But as to Phil, it’s only a cut in the head he got, that signifies
nothing--if he was not your brother.
_Honor._ Once lifted your hand against him--all’s over.
_Randal._ Honor, I did not lift my hand against _him_; but I was in the
quarrel with his faction.
_Honor._ And this your promise to me not to be in any quarrel! No, if
my father consented to-morrow, I’d nivir have you now. (_Rises, and is
going--he holds her._)
_Randal._ Then you’re wrong, Honor: you’ve heard all against me--now
hear what’s for me.
_Honor._ I’ll hear no more--let me go.
_Randal._ Go, then; (_he lets her go, and turns away himself_) and
I’m going before Mr. Carver, who _will_ hear me, and the truth will
appear--and tho’ not from you, Honor, I’ll have justice.
[_Exit RANDAL._
_Honor._ Justice! Oh, worse and worse! to make all public; and if once
we go to law, there’s an end of love--_for ever._
[_Exit HONOR._
SCENE III.
_O’BLANEY’S House._
_O’BLANEY and CATTY ROONEY._
_Catty._ And didn’t ye hear it, counshillor? the uproar in the town and
the riot?--oh! you’d think the world was throwing out at windows. See my
jock, all tattered! Didn’t ye hear!
_O’Bla._ How could I hear, backwards, as you see, from the street, and
given up to my business?
_Catty._ Business! oh! here is a fine business--the McBrides have driven
all before them, and chased the Roonies out of Ballynavogue. (_In a tone
of deep despair._) Oh! Catty Rooney! that ever you’d live to see this
day!
_O’Bla._ Then take this glass (_offering a glass of whiskey_) to comfort
your heart, my good Mrs. Rooney.
_Catty._ No, thank you, counshillor, it’s past that even! ogh! ogh!--oh!
wirrastrew!--oh! wirrastrew, ogh!--(_After wringing her hands, and
yielding to a burst of sorrow and wailing, she stands up firmly._) Now
I’ve ased my heart, I’ll do. I’ve spirit enough left in me yet, you’ll
see; and I’ll tell you what I came to you for, counshillor.
_O’Bla._ Tell me first, is Randal Rooney in it, and is he hurt?
_Catty._ He was in it: he’s not hurt, more shame for him! But,
howsomever, he bet one boy handsomely; that’s my only comfort. Our
faction’s all going full drive to swear examinations, and get justice.
_O’Bla._ Very proper--very proper: swear examinations--that’s the
course, and only satisfaction in these cases to get justice.
_Catty._ Justice!--revenge sure! Oh! revenge is sweet, and I’ll have
it. Counshillor dear, I never went before Mr. Carver--you know him,
sir--what sort is he?
_O’Bla._ A mighty good sort of gentleman--only mighty tiresome.
_Catty._ Ay, that’s what I hard--that he is mighty fond of talking to
people for their good. Now that’s what I dread, for I can’t stand being
talked to for my good.
_O’Bla._ ‘Tis little use, I confess. We Irish is wonderful soon tired
of goodness, if there’s no spice of fun along with it; and poor Carver’s
soft, and between you and I, he’s a little bothered, but, Mrs. Rooney,
you won’t repate?
_Catty._ Repate!--I! I’m neither watch nor repater--I scorn both; and
between you and I, since you say so, counshillor, that’s my chiefest
objection to Carver, whom I wouldn’t know from Adam, except by
reputation. But it’s the report of the country, that he has common
informers in his pay and favour; now that’s mane, and I don’t like it.
_O’Bla._ Nor I, Mrs. Rooney. I had experience of informers in the
distillery line once. The worst varmin that is ever encouraged in any
house or country. The very mintion of them makes me creep all over
still.
_Catty._ Then ‘tis Carver, they say, that has the oil of Rhodium for
them; for they follow and fawn on him, like rats on the rat catcher--of
all sorts and sizes, he has ‘em. They say, he sets them over and after
one another; and has _lations_ of them that he lets out on the craturs’
cabins, to larn how many grains of salt every man takes with his little
_prates_, and bring information if a straw would be stirring.
_O’Bla._ Ay, and if it would, then, it’s Carver that would quake like
the aspin leaf--I know that. It’s no malice at all in him; only just
he’s a mighty great poltroon.
_Catty._ Is that all? Then I’d pity and laugh at him, and I go to him
preferably to any other magistrate.
_O’Bla._ You may, Mrs. Rooney--for it’s in terror of his life he
lives, continually draming day and night, and croaking of carders and
thrashers, and oak boys, and white boys, and peep-o’-day boys, and
united boys, and riband-men, and men and boys of all sorts that have,
and that have not, been up and down the country since the rebellion.
_Catty._ The poor cratur! But in case he’d prove refractory, and would
not take my examinations, can’t I persecute my shute again the McBrides
for the bit of the bog of Ballynascraw, counshillor?--Can’t I _harash_
‘em at law?
_O’Bla._ You can, ma’am, harash them properly. I’ve looked over your
papers, and I’m happy to tell you, you may go on at law as soon and as
long as you plase.
_Catty._ (_speaking very rapidly_) Bless you for that word, counshillor;
and by the first light to-morrow, I’ll drive all the grazing cattle,
every four-footed _baast_ off the land, and pound ‘em in Ballynavogue;
and if they replevy, why I’ll distrain again, if it be forty times, I
will go. I’ll go on distraining, and I’ll advertise, and I’ll cant, and
I’ll sell the distress at the end of the eight days. And if they dare
for to go for to put a plough in that bit of reclaimed bog, I’ll come
down upon ‘em with an injunction, and I would not value the expinse
of bringing down a record a pin’s pint; and if that went again me, I’d
remove it to the courts above and wilcome; and after that, I’d go into
equity, and if the chancillor would not be my friend, I’d take it over
to the House of Lords in London, so I would as soon as look at ‘em; for
I’d wear my feet to the knees for justice--so I would.
_O’Bla._ That you would! You’re an iligant lawyer, Mrs. Rooney; but have
you the sinews of war?
_Catty._ Is it money, dear?--I have, and while ever I’ve one shilling
to throw down to ould Matthew McBride’s guinea, I’ll go on; and every
guinea he parts will twinge his vitals: so I’ll keep on while ever I’ve
a fiv’-penny bit to rub on another--for my spirit is up.
_O’Bla._ Ay, ay, so you say. Catty, my dear, your back’s asy up, but
it’s asy down again.
_Catty._ Not when I’ve been trod on as now, counshillor: it’s then I’d
turn and fly at a body, gentle or simple, like mad.
_O’Bla._ Well done, Catty (_patting her on the back_). There’s my own
pet mad cat--and there’s a legal venom in her claws, that every scratch
they’ll give shall fester so no plaister in law can heal it.
_Catty._ Oh, counshillor, now, if you wouldn’t be flattering a wake
woman.
_O’Bla._ Wake woman!--not a bit of woman’s wakeness in ye. Oh, my
cat-o’-cats! let any man throw her from him, which way he will, she’s on
her legs and at him again, tooth and claw.
_Catty._ With nine lives, renewable for ever.
[_Exit CATTY._
_O’Bla._ (_alone_) There’s a demon in woman’s form set to work for me!
Oh, this works well--and no fear that the Roonies and McBrides should
ever come to an understanding to cut me out. Young Mr. Randal Rooney,
my humble compliments to you, and I hope you’ll become the willow which
you’ll soon have to wear for Miss Honor McBride’s pretty sake. But
I wonder the brother a’n’t come up yet with the rist of her fortune.
(Calls behind the scenes.) Mick! Jack! Jenny! Where’s Pat?--Then why
don’t you know? run down a piece of the road towards Ballynascraw, see
would you see any body coming, and bring me word would you see Phil
McBride--you know, flourishing Phil.--Now I’m prepared every way for the
shupervishor, only I wish to have something genteel in my fist for him,
and a show of cash flying about--nothing like it, to dazzle the eyes.
[_Exit O’BLANEY._
ACT III.
SCENE I.
_An Apartment in Mr. CARVER’S House. Mr. CARVER seated: a table, pens,
ink, paper, and law-books. A cleric, pen in hand.--On the right-hand
side of Mr. CARVER stands Mrs. CATTY ROONEY.--RANDAL ROONEY beside her,
leaning against a pillar, his arms folded.--Behind Mrs. ROONEY, three
men--one remarkably tall, one remarkably little.--On the left-hand of
Mr. CARVER stand Old MATTHEW McBRIDE, leaning on his stick; beside him,
PHILIP McBRIDE, with his silver-hilted whip in his hand.--A Constable
at some distance behind Mr. CARVER’S chair.--Mr. CARVER looking over and
placing his books, and seeming to speak to his clerk._
_Catty._ (_aside to her son_) See I’ll take it asy, and be very shivel
and sweet wid him, till I’ll see which side he’ll lane, and how it will
go with us Roonies--(_Mr. CARVER rising, leans forward with both his
hands on the table, as if going to speak, looks round, and clears his
throat loudly._)--Will I spake now, plase your honour?
_Old McB._ Dacency, when you see his honour preparing his throat.
[_Mr. CARVER clears his throat again._
_Catty._ (_curtsying between each sentence_) Then I ixpect his honour
will do me justice. I got a great character of his honour. I’d sooner
come before your honour than any jantleman in all Ireland. I’m sure your
honour will stand my _frind_.
_Clerk._ Silence!
_Mr. Carv._ Misguided people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw--
[_At the instant Mr. CARVER pronounces the word “Ballynavogue,” CATTY
curtsies, and all the ROONIES, behind her, bow, and answer--_
Here, plase your honour.
[_And when Mr. CARVER says_ “Ballynascraw,” _all the McBRIDES bow, and
reply--_
Here, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ (_speaking with pomposity, but embarrassment, and clearing
his throat frequently_) When I consider and look round me, gentlemen,
and when I look round me and consider, how long a period of time I have
had the honour to bear his majesty’s commission of the peace for this
county--
_Catty._ (_curtsying_) Your honour’s a good warrant, no doubt.
_Mr. Carv._ Hem!--hem!--also being a residentiary gentleman at Bob’s
Fort--hem!--hem!--hem!--(_Coughs, and blows his nose._)
_Catty._ (_aside to her son_) Choking the cratur is with the words he
can’t get out. (_Aloud_) Will I spake now, plase your honour?
_Clerk._ Silence! silence!
_Mr. Carv._ And when I consider all the ineffectual attempts I have made
by eloquence and otherwise, to moralize and civilize you gentlemen, and
to eradicate all your heterogeneous or rebellious passions--
_Catty._ Not a rebel, good or bad, among us, plase your honour.
_Clerk._ Silence!
_Mr. Carv._ I say, my good people of Ballynavogue and Ballynascraw, I
stand here really in unspeakable concern and astonishment, to notice at
this fair-time in my barony, these symptoms of a riot, gentlemen, and
features of a tumult.
_Catty._ True, your honour, see--scarce a symptom of a fature lift in
the face here of little Charley of Killaspugbrone, with the b’ating he
got from them McBrides, who bred the riot, entirely under Flourishing
Phil, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ (_turning to PHIL McBRIDE._) Mr. Philip McBride, son of old
Matthew, quite a substantial man,--I am really concerned, Philip, to see
you, whom I looked upon as a sort of, I had almost said, _gentleman_--
_Catty._ _Gentleman!_ what sort? Is it because of the new topped boots,
or by virtue of the silver-topped whip, and the bit of a red rag tied
about the throat?--Then a gentleman’s asy made, now-a-days.
_Young McB._ It seems ‘tis not so asy any way, now-a-days, to make a
_gentlewoman_, Mrs. Rooney.
_Catty._ (_springing forward angrily_) And is it me you mane, young man?
_Randal._ Oh! mother, dear, don’t be aggravating.
_Mr. Carv._ Clerk, why don’t you maintain silence?
_Catty._ (_pressing before her son_) Stand back, then, Randal
Rooney--don’t you hear _silence_?--don’t be brawling before his honour.
Go back wid yourself to your pillar, or post, and fould your arms,
and stand like a fool that’s in love, as you are.--I beg your
honour’s pardon, but he’s my son, and I can’t help it.--But about our
examinations, plase your honour, we’re all come to swear--here’s myself,
and little Charley of Killaspugbrone, and big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick
of Eliogarty--all ready to swear.
_Mr. Carv._ But have these gentlemen no tongues of their own, madam?
_Catty._ No, plase your honour, little Charley has no English tongue; he
has none but the native Irish.
_Mr. Carv._ Clerk, make out their examinations, with a translation; and
interpret for Killaspugbrone.
_Catty._ Plase your honour, I being the lady, expicted I’d get lave to
swear first.
_Mr. Carv._ And what would you swear, madam, if you got leave, pray?--be
careful, now.
_Catty._ I’ll tell you how it was out o’ the face, plase your honour.
The whole Rooney faction--
_Mr. Carv._ _Faction!_--No such word in my presence, madam.
_Catty._ Oh, but I’m ready to swear to it, plase your honour, in or out
of the presence:--the whole Rooney faction--every Rooney, big or little,
that was in it, was bet, and banished the town and fair of Ballynavogue,
for no rason in life, by them McBrides there, them scum o’ the earth.
_Mr. Carv._ Gently, gently, my good lady; no such thing in my presence,
as scum o’ the earth.
_Catty._ Well, Scotchmen, if your honour prefars. But before a
Scotchman, myself would prefar the poorest spalpeen--barring it be
Phil, the buckeen--I ax pardon (_curtsying_), if a buckeen’s the more
honourable.
_Mr. Carv._ Irrelevant in toto, madam; for buckeens and spalpeens are
manners or species of men unknown to or not cognizable by the eye of
the law; against them, therefore, you cannot swear: but if you have any
thing against Philip McBride--
_Catty._ Oh, I have plinty, and will swear, plase your honour, that he
put me in bodily fear, and tore my jock, my blue jock, to tatters. Oh,
by the vartue of this book (_snatching up a book_), and all the books
that ever were shut or opened, I’ll swear to the damage of five pounds,
be the same more or less.
_Mr. Carv._ My good lady, _more or less_ will never do.
_Catty._ Forty shillings, any way, I’ll swear to; and that’s a felony,
your honour, I hope?
_Mr. Carv._ Take time, and consult your conscience conscientiously, my
good lady, while I swear these other men--
[_She examines the coat, holding it up to view--Mr. CARVER beckons to
the Rooney party._
_Mr. Carv._ Beaten men! come forward.
_Big Briny._ Not _beaten_, plase your honour, only _bet_.
_Ulick of Eliogarty._ Only black eyes, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ You, Mr. Charley or Charles Rooney, of Killaspugbrone; you
have read these examinations, and are you scrupulously ready to swear?
_Catty._ He is, and _will_, plase your honour; only he’s the boy that
has got no English tongue.
_Mr. Carv._ I wish _you_ had none, madam, ha! ha! ha! (_The two McBRIDES
laugh--the ROONIES look grave._) You, Ulick Rooney, of Eliogarty, _are
these_ your examinations?
_Catty._ He can’t write, nor rade writing from his cradle, plase your
honour; but can make his mark equal to another, sir. It has been read to
him any way, sir, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ And you, sir, who style yourself big Briny of Cloon--you
think yourself a great man, I suppose?
_Catty._ It’s what many does that has got less rason, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ Understand, my honest friend, that there is a vast
difference between looking big and being great.
_Big Briny._ I see--I know, your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ Now, gentlemen, all of you, before I hand you the book to
swear these examinations, there is one thing of which I must warn and
apprize you--that I am most remarkably clear-sighted; consequently there
can be no _thumb kissing_ with me, gentlemen.
_Big Briny._ We’ll not ax it, plase your honour.
_Catty._ No Rooney, living or dead, was ever guilty or taxed with the
like! (_Aside to her son_) Oh, they’ll swear iligant! We’ll flog the
world, and have it all our own way! Oh, I knew we’d get justice--or I’d
know why.
_Clerk._ Here’s the book, sir, to swear complainants.
[_Mr. CARVER comes forward._
_Mr. Carv._ Wait--wait; I must hear both sides.
_Catty._ Both sides! Oh, plase your honour--only bother you.
_Mr. Carv._ Madam, it is my duty to have ears for all men.--Mr. Philip,
now for your defence.
_Catty._ He has none in nature, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ Madam, you have had my ear long enough--be silent, at your
peril.
_Catty._ Ogh--ogh!--silent!
[_She groans piteously._
_Mr. Carv._ Sir, your defence, without any preamble or pre-ambulation.
_Phil._ I’ve no defence to make, plase your honour, but that I’m
innocent.
_Mr. Carv._ (_shaking his head_) The worst defence in law, my good
friend, unless you’ve witnesses.
_Phil._ All present that time in the fair was too busy fighting for
themselves to witness for me that I was not; except I’d call upon one
that would clear me entirely, which is that there young man on the
opposite side.
_Catty._ Oh, the impudent fellow! Is it my son?
_Old McB._ Is it Randal Rooney? Why, Phil, are you turned _innocent_?
_Phil._ I am not, father, at all. But with your lave, I call on Randal
Rooney, for he is an undeniable honourable man--I refer all to his
evidence.
_Randal._ Thank you, Phil. I’ll witness the truth, on whatever side.
_Catty rushes in between them, exclaiming, in a tremendous tone,_
If you do, Catty Rooney’s curse be upon--
_Randal stops her mouth, and struggles to hold his mother back._
Oh, mother, you couldn’t curse!--
[_All the ROONIES get about her and exclaim_,
Oh, Catty, your son you couldn’t curse!
_Mr. Carv._ Silence, and let _me_ be heard. Leave this lady to me; I
know how to manage these feminine vixens. Mrs. Catherine Rooney, listen
to me--you are a reasonable woman.
_Catty._ I am not, nor don’t pretend to it, plase your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ But you can hear reason, madam, I presume, from the voice of
authority.
_Catty._ No, plase your honour--I’m deaf, stone deaf.
_Mr. Carv._ No trifling with me, madam; give me leave to advise you a
little for your good.
_Catty._ Plase your honour, it’s of no use--from a child up I never
could stand to be advised for my good. See, I’d get hot and hotter,
plase your honour, till I’d bounce! I’d fly! I’d burst! and myself does
not know what mischief I mightn’t do.
_Mr. Carv._ Constable! take charge of this cursing and cursed woman,
who has not respect for man or magistrate. Away with her out of my
presence!--I commit her for a contempt.
_Randal_ (_eagerly_) Oh! plase your honour, I beg your honour’s pardon
for her--my mother--entirely. When she is in her rason, she has the
greatest respect for the whole bench, and your honour above all. Oh!
your honour, be plasing this once! Excuse her, and I’ll go bail for her
she won’t say another word till she’d get the nod from your honour.
_Mr. Carv._ On that condition, and on that condition only, I am willing
to pass over the past. Fall back, constable.
_Catty._ (_aside_) Why then, Gerald O’Blaney mislet me. This Carver is a
_fauterer_ of the Scotch. Bad luck to every bone in his body! (_As CATTY
says this her son draws her back, and tries to pacify her._)
_Mr. Carv._ Is she muttering, constable?
_Randal._ Not a word, plase your honour, only just telling herself to be
quiet. Oh, mother, dearest, I’ll kneel to plase you.
_Catty._ Kneel! oh, to an ould woman like me--no standing that! So here,
on my hunkers I am, for your sake, Randal, and not a word, good or bad!
Can woman do more? (_She sits with her fingers on her lips._)
_Mr. Carv._ Now for your defence, Philip: be short, for mercy’s sake!
(_pulling out his watch._)
_Phil._ Not to be detaining your honour too long--I was in Ballynavogue
this forenoon, and was just--that is, Miss Car’line Flaherty was just--
_Mr. Carv._ Miss Caroline Flaherty! What in nature can she have to do
with the business?
_Phil._ Only axing me, sir, she was, to play the flageolets, which was
the rason I was sitting at Flaherty’s.
_Mr. Carv._ Address yourself to the court, young man.
_Phil._ Sitting at Flaherty’s--in the parlour, with the door open,
and all the McBrides which was _in it_ was in the outer room taking a
toombler o’ punch I trated ‘em to--but not drinking--not a man _out
o’ the way_--when in comes that gentlewoman. (_Pointing to Mrs.
ROONEY.--RANDAL groans._) Never fear, Randal, I’ll tell it as soft as I
can.
_Old McB._ Soft, why? Mighty soft cratur ever since he was born, plase
your honour, though he’s my son.
_Mr. Carv._ (_putting his fingers on his lips_) Friend Matthew, no
reflections in a court of justice ever. Go on, Philip.
_Phil._ So some one having tould Mrs. Rooney lies, as I’m confident,
sir--for she come in quite _mad_, and abused my sister Honor; accusing
her, before all, of being sitting and giving her company to Randal
Rooney at Flaherty’s, drinking, and something about a ring, and a
meeting behind the chapel, which I couldn’t understand;--but it fired
me, and I stepped--but I recollected I’d promised Honor not to let her
provoke me to lift a hand good or bad--so I stepped across very civil,
and I said to her, says I, Ma’am, it’s all lies--some one has been
belying Honor McBride to you, Mrs. Rooney.
[_CATTY sighs and groans, striking the back of one hand reiteratedly
into the palm of the other--rises--beats the devil’s tattoo as she
stands--then claps her hands again._
_Mr. Carv._ That woman has certainly more ways of making a noise,
without speaking, than any woman upon earth. Proceed, Philip.
_Phil._ Depind on it, it’s all lies, Mrs. Rooney, says I, ma’am. No, but
_you_ lie, flourishing Phil, says she. With that every McBride to a man,
rises from the table, catching up chairs and stools and toomblers and
jugs to revenge Honor and me. Not for your life, boys, don’t _let-drive_
ne’er a one of yees, says I--she’s a woman, and a widow woman, and only
a _scould_ from her birth: so they held their hands; but she giving
tongue bitter, ‘twas hard for flesh and blood to stand it. Now, for the
love of heaven and me, sit down all, and be _quite_ as lambs, and finish
your poonch like gentlemen, sir, says I: so saying, I _tuk_ Mrs. Rooney
up in my arms tenderly, as I would a bould child--she screeching
and screeching like mad:--whereupon her jock caught on the chair,
pocket-hole or something, and give one rent from head to _fut_--and that
was the tattering of the jock. So we got her to the door, and there she
spying her son by ill-luck in the street, directly stretches out her’
arms, and kicking my shins, plase your honour, till I could not hold
her, “Murder! Randal Rooney,” cries she, “and will you see your own
mother murdered?”
_Randal._ Them were the very words, I acknowledge, she used, which put
me past my rason, no doubt.
_Phil._ Then Randal Rooney, being past his rason, turns to all them
Roonies that were _in no condition._
_Mr. Carv._ That were, what we in English would call _drunk_, I presume?
_Randal._ Something very near it, plase your honour.
_Phil._ Sitting on the bench outside the door they were, when Randal
came up. “Up, Roonies, and at ‘em!” cried he; and up, to be sure, they
flew, shillelahs and all, like lightning, daling blows on all of us
McBrides: but I never lifted a hand; and Randal, I’ll do him justice,
avoided to lift a hand against me.
_Randal._ And while I live I’ll never forget _that_ hour, nor _this_
hour, Phil, and all your generous construction.
_Catty._ (_aside_) Why then it almost softens me; but I won’t be made a
fool on.
_Mr. Carv._ (_who has been re-considering the examinations_) It appears
to me that you, Mr. Philip McBride, did, as the law allows, only _lay
hands softly_ upon complainant, Catherine Rooney; and the Rooneys, as it
appears, struck, and did strike, the first blow.
_Randal._ I can’t deny, plase your honour, we did.
_Mr. Carv._ (_tearing the examinations_) Then, gentlemen--you
Roonies--_beaten men_, I cannot possibly take your examinations.
[_When the examinations are torn, the McBRIDES all bow and thank his
honour._
_Mr. Carv._ Beaten men! depart in peace.
_The ROONIES sigh and groan, and after turning their hats several times,
bow, walk a few steps away, return, and seem loath to depart. CATTY
springs forward, holding up her hands joined in a supplicating attitude
to Mr. CARVER._
_Randal._ If your honour would be plasing to let her spake now, or she’d
burst, may be.
_Mr. Carv._ Speak now, woman, and ever after hold your tongue.
_Catty._ Then I am rasonable now, plase your honour; for I’ll put it
to the test--see, I’ll withdraw my examinations entirely, and I’ll
recant--and I’ll go farther, I’ll own I’m wrong--(though I know I’m
right)--and I’ll beg your pardon, McBrides, if--(but I know I’ll not
have to beg your pardon either)--but I say I _will_ beg your pardon,
McBrides, _if_, mind _if_, you will accept my test, and it fails me.
_Mr. Carv._ Very fair, Mrs. Rooney.
_Old McB._ What is it she’s saying?
_Phil._ What test, Mrs. Rooney?
_Randal._ Dear mother, name your test.
_Catty._ Let Honor McBride be summoned, and if she can prove she took
no ring, and was not behind the chapel with Randal, nor drinking at
Flaherty’s with him, the time she was, I give up all.
_Randal._ Agreed, with all the pleasure in life, mother. Oh, may I run
for her?
_Old McB._ Not a fut, you sir--go, Phil dear.
_Phil._ That I will, like a lapwing, father.
_Mr. Carv._ Where to, sir--where so precipitate?
_Phil._ Only to fetch my sister.
_Mr. Carv._ Your sister, sir?--then you need not go far: your sister,
Honor McBride, is, I have reason to believe, in this house.
_Catty._ So. Under whose protection, I wonder?
_Mr. Carv._ Under the protection of Mrs. Carver, madam, into whose
service she was desirous to engage herself; and whose advice--
_Clerk._ Shall I, if you please, sir, call Honor in?
_Mr. Carv._ If you please.
[_A silence.--CATTY stands biting her thumb.--Old McBRIDE leans his
chin upon Us hands on his stick, and never stirs, even his eyes.--Young
McBRIDE looks out eagerly to the side at which HONOR is expected to
enter--RANDAL looking over his shoulder, exclaims--_
There she comes!--Innocence in all her looks.
_Catty._ Oh! that we shall see soon. No making a fool of me.
_Old McB._ My daughter’s step--I should know it. (_Aside_) How my old
heart bates!
[_Mr. CARVER takes a chair out of the way._
_Catty._ Walk in--walk on, Miss Honor. Oh, to be sure, Miss Honor will
have justice.
_Enter HONOR McBRIDE, walking very timidly._
And no need to be ashamed, Miss Honor, until you’re found out.
_Mr. Carv._ Silence!
_Old McB._ Thank your honour.
[_Mr. CARVER whispers to his clerk, and directs him while the following
speeches go on._
_Catty._ That’s a very pretty curtsy, Miss Honor--walk on, pray--all the
gentlemen’s admiring you--my son Randal beyant all.
_Randal._ Mother, I won’t bear--
_Catty._ Can’t you find a sate for her, any of yees? Here’s a
stool--give it her, Randal. (_HONOR sits down._) And I hope it won’t
prove the stool of repentance, Miss or Madam. Oh, bounce your forehead,
Randal--truth must out; you’ve put it to the test, sir.
_Randal._ I desire no other for her or myself.
[_The father and brother take each a hand of HONOR--support and soothe
her._
_Catty._ I’d pity you, Honor, myself, only I know you a McBride--and
know you’re desaving me, and all present.
_Mr. Carv._ Call that other witness I allude to, clerk, into our
presence without delay.
_Clerk._ I shall, sir. [_Exit clerk._
_Catty._ We’ll see--we’ll see all soon--and the truth will come out, and
shame the _dibbil_ and the McBrides!
_Randal._ (_looking out_) The man I bet, as I’m a sinner!
_Catty._ What?--Which?--Where?--True for ye!--I was wondering I did not
see the man you bet appear again ye: and this is he, with the head bound
up in the garter, coming--miserable cratur he looks--who would he be?
_Randal._ You’ll see all soon, mother.
_Enter PAT COXE, his head bound up._
_Mr. Carv._ Come on--walk on boldly, friend.
_Catty._ Pat Coxe! saints above!
_Mr. Carv._ Take courage, you are under my protection here--no one will
dare to touch you.
_Randal_ (_with infinite contempt_) Touch ye! Not I, ye dirty dog!
_Mr. Carv._ No, sir, you have done enough that way already, it appears.
_Honor._ Randal! what, has Randal done this?
_Mr. Carv._ Now observe--this Mr. Patrick Coxe, aforesaid, has taken
refuge with me; for he is, it seems, afraid to appear before his master,
Mr. O’Blaney, this night, after having been beaten: though, as he
assures me, he has been beaten without any provocation whatsoever, by
you, Mr. Randal Rooney--answer, sir, to this matter.
_Randal._ I don’t deny it, sir--I bet him, ‘tis true.
_Pat._ To a jelly--without marcy--he did, plase your honour, sir.
_Randal._ Sir, plase your honour, I got rason to suspect this man to be
the author of all them lies that was tould backwards and forwards to my
mother, about me and Miss Honor McBride, which made my mother mad, and
driv’ her to raise the riot, plase your honour. I charged Pat with
the lies, and he shirked, and could give me no satisfaction, but kept
swearing he was no liar, and bid me keep my distance, for he’d a pocket
pistol about him. “I don’t care what you have about you--you have not
the truth about ye, nor in ye,” says I; “ye are a liar, Pat Coxe,”
says I: so he cocked the pistol at me, saying, _that_ would prove me a
coward--with that I wrenched the pistol from him, and _bet_ him in a
big passion. I own to that, plase your honour--there I own I was wrong
(_turning to HONOR_), to demane myself lifting my hand any way.
_Mr. Carv._ But it is not yet proved that this man has told any lies.
_Randal._ If he has tould no lies, I wronged him. Speak, mother--(_COXE
gets behind CATTY, and twitches her gown_), was it he who was the
informer, or not?
_Catty._ Nay, Pat Coxe, if you lied, I’ll not screen you; but if you
tould the truth, stand out like a man, and stand to it, and I’ll stand
by you, against my own son even, Randal, if he was the author of the
report. In plain words, then, he, Pat Coxe, tould me, that she, Honor
McBride, gave you, Randal Rooney, the meeting behind the chapel, and you
gave her the ring--and then she went with you to drink at Flaherty’s.
_Honor._ (_starting up_) Oh! who _could_ say the like of me?
_Catty._ There he stands--now, Pat, you must stand or fall--will you
swear to what you said? (_Old McBRIDE and PHIL approach PAT._)
_Mr. Carv._ This is not the point before me; but, however, I waive that
objection.
_Randal._ Oh! mother, don’t put him to his oath, lest he’d perjure
himself.
_Pat._ I’ll swear: do you think I’d be making a liar of myself?
_Honor._ Father--Phil dear--hear me one word!
_Randal._ Hear her--oh! hear her--go to her.
_Honor._ (_in a low voice_) Would you ask at what time it was he
pretends I was taking the ring and all that?
_Old McB._ Plase your honour, would you ask the rascal what time?
_Mr. Carv._ Don’t call him rascal, sir--no _rascals_ in my presence.
What time did you see Honor McBride behind the chapel, Pat Coxe?
_Pat._ As the clock struck twelve--I mind--by the same token the
workmen’s bell rang as usual! that same time, just as I seen Mr. Randal
there putting the ring on her finger, and I said, “_There’s the bell
ringing for a wedding_,” says I.
_Mr. Carv._ To whom did you say that, sir?
_Pat._ To myself, plase your honour--I’ll tell you the truth.
_Honor._ Truth! That time the clock struck twelve and the bell rang, I
was happily here in this house, sir.
_Honor._ If I might take the liberty to call one could do me justice.
_Mr. Carv._ No liberty in justice--speak out.
_Honor._ If I might trouble Mrs. Carver herself?
_Mr. Carv._ Mrs. Carver will think it no trouble (_rising with dignity_)
to do justice, for she has been the wife to one of his majesty’s
justices of the peace for many years.
[_Sends a servant for Mrs. CARVER._
_Mr. Carv._ Mrs. Carver, my dear, I must summon you to appear in open
court, at the suit or prayer of Honor McBride.
_Enter Mrs. CARVER, who is followed by Miss BLOOMSBURY, on tiptoe._
_Mrs. Carv._ Willingly.
_Mr. Carv._ The case lies in a nutshell, my dear: there is a man who
swears that Honor McBride was behind the chapel, with Randal Rooney
putting a ring on her finger, when the clock struck twelve, and our
workmen’s bell rang this morning. Honor avers she was at Bob’s Fort with
you: now as she could not be, like a bird, in two places at once--was
she with you?
_Mrs. Carv._ Honor McBride was with me when the workmen’s bell rang,
and when the clock struck twelve, this day--she stayed with me till two
o’clock.
[_All the ROONIES, except CATTY, exclaim--_
Oh, no going beyond the lady’s word!
_Mrs. Carv._ And I think it but justice to add, that Honor McBride has
this day given me such proofs of her being a good girl, a good daughter,
and a good sister, that she has secured my good opinion and good wishes
for life.
_Mr. Carv._ And mine in consequence.
_Bloom._ And mine of course. [_HONOR curtsies._
[_Old McBRIDE bows very low to Mr. CARVER, and again to Mrs. CARVER.
PHIL bows to Mr. and Mrs. CARVER, and to Miss BLOOMSBURY._
_Old McB._ Where are you now, Catty?--and you, Pat, ye unfortinate liar?
_Pat._ (_falling on his knees_) On me knees I am. Oh, I am an
unfortinate liar, and I beg your honour’s pardon this once.
_Mr. Carv._ A most abandoned liar, I pronounce you.
_Pat._ Oh! I hope your honour won’t abandon me, for I didn’t know Miss
Honor was under her ladyship, Mrs. Carver’s favour and purtection, or
I’d sooner ha’ cut my tongue out clane--and I expict your honour won’t
turn your hack on me quite, for this is the first lies I ever was
found out in since my creation; and how could I help, when it was by my
master’s particular desire?
_Mr. Carv._ Your master! honest Gerald O’Blaney!
_Catty._ O’Blaney!--save us! (_Lifting up her hands and eyes._)
_Mr. Carv._ Take care, Pat Coxe.
_Pat._ Mr. O’Blaney, ma’am--plase your honour--all truth now--the
counshillor, that same and no other, as I’ve breath in my body--for
why should I tell a lie now, when I’ve no place in my eye, and not a
ha’porth to get by it? I’ll confess all. It was by my master’s orders
that I should set you, Mrs. Rooney, and your pride up, ma’am, again’
making up with them McBrides. I’ll tell the truth now, plase your
honour--that was the cause of the lies I mentioned about the ring and
chapel--I’ll tell more, if you’ll bind Mr. Randal to keep the pace.
_Randal._ I?--ye dirty dog!--Didn’t I tell ye already, I’d not dirty my
fingers with the likes of you?
_Pat._ All Mr. Gerald O’Blaney’s aim was to ruin Mr. Randal Rooney,
and set him by the ears with that gentleman, Mr. Philip McBride, the
brother, and they to come to blows and outrage, and then be in disgrace
committed by his honour.
_Randal._ (_turning to_ HONOR McBRIDE) Honor, you saved all--your
brother and I never lifted our hands against one another, thanks be to
Heaven and you, dearest!
_Catty._ And was there no truth in the story of the chapel and the ring?
_Pat._ Not a word of truth, but lies, Mrs. Rooney, dear ma’am, of the
master’s putting into my mouth out of his own head.
[_CATTY ROONEY walks firmly and deliberately across the room to HONOR
McBRIDE._
_Catty._ Honor McBride, I was wrong; and here, publicly, as I traduced
you, I ax your pardon before his honour, and your father, and your
brother, and before Randal, and before my faction and his.
[_Both ROONIES and McBRIDES all, excepting Old McBRIDE, clap their
hands, and huzza._
_Mr. Carv._ I ought to reprove this acclamation--but this once I let it
pass.
_Phil._ Father, you said nothing--what do you say, sir?
_Old McB._ (_never moving_) I say nothing at all. I never doubted Honor,
and knew the truth must appear--that’s all I say.
_Honor._ Oh! father dear--more you will say (_shaking his stick
gently_). Look up at me, and remember the promise you gave me, when
Catty should be rasonable--and is not she rasonable now?
_Old McB._ I did not hear a word from her about the bog of Ballynascraw.
_Catty._ Is it the pitiful bit?--No more about it! Make crame cheeses
of it--what care I? ‘Twas only for pride I stood out--not _that_ I’m
thinking of now!
_Old McB._ Well, then, miracles will never cease! here’s one in your
favour, Honor; so take her, Randal, fortune and all--a wife of five
hundred.
_Randal._ (_kneeling_) Oh! happiest of men I am this minute.
_Catty._ I the same, if she had not a pinny in the world.
_Mr. Carv._ _Happiest of men!_--Don’t kneel or go in to ecstasies now, I
beg, till I know the _rationale_ of this. Was not I consulted?--did not
I give my opinion and advice in favour of another?
_Old McB._ You was--you did, plase your honour, and I beg your honour’s
pardon, and Mr. Counsellor O’Blaney’s.
_Mr. Carv._ And did not you give your consent?--I must think him a very
ill-used person.
_Old McB._ I gave my consint only in case he could win hers, plase your
honour, and he could _not_--and I could not break my own daughter’s
heart, and I beg your honour’s pardon.
_Mr. Carv._ I don’t know how that may be, sir, but I gave my approbation
to the match; and I really am not accustomed to have my advice or
opinion neglected or controverted. Yet, on the other hand--
_Enter a Footman with a note, which he gives to Mr. CARVER._
_Old McB._ (_aside to PHIL_) Say something for me, Phil, can’t ye?--I
hav’n’t a word.
_Mr. Carv._ (_rising with a quicker motion than usual_) Bless me! bless
me!--here is a revolution! and a counter revolution!--Here’s news will
make you all in as great astonishment as I own I am.
_Old McB._ What is it?
_Randal._ I’m made for life--I don’t care what comes.
_Honor._ Nor I: so it is not to touch you, I’m happy.
_Catty._ Oh! your honour, spake quick, _this time_--I beg pardon!
_Mr. Carv._ Then I have to confess that _for once_ I have been deceived
and mistaken in my judgment of a man; and what is more, of a man’s
_circumstances_ completely--O’Blaney.
_Old McB._ What of his _circumstances_, oh! sir, in the name of mercy?
_Mr. Carv._ Bankrupt, at this instant all under seizure to the
supervisor. Mr. Gerald O’Blaney has fled the country.
_Old McB._ Then, Honor, you are without a penny; for all her fortune,
500_l._, was in his hands.
_Randal._ Then I’m as happy to have her without a penny--happier I am to
prove my love pure.
_Catty._ God bless you for my own son! That’s our way of thinking, Mr.
McBride--you see it was not for the fortune.
_Honor._ Oh! Phil, didn’t I tell you her heart was right?
_Catty._ We will work hard--cheer up, McBrides. Now the Roonies and
McBrides has joined, you’ll see we’ll defy the world and O’Blaney, the
_chate_ of _chates_.
_Honor._ Randal’s own mother!
_Catty._ Ay, now, we are all one family--now pull together. Don’t be
cast down, Phil dear. I’ll never call you _flourishing Phil_ again, so
don’t be standing on pride. Suppose your shister has not a pinny, she’s
better than the best, and I’ll love her and fold her to my ould warm
heart, and the daughter of my heart she is now.
_Honor._ Oh, mother!--for you are my mother now--and happy I am to have
a mother in you.
_Mr. Carv._ I protest it makes me almost--almost--blow my nose.
_Catty._ Why, then, you’re a good cratur. But who tould you I was a
vixen, dear--plase your honour?
_Mr. Carv._ Your friend that is gone.
_Catty._ O’Blaney?
_Randal._ Frind! He never was frind to none--least of all to hisself.
_Catty._ Oh! the double-distilled villain!--he tould your honour I was
a vixen, and fond of law. Now would you believe what I’m going to till
you? he tould me of his honour--
_Mr. Carv._ Of me, his patron?
_Catty._ Of you, his patron, sir. He tould me your honour--which is a
slander, as we all here can witness, can’t we? by his honour’s contempt
of Pat Coxe--yet O’Blaney said you was as fond and proud of having
informers about you as a rat-catcher is of rats.
_Mr. Carv._ Mistress Catherine Rooney, and all you good people,--there
is a great deal of difference between obtaining information and
encouraging common informers.
_Catty._ There is, I’m sinsible. (_Aside to her son_) Then he’s a
good magistrate--except a little pompous, mighty good. (_Aloud to Mr.
CARVER_) Then I beg your honour’s pardon for my bad behaviour, and
bad language and all. ‘Twas O’Blaney’s fau’t--but he’s down, and don’t
trample on the fallen.
_Old McB._ Don’t defind O’Blaney! Oh! the villain, to rob me of all my
hard arnings. Mrs. Catty, I thank you as much as a heavy heart can, for
you’re ginerous; and you, Randal, for your--
_Randal._ Is it for loving her, when I can’t help it?--who could?
_Old McB._ (_sighing deeply_) But still it goes against the father’s
heart to see his child, his pride, go pinnyless out of his house.
_Phil._ Then, sir, father dear, I have to tell you she is not
pennyless.--But I would not tell you before, that Randal, and Catty too,
might show themselves what they are. Honor is not pennyless: the three
hundred you gave me to lodge with O’Blaney is safe here. (_Opening his
pocket-book._)--When I was going to him with it as you ordered, by great
luck, I was stopped by this very quarrel and riot in Ballynavogue:--he
was the original cause of kicking up the riot, and was summoned before
your honour,--and here’s the money.
_Old McB._ Oh, she’s not pinnyless! Well, I never saw money with so much
pleasure, in all my long days, nor could I think I’d ever live to give
it away with half so much satisfaction as this minute. I here give it,
Honor, to Randal Rooney and you:--and bless ye, child, with the man of
_your_ choice, who is _mine_ now.
_Mrs. Carv._ (_aside to Mr. CARVER_) My dear, I wish to invite all these
good people to a wedding dinner; but really I am afraid I shall blunder
in saying their names--will you prompt me?
_Mr. Carv._ (_aside to Mrs. CARVER_) Why really I am not used to be a
prompter; however, I will condescend to prompt _you_, Mrs. Carver. (_He
prompts, while she speaks._)
_Mrs. Carv._ Mr. Big Briny of Cloon, Mr. Ulick of Eliogarty, Mr. Charley
of Killaspugbrone, and you, Mrs. Catty Rooney, and you, Mr. McBride,
senior, and you, Mr. Philip McBride, no longer _flourishing Phil_; since
you are now all reconciled, let me have the pleasure of giving you a
reconciliation dinner, at the wedding of Honor McBride, who is an honour
to her family, and Randal Rooney, who so well deserves her love.
_The McBRIDES and ROONIES join in the cry of_ Long life and great luck
to your ladyship, that was always good!
_Mr. Carv._ And you comprehend that I beg that the wedding may be
celebrated at Bob’s Fort.
_All join in crying_, Long may your honour’s honour reign over us in
glory at Bob’s Fort!
_Catty._ (_cracking her fingers_) A fig for the bog of
Ballynascraw!--Now ‘tis all Love and no Law!
THE ROSE, THISTLE,
AND
SHAMROCK.
A DRAMA.
IN THREE ACTS.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
SIR WILLIAM HAMDEN . . . _An Elderly English Gentleman._
CHRISTY GALLAGHER . . . . _Landlord of an Irish village inn._
MR. ANDREW HOPE . . . . . _A Drum-major in a Scotch regiment._
OWEN LARKEN . . . . . . . _The Son of the Widow Larken
--a Boy of about fifteen._
GILBERT . . . . . . . . . _An English Servant of Sir William Hamden._
WOMEN.
MISS O’HARA . . . . . . . _A young Heiress--Niece of Sir William Hamden._
MISS FLORINDA GALLAGHER . _Daughter of Christy Gallagher._
THE WIDOW LARKEN . . . . _Mother of Owen and of Mabel._
MABEL LARKEN . . . . . . _Daughter of the Widow Larken._
BIDDY DOYLE . . . . . . . _Maid of the Inn._
Band of a Regiment.
SCENE.--_The Village of Bannow, in Ireland._
THE ROSE,
&c.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
_A Dressing-Room in Bannow-Castle, in Ireland._
_Enter Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN, in his morning-gown._
_Sir W._ Every thing precisely in order, even in Ireland!--laid, I do
believe, at the very same angle at which they used to be placed on
my own dressing-table, at Hamden-place, in Kent. Exact Gilbert! most
punctual of valet de chambres!--and a young fellow, as he is, too! It
is admirable!--Ay, though he looks as if he were made of wood, and
moves like an automaton, he has a warm heart, and a true English
spirit--true-born English every inch of him. I remember him, when first
I saw him ten years ago at his father’s, Farmer Ashfield’s, at the
harvest-home; there was Gilbert in all his glory, seated on the top of a
hay-rick, singing,
“Then sing in praise of men of Kent,
So loyal, brave, and free;
Of Britain’s race, if one surpass,
A man of Kent is he!”
How he brought himself to quit the men of Kent to come to Ireland with
me is wonderful. However, now he is here, I hope he is tolerably happy:
I must ask the question in direct terms; for Gilbert would never speak
till spoken to, let him feel what he might.
_Sir W._ (_calls_) Gilbert!--Gilbert!
_Enter GILBERT._
_Gilb._ Here, sir.
_Sir W._ Gilbert, now you have been in Ireland some weeks, I hope you
are not unhappy.
_Gilb._ No, sir, thank you, sir.
_Sir W._ But are you happy, man?
_Gilb._ Yes, sir, thank you, sir.
[_GILBERT retires, and seems busy arranging his master’s clothes: Sir
WILLIAM continues dressing._
_Sir W._ (_aside_) _Yes, sir, thank you, sir._ As dry as a chip--sparing
of his words, as if they were his last. And the fellow can talk if he
would--has humour, too, if one could get it out; and eloquence, could I
but touch the right string, the heartstring. I’ll try again. (_Aloud_)
Gilbert!
_Gilb._ Yes, sir. (_Comes forward respectfully._)
_Sir W._ Pray what regiment was it that was passing yesterday through
the village of Bannow?
_Gilb._ I do not know, indeed, sir.
_Sir W._ That is to say, you saw they were Highlanders, and that was
enough for you--you are not fond of the Scotch, Gilbert?
_Gilb._ No, sir, I can’t say as I be.
_Sir W._ But, Gilbert, for my sake you must conquer this prejudice.
I have many Scotch friends whom I shall go to visit one of these
days--excellent friends they are!
_Gilb._ Are they, sir? If so be you found them so, I will do my best,
I’m sure.
_Sir W._ Then pray go down to the inn here, and inquire if any of the
Scotch officers are there.
_Gilb._ I will, sir. I heard say the officers went off this morning.
_Sir W._ Then you need not go to inquire for them.
_Gilb._ No, sir. Only as I heard say, the drum-major and band is to
stay a few days in Bannow, on account of their wanting to enlist a new
bugle-boy. I was a thinking, if so be, sir, you thought well of it, on
account you like these Scotch, I’d better to step down, and see how the
men be as to being comfortable.
_Sir W._ That’s right, do. Pray, have they tolerable accommodations at
the inn in this village?
_Gilb._ (_smiling_) I can’t say much for that, sir.
_Sir W._ (_aside_) Now I shall set him going. (_Aloud_) What, the inn
here is not like one of our English inns on the Bath road?
_Gilb._ (_suppressing a laugh_) Bath road! Bless you, sir, it’s no
more like an inn on the Bath road, nor on any road, cross or by-road
whatsomdever, as ever I seed in England. No more like--no more like than
nothing at all, sir!
_Sir W._ What sort of a place is it, then?
_Gilb._ Why, sir, I’d be ashamed almost to tell you. Why, sir, I never
seed such a place to call an inn, in all my born days afore. First and
foremost, sir, there’s the pig is in and out of the kitchen all day
long, and next the calf has what they call the run of the kitchen; so
what with them brute beasts, and the poultry that has no coop, and is
always under one’s feet, or over one’s head, the kitchen is no place for
a Christian, even to eat his bread and cheese in.
_Sir W._ Well, so much for the kitchen. But the parlour--they have a
parlour, I suppose?
_Gilb._ Yes, sir, they have a parlour as they may call it, if they think
proper, sir. But then again, an honest English farmer would be _afeard
on_ his life to stay in it, on account of the ceiling just a coming down
a’ top of his head. And if he should go up stairs, sir, why that’s as
bad again, and worse; for the half of them there stairs is rotten, and
ever so many pulled down and burnt.
_Sir W._ Burnt!--the stairs?
_Gilb._ Burnt, sir, as sure as I’m standing here!--burnt, sir, for fuel
one _scarce year_, as they says, sir. Moreover, when a man does get up
the stairs, sir, why he is as bad off again, and worse; for the floor of
the place they calls the bedchamber, shakes at every step, as if it
was a coming down with one; and the walls has all cracks, from top to
toe--and there’s rat-holes, or holes o’ some sort or t’other, all in the
floor: so that if a man don’t pick his steps curiously, his leg must go
down through the ceiling below. And moreover, there’s holes over head
through the roof, sir; so that if it rains, it can’t but pour on the
bed. They tell me, they used for to shift the bed from one place to
another, to find, as they say, the dry corner; but now the floor is
grown so crazy, they dare not stir the bed for their lives.
_Sir W._ Worse and worse!
_Gilb._ And moreover, they have it now in the worst place in the whole
room, sir. Close at the head of the bed, there is a window with every
pane broke, and some out entirely, and the women’s petticoats and the
men’s hats just stuck in to _stop all for the night_, as they say, sir.
[_GILBERT tries to stifle his laughter._
_Sir W._ Laugh out, honest Gilbert. In spite of your gravity and your
civility, laugh. There is no harm, but sometimes a great deal of good
done by laughing, especially in Ireland. Laughing has mended, or caused
to be mended, many things that never would have been mended otherwise.
_Gilb._ (_recovering his gravity_) That’s true, I dare to say, sir.
_Sir W._ Now, Gilbert, if you were to keep an inn, it would be a very
different sort of inn from what you have been describing--would not it?
_Gilb._ I hope so, sir.
_Sir W._ I remember when we were talking of establishing you in England,
that your father told me you would like to set up an inn.
_Gilb._ (_his face brightening_) For sartin, sir, ‘tis the thing in the
whole world I should like the best, and be the proudest on, if so be it
was in my power, and if so be, sir, you could spare me. (_Holding his
master’s coat for him to put on._)
_Sir W._ _Could._ spare you, Gilbert!--I _will_ spare you, whether I
can conveniently or not. If I had an opportunity of establishing
advantageously a man who has served me faithfully for ten years, do
you think I would not put myself to a little inconvenience to do
it?--Gilbert, you do not know Sir William Hamden.
_Gilb._ Thank you, sir, but I do--and I should be main sorry to leave
you, that’s sartin, if it was even to be landlord of the best inn in all
England--I know I should.
_Sir W._ I believe it.--But, stay--let us understand one another--I am
not talking of England, and perhaps you are not thinking of Ireland.
_Gilb._ Yes, sir, but I am.
_Sir W._ You are! I am heartily glad to hear it, for then I can serve
you directly. This young heiress, my niece, to whom this town belongs,
has a new inn ready built.
_Gilb._ I know, sir.
_Sir W._ Then, Gilbert, write a proposal for this inn, if you wish for
it, and I will speak to my niece.
_Gilb._ (_bowing_) I thank you, sir--only I hope I shall not stand
in any honest man’s light. As to a dishonest man, I can’t say I value
standing in his light, being that he has no right to have any, as I can
see.
_Sir W._ So, Gilbert, you will settle in Ireland at last? I am heartily
glad to see you have overcome your prejudices against this country. How
has this been brought about?
_Gilb._ Why, sir, the thing was, I didn’t know nothing about it, and
there was a many lies told backwards and forwards of Ireland, by a many
that ought to have known better.
_Sir W._ And now that you have seen with your own eyes, you are happily
convinced that in Ireland the men are not all savages.
_Gilb._ No, sir, no ways savage, except in the article of some of them
going bare-footed; but the men is good men, most of them.
_Sir W._ And the women? You find that they have not wings on their
shoulders.
_Gilb._ No, sir. (_Smiling_) And I’m glad they have not got wings, else
they might fly away from us, which I’d be sorry for--some of them.
[_After making this speech, GILBERT steps back, and brushes his master’s
hat diligently._
_Sir W._ (_aside_) Ha! is that the case? Now I understand it all. ‘Tis
fair, that Cupid, who blinds so many, should open the eyes of some of
his votaries. (_Aloud._) When you set up as landlord in your new inn,
Gilbert, (_Gilbert comes forward_) you will want a landlady, shall not
you?
_Gilb._ (_falls back, and answers_) I shall, sir, I suppose.
_Sir W._ Miss--what’s her name? the daughter of the landlord of the
present inn. Miss--what’s her name?
_Gilb._ (_answers without coming forward_) Miss Gallagher, sir.
_Sir W._ Miss Gallagher?--A very ugly name!--I think it would be charity
to change it, Gilbert.
_Gilb._ (_bashfully_) It would, no doubt, sir.
_Sir W._ She is a very pretty girl.
_Gilb._ She is, sir, no doubt.
[_Cleaning the brush with his hand, bows, and is retiring._
_Sir W._ Gilbert, stay, (_GILBERT returns._) I say, Gilbert, I took
particular notice of this Miss Gallagher, as she was speaking to you
last Sunday. I thought she seemed to smile upon you, Gilbert.
_Gilb._ (_very bashfully_) I can’t say, indeed, sir.
_Sir W._ I don’t mean, my good Gilbert, to press you to say any thing
that you don’t choose to say. It was not from idle curiosity that I
asked any questions, but from a sincere desire to serve you in whatever
way you like best, Gilbert.
_Gilb._ Oh, dear master! I can’t speak, you are so good to me, and
always was--too good!--so I say nothing. Only I’m not ungrateful--I know
I’m not ungrateful, that I am not! And as to the rest, there’s not a
thought I have, you’d condescend for to know, but you should know it as
soon as my mother--that’s to say, as soon as ever I knowed it myself.
But, sir, the thing is this, since you’re so good to let me speak to
you, sir--
_Sir W._ Speak on, pray, my good fellow.
_Gilb._ Then, sir, the thing is this. There’s one girl, they say, has
set her thoughts upon me: now I don’t like she, because why? I loves
another; but I should not choose to say so, on account of its not being
over and above civil, and on account of my not knowing yet for sartin
whether or not the girl I loves loves me, being I never yet could bring
myself to ask her the question. I’d rather not mention her name neither,
till I be more at a sartinty. But since you be so kind, sir, if you be
so good to give me till this evening, sir, as I have now, with the hopes
of the new inn, an independency to offer her, I will take courage, and
I shall have her answer soon, sir--and I will let you know with many
thanks, sir, whether--whether my heart’s broke or not.
[_Exit GILBERT hastily._
_Sir W._ (_alone_) Good, affectionate creature! But who would have
thought that out of that piece of wood a lover could be made? This is
Cupid’s delight!
[_Exit Sir WILLIAM._
SCENE II.
_Parlour of the Inn at Bannow._
_Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER, sola._
_Various articles of dress on the floor--a looking-glass propped up on
a chest--Miss GALLAGHER is kneeling before the glass, dressing her long
hair, which hangs over her shoulders._
_Miss G._ I don’t know what’s come to this glass, that it is not
flattering at all _the_ day. The spots and cracks in it is making me
look so full of freckles and crow’s feet--and my hair, too, that’s such
a figure, as straight and as stiff and as stubborn as a presbyterian.
See! it won’t curl for me: so it is in the papillotes it must be; and
that’s most genteel.
[_Sound of a drum at a distance--Miss GALLAGHER starts up and listens._
_Miss G._ Hark till I hear! Is not that a drum I hear? Ay, I had always
a quick ear for the drum from my cradle. And there’s the whole band--but
it’s only at the turn of the avenue. It’s on parade they are. So I’ll be
dressed and dacent before they are here, I’ll engage. And it’s my plaid
scarf I’ll throw over all, iligant for the Highlanders, and I don’t
doubt but the drum-major will be conquist to it at my feet afore
night--and what will Mr. Gilbert say to that? And what matter what
he says?--I’m not bound to him, especially as he never popped me the
question, being so preposterously bashful, as them Englishmen have the
misfortune to be. But that’s not my fault any way. And if I happen to
find a more shutable match, while he’s turning the words in his mouth,
who’s to blame me?--My father, suppose!--And what matter?--Have not I
two hundred pounds of my own, down on the nail, if the worst come to the
worst, and why need I be a slave to any man, father or other?--But he’ll
kill himself soon with the whiskey, poor man, at the rate he’s going.
Two glasses now for his _mornings_, and his _mornings_ are going on all
day. There he is, roaring. (_Mr. GALLAGHER heard singing._) You can’t
come in here, sir.
[_She bolts the door._
_Enter CHRISTY GALLAGHER, kicking the door open._
_Christy._ Can’t I, dear? what will hinder me?--Give me the _kay_ of the
spirits, if you plase.
_Miss G._ Oh, sir! see how you are walking through all my things.
_Christy._ And they on the floor!--where else should I walk, but on the
floor, pray, Miss Gallagher?--Is it, like a fly, on the ceiling you’d
have me be, walking with my head upside down, to plase you?
_Miss G._ Indeed, sir, whatever way you’re walking, it’s with your
head upside down, as any body may notice, and that don’t plase me at
all--isn’t it a shame, in a morning?
_Christy._ Phoo! don’t be talking of shame, you that knows nothing about
it. But lend me the kay of the spirits, Florry.
_Miss G._ Sir, my name’s Florinda--and I’ve not the kay of the spirits
at all, nor any such vulgar thing.
_Christy._ Vulgar! is it the kay?
_Miss G._ Yes, sir, it’s very vulgar to be keeping of kays.
_Christy._ That’s lucky, for I’ve lost all mine now. Every single kay I
have in the wide world now I lost, barring this kay of the spirits, and
that must be gone after the rest too I b’lieve, since you know nothing
of it, unless it be in this here chist.
[_CHRISTY goes to the chest._
_Miss G._ Oh, mercy, sir!--Take care of the looking-glass, which is
broke already. Oh, then, father, ‘tis not in the chist, ‘pon my word and
honour now, if you’ll b’lieve: so don’t be rummaging of all my things.
[_CHRISTY persists in opening the chest._
_Christy._ It don’t signify, Florry; I’ve granted myself a gineral
sarch-warrant; dear, for the kay; and, by the blessing, I’ll go clane to
the bottom o’ this chist. (_Miss GALLAGHER writhes in agony._) Why, what
makes you stand twisting there like an eel or an ape, child?--What, in
the name of the ould one, is it you’re afeard on?--Was the chist full
now of love-letter scrawls from the grand signior or the pope himself,
you could not be more tinder of them.
_Miss G._ Tinder, sir!--to be sure, when it’s my best bonnet I’m
thinking on, which you are mashing entirely.
_Christy._ Never fear, dear! I won’t mash an atom of the bonnet,
provided always, you’ll mash these apples for me, jewel. (_He takes
apples out of the chest._) And wasn’t I lucky to find them in it? Oh,
I knew I’d not sarch this chist for nothing. See how they’ll make an
iligant apple-pie for Mr. Gilbert now, who loves an iligant apple-pie
above all things--your iligant self always excipted, dear.
[_Miss GALLAGHER makes a slight curtsy, but motions the apples from
her._
_Miss G._ Give the apples then to the girl, sir, and she’ll make you the
pie, for I suppose she knows how.
_Christy._ And don’t you, then, Florry?
_Miss G._ And how should I, sir?--You didn’t send me to the
dancing-school of Ferrinafad to larn me to make apple-pies, I conclude.
_Christy._ Troth, Florry, ‘twas not I sint you there, sorrow foot but
your mother; only she’s in her grave, and it’s bad to be talking ill
of the dead any way. But be that how it will, Mr. Gilbert must get the
apple-pie, for rasons of my own that need not be mintioned. So, Biddy!
Biddy, girl! Biddy Doyle!
_Enter BIDDY, running, with a ladle in her hand._
_Christy._ Drop whatever you have in your hand, and come here, and be
hanged to you! And had you no ears to your head, Biddy?
_Biddy._ Sure I have, sir--ears enough. Only they are bothering me so
without, that pig and the dog fighting, that I could not hear ye calling
at-all-at-all. What is it?--For I’m skimming the pot, and can’t lave it.
[_Miss GALLAGHER goes on dressing_
_Christy._ It’s only these apples, see!--You’ll make me an apple-pie,
Biddy, smart.
_Biddy._ Save us, sir!--And how will I ever get time, when I’ve the hash
to make for them Scotch yet? Nor can I tell, for the life of me, what it
was I did with the onions and scallions neither, barring by great luck
they’d be in and under the press here--(_running to look under the
press_)--which they are, praised be God! in the far corner.
[_BIDDY stretches her arm under the press._
_Christy._ There’s a nice girl, and a ‘cute cliver girl, worth a dozen
of your Ferrinafads.
[_BIDDY throws the onions out from under the press, while he speaks._
_Miss G._ Then she’s as idle a girl as treads the earth, in or out of
shoe-leather, for there’s my bed that she has not made yet, and the
stairs with a month’s dust always; and never ready by any chance to do a
pin’s worth for one, when one’s dressing.
[_A drum heard; the sound seems to be approaching near._
_Christy._ Blood! the last rowl of the drum, and I not got the kay of
the spirits.
_Miss G._ Oh, saints above! what’s gone with my plaid scarf?--and my
hair _behind_, see!
[_Miss GALLAGHER twists up her hair behind.--BIDDY gathers up the onions
into her apron, and exit hastily.--CHRISTY runs about the room in a
distracted manner, looking under and over every thing, repeating_--The
kay! the kay! the kay!
_Christy._ For the whiskey must be had for them Scotch, and the bottled
beer too for them English; and how will I get all or any without the
kay? Bones, and distraction!
_Miss G._ And my plain hanke’cher that must be had, and where will I
find it, in the name of all the damons, in this chaos you’ve made me
out of the chist, father? And how will I git all in again, before the
drum-major’s in it?
_Christy._ (_sweeping up a heap of things in his arms, and throwing them
into the chest_) Very asy, sure! this ways.
_Miss G._ (_darting forward_) There’s the plaid hanke’cher.--(_She
draws it out from the heap under her father’s arm, and smooths it on her
knee._) But, oh! father, how you are making hay of my things!
_Christy._ Then I wish I could make hay of them, for hay is much wanting
for the horses that’s in it.
_Miss G._ (_putting on her plaid scarf_) Weary on these pins! that I
can’t stick any way at all, my hands all trimble so.--Biddy! Biddy!
Biddy! Biddy, can’t ye?--(_Re-enter BIDDY, looking bewildered._) Just
pin me behind, girl--smart.
_Christy._ Biddy is it?--Biddy, girl, come over and help me tramp down
this hay.
[_CHRISTY jumps into the chest._
_Miss G._ Oh, Biddy, run and stop him, for the love of God! with his
brogues and big feet.
_Biddy._ Oh, marcy! that’s too bad, sir; get out o’ that if you plase,
or Miss Florry will go mad, sure! and the major that’s coming up the
street--Oh, sir, if you plase, in the name of mercy!
_Christy._ (_jumping out_) Why, then, sittle it all yourself, Biddy, and
success to you; but you’ll no more get all in again afore Christmas,
to the best of my opinion, no more, see! than you’d get bottled porter,
froth and all, into the bottle again, once it was out.
_Miss G._ Such comparisons!--(_tossing back her head._)
_Christy._ And caparisons!--(_pointing to the finery on the floor._) But
in the middle of it all, lend me the poker, which will answer for the
master-kay, sure!--that poker that is houlding up the window--can’t ye,
Biddy?
[_BIDDY runs and pulls the poker hastily from under the sash, which
suddenly falls, and every pane of glass falls out and breaks._
_Christy._ Murder! and no glazier!
_Miss G._ Then Biddy, of all girls, alive or dead, you’re the
awk’ardest, vulgarest, unluckiest to touch any thing at all!
_Biddy._ (_picking up the glass_) I can’t think what’s come to the
glass, that makes it break so asy the day! Sure I done it a hundred
times the same, and it never broke wid me afore.
_Christy._ Well! stick up a petticoat, or something of the kind, and any
way lend me hould of the poker; for, in lieu of a kay, that’s the only
frind in need.
[_Exit CHRISTY with the poker._
_Miss G._ There, Biddy, that will do--any how.--Just shut down the lid,
can’t ye? and find me my other shoe. Biddy--then, lave that,--come
out o’ that, do girl, and see the bed!--run there, turn it up just any
way;--and Biddy, run here,--stick me this tortise comb in the back of my
head--oh! (_screams and starts away from BIDDY._) You ran it fairly into
my brain, you did! you’re the grossest! heavy handiest!--fit only to
wait on Sheelah na Ghirah, or the like.--(_Turns away from BIDDY with
an air of utter contempt._) But I’ll go and resave the major
properly.--(_Turns back as she is going, and says to BIDDY_) Biddy,
settle all here, can’t ye?--Turn up the bed, and sweep the glass and
dust in the dust corner, for it’s here I’m bringing him to dinner,--so
settle up all in a minute, do you mind me, Biddy! for your life!
[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER._
_BIDDY, alone_--(_speaking while she puts the things in the room in
order._)
_Settle up all in a minute!_--asy said!--and _for my life_ too!--Why,
then, there’s not a greater slave than myself in all Connaught, or the
three kingdoms--from the time I get up in the morning, and that’s afore
the flight of night, till I get to my bed again at night, and that’s
never afore one in the morning! But I wouldn’t value all one pin’s pint,
if it was kind and civil she was to me. But after I strive, and strive
to the utmost, and beyand--(_sighs deeply_) and when I found the
innions, and took the apple-pie off her hands, and settled her behind,
and all to the best of my poor ability for her, after, to go and call
me Sheelah na Ghirah! though I don’t rightly know who that Sheelah na
Ghirah was from Adam--but still it’s the bad language I get, goes to
my heart. Oh, if it had but plased Heaven to have cast me my lot in the
sarvice of a raal jantleman or lady instead of the likes of these! Now,
I’d rather be a dog in his honour’s or her honour’s house than lie under
the tongue, of Miss Gallagher, as I do--to say nothing of ould Christy.
_Miss GALLAGHER’S voice heard, calling,_
Biddy! Biddy Doyle! Biddy, can’t ye?
_Biddy._ Here, miss, in the room, readying it, I am.
_CHRISTY GALLAGHER’S voice heard calling,_
Biddy!--Biddy Doyle!--Biddy, girl! What’s come o’ that girl, that always
out o’ the way idling, when wanted?--Plague take her!
_Biddy._ Saints above! hear him now!--But I scorn to answer.
_Screaming louder in mingled voices, CHRISTY’S and Miss GALLAGHER’S,_
Biddy! Biddy Doyle!--Biddy, girl!
_Christy._ (_putting in his head_) Biddy! sorrow take ye! are ye in
it?--And you are, and we cracking our vitals calling you. What is it
you’re dallying here for? Stir! stir! dinner!
[_He draws back his head, and exit._
_BIDDY, alone._
Coming then!--Sure it’s making up the room I am with all speed, and the
bed not made after all!--(_Throws up the press-bed._)--But to live in
this here house, girl or boy, one had need have the lives of nine cats
and the legs of forty.
[_Exit._
SCENE III.
_The Kitchen of the Inn._
_Miss FLORINDA GALLAGHER and CHRISTY GALLAGHER._
_Boys and Men belonging to the Band, in the back Scene._
_Christy._ (_to the band_) The girl’s coming as fast as possible to get
yees your dinners, jantlemen, and sorrow better dinner than she’ll
give you: you’ll get all instantly--(_To Miss GALLAGHER_) And am not I
telling you, Florry, that the drum-major did not come in yet at all, but
went out through the town, to see and get a billet and bed for the sick
man they’ve got.
_Enter BIDDY, stops and listens._
_Miss G._ I wonder the major didn’t have the manners to step in, and
spake to the lady first--was he an Irishman, he would.
_Biddy._ Then it’s my wonder he wouldn’t step in to take his dinner
first--was he an Englishman, he would. But it’s lucky for me and for
him he didn’t, becaase he couldn’t, for it won’t be ready this
three-quarters of an hour--only the Scotch broth, which boiled over.
[_BIDDY retires, and goes on cooking.--CHRISTY fills out a glass of
spirits to each of the band._
_Miss G._ Since the major’s not in it, I’ll not be staying here--for
here’s only riff-raff triangle and gridiron boys, and a black-a-moor,
and that I never could stand; so I’ll back into the room. Show the major
up, do you mind, father, as soon as ever he’d come.
_Christy._ Jantlemen all! here’s the king’s health, and confusion worse
confounded to his enemies, for yees; or if ye like it better, here’s
the plaid tartan and fillibeg for yees, and that’s a comprehensive
toast--will give ye an appetite for your dinners.
[_They drink in silence._
_Miss G._ Did ye hear me, father?
_Christy._ Ay, ay.--Off with ye!
[_Exit Miss GALLAGHER, tossing back her head.--CHRISTY pours out a glass
of whiskey for himself, and with appropriate graces of the elbow and
little finger, swallows it, making faces of delight._
_Christy._ Biddy! Biddy, girl, ye!--See the pig putting in his
nose--keep him out--can’t ye?
_Biddy._ Hurrush! hurrush! (_Shaking her apron._) Then that pig’s as
sinsible as any Christian, for he’d run away the minute he’d see me.
_Christy._ That’s manners o’ the pig.--Put down a power more turf,
Biddy:--see the jantlemen’s gathering round the fire, and has a right
to be _could_ in their knees this St. Patrick’s day in the morning--for
it’s March, that comes in like a lion.
[_The band during this speech appear to be speaking to BIDDY.--She comes
forward to CHRISTY._
_Christy._ What is it they are whispering and conjuring, Biddy?
_Biddy._ ‘Twas only axing me, they were, could they all get beds the
night in it.
_Christy._ Beds! ay can yees, and for a dozen more--only the room above
is tinder in the joists, and I would not choose to put more on the floor
than two beds, and one shake-down, which will answer for five; for
it’s a folly to talk,--I’ll tell you the truth, and not a word of lie.
Wouldn’t it be idle to put more of yees in the room than it could hold,
and to have the floor be coming through the parlour ceiling, and so
spoil two good rooms for one night’s bad rest, jantlemen?--Well, Biddy,
what is it they’re saying?
_Biddy._ They say they don’t understand--can they have beds or not?
_Christy._ Why, body and bones! No, then, since nothing else will they
comprehend,--_no_,--only five, say,--five can sleep in it.
[_The band divide into two parties,--Five remain, and the others walk
off in silence._
_Biddy._ And it’s into the room you’d best walk up, had not yees, five
jantlemen, that sleep?
[_The five walk into the parlour--CHRISTY preparing to follow, carrying
whiskey bottle and, jug--turns back, and says to BIDDY,_
Is it dumb they are all? or _innocents_?
_Biddy._ Not at all innocents, no more than myself nor yourself. Nor
dumb neither, only that the Scotch tongue can’t spake English as we do.
_Christy._ Oh! if that’s all, after dinner the whiskey punch will make
‘em spake, I’ll engage.
[_Exit CHRISTY._
_Biddy._ ‘Tis I that am glad they’ve taken themselves away, for there’s
no cooking with all the men in the fire.
_Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE, Drum-major._
_Mr. H._ A gude day to you, my gude lassy.
_Biddy._ The same to you, sir, and kindly. I beg your pardon for not
knowing--would it be the drum-major, sir?
_Mr. H._ No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major.
I met some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they
could not have beds here.
_Biddy._ No, sir, plase your honour, only five that’s in the room
yonder: if you’d be plased to walk up, and you’ll get your dinner
immediately, your honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour.
_Mr. H._ No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the beds for
my poor fellows, that has had a sair march.
_Biddy._ Why then, if your honour would take a fool’s advice, you’d not
be looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner--since, good or bad,
all the looking at ‘em in the wide world won’t mend ‘em one feather,
sure.
_Mr. H._ My gude girl, that’s true. Still I’d like ever to face the
worst.
_Biddy._ Then it’s up that ladder you’ll go.
_Mr. H._ No stairs?
_Biddy._ Oh, there are stairs--but they are burnt and coming down, and
you’ll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the little holes in
the floor, if you plase, your honour.
[_Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the
bedchamber above._
_BIDDY, sola._
Well, I’m ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner’s reviewing
our house, though I’m only the girl in it, and no ways answerable. It
frets me for my country forenent them Scotch and English. (_Mr. HOPE
descends the ladder._) Then I’m sorry it’s not better for your honour’s
self, and men. But there’s a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this
town; and if you return this way, I hope things will be more
agreeable and proper. But you’ll have no bad dinner, your honour, any
way;--there’s Scotch broth, and Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon,
and a turkey, and a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and _pratees_
the best, and well boiled; and I hope, your honour, that’s enough for a
soldier’s dinner, that’s not nice.
_Mr. H._ Enough for a soldier’s dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and
more than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me,
have you no one to help you here, to dress all this?
_Biddy._ Sorrow one, to do a hand’s turn for me but myself, plase your
honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to any
thing in life: but she’s in the room there within, beyond, if you would
like to see her--a fine lady she is!
_Mr. H._ A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to see
her,--and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved as my
life; and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road
to the north, and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he
charged me, puir lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me
in Bannow, to inquire for his gude friends at the inn, and to return
them his thanks; and so I’m fain to do, and will not sleep till I’ve
done so.--But tell me first, my kind lassy,--for I see you are a kind
lassy,--tell me, has not this house had a change of fortune, and fallen
to decay of late? for the inn at Bannow was pictured to me as a bra’
neat place.
_Biddy._ Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it?
_Mr. H._ The Larkens!--that was the very name: it warms my heart to hear
the sound of it.
_Biddy._ Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk,
in their time,--and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these
Gallaghers.
_Mr. H._ And what has become of the Larkens, I pray?
_Biddy._ They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a
snug little place of a cabin--that is, the Widow Kelly.
_Mr. H._ Kelly!--but I am looking for Larken.
_Biddy._ Oh, Larken! that’s Kelly: ‘tis all one--she was a Kelly before
she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden’s name
throughout.
_Mr. H._ The same in our country--often.
_Biddy._ Indeed! and her daughter’s name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for
you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an
ould song of Mabel Kelly--_Planxty_ Kelly. Then the present Mabel is
as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was--but I must mind the
pratees. (_She goes to lift a pot off the fire._)
_Mr. H._ Hold! my gude girl, let me do that for you; mine is a strong
haund.
_Biddy._ I thank your honour,--it’s too much trouble entirely for a
jantleman like you; but it’s always the best jantleman has the _laste_
pride.--Then them Kellys is a good race, ould and young, and I love ‘em,
root and branch. Besides Mabel the daughter, there’s Owen the son, and
as good a son he is--no better! He got an edication in the beginning,
till the troubles came across his family, and the boy, the child,
for it’s bare fifteen he is this minute, give up all his hopes and
prospects, the cratur! to come home and slave for his mother.
_Mr. H._ Ah, that’s weel--that’s weel! I luve the lad that makes a gude
son.--And is the father _deed_?
_Biddy._ Ay, dead and deceased he is, long since, and was buried just
upon that time that ould Sir Cormac, father of the young heiress that
is now at the castle above, the former landlord that was over us, died,
see!--Then there was new times and new _takes_, and the widow was turned
out of the inn, and these Gallaghers got it, and all wint wrong and
to rack; for Mrs. Gallagher, that was, drank herself into her grave
unknownst, for it was by herself in private she took it; and Christy
Gallagher, the present man, is doing the same, only publicly, and
running through all, and the house is tumbling over our ears: but he
hopes to get the new inn; and if he does, why, he’ll be lucky--and
that’s all I know, for the dinner is done now, and I’m going in with
it--and won’t your honour walk up to the room now?
_Mr. H._ (_going to the ladder_) Up here?
_Biddy._ Oh, it’s not _up_ at all, your honour, sure! but down
here--through this ways.
_Mr. H._ One word more, my gude lassy. As soon as we shall have all
dined, and you shall have ta’en your ane dinner, I shall beg of you,
if you be not then too much tired, to show me the way to that bush of
Bannow, whereat this Widow Larken’s cottage is.
_Biddy._ With all the pleasure in life, if I had not a fut to stand
upon.
[_Exit Mr. HOPE.--BIDDY follows with a dish smoking hot._
_Biddy._ And I hope you’ll find it an iligant Scotch hash, and there’s
innions plinty--sure the best I had I’d give you; for I’m confident now
he’s the true thing--and tho’ he is Scotch, he desarves to be Irish,
every inch of him.
[_Exit BIDDY DOYLE._
ACT II.
SCENE I.
_An Irish Cabin.--The Kitchen._
_Widow LARKEN. On one side of her, MABEL at needle-work; on the other
side, OWEN her son enters, bringing in a spinning-wheel, which he places
before his mother._
_Owen._ There, mother, is your wheel mended for you.
_Mabel._ Oh, as good as new, Owen has made it for you.
_Widow._ Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not
I a right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?--Still it
grieves me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your
brother here should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for
better.
_Owen._ And what better can I be than working for my mother--man or boy?
_Mabel._ And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?
_Owen._ Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn--I saw
several with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning
proposals for them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and
petitions for Sir William Hamden and Miss O’Hara. Will you go up to the
castle and speak, mother?
_Widow._ No, no--I can’t speak, Owen.
_Owen._ Here’s the pen and ink-horn, and I’ll sit me down, if you’d
sooner write than speak.
_Widow._ See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that
inn.
_Owen._ Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother--but if you had gone
over it, as I have. ‘Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a
nutshell; not one of them grand inns, too great for the place, that
never answers no more than the hat that’s too big for the head, and that
always blows off.
_Widow._ No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister
Mabel--tho’ ‘tis not for me to say--such a likely, fine girl. I’d not be
happy to have her in a public-house--so many of all sorts that would be
in it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the
house, nor master, nor father for her.
_Owen._ Sure, mother, I’m next to a father for her. Amn’t I a brother?
and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of
respect for her; and if you’d be pleasing, I could be man and master
enough.
_Widow._ (_laughing_) You, ye dear slip of a boy!
_Owen._ (_proudly, and raising his head high_) Slip of a boy as I am,
then, and little as you think of me--
_Widow._ Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can’t think you big nor
old, Owen, can I?
_Owen._ No--nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts
in respect, mother.
_Widow._ Then he looked like his father--did not he, Mabel?
_Mabel._ He did--God bless him!
_Owen._ Now hear me, mother, for I’m going to speak sense. You need not
listen, Mabel.
_Mabel._ But it’s what I like to listen to sense, especially yours,
Owen.
_Owen._ Then I can’t help it.--You must hear, even if you blush for it.
_Mabel._ Why would I blush?
_Owen._ Because you won’t be able to help it, when I say Mr.
Gilbert.--See!
_Mabel._ Oh, dear Owen! that’s not fair. (_She falls back a little._)
_Owen._ Well, mother, it’s with you I’m reasoning. If he was your
son-in-law--
_Widow._ Hush! that he’ll never be. Now, Owen, I’ll grow angry if you
put nonsense in the girl’s head.
_Owen._ But if it’s in the man’s head, it’s not a bit nonsense.
_Mabel._ Owen, you might well say I shouldn’t listen to you.
[_Exit MABEL._
_Widow._ There now, you’ve drove your sister off.
_Owen._ Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be.
_Widow._ May be--but that _may be_ of yours might lead us all wrong.
[_She lays her hand on OWEN’S arm, and speaks in a serious tone._
_Widow._ Now, dear, don’t be saying one word more to her, lest it should
end in a disappointment.
_Owen._ Still it is my notion, ‘tis Mabel he loves.
_Widow._ Oh! what should you know, dear, o’ the matter?
_Owen._ Only having eyes and ears like another.
_Widow._ Then what hinders him to speak?
_Owen._ It’s bashfulness only, mother. Don’t you know what that is?
_Widow._ I do, dear. It’s a woman should know that best. And it is not
Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should
be more forward to understand than the man is to speak--was the man a
prince.
_Owen._ Mother, you are right; but I’m not wrong neither. And since I’m
to say no more, I’m gone, mother.
[_Exit OWEN._
_Widow._ (_alone_) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or
says? It’s all heart he is, and wouldn’t hurt a fly, except from want of
thought. But, stay now, I’m thinking of them soldiers that is in town.
(_Sighs_) Then I didn’t sleep since ever they come; but whenever I’d be
sinking to rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to
go. (_A deep groaning sigh._) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in
regimentals was afore me!
_Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,_
“Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!
Success to myself, that never was wrong!”
_Widow._ What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?
_Owen._ (_capering, and snapping his fingers_) Ay, mad! mad with joy I
am. And it’s joy I give you, and joy you’ll give me, mother darling.
The new inn’s yours, and no other’s, and Gilbert is your own too, and
no other’s--but Mabel’s for life. And is not there joy enough for you,
mother?
_Widow._ Joy!--Oh, too much! (_She sinks on a seat._)
_Owen._ I’ve been too sudden for her!
_Widow._ No, dear--not a bit, only just give me time--to feel it. And is
it true? And am I in no dream now? And where’s Mabel, dear?
_Owen._ Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her. We met her, and he
turned off with her, and I come on to tell you, mother dear.
_Widow._ Make me clear and certain; for I’m slow and weak, dear.
Who told you all this good? and is it true?--And my child Mabel
_mavourneen_!--Oh, tell me again it’s true.
_Owen._ True as life. But your lips is pale still, and you all in a
tremble. So lean on me, mother dear, and come out into God’s open air,
till I see your spirit come back--and here’s your bonnet, and we’ll meet
Mabel and Gilbert, and we’ll all go up to the castle to give thanks to
the lady.
_Widow._ (_looking up to heaven_) Thanks! Oh, hav’n’t I great reason to
be thankful, if ever widow had!
[_Exeunt, WIDOW leaning on OWEN._
SCENE II.
_An Apartment in Bannote Castle._
_Footmen bringing in Baskets of Flowers._
_Miss O’HARA and Sir WILLIAM HAMDEN._
_Clara._ Now, my dear uncle, I want to consult you.
_Sir W._ And welcome, my child. But if it is about flowers, you could
not consult a worse person, for I scarcely know a rose from a ----. What
is this you have here--a thistle?
_Clara._ Yes, sir; and that is the very thing I want your opinion about.
_Sir W._ Well, my dear, all I know about thistles, I think, is, that
asses love thistles--will that do?
_Clara._ Oh, no, sir--pray be serious, for I am in the greatest hurry to
settle how it is all to be. You know it is St. Patrick’s day.
_Sir W._ Yes, and here is plenty of shamrock, I see.
_Clara._ Yes, here is the shamrock--the rose, the ever blowing rose--and
the thistle. And as we are to have Scotch, English, and Irish at our
little fête champêtre this evening, don’t you think it would be pretty
to have the tents hung with the rose, thistle, and shamrock joined?
_Sir W._ Very pretty, my dear: and I am glad there are to be tents,
otherwise a fête champêtre in the month of March would give me the
rheumatism even to think of.
_Clara._ Oh, my dear sir, not at all. You will be snug and warm in the
green-house.
_Sir W._ Well, Clara, dispose of me as you please--I am entirely at your
service for the rest of my days.
_Clara._ Thank you, sir--you are the best of uncles, guardians, and
friends.
[_Miss O’HARA goes back and appears to be giving directions to the
servants._
_Sir W._ Uncle, nature made me--guardian, your father made me--friend,
you made me yourself, Clara. (_Sir WILLIAM comes forward, and speaks as
if in a reverie._) And ever more my friendship for her shall continue,
though my guardianship is over. I am glad I conquered my indolence, and
came to Ireland with her; for a cool English head will be wanting to
guide that warm Irish heart.--And here I stand counsel for prudence
against generosity!