Jerry Sullivan's house and place had about them all the marks and tokens
of gradual decline. The thatch on the roof had begun to get black, and
in some places was sinking into rotten ridges; the yard was untidy and
dirty; the walls and hedges were broken and dismantled; and the gates
were lying about, or swinging upon single hinges. The whole air of the
premises was uncomfortable to the spectator, who could not avoid feeling
that there existed in the owner either wilful neglect or unsuccessful
struggle. The chimneys, from which the thatch had sank down, stood
up with the incrustations of lime that had been trowelled round their
bases, projecting uselessly out from them; some of the quoins had fallen
from the gable; the plaster came off the walls in several places, and
the whitewash was sadly discolored.
Inside, the aspect of everything was fully as bad, if not worse.
Tables and chairs, and the general furniture of the house, had all that
character of actual cleanliness and apparent want of care which poverty
superinduces upon the most strenuous efforts of industry. The floor
was beginning to break up into holes; tables and chairs were crazy; the
dresser, though clean, had a cold, hungry, unfurnished look; and, what
was unquestionably the worst symptom of all, the inside of the chimney
brace, where formerly the sides and flitches of deep, fat bacon, grey
with salt, were arrayed in goodly rows, now presented nothing but the
bare and dust-covered hooks, from which they had depended in happier
times. About a dozen of herrings hung at one side of a worn salt-box,
and at the other a string of onions that was nearly Stripped, both
constituting the principal kitchen, varied, perhaps, with a little
buttermilk,--which Sullivan's family were then able to afford themselves
with their potatoes.
We cannot close our description here, however; for sorry we are to
say, that the severe traces of poverty were as visible upon the inmates
themselves as upon the house and its furniture. Sullivan's family
consisted of his eldest daughter, aged nineteen, two growing boys, the
eldest about sixteen, and several younger children besides. These last
were actually ragged--all of them were scantily and poorly clothed; and
if any additional proof were wanting that poverty, in one of its most
trying shapes, had come among them, it was to be found in their pale,
emaciated features, and in that languid look of care and depression,
which any diminution in the natural quantity of food for any length of
time uniformly impresses upon the countenance. In fact, the whole group
had a sickly and wo-worn appearance, as was evident from the unnatural
dejection of the young, who, instead of exhibiting the cheerfulness
and animation of youth, now moped about without gayety, sat brooding in
corners, or struggled for a warm place nearest to the dull and cheerless
fire.
“The day was, Donnel,” said Sullivan, whilst he pointed, with a sigh,
to the unfurnished chimney, “when we could give you--as I said awhile
agone--a betther welcome--in one sense--I mane betther tratement--than
we can give you now; but you know the times that is in it, an' you know
the down-come we have got, an' that the whole country has got--so you
must only take the will for the deed now--to such as we have you're
heartily welcome. Get us some dinner, Bridget,” he added, turning to his
wife; “but, first and foremost, bring that girl into the room here till
she hears what I have to say to her; and, Donnel, as you wor a witness
to the disgraceful sight we seen a while agone, come in an' hear, too,
what I'm goin' to say to her. I'll have no black thraisin in my own
family against my own blood, an' against the blood of my loving brother,
that was so traicherously shed by that boy's father.”
The persons he addressed immediately passed into the cold, damp room as
he spoke--Mave, the cause of all this anxiety, evidently in such a state
of excitement as was pitiable. Her mother, who, as well as every
other member of the family, had been ignorant of this extraordinary
attachment, seemed perfectly bewildered by the language of her husband,
at whom, as at her daughter, she looked with a face on which might be
read equal amazement and alarm.
Mave Sullivan was a young creature, shaped with extraordinary symmetry,
and possessed of great natural grace. Her stature was tall, and all
her motions breathed; unstudied ease and harmony. In color, her long,
abundant hair was beautifully fair--precisely of that delightful shade
which generally accompanies a pale but exquisitely clear and almost
transparent complexion. Her face was oblong, and her features so replete
with an expression of innocence and youth, as left on the beholder a
conviction that she breathed of utter guilelessness and angelic purity
itself. This was principally felt in the bewitching charm of her smile,
which was irresistible, and might turn the heart of a demon into love.
All her motions were light and elastic, and her whole figure, though not
completely developed, was sufficiently rounded by the fulness of health
and youth to give promise of a rich and luxurious maturity. On this
occasion she became deadly pale, but as she was one of those whose
beauty only assumes a new phase of attraction at every change, her
paleness now made her appear, if possible, an object of greater
interest.
“In God's name, Jerry,” asked her mother, looking from father to
daughter in a state of much distress, “what is wrong, or what has
happened to put you in such a condition? I see by the anger in your eye
an' the whiteness of your cheeks, barrin' the little red spot in the
middle, that something out o' the way all out has happened to vex you.”
“You may well say so, Bridget,” he replied; “but when I tell you that
I came upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the
man that murdhered her uncle--my only brother--you won't be surprised
at the state you see me in--coortin' wid a fellow that Dan M'Gowan here
knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin' him so.”
“You're ravin', Jerry,” exclaimed his wife, who appeared to feel the
matter as incredible; “you don't mane to tell me that she'd spake to, or
know, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy Dalton, the
son of her uncle's murdherer? Hut, no, Jerry, don't say that, at all
events--any disgrace but that--death, the grave--or--or anything--but
sich an unnatural curse as that would be.”
“I found them together behind the garden not many minutes ago,” replied
Sullivan. “Donnel here seen them as well as I did--deny it she can't;
an' now let her say what brought her there to meet him, or rather what
brought him all the way to meet her? Answer me that, you disgrace to the
name--answer me at wanst!”
The poor girl trembled and became so weak as to be scarcely able to
stand: in fact, she durst not raise her eye to meet that of either
parent, but stood condemned and incapable of utterance.
The night had now nearly set in, and one of her little sisters entered
with a rush candle in her hand, the light of which, as it fell dimly
and feebly on the group, gave to the proceedings a wild and impressive
appearance. The prophecy-man, with his dark, stern look, peculiar nose,
and black raven hair that fell thickly over his shoulders, contrasted
strongly with the fair, artless countenance and beautiful figure of
the girl who stood beside him, whilst over opposite them were Sullivan
himself and his wife, their faces pale with sorrow, anxiety, and
indignation.
“Give me the candle,” proceeded her father; “hand it to me, child, and
leave the room; then,” he proceeded, holding it up to a great-coat of
frieze which hung against the wall--“there's his coat--there's my lovin'
brother's coat; look upon it now, an' ax yourself what do you desarve
for meeting against our will an' consint the son of him that has the
murdher of the man that owned it on his hands an' on his heart? What do
you desarve, I say?”
The girl spoke not, but the black prophet, struck by the words and the
unexpected appearance of the murdered man's coat, started; in a moment,
however, he composed himself, and calmly turned his eyes upon Sullivan,
who proceeded to address his daughter.
“You have nothing to say, then? You're guilty, an' of coorse you have
no excuse to make; however, I'll soon put an end to all this. Bring me a
prayerbook. If your book oath can bind you down against ever----”
He could proceed no further. On uttering the last words, his daughter
tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Donnel Dhu caught
her in his arms. She had, in fact, become almost insensible from excess
of shame and over excitement, and, as Donnel carried her towards a bed
that was in the corner of the room, her head lay over against his face.
It is unnecessary to say that Sullivan's indignation was immediately
lost in alarm. On bringing the candle near her, the first thing they
observed were streaks of blood upon Donnel Dhu's face, that gave to it,
in connection with the mark of the blow he had received, a frightful and
hideous expression.
“What is this?” exclaimed her mother, seizing the candle and holding it
to the beautiful features of her trembling daughter, which were now also
dabbled with blood. “In God's name, what ails my child? O Mave, Mave,
my darlin', what's come over you? Blessed mother of marcy, what blood is
this? _Achora, machree_, Mave, spake to! me--to the mother that 'ud
go distracted, an' that will, too, if anything's wrong wid you. It was
cruel in you, Jerry, to spake to; her so harsh as you did, an' to take
her to task before a sthranger in such a cuttin' manner. Saiver of
Airth, Mave, darlin', won't you spake to me, to your own mother?”'
“Maybe I did spake to her too severely,” said the father, now relenting,
“an' if I did, may God forgive me; for sure you know, Bridget, I
wouldn't injure a hair of my darlin's head. But this blood! this blood!
oh, where did it come from?”
Her weakness, however, proved of but short duration, and their
apprehension was soon calmed. Mave looked around her rather wildly, and
no sooner had her eyes rested on Donnel Dhu than she shrieked aloud, and
turning her face away from him, with something akin to fear and horror,
she flung herself into her mother's arms, exclaiming, as she hid her
face in her bosom: “Oh save me from that man; don't let! him near me;
don't let him touch me. I can't tell why, but I'm deadly afraid of him.
What blood is that upon his face? Father, stand between us!”
“Foolish girl!” exclaimed her father, “you don't know what you're
sayin'. Of coorse, Donnel, you'll not heed her words for, indeed, she
hasn't come to herself yet. But, in God's name, where did this blood
come from that's upon you and her?”
“You can't suppose, Jerry,” said Donnel, “that the poor girl's words
would make me take any notice of them. She has been too much frightened,
and won't know, maybe in a few minutes, that she spoke them at all.”
“That's thrue,” said her mother; “but with regard to the blood----”
She was about to proceed, when Mave rose up, and requested to be taken
out of the room.
“Bring me to the kitchen,” said she, “I'm afraid; and see this blood,
mother.”
Precisely as she spoke, a few drops of blood fell from her nose, which,
of course, accounted for its appearance on Donnel's face, and probably
for her terror also at his repulsive aspect.
“What makes you afeard of poor Donnel, asthore?” asked her mother--“a
man that wouldn't injure a hair of your head, nor of one belongin' to
you, an' never did.”
“Why, when my father,” she returned, “spoke about the coat there, an'
just as Donnel started, I looked at it, an' seen it movin', I don't know
why, but I got afeard of him.”
Sullivan held up the candle mechanically, as she spoke, towards the
coat, upon which they all naturally gazed; but, whether from its dim
flickering light, or the force of imagination, cannot be determined,
one thing was certain, the coat appeared actually to move again, as if
disturbed by some invisible hand. Again, also, the prophet involuntary
started, but only for a single moment.
“Tut,” said he, “it's merely the unsteady light of the candle; show it
here.”
He seized the rushlight from Sullivan, and approaching the coat, held
it so close to it, that had there been the slightest possible motion, it
could not have escaped their observation.
“Now,” he added, “you see whether it moves or not; but, indeed, the
poor girl is so frightened by the great scowldin' she got, that I don't
wondher at the way she's in.”
Mrs. Sullivan kept still gazing at the coat, in a state of terror almost
equal to that of her daughter.
“Well,” said she, “I've often heard it said that one is sometimes to
disbelieve their own eyes; an' only that I known the thing couldn't
happen, I would swear on the althar that I seen it movin'.”
“I thought so myself, too,” observed Sullivan, who also seemed to have
been a good deal perplexed and awed by the impression; “but of coorse I
agree wid Donnel, that it was the unsteady light of the rush that made
us think so; howaniver, it doesn't matther now; move or no move, it
won't bring him that owned it back to us, so God rest him!--and now,
Bridget, thry an' get us some-thin' to ait.”
“Before the girl leaves the room,” said the prophecy man, “let me spake
what I think an' what I know. I've lost many a weary day an' night in
studyin' the further, an' in lookin' into what's to come. I must spake,
then, what I think an' what I know, regardin' her. I must; for when the
feelin' is on me, I can't keep the prophecy back.”
“Oh! let me go, mother,” exclaimed the alarmed girl; “let me go; I can't
bear to look at him.”
“One minute, acushla, till you hear what he has to say to you,” and she
held her back, with a kind of authoritative violence, as Mave attempted
to leave the room.
“Don't be alarmed my purty creature,” spoke the prophet; “don't be
alarmed at what I'm goin' to say to you, an' about you, for you needn't.
I see great good fortune before you. I see a grand an' handsome husband
at your side, and a fine house to live in. I see stairs, an' carpets,
an' horses, an' hounds, an' yourself, with jewels in your white little
ears, an' silks, an' satins on your purty figure. That's a wakin' dhrame
I had, an' you may all mark my words, if it doesn't come out thrue; it's
on the leaf, an' the leaf was open to me. Grandeur an' wealth is before
her, for her beauty an' her! goodness will bring it all about, an' so I
read it.”
“An' what about the husband himself?” asked the mother, whose affections
caused! her to feel a strong interest in anything that might concern
the future interest of her daughter; “can you tell us nothing about his
appearance, that we might give a guess at him?”
“No,” replied M'Gowan, for such was the prophet's name, “not to you; to
none but herself can I give the marks an' tokens that will enable her
to know the man that is to be her husband when she sees him; and to
herself, in the mornin', I will, before I go that is if she'll allow
me--for what is written in the dark book ought to be read and expounded.
Her beauty an' her goodness will do it all!”
The man's words were uttered m a voice so replete with those soft and
insinuating tones that so powerfully operate upon the female heart; they
breathed, too such an earnest spirit of good will, joined to an evident
admiration of the beauty and goodness he alluded to, that the innocent
girl, not-withstanding her previous aversion, felt something like
gratification at what he said, not on account ol the prospects held out
to her, but because of the singular charm and affectionate spirit
which breathed in his voice; or, might it not have been that delicate
influence of successful flattery which so gently pervades the heart of
woman, and soothes that vanity which unconsciously lurks in the very
purest and most innocent of the sex? So far from being flattered by
his predictions, she experienced a strong sensation of disappointment,
because she knew where her affections at that moment rested, and felt
persuaded that if she were destined to enjoy the grandeur shadowed out
for her, it never could be with him whom she then loved. Notwithstanding
all this, she felt her repugnance against the prophet strongly
counterbalanced by the strange influence he began to exercise over her;
and with this impression she and they passed to the kitchen, where in a
few minutes she was engaged in preparing food for him, with a degree of
good feeling that surprised herself.
There is scarcely anything so painful to hearts naturally generous, like
those of the Sullivans, as the contest between the shame and exposure of
the conscious poverty on the one hand, and the anxiety to indulge in a
hospitable spirit on the other. Nobody unacquainted with Ireland could
properly understand the distress of mind which this conflict almost
uniformly produces. On the present occasion it was deeply felt by
this respectable but declining family, and Mave, the ingenuous and
kind-hearted girl, felt much of her unaccountable horror of this man
removed by its painful exercise. Still her aversion was not wholly
overcome, although much diminished; for, ever as she looked at his
swollen and disfigured face, and thought of the mysterious motions of
the murdered man's coat, she could not avoid turning away her eyes, and
wishing that she had not seen him that evening. The scanty meal was at
length over; a meal on which many a young eye dwelt with those yearning
looks that take their character from the hungry and wolfish spirit which
marks the existence of a “hard year,” as it is called in our unfortunate
country, and which, to a benevolent heart, forms such a sorrowful
subject for contemplation. Poor Bridget Sullivan did all in her power to
prevent this evident longing from being observed by M'Gowan, by looking
significantly, shaking' her head, and knitting her brows, at the
children; and when these failed she had recourse to threatening
attitudes, and all kinds of violent gestures: and on these proving also
unsuccessful, she was absolutely forced to speak aloud--
“Come, childhre, start out now, an' play yourselves; be off, I say, an'
don't stand ready to jump down the daicent man's throat wid every bit he
aits.”
She then drove them abroad somewhere, but as the rain fell heavily the
poor creatures were again forced to return, and resume their pitiable
watch until the two men had finished their scanty repast.
Seated around the dull and uncomfortable fire, the whole family now
forgot the hunger and care for a time, in the wild legends with which
M'Gowan entertained them, until the hour of rest.
“We haven't the best bed in the world,” observed Sullivan, “nor the best
bed-clothes aither, but, as I said before, I wish, for all our sakes,
they were betther. You must take your chance with these two slips o'
boys to-night as well as you can. If you wish to tumble in now you may;
or, may be you'd join us in our prayers. We sthrive, God! help us, to
say a Rosary every night; for, afther all, there's nothin' like puttin'
oneself! undher the holy protection of the Almighty, blessed be His
name! Indeed, this sickness that's goin' is so rife and dangerous that
it's good to sthrive to be prepared, as it is indeed, whatever comes,
whether hunger or plenty, sickness or health; an' may God keep us
prepared always!”
M'Gowan seemed for a moment at a loss, but almost immediately said in
reply--
“You are right, Jerry, but as for me, I say whatever prayers I do say,
always by myself; for I can then get my mind fixed upon them betther.
I'll just turn into bed, then, for troth I feel a little stiff and
tired; so you must only let me have my own way to-night. To-morrow night
I'll pray double.” He then withdrew to his appointed place of rest,
where, after having partially undressed himself, he lay down, and for
some time could hear no other sound than the solemn voices of this
struggling and afflicted little fold, as they united in offering up
their pious and simple act of worship to that Great Being, in whose
providential care they felt such humble and confiding trust.
When their devotions were concluded, they quietly, and in a spirit
at once of resignation and melancholy, repaired to their respective
sleeping places, with the exception of old Sullivan himself, who, after
some hesitation, took down the great coat already so markedly alluded
to--and exclaiming, partly to those within hearing--
“I don't know--but still there can't be any harm in it; sure it's
betther that it should be doin' some good than hangin' up there idle,
against the wall, such a night as this. Here, Dan, for the first time
since I put it up wid my own hands, except to shake the dust off of it,
I'm goin' to turn this big coat to some use. There,” he added, spreading
it over them; “let it help to keep you warm to-night--for God knows, you
want it, you an' them poor gorsoons. Your coverin' is but light, an'
you may hear the downpowrin' of rain that's in it; an' the wind, too,
is risin' fast, every minute--gettin' so strong, indeed, that I doubt it
'ill be a storm before it stops; an' Dan, if it 'udn't be too much, may
be you'd not object to offer up one pather an' avy for the poor sowl of
him that owned it, an' that was brought to his account so suddenly and
so terribly. There,” he added, fixing it upon them; “it helps to keep
you warm at any rate; an' it's surely betther to have it so employed
than hangin' idle, as I said, against the wall.”
M'Gowan immediately sat up in the bed, and putting down his hands,
removed the coat.
“We don't want it at all,” he replied; “take it away, Jerry--do, for
heaven's sake. The night's not at all so cowld as you think, an' we'll
keep one another warm enough wid-out it, never fear.”
“Troth you do want it,” said Sullivan; “for fareer gair, it's the light
coverin' that's over you an' them, poor boys. Heighho, Dan, see what
innocence is--poor things, they're sound already--an' may God pity them
an' provide for them, or enable me to do it!” And as he looked down upon
the sleeping lads, the tears came so abundantly to his eyes, that he was
forced to wipe them away. “Keep the coat, Dan,” he added; “you do want
it.”
“No,” replied the other. “The truth is, I couldn't sleep under it. I'm
very timersome, an' a little thing frightens me.”
“Oh,” said Sullivan, “I didn't think of that: in troth, if you're
timersome, it's more than the world b'lieves of you. Well, well--I'll
hang it up again; so good night, an' a sound sleep to you, an' to every
man that has a free conscience in the sight of God!”
No response was given to this prayer, and his words were followed by a
deep and solemn silence, that was only broken occasionally by the heavy
pattering of the descending rain, and the fitful gusts of the blast, as
they rushed against the house, and sung wildly among the few trees by
which it and the garden were enclosed.
Every one knows that a night of wind and storm, if not rising actually
to a tempest or hurricane, is precisely that on which sleep is with
its deepest influence upon men. Sullivan's family, on that which we are
describing, were a proof of this; at least until about the hour of
three o'clock, when they were startled by a cry for help, so loud and
frightful, that in a moment he and the boys huddled on their dress, and
hurried to the bed in which the prophet lay. In a minute or two they
got a candle lit; and truly the appearance of the man was calculated to
drive fear and alarm into their hearts. They found him sitting in the
bed, with his eyes so wild and staring that they seemed straining out
of their sockets. His hair was erect, and his mouth half open, and drawn
back; while the perspiration poured from him in torrents. His hands
were spread, and held up, with their palms outwards, as if in the act of
pushing something back that seemed to approach him. “Help,” he shouted,
“he is comin' on me--he will have me powerless in a minute. He is
gaspin' now, as he--Stay back, stay back--here--here, help; it's the
murdhered man--he's upon me. Oh!--Oh, God! he's comin' nearer and
nearer. Help me--save me!”
Sullivan on holding the candle to his face, perceived that he was still
asleep; and suspecting the nature of his dream, he awoke him at once. On
seeing a portion of the family about him, he started again, and looked
for a moment so completely aghast that he resembled horror personified.
“Who--what--what are you? Oh,” he exclaimed, recovering, and striving to
compose himself, “ha--Good God! what a frightful drame I had. I thought
I was murdherin' a man; murdherin' the”--he paused, and stared wildly
about him.
“Murdherin' who?” asked Jerry.
“Murdherin'! eh--ha--why, who talks about murdherin'?”
“Compose yourself,” added Sullivan; “you did; but you're frightened. You
say you thought you were murdherin' some one; who was it?”
“Yes, yesr” he replied; “it was myself. I thought the murdhered man
was--I mean, that the man was murdherin' myself.” And he looked with a
terrible shudder of fear towards the great coat.
“Hut,” said Sullivan, “it was only a drame; compose yourself; why
should you be alarmed?--your hand is free of it. So, as I said, compose
yourself; put your trust in God, an' recommend yourself to his care.”
“It was a terrible drame,” said the other, once more shuddering; “but
then it was a drame. Good God; yes! However, I ax pardon for disturbin'
you all, an' breaking in upon your sleep. Go to bed now; I'm well
enough; only jist set that bit of candle by the bed-side for awhile,
till I recover, for I did get a fearful fright.”
He then laid himself down once more, and having wiped the perspiration
from his forehead, which was now cadaverous, he bade them good night,
and again endeavored to compose himself to rest. In this he eventually
succeeded, the candle burning itself out; and in about three-quarters
of an hour the whole family were once more wrapped in sound and
uninterrupted repose.
The next morning the Sullivan family rose to witness another weary and
dismal day of incessant rain, and to partake of a breakfast of
thin stirabout, made and served up with that woful ingenuity, which
necessity, the mother of invention in periods of scarcity, as well as
in matters of a different character, had made known to the benevolent
hearted wife of Jerry Sullivan. That is to say, the victuals were made
so unsubstantially thin, that in order to impose, if possible, on the
appetite, it was deemed necessary to deceive the eye by turning the
plates and dishes round and round several times, while the viands
were hot, so as by spreading them over a larger surface, to give the
appearance of a greater quantity. It is, heaven knows, a melancholy
cheat, but one with which the periodical famines of our unhappy
country have made our people too well acquainted. Previous, however, to
breakfast, the prophet had a private interview with Mave, or the _Gra
Gal_, as she was generally termed to denote her beauty and extraordinary
power of conciliating affection; _Gra Gal_ signifying the fair love, or
to give the more comprehensive meaning which it implied, the fair-haired
beauty whom all love, or who wins all love. This interview lasted, at
least, a quarter of an hour, or it might be twenty minutes, but as the
object of it did not then transpire, we can only explain the appearances
which followed it, so far at least, as the parties themselves were
concerned. The _Gra Gal_, as we shall occasionally call her, seemed
pleased, if not absolutely gratified, by the conversation that passed
between them. Her eye was elated, and she moved about like one who
appeared to have been relieved from some reflection that had embarrassed
and depressed her; still it might have been observed that this sense of
relief had nothing in it directly affecting the person of the prophet
himself, on whom her eyes fell from time to time with a glance that
changed its whole expression of satisfaction to one of pain and dislike.
On his part there also appeared a calm sedate feeling of satisfaction,
under which, however, an eye better acquainted with human nature
might easily detect a triumph. He looked, to those who could properly
understand him, precisely as an able diplomatist would who had succeeded
in gaining a point.
When breakfast was over, and previous to his departure, he brought Jerry
Sullivan and his wife out to the barn, and in a tone and manner of much
mystery, assuming at the same time that figurative and inflated style so
peculiar to him, and also to his rival the Senachie, he thus addressed
them--
“Listen,” said he, “listen, Jerry Sullivan, and Bridget, his wife; a
child was born, and a page was written--the moon saw it, and the stars
saw it; but the sun did not, for he is dark to fate an' sees nothing
but the face of nature. Do you understand that, Jerry Sullivan, an' you
Bridget, his wife?”
“Well, troth we can't say we do yet, at all events,” they replied; “but
how could we, ye know, if it's regardin' prophecy you're spakin'.”
“Undherstand it!” he replied, contemptuously, “you undherstand it!--no
nor Father Philemy Corcoran himself couldn't undherstand it, barrin' he
fasted and prayed, and refrained from liquor, for that's the way to get
the ray o' knowledge; at laist it's, the way I got it first--however,
let that pass. As I was sayin' a child was born and a page was
written--and an angel from heaven was sent to Nebbychodanazor,
the prophet, who was commanded to write. What will I write? says
Nebbychodanazor, the prophet. Write down the fate of a faymale child, by
name Mave Sullivan, daughter to Jerry Sullivan and his wife Bridget, of
Aughnmurrin. Amin, says the prophet; fate is fate, what's before is not
behind, neither is what's behind before, and every thing will come to
pass that's to happen. Amin, agin, says the prophet, an' what am I
to write? Grandeur an' wealth--up stairs and down stairs--silks-an'
satins--an inside car--bracelets, earrings, and Spanish boots, made of
Morroccy leather, tanned at Cordovan. Amin, agin, says Nebbychodanazor,
the prophet; this is not that, neither is that the other, but every is
everything--naither can something be nothing, nor nothing something, to
the end of time; and time itself is but cousin jarmin to eternity--as is
recorded in the great book of fate, fortune and fatality. Write again,
says the angel. What am I to write? At the name of Mabel Sullivan place
along wid all the rest, two great paragons of a woman's life, Marriage
and Prosperity--write marriage happy, and prosperity numerous--and so
the child's born, an' the page written--beauty and goodness, a happy
father, and a proud mother--both made wealthy through her means.”
“And so,” he proceeded, dropping the recitative, and resuming his
natural voice--
“Be kind and indulgent to your daughter, for she'll yet live to make all
your fortunes. Take care of her and yourself till I sees yez again.”
And without adding another word he departed.