when in comes Jack's ould acquaintance, the smoking cur, as grave as
ever. The priest had just got through two or three words of Latin, when
the dog gives him a pluck by the sleeve; Father Flannagan, of coorse,
turned round to see who it was that _nudged_ him: 'Behave yourself,'
says the dog to him, just as he peeped over his shoulder---'behave
yourself,' says he; and with that he sat him down on his hunkers beside
the priest, and pulling a cigar instead of a pipe out of his pocket, he
put it in his mouth, and began to smoke for the bare life of him. And,
by my own word, it's he that could smoke: at times he would shoot the
smoke in a slender stream like a knitting-needle, with a round curl at
the one end of it, ever so far out of the right side of his mouth; then
he would shoot it out of the left, and sometimes make it swirl out so
beautiful from the middle of his lips!--why, then, it's he that must
have been the well-bred puppy all out, as far as smoking went. Father
Flannagan and they all were thundherstruck.
“'In the name of St. Anthony, and of that holy nun, St. Teresa,' said
his Reverence to him, 'who and what are you, at all at all?'
“'Never mind that,' says the dog, taking the cigar for a minute between
his claws; 'but if you wish particularly to know, I'm a thirty-second
cousin of your own by the mother's side.'
“'I command you in the name of all the saints,' says Father Flarmagan,
believing him to be the devil, 'to disappear from among us, and never
become visible to any one in this house again.'
“'The sorra a budge, at the present time, will I budge,' says the dog to
him, 'until I see all sides rightified, and the rogues disappointed.'
“Now one would be apt to think the appearance of a _spaking_ dog might
be after fright'ning the ladies; but doesn't all the world know that
_spaking_ puppies are their greatest favorites? Instead of that, you
see, there was half a dozen fierce-looking whiskered fellows, and three
or four half-pay officers, that were nearer making off than the ladies.
But, besides the cigar, the dog had his beautiful eye-glass, and through
it, while he was spaking to Father Flannigan, he ogled all the ladies,
one after another, and when his eye would light upon any that pleased
him, he would kiss his paw to her and wag his tail with the greatest
politeness.
“'John,' says Father Flannagan, to one of the servants, 'bring me salt
and water, till I consecrate them* to banish the divil, for he has
appeared to us all during broad daylight in the shape of a dog.'
* Salt and water consecrated by a particular form is Holy Water.
“'You had better behave yourself, I say again,' says the dog, 'or if
you make me speak, by my honor as a gintleman I'll expose you: I say you
won't marry the same two, neither this nor any other day, and I'll give
you my raisons presently; but I repate it, Father Flannagan, if you
compel me to speak, I'll make you look nine ways at once.'
“'I defy you, Satan,' says the priest; 'and if you don't take yourself
away before the holy watcher's made, I'll send you off in a flame of
fire.'
“'Oh! yes, I'm trimbling,' says the dog: 'plenty of spirits you laid in
your day, but it was in a place that's nearer to us than the Red Sea,
you did it: listen to me though, for I don't wish to expose you, as I
said;' so he gets on his hind legs, puts his nose to the priest's ear,
and whispers something that none of the rest could hear--all before
the priest had time to know where he was. At any rate, whatever he said
seemed to make his Reverence look double, though, faix, that wasn't
hard to do, for he was as big as two common men. When the dog was
done speaking, and had put his cigar in his mouth, the priest seemed
thundherstruck, crossed himself, and was, no doubt of it, in great
perplexity.
“'I say it's false,' says Father Flannagan, plucking up his courage;
'but you know you're a liar, and the father of liars.'
“'As thrue as gospel, this bout, I tell you,' says the dog.
“'Wait till I make my holy wather,' says the priest, 'and if I don't
cork you in a thumb-bottle for this,* I'm not here.'
* According to the superstitious belief of the Irish, a
priest, when banishing a spirit, puts it into a thumb-
bottle, which he either buries deep in the earth, or in some
lake.
“Just at this minute, the whole company sees a gintleman galloping
for the bare life of him, up to the hall-door, and he dressed like an
officer. In three jiffeys he was down off his horse, and in among the
company. The dog, as soon as he made his appearance, laid his claw as
usual on his nose, and gave the bridegroom a wink, as much as to say,
'watch what'll happen.'
“Now it was very odd that Jack, during all this time, remembered the dog
very well, but could never once think of the darling that did so much
for him. As soon, however, as the officer made his appearance, the bride
seemed as if she would sink outright; and when he walked up to her,
to ax what was the meaning of what he saw, why, down she drops at
once--fainted clane. The gintleman then went up to Jack, and says, 'Sir,
was this lady about to be married to you?'
“'Sartinly,' says Jack, 'we were going to be yoked in the blessed and
holy tackle of mathrimony;' or some high-flown words of that kind.
“'Well, sir,' says the other back to him, 'I can only say that she is
most solemniously sworn never to marry another man but me at a time;
that oath she tuck when I was joining my regiment before it went abroad;
and if the ceremony of your marriage be performed, you will sleep with a
perjured bride.'
“Begad, he did plump before all their faces. Jack, of coorse, was struck
all of aghape at this; but as he had the bride in his arms, giving her a
little sup of whiskey to bring her to, you persave, he couldn't make him
an answer. However, she soon came to herself, and, on opening her eyes,
'Oh, hide me, hide me,' says she, 'for I can't bear to look on him!'
“'He says you are his sworn bride, my darling,' says Jack.
“'I am--I am,' says she, covering her eyes, and crying away at the rate
of a wedding: 'I can't deny it; and, by tare-an-ounty!' says she, 'I'm
unworthy to be either his wife or yours; for, except I marry you both, I
dunna how to settle this affair between you at all;--oh, murther sheery!
but I'm the misfortunate crathur, entirely.'
“'Well,' says Jack to the officer, 'nobody can do more than be sorry
for a wrong turn; small blame to her for taking a fancy to your humble
servant, Mr. Officer,'--and he stood as tall as possible to show himself
off: 'you see the fair lady is sorrowful for her folly, so as it's
not yet too late, and as you came in the nick of time, in the name of
Providence take my place, and let the marriage go an.'
“'No,' says she, 'never; I'm not worthy of him, at all, at all;
thundher-an-age, but I'm the unlucky thief!'
“While this was going forward, the officer looked closely at Jack, and
seeing him such a fine, handsome fellow, and having heard before of his
riches, he began to think that, all things considhered, she wasn't so
much to be _blempt_. Then, when he saw how sorry she was for having
forgot him, he steps _forrid_.
“'Well,' says he, 'I'm still willing to marry you, particularly as you
feel conthrition--'”
“He should have said contrition, confession, and satisfaction,” observed
Father Peter.
“Pettier, will you keep your theology to yourself,” replied Father Ned,
“and let us come to the plot without interruption.”
“Plot!” exclaimed Father Peter; “I'm sure it's no rebellion that there
should be a plot in it, any way!”
“_Tace_,” said Father Ned--“_tace_, and that's Latin for a candle.”
“I deny that,” said the curate; “tace is the imperative mood from
_tacco_, to keep silent. Tacco, taces, tacui, tacere, tacendi, tacendo
tac--”
“Ned, go on with your story, and never mind that deep larning of
his--he's almost cracked with it,” said the superior: “go on, and never
mind him.”
“'Well,' says he, 'I'm still willing to marry you, particularly as you
feel conthrition for what you were going to do.' So, with this, they
all gother about her, and, as the officer was a fine fellow himself,
prevailed upon her to let the marriage be performed, and they were
accordingly spliced as fast as his Reverence could make them.
“'Now, Jack,' says the dog, 'I want to spake with you for a minute--it's
a word for your own ear;' so up he stands on his two hind legs, and
purtinded to be whisp'ring something to him; but what do you think?--he
gives him the slightest touch on the lips with his paw, and that instant
Jack remimbered the lady and everything that happened betune them.
“'Tell me, this instant,' says Jack, seizing him by the throat, 'where's
the darling, at all, at all, or by this and by that you'll hang on the
next tree!'
“Jack spoke finer nor this, to be sure, but as I can't give his tall
English, the sorra one of me will bother myself striving to do it.
“'Behave yourself,' says the dog, 'just say nothing, only follow me.'
“Accordingly, Jack went out with the dog, and in a few minutes comes in
again, leading along with him, on the one side, the loveliest lady that
ever eye beheld, and the dog, that was her brother, metamurphied into a
beautiful, illegant gintleman, on the other.
“'Father Flannagan,' says Jack, 'you thought a little while ago you'd
have no marriage, but instead of that you'll have a brace of them;' up
and telling the company, at the same time, all that had happened to him,
and how the beautiful crathur that he had brought in with him had done
so much for him.
“Whin the gintlemen heard this, as they Were all Irishmen, you may be
sure there was nothing but huzzaing and throwing up of hats from them,
and waving of hankerchers from the ladies. Well, my dear, the wedding
dinner was ate in great style; the nobleman proved himself no disgrace
to his rank at the trencher; and so, to make a long story short, such
faisting and banquetteering was never since or before. At last, night
came; among ourselves, not a doubt of it, but Jack thought himself a
happy man; and maybe, if all was known, the bride was much in the
same opinion: be that as it may, night came--the bride, all blushing,
beautiful, and modest as your own sweetheart, was getting tired after
the dancing; Jack, too, though much stouter, wished for a trifle of
repose, and many thought it was near time to throw the stocking, as is
proper, of coorse, on every occasion of the kind. Well, he was just on
his way up stairs, and had reached the first landing, when he hears a
voice at his ear, shouting, 'Jack--Jack--Jack Magennis!' Jack could have
spitted anybody for coming to disturb him at such a criticality. 'Jack
Magennis!' says the voice. Jack looked about to see who it was that
called him, and there he found himself lying on the green Rath, a little
above his mother's cabin, of a fine, calm summer's evening, in the month
of June. His mother was stooping over him, with her mouth at his ear,
striving to waken him, by shouting and shaking him out of his sleep.
“'Oh! by this and by that, mother,' says Jack, 'what did you waken me
for?'
“'Jack, avourneen,' says the mother, 'sure and you war lying grunting,
and groaning, and snifthering there, for all the world as if you had the
cholic, and I only nudged you for fraid you war in pain.'
“'I wouldn't for a thousand guineas,' says Jack, 'that ever you wakened
me, at all, at all; but whisht, mother, go into the house, and I'll be
afther you in less than no time.'
“The mother went in, and the first thing Jack did was to try the rock;
and, sure enough, there he found as much money as made him the richest
man that ever was in the country. And what was to his credit, when, he
did grow rich, he wouldn't let his cabin be thrown down, but built a
fine castle on a spot near it, where he could always have it under his
eye, to prevent him from getting proud. In the coorse of time, a harper,
hearing the story, composed a tune upon it, which every body knows is
called the 'Little House under the Hill' to this day, beginning with--
'Hi for it, ho for it, hi for it still;
Och, and whoo! your sowl--hi for the little house under the hill!'
“So you see that was the way the great Magennisses first came by their
wealth, and all because Jack was indistrious, and an obadient, dutiful,
and tindher son to his helpless ould mother, and well he deserved
what he got, _ershi misha_ (* Say I.) Your healths, Father Ned--Father
Pether--all kinds of happiness to us; and there's my story.”
* * * * *
“Well,” said Father Peter, “I think that dog was nothing more or less
than a downright cur, that deserved the lash nine times a day, if it
was only for his want of respect to the clergy; if he had given me such
insolence, I solemnly declare I would have bate the devil out of him
with a hazel cudgel, if I failed to exorcise him with a prayer.”
Father Ned looked at the simple and credulous curate with an expression
of humor and astonishment.
“Paddy,” said he to the servant, “will you let us know what the night's
doing?”
Paddy looked out. “Why, your Rev'rence, it's a fine night, all out, and
cleared up it is bravely.”
At this moment the stranger awoke.
“Sir,” said Father Ned, “you missed an amusing story, in consequence of
your somnolency.”
“Though I missed the story,” replied the stranger, “I was happy enough
to hear your friend's critique upon the dog.”
Father Ned seemed embarrassed; the curate, on the contrary, exclaimed
with triumph--“but wasn't I right, sir?”
“Perfectly,” said the stranger; “the moral you applied was excellent.”
“Good-night, boys,” said Father Ned--“good-night, Mr. Longinus
Polysyllabus Alexandrinus!”
“Good-night, boys,” said Father Peter, imitating Father Ned, whom he
looked upon as a perfect model of courtesy--“Good-night, boys--good
night, Mr. Longinus Polysyllabus Alexandrinus.”
“Good-night,” replied the stranger--“good-night, Doctor Edward Deleery;
and good-night, Doctor Peter M'Clatchaghan--good-night.”
When the clergymen were gone, the circle about the fire, excepting the
members of Ned's family and the stranger, dispersed to their respective
homes; and thus ended the amusement of that evening.
After they had separated, Ned, whose curiosity respecting the stranger
was by no means satisfied, began to sift him in his own peculiar manner,
as they both sat at the fire.
“Well, sir,” said Ned, “barring the long play-acther that tumbles upon
the big stage in the street of our market-town, here below, I haven't
seen so long a man this many a day; and, barring your big whiskers,
the sorra one of your honor's unlike him. A fine portly vagabone he is,
indeed--a big man, and a bigger rogue, they say, for he pays nobody.”
“Have you got such a company in your neighborhood?” inquired the
stranger, with indifference.
“We have, sir,” said Ned, “but, plase goodness, they'll soon be lashed
like hounds from the place--the town boys are preparing to give them a
chivey some fine morning out of the country.”
“Indeed!--he--hem! that will be very spirited of the town boys,” said
the stranger dryly.
“That's a smart looking horse your honor rides,” observed Ned; “did he
carry you far to-day, with submission?”
“Not far,” replied his companion--“only fourteen miles; but, I suppose,
the fact is, you wish to know who and what I am, where I came from and
whither I am going. Well, you shall know this. In the first place, I am
agent to Lord Non Resident's estate, if you ever heard of that
nobleman, and am on my way from Castle Ruin, the seat of his Lordship's
Incumbrances, to Dublin. My name you have already heard. Are you now
satisfied?”
“Parfitly, your honor,” replied Ned, “and I am much obliged to you,
sir.”
“I trust you are an honest man,” said the stranger, “because for this
night I am about to place great confidence in you.”
“Well, sir,” said his landlord, “if I turn out dishonest to you, it's
more nor I did in my whole life to any body else, barring to Nancy.”
“Here, then,” said the stranger, drawing out a large packet, inclosed
in a roll of black leather--“here is the half year's rent of the estate,
together with my own property: keep it secure till morning, when I shall
demand it, and, of course, it will be safe?”
“As if it was five _fadom_, under ground,” replied Ned. “I will put it
along with our own trifle of silver; and after that, let Nancy alone for
keeping it safe, so long as it's there;” saying which, Ned secured the
packet, and showed the stranger his bed.
About five o'clock the next morning their guest was up, and ordered a
snack in all haste; “Being a military man,” said he, “and accustomed to
timely hours, I shall ride down to the town, and put a letter into the
post-office in time for the Dublin mail, after which you may expect me
to breakfast. But, in the meantime, I am not to go with empty pockets,”
he added; when mounting his horse at the door--“bring me some silver,
landlord, and be quick.”
“How much, plase your honor?”
“Twenty or thirty shillings; but, harkee, produce my packet, that I may
be quite certain my property is safe.”
“Here it is, your honor, safe and sound,” replied Ned, returning from
within; “and Nancy, sir, has sent you all the silver she has, which
was One Pound Five; but I'd take it as a favor if your honor would be
contint with twenty shillings, and lave me the odd five, for you see
the case is this, sir, plase your honor, _she_,” and Ned, with a
shrewd, humorous nod, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as he
spoke-- “she wears the ---- what you know, sir.”
“Ay, I thought so,” replied the stranger; “but a man of your size to be
henpecked must be a great knave, otherwise your wife would allow you
more liberty. Go in, man; you deserve no compassion in such an age of
freedom as this. I sha'n't give you a farthing till after my return, and
only then if it be agreeable to your wife.” *
* Ned M'Keown was certainly a very remarkable individual,
and became, in consequence of his appearance in these pages,
a person of considerable notoriety during the latter years
of his life. His general character, and the nature of his
unsuccessful speculations, I have drawn with great truth.
There is only one point alone in which I have done him
injustice, and that is in depicting him as a henpecked
husband. The truth is, I had a kind of good humored pique in
against Ned, and for the following reasons:--The cross-roads
at which he lived formed a central point for all the
youngsters of the neighborhood to assemble for the purpose
of practising athletic exercises, of which I, in my youth,
was excessively fond. Now Ned never would suffer me to join
my young acquaintances in these harmless and healthful
sports, but on every occasion, whenever he saw me, he would
run out with,a rod or cudgel and chase me from the scene of
amusement. This, to a boy so enthusiastically devoted to
such diversions as I was, often occasioned me to give him
many a hearty malediction when at a safe distance. In fact,
he continued this practice until I became too much of a man
to run away, after which he durst only growl and mutter
abuse, whilst I snapped my fingers at him. For this reason,
then, and remembering all the vexatious privations of my
favorite sports which he occasioned me, I resolved to turn
the laugh against him, which I did effectually, by bringing
him out in the character of a hen-pecked husband, which was
indeed very decidedly opposed to his real one. My triumph
was complete, and Ned, on hearing himself read of “in a
book,” waxed indignant and wrathful. In speaking of me he
could not for the life of him express any other idea of my
age and person than that by which he last remembered me.
“What do you think?” he would exclaim, “there's that young
Carleton has put me in a book, and made Nancy leather me!”
Ned survived Nancy several years, and married another wife,
whom I never saw. About twenty-five years ago he went to
America, where he undertook to act as a tanner, and nearly
ruined his employer. After some time he returned, home, and
was forced to mend roads. Towards the close of his life,
however, he contrived to get an ass and cart, and became
egg-merchant, but I believe with his usual success. In this
last capacity, I think about two years ago, he withdrew from
all his cares and speculations, and left behind him the
character of an honest, bustlin, good-humored man, whom
everybody knew and everybody liked, and whose harmless
eccentricities many will long remember with good-humor and
regret.
“Murdher!” said Ned, astonished, “I beg your honor's pardon; but murdher
alive, sir, where's your whiskers?”
The stranger put his hand hastily to his face, and smiled--“Where are my
whiskers? Why, shaved off, to be sure,” he replied; and setting spurs to
his horse, was soon out of sight and hearing.
It was nearly a month after that, when Ned and Nancy, in presence of
Father Deleery, opened the packet, and. discovered, not the half-year's
rent of Lord Non-Resident's estate, but a large sheaf of play-bills
packed up together--their guest having been the identical person to whom
Ned affirmed he bore so strong a resemblance.
SHANE FADH'S WEDDING.
On the following evening, the neighbors were soon assembled about
Ned's hearth in the same manner as on the night preceding:--And we may
observe, by the way, that though there was a due admixture of opposite
creeds and conflicting principles, yet even then, and the time is not so
far back, such was their cordiality of heart and simplicity of manners
when contrasted with the bitter and rancorous spirit of the present day
that the very remembrance of the harmony in which they lived is at once
pleasing and melancholy.
After some preliminary chat, “Well Shane,” said Andy Morrow, addressing
Shane Fadh, “will you give us an account of your wedding? I'm tould it
was the greatest let-out that ever was in the country, before or since.”
“And you may say that, Mr. Morrow,” said Shane, “I was at many a wedding
myself, but never at the likes of my own, barring Tim Lannigan's, that
married Father Corrigan's niece.”
“I believe,” said Andy, “that, too, was a dashing one; however, it's
your own we want. Come, Nancy, fill these measures again, and let us be
comfortable, at all events, and give Shane a double one, for talking's
druthy work:--I'll stand this round.”
When the liquor was got in, Shane, after taking a draught, laid down his
pint, pulled out his steel tobacco-box, and, after twisting off a
chew between his teeth, closed the box, and commenced the story of his
wedding.
“When I was a Brine-Oge,” * said Shane, “I was as wild as an unbroken
cowlt--no divilment was too hard for me; and so sign's on it, for
there wasn't a piece of mischief done in the parish, but was laid at my
door--and the dear knows I had enough of my own to answer for, let alone
to be set down for that of other people; but, any way, there was many a
thing done in my name, when I knew neither act nor part about it. One
of them I'll mintion: Dick Cuillenan, father to Paddy, that lives at
the crass-roads, beyant Gunpowdher Lodge, was over head and ears in love
with Jemmy Finigan's eldest daughter, Mary, then, sure enough, as purty
a girl as you'd meet in a fair--indeed, I think I'm looking at her, with
her fair flaxen ringlets hanging over her shoulders, as she used to pass
our house, going to mass of a Sunday. God rest her sowl, she's now
in glory--that was before she was my wife. Many a happy day we passed
together; and I could take it to my death, that an ill word, let alone
to rise our hands to one another, never passed between us--only one day,
that a word or two happened about the dinner, in the middle of Lent,
being a little too late, so that the horses were kept nigh half an hour
out of the plough; and I wouldn't have valued that so much, only that it
was Beal Cam** Doherty that joined*** me in ploughing that year--and
I was vexed not to take all I could out of him, for he was a raal Turk
himself.
* A young man full of fun and frolic. The word literally
signifies Young Brian. Such phrases originate thus:--A young
man remarkable for one or more qualities of a particular
nature becomes so famous for them that his name, in the
course of time, is applied to others, as conveying the same
character.
** Crooked mouth.