I'm goin' for to go wid you, and lave this counteree;
I'm goin' to lave my father, his castles and freelands--
An' away what Willy Reilly, an' his own Colleen Bawn.
“Och, they wint o'er hills an' mountains, and valleys that was
fair,
An' fled before her father as you may shortly hear;
Her father followed afther wid a well-chosen armed band,
Och, an' taken was poor Reilly, an' his own Colleen Bawn.”
The simple pathos of the tune, the affection implied by the words, and
probably the misfortune of Willy Reilly, all overcame him, He finished
the second verse with difficulty, and on attempting to commence a third
he burst into tears.
“Colleen bawn! (fair, or fair-haired girl)--Colleen bawn!” he exclaimed;
“she's lyin' low that was my colleen bawn! Oh, will ye hould your
tongues, an' let me think of what has happened me? She's gone: Mary,
avourneen, isn't she gone from us? I'm alone, an' I'll be always lonely.
Who have I now to comfort me? I know I have good childhre, neighbors;
but none o' them, all of them, if they wor ten times as many, isn't
aqual to her that's in the grave. Her hands won't be about me--there was
tindherness in their very touch. An', of a Sunday mornin', how she'd tie
an my handkerchy, for I never could rightly tie it an myself, the knot
was ever an' always too many for me; but, och, och, she'd tie it an so
snug an' purty wid her own hands, that I didn't look the same man! The
same song was her favorite, Here's your healths; an' sure it's the first
time ever we wor together that she wasn't wid us: but now, avillish,
your voice is gone--you're silent and lonely in the grave; an' why
shouldn't I be sarry for the wife o' my heart that never angered me?
Why shouldn't I? Ay, Mary, asthore, machree, good right you have to cry
afther her; she was the kind mother to you; her heart was fixed in you;
there's her fatures on your face; her very eyes, an' fair hair, too, an'
I'll love you, achora, ten times more nor ever, for her sake. Another
favorite song of hers, God rest her, was 'Brian O'Lynn.' Troth an' I'll
sing it, so I will, for if she was livin' she'd like it.
'Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male,
A two-lugged porringer wanfcin' a tail.'
Oh, my head's through other! The sarra one o' me I bleeve, but's out o'
the words, or, as they say, there's a hole in the ballad. Send round
the punch will ye? By the hole o' my coat, Parra Gastha, I'll whale you
wid-in an inch of your life, if you don't Shrink. Send round the
punch, Dan; an' give us a song, Parra Gastha. Arrah, Paddy, do you
remimber--ha, ha, ha--upon my credit, I'll never forget it, the fun we
had catchin' Father Soolaghan's horse, the day he gave his shirt to the
sick man in the ditch. The Lord rest his sowl in glory--ha, ha, ha--I'll
never forget it. Paddy, the song, you thief?”
“No, but tell them about that, Misther Connell.”
“Throth, an' I will; but don't be Mitherin me. Faith, this is The height
o' good punch. You see--ha, ha, ha! You see, it was one hard summer
afore I was married to Ellish--mavourneen, that you wor, asthore! Och,
och, are we parted at last? Upon my sowl, my heart's breakin'--breakin',
(weeps) an' no wondher! But as I was sayin'--all your healths! faith,
it is tip-top punch that--the poor man fell sick of a faver, an' sure
enough, when it was known what ailed him, the neighbors built a little
shed on the roadside for him, in regard that every one was afeard to let
him into their place. Howsomever--ha, ha, ha--Father Soolaghan was one
day ridin' past upon his horse, an' seein' the crathur lyin' undher the
shed, on a whisp o' straw, he pulls bridle, an' puts the spake on the
poor sthranger. So, begad, it came out, that the neighbors were very
kind to him, an' used to hand over whatsomever they thought best for him
from the back o' the ditch, as well as they could.
“'My poor fellow,' said the priest, 'you're badly off for linen.'
“'Thrue for you, sir,' said the sick man, 'I never longed for anything
so much in my life, as I do for a clane shirt an' a glass o' whiskey.'
“'The devil a glass o' whiskey I have about me, but you shall have
the clane shirt, you poor compassionate crathur,' said the priest,
stretchin' his neck up an' down to make sure there was no one comin' on
the road--ha, ha, ha!
“Well an' good--'I have three shirts,' says his Reverence, 'but I have
only one o' them an me, an' that you shall have.'
“So the priest peels himself on the spot, an' lays his black coat and
waistcoat afore him acrass the saddle, thin takin' off his shirt, he
threw it acrass the ditch to the sick man. Whether it was the white
shirt, or the black coat danglin' about the horse's neck, the divil a
one o' myself can say, but any way, the baste tuck fright, an' made off
wid Father Soolaghan, in the state I'm tellin' yez, upon his back--ha,
ha, ha!
“Parra Gastha, here, an' I war goin' up at the time to do a little in
the distillin' way for Tom Duggan of Aidinasamlagh, an' seen what was
goin' an. So off we set, an we splittin' our sides laughin'--ha, ha,
ha--at the figure the priest cut. However, we could do no good, an'
he never could pull up the horse, till he came full flight to his own
house, opposite the pound there below, and the whole town in convulsions
when they seen him. We gother up his clothes, an' brought them home to
him, an' a good piece o' fun-we had wid him, for he loved the joke as
well as any man. Well, he was the good an' charitable man, the same
Father Soolaghan; but so simple that he got himself into fifty scrapes,
God rest him! Och, och, she's lyin' low that often laughed at that, an'
I'm here--ay, I have no one, no one that 'ud show me sich a warm heart
as she would. (Weeps.) However, God's will be done. I'll sing yez a song
she liked:--
'Och, Brian O'Lynn, he had milk an' male,
A two-lugged porringer wantin' a tail.'
Musha, I'm out agin--ha, ha, ha! Why, I b'lieve there's pishthrogues
an me, or I'd remember it. Bud-an-age, dhrink of all ye. Lie in to the
liquor, I say; don't spare it. Here, Mike, send us up another gallon,
Faith, we'll make a night of it.
'Och, three maidens a milkin' did go
An' three maidens a milkin' did go;
An' the winds they blew high
An' the winds they blew low,
An' they dashed their milkin' pails to an' fro.'
All your healths, childhre! Neighbors, all your healths! don't spare
what's before ye. It's long since I tuck a jorum myself an--come, I say,
plase God, we'll often meet ins' way, so we will. Faith, I'll take a sup
from this forrid, with a blessin'. Dhrink, I say, dhrink!”
By the time he had arrived at this patch, he was able to engross no
great portion either of the conversation or attention. Almost every one
present had his songs, his sorrows, his laughter, or his anecdotes, as
well as himself. Every voice was loud; and every tongue busy. Intricate
and entangled was the talk, which, on the present occasion, presented
a union of all the extremes which the lights and shadows of the Irish
character alone could exhibit under such a calamity as that which
brought the friends of the deceased together.
Peter literally fulfilled his promise of taking a jorum in future. He
was now his own master; and as he felt the loss of his wife deeply,
he unhappily had recourse to the bottle, to bury the recollection of a
woman, whose death left a chasm in his heart, which he thought nothing
but the whiskey could fill up.
His transition from a life of perfect sobriety to one of habitual, nay,
of daily intoxication, was immediate. He could not bear to be sober;
and his extraordinary bursts of affliction, even in his cups, were often
calculated to draw tears from the eyes of those who witnessed them. He
usually went out in the morning with a flask of whiskey in his pocket,
and sat down to weep behind a ditch--where, however, after having
emptied his flask, he might be heard at a great distance, singing the
songs which Ellish in her life-time was accustomed to love. In fact, he
was generally pitied; his simplicity of character, and his benevolence
of heart, which was now exercised without fear of responsibility, made
him more a favorite than he ever had been. His former habits of industry
were thrown aside; as he said himself, he hadn't heart to work; his
farms were neglected, and but for his son-in-law, would have gone to
ruin. Peter himself was sensible of this.
“Take them,” said he, “into your own hands, Denis; for me, I'm not able
to do anything more at them; she that kep me up is gone, an' I'm broken
down. Take them--take them into your own hands. Give me my bed, bit, an'
sup, an' that's all I Want.”
Six months produced an incredible change in his appearance.
Intemperance, whilst it shattered his strong frame, kept him in frequent
exuberance of spirits; but the secret grief preyed on him within.
Artificial excitement kills, but it never cures; and Peter, in the midst
of his mirth and jollity, was wasting away into a shadow. His children,
seeing him go down the hill of life so rapidly, consulted among each
other on the best means of winning him back to sobriety. This was a
difficult task, for his powers of bearing liquor were prodigious. He has
often been known to drink so many as twenty-five, and sometimes thirty
tumblers of punch, without being taken off his legs, or rendered
incapable of walking about. His friends, on considering who was most
likely to recall him to a more becoming life, resolved to apply to his
landlord--the gentleman whom we have already introduced to our readers.
He entered warmly into their plan, and it was settled, that Peter should
be sent for, and induced, if possible, to take an oath against liquor.
Early the following-day a liveried servant came down to inform him that
his master wished to speak with him. “To be sure,” said Peter; “divil
resave the man in all Europe I'd do more for than the same gintleman, if
it was only on account of the regard he had for her that's gone. Come,
I'll go wid you in a minute.”
He accordingly returned with the flask in his hand, saying, “I never
thravel widout a pocket-pistol, John. The times, you see, is not overly
safe, an' the best way is to be prepared!--ha, ha, ha! Och, och! It
houlds three half-pints.”
“I think,” observed the servant, “you had better not taste that till
after your return.”
“Come away, man,” said Peter; “we'll talk upon it as we go along: I
couldn't do readily widout it. You hard that I lost Ellish?”
“Yes,” replied the servant, “and I was very sorry to hear it.”
“Did you attind the berrin?”
“No, but my master did,” replied the man; “for, indeed, his respect for
your wife was very great, Mr. Connell.”
This was before ten o'clock in the forenoon, and about one in the
afternoon a stout countryman was seen approaching the gentleman's house,
with another man bent round his neck, where he hung precisely as a calf
hangs round the shoulders of a butcher, when he is carrying it to his
stall.
“Good Heavens!” said the owner of the mansion to his lady, “what has
happened to John Smith, my dear? Is he dead?”
“Dead!” said his lady, going in much alarm to the drawing-room window:
“I protest I fear so, Frank. He is evidently dead! For God's sake go
down and see what has befallen him.”
Her husband went hastily to the hall-door, where he met Peter with his
burden.
“In the name of Heaven, what has happened, Connell?--what is the matter
with John? Is he living or dead?”
“First, plase your honor, as I have him on my shouldhers, will you tell
me where his bed is?” replied Peter. “I may as well lave him snug, as my
hand's in, poor fellow. The devil's bad head he has, your honor. Faith,
it's a burnin' shame, so it is, an' nothin' else--to be able to bear so
little!”
The lady, children, and servants, were now all assembled about the dead
footman, who hung, in the mean time, very quietly round Peter's neck.
“Gracious Heaven! Connell, is the man dead?” she inquired.
“Faith, thin, he is, ma'am,--for a while, any how; but, upon my credit,
it's a burnin' shame, so it is,”--
“The man is drunk, my dear,” said her husband--“he's only drunk.”
“--a burnin' shame, so it is--to be able to bear no more nor about six
glasses, an' the whiskey good, too. Will you ordher one o' thim to show
me his bed, ma'am, if you plase,” continued Peter, “while he's an me?
It'll save throuble.”
“Connell is right,” observed his landlord. “Gallagher, show him John's
bed-room.”
Peter accordingly followed another servant, who pointed out his bed, and
assisted to place the vanquished footman in a somewhat easier position
than that in which Peter had carried him.
“Connell,” said his landlord, when he returned, “how did this happen?”
“Faith, thin, it's a burnin' shame,” said Connell, “to be able only to
bear”--
“But how did it happen? for he has been hitherto a perfectly sober man.”
“Faix, plase your honor, asy enough,” replied Peter; “he began to
lecthur me about! dhrinkin' so, says I, 'Come an' sit down behind the
hedge here, an' we'll talk it over between us;' so we went in, the two
of us, a-back o' the ditch--an' he began to advise me agin dhrink, an'
I began to tell him about her that's gone, sir. Well, well! och, och!
no matther!--So, sir, one story an' one pull from the bottle, brought
on another, for divil a glass we had at all, sir. Faix, he's a
tindher-hearted boy, anyhow; for as myself I begun to let the tears
down, whin the bottle was near out, divil resave the morsel of him but
cried afther poor Ellish, as if she had been his mother. Faix, he did!
An' it won't be the last sup we'll have together, plase goodness! But
the best of it was, sir, that the dhrunker he got, he abused me the more
for dhrinkin'. Oh, thin, but he's the pious boy whin he gets a sup
in his head! Faix, it's a pity ever he'd be sober, he talks so much
scripthur an' devotion in his liquor!”
“Connell,” said the landlord, “I am exceedingly sorry to hear that you
have taken so openly and inveterately to drink as you have done,
ever since the death of your admirable wife. This, in fact, was what
occasioned me to send for you. Come into the parlor. Don't go, my dear;
perhaps your influence may also be necessary. Gallagher, look to Smith,
and see that every attention is paid him, until he recovers the effects
of his intoxication.”
He then entered the parlor, where the following dialogue took place
between him and Peter:--
“Connell, I am really grieved to hear that you have become latterly so
incorrigible a drinker; I sent for you to-day, with the hope of being
able to induce you to give it up.”
“Faix, your honor, it's jist what I'd expect from your father's
son--kindness, an' dacency, an' devotion, wor always among yez. Divil
resave the family in all Europe I'd do so much for as the same family:”
The gentleman and lady looked at each other, and smiled. They knew that
Peter's blarney was no omen of their success in the laudable design they
contemplated.
“I thank you, Peter, for your good opinion; but in the meantime allow me
to ask, what can you propose to yourself by drinking so incessantly as
you do?”
“What do I propose to myself by dhrinkin', is it? Why thin to banish
grief, your honor. Surely you'll allow that no man has reason to
complain who's able to banish the thief for two shillins a-day. I reckon
the whiskey at first cost, so that it doesn't come to more nor that at
the very outside.”
“That is taking a commercial view of affliction, Connell; but you must
promise me to give up drinking.”
“Why thin upon my credit, your honor astonishes me. Is it to give up
banishin' grief? I have a regard for you, sir, for many a dalin we had
together; but for all that, faix, I'd be miserable for no man, barrin'
for her that's gone. If I'd be so to oblage any one, I'd do it for your
family; for divil the family in all Europe “--
“Easy, Connell--I am not to be palmed off in that manner; I really have
a respect for the character which you bore, and wish you to recover it
once more. Consider that you are disgracing yourself and your children
by drinking so excessively from day to day--indeed, I am told, almost
from hour to hour.”
“Augh! don't believe the half o' what you hear, sir. Faith, somebody
has been dhraw-in' your honor out! Why I'm never dhrunk, sir; faith, I'm
not.”
“You will destroy your health, Connell, as well as your character;
besides, you are not to be told that it is a sin, a crime against. God,
and an evil example to society.”
“Show me the man, plase your honor, that ever seen me incapable. That's
the proof o' the thing.”
“But why do you drink at all? It is not-necessary.”
“An' do you never taste a dhrop yourself, sir, plase your honor? I'll be
bound you do, sir, raise your little finger of an odd time, as well as
another. Eh, Ma'am? That's comin' close to his honor! An' faix, small
blame to him, an' a weeshy sup o' the wine to the misthress herself, to
correct the tindherness of her dilicate appetite.”
“Peter, this bantering must not pass: I think I have a claim upon your
respect and deference. I have uniformly been your friend and the friend
of your children and family, but more especially of your late excellent
and exemplary wife.”
“Before God an' man I acknowledge that, sir--I do--I do. But, sir;
to spake sarious--it's thruth, Ma'am, downright--to spake sarious, my
heart's broke, an' every day it's brakin' more an' more. She's gone,
sir, that used to manage me; an' now I can't turn myself to anything,
barrin' the dhrink--God help me!”
“I honor you, Connell, for the attachment which you bear towards the
memory of your wife, but I utterly condemn the manner in which you
display it. To become a drunkard is to disgrace her memory. You know it
was a character she detested.”
“I know it all, sir, an' that you have thruth an rason on your side;
but, sir, you never lost a wife that you loved; an' long may you be so,
I pray the heavenly Father this day! Maybe if you did, sir, plase your
honor, that, wid your heart sinkin' like a stone widin you, you'd thry
whether or not something couldn't rise it. Sir, only for the dhrink I'd
be dead.”
“There I totally differ from you, Connell. The drink only prolongs
your grief, by adding to it the depression of spirits which it always
produces. Had you not become a drinker, you would long before this have
been once more a cheerful, active, and industrious man. Your
sorrow would have worn away gradually, and nothing but an agreeable
melancholy--an affectionate remembrance of your excellent wife--would
have remained. Look at other men.”
“But where's the man, sir, had sich a wife to grieve for as she was?
Don't be hard on me, sir. I'm not a dhrunkard. It's thrue I dhrink
a great dale; but thin I can bear a great dale, so that I'm never
incapable.”
“Connell,” said the lady, “you will break down your constitution, and
bring yourself to an earlier death than you would otherwise meet.”
“I care very little, indeed, how soon I was dead, not makin' you, Ma'am,
an ill answer.”
“Oh fie, Connell, for you, a sensible man and a Christian, to talk in
such a manner!”
“Throth, thin, I don't, Ma'am. She's gone, an' I'd be glad to folly her
as soon as I could. Yes, asthore, you're departed from me! an' now
I'm gone asthray--out o' the right an' out o' the good! Oh, Ma'am,” he
proceeded, whilst the tears rolled fast down his cheeks, “if you knew
her--her last words, too--Oh, she was--she was--but where's the use o'
sayin' what she was?--I beg your pardon, Ma'am,--your honor, sir, 'ill
forgive my want o' manners, sure I know it's bad breedin', but I can't
help it.”
“Well, promise,” said his landlord, “to give up drink. Indeed, I wish
you would take an oath against it: you are a conscientious man, and
I know would keep it, otherwise I should not propose it, for I
discountenance such oaths generally. Will you promise me this, Connell?”
“I'll promise to think of it, your honor,--aginst takin' a sartin
quantity, at any rate.”
“If you refuse it, I'll think you are unmindful of the good feeling
which we have ever shown your family.”
“What?--do you think, sir, I'm ungrateful to you? That's a sore cut,
sir, to make a villain o' me. Where's the book?--I'll swear this minute.
Have you a Bible, Ma'am?--I'll show you that I'm not mane, any way.”
“No, Connell, you shall not do it rashly; you must be cool and composed:
but go home, and turn it in your mind,” she replied; “and remember, that
it is the request of me and my husband, for your own good.”
“Neither must you swear before me,” said his landlord, “but before Mr.
Mulcahy, who, as it is an oath connected with your moral conduct, is the
best person to be present. It must be voluntary, however. Now, good-bye,
Connell, and think of what we said; but take care never to carry home
any of my servants in the same plight in which you put John Smith
to-day.”
“Faix thin, sir, he had no business, wid your honor's livery upon his
back, to begin lecthurin' me again dhrinkin', as he did. We may all do
very well, sir, till the timptation crasses us--but that's what thries
us. It thried him, but he didn't stand it--faix he didn't!--ha, ha, ha!
Good-mornin', sir--God bless you, Ma'am! Divil resave the family in all
Europe”--
“Good-morning, Connell--good-morning! --Pray remember what we said.”
Peter, however, could not relinquish the whiskey. His sons, daughters,
friends, and neighbors, all assailed him, but with no success. He either
bantered them in his usual way, or reverted to his loss, and sank
into sorrow. This last was the condition in which they found him most
intractable; for a man is never considered to be in a state that admits
of reasoning or argument, when he is known to be pressed by strong
gushes of personal feeling. A plan at length struck Father Mulcahy,
which lie resolved to put into immediate execution.
“Peter,” said he, “if you don't abandon drink, I shall stop the masses
which I'm offering up for the repose of your wife's soul, and I will
also return you the money I received for saying them.”
This was, perhaps, the only point on which Peter was accessible. He
felt staggered at such an unexpected intimation, and was for some time
silent.
“You will then feel,” added the priest, “that your drunkenness is
prolonging the sufferings of your wife, and that she is as much
concerned in your being sober as you are yourself.”
“I will give in,” replied Peter; “I didn't see the thing in that light.
No--I will give it up; but if I swear against it, you must allow me a
rasonable share every day, an' I'll not go beyant it, of coorse. The
truth is, I'd die soon if I gev it up altogether.”
“We have certainly no objection against that,” said the priest,
“provided you keep within what would injure your health, or make you
tipsy. Your drunkenness is not only sinful but disreputable; besides,
you must not throw a slur upon the character of your children, who hold
respectable and rising situations in the world.”
“No,” said Peter, in a kind of soliloquy, “I'd lay down my life,
avoumeen, sooner nor I'd cause you a minute's sufferin'. Father Mulcahy,
go an wid the masses. I'll get an oath drawn up, an' whin it's done,
I'll swear to it. I know a man that'll do it for me.”
The priest then departed, quite satisfied with having accomplished his
object; and Peter, in the course of that evening, directed his steps to
the house of the village schoolmaster, for the purpose of getting him to
“draw up” the intended oath.
“Misther O'Flaherty,” said he, “I'm comin' to ax a requist of you an'
I hope you'll grant it to me. I brought down a sup in this flask, an'
while we're takin' it, we can talk over what I want.”
“If it be anything widin the circumference of my power, set it down,
Misther Connell, as already operated upon. I'd drop a pen to no man at
keepin' books by double enthry, which is the Italian method invinted by
Pope Gregory the Great. The Three sets bear a theological ratio to the
three states of a thrue Christian. 'The Waste-book,' says Pope Gregory,
'is this world, the Journal is purgatory, an' the Ledger is heaven. Or
it may be compared,' he says, in the priface of the work, 'to the three
states of the Catholic church--the church Militant, the church Suffering
and the church Triumphant.' The larnin' of that man was beyant the reach
of credibility.”
“Arra, have you a small glass, Masther? You see, Misther O'Flaherty,
it's consarnin' purgatory, this that I want to talk about.”
“Nancy, get us a glass--oh, here it is! Thin if it be, it's a wrong
enthry in the Journal.”
“Here's your health, Masther!--Not forgetting you, Mrs. O'Flaherty.
No, indeed, thin it's not in the Journal, but an oath I'm goin' to take
against liquor.”