head of--let me see!--it must go in the spirit account, undher the head
of Profit an' Loss, Your good health, Mr. Connell!--Nancy, I dhrink ta
your improvement in imperturbability! Yes, it must be enthered undher
the”----
“Faix, undher the rose, I think,” observed Pether; “don't you know the
smack, of it? You see since I took to it, I like the smell o' what I
used to squeeze out o' the barley myself, long ago. Mr. O'Flaherty, I
only want you to dhraw up an oath against liquor for me; but it's not
for the books, good or bad. I promised to Father Mulcahy, that I'd do
it. It's regardin' my poor Ellish's sowl in purgatory.”
“Nancy, hand me a slate an' cutter. Faith, the same's a provident
resolution; but how is it an' purgatory concatenated?”
“The priest, you see, won't go an wid the masses for her till I take the
oath.”
“That's but wake logic, if you ped him for thim.”
“Faix, an' I did--an' well, too;--but about the oath? Have you the
pencil?”
“I have; jist lave the thing to me.”
“Asy, Masther--you don't undherstand it yit. Put down two tumblers for
me at home.”
“How is that, Misther Connell?--It's mysterious, if you're about to
swear against liquor!”
“I am. Put down, as I said, two tumblers for me at home--Are they down?”
“They are down--but”--
“Asy!--very good!--Put down two more for me at Dan's. Let me see!--two
more; behind the garden. Well!--put down one at Father Mulcahy's;--two
more at, Frank M'Carrol's of Kilclay. How many's that?”
“Nine!!!”
“Very good. Now put down one wid ould' Bartle Gorman, of Cargah; an' two
over wid honest Roger M'Gaugy, of Nurchasey. How-many have you now?”
“Twelve in all!!!! But, Misther Connelly there's a demonstration badly
wanted here. I must confis I was always bright, but at present I'm as
dark as Nox. I'd thank you for a taste of explanation.”
“Asy, man alive! Is there twelve in all?”
“Twelve in all: I've calculated them.”
“Well, we'll hould to that. Och, och!--I'm sure, avourneen, afore
I'd let you suffer one minute's pain, I'd not scruple to take an oath
against liquor, any way. He may go an wid the masses now for you, as
soon as he likes! Mr. O'Flaherty, will you put that down on paper,--an'
I'll swear to it, wid a blessin', to-morrow.”
“But what object do you wish to effectuate by this?”
“You see, Masther, I dhrink one day wid another from a score to two
dozen tumblers, an' I want to swear to no more nor twelve in the
twenty-four hours.”
“Why, there's intelligibility in that!--Wid great pleasure, Mr.
Connell, I'll indite it. Katty, tare me a lafe out o' Brian Murphy's
copy there.”
“You see, Masther, it's for Ellish's sake I'm doin' this. State that in
the oath.”
“I know it; an' well she desarved that specimen of abstinence from you,
Misther Connell. Thank you!--Your health agin! an' God grant you grace
an' fortitude to go through wid the same oath!--An' so he will, or I'm
greviously mistaken in you.”
“OATH AGAINST LIQUOR,
made by me, Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath, on behalf
of Mr. Peter Connell, of the cross-roads, Merchant, on
one part--and of the soul of Mrs. Ellish Connell, now
in purgatory, Merchantess, on the other.
“I solemnly and meritoriously, and soberly swear, that
a single tumbler of whiskey punch shall not cross my
lips during the twenty-four hours of the day, barring
twelve, the locality of which is as followeth:
“Imprimis--Two tumblers at home, 2
Secundo--Two more ditto at my son Dan's, 2
Tertio--Two more ditto behind my own garden, 2
Quarto--One ditto at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's, 1
Quinto--Two more ditto at Frank M'Carroll s, of Kilclay, 2
Sexto--One ditto wid ould Bartle Gorman, of Cargah, 1
Septimo--Two more ditto wid honest Roger M'Gaugy, of Nurchasey, 2
====
12
N.B.--Except in case any Docthor of Physic might
think it right and medical to ordher me more for my
health; or in case I could get Father Mulcahy to take
the oath off of me for a start, at a wedding, or a
christening, or at any other meeting of friends where
there's drink.
his
Peter X Connell.
mark.
Witness present,
Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath.
_June the 4th, 18--_
I certify that I have made and calculated this oath for
Misther Pettier Connell, Merchant, and that it is
strictly and arithmetically proper and correct.
“Cornelius O'Flaherty, Philomath.
“_Dated this Mh day of June, 18--_.”
“I think, Misther O'Flaherty, it's a dacent oath as it stands. Plase
God, I'll swear to it some time to-morrow evenin'.”
“Dacent! Why I don't wish to become eulogistically addicted; but I'd
back tha same oath, for both grammar and arithmetic, aginst any that
ever was drawn up by a lawyer--ay, by the great Counsellor himself!--but
faith, I'd not face him at a Vow, for all that; he's the greatest man at
a Vow in the three kingdoms.”
“I'll tell you what I'm thinkin', Masther--as my hand's in, mightn't I
as well take another wid an ould friend of mine, Owen Smith, of Lisbuy?
He's a dacent ould residenther, an' likes it. It'll make the baker's or
the long dozen.”
“Why, it's not a bad thought; but won't thirteen get into your head?”
“No, nor three more to the back o' that. I only begin to get hearty
about seventeen, so that the long dozen, afther all, is best; for--God
he knows, I've a regard for Owen Smith this many a year, an' I wouldn't
wish to lave him out.”
“Very well,--I'll add it up to the other part of the oath.
'Octavo--One ditto out of respect for dacent Owen Smith, of
Lisbuy, 1
Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an' all will be right.”
“Masther, have you a prayer-book widin?--bekase if you have, I may as
well swear here, and you can witness it.”
“Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises--a book aquil to the Bible
itself for piety an' devotion.”
“Sure they say, Masther, any book that, the name o' God's in, is good
for an oath. Now, wid the help o' goodness, repate the words afore me,
an' I'll sware thim.”
O'Flaherty hemmed two or three times, and complied with Peter's wishes,
who followed him in the words until the oath was concluded. He then
kissed the book, and expressed himself much at ease, as well, he said,
upon the account of Ellish's soul, as for the sake of his children.
For some time after this, his oath was the standing jest of the
neighborhood: even to this day, Peter Connell's oath against liquor is a
proverb in that part of the country. Immediately after he had sworn,
no one could ever perceive that he violated it in the slightest degree;
indeed there could be no doubt as to literally fulfilling it. A day
never passed in which he did not punctually pay a visit to those whose
names wore dotted down, with whom he sat, pulled out his flask, and
drank his quantum. In the meantime the poor man was breaking down
rapidly; so much so, that his appearance generally excited pity, if not
sorrow, among his neighbors. His character became simpler every day, and
his intellect evidently more exhausted. The inoffensive humor, for which
he had been noted, was also completely on the wane; his eye waxed dim,
his step feeble, but the benevolence of his heart never failed him. Many
acts of his private generosity are well known, and still remembered with
gratitude.
In proportion as the strength of his mind and constitution diminished,
so did his capacity for bearing liquor. When he first bound himself
by the oath not to exceed the long dozen, such was his vigor, that the
effects of thirteen tumblers could scarcely be perceived on him. This
state of health, however, did not last. As he wore away, the influence
of so much liquor was becoming stronger, until at length he found that
it was more than he could bear, that he frequently confounded the
names of the men, and the number of tumblers mentioned in the oath, and
sometimes took in, in his route, persons and places not to be found in
it at all. This grieved him, and he resolved to wait upon O'Flaherty
for the purpose of having some means devised of guiding him during his
potations.
“Masther,” said he, “we must thry an' make this oath somethin' plainer.
You see when I get confused, I'm not able to remimber things as I ought.
Sometimes, instid o' one tumbler, I take two at the wrong place; an'
sarra bit o' me but called in an' had three wid ould Jack Rogers, that
isn't in it at all. On another day I had a couple wid honest Barney
Casey, an my way acrass to Bartle Gorman's. I'm not what I was, Masther,
ahagm; so I'd thank you to dhraw it out more clearer, if you can, nor it
was.”
“I see, Mr. Connell; I comprehend wid the greatest ase in life, the
very plan for it. We must reduce the oath to Geography, for I'm at home
there, bein' a Surveyor myself. I'll lay down a map o' the parish, an'
draw the houses of your friends at their proper places, so that you'll
never be out o' your latitude at all.”
“Faix, I doubt that, Masther--ha, ha, ha!” replied Peter; “I'm afeard I
will, of an odd time, for I'm not able to carry what I used to do; but
no matther: thry what you can do for me this time, any how. I think I
could bear the long dozen still if I didn't make mistakes.”
O'Flaherty accordingly set himself to work; and as his knowledge, not
only of the parish, but of every person and house in it, was accurate,
he soon had a tolerably correct skeleton map of it drawn for Peter's
use.
“Now,” said he, “lend me your ears.”
“Faix, I'll do no sich thing,” replied Peter--“I know a thrick worth two
of it. Lend you my ears, inagh!--catch me at it! You have a bigger pair
of your own nor I have--ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, in other words, pay attintion. Now, see this dot--that's your own
house.”
“Put a crass there,” said Peter, “an' thin I'll know it's the
Crass-roads.”
“Upon my reputation, you're right; an' that's what I call a good
specimen of ingenuity. I'll take the hint from that, an' we'll make it
a Hieroglyphical as well as a Geographical oath. Well, there's a crass,
wid two tumblers. Is that clear?”
“It is, it is! faix”
“Now here we draw a line to your son Dan's. Let me see; he keeps a mill,
an' sells cloth. Very good. I'll dhraw a mill-wheel an' a yard-wand.
There's two tumblers. Will you know that?”
“I see it: go an, nothin' can be clearer. So far, I can't go asthray.”
“Well, what next? Two behind your own garden. What metaphor for the
garden? Let me see!--let me cogitate! A dragon--the Hesperides! That's
beyant you. A bit of a hedge will do, an' a gate.”
“Don't put a gate in, it's not lucky. You know, when a man takes to
dhrink, they say he's goin' a gray gate, or a black gate, or a bad
gate. Put that out, an' make the hedge longer, an' it'll do--wid the two
tumblers, though.”
“They're down. One at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's. How will we
thranslate the priest?”
“Faix, I doubt that will be a difficquilt business.”
“Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, especially whin he repates
Latin. However, we'll see. He writes P.P. afther his name;--pee-pee is
what we call the turkeys wid. What 'ud you think o' two turkeys?”
“The priest would like them roasted, but I couldn't undherstand that.
No; put down the sign o' the horsewhip, or the cudgel; for he's handy,
an' argues well wid both?”
“Good! I'll put down the horsewhip first, an' the cudgel alongside of
it; then the tumbler, an' there'll be the sign o' the priest.”
“Ay, do, Masther, an' faix the priest 'll be complate--there can be no
mistakin' him thin. Divil a one but that's a good thought!”
“There it is in black an' white. Who comes next? Frank M'Carroll. He's
a farmer. I'll put down a spade an' a harrow. Well, that's done--two
tumblers.”
“I won't mistake that, aither. It's clear enough.”
“Bartle Gorman's of Cargah. Bartle's a little lame, an' uses a staff wid
a cross on the end that he houlds in his hand. I'll put down a staff wid
a cross on it.”
“Would there be no danger of me mistakin' that for the priest's cudgel?”
“Divil the slightest. I'll pledge my knowledge of geography, they're two
very different weapons.”
“Well, put it down--I'll know it.”
“Roger M'Gaugy of Nurchasy. What for him? Roger's a pig-driver. I'll put
down pig. You'll comprehend that?”
“I ought; for many a pig I sould in my day. Put down the pig; an' if you
could put two black spots upon his back, I'd know it to be one I sould
him about four years agone--the fattest ever was in the country--it had
to be brought home on a car, for it wasn't able to walk wid fat.”
“Very good; the spots are on it. The last is Owen Smith of Lisbuy. Now,
do you see that I've drawn a line from place to place, so that you have
nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. What for Owen?”
“Owen! Let me see--Owen! Pooh! What's come over me, that I've nothin'
for Owen? Ah! I have it. He's a horse-jockey: put down a gray mare I
sould him about five years agone.”
“I'll put down a horse; but I can't make a gray mare wid black ink.”
“Well, make a mare of her, any way.”
“Faith, an' that same puzzles me. Stop, I have it; I'll put a foal along
wid her.”
“As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther O'Flaherty. I think this
'll keep me from mistakes. An' now, if you'll slip up to me afther dusk,
I'll send you down a couple o' bottles and a flitch. Sure you desarve
more for the throuble you tuck.”
Many of our readers, particularly of our English readers, will be
somewhat startled to hear that, except the change of names and places,
there is actually little exaggeration in the form of this oath; so just
is the observation, that the romance of truth frequently exceeds that of
fiction.
Peter had, however, over-rated his own strength in supposing that he
could bear the long dozen in future; ere many months passed he was
scarcely able to reach the half of that number without sinking into
intoxication. Whilst in this state, he was in the habit of going to the
graveyard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, and wept like a
child, sang her favorite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers for
the repose of her soul. None ever mocked him for this; on the contrary,
there was always some kind person to assist him home. And as he
staggered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear such
expressions as these:--
“Poor Pether! he's nearly off; an' a dacent, kind neighbor he ever was.
The death of the wife broke his heart--he never ris his head since.”
“Ay, poor man! God pity him! Hell soon be sleepin' beside her, beyant
there, where she's lyin'. It was never known of Peter Connell that he
offinded man, woman, or child since he was born, barrin' the gaugers,
bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid--but that was no offince. Sowl, he
was their match, any how. When he an' the wife's gone, they won't lave
their likes behind them. The sons are bodaghs--gintlemen, now; an'
it's nothin' but dinners an' company. Ahagur, that wasn't the way their
hardworkin' father an' mother made the money that they're houldin' their
heads up wid such consequence upon.”
The children, however, did not give Peter up as hopeless. Father
Mulcahy, too, once-more assailed him on his weak side. One morning, when
he was sober, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and finding
him at home, addressed him as follows:--
“Peter, I'm sorry, and vexed, and angry this morning; and you are the
cause of it”
“How is that, your Reverence?” said Peter. “God help me,” he added,
“don't be hard an me, sir, for I'm to be pitied. Don't be hard on me,
for the short time I'll be here. I know it won't be long--I'll be wid
her soon. Asthore machree, we'll' be together, I hope, afore long--an',
oh! if it was the will o' God, I would be glad if it was afore night!”
The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature wept bitterly, for he felt
somewhat sensible of the justice of the reproof which he expected from
the priest, as well as undiminished sorrow for his wife.
“I'm not going to be hard on you,” said the good-natured priest; “I only
called to tell you a dream that your son Dan had last night about you
and his mother.”
“About Ellish! Oh, for heaven's sake what about her, Father, avourneen?”
“She appeared to him, last night,” replied Father Mulcahy, “and told him
that your drinking kept her out of happiness.”
“Queen of heaven!” exclaimed Peter, deeply affected, “is that true? Oh,”
said he, dropping on his knees, “Father, ahagur machree, pardon me--oh,
forgive me! I now promise, solemnly and seriously, to drink neither
in the house nor out of it, for the time to come, not one drop at all,
good, bad, or indifferent, of either whiskey, wine, or punch--barrin'
one glass. Are you now satisfied? an' do you think she'll get to
happiness?”
“All will be well, I trust,” said the priest. “I shall mention this to
Dan and the rest, and depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear
it.”
“Here's what Mr. O'Flaherty an' myself made up,” said Peter: “burn it,
Father; take it out of my sight, for it's now no use to me.”
“What is this at all?” said Mr. Mulcahy, looking into it. “Is it an
oath?”
“It's the Joggraphy of one I swore some time ago; but it's now out of
date--I'm done wid it.”
The priest could not avoid smiling when he perused it, and on getting
from Peter's lips an explanation of the hieroglyphics, he laughed
heartily at the ingenious shifts they had made to guide his memory.
Peter, for some time after this, confined himself to one glass, as
he had promised; but he felt such depression and feebleness, that he
ventured slowly, and by degrees, to enlarge the “glass” from which he
drank. His impression touching the happiness of his wife was, that as he
had for several months strictly observed his promise, she had probably
during that period gone to heaven. He then began to exercise his
ingenuity gradually, as we have said, by using, from time to time, a
glass larger than the preceding one; thus receding from the spirit of
his vow to the letter, and increasing the quantity of his drink from a
small glass to the most capacious tumbler he could find. The manner in
which he drank this was highly illustrative of the customs which prevail
on this subject in Ireland. He remembered, that in making the vow, he
used the words, “neither in the house nor out of it;” but in order
to get over this dilemma, he usually stood with one foot outside the
threshold, and the other in the house, keeping himself in that position
which would render it difficult to determine whether he was either
out or in. At other times, when he happened to be upstairs, he usually
thrust one-half of his person out of the window, with the same ludicrous
intention of keeping the letter of his vow.
Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned to the lookers-on: but
further ridicule was checked by his wobegone and afflicted look. He was
now a mere skeleton, feeble and tottering.
One night, in the depth of winter, he went into the town where his two
sons resided; he had been ill in mind and body during the day, and he
fancied that change of scene and society might benefit him. His daughter
and son-in-law, in consequence of his illness, watched him so closely,
that he could not succeed in getting his usual “glass.” This offended
him, and he escaped without their knowledge to the son who kept the inn.
On arriving there, he went upstairs, and by a douceur to the waiter,
got a large tumbler filled with spirits. The lingering influences of
a conscience that generally felt strongly on the side of a moral duty,
though poorly instructed, prompted him to drink it in the usual manner,
by keeping one-half of his body, as, nearly as he could guess, out of
the window, that it might be said he drank it neither in nor out of the
house. He had scarcely finished his draught, however, when he lost his
balance, and was precipitated upon the pavement. The crash of his fall
was heard in the bar, and his son, who had just come in, ran, along with
several others, to ascertain what had happened. They found him, however,
only severely stunned. He was immediately brought in, and medical aid
sent for; but, though he recovered from the immediate effects of the
fall, the shock it gave to his broken constitution, and his excessive
grief, carried him off in a few months afterwards. He expired in the
arms of his son and daughter, and amidst the tears of those who knew his
simplicity of character, his goodness of heart, and his attachment to
the wife by whose death that heart had been broken.
Such was the melancholy end of the honest and warm-hearted Peter
Connell, who, unhappily, was not a solitary instance of a man driven to
habits of intoxication and neglect of business by the force of sorrow,
which time and a well-regulated mind might otherwise have overcome. We
have held him up, on the one hand, as an example worthy of imitation
in that industry and steadiness which, under the direction of his wife,
raised him from poverty to independence and wealth; and, on the other,
as a man resorting to the use of spirituous liquors that he might
be enabled to support affliction--a course which, so far from having
sustained him under it, shattered his constitution, shortened his life,
and destroyed his happiness. In conclusion, we wish our countrymen of
Peter's class would imitate him in his better qualities, and try to
avoid his failings.
THE LIANHAN SHEE.
One summer evening Mary Sullivan was sitting at her own well-swept
hearthstone, knitting feet to a pair of sheep's gray stockings for
Bartley, her husband. It was one of those serene evenings in the
month of June, when the decline of day assumes a calmness and repose,
resembling what we might suppose to have irradiated Eden, when our first
parents sat in it before their fall. The beams of the sun shone through
the windows in clear shafts of amber light, exhibiting millions of those
atoms which float to the naked eye within its mild radiance. The dog lay
barking in his dreams at her feet, and the gray cat sat purring placidly
upon his back, from which even his occasional agitation did not dislodge
her.
Mrs. Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy farmer, and niece to the Rev.
Felix O'Rourke; her kitchen was consequently large, comfortable, and
warm. Over where she sat, jutted out the “brace” well lined with bacon;
to the right hung a well-scoured salt-box, and to the left was the jamb,
with its little gothic paneless window to admit the light. Within it
hung several ash rungs, seasoning for flail-sooples, or boulteens, a
dozen of eel-skins, and several stripes of horse-skin, as hangings for
them. The dresser was a “parfit white,” and well furnished with the
usual appurtenances. Over the door and on the “threshel,” were nailed,
“for luck,” two horse-shoes, that had been found by accident. In a
little “hole” in the wall, beneath the salt-box, lay a bottle of holy
water to keep the place purified; and against the cope-stone of the
gable, on the outside, grew a large lump of house-leek, as a specific
for sore eyes and other maladies.