We cannot form at this distance of time any adequate notion of the
influence which a conjurer of those days exercised over the minds and
feelings of the ignorant. It was necessary that he should be, or be
supposed at least to be, well versed in judicial astrology, the use of
medicine, and consequently able to cast a nativity, or cure any earthly
complaint. There is scarcely any grade or species of superstition that
is not associated with or founded upon fear. The conjurer, consequently,
was both feared and respected; and his character appeared in different
phases to the people--each phase adapted to the corresponding character
of those with whom he had to deal. The educated of those days, with but
few exceptions, believed in astrology, and the possibility of developing
the future fate and fortunes of an individual, whenever the hour of his
birth and the name of the star or planet under which he was born could
be ascertained. The more ignorant class, however, generally associated
the character of the conjurer with that of the necromancer or magician,
and consequently attributed his predictions to demoniacal influence.
Neither were they much mistaken, for they only judged of these impostors
as they found them. In nineteen cases out of twenty, the character of
the low astrologer, the necromancer, and the quack was associated, and
the influence of the stars and the aid of the devil were both considered
as giving assurance of supernatural knowledge to the same individual.
This unaccountable anxiety to see, as it were, the volume of futurity
unrolled, so far as it discloses individual fate, has characterized
mankind ever since the world began; and hence, even in the present
day, the same anxiety among the ignorant to run after spae-women,
fortunetellers, and gypsies, in order to have their fortunes told
through the means of their adroit predictions.
On the following morning the whole town of Rathfillan was in a state of
excitement by the rumor that a conjurer had arrived, for the purpose not
only of telling all their future fates and fortunes, but of discovering
all those who had been guilty of theft, and the places where the stolen
property was to be found. This may seem a bold stroke; but when we
consider the materials upon which the sagacious conjurer had to work, we
need not feel surprised at his frequent success.
The conjurer in question had taken up his residence in the best inn
which the little town of Rathfillan afforded. Immediately after his
arrival he engaged the beadle, with bell in hand, to proclaim his
presence in the town, and the purport of his visit to that part of the
country. This was done through the medium of printed handbills, which
that officer read and distributed through the crowds who attended him.
The bill in question was as follows:
“To the inhabitants of Rathfillan and the adjacent neighborhood, the
following important communications are made:--
“Her Zander Vanderpluckem, the celebrated German conjurer, astrologist,
and doctor, who has had the honor of predicting the deaths of three
kings, five queens, twenty-one princesses, and seven princes, all of
royal blood, and in the best possible state of health at the time the
predictions were made, and to all of whom he had himself the honor
of being medical attendant and state physician, begs to announce his
arrival in this town. He is the seventh son of the great and renowned
conjurer, Herr Zander Vanderhoaxem, who made the stars tremble, and the
devil sweat himself to powder in a fit of repentance. His influence over
the stars and heavenly bodies is tremendous, and it is a well-known fact
throughout the universe that he has them in such a complete state of
terror and subjection, that a single comet dare not wag his tail unless
by his permission. He travels up and down the milky way one night in
every month, to see that the dairies of the sky are all right, and that
that celebrated path be properly lighted; brings down a pail of the milk
with him, which he churns into butyrus, an unguent so efficacious that
it cures all maladies under the sun, and many that never existed. It
can be had at five shillings a spoonful. He can make Ursa Major, or
the Great Bear, dance without a leader, and has taught Pisces, or the
Fishes, to live out of water--a prodigy never known or heard of before
since the creation of _terra firma_. Such is the power of the great and
celebrated Her Vanderpluckem over the stars and planets. But now to come
nearer home: he cures all patients of all complaints. No person asking
his assistance need ever be sick, unless when they happen to be unwell.
His insight into futurity is such that, whenever he looks far into it,
he is obliged to shut his eyes. He can tell fortunes, discover hidden
wealth to any amount, and create such love between sweethearts as will
be sure to end in matrimony. He is complete master of the fairies,
and has the whole generation of them under his thumb; and he generally
travels with the king of the fairies in his left pocket closed up in a
snuffbox. He interprets dreams and visions, and is never mistaken; can
foretell whether a child unborn will be a boy or a girl, and can also
inform the parents whether it will be brought to the bench or the
gallows. He can also foretell backwards, and disclose to the individual
anything that shall happen to him or her for the last seven years. His
philters, concocted upon the profound science of alchemistic philosophy,
have been sought for by persons of the highest distinction, who have
always found them to produce the very effects for which they were
intended, to wit, mutual affection between the parties, uniformly ending
in matrimony and happiness. Devils expelled, ghosts and spirits laid on
the shortest notice, and at the most moderate terms. Also, recipes to
farmers for good weather or rain, according as they may be wanted.
“(Signed,) Her Zander VANDERPLUCKEM,”
“The Greatest Conjurer, Astrologer, and Doctor in the world.”
To describe the effect that this bill, which, by the way, was posted
against every dead wall in the town, had upon the people, would be
impossible. The inn in which he stopped was, in a short time, crowded
with applicants, either for relief or information, according as their
ills or wishes came under the respective heads of his advertisement. The
room he occupied was upstairs, and he had a door that led into a smaller
one, or kind of closet, at the end of it; here sat an old-looking man,
dressed in a black coat, black breeches, and black stockings; the very
picture of the mysterious individual who had appeared and disappeared so
suddenly at the bonfire. He had on a full-bottomed wig, and a long white
beard, depending from the lower part of his face, swept his reverend
breast. A large book lay open before him, on the pages of which were
inscribed cabalistic characters and strange figures. He only admitted
those who wished to consult him, singly; for on no occasion did he ever
permit two persons at a time to approach him. All the paraphernalia of
astrology were exposed upon the same table, at one end of which he sat
in an arm-chair, awaiting the commencement of operations. At length
a good-looking country-woman, of about forty-five years, made her
appearance, and, after a low courtesy, was solemnly motioned to take a
seat.
“Well, Mrs. Houlaghan,” said he, “how do you do?”
The poor woman got as pale as death. “Heavenly Father,” thought she,
“how does it happen that he comes to know my name!”
“Mrs. Houlaghan, what can I do for you? not that I need ask, for I could
give a very good guess at it;” and this he added with a very sage and
solemn visage, precisely as if he knew the whole circumstances.
“Why, your honor,” she replied--“but, blessed Father, how did you come
to know my name?”
“That's a question,” he replied, solemnly, “which you ought not to ask
me. It is enough that you see I know it. How is your husband, Frank, and
how is your daughter, Mary? She's complaining of late--is she not?”
This private knowledge of the family completely overwhelmed her, and she
felt unable to speak for some time.
“Do not be in a hurry, Mrs. Honlaghan,” said he, mildly; “reflect upon
what you are about to say, and take your time.”
“It's a ghost, your reverence,” she replied--“a ghost that haunts the
house.”
“Very well, Mrs. Houlaghan; the fee for laying a ghost is five
shillings; I will trouble you for that sum; we conjurers have no power
until we get money from the party concerned, and then we can work with
effect.”
The simple woman, in the agitation of the moment, handed him the amount
of his demand, and then collected herself to hear the response, and the
means of laying the ghost.
“Well, now,” said he, “tell me all about this ghost, Mrs. Houlaghan. How
long has it been troubling the family?”
“Why, then, ever since Frank lost the use of his sight, now goin' upon
five months.”
“When does it appear?”
“Why, generally afther twelve at night; and what makes it more strange
is, that poor Mary's more afeard o' me than she is of the ghost. She
says it appears to her in her bedroom every night; but she knows I'm so
timersome that she keeps her door always locked for fraid I'd see it,
poor child.”
“Does it terrify her?”
“Not a bit; she says it does her no harm on earth, and that it's great
company for her when she can't sleep.”
“Has Mary many sweethearts?”
“She has two: one o' them rather ould, but wealthy and well to do; her
father and myself, wishin' to see her well settled, are doin' all we can
to get her consent to marry him.”
“Who's the other?”
“One Brine Oge M'Gaveran, a good-lookin' vagabone, no doubt, but not
worth a copper.”
“Is she fond of him?”
“Troth, to tell you the truth, I'm afeard she is; he has been often seen
about the house in the evenin's.”
“Well, Mrs. Houlaghan, I will tell you how to lay this ghost.”
“God bless you, sir; poor Mary, although she purtends that the ghost is
good company for her, is lookin' pale and very quare somehow.”
“Well, then, here is the receipt for laying the ghost: Marry her as soon
as you possibly can to Brine Oge M'Gaveran--do that and the ghost will
never appear again; but if you refuse to do it--I may lay that ghost of
course--but another ghost, as like it as an egg is to an egg, will
haunt your house until she is married to Brine Oge. You have wealth
yourselves, and you can make Brine and her comfortable if you wish.
She is your only child”--(“Blessed Father, think of him knowin'
this!”)--“and as you are well to do in the world, it's both a sin and a
scandal for you to urge a pretty young girl of nineteen to marry an
old miserly runt of fifty. You know now how to lay the ghost, Mrs.
Houlaghan--and that is what I can do for you; but if you do not marry
her to Brine Oge, as I said, another ghost will certainly contrive to
haunt you. You may now withdraw.”
A farmer, with a very shrewd and comic expression of countenance, next
made his appearance, and taking his hat off and laying it on the floor
with his staff across it, took his seat, as he had been motioned to do,
upon the chair which Mrs. Houlaghan had just vacated.
“Well, my friend,” said the conjurer, “what's troubling you?”
“A crock o' butther, your honor.”
“How is that? explain yourself.”
“Why, sir, a crock o' butther that was stolen from me; and I'm tould for
a sartinty that you can discover the thief o' the world that stole it.”
“And so I can. Do you suspect anybody?”
“Troth, sir, I can't say--for I live in a very honest neighborhood.
The only two thieves that were in it--Charley Folliott and George
Austin--were hanged not long ago, and I don't know anybody else in the
country side that would stale it.”
“What family have you?”
“Three sons, sir.”
“How many daughters?”
“One, sir--but she's only a _girsha_” (a little girl).
“I suppose your sons are very good children to you?”
“Betther never broke bread, sir--all but the youngest.”
“What age is he?”
“About nineteen, sir, or goin' an twenty; but he's a, heart-scald to me
and the family--although he's his mother's pet; the divil can't stand
him for dress--and, moreover, he's given to liquor and card-playin', and
is altogether goin' to the bad. Widin the last two or three days he has
bought himself a new hat, a new pair o' brogues, and a pair o' span-new
breeches--and, upon my conscience, it wasn't from me or mine he got the
money to buy them.”
The conjurer looked solemnly into his book for some minutes, and then
raising his head, fastened his cold, glassy, glittering eyes on the
farmer with a glance that filled him with awe.
“I have found it out,” said he; “there are two parties to the
theft--your wife and your youngest son. Go to the hucksters of the town,
and ask them if they will buy any more butter like the last of yours
that they bought, and, depend on it, you will find out the truth.”
“Then you think, sir, it was my wife and son between them that stole the
butter?”
“Not a doubt of it, and if you tell them that I said so, they will
confess it. You owe me five shillings.”
The farmer put his hand in his pocket, and placing the money before
him, left the room, satisfied that there was no earthly subject, past,
present, or to come, with which the learned conjurer was not acquainted.
The next individual that came before him was a very pretty buxom
widow, who, having made the venerable conjurer a courtesy, sat down and
immediately burst into tears.
“What is the matter with you, madam?” asked the astrologer, rather
surprised at this unaccountable exhibition of the pathetic.
“O, sir, I lost, about fifteen months ago, one of the best husbands that
ever broke the world's bread.”
Here came another effusion, accompanied with a very distracted blow of
the nose.
“That must have been very distressing to you, madam; he must have been
extremely fond of such a very pretty wife.”
“O sir, he doted alive upon me, as I did upon him--poor, darling old
Paul.”
“Ah, he was old, was he?”
“Yes, sir, and left me very rich.”
“But what do you wish me to do for you?”
“Why, sir, he was very fond of money; was, in fact, a--a--kind of miser
in his way. My father and mother forced me to marry the dear old man,
and I did so to please them; but at the same time he was very kind in
his manner to me--indeed, so kind that he allowed me a shilling a month
for pocket money.”
“Well, but what is your object in coming to me?”
“Why, sir, to ask your opinion on a case of great difficulty.”
“Very well, madam; you shall have the best opinion in the known world
upon the subject--that is, as soon as I hear it. Speak out without
hesitation, and conceal nothing.”
“Why, sir, the poor dear man before his death--ah, that ever my darling
old Paul should have been taken away from me!--the poor dear man,
before his death--ahem--before his death--O, ah,”--here came another
effusion--“began to--to--to--get jealous of me with a young man in the
neighborhood that--that--I was fond of before I married my dear old
Paul.”
“Was the young man in question handsome?”
“Indeed, sir, he was, and is, very handsome--and the impudent minxes of
the parish are throwing their caps at him in dozens.”
“But still you are keeping me in the dark.”
“Well, sir, I will tell you my difficulty. When poor dear old Paul was
dying, he called me to the bed-side one day, and says to me: 'Biddy,'
says he, 'I'm going to die--and you know I am wealthy; but, in the
meantime, I won't leave you sixpence.' 'It's not the loss of your
money I am thinking of, my darling Paul,' says I, 'but the loss of
yourself”--and I kissed him, and cried. 'You didn' often kiss me that
way before,' said he--' and I know what you're kissing me for now.'
'No,' I said, 'I did not; because I had no notion then of losing you, my
own darling Paul--you don't know how I loved you all along, Paul,' said
I; 'kiss me again, jewel.' 'Now,' said he,' I'm not going to leave you
sixpence, and I'll tell you why--I saw young Charley Mulvany, that you
were courting before I married you--I saw him, I say, through the windy
there, kiss you, with my own eyes, when you thought I was asleep--and
you put your arms about his neck and hugged him,' said he. I must be
particular, sir, in order that you may understand the difficulty I'm
in.”
“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer. “If I were young I certainly would
envy Charley Mulvany--but proceed.”
“Well, sir, I replied to him: 'Paul, dear,' said I, 'that was a kiss of
friendship--and the reason of it was, that poor Charley was near crying
when he heard that you were going to die and to leave me so lonely.'
'Well,' said he, 'that may be--many a thing may be that's not
likely--and that may be one of them. Go and get a prayer-book, and come
back here.' Well, sir, I got a book and I went back. 'Now,' said he,
'if you swear by the contents of that book that you will never put a
ring on man after my death, I'll leave you my property.' 'Ah, God pardon
you, Paul, darling,' said I, 'for supposing that I'd ever dream of
marrying again'--and I couldn't help kissing him once more and crying
over him when I heard what he said. 'Now,' said he, 'kiss the book, and
swear that you'll never put a ring on man after my death, and I'll leave
you every shilling I'm worth.' God knows it was a trying scene to a
loving heart like mine--so I swore that I'd never put a ring on man
after his death--and then he altered his will and left me the property
on those conditions.”
“Proceed, madam,” said the conjurer; “I am still in the dark as to the
object of your visit.”
“Why, sir, it is to know--ahem--O, poor old Paul. God forgive me! it was
to know, sir, O--”
“Don't cry, madam, don't cry.”
“It was to know, sir, if I could ever think of--of--you must know, sir,
we had no family, and I would not wish that the property should die with
me; to know if--if you think I could venture to marry again?”
“This,” replied the conjurer, “is a matter of unusual importance and
difficulty. In the first place you must hand me a guinea--that is my fee
for cases of this kind.”
The money was immediately paid, and the conjurer proceeded: “I said it
was a case of great difficulty, and so it is, but--”
“I forgot to mention, sir, that when I went out to get the prayer-book,
I found Charley Mulvany in the next room, and he said he had one in his
pocket; so that the truth, sir, is, I--I took the oath upon a book
of ballads. Now,” she proceeded, “I have strong reasons for marrying
Charley Mulvany; and I wish to know if I can do so without losing the
property.”
“Make your mind easy on that point,” replied the conjurer; “you swore
never to put a ring on man, but you did not swear that a man would never
put a ring on you. Go home,” he continued, “and if you be advised by me,
you will marry Charley Mulvany without loss of time.”
A man rather advanced in years next came in, and taking his seat, wiped
his face and gave a deep groan.
“Well, my friend,” said the conjurer, “in what way can I serve you?”
“God knows it's hard to tell that,” he replied--“but I'm troubled.”
“What troubles you?”
“It's a quare world, sir, altogether.”
“There are many strange things in it certainly.”
“That's truth, sir; but the saison's favorable, thank God, and there's
every prospect of a fine spring for puttin' down the crops.”
“You are a farmer, then; but why should you feel troubled about what you
call a fine season for putting down the crops?”
The man moved uneasily upon his chair, and seemed at a loss how to
proceed; the conjurer looked at him, and waited for a little that he
might allow him sufficient time to disclose his difficulties.
“There are a great many troubles in this life, sir, especially in
married families.”
“There is no doubt of that, my friend,” replied the conjurer.
“No, sir, there is not. I am not aisy in my mind, somehow.”
“Hundreds of thousands are so, as well as you,” replied the other. “I
would be glad to see the man who has not something to trouble him; but
will you allow me to ask you what it is that troubles you?”
“I took her, sir, widout a shift to her back, and a betther husband
never breathed the breath of life than I have been to her;” and then he
paused, and pulling out his handkerchief, shed bitter tears. “I would
love her still, if I could, sir; but, then, the thing's impossible.”
“O, yes,” said the conjurer; “I see you are jealous of her; but will you
state upon what grounds?”
“Well, sir, I think I have good grounds for it.”
“What description of a woman is your wife, and what age is she?”
“Why, sir, she's about my own age. She was once handsome enough--indeed,
very handsome when I married her.”
“Was the marriage a cordial one between you and her?”
“Why, sir, she was dotin' upon me, as I was upon her?”
“Have you had a family?”
“A fine family, sir, of sons and daughters.”
“And how long is it since you began to suspect her?”
“Why, sir, I--I--well, no matther about that; she was always a good wife
and a good mother, until--” Here he paused, and again wiped his eyes.
“Until what?”
“Why, sir, until Billy Fulton, the fiddler, came across her.”
“Well, and what did Billy Fulton do?”
“He ran away wid my ould woman, sir.”
“What age is Billy Fulton?”
“About my own age, sir; but by no means so stout a man; he's a dancin'
masther, too, sir; and barrin' his pumps and white cotton stockin's,
I don't know what she could see in him; he's a poor light crature, and
walks as if he had a hump on his hip, for he always carries his fiddle
undher his skirt. Ay, and what's more, sir, our daughter, Nancy, is gone
off wid him.”
“The devil she is. Why, did the old dancing-master run off with both of
them? How long is it since this elopement took place?”
“Only three days, sir.”
“And you wish me to assist you?”
“If you can, sir; and I ought to tell you that the vagabone's son is
gone off wid them too.”
“O, O,” said the conjurer, “that makes the matter worse.”
“No, it doesn't, sir, for what makes the matter worse is, that they took
away a hundred and thirty pounds of my money along wid 'em.”
“Then you wish to know what I can do for you in this business?”
“I do, sir, i' you plaise.”
“Were you ever jealous of your wife before?”
“No, not exactly jealous, sir, but a little suspicious or so; I didn't
think it safe to let her out much; I thought it no harm to keep my eye
on her.”
“Now,” said the conjurer, “is it not notorious that you are the most
jealous--by the way, give me five shillings; I can make no further
communications till I am paid; there--thank you--now, is it not
notorious that you are one of the most jealous old scoundrels in the
whole country?”
“No, sir, barrin' a little wholesome suspicion.”
“Well, sir, go home about your business. Your daughter and the dancing
master's son have made a runaway match of it, and your wife, to protect
the character of her daughter, has gone with them. You are a miser, too.
Go home now; I have nothing more to say to you, except that you have
been yourself a profligate. Look at that book, sir; there it is; the
stars have told me so.”
“You have got my five shillings, sir; but say what you like, all
the wather in the ocean wouldn't wash her clear of the ould
dancin'-masther.”
In the course of a few minutes a beautiful peasant girl entered the
room, her face mantled with blushes, and took her seat on the chair as
the others had done, and remained for some time silent, and apparently
panting with agitation.
“What is your name, my pretty girl?” asked the conjurer.
“Grace Davoren,” replied the girl.
“And what do you wish to know from me, Miss Davoren?”
“O, don't call me miss, sir; I'm but a poor girl.”
The conjurer looked into his book for a few minutes, and then, raising
his head, and fixing his eyes upon her, replied--
“Yes, I will call you miss, because I have looked into your fate, and I
see that there is great good fortune before you.”
The young creature blushed again and smiled with something like
confidence, but seemed rather at a loss what to say, or how to proceed.
“From your extraordinary beauty you must have a great many admirers,
Miss Davoren.”
“But only two, sir, that gives me any trouble--one of them is a--”
The conjurer raised his hand as an intimation to her to stop, and after
poring once more over the book for some time, proceeded:--
“Yes--one of them is Shawn-na-Middogue; but he's an outlaw--and that
courtship is at an end now.”
“Wid me, it is, sir; but not wid him. The sogers and autorities is out
for him and others; but still he keeps watchin' me as close as he can.”
“Well, wait till I look into the book of fate again--yes--yes--here
is--a gentleman over head and ears in love with you.”
Poor Grace blushed, then became quite pale. “But, sir,” said she, “will
the gentleman marry me?”
“To be sure he will marry you; but he cannot for some time.”
“But will he save me from disgrace and shame, sir?” she asked, with a
death-like face.
“Don't make your mind uneasy on that point;--but wait a moment till I
find out his name in the great book of fatality;--yes, I see--his name
is Woodward. Don't, however, make your mind uneasy; he will take care of
you.”
“My mind is very uneasy, sir, and I wish I had never seen him. But I
don't know what could make him fall in love wid a poor simple girl like
me.”
This was said in the coquettish consciousness of the beauty which she
knew she possessed, and it was accompanied, too, by a slight smile of
self-complacency.
“Do you think I could become a lady, sir?”
“A lady! why, what is to prevent you? You are a lady already. You want
nothing but silks and satins, jewels and gold rings, to make you a
perfect lady.”
“And he has promised all these to me,” she replied.
“Yes; but there is one thing you ought to do for your own sake and
his--and that is to betray Shaivn-na-Middogue, if you can; because if
you do not, neither your own life, nor that of your lover, Mr. Woodward,
will be safe.”
“I couldn't do that, sir,” replied the girl, “it would be treacherous;
and sooner than do so, I'd just as soon he would kill me at wanst--still
I would do a great deal to save Mr. Woodward. But will Mr. Woodward
marry me, sir? because he said he would--in the coorse of some time.”
“And if he said so don't be uneasy; he is a gentleman, and a gentleman,
you know, always keeps his word. Don't be alarmed, my pretty girl--your
lover will provide for you.”
“Am I to pay you anything, sir?” she asked, rising.
“No, my dear, I will take no money from you; but if you wish to save
Mr. Woodward from danger, you will enable the soldiers to, arrest
Shawn-na-Middogue. Even you, yourself, are not safe so long as he is at
large.”
She then took her leave in silence.
It is not to be supposed that among the crowd that was assembled around
the inn door there were not a number of waggish characters, who felt
strongly inclined to have, if possible, a hearty laugh at the great
conjurer. No matter what state of society may exist, or what state of
feeling may prevail, there will always be found a class of persons who
are exceptions to the general rule. Whilst the people were chatting
in wonder and admiration, not without awe and fear, concerning the
extraordinary knowledge and power of the conjurer, a character peculiar
to all times and all ages made his appearance, and soon joined them.
This was one of those circulating, unsettled vagabonds, whom, like
scum, society, whether agitated or not, is always sure to throw on the
surface. The comical miscreant no sooner made his appearance than, like
Liston, when coming on the stage, he was greeted with a general roar of
laughter.
“So,” said he, “you have a conjurer above. But wait a while; by the
powdhers o' delf Rantin' Rody's the boy will try his mettle. If he can
look farther than his nose, I'm the lad will find it out. If he doesn't
say I'll be hanged, he knows nothing about his business. I have myself
half-a-dozen hangmen engaged to let me down aisy; it's a death I've a
great fancy for, and, plaise God, I'm workin' honestly to desarve it.
Which of you has a cow to steal? for, by the sweets o' rosin, I'm low in
cash, and want a thrifle to support nather; for nather, my boys, must be
supported, and it was never my intintion to die for want o' my vittles;
aitin' and drinkin' is not very pleasant to most people, I know, but I
was born wid a fancy for both.”
“Rantin' Rody, in airnest, will you go up and have your fortune tould?”
“But wait,” he proceeded; “wait, I say,--wait,--I have it.” And as he
said so he went at the top of his speed down the street, and disappeared
in Sol Donnel's cabin.
“By this and by that,” said one of them, “Rtn'tin' Rody will take spunk
out of him, if it's in him.”
“I think he had better have notin' to do wid him,” said an old woman,
“for fraid he'd rise the devil--Lord guard us! Sure it's the same man
that was in this very town the night he was _riz_ before, and that the
bonfire for Suil Balor (the eye of Balor, or the Evil Eye) Woodward was
drowned by a shower of blood. Troth I wouldn't be in the same Woodward's
coat for the wealth o' the world. As for Rantin' Rody, let him take care
of himself. It's never safe to sport wid edged tools, and he'll be apt
to find it so, if he attempts to put his tricks upon the conjurer.”
In the meantime, while that gentleman was seated above stairs, a female,
tall, slim, and considerably advanced in years, entered the room and
took her seat. Her face was thin, and red in complexion, especially
about the point of a rather long nose, where the color appeared to be
considerably deeper in hue.
“Sir,” said she, in a sharp tone of voice, “I'm told you can tell
fortunes.”
“Certainly, madam,” he replied, you have been correctly informed.”
“You won't be offended, then, if I wish to ask you a question or two.
It's not about myself, but a sister of mine, who is--ahem--what the
censorious world is pleased to call an old maid.”
“Why did your sister not come herself?” he asked; “I cannot predict
anything unless the individual is before me; I must have him or her, as
the case may be, under my eye.”
“Bless me, sir! I didn't know that; but as I am now here--could you tell
me anything about myself?”
“I could tell you many things,” replied the conjurer, who read old maid
in every line of her face--“many things not very pleasant for you to
reflect upon.”
“O, but I don't wish to hear anything unpleasant,” said she; “tell me
something that's agreeable.”
“In the first place, I cannot do so,” he replied; “I must be guided
by truth. You have, for instance, been guilty of great cruelty; and
although you are but a young woman, in the very bloom of life--”
Here the lady bowed to him, and simpered--her thin, red nose twisted
into a gracious curl, as thanking him for his politeness.
“In the very prime of life, madam--yet you have much to be accountable
for, in consequence of your very heartless cruelty to the male sex--you
see, madam, and you feel too, that I speak truth.”
The lady put the spectre of an old fan up to her withered visage, and
pretended to enact a blush of admission.
“Well, sir,” she replied, “I--I--I cannot say but that--indeed I have
been charged with--not that it--cruelty--I mean--was ever in my heart;
but you must admit, sir, that--that--in fact--where too many press, upon
a person, it is the more difficult choose.”
“Unquestionably; but you should have, made a judicious selection--and
that was because you were in no hurry--and indeed you need not be; you
have plenty of time before you. Still, there is much blame attached to
you--you have defrauded society of its rights. Why, now, you might have
been the proud mother of a son or daughter at least five years old by
this time, if it had not been for your own obduracy--excuse me.”
Up went the skeleton fan again with a wonderfully modest if not an
offended simper at the notion of such an insinuation; but, said she
in her heart, this is the most gentlemanly conjurer that ever told a
fortune; quite a delightful old gentleman; he is really charming; I wish
I had met him twenty years ago.”
“Well, sir,” she replied, “I see there is no use in denying--especially
to you, who seem to know everything--the truth of the facts you have
stated. There was one gentleman in particular whom I rejected--that
is, conditionally--rather harshly; and do you know, he took the
scarlet-fever soon afterwards and died of a broken-heart.”
“Go on, madam,” said he; “make a clean breast of it--so shall you enable
me to compare the future with the past, and state your coming fortunes
more distinctly.”
“Another gentleman, sir--a country squire--owes, I fear, his death to my
severity; he was a hard drinker, but I gave him a month to reform--which
sentence he took so much to heart that he broke his neck in a fox-chase
from mere despair. A third individual--a very handsome young man--of
whom I must confess I was a little jealous about his flirting with
another young lady--felt such remorse that he absolutely ran away with
and married her. I know, of course, I am accountable for all these
calamities; but it cannot be helped now--my conscience must bear it.”
“You should not look back upon these things with too much remorse,”
replied the conjurer; “forget them--bear a more relenting heart; make
some man happy, and marry. Have you no person at present in your eye
with whom you could share your charms and your fortune?”
“O, sir, you are complimentary.”
“Not at all, madam; speak to me candidly, as you perceive I do to you.”
“Well, then,” she replied, “there is a young gentleman with whom
I should wish to enter into a--a domestic--that is--a matrimonial
connection.”
“Pray what age is he?”
“Indeed, he is but young, scarce nineteen; but then he is very wild, and
I--I--have--indeed I am of too kind a heart, sir. I have supplied his
extravagance--for so I must call it--poor boy--but cannot exactly
get him to accept a legitimate right over me--I fear he is attached
elsewhere--but you know he is young, sir, and. not come to his ripe
judgment yet. I read your handbill, sir; and if you could furnish me
with a--something--ahem--that might enable me to gain, or rather to
restore his affections--for I think he was fond of me some few months
ago--I would not grudge whatever the payment might be.”
“You mean a philter?”
“I believe that is what it is called, sir.”
“Well, madam, you shall be supplied with a philter that never fails, on
the payment ol twenty-one shillings. This, philter, madam, will not only
make him fond of you before marriage, but will secure his affections
during life, increasing them day by day, so that every month of your
lives will be a delicious honeymoon. There is another bottle at the same
price; it may not, indeed, be necessary for you, but I can assure you
that it has made many families happy where there had been previously
but little prospect of happiness; the price is the same--twenty-one
shillings.”
Up went the spectral fan again, and out came the forty-two shillings,
and, with a formal courtesy, the venerable old maid walked away with the
two bottles of aqua pura in her pocket.
Now came the test for the conjurer's knowledge--the sharp and unexpected
trial of his skill and sagacity. After the old maid had taken her leave,
possessed of the two bottles, a middle-aged, large-sized woman walked
in, and, after making a low courtesy, sat down as she had been desired.
The conjurer glanced keenly at her, and something like a smile might be
seen to settle upon his features; it was so slight, however, that the
good woman did not notice it.
“Pray, what's the object of your visit to me, may I ask?”
“My husband, sir--he runn'd away from me, sure.”
“Small blame to him,” replied the conjurer. “If I had such a wife I
would not remain a single hour in her company.”
“And is that the tratement you give a heart-broken and desarted crature
like me?”
“Come, what made him run away from you?”
“In regard, sir, of a dislike he took to me.”
“That was a proof that the man had some taste.”
“Ay, but why hadn't he that taste afore he married me?”
“It was very well that he had it afterwards--better late than never.”
“I want you to tell me where he is.”
“What family have you?”
“Seven small childre that's now fatherless, I may say.”
“What kind of a man was your husband?”
“Why, indeed, as handsome a vagabone as you'd see in a day's
travellin'.”
“Mention his name; I can tell you nothing till I hear it.”
“He's called Rantin' Rody, the thief, and a great schamer he is among
the girls.”
“Ranting Rody--let me see,” and here he looked very solemnly into his
book--“yes; I see--a halter. My good woman, you had better not inquire
after him; he was born to be hanged.”
“But when will that happen, sir?”
“Your fate and his are so closely united, that, whenever he swings, you
will swing. You will both hang together from the same gallows; so that,
in point of fact, you need not give yourself much trouble about the time
of his suspension, because I see it written here in the book of fate,
that the same hangman who swings you off, will swing him off at the same
moment. You'll 'lie lovingly together; and when he puts his tongue out
at those who will attend his execution, so will you; and when he dances
his last jig in their presence, so will you. Are you now satisfied?”
“Troth, and I'm very fond o' the vagabone, although he's the worst
friend I ever had. But you won't tell me where he is? and I know why,
because, with all your pretended knowledge, the devil a know you know.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Ay, cocksure.”
“Then I can tell you that he is sitting on the chair there, opposite me.
Go about your business, Rody, and rant elsewhere; you may impose upon
others, but not upon a man that can penetrate the secrets of human life
as I can. Go now; there is a white wand in the corner,--my conjuring
rod,--and if I only touched you with it, I could leave you a cripple and
beggar for life. Go, I say, and tell Caterine Collins how much she and
you gained by this attempt at disgracing me.”
Rody, for it was he, was thunderstruck at this discovery, and, springing
to his feet, disappeared.
“Well, Rody,” said the crowd, “how did you manage? Did he know you?”
Rody was as white in the face as a sheet. “Let me alone,” he replied;
“the conjurer above is the devil, and nothin' else. I must get a glass
o' whiskey; I'm near faintin'; I'm as wake as a child; my strength's
gone The man, or the devil, or whatsomever he is, knows everything, and,
what is worse, he tould me I am to be hanged in earnest.”
“Faith, Rody, that required no great knowledge on his part; there's not
a man here but could have tould you the same thing, and there's none of
us a conjurer.”
Rody, however, immediately left them to discuss the matter among
themselves, and went, thoroughly crestfallen, to give an account of his
mission to Caterine Collins, who had employed him, and to reassume his
own clothes, which, indeed, were by no means fresh from the tailor.
The last individual whose interview with the conjurer we shall notice
was no other than Harry Woodward, our hero. On entering he took his
seat, and looked familiarly at the conjurer.
“Well,” said he, “there was no recognition?”
“How could there?” replied the other; “you know the thing's impossible;
even without my beard, nobody in the town or about it knows my face,
and to those who see me in character, they have other things to think of
than the perusal of my features.”
“The girl was with you?”
“She yes, and I feel that, unless we can get Shawn-na-Middogue taken off
by some means or other, your life will not, cannot, be safe.”
“She won't betray him, then? But I need not ask, for I have pressed her
upon that matter before.”
“She is very right in not doing so,” replied the conjurer; “because, if
she did, the consequence would be destruction to herself and her family.
In addition to this, however, I don't think it's in her power to betray
him. He never sleeps more than one night in the same place; and since
her recent conduct to him--I mean since her intimacy with you--he would
place no confidence in her.”
“He certainly is not aware of our intimacy.”
“Of course he is not; you would soon know it to your cost if he were.
The place of your rendezvous is somewhat too near civilization for him;
you should, however, change it; never meet twice in the same place, if
you can.”
“You are reaping a tolerably good harvest here, I suppose. Do they ever
place you in a difficulty?”
“Difficulty! God help you; there is not an individual among them, or
throughout the whole parish, with whose persons, circumstances, and
characters I am not acquainted; but even if it were not so, I could make
them give me unconsciously the very information they want--returned to
them, of course, in a new shape. I make them state the facts, and I draw
the inferences; nothing is easier; it is a trick that every impostor is
master of. How do you proceed with Miss Goodwin?”
“That matter is hopeless by fair means--she's in love with that d----d
brother of mine.”
“No chance of the property, then?”
“Not as affairs stand at present; we must, however, maintain our
intimacy; if so, I won't despair yet.”
“But what do you intend to do? If she marries your brother the property
goes to him--and you may go whistle.”
“I don't give it up, though--I bear a brain still, I think; but the
truth is, I have not completed my plan of operations. What I am to do, I
know not yet exactly. If I could break off the match between her and my
brother, she might probably, through the influence of her parents
and other causes, he persuaded into a reluctant marriage with Harry
Woodward; time, however, will tell, and I must only work my way through
the difficulty as well as I can. I will now leave you, and I don't think
I shall be able to see you again for a week to come.”
“Before you go let me ask if you know a vagabond called Ranting Rody,
who goes about through the country living no one knows how?”
“No, I do not know him; what is he?”
“He's nothing except a paramour of Caterine Collins's, who, you know,
is a rival of ours; nobody here knows anything about him, whilst he, it
appears, knows every one and everything.”
“He would make a good conjurer,” replied Woodward, smiling.
“If the fellow could be depended on,” replied the other, “he might
be useful; in fact, I am of opinion that if he wished he could trace
_Shawn-na-Middogue's_ haunts. The scoundrel attempted just now to impose
upon me in the dress of a woman, and, were it not that I knew him so
well, he might have got my beard stripped from my face, and my bones
broken besides; but I feel confident that if any one could trace and
secure the outlaw, he could--I mean with proper assistance. Think of
this.”
“I shall find him out,” replied Woodward, “and sound him, at all events,
and I think through Caterine Collins I may possibly secure him; but we
must be cautious. Good-by; I wish you success!”
After which he passed through the crowd, exclaiming,
“A wonderful man--an astonishing man--and a fearful man; that is if he
be a man, which I very much doubt.”