was worse;--within, it would amost turn your stomach to look at it--the
flure was all dirt, for how could it be any other way, when at the end
of every meal the _schrahag_* would be emptied down on it, and the pig,
that was whining and grunting about the door, would brake into the hape
of praty-skins that Sally would there throw down for it. You might reel
Larry's shirt, or make a surveyor's chain of it; for, bad cess (* Bad
success) to me, but I bleeve it would reach from this to the Bath. The
blanket was in tatthers, and, like the shirt, would go round the house:
their straw-beds were stocked with the _black militia_--the childer's
heads were garrisoned with _Scotch greys_, and their heels and heads
ornamented with all description of kibes. There wor only two stools in
all the house, and a hassock of straw for the young child, and one of
the stools wanted a leg, so that it was dangerous for a stranger to sit
down upon it, except he knew of this failing. The flure was worn into
large holes, that were mostly filled up with slop, where the childher
used to daddle about, and amuse themselves by sailing egg-shells upon
them, with bits of boiled praties in them, by way of a little faste. The
dresser was as black as dirt could make it, and had on it only two or
three wooden dishes, clasped with tin, and noggins without hoops, a
beetle, and some crockery. There was an ould chest to hold their male,
but it wanted the hinges; and the childher, when they'd get the
mother out, would mix a sup of male and wather in a noggin, and stuff
themselves with it, raw and all, for they were almost starved.
“Then, as the cow-house had never been kept in repair, the roof fell in,
and the cow and pig had to stand in one end of the dwelling-house;
and, except Larry did it, whatever dirt the same cow and pig, and the
childher to the back of that, were the occasion of, might stand there
till Saturday night, when, for dacency's sake, Sally herself would take
a shovel, and out with it upon the hape that was beside the sink before
the door. If a wet day came, there wasn't a spot you could stand in for
_down-rain_; and wet or dry, Sally, Larry, and the childher were spotted
like trouts with the soot-dhrops, made by the damp of the roof and the
smoke. The house on the outside was all in ridges of black dirt, where
the thatch had rotted, or covered over with chickenweed or blind-oats;
but in the middle of all this misery they had a horseshoe nailed over
the door-head for good luck.
“You know, that in telling this story, I needn't mintion everything just
as it happened, laying down year after year, or day and date; so you may
suppose, as I go on, that all this went forward in the coorse cf time.
They didn't get bad of a sudden, but by degrees, neglecting one thing
after another, until they found themselves in the state I'm relating to
you--then struggling and struggling, but never taking the right way to
mend.
“But where's the use in saying much more about it?--things couldn't
stand--they were terribly in arrears; but the landlord was a good kind
of man, and, for the sake of the poor childher, didn't wish to turn them
on the wide world, without house or shelter, bit or sup. Larry, too, had
been, and still was, so ready to do difficult and nice jobs for him, and
would resave no payment, that he couldn't think of taking his only
cow from him or prevent him from raising a bit of oats' or a plat of
potatoes, every year, out of the farm.--The farm itself was all run to
waste by this time, and had a miserable look about it--sometimes you
might see a piece of a field that had been ploughed, all overgrown with
grass, because it had never been sowed or set with anything. The slaps
were all broken down, or had only a piece of an ould beam, a thorn bush,
or crazy car lying acrass, to keep the cattle out of them. His bit of
corn was all eat away and cropped here and there by the cows, and his
potatoes rooted up by the pigs.--The garden, indeed, had a few cabbages,
and a ridge of early potatoes, but these were so choked with burtlocks
and nettles, that you could hardly see them.
“I tould you before that they led the divil's life, and that was nothing
but God's truth; and according as they got into greater poverty it
was worse. A day couldn't pass without a fight; if they'd be at their
breakfust, maybe he'd make a potato hop off her skull, and she'd give
him the contents of her noggin of buttermilk about the eyes; then he'd
flake her, and the childher would be in an uproar, crying out, 'Oh,
daddy, daddy, don't kill my mammy!' When this would be over, he'd go
off with himself to do something for the Squire, and would sing and
laugh so pleasant, that you'd think he was the best-tempered man alive;
and so he was, until neglecting his business, and minding dances, and
fairs, and drink, destroyed him.
“It's the maxim of the world, that when a man is down, down with him;
but when a man goes down through his own fault, he finds very little
mercy from any one. Larry might go to fifty fairs before he'd meet
any one now to thrate him; instead of that, when he'd make up to them,
they'd turn away, or give him the cowld shoulder. But that wouldn't
satisfy him: for if he went to buy a slip of a pig, or a pair of
brogues, and met an ould acquaintance that had got well to do in the
world, he should bring him in, and give him a dram, merely to let the
other see that he was still _able_ to do it; then, when they'd sit down,
one dram would bring on another from Larry, till the price of the pig or
the brogues would be spint, and he'd go home again as he came, sure to
have another battle with Sally.
“In this way things went on, when one day that Larry was preparing to
sell some oats a son of Nicholas Roe Sheridan's of the Broad bog came
in to him. 'Good-morrow,' says he. 'Good-morrow, kindly, Art,' says
Larry--'how are you, ma bou-chal?'
“'Why I've no rason to complain, thank God, and you,' says the other;
'how is yourself?'
“'Well, thank you, Art: how is the family?'
“'Faix, all stout except my father, that has got a touch of the
toothache. When did you hear from the Slevins?'
“'Sally was down on Thursday last, and they're all well, your soul.'
“'Where's Sally now?'
“'She's just gone down to the big house for a pitcher of buttermilk; our
cow won't calve these three weeks to come, and she gets a sup of kitchen
for the childher till then; won't you take a sate, Art? but you had
better have a care of yourself, for that stool wants a leg.'
“'I didn't care she was within, for I brought a sup of my own stuff in
my pocket,' said Art.
“'Here, Hurrish' (he was called Horatio after one of the Square's sons),
'fly down to the Square's, and see what's keeping your mother; the
divil's no match for her at staying out with herself wanst she's from
under the roof.'
“'Let Dick go,' says the little fellow, 'he's betther able to go nor I
am; he has got a coat on him.'
“'Go yourself, when I bid you,' says the father.
“'Let him go,' says Hurrish, 'you have no right to bid me to go, when he
has a coat upon him: you promised to ax one for me from Masther Francis,
and you didn't do it; so the divil a toe I'll budge to-day,' says he,
getting betune the father and the door.
“'Well, wait,' says Larry, 'faix, only the strange man's to the fore,
and I don't like to raise a hubbub, I'd pay you for making me such an
answer. Dick, agra, will you run down, like a good bouchal, to the big
house, and tell your mother to come home, that there's a strange man
here wants her?'
“'Twas Hurrish you bid,' says Dick--'and make him: that's the way he
always thrates you--does nothing that you bid him.'
“'But you know, Dick,' says the father, 'that he hasn't a stitch to his
back, and the crathur doesn't like to go out in the cowld, and he so
naked.'
“'Well, you bid him go,' says Dick, 'an let him; the sorrayard I'll
go--the shinburnt spalpeen, that's always the way with him; whatever
he's bid to do, he throws it on me, bekase, indeed, he has no coat; but
he'll folly Masther Thomas or Masther Francis through sleet and snow up
the mountains when they're fowling or tracing; he doesn't care about a
coat then.'
“'Hurrish, you must go down for your mother when I bid you,' says the
weak man, turning again to the other boy.
“I'll not,' says the little fellow; 'send Dick.'
“Larry said no more, but, laying down the child he had in his hands,
upon the flure, makes at him; the lad, however, had the door of him, and
was off beyant his reach like a shot. He then turned into the house,
and meeting Dick, felled him with a blow of his fist at the dresser.
'Tundher-an-ages, Larry,' says Art, 'what has come over you at all at
all? to knock down the gorsoon with such a blow! couldn't you take a rod
or a switch to him?--_Dher manhim_, (* By my soul!) man, but I bleeve
you've killed him outright,' says he, lifting the boy, and striving to
bring him to life. Just at this minit Sally came in.
“'Arrah, sweet bad-luck to you, you lazy vagabond you,' says Larry,
'what kept you away till this hour?'
“'The devil send you news, you nager you,' says Sally, 'what kept
me--could I make the people churn sooner than they wished or were
ready?'
“'Ho, by my song, I'll flake you as soon as the dacent young man leaves
the house,' says Larry to her, aside.
“'You'll flake me, is it?' says Sally, speaking out loud--'in troth,
that's no new thing for you to do, any how.'
“'Spake asy, you had betther.'
“'No, in troth, won't I spake asy; I've spoken asy too long, Larry,
but the devil a taste of me will bear what I've suffered from you any
longer, you mane-spirited blackguard you; for he is nothing else that
would rise his hand to a woman, especially to one in my condition, and
she put her gown tail to her eyes. When she came in, Art turned his back
to her, for fraid she'd see the state the gorsoon was in--but now she
noticed it--
“'Oh, murdher, murdher,' says she, clapping her hands, and running over
to him, 'what has happened my child? oh! murdher, murdher, this is your
work, murdherer!' says she to Larry. 'Oh, you villain, are you bent on
murdhering all of us--are you bent on destroying us out o' the face! Oh,
wurrah sthrew! wurrah sthrew! what'll become of us! Dick, agra,' says
she, crying, 'Dick, acushla machree, don't you hear, me spaiking to
you!--don't you hear your poor broken-hearted mother spaking to you? Oh!
wurrah! wurrah! amn't I the heart-brokenest crathur that's alive this
day, to see the likes of such doings! but I knew it would come to
this! My sowl to glory, but my child's murdhered by that man standing
there!--by his own father--his own father! Which of us will you murther
next, you villain!'
“'For heaven's sake, Sally,' says Art, 'don't exaggerate him more nor
he is--the boy is only stunned--see, he's coming to: Dick, ma bouchal,
rouse yourself, that's a man: hut! he's well enough--that's it, alannah;
here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it'll set all right--or stop,
have you a glass within, Sally?' 'Och, inusha, not a glass is under the
roof wid me,' says Sally; 'the last we had was broke the night
Barney was christened, and we hadn't one since--but I'll get you an
egg-shell.'* 'It'll do as well as the best,' says Art. And to make a
long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of whiskey among
them. Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great friends as ever; and
Dick was made drunk for the bating he got from his father.
* The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing. It often
happens that they have whiskey when neither glasses nor cups
are at hand; in which case they are never at a loss. I have
seen them use not only egg-shells, but pistol barrels,
tobacco boxes, and scooped potatoes, in extreme cases.
“What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to run in
a private Still, up in the mountains, of coorse, where every Still is
kept. Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring them up to
the still-house the next night after dark. According to appointment, Art
came a short time after night-fall, with two or three young boys along
with him. The corn was sacked and put on the horses; but before that
was done, they had a dhrop, for Art's pocket and the bottle were ould
acquaintances. They all then sat down in Larry's, or, at laste, as many
as there were seats for, and fell to it. Larry, however, seemed to be
in better humor this night, and more affectionate with Sally and the
childher: he'd often look at them, and appear to feel as if something
was over him* but no one observed that till afterwards. Sally herself
seemed kinder to him, and even went over and sat beside him on the
stool, and putting her arm about his neck, kissed him in a joking
way, wishing to make up, too, for what Art saw the night before--poor
thing--but still as if it wasn't all a joke, for at times she looked
sorrowful. Larry, too, got his arm about her, and looked, often and
often on her and the childher, in a way that he wasn't used to do, until
the tears fairly came into his eyes.
* This is precisely tantamount to what the Scotch call
“fey.” It means that he felt as if some fatal doom were over
him.
“'Sally, avourneen,' says he, looking at her, 'I saw you when you had
another look from what you have this night; when it wasn't asy to fellow
you _in_ the parish or _out_ of it;' and when he said this he could
hardly spake.
“'Whist, Larry, acushla,' says she, 'don't be spaking that way--sure we
may do very well yet, plase God: I know, Larry, there was a great dale
of it--maybe, indeed, it was all my fault; for I wasn't to you, in the
way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.'
“'Well, well, aroon, says Larry, 'say no more; you might have been all
that, only it was my fault: but where's Dick, that I struck so terribly
last night? Dick, come over to me, agra--come over, Dick, and sit
down here beside me. Arrah, here, Art, ma bouchal, will you fill this
egg-shell for him?--Poor gorsoon! God knows, Dick, you get far from
fair play, acushla--far from the ating and drinking that other people's
childher get, that hasn't as good a skin to put it in as you, alannah!
Kiss me, Dick, acushla--and God knows your face is pale, and that's not
with good feeding, anyhow: Dick, agra, I'm sorry for what I done to
you last night; forgive your father, Dick, for I think that my heart's
breaking, acushla, and that you won't have me long with you.'
“Poor Dick, who was naturally a warmhearted, affectionate gorsoon,
kissed his father, and cried bitterly. Sally herself, seeing Larry so
sorry for what he done, sobbed as if she would drop on the spot: but the
rest began, and betwixt scoulding and cheering them up, all was as well
as ever. Still Larry seemed as if there was something entirely very
strange the matter with him, for as he was going out, he kissed all the
childher, one after another; and even went over to the young baby that
was asleep in the little cradle of boords that he himself had made for
it, and kissed it two or three times, asily, for fraid of wakening it.
He then met Sally at the door, and catching her hand when none of
the rest saw him, squeezed it, and gave her a kiss, saying, 'Sally,
darling!' says he.
“'What ails you, Larry, asthore?' says Sally.
“'I don't know,' says he; 'nothing, I bleeve--but Sally, acushla, I have
thrated you badly all along. I forgot, avourneen, how I loved you _once_
and now it breaks my heart that I have used you so ill.'
“'Larry she answered, 'don't be talking that way, bekase you make me
sorrowful and unasy--don't, acushla: God above me knows I forgive you
it all. Don't stay long,' says she 'and I'll borry a lock of meal
from Biddy, till we get home our own meldhre, and I'll have a dish of
stirabout ready to make for you when you come home. Sure, Larry, who'd
forgive you, if I, your own wife, wouldn't? But it's I that wants it
from you, Larry; and in the presence of God and ourselves, I now beg
your pardon, and ax your forgiveness for all the sin I done to you.' She
dropped on her knees, and cried bitterly; but he raised her up, himself
a choking at the time, and as the poor crathur got to her feet, she laid
herself on his breast, and sobbed out, for she couldn't help it. They
then went away, though Larry, to tell the thruth, wouldn't have gone
with them at all, only that the sacks were borried from his brother, and
he had to bring them home, in regard of Tom wanting them the very next
day.
“The night was as dark as pitch--so dark, faiks, that they had to get
long pieces of bog fir, which they lit, and held in their hand, like the
lights that Ned there says the lamplighters have in Dublin to light the
lamps with.
“At last, with a good dale of trouble, they got to the still-house; and,
as they had all taken a drop before, you may be sure they were better
inclined, to take another now. They, accordingly, sat down about the
fine rousing fire that was under the still, and had a right good jorum
of strong whiskey that never seen a drop of water. They all were in very
good spirits, not thinking of to-morrow, and caring at the time very
little about the world as it went.
“When the night was far advanced, they thought of moving home; however,
by that time they weren't able to stand: but it's one curse of being
drunk, that a man doesn't know what he's about for the time, except some
few, like that poaching ould fellow, Billy M'Kinny, that's cuinninger
when he's drunk than when he's sober; otherwise they would not have
ventured out in the clouds of the night, when it was so dark and severe,
and they in such a state.
“At last they staggered away together, for their road lay for a good
distance in the same direction. The others got on, and reached home as
well as they could; but, although Sally borried the dish of male from
her sister-in-law, to have a warm pot of stirabout for Larry, and sat
up till the night was more than half gone, waiting for him, yet no Larry
made his appearance. The childher, too, all sat up, hoping he'd
come home before they'd fall asleep and miss the supper: at last the
crathurs, after running about, began to get sleepy, and one head would
fall this way and another that way; so Sally thought it hard to let them
go without getting their share, and accordingly she put down the pot on
a bright fire, and made a good lot of stirabout for them, covering up
Larry's share in a red earthen dish before the fire.
“This roused them a little; and they sat about the hearth with their
mother, keeping her company with their little chat, till their father
would come back.
“The night, for some time before this, got very stormy entirely. The
wind ris, and the rain fell as if it came out of methers.* The house was
very cowld, and the door was bad; for the wind came in very strong
under the foot of it, where the ducks and hens, and the pig when it was
little, used to squeeze themselves in when the family was absent, or
afther they went to bed. The wind now came whistling under it; and the
ould hat and rags, that stopped up the windies, were blown out half a
dozen times with such force, that the ashes were carried away almost
from the hearth. Sally got very low-spirited on hearing the storm
whistling so sorrowfully through the house, for she was afeard that
Larry might be out on the dark moors under it; and how any living soul
could bear it, she didn't know. The talk of the childhre, too, made her
worse; for they were debating among themselves, the crathurs, about what
he had better do under the tempest; whether he ought to take the sheltry
side of a hillock, or get into a long heather bush or under the ledge of
a rock or tree, if he could meet such a thing.
* An old Irish drinking vessel, of a square form, with a
handle or ear on each side, out of which all the family
drank successively, or in rotation. The expression above is
proverbial.
“In the mane time, terrible blasts would come over and through the
house, making the ribs crack so that you would think the roof would be
taken away at wanst. The fire was now getting low, and Sally had no more
turf in the house; so that the childher crouched closer and closer about
it, their poor hungry-looking pale faces made paler with fear that the
house might come down upon them, or be stripped, and their father from
home--and with worse fear that something might happen him under such a
tempest of wind and rain as it blew. Indeed it was a pitiful sight to
see the ragged crathurs drawing in in a ring nearer and nearer the
dying fire; and their poor, naked, half-starved mother, sitting with her
youngest infant lying between her knees and her breast; for the bed was
too cowld to put it into it, without being kept warm by the heat of them
that it used to sleep with.”
“Musha, God help her and them,” says Ned, “I wish they were here beside
me on this comfortable hob, this minute; I'd fight Nancy to get a
fog-meal for them, any way--a body can't but pity them afther all!”
“You'd fight Nancy!” said Nancy herself--“maybe Nancy would be as
willing to do something for the crathurs as you would--I like every body
that's able to pay for what they get! but we ought to have some bowels
in us for all that. You'd fight Nancy, indeed!”
“Well,” continued the narrator, “there' they sat, with cowld and fear in
their pale faces, shiverin' over the remains of the fire, for it was now
nearly out, and thinking, as the deadly blast would drive through the
creaking ould door and the half-stuffed windies, of what their father
would do under such a terrible night. Poor Sally, sad and sorrowful, was
thinking of all their ould quarrels, and taking the blame all to herself
for not bein' more attentive to her business, and more kind to Larry;
and when she thought of the way she thrated him, and the ill-tongue she
used to give him, the tears began to roll from her eyes, and she rocked
herself from side to side, sobbing as if her heart would brake. When
the childher saw her wiping her eyes with the corner of the little
handkerchief that she had about her neck, they began to cry along with
her. At last she thought, as it was now so late, that it would be folly
to sit up any longer; she hoped, too, that he might have thought of
going into some neighbor's house on his way, to take shelter, and with
these thoughts, she raked the greeshough (* warm ashes and embers) over
the fire, and after, putting the childher in their little straw nest,
and spreading their own rags over them, she and the young one went to
bed, although she couldn't sleep at all at all, for thinking of Larry.
“There she lay, trembling under the light cover of the bed-clothes, for
they missed Larry's coat, listening to the dreadful night that was in
it, so lonely, that the very noise of the cow, in the other corner,
chewing her cud, in the silence of a short calm, was a great relief to
her. It was a long time before she could get a wink of sleep, for there
was some uncommon weight upon her that she couldn't account for by any
chance; but after she had been lying for about half an hour, she heard
something that almost fairly knocked her up. It was the voice of a
woman, crying and wailing in the greatest distress, as if all belonging
to her were under-boord.
“When Sally heard it first, she thought it was nothing but the whistling
of the wind; but it soon came again, more sorrowful than before, and as
the storm arose, it rose upon the blast along with it, so strange and
mournful that she never before heard the like of it. 'The Lord be about
us!' said she to herself, 'what can that be at all?--or who is it? for
its not Nelly,' maning her sister-in-law. Again she listened, and there
was, sobbing and sighing in the greatest grief, and she thought she
heard it louder than ever, only that this time it seemed to name
whomsoever it was lamenting. Sally now got up and put her ear to the
door, to see if she could hear what it said. At this time the wind
got calmer, and the voice also got lower; but although it was still
sorrowful, she never heard any living Christian's voice so sweet, and
what was very odd, it fell in fits, exactly as the storm sunk, and rose
as it blew louder.
“When she put her ear to the chink of the door, she heard the words
repeated, no doubt of it, only couldn't be quite sure, as they wern't
very plain; but as far as she could make any sense out of them, she
thought that it said--'Oh, Larry M'Farland!--Larry M'Farland!--Larry
M'Farland!'
“Sally's hair stood on end when she heard this; but on listening again,
she thought it was her own name instead of Larry's that it repeated,
and that it said, 'Sally M'Farland!--Sally M'Farland!--Sally M'Farland!'
Still she wasn't sure, for the words wern't plain, and all she could
think was, that they resembled her own name or Larry's more than any
other words she knew. At last, as the wind fell again, it melted away,
weeping most sorrowfully, but so sweetly, that the likes of it was never
heard. Sally then went to bed, and the poor woman was so harrished with
one thing or another, that at last she fell asleep.”
“'Twas the Banshee,” said Shane Fadh.
“Indeed it was nothing else than that same,” replied M'Roarkin.
“I wonder Sally didn't think of-that,” said Nancy--“sure she might know
that no living crathur would be out lamenting under such a night as that
was.”
“She did think of that,” said Tom; “but as no Banshee ever followed
_her own_* family, didn't suppose that it could be such a thing; but she
forgot that it might follow Larry's. I, myself, heard his brother Tom
say, afterwards, that a Banshee used always to be heard before any of
them died.”