towards the dwelling with his thumb; 'a shnug spot, and belongs to the
Mooneys this long time. 'Tis a noted place for what happened wid the
famous gandher there in former times.'
'And what was that?' inquired I.
'What was it happened wid the gandher!' ejaculated my companion in a
tone of indignant surprise; 'the gandher iv Ballymacrucker, the gandher!
Your raverance must be a stranger in these parts. Sure every fool knows
all about the gandher, and Terence Mooney, that was, rest his sowl.
Begorra, 'tis surprisin' to me how in the world you didn't hear iv the
gandher; and may be it's funnin me ye are, your raverance.'
I assured him to the contrary, and conjured him to narrate to me the
facts, an unacquaintance with which was sufficient it appeared to stamp
me as an ignoramus of the first magnitude.
It did not require much entreaty to induce my communicative friend to
relate the circumstance, in nearly the following words:
'Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do; an' he rinted the
biggest farm on this side iv the Galties; an' bein' mighty cute an' a
sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest.
But unluckily he was blessed with an ilegant large family iv daughters,
an' iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, striving to make up fortunes
for the whole of them. An' there wasn't a conthrivance iv any soart or
description for makin' money out iv the farm, but he was up to.
'Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin' up in the world, he always
kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultrey; an' he was out iv
all rason partial to geese--an' small blame to him for that same--for
twice't a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an' get a fine
price for the feathers, an' plenty of rale sizable eggs--an' when they
are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an' sell them to the
gintlemen for goslings, d'ye see, let alone that a goose is the most
manly bird that is out.
'Well, it happened in the coorse iv time that one ould gandher tuck a
wondherful likin' to Terence, an' divil a place he could go serenadin'
about the farm, or lookin' afther the men, but the gandher id be at his
heels, an' rubbin' himself agin his legs, an' lookin' up in his face
jist like any other Christian id do; an' begorra, the likes iv it was
never seen--Terence Mooney an' the gandher wor so great.
'An' at last the bird was so engagin' that Terence would not allow it
to be plucked any more, an' kep it from that time out for love an'
affection--just all as one like one iv his childer.
'But happiness in perfection never lasts long, an' the neighbours
begin'd to suspect the nathur an' intentions iv the gandher, an' some iv
them said it was the divil, an' more iv them that it was a fairy.
'Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin', an' you
may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an' from one
day to another he was gettin' more ancomfortable in himself, until he
detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an'
it's he was the ilegant hand at the business, an' divil a sperit id
say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An' moreover he was very
great wid ould Terence Mooney--this man's father that' was.
'So without more about it he was sint for, an' sure enough the divil a
long he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin' along wid the
boy that was sint for him, an' as soon as he was there, an' tuck his
supper, an' was done talkin' for a while, he begined of coorse to look
into the gandher.
'Well, he turned it this away an' that away, to the right an' to the
left, an' straight-ways an' upside-down, an' when he was tired handlin'
it, says he to Terence Mooney:
'"Terence," says he, "you must remove the bird into the next room," says
he, "an' put a petticoat," says he, "or anny other convaynience round
his head," says he.
'"An' why so?" says Terence.
'"Becase," says Jer, says he.
'"Becase what?" says Terence.
'"Becase," says Jer, "if it isn't done you'll never be asy again," says
he, "or pusilanimous in your mind," says he; "so ax no more questions,
but do my biddin'," says he.
'"Well," says Terence, "have your own way," says he.
'An' wid that he tuck the ould gandher, an' giv' it to one iv the
gossoons.
'"An' take care," says he, "don't smother the crathur," says he.
'Well, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan says he:
'"Do you know what that ould gandher IS, Terence Mooney?"
'"Divil a taste," says Terence.
'"Well then," says Jer, "the gandher is your own father," says he.
'"It's jokin' you are," says Terence, turnin' mighty pale; "how can an
ould gandher be my father?" says he.
'"I'm not funnin' you at all," says Jer; "it's thrue what I tell you,
it's your father's wandhrin' sowl," says he, "that's naturally tuck
pissession iv the ould gandher's body," says he. "I know him many ways,
and I wondher," says he, "you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,"
says he.
'"Oh blur an' ages!" says Terence, "what the divil will I ever do at all
at all," says he; "it's all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times
at the laste," says he.
'"That can't be helped now," says Jer; "it was a sevare act surely,"
says he, "but it's too late to lamint for it now," says he; "the only
way to prevint what's past," says he, "is to put a stop to it before it
happens," says he.
'"Thrue for you," says Terence, "but how the divil did you come to the
knowledge iv my father's sowl," says he, "bein' in the owld gandher,"
says he.
'"If I tould you," says Jer, "you would not undherstand me," says
he, "without book-larnin' an' gasthronomy," says he; "so ax me no
questions," says he, "an' I'll tell you no lies. But blieve me in this
much," says he, "it's your father that's in it," says he; "an' if I
don't make him spake to-morrow mornin'," says he, "I'll give you lave to
call me a fool," says he.
'"Say no more," says Terence, "that settles the business," says he;
"an' oh! blur and ages is it not a quare thing," says he, "for a dacent
respictable man," says he, "to be walkin' about the counthry in the
shape iv an ould gandher," says he; "and oh, murdher, murdher! is not
it often I plucked him," says he, "an' tundher and ouns might not I
have ate him," says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration,
savin' your prisince, an was on the pint iv faintin' wid the bare
notions iv it.
'Well, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quite an'
asy:
'"Terence," says he, "don't be aggravatin' yourself," says he; "for I
have a plan composed that 'ill make him spake out," says he, "an' tell
what it is in the world he's wantin'," says he; "an' mind an' don't be
comin' in wid your gosther, an' to say agin anything I tell you," says
he, "but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back," says he,
"how that we're goin' to sind him to-morrow mornin' to market," says he.
"An' if he don't spake to-night," says he, "or gother himself out iv
the place," says he, "put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the
cart," says he, "straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating," says he,
"along wid the two gossoons," says he, "an' my name isn't Jer Garvan,"
says he, "if he doesn't spake out before he's half-way," says he. "An'
mind," says he, "as soon as iver he says the first word," says he,
"that very minute bring him aff to Father Crotty," says he; "an' if
his raverince doesn't make him ratire," says he, "like the rest iv his
parishioners, glory be to God," says he, "into the siclusion iv the
flames iv purgathory," says he, "there's no vartue in my charums," says
he.
'Well, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an' they
all bigined to talk iv sindin' him the nixt mornin' to be sould for
roastin' in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled.
But divil a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking iv
the Lord-Liftinant; an' Terence desired the boys to get ready the kish
for the poulthry, an' to "settle it out wid hay soft an' shnug," says
he, "for it's the last jauntin' the poor ould gandher 'ill get in this
world," says he.
'Well, as the night was gettin' late, Terence was growin' mighty
sorrowful an' down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what
was goin' to happen. An' as soon as the wife an' the crathurs war fairly
in bed, he brought out some illigint potteen, an' himself an' Jer Garvan
sot down to it; an' begorra, the more anasy Terence got, the more he
dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart betune them. It
wasn't an imparial though, an' more's the pity, for them wasn't anvinted
antil short since; but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if
a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father
Mathew--the Lord purloin his raverence--begin'd to give the pledge, an'
wid the blessin' iv timperance to deginerate Ireland.
'An' begorra, I have the medle myself; an' it's proud I am iv that same,
for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it's mighty dhry.
'Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop;
"for enough is as good as a faste," says he; "an' I pity the vagabond,"
says he, "that is not able to conthroul his licquor," says he, "an'
to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure," said he; an' wid that he
wished Jer Garvan a good-night, an' walked out iv the room.
'But he wint out the wrong door, bein' a thrifle hearty in himself, an'
not rightly knowin' whether he was standin' on his head or his heels, or
both iv them at the same time, an' in place iv gettin' into bed, where
did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had
settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin'. An' sure enough he
sunk down soft an' complate through the hay to the bottom; an' wid the
turnin' and roulin' about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but was
covered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin'.
'So wid the first light, up gets the two boys, that war to take the
sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an' they cotched the ould
gandher, an' put him in the hamper, and clapped a good wisp iv hay an'
the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med
the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an' put the
hamper up an the car, wontherin' all the while what in the world was
makin' the ould burd so surprisin' heavy.
'Well, they wint along quite anasy towards Tipperary, wishin' every
minute that some iv the neighbours bound the same way id happen to fall
in with them, for they didn't half like the notions iv havin' no company
but the bewitched gandher, an' small blame to them for that same.
'But although they wor shaking in their skhins in dhread iv the ould
bird beginnin' to convarse them every minute, they did not let an' to
one another, bud kep singin' an' whistlin' like mad, to keep the dread
out iv their hearts.
'Well, afther they war on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to
the bad bit close by Father Crotty's, an' there was one divil of a rut
three feet deep at the laste; an' the car got sich a wondherful chuck
goin' through it, that it wakened Terence widin in the basket.
'"Bad luck to ye," says he, "my bones is bruck wid yer thricks; what the
divil are ye doin' wid me?"
'"Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?" says the boy that was next to the
car, turnin' as white as the top iv a musharoon; "did ye hear anything
quare soundin' out iv the hamper?" says he.
'"No, nor you," says Thady, turnin' as pale as himself, "it's the ould
gandher that's gruntin' wid the shakin' he's gettin'," says he.
'"Where the divil have ye put me into," says Terence inside, "bad luck
to your sowls," says he, "let me out, or I'll be smothered this minute,"
says he.
'"There's no use in purtending," says the boy, "the gandher's spakin',
glory be to God," says he.
'"Let me out, you murdherers," says Terence.
'"In the name iv the blessed Vargin," says Thady, "an' iv all the holy
saints, hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher," says he.
'"Who's that, that dar to call me nicknames?" says Terence inside,
roaring wid the fair passion, "let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,"
says he, "or by this crass I'll stretch ye," says he.
'"In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven," says Thady, "who the
divil are ye?"
'"Who the divil would I be, but Terence Mooney," says he. "It's myself
that's in it, you unmerciful bliggards," says he, "let me out, or by
the holy, I'll get out in spite iv yes," says he, "an' by jaburs, I'll
wallop yes in arnest," says he.
'"It's ould Terence, sure enough," says Thady, "isn't it cute the fairy
docthor found him out," says he.
'"I'm an the pint iv snuffication," says Terence, "let me out, I tell
you, an' wait till I get at ye," says he, "for begorra, the divil a bone
in your body but I'll powdher," says he.
'An' wid that, he biginned kickin' and flingin' inside in the hamper,
and dhrivin his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wonder he did
not knock it to pieces.
'Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into
a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest's house, through the
ruts, an' over the stones; an' you'd see the hamper fairly flyin' three
feet up in the air with the joultin'; glory be to God.
'So it was small wondher, by the time they got to his Raverince's door,
the breath was fairly knocked out of poor Terence, so that he was lyin'
speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
'Well, whin his Raverince kem down, they up an' they tould him all
that happened, an' how they put the gandher into the hamper, an' how he
beginned to spake, an' how he confissed that he was ould Terence Mooney;
an' they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the spirit for
good an' all.
'So says his Raverince, says he:
'"I'll take my booke," says he, "an' I'll read some rale sthrong holy
bits out iv it," says he, "an' do you get a rope and put it round the
hamper," says he, "an' let it swing over the runnin' wather at the
bridge," says he, "an' it's no matther if I don't make the spirit come
out iv it," says he.
'Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher
his arum, an' the boys follied his Raverince, ladin' the horse down to
the bridge, an' divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen
it was no use spakin', an' he was afeard if he med any noise they might
thrait him to another gallop an finish him intirely.
'Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the
rope they had with them, an' med it fast to the top iv the hamper an'
swung it fairly over the bridge, lettin' it hang in the air about twelve
feet out iv the wather.
'An' his Raverince rode down to the bank of the river, close by, an'
beginned to read mighty loud and bould intirely.
'An' when he was goin' on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv
the hamper kem out, an' down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the
water, an' the ould gandher a-top iv him. Down they both went to the
bottom, wid a souse you'd hear half a mile off.
'An' before they had time to rise agin, his Raverince, wid the fair
astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an' before he knew
where he was, in he went, horse an' all, a-top iv them, an' down to the
bottom.
'Up they all kem agin together, gaspin' and puffin', an' off down wid
the current wid them, like shot in under the arch iv the bridge till
they kem to the shallow wather.
'The ould gandher was the first out, and the priest and Terence
kem next, pantin' an' blowin' an' more than half dhrounded, an' his
Raverince was so freckened wid the droundin' he got, and wid the sight
iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn't the better of it for a
month.
'An' as soon as Terence could spake, he swore he'd have the life of the
two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will. An' as soon
as he was got quiter, they all endivoured to explain it; but Terence
consaved he went raly to bed the night before, and his wife said the
same to shilter him from the suspicion for havin' th' dthrop taken. An'
his Raverince said it was a mysthery, an' swore if he cotched
anyone laughin' at the accident, he'd lay the horsewhip across their
shouldhers.
'An' Terence grew fonder an' fonder iv the gandher every day, until at
last he died in a wondherful old age, lavin' the gandher afther him an'
a large family iv childher.
'An' to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney's lenial
and legitimate postariors.'
BILLY MALOWNEY'S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY.
Let the reader fancy a soft summer evening, the fresh dews falling on
bush and flower. The sun has just gone down, and the thrilling vespers
of thrushes and blackbirds ring with a wild joy through the saddened
air; the west is piled with fantastic clouds, and clothed in tints of
crimson and amber, melting away into a wan green, and so eastward into
the deepest blue, through which soon the stars will begin to peep.
Let him fancy himself seated upon the low mossy wall of an ancient
churchyard, where hundreds of grey stones rise above the sward,
under the fantastic branches of two or three half-withered ash-trees,
spreading their arms in everlasting love and sorrow over the dead.
The narrow road upon which I and my companion await the tax-cart that
is to carry me and my basket, with its rich fruitage of speckled trout,
away, lies at his feet, and far below spreads an undulating plain,
rising westward again into soft hills, and traversed (every here and
there visibly) by a winding stream which, even through the mists of
evening, catches and returns the funereal glories of the skies.
As the eye traces its wayward wanderings, it loses them for a moment
in the heaving verdure of white-thorns and ash, from among which floats
from some dozen rude chimneys, mostly unseen, the transparent blue film
of turf smoke. There we know, although we cannot see it, the steep old
bridge of Carrickadrum spans the river; and stretching away far to the
right the valley of Lisnamoe: its steeps and hollows, its straggling
hedges, its fair-green, its tall scattered trees, and old grey tower,
are disappearing fast among the discoloured tints and haze of evening.
Those landmarks, as we sit listlessly expecting the arrival of our
modest conveyance, suggest to our companion--a bare-legged Celtic
brother of the gentle craft, somewhat at the wrong side of forty, with
a turf-coloured caubeen, patched frieze, a clear brown complexion,
dark-grey eyes, and a right pleasant dash of roguery in his
features--the tale, which, if the reader pleases, he is welcome to hear
along with me just as it falls from the lips of our humble comrade.
His words I can give, but your own fancy must supply the advantages
of an intelligent, expressive countenance, and, what is perhaps harder
still, the harmony of his glorious brogue, that, like the melodies of
our own dear country, will leave a burden of mirth or of sorrow with
nearly equal propriety, tickling the diaphragm as easily as it plays
with the heart-strings, and is in itself a national music that, I trust,
may never, never--scouted and despised though it be--never cease, like
the lost tones of our harp, to be heard in the fields of my country, in
welcome or endearment, in fun or in sorrow, stirring the hearts of Irish
men and Irish women.
My friend of the caubeen and naked shanks, then, commenced, and
continued his relation, as nearly as possible, in the following words:
Av coorse ye often heerd talk of Billy Malowney, that lived by the
bridge of Carrickadrum. 'Leum-a-rinka' was the name they put on him,
he was sich a beautiful dancer. An' faix, it's he was the rale sportin'
boy, every way--killing the hares, and gaffing the salmons, an' fightin'
the men, an' funnin' the women, and coortin' the girls; an' be the
same token, there was not a colleen inside iv his jurisdiction but was
breakin' her heart wid the fair love iv him.
Well, this was all pleasant enough, to be sure, while it lasted; but
inhuman beings is born to misfortune, an' Bill's divarshin was not to
last always. A young boy can't be continially coortin' and kissin' the
girls (an' more's the pity) without exposin' himself to the most eminent
parril; an' so signs all' what should happen Billy Malowney himself, but
to fall in love at last wid little Molly Donovan, in Coolnamoe.
I never could ondherstand why in the world it was Bill fell in love wid
HER, above all the girls in the country. She was not within four stone
weight iv being as fat as Peg Brallaghan; and as for redness in the
face, she could not hould a candle to Judy Flaherty. (Poor Judy! she
was my sweetheart, the darlin', an' coorted me constant, ever antil she
married a boy of the Butlers; an' it's twenty years now since she was
buried under the ould white-thorn in Garbally. But that's no matther!)
Well, at any rate, Molly Donovan tuck his fancy, an' that's everything!
She had smooth brown hair--as smooth as silk-an' a pair iv soft coaxin'
eyes--an' the whitest little teeth you ever seen; an', bedad, she was
every taste as much in love wid himself as he was.
Well, now, he was raly stupid wid love: there was not a bit of fun
left in him. He was good for nothin' an airth bud sittin' under bushes,
smokin' tobacky, and sighin' till you'd wonder how in the world he got
wind for it all.
An', bedad, he was an illigant scholar, moreover; an', so signs, it's
many's the song he made about her; an' if you'd be walkin' in the
evening, a mile away from Carrickadrum, begorra you'd hear him singing
out like a bull, all across the country, in her praises.
Well, ye may be sure, ould Tim Donovan and the wife was not a bit too
well plased to see Bill Malowney coortin' their daughter Molly; for,
do ye mind, she was the only child they had, and her fortune was
thirty-five pounds, two cows, and five illigant pigs, three iron pots
and a skillet, an' a trifle iv poultry in hand; and no one knew how much
besides, whenever the Lord id be plased to call the ould people out of
the way into glory!
So, it was not likely ould Tim Donovan id be fallin' in love wid poor
Bill Malowney as aisy as the girls did; for, barrin' his beauty, an' his
gun, an' his dhudheen, an' his janius, the divil a taste of property iv
any sort or description he had in the wide world!
Well, as bad as that was, Billy would not give in that her father and
mother had the smallest taste iv a right to intherfare, good or bad.
'An' you're welcome to rayfuse me,' says he, 'whin I ax your lave,'
says he; 'an' I'll ax your lave,' says he, 'whenever I want to coort
yourselves,' says he; 'but it's your daughter I'm coortin' at the
present,' says he, 'an that's all I'll say,' says he; 'for I'd as soon
take a doase of salts as be discoursin' ye,' says he.
So it was a rale blazin' battle betune himself and the ould people;
an', begorra, there was no soart iv blaguardin' that did not pass betune
them; an' they put a solemn injection on Molly again seein' him or
meetin' him for the future.
But it was all iv no use. You might as well be pursuadin' the birds agin
flying, or sthrivin' to coax the stars out iv the sky into your hat, as
be talking common sinse to them that's fairly bothered and burstin'
wid love. There's nothin' like it. The toothache an' cholic together id
compose you betther for an argyment than itself. It leaves you fit for
nothin' bud nansinse.
It's stronger than whisky, for one good drop iv it will make you drunk
for one year, and sick, begorra, for a dozen.
It's stronger than the say, for it'll carry you round the world an'
never let you sink, in sunshine or storm; an', begorra, it's stronger
than Death himself, for it is not afeard iv him, bedad, but dares him in
every shape.
But lovers has quarrels sometimes, and, begorra, when they do, you'd
a'most imagine they hated one another like man and wife. An' so, signs
an', Billy Malowney and Molly Donovan fell out one evening at ould Tom
Dundon's wake; an' whatever came betune them, she made no more about
it but just draws her cloak round her, and away wid herself and the
sarvant-girl home again, as if there was not a corpse, or a fiddle, or a
taste of divarsion in it.
Well, Bill Malowney follied her down the boreen, to try could he
deludher her back again; but, if she was bitther before, she gave it
to him in airnest when she got him alone to herself, and to that degree
that he wished her safe home, short and sulky enough, an' walked back
again, as mad as the devil himself, to the wake, to pay a respect to
poor Tom Dundon.