sacred day that's in it! that a poor helpless ould man like me
can't come to get somethin' to take away this misfortunit touch o'
configuration that I'm afflicted wid in cowld weather--that I can't take
a little sup of the only thing that I cures me--widout your ructions and
battles! You came here to make pace between two dacent men's childher,
an' you're as bad, if not worse, yourselves!--Oh, wurrah dheelish,
what's this! I'm in downright agony! Oh, murdher sheery! Has none o' yez
a hand to thry if there's e'er a dhrop of relief in that bottle? or am I
to die all out, in the face o' the world, for want of a sup o' somethin'
to warm me?”
“Darby, thry the horn,” said M'Kenna.
“Here, Darby,” said one of them, “dhrink this off, an' my life for
yours, it'll warm you to the marrow!”
“Och, musha, but I wanted it badly,” replied Darby, swallowing it at
once; “it's the only thing that does me good when I'm this way. _Deah
Graslhias!_ Oxis Doxis Glorioxis. Amin!”
“I think,” said M'Kenna, “that what's in the horn's far afore it.”
“Oh, thin, you thoughtless crathur, if you knew somethin' I hard about
you a while ago, you'd think otherwise. But, indeed, it's thrue for you;
I'm sure I'd be sarry to compare what's in it to anything o' the kind I
tuck. Deah Grasthias! Throth, I'm asier now a great dale nor I was.”
“Will you take another sup, Darby?” inquired the young fellow in whose
hands the bottle was now nearly empty; there's jist about another
glass.”
“Indeed, an' I 'will, avillish; an' sure you'll have my blessin' for
it, an' barrin' the priest's own, you couldn't have a more luckier
one--blessed be God for it--sure that's well known. In throth, they
never came to ill that had it, an' never did good that got my curse!
Hoop! do you hear how that rises the wind off o' my stomach! Houp!--Deah
Grasthias for that!”
“How did you larn all the prayers an' charms you have, Darby?” inquired
the bottle-holder.
“It would take me too long to tell you that, avillish! But, childher,
now that you're all together, make it up wid one another. Aren't you all
frinds an' brothers, sworn brothers, an' why would you be fightin' among
other? Misther Costigan, give me your hand; sure I heard a thrifle o'
what you were sayin' while I was suckin' my dudeen at the fire widout.
Come here, Misther Connell. Now, before the saints in glory, I lay my
bitter curse an him that refuses to shake hands wid his inimy. There
now--I'm proud to see it. Mike, avourneen, come here--Frank M'Kenna,
gustho (* come hither), walk over here; my bitther heart's curse upon of
yez, if you don't make up all quarrels this minit! Are you willin, Mike
lieillaghan?”
“I have no objection in life,” replied Mike, “if he'll say that Peggy
Gartland won't be put to any more throuble through his manes.”
“There's my hand, Mike,” said Frank, “that I forget an' forgive all
that's past; and in regard to Peggy Gartland, why, as she's so dark agin
me, I lave her to you for good.” *
“Well! see what it is to have the good intintions!--to be makin' pace
an' friendship atween inimies! That's all I think about, an' nothin'
gives me greater pleas--Saints o' glory!--what's this!--Oh wurrah!--that
thief of a--wurrah dheelish!--that touch o' configuration's comin' back
agin!--O, thin, but it's hard to get it undher!--Oh!”--
“I'm sarry for it, Darby,” replied he who held the now empty bottle;
“for the whiskey's out.”
“Throth, an' I'm sarry myself, for nothin' else does me good; an' Father
Hoolaghan says nothin' can keep it down, barrin' the sup o' whiskey.
It's best burnt, wid a little bit o' butther an it; but I can't get that
always, it overtakes me so suddenly, glory be to God!”
“Well,” said M'Kenna, “as Mike an' myself was the manes of bringin' us
together, why, if he joins me, we'll have another bottle.”
“Throth, an' its fair an' dacent, an' he must do it; by the same a
token, that I'll not lave the house till it's dhrunk, for there's no
thrustin' yez together, you're so hot-headed an' ready to rise the
hand,” said Darby.
M'Kenna and Mike, having been reconciled, appeared in a short time
warmer friends than ever. While the last bottle went round, those who
had before been on the point of engaging in personal conflict, now
laughed at their own foibles, and expressed the kindness and good-will
which they felt for each other at heart.
“Now,” said the mendicant, “go all of you to mass, an' as soon as you
can, to confission, for it's not good to have the broken oath an' the
sin of it over one. Confiss it, an' have your conscience light:
sure it's a happiness that you can have the guilt taken off o' yez,
childher.”
“Thrue for you, Darby,” they replied; “an' we'll be thinkin' of your
advice.”
“Ay, do, childher; an' there's Father Hoolaghan comin' down the road,
so, in the name o' Goodness, we haven't a minnit to lose.”
They all left the shebeen-house as he spoke except Frank and himself,
who remained until they had gone out of hearing.
“Darby,” said he, “I want you to come up to our house in the mornin',
an' bring along wid you the things that you Stamp the crass upon the
skin wid: I'm goin' to get the crucifix put upon me. But on the paril o'
your life, don't brathe a word of it to mortual.”
“God enable you, avick! it's a good intintion. I will indeed be up wid
you--airly too, wid a blessin'. It is that, indeed--a good intintion,
sure enough.”
The parish chapel was about one hundred perches from the shebeen-house
in which the “boys” had assembled; the latter were proceeding there in a
body when Frank overtook them.
“Mike,” said he aside to Reillaghan, “we'll have time enough--walk back
a bit; I'll tell you what I'm thinkin'; you never seen in your life a
finer day for thracin; what 'ud you say if we give the boys the slip,
never heed mass, an' set off to the mountains?”
“Won't we have time enough afther mass?” said Reillaghan.
“Why, man, sure you did hear mass once to-day. Weren't you at it last
night? No, indeed, we won't be time enough afther it; for this bein'
Chris'mas day, we must be home at dinner-time; you know it's not lucky
to be from the family upon set days. Hang-an-ounty, come: we'll have
fine sport! I have cocksticks * enough. The best part of the day 'll be
gone if we wait for mass. Come, an' let us start.”
* A cockstick was so called from being used on Cock-
Monday, to throw at a cook tied to a stake, which was a
game common among the people It was about the length of
a common stick, but much heavier and thicker at one
end.
“Well, well,” replied Reillaghan, “the sorra hair I care; so let us
go. I'd like myself to have a rap at the hares in the Black Hills, sure
enough; but as it 'ud be remarkable for us to be seen lavin' mass, why
let us crass the field here, an' get out upon the road above the bridge.”
To this his companion assented, and they both proceeded at a brisk pace,
each apparently anxious for the sport, and resolved to exhibit such a
frank cordiality of manner as might convince the other that all their
past enmity was forgotten and forgiven.
The direct path to the mountains lay by M'Kenna's house, where it
was necessary they should call, in order to furnish themselves with
cocksticks, and to bring dogs which young Frank kept for the purpose.
The inmates of the family were at mass, with the exception of Frank's
mother, and Rody, the servant-man, whom they found sitting on his own
bed in the barn, engaged at cards, the right hand against the left.
“Well, Rody,” said Frank, “who's winnin'?”
“The left entirely,” replied his companion: “the divil a game at all the
right's gettin', whatever's the rason of it, an' I'm always turnin' up
black. I hope none of my friends or acquaintances will die soon.”
“Throw them aside--quit of them,” said Prank, “give them to me, I'll put
them past; an' do you bring us out the gun. I've the powdher an' shot
here; we may as well bring her, an' have a slap at them. One o' the
officers in the barracks of ---- keeps me in powdher an' shot, besides
givin' me an odd crown, an' I keep him in game.”
“Why, thin, boys,” observed Rody, “what's the manin' o' this?--two o'
the biggest inimies in Europe last night an' this mornin' an' now as
great as two thieves! How does that come?”
“Very asy, Rody,” replied Reillaghan; “we made up the quarrel, shuck
hands, an's good frinds as ever.”
“Bedad, that bates cock-fightin',” said Body, as he went to bring in the
gun.
In the mean time, Prank, with the cards in his hand, went to the eave
of the barn, I thrust them up under the thatch, and took out of the same
nook a flask of whiskey.
“We'll want this,” said he, putting it to his lips, and gulping down
a portion. “Come Mike, be tastin'; and aftherwards i put this in your
pocket.”
Mike followed his example, and was corking the flask when Rody returned
with the gun.
“She's charged,” said Frank; “but we'd betther put in fresh primin' for
'fraid of her hangin' fire.”
He then primed the gun, and handed it to Reillaghan. “Do you keep the
gun, Mike,” he added, “an' I'll keep the cocksticks. Rody, I'll bet you
a shillin' I kill more wid! the cockstick, nor he will wid the gun, will
you take me up?”
“I know a safer thrick,” replied Rody; “you're a dead aim wid the
cockstick, sure enough, an' a deader with the gun, too; catch me at it.”
“You show some sinse, for a wondher,” observed Frank, as he and his
companion left the barn, and turned towards the mountains, which rose
frowning behind the house. Rody stood looking after them until they
wound up slowly out of sight among the hills; he then shook his head two
or three times, and exclaimed, “By dad, there's somethin' in this, if
one could make out: what it is. I know Frank.”
Christmas-day passed among the peasantry, as it usually passes in
Ireland. Friends met before dinner in their own, in their neighbors',
in shebeen or in public houses, where they drank, sang, or fought,
according to their natural dispositions, or the quantity of liquor they
had taken. The festivity of the day might be known by the unusual reek
of smoke that danced from each chimney, by the number of persons who
crowded the roads, by their bran-new dresses,--for if a young man
or country girl can afford a dress at all, they provide it for
Christmas,--and by the striking appearance of those who, having drunk a
little too much, were staggering home in the purest happiness, singing,
stopping their friends, shaking hands with them, or kissing them,
without any regard to sex. Many a time might be seen two Irishmen,' who
had got drunk together, leaving a fair or market, their arms about each
other's necks, from whence they only removed them to kiss and hug one
another more lovingly. Notwithstanding this, there is nothing more
probable than that these identical two will enjoy the luxury of a mutual
battle, by way of episode, and again proceed on their way, kissing and
hugging as if nothing had happened to interrupt their friendship. All
the usual effects of jollity and violence, fun and fighting, love and
liquor, were, of course, to be seen, felt, heard, and understood on this
day, in a manner much more remarkable than on common occasions; for it
maybe observed, that the national festivals of the Irish bring-out their
strongest points of character with peculiar distinctness.
The family of Frank M'Kenna were sitting down to their Christmas dinner;
the good man had besought a blessing upon the comfortable and abundant
fare of which they were about to partake, and nothing was amiss, save
the absence of their younger son.
“Musha, where on earth can this boy be stayin'?” said the father: “I'm
sure this, above all days in the year, is one he oughtn't to be from home
an.”
The mother was about to inform him of the son's having gone to
the mountains, when the latter returned, breathless, pale, and
horror-struck.
Rody eyed him keenly, and laid down the bit he was conveying to his
mouth.
“Heavens above us!” exclaimed his mother, “what ails you?”
He only replied by dashing his hat upon the ground, and exclaiming, “Up
wid yez!--up wid yez!--quit your dinners! Oh, Rody! what'll be done?
Go down to Owen Reillaghan's--go 'way--go down--an' tell thim--Oh,
vick-na-hoie! but this was the unfortunate day to us all? Mike
reillaghan is shot with my gun; she went off in his hand goin' over a
snow wreath, an' he's lyin' dead in the mountains?”
The screams and the wailing which immediately rose in the family were
dreadful. Mrs. M'Kenna almost fainted; and the father, after many
struggles to maintain his firmness, burst into the bitter tears of
disconsolation and affliction. Rody was calmer, but turned his eyes
from one to another with a look of deep compassion, and again eyed Frank
keenly and suspiciously.
Frank's eye caught his, and the glance which had surveyed him with such
a scrutiny did not escape his observation. “Rody,” said he, “do you go
an' brake it to the, Reillaghans: you're the best to do it; for, when we
were settin' out, you saw that he-carried the gun, an' not me.”
“Thrue for you,” said Rody; “I saw that, Frank, and can swear to it; but
that's all I did see. I know nothing of what happened in the mountains.”
“Damnho sheery orth! (* Eternal perdition on you!) What do you mane, you
villain?” exclaimed Prank, seizing the tongs, and attempting to strike
him: “do you dar to suspect that I had any hand in it.”
“Wurrah dheelish, Frank,” screamed the sisters, “are you goin' to murdher
Rody?”
“Murdher,” he shouted, in a paroxysm of fury, “Why the curse o' God upon
you all, what puts murdher into your heads? Is it my own family that's
the first to charge me wid it?”
“Why, there's no one chargin' you wid it,” replied Rody; “not one,
whatever makes you take it to yourself.”
“An' what did you look at me for, thin, the way you did? What did you
look at me for, I say?”
“Is it any wondher,” replied the servant coolly, “when you had sich a
dreadful story to tell?”
“Go off,” replied Frank, now hoarse with passion--“go off! an' tell the
Reillaghans what happened; but, by all the books that ever was opened
or shut, if you breathe a word about murdher--about--if you do, you
villain, I'll be the death o' you!”
When Rody was gone on this melancholy errand, old M'Kenna first put the
tongs, and everything he feared might be used as a weapon by his frantic
son, out of his reach; he then took down the book on which he had the
night before sworn so rash and mysterious an oath, and desired his son
to look upon it.
“Frank,” said he, solemnly, “you swore on that blessed book last night,
that Mike Reillaghan never would be the husband of Peggy Gartland--he's
a corpse to-day! Yes,” he continued, “the good, the honest, the
industhrious boy is”--his sobs became so loud and thick that he appeared
almost suffocated. “Oh,” said he, “may God pity us! As I hope to meet
my blessed Savior, who was born on this day, I would rather you wor the
corpse, an' not Mike Reillaghan!”
“I don't doubt that,” said the son, fiercely; “you never showed me much
grah, (* affection) sure enough.”
“Did you ever desarve it?” replied the father. “Heaven above me knows it
was too much kindness was showed you. When you ought to have been well
corrected, you got your will an' your way, an' now see the upshot.”
“Well,” said the son, “it's the last day ever I'll stay in the family;
thrate me as bad as you plase. I'll take the king's bounty, an' list, if
I live to see to-morrow.”
“Oh, thin, in the name o' Goodness, do so,” said the father; “an' so far
from previntin' you, we'll bless you when you're gone, for goin'.”
“Arrah, Frank, aroon,” said Mrs. M'Kenna, who was now recovered, “maybe,
afther all, it was only an accident: sure we often hard of sich things.
Don't you remimber Squire Elliott's son, that shot himself by accident,
out fowlin'? Frank, can you clear yourself before us?”
“Ah, Alley! Alley!” exclaimed the father, wiping away his tears, “don't
you remimber his oath, last night?”
“What oath?” inquired the son, with an air of surprise--“What oath, last
night? I know I was drunk last night, but I remimber nothing about an
oath.”
“Do you deny it, you hardened boy?”
“I do deny it; an' I'm not a hardened boy. What do you all mane? do
you want to dhrive me mad? I know nothin' about any oath last night;”
replied the son in a loud voice. The grief of the mother and daughters
was loud during the pauses of the conversation. Micaul, the eldest son,
sat beside his father in tears.
“Frank,” said he, “many an advice I gave you between ourselves, and you
know how you tuck them. When you'd stale the oats, an' the meal, and the
phaties, an' hay, at night, to have money for your cards an' dhrinkin',
I kept it back, an' said nothin' about it. I wish I hadn't done so, for
it wasn't for your good: but it was my desire to have, as much pace and
quietness as possible.”
“Frank,” said the father, eyeing him solemnly, “it's possible that you
do forget the oath you made last night, for you war in liquor: I would
give the wide world that it was thrue. Can you now, in the presence
of God, clear yourself of havin' act or part in the death of Mike
Reillaghan?”
“What 'ud ail me,” said the son, “if I liked?”
“Will you do it now for our satisfaction, an' take a load of misery
off of our hearts? It's the laste you may do, if you can do it. In the
presence of the great God, will you clear yourself now?”
“I suppose,” said the son, “I'll have to clear myself to-morrow, an'
there's no use in my doin' it more that wanst. When the time comes, I'll
do it.”
The father put his hands on his eyes, and groaned aloud: so deep was
his affliction, that the tears trickled through his fingers during this
fresh burst of sorrow. The son's refusal to satisfy them renewed the
grief of all, as well as of the father: it rose again, louder than
before, whilst young Frank sat opposite the door, silent and sullen.
It was now dark, but the night was calm and agreeable. M'Kenna's family
felt the keen affliction which we have endeavored to describe; the
dinner was put hastily aside, and the festive spirit peculiar to this
night became changed into one of gloom and sorrow. In this state they
sat, when the voice of grief was heard loud in the distance; the strong
cry of men, broken and abrupt, mingled with the shrieking wail of female
lamentation.
The M'Kennas started, and Frank's countenance assumed an expression
which it would be difficult to describe. There was, joined to his
extreme paleness, a restless, apprehensive, and determined look; each
trait apparently struggling for the ascendancy in his character, and
attempting' to stamp his countenance with its own expression.
“Do you hear that?” said his father. “Oh, musha, Father of heaven, look
down an' support that family this night! Frank if you take my advice,
you'll lave their sight; for surely if they brain you on the spot, who
could blame them?”
“Why ought I lave their sight?” replied Frank. “I tell you all that I had
no hand in his death. The gun went off by accident as he was crassin' a
wreath o' snow. I was afore him, and when I heard the report, an' turned
round, there he lay, shot an' bleedin'. I thought it mightn't signify,
but on lookin' at him closely, I found him quite dead. I then ran home,
never touchin' the gun at all, till his family and the neighbors 'ud see
him. Surely, it's no wondher I'd be distracted in my mind; but that's no
rason you should all open upon me as if I had murdhered the boy!”
“Well,” said the father, “I'm glad to hear you say even that much. I
hope it maybe betther wid you than we all think; an' oh! grant it, sweet
mother o' Heaven, this day! Now carry yourself quietly afore the people.
If they abuse you, don't fly into a passion, but make allowance for
their grief and misery.”
In the mean time, the tumult was deepening as it approached M'Kenna's
house. The report had almost instantly spread through in the village
which Reillaghan lived; and the loud cries of his father and brothers,
who, in the wildness of their despair, continually called upon his name,
had been heard at the houses which lay scattered over the neighborhood.
Their inmates, on listening to such unusual sounds, sought the direction
from which they proceeded, for it was quite evident that some terrible
calamity had befallen the Reillaghans, in consequence of the son's name
being borne on the blasts of night with such loud and overwhelming
tones of grief and anguish. The assembly, on reaching M'Kenna's, might,
therefore, be numbered at thirty, including the females of Reillaghan's
immediate family, who had been strung by the energy of despair to a
capability of bearing any fatigue, or rather to an utter insensibility
of all bodily suffering.
We must leave the scene which ensued to the reader's imagination, merely
observing, that as neither the oath which young Frank had taken on
the preceding night, nor indeed the peculiar bitterness of his enmity
towards the deceased, was known by the Reillaghans, they did not,
therefore, discredit the account of his death which they had heard.
Their grief was exclamatory and full of horror: consisting of prolonged
shrieks on the part of the women, and frantic howlings on that of
the men. The only words they uttered were his name, with epithets and
ejaculations. _Oh a Vichaul dheelish--a Vichaul dheelish--a bouchal
bane machree--wuil thu marra--wuil thu marra?_ “Oh, Michael, the
beloved--Michael, the beloved--fair boy of our heart--are you dead?--are
you dead?” From M'Kenna's the crowd, at the head of which was Darby
More, proceeded towards the mountains, many of them bearing torches,
such as had been used on their way to the Midnight Mass. The moon had
disappeared, the darkness was deepening, and the sky was overhung with
black heavy clouds, that gave a stormy character to scenery in itself re
wild and gloomy.
Young M'Kenna and the pilgrim led them to the dreary waste in which the
corpse lay. It was certainly an awful spectacle to behold these unhappy
people toiling up the mountain solitude at such an hour, their convulsed
faces thrown into striking relief by the light of the torches, and their
cries rising in wild irregular cadences upon the blast which swept over
them with a dismal howl, in perfect character with their affliction, and
the circumstances which produced it.
On arriving within view of the corpse, there was a slight pause;
for, notwithstanding the dreadful paroxysms of their grief, there was
something still more startling and terrible in contemplating the body
thus stretched out in the stillness of death, on the lonely mountain.
The impression it produced was peculiarly solemn: the grief was hushed
for a moment, but only for a moment; it rose again wilder than before,
and in a few minutes the friends of Reillaghan were about to throw
themselves upon the body, under the strong impulse of sorrow and
affection.
The mendicant, however, stepped forward “Hould back,” said he; “it's
hard to ax yez to do it, but still you must. Let the neighbors about us
here examine the body, in ordher to see whether it mightn't be possible
that the dacent boy came by his death from somebody else's hand than his
own. Hould forrid the lights,” said he, “till we see how he's lyin', an'
how the gun's lyin'.”
“Darby,” said young Frank, “I can't but be oblaged to you for that.
You're the last man livin' ought to say what you said, afther you seein'
us both forget an' forgive this day. I call upon you now to say whether
you didn't see him an' me shakin' hands, and buryin' all bad feelin'
between us?”
“I'll spake to you jist now,” replied the mendicant. “See here,
neighbors, obsarve this; the boy was shot in the breast, an' here's not
a snow wreath, but a weeshy dhrift that a child 'ud step acrass widout
an accident. I tell you all, that I suspect foul play in this.”
“Hell's fire,” exclaimed the brother of the deceased, “what's that
you say? What! Can it be--can it--can it--that you murdhered him, you
villain, that's known to be nothin' but a villain? But I'll do for you!”
He snatched at the gun as he spoke, and would probably have taken ample
and fearful vengeance upon Frank, had not the mendicant and others
prevented him.
“Have sinse,” said Darby; “this is not the way to behave, man; lave the
gun lyin' where she is, till we see more about us. Stand back there, an'
let me look at these marks: ay, about five yards--there's the track of
feet about five yards before him--here they turn about, an' go back.
Here, Savior o' the world! see here! the mark, clane an' clear, of the
butt o' the gun! Now if that boy stretched afore us had the gun in his
hand the time she went off, could the mark of it be here? Bring me down
the gun--an' the curse o' God upon her for an unlucky thief, whoever had
her! It's thrue!--it's too thrue!” he continued--“the man that had the
gun stood on this spot.”