you know I was thought, by all the parish, as good a man as him. No, I
wouldn't, this blessed Christmas Eve above us, for all that ever my name
was worth, be disgraced by him as I am. But--hould, man--have patience!”
“Throth and, Frank, that's what you never had,” said Eody; “and as to
bein' disgraced, you disgraced yourself. What right had you to challenge
the boy to fight, and to strike him into the bargain, bekase Peggy
Gartland danced with him, and wouldn't go out wid you? Death alive, sure
that wasn't his fault.”
Every word of reproof which proceeded from Rody's lips but strengthened
Frank's rage, and added to his sense of shame; he looked first in the
direction of Reillaghan's house, and immediately towards the little
village in which Peggy Gartland lived.
“Rody,” said he, slapping him fiercely on the shoulder, “go
in--I've--I've made up my mind upon what I'll do; go in, Eody, and get
your dinner; but don't be out of the way when I come back.”
“And what have you made up your mind to?” inquired Eody.
“Why, by the sacred Mother o' Heaven, Rody, to--to--be friends wid
Mike.”
“Ay, there's sinse and rason in that,” replied Eody; “and if you'd take
my advice you'd give up Peggy Gartland, too.”
“I'll see you when I come back, Eody; don't be from about the place.”
And as he spoke, a single spring brought him over the stile at which
they held the foregoing conversation.
On advancing, he found himself in one of his father's fields, under the
shelter of an elder-hedge. Here he paused, and seemed still somewhat
uncertain as to the direction in which he should proceed. At length he
decided; the way towards Peggy Gartland's was that which he took, and
as he walked rapidly, he soon found himself at the village in which she
lived.
It was now a little after twilight; the night was clear the moon being
in her first quarter, and the clouds through which she appeared to
struggle, were light and fleecy, but rather cold-looking, such, in
short, as would seem to promise a sudden fall of snow. Frank had passed
the two first cabins of the village, and was in the act of parrying the
attacks of some yelping cur that assailed him, when he received a slap
on the back, accompanied by a _gho manhi Dhea gliud, a Franchas, co wul
thu guilh a nish, a rogora duh_?*
* God save you, Frank! where are you going now, you
black rogue?
“Who's this?” exclaimed Frank: “eh! why, Darby More, you sullin' thief
o' the world, is this you?”
“Ay, indeed; an' you're goin' down to Peggy's?” said the the other,
pointing significantly towards Peggy Gartland's house. “Well, man,
what's the harm? She may get worse, that is, hopin' still that you'll
mend your manners, a bouchal: but isn't your nose out o' joint there,
Frank, darlin'?”
“No sich thing at all, Darby,” replied Frank, gulping down his
indignation, which rose afresh on hearing that the terms on which he
stood with Peggy were so notorious.
“Throth but it is,” said Darby, “an' to tell the blessed thruth, I'm not
sarry that it's out o' joint; for when I tould you to lave the case in
my hands, along wid a small thrifle o' silver that didn't signify much
to you--whoo! not at all: you'd rather play it at cards, or dhrink it,
or spind it wid no good. Out o' joint! nrasha, if ever a man's nose was
to be pitied, and yours is: why, didn't Mike Reillaghan put it out o'
joint, twist? first in regard to Peggy, and secondly by the batin' he
gave you an it.”
“It's well known, Darby,” replied Frank, “that 'twas by a chance blow he
did it; and, you know, a chance blow might kill the devil.”
“But there was no danger of Mike's gettin' the chance blow,” observed
the sarcastic vagrant, for such he was.
“Maybe it's afore him,” replied his companion: “we'll have another
thrial for it, any how; but where are you goin', Darby? Is it to the
dance?”
Me! Is it a man “wid two holy ordhers an him?* No, no! I might go up,
may be, as far as your father's, merely to see the family, only for the
night that's in it; but I'm goin' to another frind's place to spind my
Chris'mas, an' over an' above, I must go to the Midnight Mass. Frank,
change your coorses, an' mend your life, an' don't be the talk o' the
parish. Remimber me to the family, an' say I'll see them soon.”
* The religious orders, as they are termed, most
commonly entered into by the peasantry, are those of
the Scapular and St. Francis. The order of Jesus--or
that of the Jesuits, is only entered into by the clergy
and the higher lay classes.
“How long will you stop in the neighborhood?” inquired Frank.
“Arrah why, acushla?” replied the mendicant, softening his language.
“I might be wantin to see you some o' these days,” said the other:
“indeed, it's not unlikely, Darby; so don't go, any how, widout seein'
me.”
“Ah!” said Darby, “had you taken a fool's advice--but it can't be helped
now--the harm's done, I doubt; how-an'-ever, for the matther o' that,
may be I have as good as Peggy in my eye for you; by the same token, as
the night's could, warm your tooth, avick; there's waker wather nor
this in Lough Mecall. Sorra sup of it over I keep for my own use at all,
barrin' when I take a touch o' configuration in my bowels, or, may
be, when I'm too long at my prayers; for, God help me, sure I'm but
sthrivin', wid the help o' one thing an' another, to work out my
salvation as well as I can! Your health, any how, an' a merry Chris'mas
to you!--not forgettin' myself,” he added, putting to his lips a large
cow's horn, which he kept slung beneath his arm, like the bugle of a
coach-guard, only that this was generally concealed by an outside coat,
no two inches of which were of the same materials of color. Having taken
a tolerably large draught from this, which, by the “way, held near two
quarts, he handed it with a smack and a shrug to Frank, who immediately
gave it a wipe with the skirt of his coat, and pledged his companion.
“I'll be wantin',” observed Frank, “to see you in the hollydays--faith,
that stuff's to be christened yet, Darby--so don't go till we have a
dish o' discoorse about somethin' I'll mintion to you. As for Peggy
Gartland, I'm done wid her; she may marry ould Nick for me.”
“Or you for ould Nick,” said the cynic, “which would be nearly the
same thing: but go an, avick, an' never heed me; sure I must have my
spake--doesn't every body know Darby More?”
“I've nothin' else to say now,” added Frank, “and you have my authority
to spread it as far as you plase. I'm done wid her: so good-night, an'
good _cuttin'_ (* May what's in it never fail) to your horn, Darby!--You
damn ould villian!” he subjoined in a low voice, when Darby had got out
of his hearing: “surely it's not in yourself, but in the blessed words
and things you have about you, that there is any good.”
“Musha, good-night, Frank alanna,” replied the other;--“an' the divil
sweep you, for a skamin' vagabone, that's a curse to the country, and
has kep me out o' more weddins than any one I ever met wid, by your
roguery in puttin' evil between frinds an' neighbors, jist whin they'd
be ready for the priest to say the words over them! Good won't come of
you, you profligate.”
The last words were scarcely uttered by the sturdy mendicant, when
he turned round to observe whether or not Frank would stop at
Larry Gartland's, the father of the girl to whom he had hitherto
unsuccessfully avowed his attachment.
“I'd depind an him,” said he, in a soliloquy, “as soon as I'd depind
upon ice of an hour's growth: an', whether or not, sure as I'm an my way
to Owen Reillaghan's, the father of the dacent boy that he's strivin' to
outdo, mayn't I as well watch his motions, any way?”
He accordingly proceeded along the shadowy side of the street, in order
to avoid Frank's eye, should he chance to look back, and quietly dodged
on until he fairly saw him enter the house.
Having satisfied himself that the object of Frank's visit to the
village was in some shape connected with Peggy Gartland, the mendicant
immediately retraced his steps, and at a pace more rapid than usual,
strided on to Owen Reillaghan's, whither he arrived just in time to
secure an excellent Christmas-eve dinner.
In Ireland, that description of mendicants which differ so strikingly
from the common crowd of beggars as to constitute a distinct species,
comprehends within itself as anomalous an admixture of fun and devotion,
external rigor and private licentiousness, love of superstition and of
good whiskey, as might naturally be supposed, without any great sketch
of credulity, to belong to men thrown among a people in whom so many
extremes of character and morals meet. The known beggar, who goes his
own rounds, and has his own walk, always adapts his character to that of
his benefactor, whose whims and peculiarities of temper he studies
with industry, and generally with success. By this means, joined to
a dexterity in tracing out the private history of families and
individuals, he is enabled to humor the capprices, to manage the
eccentricities, and to touch with a masterly hand the prejudices, and
particular opinions, of his patrons; and this he contrives to do with
great address and tact. Such was the character of Darby More, whose
person, naturally large, was increased to an enormous size by the number
of coats, blankets, and bags, with which he was encumbered. A large
belt, buckled round his body, contained within its girth much more of
money, meal, and whiskey, than ever met the eye; his hat was exceedingly
low in the crown; his legs were cast in at least three pairs of
stockings; and in his hand he carried a long cant, spiked at the lower
end, with which he slung himself over small rivers and dykes, and kept
dogs at bay. He was a devotee, too, notwithstanding the whiskey horn
under his arm; attended wakes, christenings, and weddings: rubbed for
the rose (* a scrofulous swelling) and king's evil, (for the varlet
insisted that he was a seventh son); cured toothaches, colics, and
headaches, by charms; but made most money by a knack which he possessed
of tatooing into the naked breast the representation of Christ upon
the cross. This was a secret of considerable value, for many of the
superstitious people believed that by having this stained in upon them,
they would escape unnatural deaths, and be almost sure of heaven.
When Darby approached Reillaghan's house, he was considering the
propriety of disclosing to his son the fact of having left his rival
with Peggy Gartland. He ultimately determined that it would be proper
to do so; for he was shrewd enough to suspect that the wish Frank had
expressed of seeing him before he left the country, was but a ruse to
purchase his silence touching his appearance in the village. In this,
however, he was mistaken.
“God save the house!” exclaimed Darby, on entering--“God save the house,
an' all that's in it! God save it to the North!” and he formed the sign
of the cross in every direction to which he turned: “God save it to the
South! + to the Aiste! + and to the Waiste! + Save it upwards! + and
save it downwards! + Save it backwards! + and save it forwards! + Save
it right! + and save it left! + Save it by night! + save it by day! +
Save it here! + save it there! + Save it this way! + an' save it that
way! + Save it atin'! + + + an' save it drinkin'! + + + + + + + + _Oxis
Doxis Glorioxis_--Amin. An' now that I've blessed the place in the name
of the nine Patriarchs, how are yez all, man, woman, an' child? An' a
merry Christmas to yez, says Darby More!”
Darby, in the usual spirit of Irish hospitality, received a sincere
welcome, was placed up near the fire, a plate filled with the best food
on the table laid before him, and requested to want nothing for the
asking.
“Why, Darby,” said Reillaghan, “we expected you long ago: why didn't you
come sooner?”
“The Lord's will be done! for ev'ry man has his throubles,” replied
Darby, stuffing himself in the corner like an Epicure; “an' why should
a sinner like me, or the likes of me, be without thim? 'Twas a dhrame
I had last night that kep me. They say, indeed, that dhrames go by
contriaries, but not always, to my own knowledge.”
“An' what was the dhrame about, Darby?” inquired Reillaghan's wife.
“Why, ma'am, about some that I see on this hearth, well, an' in good
health; may they long live to be so! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis--Amin!” + + +
“Blessed Virgin! Darby, sure it would be nothin' bad that's to happen?
Would it, Darby?”
“Keep yourself aisy on that head. I have widin my own mind the power of
makin' it come out for good--I know the prayer for it. Oxis Doxis!” + +
“God be praised for that, Darby; sure it would be a terrible business,
all out, if any thing was to happen. Here's Mike that was born on
Whissle * Monday, of all days in the year, an' you know, they say that
any child born on that day is to die an unnatural death. We named Mike
after St. Michael that he might purtect him.”
* The people believe the superstition to be as is
stated above. Any child born on Whitsunday, or the day
after, is supposed to be doomed to die an unnatural
death. The consequence is, that the child is named
after and dedicated to some particular saint, in the
hope that his influence may obviate his evil doom.
“Make yourself aisy, I say; don't I tell you I have the prayer to keep
it back--hach! hach!--why, there's a bit stuck in my throath, some
way! Wurrah dheelish, what's this! Maybe, you could give me a sup o'
dhrink--wather, or anything to moisten the morsel I'm atin? Wurrah,
ma'am dear, make haste, it's goin' agin' the breath wid me!”
“Oh, the sorra taste o' wather, Darby,” said Owen; “sure this is
Christmas-eve, you know: so you see, Darby, for ould acquaintance sake,
an' that you may put up an odd prayer now an' thin for us, jist be
thryin' this.”
Darby honored the gift by immediate acceptance.
“Well, Owen Reillaghan,” said he, “you make me take more o' this stuff
nor any man I know; and particularly by rason that bein' given, wid a
blessin', to the ranns, an' prayers, an' holy charms, I don't think it
so good; barrin', indeed, as Father Donnellan towld me, when the wind,
by long fastin', gets into my stomach, as was the case today, I'm often
throubled, God help me, wid a configuration in the--hugh! ugh--an' thin
it's good for me--a little of it.”
“This would make a brave powdher-horn, Darby Moore,” observed one
of Reilla-ghan's sons, “if it wasn't so big. What do you keep in it,
Darby?”
“Why, _avillish_, (* my sweet) nothin' indeed but a sup o' Father
Donnellan's holy water, that they say by all accounts it costs him great
trouble to make, by rason that he must fast a long time, and pray by the
day, afore he gets himself holy enough to consecrate it.”
“It smells like whiskey, Darby,” said the boy, without any intention,
however, of offending him. “It smells very like poteen.”
“Hould yer tongue, Risthard,” said the elder Reillaghan; “what 'ud make
the honest man have whiskey in it? Didn't he tell you what's in it?”
“The gorsoon's right enough,” replied Darby. “I got the horn from Barny
Dalton a couple o' days agone; 'twas whiskey he had in it, an' it smells
of it sure enough, an' will, indeed, for some time longer. Och! och! the
heavens be praised, I've made a good dinner! May they never know want
that gave it to me! Oxis Doxis Glorioxis--Amin!” + + +
“Darby, thry this again,” said Reillaghan, offering him another bumper.
“Troth an' I will, thin, for I find myself a great dale the betther of
the one I tuck. Well, here's health an' happiness to us, an' may we all
meet in heaven! Risthard, hand me that horn till I be goin' out to the
barn, in ordher to do somethin' for my sowl. The holy wather's a good
thing to have about one.”
“But the dhrame, Darby?” inquired Mrs. Reillaghan. “Won't you tell it to
us?”
“Let Mike follow me to the barn,” he replied, “an' I'll tell him as
much of it as he ought to hear. An' now let all of yez prepare for the
Midnight Mass; go there wid proper intuitions, an' not to be coortin'
or dhrinkin' by the way. We're all sinners, any way, an' oughtn't to
neglect our sowls. Oxis Doxis Glorioxis. Amin!”
He immediately strided with the horn under his arm, towards the barn,
where he knelt, and began his orisons in a tone sufficiently loud to be
heard in the kitchen. When he was gone, Mrs. Reillaghan, who, with
the curiosity natural to her sex, and the superstition peculiar to
her station in life, felt anxious to hear Darby's dream, urged Mike to
follow him forthwith, that he might prevail on him to detail it at full
length.
Darby, who knew not exactly what the dream ought to be, replied to
Mike's inquiries vaguely.
“Mike,” said he, “until the proper time comes, I can't tell it; but
listen; take my advice, an' slip down to Peggy Gartland's by and by. I
have strong suspicions, if my dhrame is thrue, that Frank M'Kenna has a
design upon her. People may be abroad this night widout bein' noticed,
by rason o' the Midnight Mass; Frank has, friends in Kilnaheery, down
behind the moors; an' the divil might tempt him to bring her there. Keep
your eye an him, or rather an Peggy. If my dhrame's true, he was there
this night.”
“I thought I gave him enough on her account,” said. Mike. “The poor girl
hasn't a day's pace in regard of him; but, plase goodness, I'll soon put
an end to it, for I'll marry her durin' the Hollydays.”
“Go, avick, an' let me finish my Pudheran Partha: I have to get through
it before the Midnight Mass comes. Slip down, and find out what he was
doin'; and when you come back, let me know.”
Mike, perfectly aware of young M'Kenna's character, immediately went
towards Lisrum, for so the village where Peggy Gartland lived was
called. He felt the danger to be apprehended from the interference of
his rival the more acutely, inasmuch as he was not ignorant of the feuds
and quarrels which the former had frequently produced between friends
and neighbors, by the subtle poison of his falsehoods, which were both
wanton and malicious. He therefore advanced at an unusually brisk pace,
and had nearly reached the village, when he perceived in the distance a
person resembling Frank approaching him at a pace nearly as rapid as his
own.
“If it's Frank M'Kenna,” thought he, “he must pass me, for this is his
straight line home.”
It appeared, however, that he had been mistaken; for he whom he
had supposed to be the object of his enmity, crossed the field by a
different path, and seemed to be utterly ignorant of the person whom
he was about to meet--so far, at least, as a quick, free, unembarrassed
step could intimate his unacquaintance with him.
The fact, however, was, that Reillaghan, had the person whom he met
approached him more nearly, would have found his first suspicions
correct. Frank was then on his return from Gartland's, and no sooner
perceived Reillaghan, whom he immediately recognized by his great
height, than he took another path in order to avoid him. The enmity
between these rivals was, deep and implacable; aggravated on the one
hand by a sense of unmerited injury, and on the other by personal defeat
and the bitterest jealousy. For this reason neither of them wished to
meet, particularly Frank M'Kenna, who not only hated, but feared his
enemy.
Having succeeded in avoiding Reillaghan, the latter soon reached home;
but here he found the door closed, and the family, without a single
exception, in the barn, which was now nearly crowded with the youngsters
of both sexes from the surrounding villages.
Frank's arrival among them gave a fresh impulse to their mirth and
enjoyment. His manners were highly agreeable, and his spirits buoyant
almost to levity. Notwithstanding the badness of his character in the
opinion of the sober, steady, and respectable inhabitants of the parish,
yet he was a favorite with the desolate and thoughtless, and with many
who had not an opportunity of seeing him except in his most favorable
aspect. Whether he entertained on this occasion any latent design
that might have induced him to assume a frankness of manner, and an
appearance of good-humor, which he did not feel, it is difficult to
determine. Be this as it may, he made himself generally agreeable,
saw that every one was comfortable, suggested an improvement in the
arrangement of the seats, broke several jests on Bariry and Granua
Waile--which, however, were returned with interest--and, in fact,
acquitted himself so creditably, that his father whispered with a sigh
to his mother--“Alley, achora, wouldn't we be the happy family if that
misfortunate boy of ours was to be always the thing he appears to be?
God help him! the gommach, if he had sinse, and the fear o' God before
him, he'd not be sich a pace o' desate to sthrangers, and such a divil's
limb wid ourselves: but he's young, an' may see his evil coorses in
time, wid the help o' God.”
“Musha, may God grant it!” exclaimed his mother: “a fine slip he is, if
his heart 'ud only turn to the right thoughts. One can't help feelin'
pride out o' him, when they see him actin' wid any kind o' rason.”
The Irish dance, like every other assembly composed of Irishmen and
Irishwomen, presents the spectators with those traits which enter into
our conception of rollicking fun and broad humor. The very arrangements
are laughable; and when joined to the eccentric strains of some blind
fiddler like Barny Dhal, to the grotesque and caricaturish faces of the
men, and the modest, but evidently arch and laughter-loving countenances
of the females, they cannot fail to impress an observing mind with
the obvious truth, that a nation of people so thoughtless and easily
directed from the serious and useful pursuits of life to such scenes,
can seldom be industrious and wealthy, nor, despite their mirth and
humor, a happy people.
The barn in which they danced on this occasion was a large one.
Around the walls were placed as many seats as could be spared from
the neighbors' houses; these were eked out by sacks of corn laid
length-wise, logs of round timber, old creels, iron pots with their
bottoms turned up, and some of them in their usual position. On these
were the youngsters seated, many of the “boys” with their sweethearts on
their knees, the arms of the fair ones lovingly around their necks; and,
on the contrary many of the young women with their bachelors on their
laps, their own necks also gallantly encircled by the arms of their
admirers. Up in a corner sat Barny, surrounded by the seniors of the
village, sawing the fiddle with indefatigable vigor, and leading the
conversation with equal spirit. Indeed, his laugh was the loudest, and
his joke the best; whilst, ever and anon, his music became perfectly
furious--that is to say, when he rasped the fiddle with a desperate
effort “to overtake the dancers,” from whom, in the heat of the
conversation, he had unwittingly lagged behind.
Dancing in Ireland, like everything else connected with the amusement of
the people, is frequently productive of bloodshed. It is not unusual for
crack dancers from opposite parishes, or from distant parts of the same
parish, to meet and dance against each other for victory. But as the
judges in those cases consist of the respective friends or factions of
the champions, their mode of decision may readily be conjectured. Many
a battle is fought in consequence of such challenges, the result usually
being that not he who has the lightest heel, but the hardest head,
generally comes off the conqueror.
While the usual variety of Irish dances--the reel, jig, fling,
three-part-reel, four-part-reel, rowly-powly, country-dance, cotillion,
or cut-along (as the peasantry call it), and minuet, vulgarly minion,
and minionet--were going forward in due rotation, our readers may be
assured that those who were seated around the walls did not permit the
time to pass without improving it. Many an attachment is formed at
such amusements, and many a bitter jealousy is excited: the prude and
coquette, the fop and rustic Lothario, stand out here as prominently
to the eye of him who is acquainted with human nature, as they do in
similar assemblies among the great: perhaps more so, as there is less
art, and a more limited knowledge of intrigue, to conceal their natural
character.
The dance in Ireland usually commences with those who sit next the door,
from whence it goes round with the sun. In this manner it circulates two
or three times, after which the order is generally departed from, and
they dance according as they can. This neglect of the established rule
is also a fertile source of discord; for when two persons rise at the
same time, if there be not room for both, the right of dancing first is
often decided by blows.