jest as a matter of
fact.”
“Not,” he replied, “if I could satisfy myself that there was no fact in
the jest; but, indeed, in this world, Miss Goodwin, it is very difficult
to distinguish jest from earnest.”
“I am a bad reasoner, Mr. Woodward,” she replied.
“But, perhaps, Miss Goodwin, Mr. O'Connor would say that you make up in
feeling what you want in logic.”
“I hope, sir,” replied Alice, with some spirit--for she felt hurt at his
last observation--“that I will never feel on any subject until I have
reason as well as inclination to support me.”
“Ah,” said he, “I fear that if you once possess the inclination you
will soon supply the reason. But, by the way, talking of your friend and
favorite, Mr. O'Connor, I must say I like him very much, and I am, not
surprised that you do.”
“I do, indeed,” she replied; “I know of nobody I like better than
honest, frank, and generous Ferdora.”
“Well, Miss Goodwin, I assure you he shall be a favorite of mine for
your sake.”
“Indeed, Mr. Woodward, if you knew him, he would become one for his
own.”
“Have you known him long, may I ask, Miss Goodwin?”
“O dear, yes,” said Mrs. Goodwin, who now, finding this a fair opening
in the conversation, resolved to have her share of it--“O dear! yes;
Alley and he know each other ever since her childhood; he's some three
or four years older than she is, to be sure, but that makes little
difference.”
“And, I suppose, Mrs. Goodwin, their intimacy--perhaps I may say
attachment--has the sanction of their respective families?”
“God bless you, sir, to be sure it has--are they not distantly related?”
“That, indeed, is a very usual proceeding among families,” observed
Woodward; “the boy and girl are thrown together, and desired to look
upon each other as destined to become husband and wife; they accordingly
do so, fall in love, are married, and soon find themselves--miserable;
in fact, these matches seldom turn out well.”
“But there is no risk of that here,” replied Alice.
“I sincerely hope not, Miss Goodwin. In your case, unless the husband
was a fool, or a madman, or a villain, there must be happiness. Of
course you will be happy with him; need I say,” and here he sighed,
“that he at least ought to be so with you?”
“Upon my word, Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, smiling, “you are a much
cleverer man than I presume your own modesty ever permitted you to
suspect.”
“I don't understand you,” he replied, with a look of embarrassment.
“Why,” she proceeded, “here have you, in a few minutes, made up a match
between two persons who never were intended to be married at all; you
have got the sanction of two families to a union which neither of
them even for a moment contemplated. Dear me, sir, may not a lady and
gentleman become acquainted without necessarily falling in love?”
“Ah, but, in your case, my dear Miss Goodwin, it would be
difficult--impossible I should say--to remain indifferent, if the
gentleman had either taste or sentiment; however, I assure you I am
sincerely glad to find that I have been mistaken.”
“God bless me, Mr. Woodward,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “did you think they
were sweethearts?”
“Upon my honor, madam, I did--and I was very sorry for it.”
“Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, “don't mistake me; I am inaccessible to
flattery.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said he, “because I know that for that
reason you are not and will not be insensible to truth.”
“Unless when it borrows the garb of flattery, and thus causes itself to
be suspected.”
“In that case,” said Woodward, “nothing but good sense, Miss Goodwin,
can draw the distinction between them--and now I know that you are
possessed of that.”
“I hope so, sir,” she replied, “and that I will ever continue to observe
that distinction. Mamma, I want more thread,” she said: “where can I get
it?”
“Up stairs, dear, in my work-box.”
She then bowed slightly to Woodward and went up to find her thread, but
in fact from a wish to put an end to a conversation that she felt to be
exceedingly disagreeable. At this moment old Goodwin came in.
“You will excuse me, I trust, Mr. Woodward,” said he, “I was down in the
dining-room receiving rents for------.” He paused, for, on reflection,
he felt that this was a disagreeable topic to allude to; the fact
being that he acted as his daughter's agent, and I had been on that and
the preceding day receiving her rents. “Martha,” said he, “what! about
luncheon? You'll take luncheon with us, Mr. Woodward?”
Woodward bowed, and Mrs. Goodwin was about to leave the room, when he
said:
“Perhaps, Mrs. Goodwin, you'd be good enough to remain for a few
minutes.” Mrs. Goodwin sat down, and he proceeded: “I trust that my
arrival home will, under Providence, be the means of reconciling and
reuniting two families who never should have been at variance. Not
but that I admit, my dear friends,--if you will allow me to call
you so,--that the melancholy event of my poor uncle's death, and the
unexpected disposition of so large a property, were calculated to try
the patience of worldly-minded people--and who is not so in a more or
less I degree?”
“I don't think any of your family is,” replied Goodwin, bluntly, “with
one exception.”
“O! yes, my mother,” replied Woodward, “and I grant it; at least she was
so, and acted upon worldly principles; but I think you will admit, at
least as Christians you must, that the hour of change and regret may
come to every human heart when its errors, and its selfishness, if you
will, have been clearly and mildly pointed out. I do not attribute the
change that has happily taken place in my dear mother to myself, but to
a higher power; although I must admit, as I do with all humility, that
I wrought earnestly, in season and out of season, since my return, to
bring it about; and, thank heaven, I have succeeded. I come this day
as a messenger of peace, to state that she is willing that the families
should be reconciled, and a happier and more lasting union effected
between them.”
“I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Woodward,” said Goodwin, much moved;
“God knows I am. Blessed be the peace-maker, and you are he; an easy
conscience and a light heart must be your reward.”
“They must,” added his wife, wiping her eyes; “they must and they will.”
“Alas!” proceeded Woodward, “how far from Gospel purity is every human
motive when it comes to be tried by the Word! I will not conceal from
you the state of my heart, nor deny that in accomplishing this thing it
was influenced by a certain selfish feeling on my part; in one sense
a disinterested selfishness I admit, but in another a selfishness that
involves my own happiness. However, I will say no more on that subject
at present. It would scarcely be delicate until the reconciliation is
fully accomplished; then, indeed, perhaps I may endeavor, with fear and
trembling, to make myself understood. Only until then, I beg of you to
think well of me, and permit me to consider myself as not unworthy of a
humble place in your affections.”
Old Goodwin shook him warmly by the hand, and his wife once more had
recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. “God bless you, Mr. Woodward!”
he exclaimed, “God bless you, I now see your worth, and know it; you
already have our good-will and affections, and, what is more, we feel
that you deserve them.”
“I wish, my dear sir,” said the other, “that Miss Goodwin understood me
as well as you and her respected mother.”
“She does, Mr. Woodward,” replied her father; “she does, and she will
too.”
“I tremble, however,” said Woodward, with a deep sigh; “but I will leave
my fate in your hands, or, I should rather say in the hands of Heaven.”
Lunch was then announced, and they went down to the front parlor,
where it was laid out. On entering the room Woodward was a good deal
disappointed to find that Miss Goodwin was not there.
“Will not Miss Goodwin join us?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said her father; “Martha, where is she?”
“You know, my dear, she seldom lunches,” replied her mother.
“Well, but she will now,” said Goodwin; “it is not every day we have Mr.
Woodward; let her be sent for. John, find out Miss Goodwin, and say we
wish her to join us at luncheon.”
John in a few moments returned to say that she had a slight headache,
and could not have the pleasure of coming down.
“O, I am very sorry to hear she is unwell,” said Woodward, with an
appearance of disappointment and chagrin, which he did not wish to
conceal; or, to speak the truth, which, in a great measure, he assumed.
After lunch his horse was ordered, and he set out on his way to
Rathfillan, meditating upon his visit, and the rather indifferent
reception he had got from Alice.
Miss Goodwin, though timid and nervous, was, nevertheless, in many
things, a girl of spirit, and possessed a great deal of natural wit and
penetration. On that day Woodward exerted himself to the utmost, with
a hope of making a favorable impression upon her. He calculated a good
deal upon her isolated position and necessary ignorance of life and the
world, and in doing so, he calculated, as thousands of self-sufficient
libertines, in their estimate of women, have done both before and since.
He did not know that there is an intuitive spirit in the female heart
which often enables it to discover the true character of the opposite
sex; and to discriminate between the real and the assumed with almost
infallible accuracy. But, independently of this, there was in Woodward's
manner a hardness of outline, and in his conversation an unconscious
absence of all reality and truth, together with a cold, studied
formality, dry, sharp, and presumptuous, that required no extraordinary
penetration to discover; for the worst of it was, that he made himself
disagreeably felt, and excited those powers of scrutiny and analysis
that are so peculiar to the generality of the other sex. In fact, he
sought his way home in anything but an agreeable mood. He thought to
have met Alice an ignorant country girl, whom he might play upon; but he
found himself completely mistaken, because, fortunately for herself, he
had taken her upon one of her strong points. As it was, however, whilst
he could not help admiring the pertinence of her replies, neither could
he help experiencing something of a bitter feeling against her, because
she indulged in them at his own expense; whilst against O'Connor, who
bantered him with such spirit and success, and absolutely turned
him into ridicule in her presence, he almost entertained a personal
resentment. His only hope now was in her parents, who seemed as anxious
to entertain his proposals with favor as Alice was to reject them with
disdain. As for Alice herself, her opinion of him is a matter with which
the reader is already acquainted.
Our hero was about half way home when he overtook a thin, lank old man,
who was a rather important character in the eyes of the ignorant people
at the period of which we write. He was tall, and so bare of flesh, that
when asleep he might pass for the skeleton of a corpse. His eyes were
red, cunning, and sinister-looking; his lips thin, and from under the
upper one projected a single tooth, long and yellow as saffron. His
face was of unusual length, and his parchment cheeks formed two inward
curves, occasioned by the want of his back teeth. His breeches were open
at the knees; his polar legs were without stockings; but his old brogues
were foddered, as it is called, with a wisp of straw, to keep his feet
warm. His arms were long, even in proportion to his body, and his bony
fingers resembled claws rather than anything! else we can now remember.
They (the claws): were black as ebony, and resembled in length and
sharpness those of a cat when she is stretching herself after rising
from the! hearth. He wore an old _barrad_ of the day, the greasy top of
which fell down upon the collar of his old cloak, and over his shoulder
was a bag which, from its appearance, must have contained something not
very weighty, as he walked on without seeming to travel as a man who
carried a burden. He had a huge staff in his right hand, the left having
a hold of his bag. Woodward at first mistook him for a mendicant, but
upon looking at him more closely, he perceived nothing of that watchful
and whining cant for alms which marks the character of the professional
beggar. The old skeleton walked on, apparently indifferent and
independent, and never once put himself into the usual posture
of entreaty. This, and the originality of his appearance, excited
Woodward's curiosity, and he resolved to speak to him.
“Well, my good old man, what may you be carrying in the bag?”
The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff,
touched his barrad, and replied:
“A few yarribs, your honor.”
“Yarribs? What the deuce is that?”
“Why, the yarribs that grow, sir--to cure the people when they are
sick.”
“O, you mean herbs.”
“I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars.”
“O, then you are what they call a herbalist.”
“I believe I am, sir, if you put that word against (to) a man that
gethers yarribs.”
“Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I suppose?”
“I do a little, sir, but I use the most of them myself. Sorra much the
potecars knows about the use o' them; they kill more than they cure wid
'em, and calls them that understands what they're good for rogues and
quacks. May the Lord forgive them this day! _Amin, acheernah!_ (Amen, O
Lord!)”
“And do you administer these herbs to the sick?”
“I do, sir, to the sick of all kinds--man and baste. There's nothing
like them, sir, bekaise it was to cure diseases of all kinds that the
Lord, blessed be His name! _amin, acheernah!_ planted them in the earth
for the use of his cratures. Why, sir, will you listen to me now, and
mark my words? There never was a complaint that follied either man or
baste, brute or bird, but a yarrib grows that 'ud cure it if it was
known. When the head's hot wid faver, and the heart low wid care, the
yarrib is to be found that will cool the head and rise the heart.”
“Don't you think, now,” said Woodward, imagining that he would catch
him, “that a glass of wine, or, what is better still, a good glass of
punch, would raise the heart better than all the herbs in the universe?”
“Lord bless me!” he exclaimed, as if in soliloquy; “the ignorance of the
rich and wealthy, and of great people altogether, is unknown! Wine
and punch! And what, will you tell me, does wine and punch come from?
Doesn't the wine come from the grapes that grow in forrin parts--sich
as we have in our hot-houses--and doesn't the whiskey that you make your
punch of grow from the honest barley in our own fields? So much for your
knowledge of yarribs.”
“Why, there you are right, my old friend. I forgot that.”
“You forgot it? Tell the truth at once, and say you didn't know it. But
may be you did forget it, for troth he'd be a poor crature that didn't
know whiskey was made from barley.”
He here turned his red satirical eye upon Woodward, with a glance that
was strongly indicative of contempt for his general information.
“Well,” he proceeded, “the power of yarribs is wondherful,--if it was
known to many as it is to me.”
“Why, from long practice, I suppose, you must be skilful in the
properties ol herbs?”
“Well, indeed, you needn't only suppose it, but you may be sartin of it.
Have you a good appetite?”
“A particularly good one, I assure you.”
“Now, wouldn't you think it strange that I could give you a dose that
'ud keep you on half a male a day for the next three months.”
“God forbid,” replied Woodward, who, among his other good qualities, was
an enormous trencherman,--“God forbid that ever such a dose should go
down my throat.”
“Would you think, now,” he proceeded, with a sinister grin that sent his
yellow tusk half an inch out of his mouth, “that if a man was jealous
of his wife, or a wife of her husband, I couldn't give either o' them a
dose that 'ud cure them?”
“Faith, I dare say you could,” replied Woodward; “a dose that would free
them from care of all sorts, as well as jealousy.”
“I don't mane that,” said the skeleton; “ha, ha! you're a funny
gentleman, and maybe I--but no--I don't mane that; but widout injurin' a
hair in either o' their heads.”
“I am not married,” said the other, “but I expect to be soon, and when
I am I will pay you well for the knowledge of that herb--for my wife, I
mean. Where do you live?”
“In Rathfillan, sir. I'm a well-known man there, and for many a long
mile about it.”
“You must be very useful to the country people hereabouts?”
“Ay,” he exclaimed, “you mane to the poor, I suppose, and you're right;
but maybe I'm of sarvice to the rich, too. Many a face I save from--I
could save from shame, I mane--if I liked, and could get well ped for
it, too. Some young, extravagant people that have rich ould fathers do
be spakin' to me, too; but thin, you know, I have a sowl to be saved,
and am a religious man, I hope, and do my duty as sich, and that every
one that has a sowl to be saved, may! _Amin, acheernah!_
“I am glad to find that your sense of duty preserves you against such
strong temptations.”
“Then, there's another set of men--these outlaws that do be robbin' rich
people's houses, and they, too, try to tempt me.”
“Why should they tempt you?”
“Bekaise the people, now knowin' that they're abroad, keep watch-dogs,
bloodhounds, and sich useful animals, that give the alarm at night, and
the robbers wishin', you see, to get them out of the way, do be temptin'
me about wishin' me to pison them.”
“Of course you resist them?”
“Well, I hope I do; but sometimes it's hard to get over them, especially
when they plant a _skean_ or a _middogue_ to one's navel, and swear
great oaths that they'll make a scabbard for it of my poor ould bulg
(belly)--I say, when the thieves do the business that way, it requires
a grate dale of the grace o' God to deny them. But what's any Chr'sthen
'idout the grace o' God? May we all have it! _Amin, acheernah!_”
“Well, when I marry, as I will soon, I'll call upon you; I dare say my
wife will get jealous, for I love the ladies, if that's a fault.”
Another grin was his first reply to this, after which he said:
“Well, sir, if she does, come to me.”
“Where in Rathfillan do you live?”
“O, anybody will tell you; inquire for ould Sol Donnel, the yarrib man,
and you'll soon find me out.”
“But 'suppose I shouldn't wish it to be known that I called on you?”
“Eh?” said the old villain, giving him another significant grin that
once more projected the fang; “well, maybe you wouldn't. If you want
my sarvices then, come to the cottage that's built agin the church-yard
wall, on the north side; and if you don't wish to be seen, why you can
come about midnight, when every one's asleep.”
“What's this you say your name is?”
“Sol Donnel.”
“What do you mean by Sol?”
He turned up his red eyes in astonishment, and exclaimed:
“Well, now, to think that, a larned man as you must be shouldn't know
what Sol means! Well, the ignorance of you great people is unknown.
Don't you know--but you don't--oughn't you know, then, that Sol means
Solomon, who was the wisest many and the biggest blaggard that ever
lived! Faith, if I had lived in his day he'd be a poor customer to me,
bekaise he had no shame in him; but indeed, the doin's that goes on now
in holes and corners among ourselves was no shame in his time. That's a
fine bay horse you ride; would you like to have him dappled? A dappled
bay, you know, is always a great beauty.”
“And could you dapple him?
“Ay, as sure as you ride him.”
“Well, I'll think about it and let you know; there's some silver for
you, and good-by, honest Solomon.”
Woodward then rode on, reflecting on the novel and extraordinary
character of this hypocritical old villain, in whose withered and
repulsive visage he could not discover a single trace of anything that
intimated the existence of sympathy with his kind. As to that, it was a
_tabula rasa_, blank of all feelings except those which characterize the
hyena and the fox. After he had left him, the old fellow gave a bitter
and derisive look after him.
“There you go,” said he, “and well I knew you, although you didn't think
so. Weren't you pointed out to me the night o' the divil's bonfire,
that your mother, they say, got up for you; and didn't I see you since
spakin' to that skamin' blaggard, Caterine Collins, my niece, that takes
many a penny out o' my hands; and didn't I know that you couldn't be
talkin' to her about anything that was good. Troth, you're not your
mother's son or you'll be comin' to me as well as her. Bad luck to her!
she was near gettin' me into the stocks when I sowld her the dose of
oak bark for the sarvants, to draw in their stomachs and shorten
their feedin'. My faith, ould Lindsay 'ud have put me in them only for
bringin' shame upon his wife.” *
* Some of our readers may imagine that in the enumeration of
the cures which old Sol professed to effect we have drawn
too largely upon their credulity, whereas there is scarcely
one of them that, is not practised, or attempted, in remote
and uneducated parts of Ireland, almost down to the present
day. We ourselves in early youth saw a man who professed,
and was believed to be able, to cure jealousy in either man
or woman by a potion; whilst charms for colics, toothaches,
taking motes out of the eye, and for producing love, were
common among the ignorant people within our own
recollection.