follow it. Both young men had been members of an illegal society, and
in yielding to their passions so far as to assault each other, had been
guilty of perjury. The following Christmas-day had been appointed by
their parish Delegates to take the quarrel into consideration; and the
best means of escaping censure was certainly to express regret for what
had occurred, and to terminate the hostility by an amicable adjustment
of their disputes.
They had now reached the chapel-green, where the scene that presented
itself was so striking and strange, that we will give the reader an
imperfect sketch of its appearance. He who stood at midnight upon a
little mount which rose behind the chapel, might see between five and
six thousand torches, all blazing together, and forming a level mass of
red dusky light, burning against the dark horizon. These torches were
so close to each other that their light seemed to blend, as if they
had constituted one wide surface of flame; and nothing could be more
preternatural-looking than the striking and devotional countenances
of those who were assembled at their midnight worship, when observed
beneath this canopy of fire. The Mass was performed under the open sky,
upon a table covered with the sacrificial linen, and other apparatus for
the ceremony. The priest stood, robed in white, with two large torches
on each side of his book, reciting the prayers in a low, rapid voice,
his hands raised, whilst the congregation were hushed and bent forward
in the reverential silence of devotion, their faces touched by the
strong blaze of the torches into an expression of deep solemnity. The
scenery about the place was wild and striking; and the stars, scattered
thinly over the heavens, twinkled with a faint religious light, that
blended well with the solemnity of this extraordinary worship, and
rendered the rugged nature of the abrupt cliffs and precipices, together
with the still outline of the stern mountains, sufficiently visible to
add to the wildness and singularity of the ceremony. In fact, there was
an unearthly character about it; and the spectre-like appearance of the
white-robed priest as he
“Muttered his prayer to the midnight air,”
would almost impress a man with the belief that it was a meeting of the
dead, and that the priest was repeating, like the Gray Friar, his
“Mass of the days that were gone.”
On the ceremony being concluded, the scene, however, was instantly
changed: the lights were waved and scattered promiscuously among
each other, giving an idea of confusion and hurry that was strongly
contrasted with the death-like stillness that prevailed a few minutes
before. The gabble and laugh were again heard loud and hearty, and the
public and shebeen houses once more became crowded. Many of the young I
people made, on these occasions, what is I called “a runaway;” (* Rustic
elopement) and other peccadilloes took place, for which the delinquents
were “either read out from the altar,” or sent; probably to St.
Patrick's Purgatory at Lough Derg, to do penance. Those who did not
choose to stop in the whiskey-houses now hurried home with all speed,
to take some sleep before early Mass, which was to be performed the next
morning about daybreak. The same number of lights might therefore
be seen streaming in different ways over the parish; the married men
holding the torches, and leading their wives; bachelors escorting their
sweethearts, and not unfrequently extinguishing their flambeaux, that
the dependence of the females upon their care and protection might more
lovingly call forth their gallantry.
When Mike Reillaghan considered with due attention the hint which Darby
More had given him, touching the necessity of collecting his friends
as an escort for Peggy Gartland, he had strong reasons to admit its
justness and propriety. After Mass he spoke to about two dozen young
fellows who joined him, and under their protection Peggy now returned
safely to her father's house.
Frank M'Kenna and his wife reached home about two o'clock; the dance
was comparatively thin, though still kept up with considerable spirit.
Having solemnized himself by the grace of so sacred a rite, Frank
thought proper to close the amusement, and recommend those whom he found
in the barn to return to their respective dwellings.
“You have had a merry night, childher,” said he; “but too much o' one
thing's good for nothin'; so don't make a toil of a pleasure, but go all
home dacently an' soberly, in the name o' God.”
This advice was accordingly followed. The youngsters separated, and
M'Kenna joined his family, “to have a sup along wid them and Barny, in
honor of what they had hard.” It was upon this occasion he missed his
son Frank, whose absence from the dance he had not noticed since his
return until then.
“Musha, where's Frank,” he inquired: “I'll warrant him, away wid his
blackguards upon no good. God look down upon him! Many a black heart has
that boy left us! If it's not the will o' heaven, I fear he'll come to
no good. Barny, is he long gone from the dance?”
“Troth, Frank, wid the noise an' dancin', an' me bem' dark,” replied
Barny, shrewdly, “I can't take on me to say. For all you spake agin him,
the sorra one of him but's a clane, dacent, spirited boy, as there
is widin a great ways of him. Here's all your, healths! Faix, 'girls,
you'll all sleep sound.”
“Well,” said Mrs. M'Kenna, “the knowledge of that Darby More is
unknowable! Here's a Carol I bought from him, an' if you wor but to hear
the explanations he put to it! Why Father Hoolaghan could hardly outdo
him!”
“Divil a-man in the five parishes can dance 'Jig Polthogue' wid him,
for all that,” said Barny. “Many a time Granua an' I played it for him,
an' you'd know the tune upon his feet. He undherstands a power o' ranns
and prayers, an' has charms an' holy herbs for all kinds of ailments, no
doubt.”
“These men, you see,” observed Mrs. M'Kenna, in the true spirit of
credulity and superstition, “may do many things that the likes of us
oughtn't to do, by raison of their great fastin' an' prayin'.”
“Thrue for you, Alley,” replied her husband: “but come, let us have a
sup more in comfort: the sleep's gone _a shraugran_ an us this night,
any way, so, Barny, give us a song, an' afther that we'll have a taste
o' prayers, to close the night.”
“But you don't think of the long journey I've before me,” replied Barny:
“how-and-iver, if you promise to send some one home wid me, we'll have
the song. I wouldn't care, but the night bein' dark, you see, I'll want
somebody to guide me.”
“Faith, an' it's but rasonable, Barny, an' you must get Rody home wid
you. I suppose he's asleep in his bed by this, but we'll rouse him!”
Barny replied by a loud triumphant laugh, for this was one of his
standing jests.
“Well, Frank,” said he, “I never thought you war so soft, and me can
pick my steps me same at night as in daylight! Sure that's the way
I done them to-night, when one o' Granua's strings broke. 'Sweets o'
psin,' says I; 'a candle--bring me a candle immediately.' An' down came
Rody in all haste wid a candle. 'Six eggs to you, Rody,' says myself,
'an' half-a-dozen o' them rotten! but you're a bright boy, to bring
a candle to a blind man!' and then he stood _a bouloare_ to the whole
house--ha, ha, ha!”
Barny, who was not the man to rise first from the whiskey, commenced the
relation of his choicest anecdotes; old Frank and the family, being now
in a truly genial mood, entered into the spirit of his jests, so that
between chat, songs, and whiskey, the hour had now advanced to four
o'clock. The fiddler was commencing another song, when the door opened,
and Frank presented himself, nearly, but not altogether in a state
of intoxication; his face was besmeared with blood; and his whole
appearance that of a man under the influence of strong passion, such as
would seem to be produced by disappointment and defeat.
“What!” said the father, “is it snowin', Frank? Your clothes are covered
wid snow!”
“Lord, guard us!” exclaimed the mother, “is that blood upon your face,
Frank?”
“It is snowin', and it is blood that's upon my face,” answered Frank,
moodily--“do you want to know more news?”
“Why, ay indeed,” replied his mother, “we want to hear how you came to
be cut?”
“You won't hear it, thin,” he replied.
The mother was silent, for she knew the terrible fits of passion to
which he was subject.
The father groaned deeply, and exclaimed--“Frank, Frank, God help you,
an' show you the sins you're committin', an' the heart-scaldin' you're
givin' both your mother and me! What fresh skrimmage had you that you're
in that state?”
“Spare yourself the throuble of inquirin',” he replied: “all I can say,”
he continued, starting up into sudden fury--“all I can say, an' I say
it--I swear it--where's the prayer-book?” and he ran frantically to a
shelf beside the dresser on which the prayer-book lay,--“ay! by him
that made me I'll sware it--by this sacred book, while I live, Mike
Keillaghan, the husband of Peggy Gartland you'll never be, if I should
swing for it! Now you all seen I kissed the book!” as he spoke, he
tossed it back upon the shelf.
The mirth that had prevailed in the family was immediately hushed, and a
dead silence ensued; Frank sat down, but instantly rose again, and flung
the chair from him with such violence that it was crashed to pieces;
he muttered oaths and curses, ground his teeth, and betrayed all the
symptoms of jealousy, hatred, and disappointment.
“Frank, a bouchal,” said Barny, commencing to address him in a
conciliatory tone--“Frank, man alive----”
“Hould your tongue, I say, you blind vagabone, or by the night above us,
I'll break your fiddle over your skull, if you dar to say another word.
What I swore I'll do, an' let no one crass me.”
He was a powerful young man, and such was his temper, and so well was
it understood, that not one of the family durst venture a word of
remonstrance.
The father arose, went to the door, and returned. “Barny,” said he,
“you must content yourself where you are for this night. It's snowin'
heavily, so you had betther sleep wid Rody; I see a light in the barn, I
suppose he's after bringing in his bed an' makin' it.”
“I'll do any thing,” replied the poor fiddler, now apprehensive of
violence from the outrageous temper of young Frank.
“Well, thin,” added the good man, “let us all go to bed, in the name of
God. Micaul, bring Barny to the barn, and see that he's comfortable.”
This was complied with, and the family quietly and timidly retired to
rest, leaving the violent young man storming and digesting his passion,
behind them.
Mass on Christmas morning was then, as now, performed at day-break, and
again the Roman Catholic inhabitants of the parish were up betimes to
attend it. Frank M'Kenna's family were assembled, notwithstanding their
short sleep, at an early breakfast; but their meal, in consequence of
the unpleasant sensation produced by the outrage of their son, was less
cheerful than it would I otherwise have been. Perhaps, too, the gloom
which hung over them, was increased by the snow that had fallen the
night before, and by the wintry character of the day, which was such as
to mar much of their expected enjoyment. There was no allusion made to
their son's violence over-night; neither did he himself appear to be
in any degree affected by it. When breakfast was over, they prepared to
attend mass, and, what was unusual, young Frank was the first to set out
for the chapel.
“Maybe,” said the father, after he was gone--“maybe that fool of a boy
is sarry for his behavior. It's many a day since I knew him to go to
mass of his own accord. It's a good sign, any way.”
“Musha,” inquired his mother, “what could happen atween him an' that
civil boy, Mike Reillaghan?”
“The sorra one o' me knows,” replied his father: “an' now that I think
of it, sure enough there was none o' them at the dance last night,
although I sent himself down for them. Micaul,” he added, addressing the
other son, “will you put an your big coat, slip down to Reillaghan's,
an' bring me word what came atween them at all; an' tell Owen himself
the thruth that this boy's brakin' our hearts by his coorses.”
Micaul, who, although he knew the cause of the enmity between these
rivals, was ignorant of that which occasioned his brother's rash oath,
also felt anxious to ascertain the circumstances of the last quarrel.
For this purpose, as well as in obedience to his father's wishes, he
proceeded to Reillaghan's and arrived just as Darby More and young Mike
had set out for mass.
“What,” said the mendicant, “can be bringing Micaul down, I wondher?
somethin' about that slip o' grace, his brother.”
“I suppose, so,” said Mike; “an' I wish the same slip was as dacent an'
inoffensive as he is. I don't know a boy livin' I'd go farther for nor
the same Micaul.--He's a credit to the family as much as the other's a
stain upon them.”
“Well, any how, you war Frank's match, an' more, last night. How bitther
he was bint on bringin' Peggy aff', when he an' his set waited till they
seen the country clear, an' thought the family asleep? Had you man for
man, Mike?”
“Ay, about that; an' we sat so snug in Peggy's that you'd hear a pin
fallin'. A hard tug, too, there was in the beginnin'; but whin they
found that we had a strong back, they made away, an' we gave them
purshute from about the house.”
“You may thank me, any how, for havin' her to the good; but I knew by my
dhrame, wid the help o' God, that there was somethin' to happen; by the
same a token, that your mother's an' her high horse about that dhrame.
I'm to tell it to her, wid the sinse of it, in the evenin', when the
day's past, an' all of us in comfort.”
“What was it, Darby? sure you may let me hear it.”
“Maybe I will in the evenin'. It was about you an' Peggy, the darlin'.
But how will you manage in regard of brakin' the oath, an' sthrikin' a
brother?”
“Why, that I couldn't get over it, when he sthruck me first: sure he's
worse off. I'll lave it to the Dilegates, an' whatever judgment they
give out, I'll take wid it.”
“Well,” observed Darby, sarcastically, “it made him do one good turn,
any way.”
“What was that, Darby? for good turns are but scarce wid him.”
“Why, it made him hear mass to-day,” replied the mendicant; “an' that's
what he hadn't the grace to do this many a year. It's away in the
mountains wid his gun he'd be, thracin', an' a fine day it is for
it--only this business prevints him. Now, Mike,” observed. Darby, “as
we're comin' out upon the boreen, I'll fall back, an' do you go an;
I have part of my padareem to say, before I get to the chapel, wid a
blessin'; an' we had as good not be seen together.”
The mendicant, as he spoke, pulled out a long pair of beads, on which
he commenced his prayers, occasionally accosting an aquaintance with the
_Gho mhany Deah ghud_, (* God save you) and sometimes taking a part in
the conversation for a minute or two, after which he resumed the prayers
as before.
The day was now brightening up, although the earlier part of the morning
had threatened severe weather. Multitudes were flocking to the chapel;
the men well secured in frieze great-coats, in addition to which, many
of them had their legs bound with straw ropes, and others with leggings
made of old hats, cut up for the purpose. The women were secured with
cloaks, the hoods of which were tied with kerchiefs of some showy color
over their bonnets or their caps, which, together with their elbows
projecting behind, for the purpose of preventing their dress from being
dabbled in the snow, gave them a marked and most picturesque appearance.
Reillaghan and M'Kenna both reached the chapel a considerable time
before the arrival of the priest; and as a kind of Whiteboy committee
was to sit for the purpose of investigating their conduct in holding out
so dangerous an example as they did, by striking each other, contrary
to their oaths as brothers under the same system, they accordingly were
occupied each in collecting his friends, and conciliating those whom
they supposed to be hostile to them on the opposite party. It had been
previously arranged that this committee should hold a court of inquiry,
and that, provided they could not agree, the matter was to be referred
to two hedge-schoolmasters, who should act as umpires; but if it
happened that the latter could not decide it, there was no other
tribunal appointed to which a final appeal could be made.
According to these regulations, a court was opened in a shebeen-house,
that stood somewhat distant from the road. Twelve young fellows seated
themselves on each side of a deal table, with one of the umpires at each
end of it, and a bottle of whiskey in the middle. In a higher sphere
of life it is usual to refer such questionable conduct as occurs in
duelling, to the arbitration of those who are known to be qualified by
experience in the duello. On this occasion the practice was not much
departed from, those who had been thus selected as the committee being
the notoriously pugnacious “boys” in the whole parish.
“Now, boys,” said one of the schoolmasters, “let us proceed to
operations wid proper spirit,” and he filled a glass of whiskey as he
spoke. “Here's all your healths, and next, pace and unanimity to us!
Call in the culprits.”
Both were accordingly admitted, and the first speaker resumed--“Now, in
the second place, I'll read yez that part of the oath which binds us all
under the obligation of not strikin' one another--hem! hem! 'No
brother is to strike another, knowing him to be such; he's to strike
him--hem!--neither in fair nor market, at home nor abroad, neither
in public nor in private, neither on Sunday nor week-day, present or
absent, nor--'”
“I condimn that,” observed the other master--“I condimn it, as bein' too
latitudinarian in principle, an' containing a para-dogma; besides it's
bad grammar.”
“You're rather airly in the market wid your bad grammar,” replied the
other: “I'll grant you the paradogma, but I'll stand up for the grammar
of it, while I'm able to stand up for anything.”
“Faith, an' if you rise to stand up for that,” replied his friend, “and
doesn't choose to sit down till you prove it to be good grammar, you'll
be a standin' joke all your life.”
“I bleeve it's purty conspicuous in the parish, that I have often, in
our disputations about grammar, left you widout a leg to stand upon at
all,” replied the other.
This sally was well received, but his opponent was determined to push
home the argument at once.
“I would be glad to know,” he inquired, “by what beautiful invintion
a man could contrive to strike another in his absence? Have you good
grammar for that?”
“And did you never hear of detraction?” replied his opponent; “that is,
a man who's in the habit of spaking falsehoods of his friends whin their
backs are turned--that is to say, whin they are absent. Now, sure, if a
man's absent whin his back's turned, mayn't any man whose back's turned
be said to be absent--ergo, to strike a man behind his back is to strike
him whin he's absent. Does that confound you? where's your logic and
grammar to meet proper ratiocination like what I'm displaying?”
“Faith,” replied the other, “you may have had logic and grammar, but
I'll take my oath it was in your younger years, for both have been
absent ever since I knew you: they turned their backs upon you, man
alive; for they didn't like, you see, to be keepin' bad company--ha, ha,
ha!”
“Why, you poor crathur,” said his antagonist, “if I'd choose to let
myself out, I could make a hare of you in no time entirely.”
“And an ass of yourself,” retorted the other: “but you may save yourself
the throuble in regard of the last, for your frinds know you to be an
ass ever since they remimber you. You have them here, man alive, the
auricles,” and he pointed to his ears.
“Hut! get out wid you, you poor Jamaica-headed castigator, you; sure you
never had more nor a thimbleful o' sinse on any subject.”
“Faith, an' the thimble that measured yours was a tailor's, one widout a
bottom in it, an' good measure you got, you miserable flagellator! what
are you but a _nux vomica?_ A fit of the ague's a thrifle compared to
your asinity.”
The “boys” were delighted at this encounter, and utterly forgetful of
the pacific occasion on which they had assembled, began to pit them
against each other with great glee.
“That's a hard hit, Misther Costigan; but you won't let it pass, any
how.”
“The ague an' you are ould acquaintances,” retorted Costigan; “whenever
a skrimmage takes place, you're sure to resave a visit from it.”
“Why, I'm not such a hare as yourself,” replied his rival, “nor such a
great hand at batin' the absent--ha, ha, ha!”
“Bravo, Misther Connell--that's a leveller; come, Misther Costigan,
bedad, if you don't answer that you're bate.”
“By this and by that, man alive, if you don't mend your manners, maybe
I'd make it betther for you to be absent also. You'll only put me to the
throuble of men din' them for you.”
“Mend my manners!” exclaimed his opponent, with a bitter sneer,--“you
to mend them! out wid your budget and your hammer, then; you're the very
tinker of good manners--bekase for one dacency you'd mend, you'd spoil
twenty.”
“I'm able to hammer you at all events, or, for that matther, any one
of your illiterate gineration. Sure it's well known that you can't tach
Voshther (Voster) widout the Kay.”
“Hould there, if you plase,” exclaimed one of his opponent's relations;
“don't lug in his family; that's known to be somewhat afore your own, I
bleeve. There's no Informers among them, Misther Costigan: keep at home,
masther, if you plase.”
“At home! That's more than some o' your own cleavings (* distant
relations) have been able to do,” rejoined Costigan, alluding to one of
the young fellow's acquaintances who had been transported.
“Do you mane to put an affront upon me?” said the other.
“Since the barrhad (* cap) fits you, wear it,” replied Costigan.
“Very right, masther, make him a present of it,” exclaimed one of
Costigan's distant relations; “he desarves that, an' more if he'd get
it.”
“Do I?” said the other; “an' what have you to say on the head of it,
Bartle?”
“Why, not much,” answered Bartle, “only that you ought to've left it
betune them; an' that I'll back Misther Costigan agin any rascal that
'ud say there was ever a dhrop of his blood in an Informer's veins.”
“I say it for one,” replied the other.
“And I, for another,” said Connell; “an' what's worse, I'll hould a
wager, that if he was searched this minute, you'd find a Kay to Gough in
his pocket, although he throws Vosther in my teeth: the dunce never goes
widout one. Sure he's not able to set a dacent copy, or headline, or
to make a dacent hook, nor a hanger, nor a down stroke, and was a poor
scholar, too!”
“I'll give you a down stroke in the mane time, you ignoramus,” said
the pedagogue, throwing' himself to the end of the table at I which his
enemy sat, and laying him along the floor by a single blow.
He was instantly attacked by the friend of the prostrate academician,
who was in his turn attacked by the friend of Costigan. The adherents
of the respective teachers I were immediately rushing to a general
engagement, when the door opened, and Darby More made his appearance.
“Asy!--stop wid yees!--hould back, ye I disgraceful villains!” exclaimed
the mendicant, in a thundering voice. “Be asy, I say. Saints in glory!
is this the way you're settlin' the dispute between the two dacent young
men, that's sorry, both o' them, I'll go bail, for what they done. Sit
down, every one o' yez, or, by the blessed ordhers I wear about me, I'll
report yez to Father Hoolaghan, an' have yez read out from the althar,
or sint to Lough Derg! Sit down, I say!”
As he spoke, he extended his huge cant between the hostile parties, and
thrust them one by one to their seats with such muscular energy, that he
had them sitting before another blow could be given.