The following day the governor returned. I, as usual, took my place at

the dinner-table, and Nina met me with smiles. She seemed perfectly

at ease, I, also, exerted myself to be cheerful, and none would have

suspected that secret love was lurking in the bosoms of us both.

“I would that you had witnessed the review,” said the old soldier. “It

was, indeed, a splendid spectacle. And the Emperor looked so delighted

as the troops filed past! Well he might, a nobler or more perfect _corps

d’armée_ never was collected. Egad, the sight warmed this old blood

again; and I think there’s stuff in me for another campaign. Will you,

William, take charge of Madame and Claudine?” said the commandant,

laughingly. I made some indifferent reply--Nina’s eye met mine--it

seemed to say, the charge would have been a dangerous one.

We heard the inner gate of the fortress open, a horse’s feet clattered

along the pavement, and, in a short time, a _chasseur à cheval_

presented himself, and delivered a despatch to the commandant.

The moment the seal was broken the old man’s eye turned to me. “It is,”

he said, “an answer to the memorial I handed to the Emperor yesterday. I

petitioned for your liberty, William; and stated, in as warm language as

I could, the grounds on which I asked the favour. I know, even from the

promptness of the reply, that my application has been rejected. Well, it

is only what I was prepared for. Let us read the terms of the refusal.

lia! I know the handwriting; it is that of my old comrade, Duroc.

“‘I am desired, by his Majesty the Emperor, to acknowledge the receipt

of a petition from Captain St. Simon. Its prayer, that the English

sailor, William Rawlings, shall be set at liberty, is hereby

peremptorily rejected.’’

“I thought so,” said the commandant with a sigh, as he let the paper

fall upon the floor. A deep and painful silence succeeded, while

Claudine picked the letter up and handed it to her mother.

“Read it, Nina--we know the worst.”

The lady complied, taking up the perusal of the document at the point

where her husband had stopped. “‘But from the moment this order comes

to hand, give the gallant Englishman the enclosed bill, and let the

preserver of the soldier’s child receive freedom from the hand of her

father.’ See! the initial of the great Napoleon is annexed,--and a note

for five hundred francs! You are free, William.’ May Heaven’s blessings

light upon our gracious Emperor!” And Nina flung herself upon my breast.

She wept--were her tears those of love or joy?

“I must be brief, Julia. By the first cartel, I came back to

England--repaired to our native village--heard, for the first time,

the sad tidings of your elopement--found my father living--my uncle

dead--and learned that, for many months, the poor quarter-master had

been in mourning for his son. To the broken-hearted old man the news

was cautiously communicated that he was not so desolate as he believed

himself. One child was restored to him as from the dead, and tidings

were heard of the wanderer. Instantly, we set out to seek the lost one,

and, thank Heaven! our search has not been vain. Yes, Julia, our once

happy cottage shall again be the home of peace; and ere the sun sets, a

father’s blessing shall seal the pardon of his returning child. And now,

before we commence our journey, I have to compensate the officer for

his trouble; and, indeed, without his assistance, I should have scarcely

found you out. Was it not a strange fatality, that objects so different

as those that brought the runner and myself from England, should have

led us to the same point?” He said, and left the room. What occurred

then and there between the fosterer and fair fugitive, may be readily

imagined. Their troth was mutually interchanged; and, “resolved in

future to do right,” subject to a father’s approbation, the lady

consented at the expiration of a year to commit matrimony a second time,

and share the fortunes of Mark Antony O’Toole.

As the travellers branched off by the roads which intersected each other

in front of the little hostelrie, their appearance, and the objects of

their present pursuits, might be taken as a _tableau vivant_ of what

life is--of what man aims at. By one road, the sailor and his sister

were hastening to restore comfort to an afflicted heart--by another,

the Jew, in charge of the officer of justice, was being conveyed to that

home of felony--a jail. The third road tended to scenes of glory; and

thither the soldier was hastening after seducing the student to quit the

cloister for the field. The fourth route the fosterer took at chance,

and reckless whither it might lead to, there Mark Antony determined

to recommence his wanderings; and “the captain” having discovered that

there was another who, for a time at least, was bent on taking the world

as it came, at once proposed to form a travelling co-partnership.

The reader may find out hereafter, that had Mark Antony declined the

offer of the rat-catcher, he might have pointed a moral, by “going

further and faring worse.” Indeed, it would have been well for me had

I the good luck of falling into as honest company, and short as the

succeeding chapter is, I think it will establish that fact.

CHAPTER XV. LIFE IN LONDON.

“A plague upon this London! I shall have no luck in it.”

“Your town’s a damned good-for-nothing town,

I wish Î never had come into it.”

The West indian.

|In one of those half-forgotten modes of transport, a sailing packet,

denominated the Eclipse, I departed from the Pigeon House, and with a

fair and steady breeze landed at Holyhead, after a short passage of nine

hours. In those days this feat was accounted respectable; for in their

transits from the emerald isle to the land of shopkeepers, it was no

uncommon circumstance for ill-starred gentlemen to pass so many days and

nights at sea, as to induce a belief that, in mistake, they had booked

themselves in the Flying Dutchman, and consequently, had the pleasing

prospect of sailing to eternity. I was still further fortunate in

securing a seat in the London mail. In due time I reached the modern

Babylon, transferred my person and effects from the White Horse Cellar

to a Bond-street hotel, and there, for a limited period, established my

household gods.

At this memorable epoch of my history, my first visit to the great

metropolis, life in London was very different to what it is at present.

Theatres were frequented by the upper classes, and Vauxhall was in all

its glory. An English singer was then listened to; it was not considered

disreputable to keep a native servant; and without loss of caste, a lady

might submit her head to the curling irons of an _artiste_, who had been

actually born and indoctrinated within sound of Bow bell. The clubs

were few and exclusive. People resided in lodgings and hotels adapted to

their ranks and pockets; in their mode of life a gentlemanly consistency

was maintained: and a man who in noontide was the occupant of an

edifice, erected with the costly expense formerly bestowed upon

a palace, would not, on an alarm of fire at midnight, have been

unkennelled from the back attic of a stay-maker, tenanted for the

moderate consideration of three shillings and sixpence, “paid weekly and

in advance.” Indeed, a sort of John Bullish principle pervaded society

at large. If men staked large sums on questionable events, it was

generally expected that they would pay, should their speculations prove

unfortunate. The guards were frequently relieved to music not Rossini’s.

Tailors who had never seen the Palais Royale, received instructions in

bookkeeping from divers of the nobility; and a bootmaker--tell it not in

Gath--was considered absolutely fashionable, albeit the unhappy man was

afflicted with the desperate patronymic of O’Shaughnessy.

Indeed, at this period of English history, when young and old France

were about to retire before Lord Wellington, the tone of society was

anti-continental. The aristocracy conversed in their native tongue;

meats, as Heaven sent them, might be seen frequently at the table of

a peer; and there was a vulgar prejudice against being poisoned, even

though the _artiste_ were warranted true _Parisien_. Saltations, happily

unremembered, but bearing as it is believed, a distant affinity to the

vulgar affair now termed _contre-danse_, were extensively perpetrated;

and persons engaged in the same, instead of being elegantly paralytic,

moved as if their limbs were controllable. Then, the refinement of the

_valse_ was undiscovered; and if a _cavalier_ ventured to clasp a lady

in his arms--Lombard-street to a China orange!--he would have been

kicked by husband, father, or brother, out of the room incontinently.

Assisted by my father’s letter, the great object of my journey was

happily accomplished. Within three weeks the exchange I sought for was

effected; and I was in due form gazetted to a lieutenancy in an old

regiment cantoned for the winter on the Agueda.

At the time I visited the capital, the position a stranger held in

society was generally estimated by the quarter he inhabited; and before

I started from Dublin, I took counsel touching “the whereabouts” of a

suitable abode. Mr. Pryme recommended some place with a “man’s head,”

in a lane near Crutched Friars; while Captain Forester, a castle

aid-de-camp, denounced the same, declaring it to be only a place fit for

a bagman, and recommended Long’s or Stevens’s. Well! it was seventeen

years since Mr. Pryme had been in town, and probably Crutched Friars was

not as fashionable now as it might have been formerly. Captain Forester

infested London every season, and consequently Captain Forester must

be right. To Bond-street accordingly I drove. Alas, how blindly people

speculate upon events! Had I driven to the “man’s head” in Crutched

Friars, I should have been safer by a hundred--“and no mistake.”

The intervals between my visits to the Horse Guards were occupied

in exploring the capital from Tyburn Turnpike to Tower Hill; and by

singular good fortune, I formed an acquaintance with a gentleman to whom

London and all its wonders were familiar. He kindly undertook to play

bear-leader for the nonce and under the guidance of Colonel Santonier,

I traversed “the mighty mass of brick, and stone, and mortar,” even from

Dan to Beersheba.

The Colonel was an emigrant who, for political opinions, had been

exiled from “la belle France.” He was a royalist connected with half the

nobility of the ancient regime, his address was good, his disposition

plastic and companionable. He had seen the world extensively, and

therefore was the better qualified to introduce a neophyte like me

upon the stage of life. On quitting his native country he had been

accompanied by his sister. She was young, pretty, and accomplished; and,

as the Colonel declared, “the most artless being in the world.” I never

saw relatives more attached. They never met or parted without a kiss;

and yet, one thing struck me as remarkable, there was not the slightest

family likeness between them.

Is it surprising that an acquaintance so valuable and agreeable, ripened

into a friendship of such ardour that Damon and Pythias might have been

jealous? Most of my time was spent in the society of the Colonel and his

fair sister; and as I had jobbed a buggy, sometimes I drove my friend

about town, or exhibited Mademoiselle Adelaide in Rotten Row. Santonier

had few acquaintances, and when I had Madame by my side, I often

remarked that very impudent looks were directed towards the lady.

Once, too, when we were brought to a dead halt by the break-down of a

coal-waggon, I heard a fashionable scoundrel observe to his companion as

they passed--“Lord, Frank, what a flat that spoon is!” _Flat!--spoon!_

Hang it,--neither term surely could apply to me!

I think, had it lasted only another week, our friendship would have been

registered in heaven. We dined here and there, made short excursions out

of town, our amicable arrangements were perfect--for Monsieur Santonier

placed such implicit confidence in my honour and discretion, that

Adelaide was considered in perfect security when with me. She, sweet

girl, was so inartificial that she even owned she felt herself _minus_

a heart,--and had I been consigned to the gallows, I verily believe the

Colonel would have borne me company, and requested to be accommodated

with another rope.

It was probably a delicate sensitiveness respecting Adelaide, which made

Santonier so very particular as to those who should be admitted to

his house. With one exception, I was an exclusive visitor; for in

Jermyn-street I never met any person but a nice old gentleman with green

spectacles and a bald head, called the Baron Francheti; and every night

he added himself to the party. We had coffee, played cards, and Adelaide

was my partner, although, sweet girl, I was literally her ruin. I held

bad hands, introduced spades when I should lead diamonds, of course we

always lost, Adelaide never murmured, but handed the money to the Baron

without a reflection on my unskilful play. What could I do? Nothing but

present an indemnity in the morning; and she graciously approved the

taste of my selection, and condescended to accept the offering.

On the day I was gazetted, in company with some other aspirants for

military glory, we dined together to celebrate our promotion, and, as

became soldiers of promise, got drunk afterwards. Some managed to reach

their hotels, some stopped short in divers watch-houses; while I, under

the guidance of the star of love, headed my course instinctively to my

lady’s bower in Jermyn-street. As usual, the family party were at home.

We played; for I remember something about overturning a lamp upon the

card cloth. In a short time I dropped off the chair, was trundled home

in a coach, put to bed, and remained in deep repose, until daylight and

a thundering head-ache brought their pleasant reminiscences. I looked

to the table: no property was there, except a couple of shillings and an

empty note-case. Before I had gone to dinner, I changed my last fifty,

and stocked my pocket-book with the produce. A pleasant position! Out of

two hundred pounds advanced me by the Quaker, not a sous left, and the

hotel bill and half my appointments still unpaid!

I never had known a pecuniary difficulty before. What was to be done?

In London, and without a guinea! Should I write to my father, and tell

him that before I had been three months upon the world, I had despised

his admonitions, contracted debts, and gambled away the means given

me to discharge them? I had only to own the truth, and I should

be immediately relieved--but to _me_, how bitter would be the

humiliation--to _him_, how painful the disclosure! Hours passed: I

cursed my folly; but still I could devise no plan to remedy it; and

my brain was teeming with wild expedients, when a tap was heard at the

door, and in glided my London Palinurus, the Colonel. In his look there

was nothing consolatory, for the expression of his countenance was

gloomy, as if he had been “performing” at a funeral. He sate down at my

bed-side, took my hand in his, looked unutterable things, and then, in a

broken voice, inquired tenderly after his “dear friend’s health.”

“My health, Colonel, is not affected, beyond a drunken head-ache; but on

my conduct I cannot look back without self-reproach and shame.”

The brother of Adelaide shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then

delivered himself of a speech, which seemed intended rather to be

exculpatory of himself, than consolatory to me. According to his

account, I would play madly on, Adelaide in despair quitted the room, he

remonstrated--all to no purpose; for the demon of play had entered into

me, and play I would. I lost the contents of my pocket-book, and “the

_leetle_ note of hand to the Baron.”

“Note of hand to the Baron!” I exclaimed, springing bolt upright in the

bed.

It was absolutely true; for a billet was brought me at the moment by

the waiter, in which the nice old gentleman affectionately requested “to

know how I had rested the preceding night, with a casual inquiry at what

bank my note for £120 should be presented?”

‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the

Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been

duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand

trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed.

The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an

explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried

leave.

I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my

gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day--ate

no dinner--drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private

room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write

letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper.

Twilight fell--my brain was half on fire--I rejected candles--the gloom

of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine.

I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard

the door open--a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up--it was

Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her

brother and the Baron--proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set

her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my

frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness.

“You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once,

my reception would have been very different.”

“It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was

a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself--”

“What?” she inquired.

“Why--a very convenient associate.”

“I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent--the time

short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been

concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain

extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is

correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel

was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I

believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me--ask not _what_ I _was_--know

what I am--a fallen woman--one who, in the common course of crime, has

sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate

of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful

penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!”

She wept. The tears were irresistible.

“Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe--my losses

have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?”

“Your watch--I purloined it.”

“Good Heaven! impossible!”

“No, no, O’Halloran--it was only to secure it. Hear me--a few minutes,

and we part for ever. I am a woman--a lost one--but still my heart is

not altogether callous. I saw you--you were young and unsuspicious, and

became an easy victim. I watched the course of spoliation--you imagined

that I lost money, and generously made me a recompense. Am I forgiven?”

she added. “And _must I leave thee?_”

“Not on my account, I trust,” responded a voice, deep as that of

Lablache, at our elbow.

We started--Adelaide hurried from the room--I remained, so did the

stranger--Mr. Hartley!

CHAPTER XVI. A SECOND DELIVERANCE.

“_Stockwell_. So, so, you seem disordered, Mr. Belcour.

Belcour. Disordered, sir!

Why did I ever quit the soil in which I grew?”

The West Indian.

|For a minute the father of Isidora and I preserved a dignified silence.

The stern displeasure his countenance evinced was not encouraging, and

I looked the silliest young gentleman imaginable. The _contretemps_ of

this evening visit was most provoking. I had never done the sentimental

in my life but twice, and on both occasions Mr. Hartley had managed to

drop in. Turning his dark and searching eye on mine, he drily inquired,

“Whether it would be considered an impertinence on his part, if he asked

who the lady might be whom he had very unintentionally put to flight?”

I mentioned her name, not forgetting to announce also the nobility of

her descent; but had it been in direct line from Charlemagne or the

Conqueror, it would not have propitiated Mr. Hartley, if one could form

any opinion from the inauspicious “humph!” with which he received the

intelligence.

“And, my good sir, how long have you known this interesting personage?”

he continued.

“Since my arrival in London,” I replied.

“A marvellous short time to ripen friendship to such full maturity! And

what event might have called forth that storm of sobs and kisses which I

so unluckily interrupted?”

A contemptuous sneer accompanied the inquiry that stung my pride, and

I answered warmly, that “I considered that he had neither authority nor

interest to pry into matters with which he was wholly unconcerned.”

“No right, certainly,” he observed, “excepting that which former

services may be fairly supposed to warrant.”

“Mr. Hartley,” I replied, “I freely admit that I am indebted to you for

hospitality, and also for deliverance from a disagreeable, and possibly

a dangerous restraint; but surely one who rigidly interdicts inquiry

into aught connected with himself, should also respect the secrets of

another.”

“I acknowledge the justice of your remark,” said my quondam host; “and

the noble _demoiselle_, who hangs upon the neck of the acquaintance of

a fortnight, discharging volleys of sighs, ‘hot as a furnace,’

shall remain incognita. You own yourself indebted to me for former

obligations; you have now a power of returning them; and I come here to

ask a favour.”

“It is granted, sir,” I replied, warmly, “even before ‘tis known.”

“Stop, stop,” he returned; “it is a request that is too frequently

refused.”

“Name it, sir.”

“It is the loan of money I solicit. The period brief; the repayment

certain.”

I felt my face redden, and could not find words to answer.

“Before I name the sum that I would borrow,” pursued Mr. Hartley,

without appearing to notice my confusion, “and as the loan must be

regulated by the state of your own finances, let me inquire what money

you brought to town. Men coming to London are generally well provided.”

What a question from a stranger! Surely I should resent it as

impertinent. But no--the man appeared gifted with some influence that

bent me to his will--and I muttered, that when I embarked for England my

purse had contained two hundred pounds.

“Faith, not a bad supply. Could you with convenience spare me half?”

I groaned, and shook my head. .

“Fifty, then?”

Another and a more desponding shake.

“Well, be it forty. No answer. Thirty--twenty--ten! No answer yet?

Then is my request refused? So much for the lip-gratitude of Mr. Hector

O’Halloran!”

I thought my brain would madden, as the humiliating position to which

my folly had reduced me, was thus rudely exposed by this tormenting

supplicant. I tried to speak--‘twas useless; words would not come.

Another minute passed--and Mr. Hartley’s eyes were turned on mine, as if

he would have read the secret agony of spirit which his importunity had

caused.

“Well,” continued he, “should I solicit five paltry pounds--would that

small assistance be refused?”

The question was torturous. My voice at last found utterance. I raised

my eyes, and looked full at Mr. Hartley. How well that look betrayed my

secret sufferings--the bitterest a man can know--those of self-contempt

and conscious humiliation!

“Had I hundreds, Mr. Hartley, they should be placed freely at your

disposal, and I should feel too proud in having the power of convincing

you that I have not forgotten kindnesses. I want the means--for on

yonder table lies all the money I am master of.”

“What!” he exclaimed, “only a few shillings left of two hundred pounds?”

“‘Tis true, by Heaven!”

“Then, sir, are you lower than the wretch who asks for alms upon the

road-side. You are a pauper by vice; he a beggar through misfortune.

Listen, boy, and learn how deep is your degradation. A man to whom you

were indebted for good services seeks your assistance, and whatever

might have been your wishes to render it, folly has placed the means

beyond your reach; and, to a noble spirit, how painful is the inability

of returning a former obligation! And for what did you deprive yourself

of the power of being generous? To lavish money upon knaves and

gamblers--or, still more wretched infatuation,--to win the heartless

smiles of beauty?”

He paused, as if to observe the effect of his reproof, and one glance

attested its influence. In my agitated countenance the inward workings

of the breast were visible; for I had never felt the agony of conscious

shame and self-reproach till now. No wonder that under such feelings,

this singular personage elicited step by step, every particular touching

my connexion with Santonier and his confederates. There are times

when men feel their positions so intolerable, that, with despairing

recklessness, they court no concealment, but place their offendings

in their worst light. Such feelings were mine; and, undeterred by the

strongly-expressed scorn and displeasure of Mr. Hartley, I brought the

confessions of my folly to a close.

“My words have pained you?--it is all the better,” continued my stern

monitor, “as it affords reasonable ground for hoping that the error

lies in the head, and not in the heart. Vice has no blush; and, when the

cheek reddens at the recollection of past imprudence, it may be expected

that future follies will be eschewed. But how could you have been

plundered so unsuspectingly? I only marvel that the veriest novice ever

loosed upon a vicious town, could not in one day’s acquaintance have

detected the barefaced swindling of your noble friends.”

“You seem to know them?” I inquired.

“Yes; and for that profitable knowledge I own myself indebted to Mr.

Hector O’Halloran.”

“To me, sir?” I exclaimed.

“Ay, sir, to you.--Have you forgotten my letter? and have I not

apprised you that every action of your life is under the strictest

_surveillance?_ With all your movements, from the very night you entered

London, I have been acquainted; and it is not wonderful that I should

take some interest in ascertaining who were the intimate associates of a

man, whose fortunes are to be made or marred by me.”

What a strange gentleman this Mr. Hartley was! He seemed to have

selected me as a sort of shuttlecock wherewith to amuse himself at his

own discretion, while with my future fortunes he modestly announced a

determination, in Yankee parlance, to “go the whole hog.” Strange that

I should passively submit to be thus painfully hectored by a stranger;

and, with every inclination, want moral courage to rebel! The man was a

mystery--he appeared to have a perfect knowledge of my actions, added to

the gift of ubiquity. Did I ask an impertinent question, or perpetrate

a kiss, he was sure to be close at my elbow. Was it not devilish hard,

that a man could not commit his fooleries--as Sir Lucius O’Trigger

wished to fight--“in peace and quietness?” and, when he had lost his

last guinea, that a gentleman should drop in, to deliver himself of an

admonition first, and require the loan of a hundred afterwards? I had

got myself into “a regular fix,”--and that seemed the signal for Mr.

Hartley to appear at the moment when I wished him “five fathom under the

Rialto.”

One thing was indisputable--I had been sadly fooled. Circumstances

smooth down misfortunes; and I have heard that men, who would be driven

to desperation at being cheated by a thimble-rigger, feel it only an

agreeable kind of sorrow in being swindled by a peer.--I wished to find

out the real character of my plunderers; and it would be an unspeakable

satisfaction to be certain that I had been “cleaned out” by the

descendants of some “baron bold” who had tilted on the field of

Agincourt, or at Pavia “lost every thing but honour.” Adelaide had

described them as low-born swindlers, but she might be mistaken.

Timidly, therefore, I hazarded the inquiry, whether “Mr. Hartley

knew the exact circle of society which Santonier and his companions

appertained to?”

“That question,” replied Mr. Hartley, “is a puzzler; for in every

grade, from the highest to the lowest, you will find distinctions. The

colonel’s birth may be as noble as he insinuates it to be. He was an

_enfant trouvé_, and in time, the foundling rose to be a valet. In the

Revolution, his master lost his head, and Santonier his place; he next

became a professional gambler; ‘a master of fence’ afterwards--and

lastly, the _chevalier d’industrie_ reached the climax of rascality, and

acted as a double spy. The old gentleman, in green spectacles, has

been all his life _attaché_ to ‘a hell.’ The lady’s history can only

be learned at the Palais Royal--and I doubt whether it would repay the

trouble of a research. Although the struggle may be painful, still it is

best to prepare you for the trial, a warrant from the Alien Office has

directed your amiable acquaintances to withdraw--and before to-morrow’s

sun rises, the Santoniers will have departed. An hour since the Colonel

and I had a satisfactory conversation. This money he requested me to

deliver to you.” (Here Mr. Hartley gave me some bank notes.) “And, as

to this security, it is now mine--and may I inquire, are you prepared to

discharge it?”

I took the writing,--it was a promissory note bearing my signature, and

covenanting to pay “one hundred-and fifty pounds at sight!”

“Are you prepared to discharge this honourable engagement?” he demanded,

with affected seriousness.

I shook my head.

“Then we may as well cancel it at once;” and as he spoke he tore the

paper to pieces.

“Said I not well, when I told you, that on me the colour of your future

life depended? Remember this second deliverance--one, to which a week’s

imprisonment in the haunt of drunken outlaws were a mere nothing. But no

more of this; we have other matters now to occupy us. I want you for an

hour or two.”

He took his hat--desired me to follow him. I felt myself a mere puppet

in his hands--bowed assent--and we left the hotel together.

And where was Isidora? The question was often on my lips; but my

companion was a gentleman of such explosive temperament, that I dare not

hazard the inquiry. He called a coach--I stepped in after him, obedient

as a poodle--and, according to order, honest Jarvey rumbled his

“leathern conveniency” to some caravanserai in the city, as

much excluded from the Court Circular as Mr. Pryme’s favourite

_hostelrie_--the house with “the man’s head” in Crutched Friars.

As we rolled along the streets Mr. Hartley’s manner assumed a different

tone, for he talked to me with the familiarity of old acquaintanceship,

and never for a moment recurred to my recent peccadillos. We spoke of

the engrossing subjects of the day, and on every topic he displayed that

peculiar knowledge, which one who has been long intimate with mankind

only can acquire. Keen and correct as his observations were, they

seemed to be those of a man who had quarrelled with the world; and,

inexperienced as I was, I set him down to be one whose past career had

been unfortunate, or whose future prospects were gloomy and uncertain.

When we entered the hotel Mr. Hartley led the way to the apartments he

occupied. They were situated at the extremity of a long corridor, and

isolated from the other chambers of the inn. In an ante-room my old

acquaintance Dominique was seated. Although his fanciful dress was

discarded for a plain blue livery, I easily recognised my sable friend;

and the negro’s intelligent countenance brightened as he saw me, and

offered a silent welcome. His master introduced me into a drawing-room,

desired me to be seated, apologized for a short absence, and left me to

myself.

How strange--during our long interview and drive, not a word of

Isidora!--I had once asked simply if she were well, and he had replied

in the affirmative so briefly, that it seemed to preclude any further

inquiries touching his fair daughter. I examined the apartment--no

tokens of female occupancy presented themselves--it was like the

common-place chamber of every inn, and only remarkable for the numerous

trunks and boxes it contained; and to judge from the extent of the

baggage, the traveller to whom it appertained was preparing for a final

flitting. The various packages had Mr. Hartley’s name attached; and

hence, I concluded that to Ireland he had bidden a long farewell. But

brief space was permitted for solitary fancyings: the door opened,--my

quondam host entered accompanied by a lady,--and one look told me that

she was Isidora.

When I advanced and took her hand, she coloured to the brow, but still

my reception was a kind one. Meeting under different circumstances, we

both felt less embarrassment than when I had been first presented to

her; and I thought I could perceive something in Mr. Hartley’s

manner, which appeared to give encouragement to our closer intimacy.

Occasionally he alluded to my last escapade in dry sarcastic

observations, only intelligible to ourselves; but his manner satisfied

me, that however foolish I might have appeared, still I had not fallen

in his estimation. Supper ended, Isidora withdrew; we parted with “a

fair good night;” and Mr. Hartley and I were left alone.

My host looked at the door to see that it was closed, then filled his

glass, and pushed the flask across to me.

“Hector,” he commenced.

I started; for it was the first time he had ever addressed me without

prefixing a formal _mister_ to my name.

“I perceive,” he continued, “that you are surprised to hear me speak to

you with little ceremony. Did you but know the secret history of him who

sits beside you, that wonder would be removed. The time for that is yet

to come; and you must expect my confidence only as circumstances may

require, and your own conduct shall deserve it. I told you that your

fortunes were controlled by me; and on that assurance you may place the

firmest reliance. Listen, and you may learn much concerning your own

family--more than you have yet known--and, afterwards, I will explain

the reason that made me thus communicative.”

I bowed, and remained a silent listener.

“You had an uncle. He was thrown upon the world unwisely when a boy,

left to his own guidance, and subjected to more temptation than youth

can conquer. Need I tell you, who have learned the lesson practically,

how easily intimacies are formed, which, when unchecked, prove ruinous?

By the ill-judging liberality of his father, young Clifford obtained the

means to follow the bent of his inclination. His temper was ardent--his

passions strong--he had no friend to counsel--no Mentor to direct--his

life became a whirlwind of dissipation--and with rapid strides he

hurried to destruction. Too late, the film was removed from his parent’s

eyes; and unfortunately, the steps he took to stay that course of folly

in his child, which himself had first encouraged, were injudicious.

Money was suddenly withheld; could the wild youth’s career be thus

arrested? No; false villains surrounded him, who pointed out easy means

by which a large supply was raised, only, when obtained, to be wasted

upon knaves, or lavished with reckless prodigality on those whose beauty

had been their bane. Oh! woman--thou art a blessing or a curse--and as

both, this withered heart has proved thee!”

Mr. Hartley sprang from his chair--strode aeross the room--stopped at

the window--and then, as if he had subdued a violent outbreak of secret

feeling, he resumed his seat and thus continued:

“A vicious career soon finds its termination. The mode by which young

Clifford had hitherto obtained supplies at last became unavailing, and

criminal means were cautiously proposed by his villanous confederates.

From these the youth recoiled with horror--his guardian angel had not

yet deserted him; and, like another prodigal, he half determined to fall

at his father’s feet, and ask him to bless and pardon. That blessing

was ready had he sought it--but the moment of penitence had passed. One,

with an angel form and demon heart, had thrown her spells around him;

and all that remained of moral principle, she, the foul temptress,

gradually extinguished. In a desperate emergency young Clifford

committed forgery, affixing to securities of immense amount, his

father’s name. In due time the criminal act was discovered, and to the

agonized parent one alternative alone was left--to pay an enormous sum

to the villains who had demoralized him, or denounce his child a felon,

and consign him to a felon’s doom. He sacrificed the money. Did the

mischief end there? No;--the misguided young man was now the victim of

a gang of swindlers--the puppet of a coldblooded courtesan. Deeper and

deeper they involved him, and at last, when their own detection was

impending, they made him a scapegoat to their safety, and denounced

their dupe for crimes which they had themselves committed, and of which

he, poor wretch, was guiltless.

“The fallen have no friends; and your uncle was obliged to evade the

penalty which the law would have then exacted, by abandoning the country

of his birth, to seek ignominious safety in a foreign land. There--he

lived and died--a nameless fugitive. Heaven knows in what misery the

remnant of his few and evil days were passed,--or, when the hour of

deliverance came, under what fearful circumstances death claimed a

willing victim.”

Mr. Hartley paused; the story of my unfortunate relative had affected

me, and I expressed strong sympathy for the offender.

“Well,” continued he, “it is probable that his punishment was

greater than his crime; but of that none but himself could tell. To

proceed:--from the moment young Clifford quitted England, his father, by

a mental exertion that almost appeal’s incredible, seemed to forget that

he had ever had a son, and centered all his hopes and his affections in

the child still spared him; and your mother became the object that he

lived for. There, too, it was decreed that his hopes and plans should

be disappointed. He had resolved to ally her nobly; but his air-built

castle was levelled to the earth. She eloped with a soldier of fortune;

and worse still, in the estimation of one so deeply bigoted to his own

faith, the husband she had selected was a Protestant.

“As he had banished from his heart the memory of a guilty son, so, also,

he appears to have forgotten that a daughter, whose sole offence was

love, has often sued for pardon, and sued in vain. Dead, apparently, to

human passions, and wrapped in gloomy reveries of religion without any

thing of its charities, he mistakes ascetic indifference for submission

to that Will which rules the fate of mortals. In every thing he is

directed by his confessor, and report affirms that he has bequeathed his

fortune and estates to the uses of the Church of Rome. I have heard that

you bear a striking likeness to your mother. Could you but meet this

cold old man, possibly some spark of kindred love might still be latent

in the heart, and in the living child, he might happily be forced to

recollect the long-estranged mother. But to obtain that meeting is the

difficulty. Surrounded by priests and spies, your very name, if known,

would bar you from his presence. I have taken measures to ascertain what

are the old man’s habits, and how an interview might be accomplished.

The experiment may fail--but still it is worth the trial.

“Why have I enlarged on what you knew partially already?--the fall of

William Clifford. Only to show, by startling truths, that imprudence is

too generally the path to crime; and that your career, unless arrested

as it was by me, might have ended fatally as your uncle’s did.”

“Never!” I exclaimed, passionately; “a fool I might be--a villain,

never.”

“And so thought young Clifford once--but no more of this. I feel

convinced that your fancy for play and dangerous acquaintances is

ended.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hartley, I see my folly in its true colours.”

“And now for bed,” he replied. “You to your hotel, and I to my chamber.

Let me see you early to-morrow. Should business have called me from

home, you will find Isidora, and her sable genius, Dominique.”

“You never travel far without your black attendant,” I remarked.

“He never leaves us; and for twenty years, amidst all its storm and

sunshine, he has followed my fortunes with devoted fidelity. Next to

that of my child, the greatest loss Heaven could inflict would be to

take from me that faithful negro. He comes.--Show Mr. O’Halloran down

stairs.--Once more, good night.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “One

word more, friend Hector,” he added with a smile; “you need not lose

time in a visit to Jermyn-street--the birds have flown!”

It was past midnight, if you could believe the watchman; and as I walked

slowly westward, and thought on the events of the few last hours, I

doubted their actual reality. The strange and quick succession in which

they followed, seemed like the wanderings of a dream. A second time had

I been delivered from a critical position by a person, two months ago a

stranger--and yet one, who appeared to have dropped upon the earth, for

the especial purpose of looking after me. I slept--many a vision passed

“in shadowy review.”--but one, more brilliant than the rest, was ever

before “my mind’s eye.”--Mr. Hartley, the genius of my good fortune, and

Isidora, its bright reward.

I have said already, that the destinies of my foster-brother and myself

were intimately united. Mark Antony left my father’s house to join me

in Dublin--the hand of fate had interposed--and on this eventful night,

while I reposed at Stevens’s, my _alter ego_ was “taking his rest” in

a back attic, two pair up, in a ramification of the Seven Dials--a

safe and agreeable domicile, to which his friend, the ratcatcher, had

introduced him. A cheaper lodging might have been certainly obtained;

but this was quiet and select. From slates to cellar there were but

seven families in the house--“and the beauty of it was,” as Shemus Rhua

remarked with triumphant satisfaction, “every soul of them was Irish.”

CHAPTER XVII. THE ROBBERY OF TIM MALEY.

“_My father, the deacon, wrought him his first hose. Odd, I’m thinking

deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will twist him his last cravat. Ay,

ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged._”--Rob Roy.

|After the “sweet sorrow” of parting with the _cantatrice_, the fosterer

and his companion, as if striving to leave care behind, pushed forward

vigorously on the road; and at sunset, the steeple of the village where

they had determined to remain for the night, was visible from the high

ground they were crossing. Never were fellow-travellers in more opposite

moods; Mark Antony, melancholy as “a lover’s lute”--the ratcatcher,

“Brisk as a bee, light as a fairy.”

And yet the matter might have been easily accounted for--the one had

parted with a mistress--no wonder, therefore, that he, poor fellow, was

sad enough; the other was levanting from a wife--consequently he was

merry, “and small blame to him,” as they say in Ireland.

“Well, upon my conscience, Mark, _astore_,” * said Shemus Rhua, breaking

a silence of five minutes, “ye’re a pleasant companion this evening, if

a man didn’t care what he said.”

* Anglice--darling.

The fosterer answered with a sigh.

“Why,” continued the ratcatcher, “were you married, like myself, you

couldn’t be much more miserable. Arrah! what the plague has come

over ye, man? Can’t ye take things asy like me? Hav’n’t I left an

affectionate wife behind?--and ye see I bear it like a Christian. I was

once in love myself, and, as the sergeant’s song goes, found nothing for

it but whisky. So, there’s a bridge, and here’s the cruiskeeine; we’ll

sit down upon the wall for a while, take a drop to kill grief, and just

inquire afterwards, where the devil we are going to.”

As he spoke, the worthy captain unclosed his goat-skin

knapsack--produced a flask and capacious drinking-cup, supplied

the latter sparingly from the stream, completing it amply from the

cruiskeeine--and after swallowing the larger moiety himself, he

transferred “love’s panacea” to his desponding comrade.

“That’s the thing,” exclaimed Shemus Rhua, as the fosterer emptied the

horn; “and now, Mr. O’Toole, will you tell me where I’m bound for?”

“Upon my soul,” returned the fosterer, “I don’t know where I’m going to

myself--nor do I care.”

“There’s two of us so,” observed the captain.

“I think I’ll head towards England,” said the fosterer.

“Well,” returned the captain, “I’ll go there too.”

“Push on to London afterwards, and try an Irishman’s luck.5,

“Right,” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “and I’ll stick to you like a bur.”

“But what could you do there, copteeine?’

“Ask me rather what could I not do! Are there any brats, rats, pointers,

or old women to be found?”

“Enough of all, no doubt, Master Shemus.”

“Then leave Shemus Rhua alone to make out life.”

“‘Well, captain, if you will venture, we’ll share the purse while it

holds a shilling--and when the last is gone--why, it’s only mounting the

cockade.”

“For a gentleman like me,” returned the ratcatcher with a smile, “who

had the honour to hold a commission, it would be beneath him to enlist;

but, _mona-sin-dhoul!_ wherever you go, Mark, I’ll follow like your

shadow.”

“Come along,” said the fosterer, “night is falling, and the road, they

say, is unsafe after dark. They robbed the mail last week.”

“They’ll not rob us,” returned the ratcatcher. “‘Where hard blows and

light purses are only to be got, people who understand their business,

never trouble themselves with such customers.”

“Well, Shemus, you know best; for you’re foully belied, if there was a

handier gentleman out in ninety-eight.”

“I never robbed, if robbing you can call it,” returned the captain,

“but twice; and if every thing I did besides sate as light upon my

conscience, the devil a knee I need crook to Father McShane.”

“And who _did_ you rob?” inquired the ratcatcher’s companion.

“A miser, and the king-God bless his majesty! I should have spared

him-for he’s a daeent ould gentleman, or my head would have been on a

spike at Castlebar!” *

“Well, Shemus, let us hear both exploits.”

“When I robbed the king, it was only taking saddle-bags from an honest

tax-gatherer, whom I chanced to meet ‘accidentally on purpose’ one

winter’s evening at the deer-park wall of Cloghanteeley--The man was

drunk, the horse tired, and I took care of the silver--only that,

forgetting the owner’s name, I never knew where to return it

afterwards.”

“So much for the king,” observed the fosterer; “and now, gallant

captain, for the miser.”

“I’ll tell ye that,” replied the ratcatcher.

“It was late in the winter, the year after the French, ** and Christmas

Eve, into the bargain. Well, there was to be a cake *** at Croneeinbeg

and as I was then fond of a dance, I set out after dark for the village.

Before I got half-way, who should I meet but Mary Connor. She was

the natest girl within thirty miles, and had been only married a bare

fortnight. I heard her sob as I came up, and when I bid her the time of

the day, she couldn’t answer, the poor cratur, for the grief was fairly

choking her. ‘Death an’ nous,’ says I, ‘Mary darling, has any thing

happened to yourself or the man that owns ye?’

“‘Nothing,’ says she, ‘copteeine avourneeine, **** only we’re both

fairly ruined.’ ‘Ruined?’ said I. ‘Och hone! it’s God’s truth,’ says

she-and between tears and sobs the poor girl managed to tell me her

misfortune.”

* A disgusting penalty then attached to treason.

** In Connaught, for many years after Humbert’s descent upon

the coast of Mayo, events were dated from that occurrence.

*** At village dances, a cake is generally provided by the

owner of the house, which the most liberal gallant

purchases, and presents to his mistress.

**** “Captain darling.”

“‘Copteeine,’ says she, ‘ye know Tim Maley of Ramore?’ ‘Troth, and I

do,’ says I, ‘and I know nothing good of the same lad--an infarnal ould

skin-flint, who would rob his own father if he could. Whenever I want

a sheep, I always give him the preference, and choose one that has

his brand upon it.’ ‘May the Lord reward ye,’ says she, ‘for so doing,

Well, copteeine, for two years he has been comin’ about our place,

and when the times got bad, and my father and my husband were druv’ for

rent, they borrowed money at _gompeein_ * from the miser. Well, they

thought to pay it, with and with, ** but the crippawn *** seized the

cattle, and the grate snow kilt the sheep, and the devil a _scurrick_

could they make up between them for the ould sinner, when their note

fell due. Well, ye know that Pat and I were promised for two years, but

as the world went hard against us, we were afeard to get married. On

Monday come three weeks, we were sittin’ round the fire, heavy-hearted

enough, when the latch was lifted softly. I thought it was Pat, but who

should it be but ould Maloy. In he comes, coughing, with his “God save

all here,” and draws a stool to the fire. “Ye’r kindly weleome,” says my

father. “I hope so,” says the miser, “for I am come for at laste a part

of the money that you and Pat Grady, (manin’ my husband,) are due

me.” My poor father turned pale as a cloth. “Mister Maley,” says he,

_mistering_ the ould ruffin, to plase him ye know; “you’ve heard of our

loss--may the Lord look down upon us!” The miser gave a cough, “An’ am

I,” says he, “to get nather less or more of what I lent ye?” My poor

father gave a groan. “Mary,” says the ould divil to me, “put the boult

in the door, and come here and sit beside me.” Well, copteeine, my heart

grew cold, an’ I don’t know why the fear came over me so, but I did what

he desired me, and came and sate down, but with my father betune us.

“Well,” says be, “you’re asking time, Phil Connor, an’ may be, I might

give it to ye--ay, an’ maybe I’ll do more--for I’ll make Mary my lawful

wife, and forgive ye the debt along with it.” The light left my eyes as

he said so; and when my poor father looked over at me so heart-broken,

I thought I would have dropped. “What do ye say to the offer?” said ould

Maley. “Och hone!” says my father, “it’s a grate honour ye do my little

girl; but, Mister Maley, dear, ye’r too ould for her.” The miser bit his

lip; “An’ do ye refuse me for a son-in-law?” says he, in a rage. “Let me

just talk to the gentleman, father darlin’,” says I, for I knew we were

in the ould villain’s power, and I thought that I might sofen him. My

father left the cabin, ould Maley pulled in his stool, took me by the

hand, and begun palaverin’ me, thinkin’ I would consint; “And now,

Mary,” says he, “what have ye to say? Take me, or lave me, as ye like

it.”

“Mister Maley,” I said, “maybe I may offind ye; but if I don’t spake the

truth, I’ll be guilty before God. I love another dearly, and niver could

like you; and think of the sin, and shame, and sorrow, it would cause,

if I desarted him because he’s poor, and married you because ye’r rich.

Look out for some woman of your own years, for ye’ll niver be happy

with a girl.” He hardly waited to the end, but jumped upon his legs, and

swarin’ he would lave us without a cloot, **** and beggar us root and

branch, he flung out of the cabin like a madman.

* An Irish term for usurious interest.

** Anglicè--by instalments.

*** A fatal disease to which the black cattle of mountain

districts are frequently exposed

**** Anglicè--a head of cattle.

“‘Well, copteeine, when Pat came afterwards, and heard the story, he

cursed, and I cried, till, in sheer despair, we determined to marry at

once--and, the Lord forgive us! we done it out of the face, and ran away

next morning.

“‘Well, we thought that God would stand our friend, and that, bad as

the ould miser was, sure he wouldn’t ruin, out and out, two poor craturs

that had just got married; but a week showed that Maley--bad luck attind

him!--was bent on our destruction. One night, and unknownst to us,

every four-footed baste my father or my husband owned, was driven to

the pound, and yesterday they were canted for anything they would bring.

Poor Pat returned three hours ago almost broken-hearted, and all I had

to offer my weary husband was a dry potatoe.’ Poor girl! she burst into

a flood of tears, and every sob she gave, I laid it heavy on my soul,

ather to right her, or revenge her.

“‘Well, copteeine,’ she went on, ‘every cloot was sould but one

milch-cow that fell lame upon the road: I looked at my husband’s sorry

dinner--and, for his sake, I determined to humble myself to that wicked

ould man, and beg from him the lame cow. Off I set, unknownst to Pat,

took the short cut across the fields, and in an hour reached Maley’s.

He looked at me as I entered the cabin, and the grin of hell was on his

face. Well, he spoke me fairly at first; “Come in, _astore_,” he said,

ladin’ me into the inside room. Feaks, I thought he was going to be kind

at last; but och! copteeine, it was only mockery he meant after all.

“An’ so ye want the lame cow?” says he, beginnin’ the conversation.

“Yis, Mister Maley,” says I, “if it’s agreeable to ye; I would ask it as

a favour.”

“Humph!” says he, pullin’ out a big key that was fastened to his

waistcoat with a string, and opening a black oak chest that was standin’

at the foot of the bed. “Do you see that bag, Mary?” says he, pointin’

to a blue one. “I do, sir,” says I. “Well, in that I brought home the

price of the cattle. Do ye see that other striped one?” says he. I told

him that I did. “Well, that’s the interest of what I lent the squire,”

and three or four other gentlemen he named. “Now, Mary Connor,” says he,

shuttin’ down the lid and lockin’ the chest again, “if sixpence would

save you from starvin’, and Pat Grady from a jail, be this book,” and

he kissed the key, “I wouldn’t give it if you were on the gallows.” I

rushed out from the ould villain’s sight. “Stop,” he cried, shoutin’

from the windy; “as soon as the lame cow can walk, she’ll go where

the others went yesterday. There’s a cake, I hear, the night at

Croneeinbeg.--You’ll be dancin’ there, I think--ye know the heel’s

light, where the heart’s merry--isn’t it, Mary Connor?” and till I was

out of bearin’, that fiend’s laugh pierced me to the soul.’

“Well, Mark, I had made up my mind, before the poor girl had done

speakin.’ ‘Mary,’ says I ‘the ould monster shall tell truth for once.

Go home--dress yourself in your best--you’ll be my partner to-night at

Croneeinbeg--ay, and, by Heaven! there sha’n’t be a lighter foot upon

the floor, nor a merrier heart lavin’ the dance-house than your own,

Mary Connor!’

“She stared--but I pressed lier to do what I wished, and she promised

it. I waited till she was out of sight, and then jogged quietly on

towards the place wore Maley lived.

“When I got within sight of the house, I thought it rather too early to

pay a visit to the miser, and steppin’ into a quarry, sate down to

let another hour pass. Maley knew me well; but as I had a crape in my

pocket, I determined to disguise myself, pass for Johnny Gibbons, * and

give him the credit of the job. Presently I heard footstep on the road,

and up came three men. They did not see me, but I heard them talkin’.

One of them was Maley’s boy, and he was tellin’ his companions how

nicely he had given his master the slip, and stole away without his

knowin’ it. ‘If the cows brake loose,’ says he, the ‘divil a man-body’s

about the place to tie them.’ Oh, ho! thought I to myself, sorrow a

better evening I could have chosen to visit ye, Mister Maley. So when

the boys were out of bearin’, I rose up, and reached the miser’s without

meetin’ a living soul.

“I peeped quietly through the windy, an’ there was sittin’ the ould

villin two-double over a few coals upon the hearth--for he begrudged

himself a dacent fire--and two women were spinnin’ in the corner. A

dog that came out of the barn knew me to be strange, and set up

the bark.--‘What’s that Cusdhu’s ** growlin’ at?’ said ould Maley,

sharply--‘Go out, Brideeine, and see.’ I lifts the latch, and quietly

steps in. ‘There’s no occasion, Mister Maley,’ says I. ‘It’s an ould

friend who was passin’ the road, and dropped in to ask ye how ye were.’

The women gave a squall, and I thought the miser would have dropped

out of the chair where he was sittin.’ ‘Girls,’ says I, ‘I’ll stand no

nonsense. Ye have heard of Johnny Gibbons, I suppose.’ Both dropt upon

their knees, and Maley began to cross himself.--‘Up with ye,’ says I.

‘Go into that room, and if ather you brathe a whisper that would waken

the cat, I’ll drive a ball thro’ ach o’ye.”

[Illustration: 0174]

“The divil a delay they made; but away they stole, and closed the door

after them. Well, I laid the gun upon the dresser, drew a stool, an’

sits down fornent the miser. ‘Arrah, bad luck attend ye for an ould

thief,’ says I; ‘hav’n’t ye the manners to ask a man who has come ten

miles to see ye, whether he has a mouth or not?’ ‘Oh! Mister Gibbons,

jewel, it was all a forget on my part. There’s a bottle of licker in the

cupboard.’ ‘An’ the curse of Cromwell on ye!’ says I; ‘de ye think it’s

me that’s goin’ to attend myself?--Brideeine--tell the ould woman to go

to bed, an’ come out an’ wait upon your betters,--come out, I say--or

maybe yeer waitin’ for me to fetch ye?’ Out she comes, shakin’ like a

dog in a wet sack, brings the whisky, and fills a glass. ‘Now, light a

dacent candle--keep your rush-light for other company--an’ be off with

ye. Here’s yeer health, Mister Maley,’ says I; ‘the divil a better

poteeine crossed my lips this twelvemonth. An’ now for bisnis. Step down

to the room with me, if ye plase.’ ‘Arrah,’ says he, ‘what de ye want

there?’ I niver answered him, but took out a pistol carelessly from my

coat pocket, opened the pan, shook the primin’, and looked at the

flint. ‘Christ stan’ between us an’ harm! what are ye about?’ says he.

‘Nothing,’ says I; ‘only that I always see if the tools are in proper

order before they’r wanted.

* A sanguinary scoundrel, hanged after the Irish

rebellion, whose name is still a terror to the peasantry.

** Cusdhu, literally blackfoot, although many a white-footed

cur is so called--the Irish peasantry considering that name

a lucky one.

Come along.’ “Well, he followed me like a spaniel--in we goes to the

room--and in a moment I spied the black oak chest. ‘Where’s the key

of this?’ says I. ‘God sees it’s lost since the fair of Ballyhain, and

that’s a fortnight come Saturday,’ said the ould miser. ‘Bad luck to the

liars,’ says I. ‘Wouldn’t it be a quare thing, now, if I could find it?’

With that I gives his waistcoat a rug, and out drops the key danglin’ to

a bit of twine. The moment I put it in the chest, Maley roared ‘Murder!’

an’ threw himself across the lid. I lifted him by the neck as ye would

lift a cur--flung him on the bed--tied him hand an’ foot with a hank of

yarn--and stuffed an ould stockin’ in his mouth. ‘Lie quiet there,’ says

I. ‘I’ll not detain ye long; for all I want here is a blue bag, an’ a

striped one.’ The ould divil struv to shout, but the stockin’ smothered

his voice, an’ the noise he made was so droll, that I couldn’t help

laughin’ till I was tired again. Well, sure enough there were the bags,

just as Mary Connor had tould me. I put them in the pockets of my _cota

more_ *--took another hank, tied Maley to the bedpost--bid him a tinder

good night--desired the women on peril of their lives to lie still till

mornin’--walked quietly out of the house, and locked the door after me.

“Well, off I goes straight to Croneeinbeg--steps into the dance-house,

an’ salutes the company with a ‘God save all here.’ Divil a merrier set

ye iver looked at, but two--an’ they were sittin’ in the corner. It

was poor Grady an’ his wife--an’, pon my soul! there was such sorrow on

their pale faces, that an enemy would have pitied them.

“‘I want ye, Pat, says I.’ Up he gets, an’ we stept out together, and

walked five or six perches from the house. ‘Pat, what’s the matter with

ye, man?’ ‘Ohone, copteeine; ye know I’m ruined,’ says he. I wouldn’t

mind it for myself, but--my poor Mary’--an’ he fairly began to cry.

‘Arrah!’ says I, ‘have done, man. De ye remember the night before

Garlick Sunday?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Then, Pat Grady, _I do_. Ye hid me,

when the highlanmen had run me to a stan’-still--and, with an hundred

pound upon my head, saved me when I thought none but God could deliver

me from certain death. In that bag you’ll find some money--your debt

to Maley is paid--and there’s a trifle to begin the world with. Go off.

Hide it ‘till ye want it; burn the bag; an’ now, you and I, Pat, have

cleared scores; an’ if ten pound will do it, the cake shall be Mary

Connor’s.’ ‘Oh! copteeine, jewel, let me but whisper to Mary our good

luck;’ and in the poor fellow run, to spake comfort to the prettiest

girl in the province.

“In a few minutes I returned to the dance. I looked at Mary Connor. The

rose had come back again to her cheek, and at her bright black eye ye

could have lighted a dhudeeine. ‘_The floor!_’ says I--and in a minute

it was clear. I flung a dollar to the fiddler. ‘Now, bad luck to ye,

play yir best, an’ up with--Apples for ladies and ladin’ out Mary

Connor, the divil a better jig was danced for a month of Sundays.

* Cota more--Anglicè, great coat.

** The name of a favourite contredanse, exceedingly

fashionable in Connemara.

“‘Mary,’ says I, as I pressed her hand at partin, ‘didn’t I tell truth,

my darlin’, when I said, that light as yir foot might be, the heart

should be lighter still?’ The tears--but they were tears of joy--came

stramin’ down her cheeks. I kissed them away--took up my gun--bid the

company good night--and before morning dawned, or the ould miser was

unbound, I was across the Killeries and into Connemara; an’ the best

of it is, that, to this blessed day, that robbery is left on Johnny

Gibbons. And now, Mark, I ask you, upon the nick of yir conscience, was

there any harm in returnin’ the blue-bag to the right owner, and keepin’

the stripped one myself?’

“Under such circumstances, Shemus Rhua,” replied the fosterer, “I’m

ready to turn robber when you like it. But here we are at the Four Alls;

and, faith, I hope, like a singed cat, it will prove better than it

looks.”

Indeed, in its external appearance, the village inn had nothing to

excite the expectations of a traveller. The windows were mostly without

glass; the earthen floor broken into ruts, all of which appeared

recipients for dirty water; while the ceiling was blackened with soot,

and the walls curtained with cobwebs. The landlord, looked a sot--his

helpmate, the epitome of every thing unclean. The ratcatcher pronounced

it “a place not fit to lodge a dacent dog in,” while Mark Antony,

remembering that hostelrie, where he had found “the warmest welcome,”

drew a mental contrast between both, and thought with a sigh upon his

rejected innamorata--the lady of the Cock and Punchbowl.

[Illustration: 0176]

CHAPTER XVIII. CONFESSIONS OF THE RAT-CATCHER.

“_There are certain ingredients to be mingled with matrimony, without

which I may as likely change for the worse as the better.” A Bold Stroke

for a Wife._

|The man might have been set down a lazy wayfarer indeed who would have

sojourned a second day at that pleasant hostlerie, whose sign-board

displayed the spirited representation we have copied. Mark Antony

avowed that “he had never closed an eye,” while his companion admitted

the enjoyment of a short, but not sweet season of forgetfulness, when,

according to the confessions of the captain, the insect tribe had

assailed his person with such ferocity, that, had they only combined

their efforts, “and pulled one way, they must have dragged him into

the floor.” No wonder, then, that the journey was resumed at cockcrow.

England was the destination; and the route was accordingly directed

towards a neighbouring seaport, from which a passage in a trading vessel

to Liverpool might be obtained.

At that period--one short to look back to--the transit of the Channel

was held to be a daring exploit; and, in Irish estimation, England was

indeed, a land beyond the seas. Whether business or pleasure formed

the inducement, the latter must be considerable, before a votary of St.

Patrick would venture upon “realms unknown and great,” therefore was

the fosterer’s satisfaction, in discovering that Shemus Rhua was an

accomplished traveller, and also that, in earlier life, the gallant

captain had visited “the great metropolis.”

“It’s now three-and-twenty years ago,” concluded the ratcatcher, with a

sigh, “and, upon my conscience, to look back, Mark dear, it appears like

yesterday.”

“And what brought you to England, Shemus?” said the fosterer.

“Why, I think,” replied the captain, “a gentleman who has directed me

generally from the cradle. He keeps, they say, a warm house; and, though

he’s the best friend they have, the clargy are eternally abusing him.”

“Well, by your own account, copteeine, your guide was none of the best.

The errand, I hope, was better?”

“Neeil an suggum,” * returned the ratcatcher, “I went to run away with

an heiress.”

* Paraphrased--“We’ll not say much about that.”

“Well done, captain.”

“Stop--I don’t mean myself, but my master, and ye know, that’s the same

thing.”

“Who was the heiress?”

“Devil have them that knows! Any body that came in our way.”

“And did you succeed?”

“Succeed!” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “Upon my soul, only we gave

leg-bail, he would have been hanged, and I left for transportation.”

“_He!_--who was he, Shemus?”

“Why, who but my ould master’s son, Dick Macnamara.”

“And the expedition was unfortunate?”

“Unfortunate! how could it be otherwise?” replied the captain. “Of all

the unlucky devils ever born under a cross-grained star, Dick Macnamara,

you were the most unlucky!”

“Is he dead?” said the fosterer.

“Dead! to be sure he is,” replied the captain. “He quarrelled with Savey

Blake, at the winter fair of Athlone; and, as the morning was wet, they

fought in the inn yard. What did the stupid fool his second do, but

stick Dick into a corner! The rain was in his face; and at the first

fire, Savey Blake, shot him like a woodcock. I was with him till he

died. Indeed, I never knew him have luck but once.”

“Indeed; and what was that?”

“When he did marry, his wife ran away from him within a quarter.”

“But your English expedition, Shemus. Arrah, man, there’s where the shoe

pinches; and I would like to know how ye got on.”

“Got on!” exclaimed the ratcatcher. “Be gogstay! from the very moment we

left home, every thing went wrong with us. But, stop--isn’t there a well

that none but a sinful man would pass? Sit down, _avourneeine_--there’s

a drop in the cruiskeein still, and when I take a cobweb out of my

throat, I’ll tell ye all the particulars of,

THE MATRIMONIAL ADVENTURES OF DICK MACNAMARA

It was the summer after the great election--and that was in the year

ninety-one--and a fine evening it was. At that time, care was far from

my Heart, and I was taking a dance in the barn with Mary Regan, my

lady’s maid, when out comes Sir Thomas’s own man to say that I was

wanted in the parlour. “Run, bad luck to ye,” says he, “and I’ll finish

the jig for ye! Arrah, make haste, man! Some etarnal villin has slipt a

paper under the gate, and the ould master’s fit to be tied. I never saw

him so mad since he was chased home from Galway.” Away I goes; and when

I got into the parlour, there I found Sir Thomas, God rest his soul!

Father Pat Butler, the parish priest--and the driver, Izzy Blake.

Sir Thomas was sittin’ in the big armed chair he always sate in. He

wasn’t to say much the worse for liker; but it was asy to persave that

he had been lookin’ at somebody that was drinkin’. The priest, och!

what a head he had! was cool as a cowcumber, and only Izzy’s nose was

a deeper purple than when he sate down, you wouldn’t know he had a drop

in. It was quite plain the party were in trouble; for, to smother grief,

the ould master had slipped a second glass of poteeine into his tumbler

just as I came in.

“Asy, Sir Thomas!--Drink asy!” said the priest. “The whisky’s killin’ ye

by inches!”

“Arrah, balderdash! Pat Butler, won’t ye let me take the colour of death

off the water, man, and me threatened with the gout? It’s the law that’s

fairly murderin’ me. Bad luck attend all consarned with the same! At the

blast of the mail horn my heart bates like a bird; for within the last

two years I have got as many lattitats by post, as would paper the

drawin’-room. Shemus Rhua,” says he, turning to me,--“did ye see a

black-lookin’ thief about the place, when ye were hunting the young

setters on the moor?”

“Arrah, Sir Thomas, if I did, don’t ye think I would have been after

askin’ him what he was doin’ there?”

“Sibby Byrn saw him thrust these d____d papers under the gate, and then

cut over the bog as if the divil was at his heels. Well--small blame to

him for runnin’--for, by all that’s beautiful, if I had gripped him, he

would have gone back to the villain that employs him, lighter by both

lugs. Sit down, Shemus. Izzy Blake, fill the boy a glass.” And then he

began, poor ould gentleman, askin’ me about the dogs; but before I could

answer him, he gave a sigh. “Arrah,” says he, “what need I be talkin’

about dogs, when, after November next, the divil a four-footed baste

will be left upon Killcrogher, good nor bad!”

“Something must be done immediately,” said the priest. “If they

foreclose the mortgage, and get a recaver on the estate, we’re done

for.”

“If we could only raise five thousand to pay that cursed claim, we might

stave off the other things till some good luck would turn up,” said the

driver.

Sir Thomas sighed. Troth, an enemy would have pitied him!

“Arrah, Izzy Blake--that day will never come! Don’t talk of good luck,

that’s over with me,” says he. “O Lord! to be baten by Peter Daly--and

his grandmother before him, keepin’ a huxtery in Loughrea--and then to

be hunted home afterwards, like a tithe-proctor! It’s enough to drive a

man to drink, or make a quaker kick his own mother.”

You see, Mark, (observed the captain, in explanation,) the ould master

had stood for the county. Well, from the time he came into possession of

the estate, of course, Sir Thomas was like his father, a Sunday man and

as he couldn’t meet the sheriff openly at the election, what the divil

does he do, but he sits out in a boat, where he could hear how things

were goin’ on, and give orders to the tenants. The Lord sees, the

cratures did all they could for a good master as he was. Didn’t they

kidnap the electors, tare down the booths, burn Peter Daly’s talley-room

teetotally,--and throw a jaunting car, with six voters, clane over the

bridge--horse, driver, and all! And what more; could they do? The money

bate us in the long-run; and it was well Sir Thomas wasn’t taken into

the bargain--for the bailiffs chased him to the very gates. No wonder

then, poor ould gentleman, that the very name of the election put him

always into a rage.

* In olden time, Irish gentlemen found it occasionally

convenient to rest from their labours for six days, and only

exhibit their persons on the seventh.

“Never mind,” said the priest, striving to say something pleasant, and

comfort the ould master; “it’s a long lane that wants a turn--and

luck will come at last. There’s yer two sisters, Sir Thomas--the best

catholics in Connemara, and ready to travel any moment that they’re

wanted--if the Lord would only mercifully take them to himself. Indeed,

they’re too good for this wicked world--and they would be far snugger in

the next.”

“Divil a chance there,” says Sir Thomas; “they’re the very counterpart

of their mother--the Lord be good to her! an she lived to ninety-seven.”

“Are ye in the lottery the year?” asked the priest. “Arrah, what matter

whether I am or not!” said Sir Thomas. “Hav’n’t I been in it since I

was a boy, and niver won any thing beyond a blackguard twenty or two?

Upon my conscience, I verily believe, if I had been bound to a hatter,

people would be born without heads!”

Well, the divil a one could point out the likelihood of luck; and the

poor ould gentleman seemed mighty disconsolate.

“Arrah,” says I, “hould up, Sir Thomas--who knows but we’ll get to the

sunny side of the hedge yet? There’s Master Dick--and if he would only

marry an heiress--”

“Be dad,” says the ould gentleman, “Father Pat, there’s sense in that.”

The priest shook his head.

“And why shouldn’t he?” says Sir Thomas.

“Because,” returned the priest, “he’s never out of one scrape till he’s

into another. And then he’s so captious; if he was in heaven--where the

Lord send him in proper time, if possible!--why, he would pick a quarrel

with St. Peter.”

“It’s all a flow of spirit,” says the ould man.

“_It’s a flow of spirits_ that causes it generally,” says the priest;

“but it’s all your own fault, Sir Thomas, and I often tould ye so.

Instead of lettin’ him stick to his larnin’, ye would have him brought

up yer own way, ridin’ three times a week to the Clonsallagh hounds, and

shooting at chalked men on the barn door through the remainder.”

“Arrah, be quiet,” says the ould gentleman. “Though he’s my son--at

laste I have his mother’s word for it--is there a nater horseman within

the Shannon? Put Dick Macnamara on the pig-skin with any thing daeent

anunder him, and I’ll back him over a sportin’ country for all I’m worth

in the world.”

“Ay,” said the priest, in a side-whisper; “and if ye lost, the divil a

much the winner would be the better.”

“He’s six feet in his stockings--sound as a bell--he’ll throw any man of

his inches in the province, and dance the _pater-o-pee_ * afterwards.”

“Arrah,” says the priest, “if there’s no way of payin’ the mortgage but

by dancin’ the _pater-o-pee_, out we bundle at November.”

* A dance peculiar to Connemara.

“And why shouldn’t he marry an heiress?” says the ould man.

“First,” says Father Butler, “because he has no luck; and second,

because he has no larnin’. Wasn’t I returnin’ from a sick-call only

yesterday, and as God’s goodness would have it, didn’t I meet my Lady

French’s messenger with a note?--‘Who’s that from?’ says I. ‘Mr. Dick

Macnamara,’ says he. Well, I had a misdoubtin’ about it, and so I opens

the note--and--_Mona-sin-dhiaoul!_--Lord forgive me for sayin’ so!--if

he hadn’t spelt ‘compliments’ with a K!”

“And if he spelt it with two K’s,” says the ould gentleman, “will that

hinder him marryin’ a woman if she wants a husband? I tell ye what,

there’s more sense in what Shemus Rhua says than any of ye seems to

know. Wasn’t the family as badly off when my grandfather--God rest his

soul!--ran away with Miss Kelly?”

“And where will you get a Miss Kelly now-a-days? It’s not out of every

bush you’ll kick a lady, lame of a leg, and twenty thousand down upon

the nail!”

“What was she the worse for that?” says Sir Thomas. “Don’t ye mind what

my grandfather said to Lord Castletown the week after. ‘Didn’t I,’ says

my grandfather, ‘manage the matter well, my lord?’ ‘Ye did in troth,

Ulic--and ye made a grate hit of it, if ye’r amiable lady was only right

upon the pins.’ ‘Well, my lord,’ says he--‘what the divil matter if she

is a wee bit lame? Does your lordship suppose, that men marry wives to

run races with them?’”

Well, there’s no use makin’ a long story about it. At Killcrogher things

couldn’t be worse than they were; and, when we had finished a second

bottle of poteeine, we all agreed that the divil a chance, good, bad,

or indifferent, was left, but for Dick Macnamara to marry a wife with

a fortune--and with or without a spavin---just as the Lord would direct

it.

This was all mighty well, but where was the lady to be found? Of

heiresses, there was no scarcity in Galway, if their own story was

but true; but then their fortunes were so well secured, that nather

principal nor interest could be got at.

“England’s the place,” says the ould master. “Dick would get twenty

thousand for the askin’.”

“And how is he to go there?” says the priest. “He must travel like a

gentleman, or they wouldn’t touch him with a tent pole--and where’s the

money for that?”

“Let Izzy drive the tenants.”

“Arrah, Sir Thomas! it’s asy talkin’--the divil a pound I could drive

out of them to save yer life. _Mona-sin-dhiaoul!_ ye might as well

expect blood from a turnip, or to borrow knee-buckles off a Hielanman.”

Well, we were fairly nonplushed for a time, but we got matters right

afterwards. The ould ladies, the master’s sisters, had a trifle by them,

if any body could manage to get at it. Well, the priest put it to them,

for the glory of God; and Sir Thomas, for the honour of the family. They

came down at last, and, between them, for a hundred. Sir Thomas lent

us his own pistols, and Izzy Blake passed his word in Galway for the

clothes. By St. Patrick! we were in such bad credit there, that over the

whole town we wouldn’t have got as much as would have made a surtout for

a Lochryman. * On the strength of Izzy, however, we taught book-keeping

to a tailor. His name, I mind, was Jerry Riley--and I fancy we’re in his

ledger to this day.

I’ll never forget the mornin’ we started. “We set out at six o’clock,

as we had to ride to Moylough to catch the Tuam mail. Every soul in

Killerogher was astir, and waitin’ at door or windy to see us off--some

givin’ their blessin’, and others their good advice.

“Mind yer eye, Dick!” said the ould gentleman from the parlour.

“Don’t take any thing but what’s ready,” cried the priest from the hall

door.

“Remember you’re of the Coolavins by the mother’s side,” called my lady

from her bed-room; “so look to blood as well as suet, Dick.”

“The money--the money,” cried the priest.

“Dick, dear, ye’re on book-oath to me!” whispered Mary Regan, as we

passed her.

“Don’t be quarrelling about trifles,” said the priest.

“Nor let any body tramp upon your corn, for all that,’ cried Sir Thomas.

“The money--the money, Dick--and that’s the last words of ye’r clargy,”

roared the priest.

“Don’t miss mass, if you can,” screamed the ould ladies from the lobby.

“_Ara-gud-neeish!_” ** and father Butler signed his blessing after us as

we rode away.

“Stop! stop!” roared the ould master. “Another word, and God keep ye,

Dick! Always fight with ye’r back to the sun. Drink slow--don’t mix ye’r

licker, nor sit with ye’r baek to the fire--and the divil won’t put ye

under the table!”

These were the last words we heard--the gatekeeper’s wife flung an ould

shoe after us for luck--and away we went to make our fortune.

When we reached Moylough, the coach was standin’ before the door of the

hotel, for the passengers had gone in to breakfast; and by the time we

had taken the dust out of our throats with a throw at the counter, the

company had come out again. Two or three of them roofed it like myself;

and one lady, with blue feathers and a yalla pelisse, stepped inside.

She was a clipper! and there was enough of her into the bargain. As

Master Diek travelled like a raal gentleman, of coorse, he hopped in

too.

Well, when we stopped to change horses, Dick and the lady were thick

as inkle-wavers. “Shemus,” says he, “bring out a glass of sherry, and

a drop of water in the bottom of a tumbler, with a sketch of sperits

through it.” They drank genteely to each other, and away we rowled

again. Indeed, at every stop the same order was repated.

* A diminutive sprite who inhabits lakes, and seems a

species of the Scotch Kelpie.

** Anglicè--Money paid upon the nail.

The lady was comin’ from the saa, and that made her dry, I suppose; and

from the time he was a boy, Dick Macnamara had an unquenchable thirst

upon him.

We reached Athlone in the evening, and stopped at the Red Lion. Dick

handed out the lady with the yalla pelisse; and ye would have thought

they would have shaken each other’s hands off. Well, a maid-sarvant took

her bandbox--Dick give her the arm--away they flourished together--and I

stayed at the inn door to see the luggage safe off the coach.

Before long the young master returned.

“Shemus,” says he, shuttin’ the door behind him, “isn’t Miss Callaghan a

spanker?”

“‘Pon my soul, she’s a cliver girl, with line action,” says I.

“Bad luck to ye!” said he, “ye talk of her as ye would of a horse. But,

Shemus, I thought as we were all alone, I would try if I could put my

_comether_ over her by the way of practice. Och! if she was only an

heiress! When I kissed her at partin’ in the hall, she tould me she

could follow me over the world.”

Well, after we had supped, Master Dick sends for me to come up stairs;

and as it was too soon to go to bed, down we sate over a hot tumbler to

settle what was to be done when we got to London. Ye see, we knew that

in England there were heiresses _galore_ *--but the thing was, how the

divil were we to find them?

* Anglicê--In plenty.

Well, after we had been talkin’ half an hour, in comes the waiter. “Is

there one Mister Macnamara here?” says he.

“That’s me,” Dick answers.

“Mister Callaghan’s after askin’ for ye,” says he.

“Parade him,” says Dick.

So in steps an ould gentleman, clane shaved enough, but about the

clothes, he had rather a shuck appearance. He bows, and Dick bows--and

down sits the ould gentleman, an’ draws over a tumbler.

“Ye had a pleasant journey of it, Mister Macnamara,” says he, commencin’

the conversation. “My daughter says that ye’re the best of company. In

troth, she spakes large of ye.”

With that they drinks one another’s health--an’ from one thing they

comes on to another. I had pulled my chair away to the corner, ye see,

but Dick winked to me as much as to say, “Shemus, stay where ye are.”

“An’ so ye’re goin’ to better yourself with a wife?” says the ould

fellow.

“There’s no denyin’ it,” says Dick.

“Well, ‘pon my conscience, it’s the best thing ivir a young man did,

for it keeps him out of harm’s way. An’ are ye for soon changin’ ye’r

state?”

“Divil a use tellin’ lies among friends,” says Dick. “The sooner the

better.”

“Feath--an’ it has come rather sudden upon Sophy,” says Mister

Callaghan. “But, God’s will be done! Her brother will be home in an

hour. I wish there was only time to send for her mother to Roscrea.”

“What’s wanted with her mother?” says Dick.

“Nothin’ partikler,” says Mr. Callaghan, “only the ould lady would like

to see her little girl married.”

“An’ when is she to be married?” inquired Dick. “Why, as there seems to

be a hurry,” replies the ould fellow, “it may as well be done ‘out of

the face.’”

“An’ if it wouldn’t be an impertinent question,” says Dick, “arrah!

who’s to be the happy man?”

“An’ are ye jokin’?” says ould Callaghan. “Arrah, who should it be, but

yourself?”

“Myself?” says Dick. “Shemus,” says he--“the divil an appearance of

liker’s on the ould man, what does he mane at all?”

“Of coorse,” says I, “that ye’re goin’ to marry his daughter.

“Exactly,” cried ould Callaghan.

“If she’s not married till she marries me, she’ll be single for a month

of Sundays,” says Dick.

Up jumps the ould fellow in a rage--and up jumps Dick Macnamara--and

then such fendin’ and provin’, and such racketting through the

room--till out rushed Mister Callaghan, swarin’ he would be revenged

before he slept.

“When he slammed to the door, I turns round to Dick, to ask what it was

all about?

“Arrah, the divil have them that knows,” says he; “I just coorted a

little bit with the girl as we were alone in the coach, by the way of

bringin’ my han’ in before we got to England.”

“Be my soul,” says I, “ye’ve made a nate kettle of fish of it!--Arrah,

Dick, _avourneeine_--ar’n’t ye in the centre of a hobble--coorting’s one

thing, and marryin’s another--Wouldn’t the priest be proud of ye to go

back with Miss Callaghan under ye’re arm?--and with about as much money

as would pay turnpike for a walking stick.” Feaks, things looked but

quare the more we considered them; so we thought we would order a

chaise, push on to Moate, and lave Sophy Callaghan to her own amiable

family, as she was too valuable for us. But, as matters turned up, we

wer’n’t allowed to set off as asy as we intended. Before the chaise

could come round, we heard feet upon the stairs, and the door opens, and

in comes five as loose lookin’ lads as ye would meet in a day’s walk.

They were all fresh, as if they had been hard at the drinkin’,--and they

were bent on mischief,--for the second fellow had a twist in the eye,

and a pistol-case under his arm.

“Mister Macnamara,” says the first, “my name’s Callaghan. There’s no use

for any rigmarole, as the light’s goin’ fast, so I just stepped in to

ask you consarnin’ your intentions towards my sister Sophy.”

“The divil an intention have I, good or bad, about ye’r sister Sophy,”

replied Dick, as stiff as a churchwarden.

“Then ye can be at no loss to guess the consequence?”

“Feaks, an’ I am,” says Dick; “as I’m no conjuror.”

“If ye don’t marry her within an hour,” says he, “I’ll be after sayin’

something disagreeable.”

“I’ll not keep ye in suspense half the time,” replied Dick.

“Then ye’ll marry her?” says he.

“You were nivir more astray,” replied Dick, “since ye were born.”

“Then I’ll trouble ye for satisfaction,” says he.

“With all my heart,” says Dick.

“What time in the mornin’,” said the other, “would fit ye’r

convanience?”

“We’re rather in a hurry,” says Dick, pointin’ to the post-chay that

had come round, and on which the hostler was tyin’ the traps, “to-night

would be a great accommodation, if it was the same to you.”

“Ye ca’n’t do better,” says one of the others, “than step up to the

ball-room. There’s good light still, and the room’s long enough.”

Be gogstay! Dick Macnamara closed with the offer like a man. I was sent

for the pistols, and the gentlemen called for a bottle of sherry. You

see, in case of accident, it would come well before a jury that they

drank each other’s healths, and fought in perfect friendship, for that

would benefit the survivor.

They slipped into the ball-room, and every body thought the thing was

settled, they were so quiet and civil with each other as they went up

stairs. The pistols were charged--“An’ now,” says Callaghan, “for the

last time, I ask ye, will ye have my sister Sophy?”

“Arrah, don’t lose the light in talkin’--ye have my answer already,”

says Dick Macnamara.

Well, they were placed in the corners of the room, and a man with a red

nose asked, “if they were ready?” Both said, “Yes!”

“Fire!” says he. Slap off went both pistols like the clapping of a hand,

and down dropped Mr. Callaghan with a ball clane into his calf.--Well,

every body ran to lift him, when, suddenly, the cry of murder was raised

from the other end of the room, and out dashed a man in a shirt and

scarlet night-cap, and a fat woman close at his heels, just as they had

tumbled out of bed.

[Illustration: 0186]

“Oh, Holy Moses!” says he. “Save our lives! Murder! Murder!”

“What’s wrong with ye, honest man?” says I.

“Give us time for repentince!” says she, droppin’ on her knees. “We’re

dalers in soft goods, and obliged to tell lies in the way of bisnis.”

“For shame,” says I, “for a dacent young woman to come before company

in that way!--Arrah, put the petticoat on ye at least.” Troth, it was

no wonder the cratures were scared.--Ye see, there was a closet off the

ball-room, divided with a wooden partition; and as the house was full,

and the travellers tired, they stuck them into it for the night. Divil

a one of us, in the hurry, thought of lookin’ in; and when the man woke

with the noise, and sate up to listen what the matter was, the fellow

with the red nose cried “Fire!” and Callaghan’s ball pops through the

partition, and whips the tassel off the daler’s night-cap.

Well, for fear of any fresh shindy, I got the luggage tied upon the

shay, Dick shook hands with Callaghan, and sent his compliments to his

sister Sophy,--and away we drove to Moate; and the next evening got safe

to Dublin.

Of all the jobs ever a man undertook, the sorest was to look after Dick

Macnamara. Ye might as well herd a basketful of black-beetles, as keep

him in sight: and the two days we stopped in Dublin, though I watched

him like a bailiff, he got into two fights--rid of thirty pounds--and

snug into the watchouse afterwards. ‘Pon my soul, my heart was fairly

broke with him. When we landed at Holyhead, and were fairly out of

Irelan’, says I to myself, “Maybe we may come some speed now;” but

_Mona-sin-dhiaoul_!--our troubles were only beginnin’.

Troth, at one time, I thought we would never have reached London at all:

and as it was, we were three weeks upon the road. We never stopped for

the night, but Dick discovered some divil to detain us. One while he

would be in love with the mistress, and at another, dyin’ about the

maid--and all of them he swore upon the book to marry on his return. We

came to England to look for one woman--an’ if he had but kept his word,

we would have gone back with one and twenty; but as matters turned out,

the divil a wife we brought home at all at all.

While he would be philandrin’ at the inns, I was makin’ inquiries for

a lady that would fit us; and though I heard tell of three as we came

along, the divil an eye, let alone a finger, Dick Maenamara iver could

get on ather of them--for we had always the worst of luck. The first we

tried was the daughter of a squire, and as we were crossin’ the fence to

get into the pleasure-ground, that I heard she generally walked in,

we were spied by a keeper on the watch, and taken for poachers he had

chased before, and, only that his gun missed fire, we would have been

murdered on the spot. We made an offer at a widdo’, but Dick managed to

slip into a steel trap, and nearly lost his leg. Another trial was at a

ward of Chaneery, and we were hardly in the domain, till we were handed

over by her guardian to the beadles. They swore we were rogues and

vagabonds, and clapt us into the stocks for the evening, and give us a

free lodgin’ the same night in a place they called the cage. At last we

managed to get up to London, Dick with one skirt only to his coat, as he

had lost the other in a skrimmage with a constable; and a rap more than

three guineas and a half, we hadn’t between us to bless ourselves on!

Nobody could tell how the rest of the ould ladies’ hundred went, but

Dick Maenamara and the divil.

Well, the first thing we did was to look after our luggage, which we

found; and the next to inquire if there was a letter from Connemara

at the post-office, and sure enough there was, and every soul in

Killcrogher seemed to have had a hand in it. Sir Thomas said that he was

as well pleased that Callaghan wasn’t kilt; but the shot grieved him, it

was so low; and he begged Dick in future, to take his man as near about

the waistband of the breeches as he could. He said that the attorneys,

bad luck to them! were tormentin’ him as usual; and as he never opened

a letter now, except he knew what it was about, he tould Dick when he

wrote home, to put a cross upon the corner. Lady Mae, as we used

to call her for shortness, wished to know when she was to expect her

daughter-in-law. Mary Regan was afeard she couldn’t stay much longer

in her place--and the priest stuck to the ould tune of the

_Ara-gud-neeish_. He tould Dick to be as quick as he could; and if there

was like to be any delay, to send over a part of the fortune, as they

were greatly shuck for money. Wer’n’t we in a nate pickle--not worth

five pound in the world, and the people at home expecting thousands by

return of post!

Well, we had takin a lodgin’ near the Seven Dials; it was chape, that

was one reason; and one likes to get as near Christians as they can, and

that was another. I walked out, not well knowin’ what to do; and before

I crossed the second street, who should I drop upon, promiscuisly,

but Biddy Hagan, with a basket on her arm. She had bin dairy-maid at

Killcrogher, and ran off with a corplar that was recruitin’ there ten

years ago.

“Arrah, Biddy,” says I, “is this you?”

“And who else should it be?” says she; “maybe ye would oblige us with

your own name, young man?”

“Di ye remember Shemus McGreal?” says I.

“Is it Shemus, the whipper, at Killcrogher?” says she.

“The very same; and here he is.”

With that she blessed herself--“Holy Moses!” says she, “but ye’re

grown! Arrah, step in, an’ for ould times we’ll have a flash of

lightnin’.”

In we turns into the sign of St. Patrick, and calls for half-a-pint. I

tould her all the news, and all about what had brought us from the ould

country over here.

“Ah, Shemus,” says Biddy, “myself would travel ten mile to sarve a dog

that was iver at Killcrogher--and ye have made no speed? Och, hone, an’

more’s the pity!”

So I ups and tells her the rason we were fairly batin’--all because we

couldn’t find out an heiress, good nor bad.

“Oh, saver of the bog!” says she, “if ye’es only had the luck to have

fallen into company with Miss Figgins!”

“And who’s Miss Figgins?” says I.

“She’s the only child of ould Figgins of Puddin’ Lane, the richest

grocer in the city, an’ that’s a big word.”

“Arrah, Brideeine, _avourneeine!_--is there any way we could come across

her?”

“Arrah, the divil a one of me can tell,” says she. “It’s me that carries

home the markittin’, and the kitchen maid’s a Cork woman, born in

Cloonakitty--and we’re as thick as mustard. Be the Lord!” says she, “but

I’ll bring ye together in the twinklin’ of a bed-post, if ye’ll just sit

where ye are. Have an eye to the basket, for the house isn’t ovir onist,

if there ar’nt liars in the world;”--an’ away cut Biddy Hagan.

She wasn’t more than ten minutes, till back she comes with Oney Donovan.

We called another half-pint, and drank to better acquaintance. “Oney,”

says she, “_astore!_ tell us all about ould Figgins’ daughter, if you

please, for this gentleman’s master has come ovir for a wife. The Lord

speed him to get the same!”

“Och, then I’m sorry to say,” says Oney, “they’ll be no dalin’ in our

house, for Miss Sophiar’s to be married a Friday mornin’.”

“Oh, murder!” says I.

“A murder it is,” says she; “thirty thousan’ goin’ to a divil ye

wouldn’t kick out of a petatay garden, because he’s rich as a Jew, and

rides in a sheriff’s carrige.”

Wasn’t this too bad? The very woman that would have fitted us to a T!

Well, we were all sorely cast down at it; so we called another pint--and

we couldn’t do less, as we were in trouble.

“Be gogstay!” says I, “couldn’t we run away with her? This is but

Munday; and if the time’s short, we must only be the handier.”

Well, blood’s thicker than water! and Brideeine, Oney, and myself

settled all before we parted. Ach of them was to be settled at

Killcrogher for life--and, after a throw at the counter, we parted till

next mornin’.

I lost half the evenin’ in makin’ out Dick Macnamara. He was the

unluckiest member iver any body was consarned with. The time was

short--every moment worth goold--and when he should have been in the way

(I’ll not bid bad luck to him, as he’s dead), where the divil should I

hoak him out, after tatterin’ over half the town, but in a back attic in

a blind alley, where he was drinking taa wid a stay-maker?

Well, short as the time was, we got all ready for the marriage; and the

devil a one of Miss Figgins’s dramed the trouble we were takin’ to get

her settled. She was what they call a Methodist, and went regularly to

chapel, and she thought she was to receive the blessin’ of the clargy on

Friday morning at some church--and we thought it better to marry her on

the Wednesday night before it, and save both ceremony and expense; and,

only for himself, the stupid fool! Miss Figgins would have been Dick

Macnamara’s wife, as sure as the hearth money.

We had no trouble in life to get plenty of help in St. Giles’--and Oney

Donovan laid Dick Macnamara in a loft that looked into the grocer’s

breakfast-parlour, from which he could see Miss Figgins, and make

himself acquaint with her fatures and her clothes. All was fixed for

watchin’ her from the chapel--and at the corner of a quiet street,

through which she had to go to her own house, a chay, with a trusty

driver, was to be ready to whip her off. Dick Macnamara was to be

quietly sittin’ inside. When she was passin’, the boys were to lift her

in, and away we were to drive like lightnin’ to a lonely house five

mile out of town, where a couple-beggar was ready to tie the knot. Sorra

nater planned thing could be--but the divil a plan was iver formed in

this world, that Dick Macnamara wouldn’t make ducks and drakes of.

Well, now that every thing was fixed, we thought it would be better to

write home, to keep all quiet in Killcrogher; and Dick took up the pen,

though he would as soon have swallowed poison. In the letter, we tould

Sir Thomas how we were gettin’ on since we came to London, and showed

him that we were in a fair way, ather “to make a spoon or spoil a horn,”

as they say in Connaught; and we begged him to keep his heart up, and

the gates closed, till he heard from us again. We requested Father Pat

to stick to the ould gentleman, and not let him think upon the law but

as little as he could. Dick sent his love to Mary Regan, and I my humble

duty to the ladies. Sorra word we mentioned, good or bad, of our puttin’

in an evenin’ in the stocks. We also tould them a big lie, the Lord

pardon us! and that was, that we heard mass reglar, although the devil a

ather of us had listened to a single we, since we blessed ourselves the

Sunday before we left home, in the chapel of Killcrogher. No wonder, in

troth, that such a pair of hathens should have the worst of luck, for

sure we desarved it.

Wednesday came, and all was ready for the venture. The women stuck to

us like brieks; and Oney brought the news, that for sartin Miss Figgins

would attend the chapel that evening, for there was a grate pracher to

hould forth. At proper time, the postehay was in the street, and Dick

skrulged up in the corner of it. Three fine strappin’ boys from St.

Giles’s (all first-cousins of Biddy Donovan’s) and myself, took our sate

in the front windy of a porter-house, and Oney kept watch at the corner,

to give us the word when her mistress would appear. Be gogstay! we had

only called the seeond pint before Oney cuts by the windy, with the news

that the flock were comin’ out, and the woman we wanted would be with

us in less than a pig’s whisper; an’ away she pelted home, to be safe in

the house,--an’ then ye know, of coorse, she would never be suspeeted.

Up jumps the boys: “Here’s luck!” says I, turning down a cropper, in

which they joined me. We then claps on our caubeens, and slips out of

the door,--an’ sure enough, at the bottom of the street we sees two

ladies comin’ forid.

“Which is the woman?” says I to Dick, who was peepin’ from the wee windy

in the baek of the shay. “Her in the blue bonnet,” says he.

Egad, I was rather surprised at the appearance of the woman that Dick

Macnamara pointed out to us. To do her justice, she was good-lookin’

enough--but, faith, she was no chicken--and nather in dress nor action

what ye would expect from a reglar heiress, and, as Oney said, the

biggest grocer in the city. I remembered that they said she was a

Methodist--and, thinks I, maybe that’s the rason she goes so plain.

Well, I gives the word to Biddy Donovan’s cousins, in a whisper, and

in Irish. Divil a handier boys iver assisted in a job of the kind,--they

lifts her off the pavement in a twinklin’; and, before ye could say

Jack Robinson, she was fairly sated beside Dick Macnamara, with a

handkerchief stuck into her mouth, to keep down the squallin’!

Hoogh! off we starts--and I threw my eye over my shoulder as I was

sittin’ by the driver--Miss Figgins was kickin’ like the divil---but as

Dick had a fast hould of her, we didn’t mind that.

“Whoop!” says Tony Braddigin--that was the postboy’s name--“Isn’t it

eligint, Shemus, jewel?” says he. In troth, there never was anything

better managed; for we heard afterwards that not a mortal saw anything

that passed, but an ould Charley,--an’ as the Carneys ran past him--they

were, ye know, Biddy Donovan’s cousins, by the mother’s side--one of

them gave him the fist; an’, for a fortnight afterwards, he couldn’t

tell light from darkness.

“Well, by this time we were clear of the town, and it was nearly

twilight. I turned round now that we were safe, to see how matters were

gettin’ on within, and if Dick was makin’ love to her. Well, I put the

question to him in Irish, and he answered in the same:

“De ye think,” says he, “I’m not workin’ for the best--but wheniver, to

make lier asy, I tell her we’ll marry out of the face, by Jakers! she

kicks the harder.”

“Sorra soul’s within bearin’,” says I--“so take the handkerchief out

of her mouth and give her air--for maybe she’s chokin’--and that’s what

makes her kick.”

He did what I bid him--and, Lord! what a tongue she had when she got the

use of it!--and not a word for ather of us but _thief and villain_. I

disremember how she swore; but if she had been born in Connaught, the

oaths couldn’t have come asier.

“Ye etarnal robbers!” says she, “what do ye want? I have no money about

me, and I suppose I’m to be murdered!”

“We want nothing in the world,” says Dick, “but to make ye an honest

woman manin’, of course, to marry her lawfully.

“Make me an honest woman!--why, ye common thieves, what do ye mane?”

Dick made a kind of a confused story of it, but she didn’t wait to

the end. “Oh, murder! murder!” she called out--“Marry me! and get me

transported?”

“Transported?” says Dick.

“To be sure I would,” says she; “marryin’ you, and my own lawful husband

alive! Arrah, Sam Singlestich, dear!--little did I think, when I made

taa for ye this evenin’, that I would be bundled off by these villains!”

“And who’s Mister Singlestich?” says I.

“Who? ye thief of the world! but my lawful husband! Oh, bad luck attend

ye, night and day!--ye have the gallows in ye’re face,” says she,

lookin’ full at me, “and it’s one comfort, if I live to escape, I’ll

hear the Judge tellin’ ye’r fortune at the Ould Baily. Troth, and

I’ll go to see ye hanged, too, even if it cost me five shillins for an

opposite windy.”

“Arrah,” says the postilion, turnin’ sharp round at the word ‘Ould

Baily,’ and ‘being hanged,’--“what’s all this about?”

“Honest woman,” says I (for Dick seemed stupified) “who the divil are

ye?--Ar’n’t ye Miss Figgins?”

“Miss?--yer mother!” says she;--“I’m the wife of a dacent tradesman, and

the lawful mother of five children an’ I’ll show them again any within a

mile of Huggin Lane.”

“Oh,” says the postboy, jumpin’ out of the saddle--“by the powers of

pewter! we’re all dead men!” and, at one spring, he clears the fence,

and cuts over hedge and ditch like a madman.

“And,” says I to myself, “maybe I’m goin’ to sit here and be

hanged?”--and down I hops too. Dick Macnamara seemed to be of the same

opinion, for he was on the road already. We takes the country out of the

face, as if we were matched for a hundred--lavin’ the tailor’s wife and

the two post-horses--the one to look after the other.

Every body that iver rode to a fox-hound, knows that it’s the pace that

kills; and, for two miles, Dick and I crossed the country neck and neck,

takin’ every thing _in stroke_ as the Lord sent it. No wonder, when we

came to a cross-road, that both were dead baten, and that Dick called

out, for the love of God, to stop for a minute or two that we might get

second wind for a fresh start. Down we sate upon the ditch; and when I

got breath enough, I began to abuse Dick Macnamara like a pickpocket.

“Arrah,” says I, “what sins have I committed, that I’m to be ruinated

through you? If iver the divil had a fast hould of a sinner, it’s

yourself, Dick! Was there iver a man so asily put in the ready way to

make a fortune? Wasn’t the lady med out--the rough work done--and sorra

thing for you to do, but sit like a gintleman quietly in the chaise,

pay year lady some tender attention, and keep her mouth stuffed with a

pocket-handkerchif. And how beautiful ye put your fut in it! Oh, Holy

Joseph!--to run away with a tradesman’s-wife, and the mother of five

childer into the bargain!”

He began mutterin’ something about a mistake, and talked about blue

bonnets and yalla ones.

“What are we to do?” says I, interruptin’ him. “Arrah, have done wid

yer balderdash an’ yer bonnets;--havn’t ye made a pretty _gommoque_ * of

yerself? Where are we to head to? and how are we to chate the gallows?

Blessed Bridget!--to be hanged in the flower of my youth, for runnin’

away with the mother of a family!”

* Anglice--an idiot.

Before I had done spakin’, we hears a carriage cornin’ up at splittin’

speed. We ducked into the ditch to let it pass--and at one look I

knew it to be the very chay we had brought with us on our unfortunit

expedition. The horses had run off; and as they passed us at a gallop,

we heard the tailor’s wife shoutin’ a thousand murders.

“Arrah! what’s to be done at all at all,” says I, as the carriage

cantered on. “I haven’t the ghost of a rap about me. What money have

you, Dick?”

“Five or six shillins,” says he, “to pay the turnpikes, and a light

guinea for the marriage money.”

“Ah, then, ye won’t require it, Dick, _avourneeine_,” says I. “Any

little job in future ye want from the clargy, they’ll trate ye to it

for nothin’. It’s a comfort when a man comes to the gallows, that he’s

provided with a priest.”

But what need I bother ye with all the misfortune that kem over us? Half

the time we lay out in barns, or under hay-stacks; for if we ventured

into the parlour of a publie-house, the divil a thing ye would hear

talked of but the attempt upon the tailor’s wife--with a reward of fifty

pound for the intended murderers, and a description of their persons.

At last we were fairly worn out with hunger and fatigue, without a shoe

to our feet, or a _scurrick_ in our pockets, and nothing was left for us

but to list. Accordingly, we joined the first party that we met, and the

sergeant gave us plinty of entertainment, and two pound a man. We were

to be attested the next mornin’; but as he didn’t like our looks, he put

us in the room where the corplar slept, and took care to lock the door

carefully behind him. I guessed as much, and, feaks, I determined the

divil another yard we would keep company, if I could help it; and maybe

I didn’t succeed? When we were locked in, I produces a bottle of

rum, and the corplar--who was a drunken divil--and I finished it by

moonlight, hand to fist. I lifts him into bed blind drunk; and when the

house was quiet, I wakens Dick Mac-namara, and we opened the windy

fair and asy, and lowered ourselves by the blankets to the ground. We

travelled night an’ day--exchanged our clothes for stable-jackets--and

at last, we had the luck to be taken into the yard of an inn, and there

get employment as helpers--and when at Killcrogher they thought we were

travellin’ homeward in our own coach, it’s most likely we were grazing

the wheels of his chay for some travellin’ bagman.

Well, Dick was wispin’ a horse--and the only two things in this world

he could do dacently was to warm one after a fox, and wisp him dry

afterwards--when in comes one of a recruitin’ party to ask some question

about his officer. When he went away I says to Dick in Irish:--

“The divil welcome the last visitor. Wheniver I see a bunch of ribbons

in a sodger’s cap, I always get a start, and think that it’s one of the

lads we listed with, that’s comin’ to look after his own.”

“Feaks! an’ I’m not overly asy in their company ather,” says Dick back

to me--and him and I continues talkin’ and laughin’ at how stupid the

corplar looked in the mornin’, when he found an open windy and an empty

bed.

“And so,” says a voice at our elbow, “ye gave his majesty leg-bail,

boys!”

We gave a start, and looked round, and who was standin’ close to us but

a-little dark-visaged gentleman, with a twist in the eyes that didn’t

improve him much--and by the whole look of him, the very last man you

would meet in a day’s walk, that ye would borrow money to spend in

company with.

You maybe sure that Dick and I were scared enough. “Egad,” thought I,

“we are ketched at last, and this dark divil will split upon us--and

then the first march will be to the black-hole for desarchin’; and the

second, to the gallows, for the murder of a tailor’s wife, only that

we didn’t kill her. Well, I struv to put it off as a joke, but the wee

black fellow was too deep for it and he spoke the best of Irish too.

“_Badershin!_” says he, with a wink of one of his quare eyes, “_Tig-gum

tigue Tiggeeine!_ * It won’t do, boys, I’m not in the recruitin’ line,

so ye needn’t be afeerd of me. But, as ye have been on the tramp, in the

coorse of yer rambles did ye happen to hear anything about Sir Richard

Macnamara?”

Be the powers of pewter! the question made its start.

* These terms being rendered into common English, mean--

“Be quiet--you can’t humbug me.”

“No, Sir,” says I; “but if you had inquired after ould Sir Thomas, I

could have given ye a better answer.”

“What Sir Thomas?” says he.

“Why, what other, but Sir Thomas of Killcrogher?”

“Divil a such a man lives there,” says he.

“_Nabochish!_” says I; “maybe I wasn’t bred and born under him?”

“That may be true,” says he; “it’s Sir Riehard I want to see. I wouldn’t

give a _traneeine_ to be in company with Sir Thomas.”

“Ah! then,” says I, “what wouldn’t I give to be cheek-be-jowl with the

ould gentleman.”

“Divil have the liars!” says the wee fellow in return; “for if ye had

y’er wish, ye would have a ton weight of lime and mortar on the top of

ye.”

“Christ stan’ between us and evil!” says I, crossin’ myself. “You don’t

mane that he’s dead?”

“Faith an’ if he’s not,” says the wee black fellow, “they have takin’ a

great liberty with him, for they buried him in Killeroglier on Tuesday

week--and I have been tatterin’ over half England in search of his son.

Be the Lord!” says he, “ye might as well grip hould of a Banshee. * For

all the tidings I could get of him was, that a ruffin, called _Shemus

Rhua_, ran off with a tailor’s wife; and he, the villin, persuaded the

good-natured young gentleman to follow him.”

* The Banshee is a spirit attached to old Irish families,

who foretells deaths and other calamities by melancholy

wailings before they occur. He is never seen.

Well, who should the little man be but a lawyer sent in pursuit of Dick;

and, without delay, we set off for home; and, when we got there, said as

little about England as we could. It was supposed that Sir Richard might

have cleared Killeroglier if he had taken the right way; but he set up

a pack of fox-hounds, and married a dashin’ lady because that she could

ride to them to fortune. A few years settled the busnis--and what Sir

Thomas had begun Sir Riehard cliverly complated. The dogs were sent

adrift, the horses canted by the sheriff, my lady boulted with a light

dragoon, and, to finish all, one wet mornin’, poor Dick was brought home

upon a door, dead as a herrin’. There’s not one stone standin’ on the

other at Killerogher; and of one of the ouldest and the best estates

within the province, there’s not a sod of it now in possession of a man

of the name of Maenamara.

CHAPTER XIX. MY GRANDFATHER.

“ Cor. Sir, do you know me?

Still, still far wide!

Phy. He’s scarce awake--Let him alone awhile--

Lear. Where have I been?--where am I?--fair daylight I am mightily

abused--I should even die with pity,

To see another thus--I know not what to say.”

Shakespeare.

|With pleasant and profitable reminiscences of burglary and abduction,

Shemus Rhua entertained the fosterer on the road, until the worthy twain

accomplished their journey in perfect safety, and ensconced themselves,

as we mentioned before, in that safe and salubrious section of the

Modern Babylon, supposed to be under the immediate protection of St.

Patrick, and the especial _surveillance_ of the police, vulgarly ycleped

the Seven Dials. There we shall leave them to recover from the fatigues

incident to a migration, _au pied_, from “the far west,” until, like

giants refreshed, they should find themselves ready for a fresh start

upon the world, to try, as the rat-catcher philosophically remarked,

“their fortunes--any how.”

I need scarcely say that I availed myself of Mr. Hartley’s permission,

and early in the forenoon presented myself at his hotel. As I had

expected, he was from home; but Dominique conducted me to the presence

of his young mistress; and, to judge from the kindness of my welcome,

the visit was not disagreeable.

It was late when Mr. Hartley returned to dinner; and after the cloth had

been removed, and Isidora had retired, he resumed a subject that he had

casually mentioned to me before, namely, how far it would be prudent or

possible to place myself in the presence of my grandfather, and try what

impression my unexpected appearance might produce.

“I have made secret inquiries,” he said, “respecting Mr. Clifford’s

habits, to find out how an interview could be achieved, but I

have failed in obtaining any information but what is vague and

unsatisfactory; but, as Clifford Hall is only twenty miles from town,

you shall run down, Hector, and try whether fortune may not do more for

you than I can. The domain adjoins the village of ----------. There you

will find a rustic inn; and there, also, you may probably glean some

information that may direct your course of action afterwards. Thither,

at present, it would be imprudent in me to venture; but you are unknown,

and consequently you may venture safely. You will find your grand-sire

under the double thrall of his steward and his Confessor. I shall sketch

both for you.

“The former was born in the house, and reared and educated from

charitable motives by the old gentleman, from his having become an

orphan while an infant. Gradually, he rose from dependency to affluence;

in time he managed the old man’s income; and report says, that he has

secured a goodly fortune from the pilferings of the estate. It was

whispered that he had secretly encouraged Mr. Clifford’s discarded

boy in his wild and profligate career; and that, by the suppression of

letters and numerous acts of villany beside, he contrived to snap the

last link of natural affection between an angry father and a guilty son.

Certainly, in the hour of young Clifford’s disgrace and destitution,

he evinced the blackest ingratitude to one who, badly as he might have

behaved to others, had showered favours on him when a boy, and trusted

him afterwards with unlimited confidence. Such is Morley the steward;

and now we will briefly sketch Daniels the confessor.

“He is a Jesuit; born, I believe, in England, but educated abroad; a

deep designing zealot--bigoted to his own faith, and intolerant to all

besides. The great object of his existence is to aggrandize the order he

belongs to; and by the exercise of monastic influence on a mind always

superstitious, and now imbecile from age, he trusts to alienate from

natural heirs the noble estates of that weak old man, to whom he has

become a ghostly counsellor. In short, Morley and Daniels act with a

unity of purpose, but different end: the one, to build a fortune for

himself; the other, to gratify a monk’s ambition, and raise himself to a

commanding position in that order which he intends to aggrandize at

the expense of your mother and yourself. You can easily understand

that every obstacle will be placed in your way by individuals so deeply

interested in preventing the old man from being reconciled to a child

he once was so devotedly attached to; and whether you succeed or fail,

matters cannot be more unpromising than they are. They say the fortunes

of an Irishman carry him, at times, through difficulties which to other

mortals would prove insuperable. Try yours, Hector--something may be

gained--and, need I tell you?--nothing can be lost.”

I followed Mr. Hartley’s advice, and started next evening by a stage

coach that passed the village he had named; and at dusk I alighted at a

clean and comfortable public-house, intituled the Fox and Hounds.

The evening was sharp, and, as I had travelled outside, an introduction

to a snug parlour and sparkling wood-fire was agreeable. I ordered

supper and a bed; and, while the former was being prepared, considered

in what manner, and by what means, I should endeavour to obtain an

interview with Mr. Clifford. Mr. Hartley had recommended me to glean

some intelligence from the landlord, should I find him inclined to

be communicative; and, when the cloth had been removed and a correct

assortment of fluids was placed upon the table, I desired “mine host” to

be summoned to the presence.

When he appeared, I had no difficulty to ascertain at a glance that

he had pursued in earlier life the honourable trade of arms, and, like

myself, had been intended to supply “food for powder.” He was a tall,

hale, hearty-looking veteran, and stout for his years, albeit Father

Time had silvered his head and stooped his shoulders. Still maintaining

that feeling of deference when in the presence of a superior, which

military usage renders habitual, he drew himself up at the foot of the

table, and respectfully inquired “what my honour wanted?”

“Nothing, my worthy host, but your company for half an hour. The

evenings grow long, and I hate ‘to drink one hand against the other,’ as

we say in Ireland. If I guess right, you have retired from a profession

on which I have but entered recently.”

“Yes, sir,” returned he of the Fox and Hounds;--“I wore the king’s

livery for fifteen years; and, God bless him, now that I have done my

work, he allows me two-and-eightpence a-day to enable me to drink his

health in comfort.”

“You seem, when you bade Brown-Bess good-bye, to have taken up

comfortable quarters here, my friend.”