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 * ONITED STATES OP AMERICA. % 
 
GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
HALF HOURS 
 
 WITH 
 
 Irish Authors 
 
 SELECTIONS 
 
 FROT.I 
 
 GRIFFIN, LOVER, CARLETON, AND LEVER. 
 
 
 New York: 
 J. A. McGEE, 7 BARCLAY STREET. 
 
 1873- 
 
.ri3 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, m tbs year 1873, by 
 
 J. A. McGEE. 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress^ at Washington, D. C 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 I 
 
 N the following extracts from the works of the 
 ablest and best known Irish novelists of the 
 present century, we have endeavored, while 
 giving variety to the selections, to afford the 
 reader an insight into the many-sided character 
 of the people in the several sections of Ireland. 
 Each of the writers put under contribution thor- 
 oughly understood the peculiarities, idiosyn- 
 crasies, modes of thought, and forms of expression 
 of his countrymen, but mainly so far as he had 
 studied them in his own particular district or 
 province. Hence the Munster peasant of Griffin, 
 and the northern cottier of Carleton, are as differ- 
 ent from each other, and from the Leinster wag 
 sketched by Lover, and the rollicking Connaught 
 soldier of Charles Lever, as if they did not 
 belong to the same age and nation ; yet all are 
 drawn true to nature, and, locall}^ with the great- 
 est fidelity. 
 
 The numerous works of these authors have 
 
4 Preface, 
 
 long since been republished, and are still exten- 
 sively read in this countr_v, and we trust that our 
 present volume, while affording Half-Hours' 
 amusement to the public, will further stimulate 
 the popular desire for a more intimate acquaint- 
 ance with their larger and highl}^ elaborate pro- 
 ductions. 
 
 New Yoric, October, \%^^. 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Mistake 9 
 
 The Raven's Nest 37 
 
 Sir Dowling O'Hartigan 61 
 
 The Story Teller at Fault, 80 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 Barney O'Reirdon, 115 
 
 The Priest's Story, 174 
 
 Paddy the Piper, , . , ... . . , 186 
 
 The White Trout 200 
 
 WILLIAM CARLETON. 
 
 The Donagh 215 
 
 Larry McFarland's Wake, 262 
 
 CHARLES LEVER. 
 
 The Doctor's Tale, 281 
 
 The Adjutant's Courtship, 297 
 
 The Ghost, 213 
 
 Serving a Writ, 325 
 
Gerald Griffin. 
 
THE MISTAKE. 
 
 " Tell why the sepulchre, 
 Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned 
 Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws 
 To cast thee up again? What may this mean?" 
 
 Hamlet, act i. scene iv. 
 
 THERE was no happier man in the wide world 
 than Phehni O'Rourke, from the longest 
 day he could remember until that on which he 
 was married, and, alas ! that we should have to 
 record it, no one so miserable ever after. His 
 fate was the more pitiable, that he was unusually 
 cautious in entering on a state which was to fix 
 the good or evil fortune of his future life. He 
 did not embrace it as a mere boy ; he was verging 
 fast beyond manhood at the time, he had known 
 the object' of his choice from childhood, and he 
 devoted a fortnight of deep contemplation to the 
 affair before Shrovetide. But after the inextri- 
 cable knot was tied, the grounds upon which his 
 unfortunate attachment rested proved beyo-nd all 
 conception unsubstantial. The gay good-humor 
 of little Anty O'Donnel, the tender look, the glad 
 welcome, and, above all, the winning obsequious- 
 ness of manner which first caught his heart, 
 
lO Half Iloins uith Irish Aui/iors. 
 
 one by one faded like fairy gifts away \.i. the 
 person of Mrs. O'Rourke, until at the end of five 
 or six months he began almost to call in question 
 the fact of their having ever had any existence. 
 He sometimes thought to himself that he must 
 have been juggled by witchcraft, or his imagina- 
 tion deluded by some love potion, perhaps private- 
 ly administered by Anty. When he went from 
 home in the morning, instead of the fond farewell 
 look which, in his young fanc}^ he imagined 
 would daily follow him to his early labor, he had 
 to endure the frowning glances of his helpmate, 
 and her oft-repeated charges about his tarrying 
 out after work-time ; for the joyous welcome home, 
 he met a reception that would have augured a 
 change for the worse in the wife of Rip Van 
 Winkle ; and for the fond anxiety to please in 
 their frequent communings, a total disregard to 
 every wish of his heart, and a determined resolu- 
 tion to have everything her own way. 
 
 Phelim was, happily for himself, of a very 
 elastic temperament. If he was easily depressed 
 by his evil fortune, he was also easily elated when 
 his better star seemed to be in the ascendant ; and 
 perhaps if the settled cloudiness of Anty's coun- 
 tenance had been ever so rarely visited with a 
 gleam of sunshine, he might have have considered, 
 his fate, though a ver}^ checkered one, as not quite 
 insupportable. But the season of her ill-humor 
 set in after wedlock like a polar night to the 
 northern mariner — long and hopeless, and with no 
 
The Mistake, ii 
 
 promise of a future day. '' I have heard tell," he 
 used to mutter to himself, in his moments of bitter- 
 ness, •' of a woman's leading a man the life a dog, 
 but sure a dog has a fine life of it compared to 
 mine. He's up with the sun, delighting himself 
 with his sports in the grassy fields, and there's no 
 living eye takes envy at his amusement ; he gets 
 his mess in peace in tlie chimney corner, twice in 
 the day, without toil or trouble, and he sleeps like 
 a kitten by the fireside all night, without dramin' 
 or startin' as I do, thinkin' of the day's doens ; if 
 he gets an odd kick or a batin, he knows 'tisn't 
 out of anv ill-will, and it doesn't dwell on his 
 mind a minute after the pain is gone ; and if he 
 hears a tongue equal to Anty's, 'tisn't expected 
 he'll understand it. Oh ! mo leare ! the life of a 
 dog is a fine life." 
 
 Time, which, it is said, wears down the edge of 
 the sharpest evil, did very little in his weary 
 course for Phelim O'Rourke when the cholera 
 suddenly reached his neighborhood, and commit- 
 ted awful havoc in every direction. There was 
 the greatest consternation throughout the district, 
 and the visitation was met by every one in fear 
 and trembling, except by those for whom misery 
 had already stripped death of his terrors. Phelim 
 could not be altogether placed among the latter 
 class, nor said to be wholly devoid of apprehension, 
 yet anticipating some respite to his torments, from 
 the very natural hope that Anty's temper v/ould 
 be moUified by the universal panic, he was much 
 
12 Half Hours zviih Irish Aiiihors. 
 
 less depressed than the multitude. Even a furtive 
 smile might be sometimes detected playing about 
 his mouth, on the announcement of some new and 
 appalling stroke of the destroyer, when he observ^- 
 ed the smooth and pallid fear overspreading the 
 brow of his partner, and a silence, sudden as the 
 pals}^, arresting her conversation. It at length 
 unfortunately attracted Anty's notice, and, as may 
 be conjectured, convinced from that moment that 
 he was felicitating on the prospect of her seizure 
 with the disease, her rage knew no bounds. Every 
 thrill or start of terror she experienced as the 
 danger increased about her furnished new ground 
 for suspicion ; his very looks were watched and 
 examined with a metaphj^sical acuteness, and the 
 faintest expression traced home to its iniquitous 
 source, until all his anticipations of even tempo- 
 rary repose were buried in the darkest disappoint- 
 ment, the spring by which he thought to lie down 
 for awhile and drink the sweet waters of content- 
 ment pouring out for him only new draughts of 
 bitterness. 
 
 When we mention that five years had already 
 rolled over the heads of this ill-starred pair, and 
 the}^ were still living in one house, and partaking 
 of the same meals in so decorous a manner as to 
 keep their domestic agreements in some degree 
 hidden from the public, it will be admitted that 
 Phelim was a man of the most enduring patience. 
 With whatever amount, however, of Christian 
 resignation he suffered this sort of life, he could 
 
TJie Mistake. 13 
 
 not always avoid indications of peevishness and 
 vexation at his lot. He was often heard to say, 
 *' I wish to heaven 1 was taken ofi' at once be the 
 sickness, and 'twould be an ease to me." Sometimes, 
 indeed, it must be confessed, another alternative 
 floated dimly in the perspective, when his wicked 
 angel whispered the question in his ear : '* Wouldn't 
 it answer as well, Phelim, if it took off little Anty ?" 
 His better feelings, nevertheless, always discoun- 
 tenanced those evil suggestions, as well as the 
 contingent result of such an occurrence, which 
 his busy imagination w^as ever ready to disport in 
 when permitted to go at large. 
 
 It happened one morning, as they were sitting 
 to breakfast, that they heard a cry next door, and, 
 in a few minutes after, a person ran in and informed 
 them that the woman who lived there and her 
 three children had been carried off by the cholera 
 in the night, leaving the disconsolate husband 
 alone in the world. Mrs. O'Rourke's eye, after 
 she had recovered from the shock which the first 
 announcement of the news had occasioned, fixed 
 itself instinctively on Phelim, and again she saw, 
 or fancied she saw, instead of the natural expression 
 of countenance at such awful accounts, a shrouded 
 dehght beaming in his looks, which was very 
 badly concealed in his awkward semblance of 
 sympathy for the sufferers. Her ire was instantly 
 kindled, and after a pause of a few minutes, dur- 
 ing which she was endeavoring to subdue the 
 up-bursting violence into, what she hoped might 
 
14 i'ittif Hours ivith Irish AutJiors. 
 
 even for its newness prove more cutting-, a bitter 
 iron\% siie observed : 
 
 '' Pleasant news this fine mornin', Misther 
 O'Rourke ; the loss of so many poor innocent 
 crajthurs at a sweep is enough to delight the 
 heart of an}^ one !" 
 
 " What do 3'ou mane be that, Anty ?" returned 
 PhcHm. '' 'Twould be a strange bizness if I wasn't 
 sorry for poor Davy in his trouble !" 
 
 '' Trouble enough!" retorted x'Vnty. ** I b'lieve 
 you'd give a thrifle to be in his case for all ; 'twould 
 be the glory of your heart, you murthering croco- 
 dile, if the sickness come into us to-day, and that 
 you saw me dacently laid under the sod in the 
 even. I know your thoughts, you villain, for all 
 your long faces ; I know how you laugh in your 
 heart within when you hear of a poor woman 
 dying, hopin' it may come to my turn at last ; but 
 I'll disappoint you ; wid the blessin' of Heaven, I 
 tell you, I'll disappoint you !" 
 
 Phelim in vain protested against these accusa- 
 tions, and much more to the same purport passed 
 between them, until the dispute reached a pitch 
 that he found by experience it was not safe it 
 should long maintain. He accordingl}^ struck his 
 colors, and was hanging his head, after his usual 
 fashion, in profound silence, v/aiting for the storm 
 to subside, when the suddenness of that occurrence 
 caught his attention, and, looking up into his 
 wife's face, he thought he observed it singularly 
 pale and grave. She was evidently struggling 
 
The Ali stake. r5 
 
 with some sudden terror, and on recovering her 
 speech, Vv'hich she did at once, from the moment 
 she saw Phelim fix his looks upon her, she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " You have your wish, you murtherer, if 'tis of 
 any good to you, but 'tis your bad angel done it. 
 If 3^ou hadn't sold yourself, the wicked longing 
 couldn't thrive with you." 
 
 *' What's the matter now?" answered Phelim. 
 
 " I'm off," cried Anty, " that's all; run for the 
 priest ; run, I tell you, and take your eyes off of 
 me." 
 
 '' Erah, what's the matter, darlin'?" asked the 
 husband again, with as strong an expression of 
 anxiety as he could summon up. 
 
 '' Don't darlin' me, you villin," returned Anty. 
 ''I'm off and you know it — 'tis all your doens — 'tis 
 out of the passion you put me into I got it — my 
 death will be at vour door." 
 
 "• Got what, avourneen ?" 
 
 '■'■ Lave off your palaveren again, and get me the 
 priest. Oh! the Lord help me. I'm off, I believe 
 — the cramp — the cramp. I'm done for in earnest 
 ■ — rub me — rub me — v/ill any one get me the 
 priest?" 
 
 Phelim now clearly saw that she Avas getting 
 the cholera, for while she was speaking her voice 
 began to grow hoarse and whispering, her face 
 became bluish, and shrunk to half its usual size, 
 her e3^es were sinking in her head, like those 
 of a wasted corpse, and a cold sweat was oozing 
 
1 6 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AntJiors. 
 
 out from every pore. "■ Rub me, you vagabond, if 
 there's any compassion left for your poor mur- 
 thered wife. Oh ! my leg — my leg — rub me — 
 won't any one rub me — there — there — higher up 
 • — oh ! my foot — the other foot — won't I get the 
 priest at all, Dheelen ?" 
 
 A woman happening to come in at the m.oment, 
 attracted by her cries, the astounded husband left 
 his wife in her care, and darted off for the priest. 
 We shall not venture to analyze his reflections by 
 the way, nor offer a conjecture as to their nature. 
 It is sufficient to sa}^ that by the time he reached 
 Father McMahon's residence his countenance had 
 attained a very decorous length, and he was not 
 wanting in a due degree of impatience to hurry 
 back with the worthy man. They left the door 
 together, and though the priest was mounted 
 very tolerably, and pushed on, as in all cases of 
 urgency, at rather a rapid rate, he was far out- 
 stript by the anxious Phelim, who stood again by 
 poor Anty's side before it could have been thought 
 possible for him to traverse such a distance. 
 
 The neighbors were at the time holding a con- 
 sultation in an antechamber, to determine what 
 was the best course to be pursued with her. 
 
 " Take her to the hospital at once," says one, 
 who thouo:ht the further and the sooner she was 
 removed from his own domicile the better. 
 
 ** 'Tis the best way," says a second, ** for she's a 
 gone woman if there isn't something done for her 
 in a hurry." 
 
The Mistake. ij 
 
 " Gone or not gone," exclaimed a third, who 
 proved to be a sister of Anty's, " she'll never set 
 foot in the hospital. I'll not have her pisened be 
 the docthors, any way." 
 
 " Indeed, 'tis seldom they're throublesome afther 
 comen out of their hands," observed a pedlar, who 
 stood listening in the crowd ; ** they're the quieter 
 for visiting 'em ever afther, to my knowledge." 
 
 " Thrue for him, faix," cried another; " many's 
 the fine young boy or girl I see go into 'em stout 
 and ruddy, and come out in the mornen with their 
 feet foremost." 
 
 " Eyeh, don't be runnen 'em down that way," 
 observed a little tailor, who had obtained some re- 
 putation as a wit, " they're not so bad after all ; 
 go into 'em ever so bare or naked, and they never 
 fails to send you out with a new wooden jacket 
 and steel buttons !" 
 
 " Ulaloo ! the vagabonds," exclaimed the sister, 
 " they destroy 'em with their physics ; sure I seen 
 'em with my own two eyes in the hospital, chang- 
 ing color as soon as they drank 'em off." 
 
 '' No wondher," rejoined the pedlar, " when 
 they're paid for it." 
 
 *' Paid by whom ?" exclaimed half a dozen voices 
 simultaneously. 
 
 ** By the Government," returned the pedlar ; 
 ** who else ? There are too many of us in the 
 country entirely, and we're for ever fighten, and 
 night-walken, and given the world in all of 
 th rouble. They thried emigration, and transpor- 
 
1 8 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 tation, and turnen us out to starve on the high- 
 roads by what they call the Subletting Act, and 
 they thried the treadmill, and even hanging itself, 
 and 'twas to no purpose. So they med up their 
 minds at last to rid the country of us be pisening 
 us like varmin, and when the cholera come, they 
 tuck advantage of the docthors to do it, be way of 
 curen unknownst to us." 
 
 "■ See that why !" ejaculated several. 
 
 " 'Tis a good hundred pounds to 'em, at any 
 rate, every poor soul they put out of pain," con« 
 tinned the pedlar. 
 
 A low ^'Dheelen!" (God help us!) was heard 
 from the crowd. 
 
 The priest had now arrived, and, seeing Mrs. 
 O'Rourke in such a deplorable way that there 
 w^as not a moment to be lost, recommended 
 strongly that she should be at once removed to 
 the hospital. He met, however, perhaps in conse- 
 quence of the pedlar's communication, with more 
 opposition than he expected, especially from 
 Anty's sister, a Mrs. Judy O'Lear}^ of whom we 
 have before made mention. He at length thought 
 it better to refer the dispute to Phelim as the fit- 
 test person to give a final decision on the subject. 
 
 'Til take the advice of Father Mac," cried 
 Phelim, in a melancholy tone, '' he's the best judge, 
 and, moreover, I have a great opinion of the doc- 
 thors." Phelim had been attentively listening to 
 the pedlar's account of them. 
 
 *'I tell you, Phelim," roared Judy, ''if you take 
 
The Mistake. 19 
 
 her there, she'll never come out of it a living 
 vv^oman !" 
 
 *' The will of God be done !" replied Phelim. 
 ** How can we help it?" 
 
 ^' Be not putting- her in there, you neygur," ex- 
 claimed the indignant sister. "■ Is it to get rid of 
 her you want?" 
 
 The priest, perceiving that the difference of 
 opinion between the parties was likely to increase, 
 interposed before it reached a climax, and demand 
 ed of Judy what she meant by insinuating such 
 imputations against the hospital, where respect- 
 able medical gentlemen were risking their lives 
 night and day, amidst the most shocking scenes, 
 in the hope of rescuing even a few lives from the 
 pestilence. 
 
 '' Eyeh ! the notorious thieves of the earth,'* re- 
 turned Judy; " 'tisn't for nothing they're doen it, 
 and as for recoveren people, ar'n't the hospitals 
 open now as good as a fortnight, and for the hun- 
 dred that come out in coffins, there isn't one yet 
 come out in his clothes !" 
 
 Phelim heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 '*' My good woman," observed the priest, " this 
 is all a foolish prejudice. The disease is a dread- 
 ful one, and people must die of it wherever they 
 are ; but, independent of any other consideration, 
 I think the safety of the neighborhood should be 
 considered ; there will be danger of the sickness 
 extending itself if the poor creature is left here." 
 
 "- I'll take care of her m3^self," answered Judy, 
 
20 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 " if she's left, and no one else need come near 
 her." 
 
 "No, no, Judy a lanive," exclaimed Phelim, a 
 little alarmed, ** I'll not have you or the neighbor- 
 hood in danger by any means. No, no, avourneen, 
 I'd sooner suffer any loss" — and he wiped his eye 
 with the skirt of his coat — *' I'd sooner suffer any 
 loss than have the sickness spreading about like 
 wildfire, as it will if poor Anty's left here." 
 
 " Thrue for 3'ou, Phelim," responded the 
 alarmed crowd, "'twill be through every house 
 on the road before mornen if she's not taken to 
 the hospital." 
 
 " They'll be but few of us left to tell it, I'm 
 afeerd," said Phelim. " May Heaven protect us !" 
 
 As the sense of the meeting ran entirely with 
 Phelim on the necessity of poor Anty's removal, 
 it was in vain that the persevering Judy still held 
 out and endeavored to convince them that she 
 would so contrive to nurse-tend her sister as to 
 cut off all communication with those residing 
 about her. It was carried by acclamation that she 
 should be taken off to the hospital, and the cho- 
 lera-cot having been summoned to the spot, she 
 was laid into it, in a state that, without much aid 
 from the doctors, gave a fair promise of her never 
 revisiting her little home again. Phelim followed 
 slowly and with a dejected look in the wake of 
 the cotmen, and they all soon disappeared from 
 the sympathizing ey^s of the anxious and appre- 
 hensive crowd. 
 
The Mistake. 21 
 
 He returned to his cabin alone, and as David 
 wept for his son while he was yet living, but be- 
 came resigned when hope and anxiety were alike 
 over, so Phelim grieved for little Anty throughout 
 the day, shedding abundance of tears, but at night, 
 when a messenger arrived directing him to bring 
 a coffin to the hospital, the fountain of his sorrows 
 became dried up. *' If I was to weep for a hun- 
 dred years," he observed, ''sure 'twouldn't bring 
 her back again to me, poor thing ! 'tis only flying 
 in the face of heaven not to submit to my misfor- 
 tune like a Christian; there's no knowing how 
 soon "it may be my own turn." He accordingly 
 attended at the hospital gate with a becoming 
 spirit, and, having deUvered in the cofhn, received 
 it in his car from the hands of the porter and cot- 
 men again, freighted with the remains of Mrs. 
 Anty O'Rourke, as was testified by the chalk in- 
 scription on the cover. He imimediately proceeded 
 to the burying-ground, accompanied by the hos- 
 pital grave-digger, with whose solitary assistance 
 she was consigned to her last resting-place. 
 
 Death was a matter of too common occurrence 
 in these days, to leave that deep or permanent 
 gloom after it which it is sure to do where its 
 visits, as in ordinary times, are but few and far 
 between. Individual distress, however great, 
 seemed of small amount, even in the estimation of 
 the sufferer, while the pestilence was still laying 
 life waste in every direction about him. When, at 
 the end of some ten or fifteen days, it at length 
 
22 Half Hours iviih Irish AutJiors. 
 
 quitted Phelim's neighborhood, to hunt for prey 
 in some new or untouched district, his misfortune 
 was but an old and ordinary one in public remem- 
 brance. He had, indeed, ceased to grieve on the 
 subject himself, though the image of poor Anty, 
 he declared, still haunted his mind, and, however 
 long he lived, could never be effaced from his 
 memor}'. This assertion, however, very soon came 
 to be doubted by his acquaintances. The living 
 picture of Maggy Fitzgerald, a blooming girl who 
 lived in his vicinity, was seen too frequently by 
 his side to permit the supposition that a rival from 
 among the dead could occupy any very permanent 
 place in his imagination. The truth was that, 
 within three weeks after his late loss, Phelim was 
 once more over head and ears in love. He had for- 
 gotten, or ceased to think, of all his troubles and 
 disappointments, and, of such strange materials is 
 the human heart made up, his affections were as 
 fondly and utterly given away in this new attach- 
 ment as if he had never loved or been deceived 
 b}' woman. 
 
 Fortune, however, seemed now fully disposed to 
 make him amends for the long period of her deser- 
 tion. His days passed on in uninterrupted dreams 
 of delight, his nights in refreshing slumbers, and 
 the lark welcomed the golden morning with a song 
 less blitheful. The blissful period that v/as to com- 
 plete his happiness was at length fixed, and, day 
 after day, the rosy-footed hours kept whispering 
 as they passed of the joys that were approaching; 
 
The Mistake. 23 
 
 but, alas! for poor humanity! How uncertain 
 are its hopes ! — how fleeting its enjoyments ! On 
 the very eve of the wedding, a friend broke the 
 dreadful secret to him, that it was generally ru- 
 mored through the country Mrs. Anty O'Rourke 
 was still alive ! Phelim sprang three feet from his 
 stool at the announcement, clapping his hands and 
 exclaiming " Murther !" as he came to the ground. 
 On recovering his recollection, however, and calm- 
 ing a little, he totally denied the possibility of such 
 an occurrence, described minutely his having him- 
 self received the coffin containing her remains from 
 the porter, and his having buried it beneath three 
 feet of earth, with the assistance of the ofrave-dig-irer • 
 that the}^ even rolled a great rock over the spot 
 afterwards, which no unaided human effort could 
 roll off again, so that, admitting such an absurdity 
 as her returning to Ufe after interment, there was 
 no possible way by which she could extricate 
 herself from the grave. He partly satisfied his in- 
 formant by these explanations, but by no means 
 removed the hankering suspicion from his own 
 mind, though perfectly at a loss to account for it. 
 Somebody, it was said, had actually seen and 
 spoken to her, and though reports as groundless 
 every day find circulation, this one came too mal- 
 apropos to be treated with perfect indifference. 
 He pondered and enquired, and pondered again, 
 until the subject took such entire possession of Ins 
 mind that he felt he could neither rest nor sleep 
 until he had his doubts cleared up in one wa}^ or 
 
24 Half xlours zuith Irish Authors. 
 
 another. He accordingly came to the resolution 
 of visiting the hospital, and investigating the mat- 
 ter most minutel}^ 
 
 On arriving at the gate, he lifted the knocker 
 with a palpitating heart, feeling that his fate de- 
 pended on the decision of the next few moments. 
 The porter appeared, and demanded his business. 
 
 " Will you tell me, if you please," answered 
 Phelim, *' do you remember a woman of the name 
 of Anty O'Rourke, that I brought in here sick of 
 cholera, a little time ago ?" 
 
 *' I do well," returned the porter. 
 
 *' What became of'her?" 
 
 ^' She was discharged, cured, about three weeks 
 ago." 
 
 *' Cured !" ejaculated Phelim, his jaw dropping, 
 and his eyes dilating like saucers. 
 
 *'■ Iss, to be sure. Do 3^ou think we never cure 
 any one?" returned the porter, wdth an air of 
 offended dignity. 
 
 ^'I don't mane that," faltered Phelim, "but 
 m y — m y — w i fe . " 
 
 "Oh! ho! she was 3^our wife, was she? Wh}^ 
 then, I never see one take the recovery of his w^ife 
 so much to heart before." 
 
 " She's dead, I tell you," cried Phelim, " 'tis a 
 mistake of yours — you — you yourself put her 
 corpse in the coffin for me, five weeks ago, and 
 gev it into my own two hands at this very doore — 
 don't you remember here at this doore ? Do, 
 agra, try to remember — 'tis as true as da3'light." 
 
The Mistake. 25 
 
 " I don't remember any sitch thing," answered 
 the porter. 
 
 " Oh ! murther !" exclaimed Phelim, striking his 
 hands against his forehead. 
 
 *' May be," continued the porter, '' I gev you 
 some one else in a mistake." 
 
 '' Oh ! murther I" roared Phelim again, as, with 
 hands still pressed to his forehead, he moved 
 backwards and forwards before the gate, stamping 
 the ground vehemently at every step. 
 
 '' Faix, it sometimes happens us for all," contin- 
 ued the porter, " w^hen there's a great number of 
 'em goes off in the night. The names are pinned 
 on 'em when they're thrun in the dead-house, but 
 sometimes they slips off again, you know, and 
 then we're all at a dead loss, not knowin' one from 
 another, so no wonther a mistake should happen — 
 some one else's wife I giv' you, I suppose !" 
 
 Phelim, upon whom some new light seemed to 
 be breaking during this explanation, nov/ started 
 out of his reverie, and, catching the porter's hand 
 with eagerness, exclaimed, '^ Tell me one thmg 
 now, like an honest man, and may the heavens be 
 your bed as you tell me truly : Do ye ever have 
 two people of the same name in the hospital at the 
 same time ?" 
 
 " Eyeh ! plague on 'em for names ! to be sure 
 \\Q do, almost every day — there's no pleasing the 
 people at all, 'count of the bother we have with 
 the way they're christened — all Paddys, or 
 Daveys, or Marys, or Peggy's, till we can't tell 
 
26 Half Hours i<ntJc Irish Authors. 
 
 one for another; but, death and age, man!" con- 
 tinued the porter, suddenly elevating his voice. 
 "■ Wh}^ do you squeeze my hand that way?" 
 
 " I didn't mane any offence by it, avourneen," 
 responded Phelim ; '^ I'd be sorry to hurt a hair o' 
 3^our head, but I have one question more to put 
 to you. What sort of a woman was it be the 
 name of Anty O'Rourke that you turned out 
 cured ?" 
 
 /' A handy little skeleton of a creature, then, 
 that no cholera could kill — one that the world 
 couldn't plaze — scold — scolding always, and with 
 looks that ud freeze a turnip when anybody ven- 
 thured to answer her." 
 
 Phelim's heart sank within him aofain ; he sum- 
 moned courage, however, to continue the investi- 
 gation. 
 
 ^' E'then, do you know at all, did she get much 
 medicine from the docthors ?" 
 
 " She couldn't be got to taste as much as a drop 
 for any of 'em," replied the porter. 
 
 *' Lord help us!" ejaculated Phelim, with a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 *' But hovv^ is it," said the porter, '' now I think 
 on it, if she was your wife, that she didn't go home 
 to you?" 
 
 "Thrue for you," answered Phelim, rubbing his 
 hands, and brightening up at a thought which had 
 never occurred to him before. '* What is it Pm 
 thinkinsr of at all ? Sure if she and I were on the 
 living earth, she'd find me out in half the time. 
 
The Mistake. 27 
 
 The power av the world ud hardly keep her from 
 me for three whole weeks, that is, if she had her 
 walk and her five senses. I'm the rail fool and 
 not to recollect that at wanst. No ! no ! poor 
 ooman, she's dead and buried long enough to keep 
 quiet for my day, at any rate ! Sure I helped to 
 make the grave and throw the earth on her my- 
 self!" 
 
 '' rU be bail, then, she has the good winter's coat 
 of it," observed the porter smiling ; " you wouldn't 
 like to let the frost to her, poor thing !" 
 
 " Eyeh ! no matter," returned Phelim, '* 'tis 
 equal how we lie, when it comes to that with us ; 
 but I'm obleeged to you for your information en- 
 tirely, a good evenen." 
 
 " Safe home to you, Misther O'Rourke," cried 
 the porter, the smile still playing about his mouth, 
 " and if I hear anything of Anty's stirren about, 
 I'll not fail to come with the news to you." 
 
 Phelim quickened his pace, and pretended not 
 to hear; muttered, however, when he reached a 
 sufficient distance to vent his feelings with impu- 
 nity, " Wisha asy enough it is with you, that haven't 
 chick nor child, nor anything but your own four 
 bones to throuble 3'ou ; may be when you marry 
 you'll not have your jokes so ready, and faix when 
 you do, all the harm I wish 3^ou is a wife equal to 
 Anty." 
 
 i On arriving at home, Phelim recovered his 
 spirits, and made every preparation for the wed- 
 ding. After trying on a new suit of clothes which 
 
28 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 ^vas made for him by a Limerick tailor, fitting him- 
 self with a shining Caroline hat, and reviewing his 
 figure, with due particularity, in a broken piece of a 
 mirror which he had neatly set in polished ash, 
 he spent the evening at the bride's. To such as 
 have loved, it is needless to tell that he did not re- 
 turn home until the moon w^as going to her rest, 
 and that he then la}^ down on his humble bed to 
 pass away the time in chiding the lazy hours that 
 one by one came slowly to his pillow to tell him 
 of the approaching morning. 
 
 At last came the joyous w^edding day, and with 
 it, from far and near, the guests came gathering to 
 the merry house of the bride. The weather was 
 unpropitious, for the morning had set in with wind 
 and rain in all the gloom of beginning winter; but 
 the barn in which, for the sake of increased room, 
 the company were assembled was defended by a 
 thick coating of thatch from the power of the 
 storm, and a roaring fire blazing at the upper end 
 gave a fair guarantee against the influence of the 
 cold. The wedding baked meats were set forth, 
 the bagpipes had struck up a merry air, and the 
 priest had already taken his place at the head of 
 the banqueting table, when a loud knocking was 
 heard at the door, and a poor woman, wrapped in 
 a cloak, who sought shelter from the weather, was 
 admitted to a seat by the fireside. The occur- 
 rence was too common to occasion much observa- 
 tion, and the feast proceeded. Great and fearful 
 was the destruction on every hand, and stunning 
 
The Mistake. 29 
 
 was the noise of the delighted multitude. After 
 the meats and other substantial elements of the 
 entertainment had disappeared, and a becoming- 
 time was allowed for discussing the punch, they 
 all arose at a signal from the priest, and a little 
 circle was formed at the upper end of the apart- 
 ment, in the centre of which he placed himself, 
 with Phelim and Maggy before him. The impor- 
 tant ceremony was now about to take place which 
 was to make them happy for ever, and an anxious 
 silence reigned throughout the room, broken only 
 by the whisper of some of the elders to one an- 
 other, or the suppressed titter of some sly maiden 
 at the bashful bearing of the bride. Just as the 
 priest took the book, a loud cough was heard from 
 the stranger. No one took notice of it, except 
 Phelim ; but as soon as he heard it, he started as 
 if he had been electrified, and let fall Maggy's 
 hand from his own ; then, looking towards the fire- 
 place where the old woman was sitting, a cold 
 shivering came over him, and large drops of per- 
 spiration hung glistening on his forehead. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, darlcn ? " ex- 
 claimed IMaggy, terrified at the change which 
 came over him. 
 
 " Nothing, achree," replied the bridegroom, 
 '* but a weakness that came upon me v/hen I heerd 
 that cough from the ind of the room ; it was so 
 like the sound of one that I was once used to, but 
 that can never be heard in this world again." 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words, when an- 
 
30 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 other cough resounded in the same direction, and 
 again a sudden terror seized upon Phelim, his teeth 
 began to chatter, his limbs to tremble, and he kept 
 looking up towards the fireplace, like one that was 
 fairy-stricken. 
 
 '' Heaven purtect us !" he ejaculated, in a faint 
 whisper to himself. 
 
 " Phelim — PheUm, honey !" cried Maggy, dread- 
 fully alarmed. 
 
 " Sure," muttered he, heedless of the voice of 
 the bride, and gazing vacantly in the one direction, 
 *' I berried her with my own two hands !" 
 
 '* What ails you, PheHm?" exclaimed the priest, 
 shaking him by the shoulder, to arouse him out 
 of the stupor which seemed to oppress him. '* Are 
 you ill ? Or what is all this strange proceeding 
 about?" 
 
 *' Fm not well, indeed, your reverence," replied 
 Phelim, recovering himself, '* I don* know what's 
 the matter, but Pm sure Pll be quite -well when 
 this business is over. Let us go on." 
 
 He took' Maggy's hand again, and the priest 
 proceeded, but when Phelim commenced to repeat 
 the customary words after him, "• I take thee, Mar- 
 garet Fitzgerald, for my wedded wife," his eyes 
 instinctively fixed itself on the little w^oman at the 
 fireplace, when, to his utter horror, he saw^ her 
 slowly rising from her stool, and, throwing back 
 the cloak from her head, turned round to the com- 
 pany. A general scream acknowdedged the pre- 
 sence of Mrs. Anty O'Rourke! She settled her 
 
The Mistake. 31 
 
 look steadily on Phelim, and walked slowly towards 
 him. He staggered back two or three steps, and 
 would have fallen, had he not been supported by 
 those about him. Her person seemed to grow 
 taller as she advanced, her countenance more 
 ferocious than he had ever seen it, and she was 
 struggling with suppressed passion to such a de- 
 gree as for some moments to impede her utter- 
 ance. When her feelings at length found vent in 
 words, she shook her clenched fist at him, at once 
 relieving the party from all suspense as to her 
 spectral character. *' You villin !" she exclaimed, 
 "• you thought you got rid of me, did you ? You 
 thought you had three feet of the sod over me, and 
 that you might get on wid your pranks as you 
 pleased yourself, but I'll spoil your divarsion for 
 3^ou. I'll trait you wid a wife, so I will, you un- 
 natural dog. Your darlen, indeed ! (courtesying to 
 Maggy). Your Maggy, achree I So, ma'am — 
 hem. Nothen ud satisfy you but to be Mrs. 
 O'Rourke — Mrs. O'Rourke, enagh ! Why you 
 unmoral, unproper character, would 3^ou have the 
 man marry tvvo wives ? Would you have him 
 scandalize the whole countr}^ ? O j'Ou rail Turk 
 (to Phelim), I have been watching every turn of 
 you, these three weeks back ; I've seen your doens 
 — your coorten, and dearen, and drinken. What's 
 become av the pig, you hangman ? The pig that 
 I reared from a bonnive wid my own hands. Yes, 
 two hands — look at em — not so white as Maggy's, 
 may be, but belonging to Mrs. O'Rourke for all 
 
32 Half Hours %vith Irish Authors. 
 
 that, thankee. Where's my pig, again, you born 
 villin ?" 
 
 Poor Phelim, somewhat aroused by the fury of 
 this attack, endeavored to collect his scattered 
 senses and get out of so awkward a business as 
 decently as he could, but the greater his anxiety 
 to appease her indignation, the longer his explana- 
 tions ; the more abject his apologies, the higher 
 Anty's wrath mounted, until at length, in the 
 climax of a violent fit, she fell on the floor perfect- 
 ly insensible. 
 
 The interest was now suddenly changed. The 
 feelings of the party, which a moment before ran 
 altogether in Phelim's favor, now set back in a 
 returning tide of pity for the unfortunate Anty. 
 All was anxiety and readiness to assist her, and no 
 effort suggested for her recovery was left untried. 
 Water was splashed in her face, feathers burnt 
 under her nose, and attempts were even made at 
 opening a vein by a skilful farrier who happened 
 to be among the guests, but everything they 
 managed to do for her relief proved for a time 
 fruitless. While the crowd was still pressing 
 round her, Phelim lay in a chair by the fireside, 
 overcome with suspense and agitatio-n, but after a 
 lapse of some twenty or thirty minutes, suspecting 
 from various exclamations which reached him 
 from time to time from the group around his 
 wife that there were hopes of her coming to, he 
 roused himself up, and, beckoning Davy Dooley, 
 an old companion of his, to the door, he addressed 
 
The Mistake. 33 
 
 him with a look full of meaning and in a gentle 
 undertone. 
 
 " Isn't this a purty business, Davy ?" 
 
 " The quarest I ever seen in my born days," re- 
 plied Davy ; " she's coming to, I believe." 
 
 '' We must have a docthor, Davy," rejoined the 
 husband, eyeing his friend with the same intent 
 look. 
 
 " Eyeh ! plague on 'em for docthors ; hadn't 
 they her ondher their hands before ?" 
 
 " The}^ weren't to blame, any Vv^ay, Davy, she 
 gev 'em no fair play either for death or recovery. 
 The porter tould me she wouldn't taste a dhrop of 
 their medicines if they were to flay her alive for 
 it." 
 
 " 'Twas like her cuteness," observed Davy. 
 
 " Well, but listen to me," continued Phelim, and, 
 stooping over, he muttered something into the ear 
 of his friend. 
 
 "No better on Ireland ground," exclaimed 
 Dav}^, slapping his hands in approval of the com- 
 munication — '' a kind, tender-hearted man, that 
 never keeps poor craythurs long in pain. Oh ! 
 begannies, he's the real docthor." 
 
 *'Away with you then, arragal," cried Phelim, 
 " I hear her voice getten stronger ; offer him any 
 money. Run, aroo ! Oh ! mavrone !" 
 
 " Where's Davy going?" enquired the priest, as 
 he saw him hastily leaving the door. 
 
 '' Sending him off for the docthor I am, your 
 reverence," answered Phelim, '' for I'll never let 
 
34 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 her set foot in the hospital again. They neglected 
 her there entirely, them rogues of nurse-tenders, 
 and so I'll have her attended at home now, where 
 she'll be made take every whole happerth the 
 docthor orders for her." 
 
 '' You're an honest and a sensible man, Phelim," 
 observed the priest, '' and I admire 3'Our behavior 
 very much in all this strange business. I'm glad 
 to find, too, you're not giving way to that foolish 
 and wicked prejudice against the docthors, 
 which has been so prevalent since the cholera 
 commenced." 
 
 ** I'd be sorry to undervalue the gentlemen, 
 3^our reverence," returned Phelim ; '' sure what ud 
 I do at all now without 'em, and poor Ant}^ is so 
 bad. I wondher is there any chance for her?" 
 
 '' Very little, I fear, Phelim ; it appears like an 
 apoplectic attack." 
 
 *' Is it anything of a lingering dizaze, your re- 
 verence ?" continued the husband, in a faltering 
 tone. 
 
 " Not at all," replied the priest, "it is generally 
 a very sudden one." 
 
 " Ove ! ove ! the poor craythur ! I believe she's 
 a gone woman ?" observed Phelim again enquir- 
 ingly. 
 
 '' Indeed I fear so," answei-ed the priest, '' unless 
 the doctor can do something for her." 
 
 As he spoke, Davy came running in ; the doc- 
 tor followed at a more dignified pace. He had 
 met with him by good fortune a few perches 
 
The Uistake. 35 
 
 from the cabin, and immediately secured his at- 
 tendance. 
 
 On examining the patient, the doctor shook his 
 head despondingl}^ 
 
 "A bad case," he half muttered to himself— *' a 
 bad case ; too far gone for medicine." 
 
 '' Thry something, your honor," exclaimed 
 Phehm earnestly, *' she was as bad or worse be- 
 fore, and she recovered of it." 
 
 '' Not so bad as she is now," replied the doctor 
 despondingly. " However, I must do the best I 
 can." And, writing a few words on a scrap of paper, 
 he directed Phelim to take it to the dispensary, 
 where he would get two powders, one of which 
 he was to give his wife as soon as ever he returned, 
 and the second at five o'clock, if she lived so long. 
 
 The people cast ominous looks at one another 
 as he concluded, and the doctor and priest de- 
 parted together. Davy, meantime, started off 
 afresh for the medicine, and, as soon as he got 
 back, took care to see it administered strictly as 
 the doctor ordered. At ten minutes to five pre- 
 cisely INIrs. Anty O'Rourke took her departure for 
 another world. 
 
 " She's dead !" whispered Davy, as he laid his 
 hand on Phelim's shoulder, who was hanging 
 drowsily over the dying embers on the hearth- 
 stone. 
 
 " Dead !" ejaculated Phelim, springing from his 
 seat, as if half astounded at the news — ''dead all 
 out, is she, Davy?" 
 
36 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 "■ Dead as a door-nail," returned Davy, '' and 'tis 
 just on the stroke of five !" 
 
 ** Think 'o that, Davy," uttered Phelim faintly, 
 and squeezed the hand of his friend. 
 
 '' Faix, he was ver}^ exact in his business," re- 
 joined his companion significantly. '' Oh ! mo 
 leare ! they're the dearies for doctors I" 
 
 " Say nothen, Dav}^ — say nothen," observed the 
 widower, "■ sure he did as he was taught at the 
 univarsity. He was a kind man, so he was, and 
 I'll not forget it to him." 
 
 Phelim was as good as his word ; the week 
 after the decease and funeral of poor Antv, he had 
 the doctor invited to another wedding feast, at 
 which the affair between himself and the bloom- 
 ing jNIaggy was concluded without any further in- 
 terruption, and he was ever after his most intrepid 
 defender, when any of the old women in his neigh- 
 borhood ventured to tamper with his reputation. 
 He was, indeed, often heard to declare, ^' he'd go 
 to the world's end for the docthor — do anything 
 for him — anything in life — but take his medi- 
 cine." 
 
HOME OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
THE RAVEN'S NEST. 
 
 Her sire an earl — her dame of prince's blood, 
 Bright as her hue, and Geraldine she hight. 
 
 Sonnet on the Cotmtess of Lincoln. 
 
 THE Fabii make not a more distinguished 
 figure in the history of the ancient Roman, 
 or the Medici in that of the modern Tuscan, 
 State, than do the family of the Geraldines in the 
 troubled tale of Ireland's miseries. Whenever 
 the annals of the island shall be treated by a 
 competent pen, they will not fail to be classed 
 by all impartial judges amongst the most re- 
 markable families in history. Their errors, and 
 perhaps in many instances their crimes, were 
 great ; but their undaunted courage, their natu- 
 ral eloquence, their vigorous genius, and their 
 hereditary open-heartedness are qualities which 
 will be as certain of awakening admiration as 
 their misfortunes of exciting pity. The story of 
 the earls of Kildare constitutes such a piece of 
 history as Sallust might be proud to write, and 
 the genius of Plutarch would have delighted in 
 the pithy sayings, heroic actions, and touches of 
 character in which the annals of the family 
 abound. 
 
38 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 During the reign of the Tudors, a deadly feud 
 had raged for many years between one of the earls 
 of Kiidare and a chieftain — a branch of the Geral- 
 dines, residing in a distant part of Munster. 
 The Geraldine conceived his rights, as well as 
 those of his countr}^ invaded by the excessive 
 rigor and even injustice with which Kiidare (who 
 was Lord Deputy) administered the government ; 
 and the earl was so highly incensed by what he 
 called the turbulence and malice of his kinsman 
 that he protested his determination not to lay 
 down his arms until he had compelled him to 
 make submission. '' Albeit, he should have him as 
 a common borderer, cut off by the knee." In this 
 resolution he received the entire sanction of the 
 English government, who seldom bore hard upon 
 their deputies for an excess of zeal. 
 
 Outworn by continual defeats, and feeling deeply 
 for the sufferings which his fruitless resistance 
 had brought on his dependents, the gallant Ge- 
 raldine testified at length his willingness to make 
 terms, and offered to come in person to the me- 
 tropolis in order to make a formal submission to 
 the vicero}'. He was not so despicable an enemy 
 that even the haughty earl was not rejoiced at his 
 proposal. He was received in Dublin with the 
 highest ceremonies of respect and joy. The earl 
 gave splendid entertainments, to which many, not 
 only of the substantial citizens of the Pale, but of 
 the native Irish chieftains, were invited ; and the 
 public places of the cit}^ for several days were 
 
The Raven s Nest. 39 
 
 thronged with a motley company of revellers, 
 minoflinof with a confidence as enthusiastic as if 
 they had not been for centuries as bitter enemies 
 as oppression on the one, and hate and outrage on 
 the other, side could make them. 
 
 On the second night after the arrival of the 
 Geraldine in Dublin, a party of horse, bearing the 
 marks of long travel in the jaded carriage both 
 of the animals and their riders, appeared upon the 
 borders of the Pale, which they had entered by 
 one of the northern roads. They were command- 
 ed by a young man of an appearance at once deli- 
 cate and martial. The peasants and humble arti- 
 sans doffed their bonnets as they passed him on 
 the road, and the sentinels saluted and suffered 
 him to go unquestioned. As they approached the 
 city, the sounds of rejoicing which were distinctly 
 heard in the calm air awakened the attention and 
 curiosity of the group. 
 
 '' Ride on before, Thomas," said the young 
 officer, addressing the page who bore his shield 
 and helmet, "■ and ask what feasting is toward in 
 the city." 
 
 The page spurred on his horse, and, after making 
 enquiry at the booth of a rosy-looking vender of 
 woollen stuffs, returned to say that the Geraldine 
 was in the city. 
 
 " The Geraldine ! what ! hath he taken it, then ?" 
 
 '' Nay," cried the page, *' if it were so, I question 
 whether the Pale would be so orderly. He has 
 come to make subn:iission to the king." 
 
40 Half Hours luilh Irish Authors. 
 
 " To make submission ! The Geraldine make 
 submission !" repeated the young man. ** This 
 seems a tale no less improbable than the other. 
 Alas ! such wisdom is rare in a Geraldine. The 
 poor isle has suffered deeply to the pride of the 
 Fitzgeralds. Poor, miserable land ! Give me the 
 helmet. We must not pass the Geraldine un- 
 armed. Efow long is it now since this quarrel has 
 begun?" 
 
 '' Near sixteen years, my lord." 
 
 *' Thou sayest aright. I remember to have 
 heard of it on my mother's knee. I well remember 
 how Kildare returned to the castle on an autumn 
 evening, all black with dust and sweat, and how 
 she flew to meet him, while I marked his rusty 
 javelin, and puzzled my brains to comprehend its 
 use. I am not so ignorant now. Ill-fated country] 
 How many lives, dost thou compute, have already 
 fallen in this feud ?" 
 
 '^ It is thought, my lord, some seventy or eighty 
 soldiers of the Pale, with about seventeen thou- 
 sand of the Irish, in various encounters ; besides, 
 castles sacked, about fifty ; towns and villages de- 
 molished to the number of nineteen ; and private 
 dwellings of the common sort, to the amount of 
 some thousand roofs. The Pale, too, suffered loss 
 of property ; a woollen-draper's booth destroyed, 
 besides some twenty cabins in the suburbs, laid in 
 ashes." 
 
 '' I pray you, Thomas, who might be your ac- 
 countant?" 
 
The Raven s iVesf. 41 
 
 '' My cousin Simmons, my lord, the city bailiff; 
 your lordship may remember him ?" 
 
 '' Ay, I thought the computation had been made 
 within the Pale. And what was the beginning of 
 the strife ?" 
 
 " The insolent Geraldine, my lord, had the au- 
 dacity to turn a troop of the Lord Deputy's 
 horse — " 
 
 ^' Out of a widow's house upon his holding, 
 where they would have taken up their quarters for 
 a fortnight in the scarce season. The insolent 
 Geraldine! I long to see the disloyal knave. 
 Know you if the lad}^ Margaret, his daughter, be 
 with him in the city ?" 
 '' My lord, the v/ooUen-draper spoke not of her." 
 " I long to know them both. Report speaks 
 loudly of her, no less than of the Geraldine him- 
 self But here's the cit}'. Good-morrow, masters ! 
 Thank you heartily, thank 3^ou all ! O'Neil is 
 quiet in the north, m}^ masters ! Long live the 
 King ! Huzza !" 
 
 The last sentences were spoken as the young 
 warrior passed the city gate, where he was recog- 
 nized and hailed by a holiday throng of the loyal 
 citizens, with shouts of welcome that made the 
 houses tremble around them. " Kildare for ever! 
 Long live the King ! Huzza !" was echoed from 
 the city gate to the very drawbridge of the castle. 
 The young nobleman, who had, amid all his gal- 
 lantry and gaiety, a certain air that showed him to 
 be above the reach of party spirit, received their 
 
42 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 congratulations with spirit and cheerfulness, but 
 withou-t losing a moment's time either to speak or 
 hear. The streets as he passed presented an 
 appearance singular and altogether new to his 
 eye. The Irish green hanging-bonnet seemed as 
 common as the cap of the Pale ; kernes who spoke 
 not a syllable of English were gaping at the 
 splendor of the city ; and citizens standing in 
 their booths stared with no less amazement at the 
 unshorn locks, wild looks, and woodland attire 
 of their new allies. Passing on to St. Thomas's 
 Court, wdiere the Lord Deputy at that time 
 transacted the business of the goverment, Sir Ulick 
 Fitzgerald, the3'0ung knight whose course we have 
 been following, alighted from his horse, and sent 
 one of the officers to inform the Lord Deputy of 
 his arrival. He was received by Kildare, in the 
 king's chamber; and gave an account of the state of 
 affairs in the North, where he had for some months 
 past occupied the place of Lord Deputy himself. 
 
 '' Thou art welcome, Ulick, from the North," 
 said Kildare, reaching his hand to his son, who 
 kissed it with reverence and affection. '' x\nd now, 
 how hast thou done thy work, my lad?" 
 
 '* Like a true soldier of the Pale, my lord," re- 
 plied Sir Ulick. " I taught the rascals what it was 
 to have to do with a friend of England. Thou 
 and our royal master I am sure will love me for 
 it." 
 
 '' What said O'Neil at the conference ?" 
 
 *' O my good father! bid me not repeat his in- 
 
TJie Raven s Nest. 43 
 
 solence. He said his lands and castles were in 
 the keeping of his ancestors, before the very name 
 of Ireland had sounded in the ear of a Plantage- 
 net; that we used our power cruelly. (We, my 
 lord, cruel! We! And I could aver, upon mine 
 honor as a knight, we have not piked above twelve 
 score of the rascal's Irishry, except on holidays, 
 when we wanted exercise for the hobbelers. We 
 cruel !) He complained also of trespass on the 
 propert}^ of his dependents. (What ! had we 
 touched their lives, my lord?) He said all men 
 were naturally free ; that he derived his posses- 
 sions from his progenitors, not from the royal 
 gift; and many things beside, for which I would 
 have set his head upon his castle's gate, but, as 
 your lordship recommended clemency, I only 
 hanged a cousin of his whom we caught in the 
 camp after dark." 
 
 '* Ulick," said the earl, " thou art a bantering 
 villain ; and I warn thee, as the Geraldines stand 
 not overwell with Tudor, how thou sufferest such 
 humors to appear, and before whom. It has been 
 remarked, and by those who might not pierce 
 thine irony, that thou art rather a favorer of these 
 turbulent insurgents. Thou art overmild with 
 the rebels." 
 
 '' It is a mending fault, my lord," said Sir Ulick ; 
 " in the service of Tudor it will soon wear off." 
 
 *' I tell thee," said the earl, *' it is thought by 
 many that thine heart is less with the people of the 
 Pale than might become the descendant of those 
 
44 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 who have grown old in the royal confidence ano 
 favor, and transmitted both as a legacy to their 
 posterity. Thou hast learned the language of 
 these rascal Irishry." 
 
 " I confess my crime, my lord," replied the 
 knight ; *' I know my country's tongue." 
 
 " Thou lovest their braggart poetry, and villan- 
 ous antiquities ; and art known to keep in thy 
 train a scoundrel harper, who sings thee to sleep 
 at night with tales of burnings and rapines, done 
 by their outlaw chiefs upon the honest subjects of 
 the crown." 
 
 '' I confess ray fault, my lord. I love sweet 
 music." 
 
 '' Thou hast even been heard at tinier," con- 
 tinued the earl, ** to sing a verse of their howling 
 ditties in the very precincts of the castle." 
 
 ^' Nay, na}^, good father," cried the knight, *' if 
 you w^ill impute my tuneful voice as treasonous, 
 blame Nature and not me, for I had it of her. I 
 confess m3^self guilty in that point also. There is 
 a rebel melodv in my voice that I cannot well be 
 rid of." 
 
 "Ay, banter, banter, villain," said the Lord De- 
 puty. '' I tell thee, in a word, to treasure up what 
 I have said, nor presume so far upon thy loyal 
 deeds to excuse disloyal words. Princes are jeal- 
 ous of a smile. Thou must bear in mind that it 
 is a conquered race thou hast to deal withal, and 
 add a ferule to the rod of government." 
 
 " I shall learn, my lord, I hope, as aptly as my 
 
The Raven s Nest. 45 
 
 predecessors. Ere I am twice Lord Deput}-, I 
 shall aQiend." 
 
 '' And now," said the earl, " to th}^ chamber, and 
 prepare to meet the Geraldine at evening-. In a 
 few days, he makes formal submission to the King-, 
 before the Lords of Council at Kilmainham Castle ; 
 and to-night he must here be entertained as be- 
 comes a Geraldine of his birth and breedinof. 
 Farewell !" 
 
 Spirited, lively, and yet filled with generous 
 affections, the young knight was no less calculated 
 to attract admiration in the hall than in the field. 
 He was early at the festival, and met the Geral- 
 dine in his father's presence. The latter was a 
 swart, stout-built man, with a brow that spoke of 
 many dangers braved, and difficulties withstood, 
 if not overcome. ' Unaccustomed to the polished 
 raillery of a court, the stubborn chief was some- 
 what disposed at first to be offended with Sir 
 Ulick, w^ho addressed him in a tone of ironical 
 reproof, and upbraided him in eloquent terms 
 with the unreasonableness and selfishness of his 
 withholding- from the conquerors, possessions and 
 immunities which he and his ancestors had now 
 so long enjoyed, and which it was but fair that 
 they should yield at least to those poorer adven- 
 turers whose services the Tudors had no other 
 means of rewarding. '* Did the Geraldine, or his 
 confederates, consider what the Tudors owed 
 those men, to whom they were indebted for the 
 subjugation of so large a province? And would 
 
46 //'?//" Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 they be so iing-enerous as to withhold from the 
 sovereign the means of recompensing so palpable 
 a public service, etc. ?" 
 
 The Geraldine, who did not understand irony, 
 was observed two or three times to bend his 
 brov/s upon the3^outh, but had his ire removed by 
 some gracious turn in the harangue, introduced 
 with timely promptitude. The hall of the festival 
 was now thrown open ; and Sir Ulick, standing 
 at the farther end, summoned to his side his favor- 
 ite attendant, Thomas Butler, from wdiom he en- 
 quired the names and quality of such guests as, in 
 entering, had attracted his attention. 
 
 " I pray, thee, gentle Thomas," said Sir Ulick, 
 " what man is that with a cast in his right eye, 
 and a coolun as thick and bushy as a fox's tail, and 
 as carroty-red withal, and a sword that seems at 
 deadly feud with its owner's calves?" 
 
 '' Who ? he, m}^ lord ? That is O'Carroll, who 
 thrashed MacMorrough at the Boyne, for burn- 
 ing his cousin's castle and piking his children in 
 the bog." 
 
 " And who is she who hangs upon his arm?" 
 
 '' His daughter Nell, my lord, who ate the tip 
 of Mac^NIorrough's liver, with a flagon of wine, 
 for dinner, on the day after the battle." 
 
 *' Sweet creature ! And that round, short, flashy, 
 merry little man, with his chain?" 
 , " That is the Mayor, my lord." 
 
 ** And the lofty lady who comes after, like a 
 grenadier behind a drummer?" 
 
The Raven's Nest. 47 
 
 ** The lady-mayoress, my lord, Avho took her 
 husband upon her shoulders, and ran off with him 
 to the city, Avhen he would fain have fought 
 single-handed with an enormous O'Toole, who 
 set upon them as they were taking a morning walk 
 to Cullenswood." 
 
 ^* Her stature stood him in good stead. And 
 who are they who follow close behind ?" 
 
 *' Burke of Clanricard, and O'Moore, w^ho 
 hanged and quartered the four widows in Offally 
 for speaking against the cosherings on the poor." 
 
 " And the ladies ?" 
 
 " Their wives and daughters, who w^ere by at 
 the quartering." 
 
 '^ A goodly company. But, hush !" 
 
 ** What is it, my lord, that you would ask ?" 
 
 '* Hush ! hush ! Canst thou tell me, Thomas, 
 what lady is that in yellow, as far beyond the rest 
 in beauty of person as in the graceful simplicity 
 of her attire ?" 
 
 *' That, my lord," said the attendant, ''is your 
 cousin, Margaret Fitzgerald, and the only daughter 
 of the Geraldine." 
 
 '' Fame, that exaggerates all portraitures, fell 
 short in hers. My cousin Margaret ! Away, 
 good Thomas, I care not to learn more." 
 
 Approaching the circle, of which the fair Ger- 
 aldine formed a chief attraction. Sir Ulick was in- 
 troduced to his young relative. The evening 
 passed happily away in her society ; and before 
 many da3^s they were better friends than, perhaps, 
 
48 Half Hours li'itJi Irish Authors. 
 
 themselves suspected, or the parents of either 
 could have readily approved. Both freely com- 
 municated their thoughts and wishes on the con- 
 dition of their families and country. Both mourn- 
 ed the divided interests that distracted the latter, 
 and the wretched jealousies which seemed des- 
 tined to keep the well-wishers of the island for 
 ever disunited in themselves, and, therefore, 
 utterly incapable of promoting her advantage. 
 Such themes as these formed the subject of con- 
 versation one evening, while the dance went gaily 
 forward, and the hall of the banquet seemed more 
 than usually thronged with brilliant dresses. 
 
 *' Now% at least, cousin Margaret," said Sir Ulick, 
 in a gentle voice, " we may promise ourselves bet- 
 ter times. Our fathers seem better agreed at 
 every interview ; and so nearly do their tempers 
 harmonize that I am sure it needed but an earlier 
 intimacy to render them as fervent friends as 
 they have been strenuous — Hark ! What is that 
 noise?" 
 
 While he spoke,*the sounds of mirth were in- 
 terrupted in a startling manner by loud and angr}^ 
 voices at the end of the hall which was occupied 
 by the Lord Deput}' and other chieftains of every 
 party. Before time was given for question or re- 
 ply, the wordy clamor v/as exchanged for the 
 clash of weapons, and in an instant the scene of 
 merriment was changed to a spectacle of horror 
 and affright. The music ceased, the dance was 
 broken up, and the women shrieked ; while of the 
 
TJie Ravtiis Nest. 49 
 
 men, some joined the combatants, whom others 
 thought to separate by flinging cloaks, scarfs, caps, 
 and various articles of dress across the glancing 
 weapons. A truce was thus enforced ; and Sir 
 Ulick learned with indignation that the hot-blood- 
 ed Geraldine had struck his father. The news 
 soon spread into the streets, where a strife began 
 that was not so easily to be appeased. The fol- 
 lowers of the Geraldine, whose hearts were never 
 with the treaty of submission, seemed glad of the 
 occasion given to break it off. They fell upon the 
 citizens, Avho were not slow in fijdng to their wea- 
 pons, and a scene of tumult ensued which made 
 the streets re-echo from the riverside to the hills. 
 The Geraldines were driven from the cit}^ not 
 without loss, and their chieftain found himself on 
 horseback without the walls, and further from the 
 ro3^al countenance than ever. He was with diffi- 
 culty able to rescue hrs daughter, who, on the first 
 sound of strife, had immediately placed herself by 
 his side. 
 
 The war now recommenced with redoubled fury. 
 The Lord Deputy received orders from London 
 to have the Geraldine taken, dead or alive, and set 
 his head, according to the fashion of those times, 
 upon the castle gate. In obedience to these in- 
 structions, which needed not the concurrence of 
 his ov/n hearty good-will, Kildare marched an 
 army to the south, and, after several engagements, 
 laid siege to Geraldine in one of his strongest 
 castles. The ruins still occupy a solitar}^ crag, 
 
50 J^'-'^^f Hours ivitfi I fish Authors, 
 
 surrounded b}^ a rushy marsh, at a little distance 
 from New Auburn. The place was naturally 
 strong ; and the desperation of the besieged made 
 it impregnable. After several fruitless efforts, at- 
 tended by severe loss to the assailants, to possess 
 themselves of the castle by storm, it v/as placed in 
 a state of blockade, and the Lord Deput}^ encamp- 
 ing in the neighborhood, left famine to complete 
 the work which his arms had failed to accomplish. 
 
 With different feelings, Sir Ulick, who held a 
 subordinate command in the army of his father, 
 beheld the days run b}^ which Vv^ere to end in the 
 surrender, or (as was more probable, from the 
 Avell-known character of the Geraldine) in the 
 destruction and death of- the besieged. Two 
 months rolled on, and there appeared no symptom 
 on the part of the latter that indicated a desire to 
 come to terms. Such, likewise, was the fidelity 
 Avith vvhich those feudal chiefs were served by 
 their followers, that not a single deserter escaped 
 from the castle to reveal the real state of its de- 
 fenders. The}^ appeared upon the battlement as 
 hearty and as well accoutred as on the first day 
 of the blockade. 
 
 Meantime there was no lack of spirit in the 
 castle. The storehouse was well supplied for a 
 blockade of many months, and the Geraldine de- 
 pended much on a letter he had sent beneath the 
 wings of a carrier-pigeon to a distant part of Des- 
 mond. The days passed merrily betweeu watch- 
 ing and amusement, and the frequent sounds of 
 
The Raveii s Nest. 51 
 
 mirth and dancing from witliin showed that the 
 besieged where thinking of something else besides 
 giving up the fortress. 
 
 One evening, INIargaret, retiring to her chamber, 
 gave orders to her woman to attend her. The 
 latter obeyed, and was employed in assisting her 
 lady to undress, when the following conversation 
 passed between them : 
 
 '^ You have not since discovered by vvdiom the 
 letter was left in the eastern bolt-hole?" 
 
 The woman answered in the nesrative. 
 
 "• Take this," said Margaret, handing the mjaid 
 a small wooden tablet, as white as snow, except 
 v\^here it was marked by her own neat characters 
 — "take this, and lay it exactl}^ where the former 
 was deposited. Yet stay ! Let me compare the 
 notes again, to be sure that 1 have worded mine 
 answer aright: * Sweet INIargaret: Be persuaded 
 by one who loves thy welfare. Let thy sweet 
 voice urge the Geraldine to give up the fortress 
 which he must yield perforce ere long, and with 
 sorer loss perchance than that of life and property. 
 Thy friendly enemy, unknown." Well said, 
 my friendly enemy, not quite, perhaps, so un- 
 know^n as thou esteemest. Now for mine answer: 
 ' Kind friendly enemy : Thine eloquences will 
 be much better spent on Kildare, in urging 
 him to raise the siege, than my poor accents on 
 the stubborn Geraldine. Wherefore I commend 
 thee to thy task, and warn to beware of my kins- 
 men's bills, which, how shrewdiv they can bite, 
 
52 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 none oiig-ht to know better than the Lord Deputy 
 and his followers. Thy thankful foe," 
 
 The tablet was laid on the \vindo\v, and dis- 
 appeared in tlie course of the night. On that 
 which followed, while jMargaret and her maid 
 were occupied, as before, in preparing for rest, a 
 noise at the window aroused the attention of the 
 mistress, and struck the woman mute with terror. 
 Dismissing the latter into the sleeping-chamber, 
 which lay adjacent, and carefully shutting the 
 door, the daughter of the Geraldine advanced to 
 the window, and unbarred the curtained lattice. 
 A brilliant moon revealed the lake, in the midst 
 ot which the castle rose upon the summit of a rock, 
 the guarded causeway b}^ which it was connect- 
 ed with the shore, tlte distant camp of Kildare, 
 and the tranquil v/oods and hills extending far 
 around. Beneath her, on the rock, appeared a 
 figure, the identity of which she could not for an 
 instant mistake ; but how it came thither, to what 
 intent, and wherefore undetected, was more than 
 she had skill to penetrate. Perhaps, like a second 
 Leander, he had braved the waves with no other 
 oar than his own vigorous limbs. But the stern 
 of a little currach, peeping from beneath the 
 overhanging rock, gave intimation that Sir Ulick 
 (for he indeed it v/as) knew a trick worth two of 
 Leander's. Waving his hand to Margaret, he 
 ascended the formidable crag which still separat- 
 ed him from the window of her apartment, and 
 came even within whispering distance. He did 
 
The Raven's Nest. 53 
 
 but come to be sure that she at least was not in 
 want of food. It so happened that this side of the 
 rock alone was unguarded, being supposed im- 
 pregnable from the steepness of its ascent, as well 
 as of that of the opposing shore. Sir UHck, how- 
 ever, gliding under the shadow of the distant cliff, 
 and only venturing to dart for the isle when the sky 
 was darkest, had already visited it for three suc- 
 cessive nights, and seemed, at every new venture, 
 more secure of his secret. The alarm of Margaret, 
 however, was excessive. The discovery of an in- 
 tercourse would be certain death to one or both ; 
 for the Geraldine, in a case of treason, whether 
 real or apparent, would not spare his nearest blood. 
 The same, as Sir Ulick was himself aware, was 
 true of the Lord Deputy. Made bold, however 
 by impunity, he quieted the lady's fears, and with- 
 out much difficulty communicated to her mind 
 the security of his own. His visits were continu- 
 ed for a week without interruption; after which 
 period, the fair Geraldine observed with per- 
 plexity and uneasiness that they terminated ab- 
 ruptly, nor did she for an equal space of time see 
 or hear anything that could account for this sud- 
 den disappearance of her accomplished friend. 
 
 One night, as she sat in her window, looking out 
 with the keenest anxiety for the little wicker skiff, 
 she observed, with a thrill of eagerness and de- 
 light, some dark object gliding close beneath the 
 cliffs upon the opposite shore. The unclouded 
 brightness of the moon, however, prevented the 
 
54 ^(■'i^f Hours 7vith Irish Authors. 
 
 approach of the boat; and her suspense had reach- 
 ed a painful height, before the sk_y grew dark. 
 At length a friendly cloud extended its veil be- 
 neath the face of the unwelcome satellite ; and in 
 a few minutes the plash of oars, scarce louder tnan 
 the ripple of the wavelets against the rock, gave 
 token to the watchful ear of Margaret of the 
 arrival of the long-expected knight. A figure 
 ascends the rock ; the lattice is unbarred; there 
 is sufficient light to peruse the form and features 
 of the stranger. It is not Sir Ulicl<:, but Thomas 
 Butler, ih.Q fidus Achates and only confidant of the 
 youthful knight. 
 
 ''What, Thomas, is it thou? VvHiere is thy 
 lord?" 
 
 " Ah ! lady, it is all over with Sir Ulick ! " 
 
 '' How sayest thou ?" 
 
 *' He is taken, lady, by the Lord Deputy's 
 servants, and stands condemned in the article of 
 treason." 
 
 These dreadful tidings, acting on spirits already 
 depressed by a sudden disappointment, proved 
 too much for Margaret's strength, and she fainted 
 away in the window. On reviving, she obtained 
 from Thomas a full detail of the circumstances 
 which had occurred to Sir Ulick since his last 
 appearance at the island, and the cause in which 
 they had their origin. 
 
 About a week before, the Lord Deputy was 
 sitting at evening in his tent, when a scout arrived 
 to solicit a private audience. It was granted ; 
 
The Raven s Nest. 55 
 
 and the man averred that he had discovered the 
 existence of a treasonable comn:iunication between 
 the inhabitants of the island and the shore. In his 
 indignation at this announcement, Kildare made 
 a vow that the w^retch, whoever he was, should 
 be cast alive into the Raven's Nest ; and appoint- 
 ed a party to v/atch on the following night on the 
 shore beside the cliffs, for the return of the traitor 
 from the rock. Having given the men strict 
 mjunctions to bring the villain bound before him 
 the instant he should be apprehended, he ordered 
 a torch to be lighted in his tent, and remained up 
 to avv'ait the issue. 
 
 Towards morning, footsteps were heard ap- 
 proaching the entrance of the tent. The sentinel 
 challenged, and admitted the party. The astonish- 
 ment of Kildare may be conceived, when, in the 
 fettered and detected traitor, against whom he 
 had been fostering his liveliest Vv^ratb, he beheld 
 his gallant son, the gay and heroic Ulick ! The 
 latter did not deny that he had made several night- 
 ly visits to the island ; but denied with scorn the 
 imputation of treasonable designs, although he 
 refused to give any account of what his real mo- 
 tives were. After long endeavoring, no less by 
 menace than entreat}^ to induce him to reveal 
 the truth, the Lord Deputy addressed him vrith 
 a kindness which affected him more than his 
 severity. 
 
 'T believe thee, Ulick," he said; ''I am sure 
 thou art no traitor. Nevertheless, thv father 
 
56 Hcilf Hours zvitJi Irish Authors, 
 
 must not be thy judge. Go plead thy cause be- 
 fore the Lords of Council, and see if they will 
 yield thee as ready a credit. I fear thou wilt find 
 it otherwise ; but thou hast thyself to blame." 
 
 A court was formed in the course of a few days 
 consisting of Kildare himself, as resident, and 
 a few of the Council, who w^ere summoned for the 
 purpose. The facts proved before them were 
 those already stated ; and Sir Ulick persisted in 
 maintaining the same silence with respect to his 
 designs or motives as he had done before his 
 father. It seemed impossible, under such cir- 
 cumstances, to acquit him ; and, having received 
 the verdict of the court, the Lord Deputy gave 
 orders for the fulfilment of his 'dreadful vow. 
 
 On the night after his sentence, his attendant, 
 Thomas Butler, obtained permission to visit him 
 in his dungeon ; and received a hint from Kildare, 
 as he granted it, that he w^ould not fare the w^orse 
 for drawing his master's secret from him. Ulick, 
 however, was inflexible. Fearing the danger to 
 Margaret's life, no less than to her reputation, he 
 maintained his resolution of suffering the sentence 
 to be executed, without further question. '' The 
 Lords of Council," he said, '' were as well aware 
 of his services to the king's government as he could 
 make them ; and, if those services w^ere not suffi- 
 cient to procure him credit in so slight a matter, 
 he would take no further pains to earn it." 
 
 Disappointed and alarmed, on the eve of the 
 morning appointed for the execution, Thomas 
 
The Raven s Nest. 57 
 
 Butler, at the hazard of his life, determined to seek 
 the lady Margaret herself, and acquaint her with 
 what had occurred. The daughter of Geraldine 
 did not hesitate long about the course she should 
 pursue. Wrapping a man's cloak around her 
 figure, with the hood (for in those days, fair read- 
 er, the gentlemen wore hoods) over her head, 
 she descended fi-om the window, and succeeded 
 in reaching the boat. A few minutes' rapid row- 
 ing brought them to the shore. It was already 
 within an hour of dawn, and the sentence \s^as to 
 be completed before sunrise. Having made fast 
 the currach in a secret place, they proceeded 
 amongst crag and copse in the direction of the 
 Raven's Nest. The dismal chasm was screened 
 b}^ a group of alder and brushwood, which con- 
 cealed it from the view until the passenger ap- 
 proached its verj^ brink. As they came within 
 view of the place, the sight of gleaming spears 
 and yellow uniforms amongst the trees made the 
 heart of INIargaret sink with apprehension. 
 
 " Run on before, good Thomas !" she exclaimed ; 
 " delay their horrid purpose but a moment. Say 
 one approaches who can give information of the 
 whole." 
 
 The fetters, designed no more to be unbound, 
 were already fastened on the wrists and ankles 
 of the 3^oung soldier when his servant arrived, 
 scarce able to speak for w'eariness, to stay the 
 execution. He had discovered, he said, the v/hole 
 conspiracy, and there was a witness coming on 
 
58 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 who could reveal the object and the motive of the 
 traitors, for there were more than one. At the 
 same instant, Margaret appeared, close vv'rapt in 
 her cloak, to confirm the statement of Butler. At 
 the request of the latter, the execution was delaj^ed 
 while a courier was despatched to the Lord 
 Deput}'- with intellig-ence of the interruption that 
 had taken place. In a few minutes he returned, 
 bringing a summons to the whole party to appear 
 before the Lords of Council. They corapUed 
 without dela}', none being more perplexed than 
 Sir Ulick himself at the meaning of this strange 
 announcement. 
 
 On arriving in the camp, the unknown infor- 
 mant entreated to be heard in private by the 
 Council. The request was granted ; and iNLargaret, 
 still closel}^ veiled, vvas conducted to the hall in 
 wliich the judge sat. On being commanded to 
 uncover her head, she replied : 
 
 '' jNIy lords, I trust the tale I have to tell may 
 not require that I should make known the person 
 of the teller. JNIy Lord Deputy, to you the drift 
 of my story must have the nearest concern. 
 When you bade the Geraldine to your court of 
 Dublin, he was accompanied by an only daughter, 
 INIargaret, Vv'hom your son Ulick saw and loved. 
 He was not without confessing his affection, and 
 I am well assured that it was not unanswered. 
 <3n the very evening, my Lord Deputy, before 
 that most unhappy affray which led to 3^our dis- 
 union, and to the dissolution of our — of Sir Ulick's 
 
The Raven s Nest, 
 
 59 
 
 hopes, a mutual avowal 'had been made, and a 
 mutual pledge of faith (modestly, my lords) ex- 
 changed, always under the favor of our — of the 
 noble parents of the twain. My Lords, 1 have it 
 under proof that the visits of Sir Ulick v/ere 
 made to the Lady Margaret, that to no other 
 individual of the castle were they knov/n, and 
 that no weightier converse ever passed between 
 them than such silly thoughts of youthful affection 
 as may not be repeated before grave and reverend 
 ears like those to which I speak." 
 
 '' i\nd what ma}^ be thy proof, stranger?" said 
 the Lord Deputy, with a tenderness of voice 
 Vv'hich showed the anxiet}^ her tale excited in his 
 mind. 
 
 " The w^ord of Margaret Fitzgerald," replied 
 the Vvdtness, as she dropped the mantle from her 
 shoulders. 
 
 The apparition of the Geraldine's daughter in 
 the council-chamber gave a wonderful turn to 
 the proceedings. Kildare was the first to speak. 
 He arose from his seat, and, approaching the spot 
 vrhere the spirited 3-oung maiden stood, took her 
 hand with kindness and affection. 
 
 "In truth, sweet kinswoman," he said, "thou 
 hast staked a sufficient testimony. And to be 
 sure that it be so with all, as it be with Kildare, I 
 promise thee to back it with my svv'ord*; and it 
 shall go hard but th}^ honest-hearted speech shall 
 save the Geraldine, his lands and tovv^ers to boot. 
 My lords, T think I see by your countenances, that 
 
6o t^i-i^f Hours zi'iih Irish Authors. 
 
 you deem the lad)^'s tale a truth. Then summon 
 Ulick hither, and let a flag of truce be sent to the 
 Geraldine, to let him know that his child is in safe- 
 keeping. The Raven's Nest has taught me what 
 he feels." 
 
 The chroniclers of New Auburn conclude their 
 story b}^ relating that the promise of the Lord 
 Deputy was fulfilled ; that the affection of the 
 heroic pair received the sanction of their parents ; 
 and that, whenever afterwards in their wedded 
 life a cloud seemed gathering at their castle 
 hearth, the recollection of the Raven's Nest was 
 certain to bring sunshine to the hearts of both. 
 
SIR BOWLING O'HARTIGAN. 
 
 "Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day 
 When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ; 
 For the field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And the clans of Culloden are scattered in flight." 
 
 LochieVs Warning. 
 
 AMONG the bravest of the followers of the 
 celebrated Prince Murrough O'Brien, whose 
 valor and devotion are not forgotten on his native 
 soil, was a knight named Sir Dowling O'Harti- 
 gan, w^hose character, like that of all the brighter 
 ornaments of Irish chivalry, was a mixture of 
 northern honor, of oriental fervor and devotion, 
 and of the deepest and sincerest religions feeling. 
 In reading the accounts of other days, the pride 
 of modern times takes umbrage at the profound 
 humihty Avhich is traced out amid the glorious 
 workings of old heroic zeal, and the sordid levity 
 of our commercial temperament is ready to scoff 
 at the deeply seated and unselfish devotion which 
 gave to the chivalry of the middle ages more 
 tlian half its grandeur. In those days, the heart 
 of mankind was still profoundly impressed \vith 
 those great truths which, by keeping continually 
 before the mind the transitory nature of all earthly 
 
62 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 thing's, are best calculated to detach it from the 
 baser interests, to elevate its desires, and enlarge 
 its views. But what, gentlemen, has a character 
 of the middle ages to do with my story ? And I 
 feel conscious indeed of a somewhat ponderous 
 commencement for a mere fairy tale; for such, 
 after all, is the legend of Sir Bowling O'Hartigan. 
 Everj^body who knows anything of Irish his- 
 tor}^ must have heard of Brian Boru. This we 
 assume as a postulate, without- which we can 
 proceed no further. It is equally notorious that 
 in the course of his reign he met Vv^ith no little 
 annoyance from those unruly neighbors called the 
 Danes, who had now for more than three centuries 
 exercised a barbarous t3'ranny over the original 
 inhabitants of the isle ; sometimes carrying 
 it with a high hand, and sometimes suffering 
 severely in the efforts made by the latter to rid 
 themselves of their unfeeling assailants. Amongst 
 the most distinguished of those native warriors 
 who endeavored to aid the Ard-Righ, or Arch- 
 kin2f Brian in his battles asrainst the lawless 
 Scandinavian, was the knight whose name I have 
 adopted as the title of my legend. None wielded 
 the lann or the battle-axe with a more fatal skill; 
 none stood more firm in the fight; and none 
 appeared so indifferent to the reputation which 
 his deeds had v/on him, as Sir Dowling O'Harti- 
 gan. He fought not for fame, nor power, nor 
 wealth, nor for Txwy selfish end, but purely for his 
 dutv — duty to his prince, to his country, and to 
 
Sir Dozi'ling O' Hartigan. 6^ 
 
 heaven ! Thus despising death, not from animal 
 temperament alone, or the greediness of ambition, 
 but on the principles of right reason, his valor was 
 as constant and steadfast as it was heroic. 
 
 It was a few da3^s before the famous battle of 
 Clontarf, in which the venerable monarch gave 
 his enemies a final overthrow, and lost his own 
 life, that Prince Murrough received the orders 
 of the Ard-Righ to be present, with all the force 
 he could muster, at the royal camp within a stated 
 time. At the moment v/hen the royal order 
 arrived. Sir Dowling O'Hartigan was seated at 
 the table of the prince. He immediately rose, 
 and requested permission to return to his own 
 home, in order to muster all the force he could 
 command, and to bid adieu to his wife and family ; 
 for it was foreseen that many a warrior Vv^ouid leave 
 home for the approaching contest who might never 
 return. The prince gave him permission to 
 depart, after requesting him to be punctual as 
 to the day of joining them with his force. 
 
 Night had fallen before Sir Dowling reached 
 the dreary wilds of Burrin, in which his house 
 was situated. The sky was dark and stormy, and 
 the knight commanded his footboy, or daltin 
 (whose duty it ordinarily was to run by his master's 
 side, holding the stirrup), to mount on his crupper, 
 and to keep his seat as well as he might behind 
 him. Thus doubly freighted, it was matter of 
 wonder to master and squire with how much life 
 and vigor the little hobby continued its journej/. 
 
64 Half Hours ivitk Irish Authors. 
 
 It was interrupted, however, in rather a singular 
 manner. At a gloomy turn in the road the hob- 
 by stopped with so much suddenness, that the 
 two riders, were it not for Sir Dow ling's supe- 
 rior horsemanship, would, by the impetus of their 
 own motion, have continued their journey home- 
 ward in the air for at least a yard or two beyond 
 the hobby's head. Still as a stone statue stood 
 the animal, seeming neither to hear the voice of 
 the knight, nor to feel the still more cogent remon- 
 strances which were applied with profusion both 
 to rib and flank. 
 
 '* You might as well let him alone, Sir Dowling," 
 said the daltin. 
 
 " Why do you think so, Duach ?" 
 
 '' Because Ireland wouldn't make her stir now. 
 There's something near us, masther, that's not 
 good." 
 
 '' Foolish being !" said the knight ; *' descend 
 and see what is the matter." 
 
 " Me ! me get down !" exclaimed Duach ; *' I 
 had rather face a whole cath of the Loch-Lannoch.* 
 Masther, asthore, get down A^ourself, since you 
 ar'n't in dread of them." 
 
 Sir Dowling complied, compassionating the 
 weakness of his attendant, and giving the reins to 
 the awe-struck daltin. Advancing a few paces, 
 he beheld, by the faint light which the stormy sky 
 afforded, the figure of a woman in a sitting posture 
 on the right-hand side of the road, with the hood 
 
 * A name given to the Northern pirates 
 
Sir Doivling O' Hartigan. 65 
 
 of her cloak turned over her head, and her arms 
 clasped in an attitude of profound affliction. 
 
 ''Who's there?" exclaimed Sir Dowlinof in a 
 peremptory tone. 
 
 There was no repl3\ 
 
 " Speak !" said the knight. " If 3'ou be in sorrow, 
 tell your sorrow ; if not, retire and let my hobby 
 pass the road." 
 
 Still neither sound nor motion on the part of the 
 hooded figure gave sign of attention or of com- 
 pliance, and it was not until the knight added 
 menace to his words that he was able to procure 
 an answer. 
 
 "You're like the rest of the world," said the 
 woman, slowly revealing in the faint light her 
 worn and wrinkled features, " that never knows 
 its friends." 
 
 " Is that Nora?" asked Sir Dowling, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " It is. Ah ! Sir Dowling, a'ra gal, I'm in trou- 
 ble." 
 
 '' Upon what account, Nora ?" asked the knight. 
 
 '' I'll tell you, then. Do you know that lake you 
 used to be so fond of fishing in when you used to 
 go to visit your relations in the county Galway ?" 
 
 "Do you mean Lough Ennel ?" 
 
 " The very same." 
 
 "I do, indeed," replied the knight. "Many a 
 pleasant day and moonlight night I spent upon 
 the banks or on its waters. It was a fine lake for 
 fish." 
 
^ Half Hours zvitJi Irish Aitihors. 
 
 "Well, a'ra gal, you'll never spend another there, 
 except you go to the county Westmeath for it." 
 
 '' To the county Westmeath !" exclaimed Sir 
 Dowling, in astonishment. 
 
 "To the county Westmeath, achree. 'Tis 
 there Lough Ennel is now, and there it will re- 
 main, I'm very much in dread." 
 
 " Nonsense !" said the knight ; " did I not see it 
 with my own eyes the last time I was in Gal way, 
 and didn't I send the prince a basket of the finest 
 trout he ever tasted, that I took in the ver}^ mid- 
 dle of it with my own hands? \Vhat nonsense!" 
 said the kniglit. " How could it be in the county 
 Westmeath?" 
 
 "Oh! then, through nothing in the world, only 
 my folly," said the old woman, " that couldn't but 
 go lend it to an old neighbor of mine, a decent 
 w^oman, as I thought her, that lives in those parts, 
 and now she w^on't return- it." 
 
 "Well, Nora," said Sir Dowling, " I'm surpris- 
 ed at you. Is it possible? A woman of your 
 sense to go lend such a lake as that I And sure 
 you ought to know them Leinster people before 
 now, how hard it is to get anything from them. 
 There's hardly an Ard-Righ we had this length of 
 time but was heart-broken with them, trying to 
 get their tribute. I thought you'd have had more 
 sense, Nora." 
 
 " Oh ! then," said the old woman, " who'd ever 
 think that she'd serve me such a trick? Last 
 summer twelvemonth, she sent over to mc her 
 
Sir Dowling O' Hartigaii. 6^ 
 
 compliments, and slie'd be obliged to me for the 
 loan, of a lake for a little while — Vv^estmeath being 
 an inland place, where it was very hard to get 
 iish, and she knew that I couldn't miss it much, as 
 Connaught was bordering upon the sea-coast — and 
 that she'd return it faithfully on the first Monday 
 of the month. Well, I didn't like to refuse her, 
 for she has greater power than I have, and might 
 do me some mischief; so I took Lough Ennel, and 
 rolled it up in an apron, and sent it off to her, 
 with my compliments, and that I was happy to 
 have it in my power to accommdate her. She 
 kept the lake ; and the first Monday of the month 
 came, and the first Monday after, and she never 
 sent it home, and little thanks she gave me when 
 I sent for it, neither. I waited as long as I had 
 patience to wait, but not a sight of Lough Ennel 
 did I see from that day to this." 
 
 '' And you are going to look after it now ?" said 
 Sir Dowling. 
 
 *' I'm going now to look after it," replied the 
 witch; ''but indeed I'm afraid it is little good 
 for me. This is my thanks for being obliging." 
 
 I may remark that old Nora was right in her 
 apprehensions, as may be ascertair^ed by reference 
 to Shaw Mason's Topography, or the Collectanea; 
 for there lies Lough Ennel to this day in the 
 middle of the county Westmeath, whose inhabi- 
 tants continue to enjoy the fruits, or rather the 
 fishes, of the old woman's dishonesty, while tbe 
 poor Galway mountaineer stands often supperless 
 
6S Half Hours wUh Irish Authors. 
 
 upon the heights of Farmoyle, and overlooks the 
 wide and barren flat where once Lousfh Ennel 
 basked and tumbled in the sun. It is true that 
 the time of possession specified in the Statute of 
 Limitations has long since expired : but there are 
 points in this case which render it a peculiar one, 
 and I have no doubt that a Chancery injunction 
 might readily be obtained to prevent any intermed- 
 dlins: with the fish until the case should have been 
 fairly argued in equity, and finally adjudged. 
 
 '' But this," continued old Nora, '' is not the 
 only nor the principal cause of my trouble. I 
 had rather all the lakes in Galway were in West- 
 meath than to hear what I heard to-night, and to 
 know what I know." 
 
 ** What did you hear>" enquired Sir Dowling. 
 
 "I heard thousands of Irish wives and mothers 
 lamentins: over the slain and wounded in the 
 battle of Clontarf." 
 
 *' You heard them lamenting," said the knight, 
 '^ for a calamity which did not yet take place." 
 
 '' But it is certain," said the woman. *' When 
 the oak shall be levelled by the storm, what will 
 become of the underwood ? You know not what 
 this means now, but you will if you should live 
 another week." 
 
 " Explain yourself plainly," said Sir Dov,ding. 
 '' Whatever be the issue, it is better I should be 
 prepared for it. I am to join the standard of 
 Prince Murrough at the battle, and I am now 
 returning to take leave of my family and friends." 
 
Sir Dozi'ling O' HartigcDi. 69 
 
 The woman remained silent for some moments, 
 and then suddenly said : 
 
 ''Return and collect your force, and meet me 
 here to-morrow evening- an hour before midnight 
 ■ — alone — and be sure you do not fail." ^ 
 
 With these words she disappeared, and Sir 
 Dowling O'Hartigan, in much perplexity, con- 
 tinued his journey. He arrived at his castle, 
 arranged his temporal affairs, and made the 
 necessary preparation becoming one who was 
 about to encounter imminent danger. On the fol- 
 lowing day, having bid adieu to those amongst 
 his friends who were to remain behind, he set 
 forward at the head of a strong party, horse and 
 foot, with whom he encamped after nightfall 
 within a short distance of the place of meeting. 
 
 About an hour before midnight, Sir Dowling, 
 throwing his war-cloak around him, advanced to 
 the rendezvous, where he found old Nora already 
 expecting him, with an air of deeper anxiet}^ and 
 apprehension than she had shown the night before. 
 
 " Are you resolved. Sir Dowling," she said, " to 
 join the standard of O'Brien at Clontarf ?" 
 
 " Is my prince to be there," said Sir Dowling, 
 '' and shall I not be there ?' 
 
 " Beware !" 
 
 ''Of what?" 
 
 " I passed the field last evening, and the color 
 of death was upon the sod." 
 
 ** The Men of the Cold Hills, mother, shall 
 make that^vision good." 
 
yo V/^?// Hours -u'li/i. Irish AiitJiors. 
 
 " Beware I" said the old woman again, elevat- 
 ing her finger with a warning look. " Death reaps 
 his harvest without regard to the equality of the 
 grain— the weed and the whcat»ear together fall 
 beneath his sickle. He is a blast that blov/s its 
 poison indiscriminately upon all that is fair and all 
 •that is hideous on the earth — the tender floweret 
 of the spring that faints, and shrinks, and fades be- 
 neath a vv^ind too chill ; and the marble rock that 
 accumulates its bulk forages, and, when its date is 
 reached, rots atom after atom into the embrace of 
 the grim destroyer, are both alike his victims. The 
 ape that gibbers on the bough, and the sage that 
 meditates beneath the shade — the coward that 
 skulks behind a fence, and the warrior that braves 
 him in the daylight — the eagle in the plains of air, 
 and the wren upon the summ.cr spray — the lion 
 in the bosom of the woods, and the hare that 
 glides in the moonlight — the leviathan with the 
 caves of the ocean, and the starhsh spangling the 
 wave upon its surface ; nay, even the very ele- 
 ments that feed those million shades and rich 
 varieties of life, are all subjected to, and must 
 at some time feel, his power. In the deepest 
 shades, in the heart of the densest substances, 
 there is no escaping that pervading principle 
 of ruin. His wings overshadow the universe, 
 and his breath penetrates to the centre. The 
 tears of the forlorn and the bereaved, the sigh 
 of the widow and orphan, move him not, he 
 has no capability of relenting ; to him the Loch 
 
Sir Dowli)ig O' Ilariigan. yi 
 
 Lannoch and the children oF the Dal Gais are 
 alike." 
 
 '' Vv^hatever be my fate," said Sir Dowling, '' I 
 will never leave a tarnished reputation after rae. 
 The war-cry of the Strong- Hand '- shall never find 
 Sir Dowlins; slow to second it. But tell me if 
 those fatal indications which look on you from the 
 future point directly at m}^ life, or at that of my 
 prince?" 
 
 " I can only answer for 3'our own," said the 
 hag ; ''and I cannot even guess at your fate with- 
 out 3^our own assistance. Go to the top of yon^ 
 der hill, and tell me Avhat you see." 
 
 Sir Dowling O'Hartigan obeyed, and in a short 
 time returned to the place where he had left the 
 old woman. 
 
 "■ I have seen," said he, " a woman clothed in 
 saffron, and with golden ornaments upon her neck 
 and shoulders." 
 
 ''The sign is fatal," said the old woman, shak- 
 ing her head; "go again, and go to the other 
 side of the hill." 
 
 Again he went, and again he came. 
 
 " I have seen," said he, " a woman clothed in 
 white, and wearing silver ornaments." 
 
 " More fatal yet," exclaimed the hag, with a 
 still more ominous shake of the head ; " go yet 
 once more, and take the vv^estern side of the 
 ascent." 
 
 * He alludes to the motto of the O'Briens—" i:.i;«/t Laidler a ho^ " or, " The 
 Strong Hand for ever ! " 
 
*J2 Half Hours -with Irish Authors. 
 
 A third time Sir Bowling went, and a third 
 time did Sir Dowlino- O'Hartis^an return. 
 
 " I have seen," said he, '' a woman clothed in 
 black, and w^earing no ornament wdiatever." 
 
 *' It is completed then," said the woman ; " and 
 your fate, if 3'ou should join the fight at Clontarf, 
 is fixed beyond all doubt. You die upon the 
 field." 
 
 *' I know not how^ that ma}^ be," answered the 
 knight, '^ but I am sure I shall be w^ith my prince, 
 wherever he is." 
 
 '* Abstain from the fi^eld, Sir Dovvding," said the 
 v/oman, lookinsf on him wdth much earnestness. 
 " I was present when 3'ou received in your boy- 
 hood the order of knighthood. The w^ icker shield 
 w'as hung up in the centre of the field, and 3^ou 
 were provided with your lance. 1 saw you shiver 
 shaft after shaft from blade to hilt, wdiile the 
 plains rang wath acclamations, and the ancient 
 warriors tossed their beards in w^onder at the vi- 
 gor of so young an arm. From that day to this I 
 ever loved 3'our welfare, and I pra3^ 3'ou now con- 
 sult it bv remaining from the field of Clontarf." 
 
 Sir Bowling, how^ever, v/ould b3^ no means 
 listen to her dishonorable though friendl3^ solici- 
 tations. He became so impatient of those unw^or- 
 thy suggestions that he turned his back at 
 length, and w-as about to depart in considerable 
 wrath. 
 
 '' Stay, Sir Bowling ! " exclaimed the witch ; 
 ''although I cannot chancre the nature of the 
 
Si}' Dozvling O^ Hartiga7i. 73 
 
 prophecy, I will do my utmost to prolong your 
 life. Take this cloak — it has the power of" ren- 
 dering those who wear it invisible to the eyes of 
 others. If it cannot avert the fate that threatens 
 you, it may at least retard the term of its ap- 
 proach. But above all things, I warn you let 
 nothing ever induce 3'ou to resign the cloak until 
 the fight is at an end ; if you do, you are lost." 
 
 So saying, and flinging the filcad upon him, she 
 hobbled ofl', without waiting for thanks, and took 
 the way tovrards AVestmeath to recover her lost 
 lake, and to harangue the borrower about her 
 want of punctuality. 
 
 " It might be pardoned," she muttered to her- 
 self, as she moved along, ''if there were no other 
 lake in the county Westmeath but the one, 
 although even then the best that could be said of 
 them is that they came by it shabbily enough ; 
 but wdien they have Lough Iron, and Lough 
 Owhel, and Lough Devereragh, and Lough Lane, 
 and a good piece of Lough Ree ! — it is scandal- 
 ous and unneighborly, and I will not submit to it. 
 I'm sure it is we that ought to be borrowing lakes 
 out of Westmeath, and not they out of Galway." 
 
 Sir Dowling, in the meantime, returned. De- 
 sirous to ascertain whether old Nora's cloak did 
 in reality possess the wonderful virtue which she 
 ascribed to it, he paused at a little distance from 
 the first sentinels, and fastened it about his neck. 
 To his astonishment, he passed all the guards suc- 
 cessively, without receiving a single challenge, 
 
74 i^<:^U J^oiirs rcitJi Irish Authors.. 
 
 and reached his own quarters unobserved. Herjc 
 he found Duach lying haL^ asleep by the watch- 
 lire, which had been lighted for Sir Bowling's 
 use. Knowing his daltin to be one of those per- 
 sons who are sensible of scarcely an}- fear, except 
 that which is referred to a supernatural object, he 
 determined to put the power of the cfoak to a 
 still surer test. 
 
 *' Duach I " exclaimed Sir Bowling — " Buach, 
 awake ! " 
 
 The daltin started up, and gazed around. 
 
 *' Buach ! " continued the knight, '' here, take 
 my cloak and lann, and watch while I lie down 
 and take a few hours' sleep." 
 
 " Mercy on me 1 " exclaimed the daltin, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 " Bo you hear me, sirrah ? Have you lost 3'our 
 wits ? " 
 
 " Tis the master's voice ! " said Buach, rubbing 
 his eyes, and looking around on all sides ; '' but 
 where in the earthly universe is he ? " 
 
 *' Where am I, rogue ? Bo you not see me 
 standing close to you ? " 
 
 '' Well," cried Buach, *' I never was in trouble 
 till now ! " 
 
 At these words. Sir Bowling struck him pretty 
 smartly over the shoulders with his sheathed 
 sword. 
 
 " If you do not see me, you shall feel me, 
 sirrah," said the knight.^ 
 
 At this unexpected assault, Buach, v/ith a yell 
 
Sir Dozvling O^ Hartigaii. 75 
 
 that might have been heard across the Shannon, 
 turned short, and would have fled the camp, had 
 not Sir Dowling seized him by the skirt of his 
 saffron coat, and held him firm. At the same time 
 he undid the tie which made the mantle fast 
 about his own neck, and stood visibly before the 
 astonished daltin. 
 
 ** Well ! " exclaimed the latter, '' I often heard 
 of wonders, but if this doesn't flog all Munster, 
 it's no matter. Where in Europe were you, mas- 
 ter ? Or where do 3^ou come from ? Or is it to drop 
 out of the sky you did, or to rise out of the 
 ground, or what ? " 
 
 Nothing could exceed the amazement with 
 which Duach heard his master relate the inter- 
 view which he had with the old woman, and the 
 extraordinary virtue of the cloak which she had 
 lent him. 
 
 '' I'll tell you what it is. Sir Bowling," said the 
 daltin, '' I don't count it sufficient trial that the 
 guards and myself couldn't see you, for people 
 have often thick sight, and especially at night, 
 that way ; but w^ait till morning, and the first 
 shelling we pass where we'll see any pigs, you 
 can put it on. They say pigs can see the very 
 w^ind itself, so, if they don't see 3'ou, you may 
 depend your life upon the cloak." 
 
 vSir Bowling did not appear to think this test 
 essential to his purpose, and, on the following- 
 morning, he set forward, accompanied by his 
 force, to join the standard of the Ard-Righ. That 
 
yC) Half Hours ivith Irish AuiJiors. 
 
 monarch and his son, to whom he had deputed 
 the command of the royal army on this occasion, 
 were ah-eady on the field of battle when Sir 
 Dowling O'Hartigan arrived. Many circum- 
 stances combine to give a strong and lasting 
 interest to this brilliant day in Ireland's clouded 
 story. King Brian, who was seventy-six )'ears of 
 age when he ascended the throne, had, in the 
 course of twelve years ensuing, raised the condi- 
 tion of the island to a state of almost unexam- 
 pled prosperity, and acquired for himself the 
 character of a saint, a hero, and a sage. His 
 reign bears a closer resemblance to that of the 
 French St. Louis, or the English Alfred, than 
 that of any other Irish monarch whom we can 
 call to mind. Devoted himself to the cultivation 
 of letters and the practice of religion, he encour- 
 aged both by every means which the prerogative 
 of his station could afford. He founded many 
 churches, and added his influence to that of the 
 clergy in promoting a love of piety and virtue. 
 He conciliated the friendship of the independent 
 princes throughout the island by confirming their 
 ancient privileges, and aiding them in the en- 
 forcement of their authority. The success with 
 which his efforts to establish national peace and 
 harmony were attended has been celebrated in a 
 legend with which all are familiar who have read 
 the Irish melodies ; and, whatever be the truth of 
 the story, it bears testimony at least to the repu- 
 tation of the monarch with his subjects and their 
 
Sir Doivliiig O' Hariigan. yy 
 
 prosperit}'. At the close of his reign, however, 
 he had the affliction to combat with internal 
 treachery and foreign invasion. The annalists 
 tell us that Malmorda, the Righ, or inferior mon- 
 arch of Leinster, aided by twelve thousand Danes, 
 whom he had called in to aid him in his rebellious 
 enterprise, arose in arms against his sovereign. 
 The aged monarch w^as prompt in taking the field 
 against the traitor and his foreign allies, nor were 
 his subjects slow to second him. The field, when 
 Sir Dowling entered it, presented a striking and 
 animated spectacle. The Irish archers and sling- 
 ers, with their small Scythian bows and kranta- 
 bals; the gallow-glach heavily armed, with genu 
 and battle-axe ; and the shoals of kerne, distin- 
 guished by the hanging-cap, the ready skene at 
 the girdle, and javelin in the hand, were arra3'ed 
 between the royal tents and the rebel force. 
 Amongst these last the island costume was shame- 
 fully mingled with the chain armor of the invad- 
 ers, and the Irish poll-axe advanced in the same 
 cause with the ponderous Northern sparthe, 
 which had so often drunk the blood of the help- 
 less and unresisting in their towns and villages. 
 Mindful of old Nora's warning, Sir Dowling 
 O'Hartigan committed his men to the care of an 
 inferior officer, and, fastening the cloak around 
 his neck, passed, unobserved, to that part of the 
 field where Prince Murrough O'Brien was in the 
 act of persuading his age-stricken parent, the ven- 
 erable Priam of the dav, to retire from a scene in 
 
78' Half Hours luitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 which he could no longer afford assistance, and 
 to await in his tent the issue of the combat. The 
 monarch at length complied, and, bidding an 
 affectionate farewell to his children of two gener- 
 ations, who were about to risk all for his crown 
 and people, slowly retired from the field ; and at 
 the same instant Sir Dowling had the mortifica- 
 tion to hear the prince give utterance to an 
 exclamation of disappointment and surprise at 
 his nonappearance. 
 
 "It is the first' time," said Prince INIurrough, 
 " that I ever knew Sir Dowling O'Hartigan untrue 
 to his engagement." 
 
 The knight had much difficulty in restraining 
 himself from flinging away the cloak, and remov- 
 ing the uneasiness of his prince, but the Avarning 
 of Nora, and the fear that in the eagerness to 
 manifest his loyalty he might lose the power of 
 m.anifesting it in a more effectual way, enabled 
 him to control his inclinations. 
 
 The battle commenced, and Sir Dowling, tak- 
 ing his position near the prince, wrought prodigies 
 of valor in his defence. The prince and his immedi- 
 ate attendants beheld with astonishment Dane 
 after Dane, and traitor after traitor, fall mortally 
 wounded to the ground, and yet none could say by 
 whose weapon the blow was struck. More than 
 once, the prince, as if his own strength were so gi- 
 gantic that the mere intention of a blow on his part 
 were more destructive than the practical exertions 
 of another, saw his enemies fall prostrate at his feet 
 
Sir Doivling O' IIariiga7i. 79 
 
 when he had but lifted his sword into the air above 
 them. At length a Nordman of prodigious size 
 came bearing down upon the prince, hewing all 
 to pieces before him, and breaking the royal ranks 
 with the strength of a rhinoceros. At the very 
 instant when he had arrived within a sword's 
 length of Murrpugh O'Brien, and while the latter 
 Vfas in the act of lifting his shield in order to 
 resist his onset, to the astonishment of all, and 
 doubtless to his own, the head of the gigantic 
 Nordman rolled upon the grass. The prince 
 started back amazed. 
 
 ** These must be Sir Bowling's blows," he ex- 
 claimed, " and yet I do not see the man !" 
 
 " And what hand," cried Sir Dowling, flinging 
 aside the cloak in a transport of death-defying 
 zeal — '' whose hand has a better right than Sir 
 Bowling's to do the utmost for a son of Brian?" 
 
 He had scarcely given utterance to his v/ords, 
 when the sparthe of a Loch Lannoch, who stood 
 at some distance, came whistling through the air, 
 and transfixed him on the spot, the victim of his 
 own enthusiasm. The rest is known. The aged 
 monarch, the prince, and many of their house, and 
 four thousand of their followers shared the fate of 
 Sir Bowling O'Hartigan ; but their country was 
 redeemed in their destruction, for Clontarf did 
 more than " scotch" the Banish hydra. It v/as 
 never seen to raise one of its heads again in 
 Ireland. 
 
STORY-TELLER AT FAULT. 
 
 A TALE OF MAGIC. 
 
 AT the lime when the Tuatha Danans held the 
 sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in' 
 Leinster a king who was remarkably fond of 
 hearing stories. Like all the princes and chief 
 tains of the island at this early date, he had a 
 favorite Story-teller, according to the custom of 
 those times, who held a large estate from his 
 majesty, on condition of his telling him a new 
 story every night of his life, before he went to 
 sleep, and sometimes with the laudable purpose of 
 lulling him into that blissful condition. So inex- 
 haustible was the genius of the King of Leinster's 
 Story-teller that he had already reached a good 
 old age without failing even for a single night to 
 have a new story for the king ; and such was the 
 skill and tact which he displayed in their con- 
 struction that, whatever cares of state or other 
 annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, 
 one of his Story-teller's narratives Avas sure to 
 make him fall asleep. 
 
 In the course of his career, the Story-teller had 
 
The Story-Tdlcr at Fault. 8 1 
 
 married a wealthy and high-born lady, daughter 
 of a neighboring lord of that countr}^ with whom 
 he lived in peace and prosperity during many 
 years. There is nothing, however, in this world 
 which is not subject to decay or change, and even 
 the human mind, which, from its spiritual nature, 
 might well be supposed incorruptible, is doomed 
 to share the infirmities of the frame with which it 
 is so m3'steriously united. The progress of old 
 age began to produce a sensible influence on the 
 imagination of the Story-teller. His fancy grew 
 less brisk and active, and the king observed that 
 he began to diversity his incidents with a greater 
 number of moral and philosophical reflections than 
 he conceived to be necessary to the progress of 
 the narrative. However, he made no complaints, 
 as the Story-teller's reflections evinced a great deal 
 of judgment, and the grand object in view, that of 
 setting the king to sleep, was as perfectly accom- 
 plished by his philosophy as by his wit or invention. 
 
 Matters thus proceeded, the Story-teller grow- 
 ing older and older, and more and more philoso- 
 phical, and less and less fanciful, but he was yet 
 true to his eno:a2:ement, and never failed to have a 
 new story at nightfall for the king's amusement. 
 Every day, however, brought increasing indica- 
 tions of an intellectual crisis, which would not be 
 ver}^ distant. 
 
 One morning, the Story-teller arose early, and, 
 as his custom was, strolled out into his garden, and 
 through the adjacent fields, in order to turn over 
 
82 Half Hours zvitJi Irish Authors, 
 
 in his rnind some incidents which he misfht weave 
 into a story for the king at nig-ht. But this morn- 
 ing he found himself quite at fault; after pacing 
 his whole demesne, he retuimed to his house, 
 without being able to think of anything new or 
 strange. In vain he sent his fancy abroad, it 
 returned as empty as it left him. He found no 
 difhculty in proceeding as far as ** There was once 
 a king who had three sons," or ^* There lived in the 
 reign of Ollav Folia, " or '' One day the king of all 
 Ireland," but further than that he found it im- 
 possible to proceed. At length a servant came 
 to announce to him that breakfast was ready, and 
 his mistress waiting for him in the house. He 
 went in, and found his wife seated at the table, and 
 looking much perplexed at his delay. She was 
 not long observing the air of chagrin that over- 
 spread his countenance. 
 
 '' Why do you not come to breakfast, my 
 dear?" said his wife. 
 
 " I have no mind to eat anything," replied the 
 Story-teller. ** As long as I have been in the ser- 
 vice of the King of Leinster, I never yet sat down 
 to breakfast without having a new story to tell 
 him in the evening; but this morning my mind is 
 quite shut up, and I don't know what to do. I 
 might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be 
 disgraced for ever this evening, when the king 
 calls for his Storj^-teller." 
 
 *' That's strange," said the wife. '' Can't you 
 think of anvthing new at all ?" 
 
The Story-Tcllcr at Fault. 83 
 
 " Nothing whatever ; the door of my mind is 
 locked against it." 
 
 '* Nonsense !" said his wife. *' Can't you invent 
 something about a giant, or a dwarf, or a Bean 
 Mhor (huge woman), or a baoch (champion) from 
 foreign parts .^" 
 
 ** Oh ! it is easy enough to find heroes," replied 
 the Story-teller; '' but what am I to do with them 
 when I have them ? " 
 
 ^' And can't you invent anything at all? " 
 
 '' I cannot our estate is gone from us for ever ; 
 besides the open show that will be made of me 
 to-night at the palace." 
 
 When the Story-teller's wife heard this dread- 
 ful news, she broke into a fit of crying and weep- 
 ing, as if all her friends and relations were dead. 
 At length her husband prevailed on her to be 
 composed. 
 
 ■ " Well," said she, *' let us sit down to breakfast, 
 at any rate; the day is long yet, and may be 
 you'd think of something or another in the course 
 of it." 
 
 The Story-teller shook his head as if to inti- 
 mate his distrust of its contents, but sat down to 
 breakfast as his v/ife desired. W^hen all was 
 removed, and they had sat for awhile in silence : 
 
 '' Well," she asked, " do you think of anvthing 
 yet?" 
 
 " Not a pin's worth," said the Stor}- -teller. " I 
 might as well lie down and die at once." 
 
 '' Well, my dear," said the lady, 'Til tell you 
 
84 /A?^ Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 what you'll do. Order 3'our horses and chariot, 
 and let us take a good long drive, and may be 
 something might come into your head." 
 
 The Storj^-teller complied, and the chariot was 
 prepared. Two of his finest horses were har- 
 nessed in the carriage, and three favorite hounds 
 followed them. After driving a long distance, 
 they took the road homeward once more, and 
 toward evening, when they came within sight of 
 their own demesne, the lady again asked her hus- 
 band if he had yet thought of anything to tell the 
 king. 
 
 *' There is no use in my attempting it," he re- 
 plied, " I can think of nothing. I'm as far from 
 having anything new as I was Avhen we left 
 home." 
 
 At this moment, it happened that the lady saw 
 something dark at the end of a field at a little 
 distance from the road. 
 
 " My dear," said the wife, " do you see some- 
 thing black at the end of that field ? " 
 
 '* I do," replied her husband. 
 
 ** Let us drive towards it," said the wife, " and 
 perhaps it might be the means of putting some- 
 thing into your head which it would answer to 
 tell the king." 
 
 *' I'll do as you desire," replied the Story-teller, 
 " though I am sure it is no use for me." 
 
 They turned the horses' heads and drove in the 
 direction pointed out by the lady. When thev 
 drew nigh, thcv saw a miscrable-lookinof old man 
 
TJlc Siory-Tc'/Ier at Fault. 85 
 
 lying on the ground witli a wooden leg placed 
 beside him. 
 
 ''Who are 3'ou, my good man?" asked the 
 Story-teller. 
 
 *' Oh ! then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a 
 poor old lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sit- 
 ting down here to rest awhile." 
 
 *' And what are you doing with that box and 
 dice I see in 3^our hand ? " 
 
 " I am waiting here to see whether any one 
 would play a game with me," replied the old 
 bococh (beggar-man). 
 
 *' Play with yoii ? " exclaimed the Story-teller. 
 " Why, what has a poor old man like you to play 
 for?" 
 
 '' I have one hundred pieces of gold here in this 
 leathern purse," replied the old man. 
 
 '' Do you go down and play with him," said the 
 Story-teller's wife, " and perhaps you might have 
 something to tell the king about it in the eve- 
 ning." 
 
 He descended, and a smooth stone was placed 
 between them as a gaming-table. They had not 
 cast many throws, when the Story-teller lost all 
 the money he had about him. 
 
 *' Much good may it do you, friend," said the 
 Story-teller. '* I could not expect better hap in 
 so foolish an undertaking." 
 
 " Will you play again? " asked the old man. 
 
 *' Don't be talking, man ; you have all my 
 monev.-' 
 
86 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 " Haven't you a chariot, and horses, and 
 hounds?" 
 
 ''Well, what of them?" 
 
 " I'll stake all the money I have against them." 
 
 *' Nonsense, man ! " exclaimed the Storj^-teller. 
 " Do you think for all the gold in Ireland, I'd run 
 the risk of seeing m}^ lady obliged to go home on 
 foot?" 
 
 '' Ma}' be you'd win," said the bococh. 
 
 " May be I wouldn't," said the Story-teller. 
 
 " Do play with him, husband," said the lady. 
 *' It is the second time, and, as he won before, you 
 might Vvin now. Besides, I don't mind walking." 
 
 '' I never refused 3^ou a request in my life that 
 it vras possible to comply with," said the Story- 
 teller, " and I v.-on't do so nov/." 
 
 He sat down accordingl3%and in one throu- lost 
 horses, hounds, and chariot. 
 
 '' Will you play again ? " asked the bococh. 
 
 " Are you making game of me, man ? " said the 
 Story-teller. "-What else have I to stake? " 
 
 '' I'll stake the whole money and all against your 
 lady," said the old man. 
 
 Nov/, although these were pagan times, the 
 Story-teller could not help thinking the bococh 
 had a great deal of impudence to make him such 
 a proposition. However, he only looked at him 
 Avith an expression of great surprise, and Vv'as 
 turning away in silence, wdien his wife spoke to 
 him a2:ain. 
 
 "Do, mv dear," said she, ''accept his offer. 
 
The Story-Tdlcr at Fault. 87 
 
 This is the third time, and how do j^ou know 
 what luck you may have ? Besides, if you lose 
 3' our estate to-night, as 3'ou are afraid, sure I'd 
 be only a bother to you all our life." 
 
 " Is that the Avay you talk," said the Story- 
 teller — " you that I never refused a request to 
 since first I saw you? " 
 
 " Well," said she, *' if you never refused me a 
 request before, don't refuse me this one now, and 
 may be it would be better for us both. You'll 
 surely win the third time." 
 
 They played again, and the SLor3'-teller lost. 
 No sooner had he done so, than, to his great 
 astonishment and indignation, he beheld his 
 lady walk over and sit down near the ugl3^ old 
 bococh. 
 
 '' Is that the Avay 3"0u're leaving me?" said the 
 Story-teller. 
 
 " Sure I was won, m3^ dear," said the lad3^ > ^'3'ou 
 would not cheat the poor man, would 3'ou ?" 
 
 '^ Have 3^ou an3^ more to stake?" asked the 
 old man. 
 
 ''You know ver3^ well I have not," replied the 
 Stor3^-teller. 
 
 '' I'll stake the whole, now^, 3^our lady and all, 
 against 3^ourself," said the old man. 
 
 " Nonsense, man !" said the Stor3^-teller. '* What 
 in the world business would you have of an old 
 fellow like me ?" 
 
 " That's m3^ own affair," said the bococh. '' I 
 know m3'self what use I could make of 3'ou ; it is 
 
88 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 enough for 3-011 if I am willing- to consider 3-0U a 
 sufficient stake against all I have." 
 
 *' Do, m}^ dear," said the lady ; ''surel}' you do 
 not mean to leave me here after you ?" 
 
 The Stor}'- - teller complied once more, and 
 lost. 
 
 '* Well," said he, with a desolate look, '' here I 
 am for you now, and what do you want with me? 
 You have the whole of us, now, horses and carriage* 
 and mistress and master, and what business have 
 3-ou of us?" 
 
 '* I'll soon let you know what business I have of 
 3'ou, at an3^ rate," said the old man, taking out of 
 his pocket a long cord and a wand. *' Now," he 
 continued, '' as I have possession of 3^our propert3^ 
 I do not choose to be ann03-ed by you any longer, 
 so I propose transforming 3^ou into some kind of 
 an animal, and I give you a free choice to be a 
 hare, or a deer, or a fox, whichever of the three 
 best hits your fanc3\" 
 
 The Story-teller in disma3^ looked over towards 
 his wife. 
 
 '' ]M3^ dear," said she, '' do not choose to be a 
 deer, for, if 3^ou do, 3-our horns will be caught in 
 the branches, and 3-ou Avill be starved with hun- 
 ger ; neither choose to be a fox, for 3^ou will have 
 the curse of everybody down upon 3'ou ; but 
 choose to be an honest little hare, and eveiy one 
 will love 3'ou, and 3'ou will be praised by high and 
 low." 
 
 "And is that all the compassion vou liave for 
 
The Story-TclUr at Fault, 89 
 
 me ?" said the Story-teller. " Well, as I suppose 
 it is the last word I have to say to you, it shall 
 not be to contradict you, at any rate." 
 
 So he made choice of a hare, and the old man 
 immediately threw the cord around him, and 
 struck him with the wand, when the transforma- 
 tion was effected. Scarcely had the poor hare 
 taken a skip or two, in order to divert himself, 
 when the lady called the hounds, and set them 
 after him. The hare ran, the dogs followed. The 
 field in which they happened to be was enclosed 
 by a high wall, so that the course continued a 
 long time in the sight of the old man and the lady, 
 to the great diversion of both. At length the 
 hare, panting and weary, ran to the feet of the 
 latter for protection. But then was witnessed a 
 singular instance of the caprice and mutability of 
 the sex, for the Story-teller's wife, forgetful of all 
 his kindness experienced during a long course of 
 years, unfeelingly kicked him back again towards 
 the .dogs, from whence arose the proverb long 
 current in after-times, Caith se a. glab no con (She 
 threw him into the hound's mouth), as applied to 
 all who act with similar ingratitude. They cours- 
 ed him a second and a third time, and at the end 
 of each the lady acted with the same heartless- 
 ness, until at length the old man struck the hounds, 
 and took the hare into his lap, where he held him 
 for some time, until he had sufficiently recovered 
 his strength. He then placed him on the ground, 
 and, putting the cord around him, struck him with 
 
90 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 the wand, on which he immcdiatcl}' rcassumed 
 his own ibrm. 
 
 " Well," said the old man, *' will you tell me 
 how you liked that sport?" 
 
 '* It might be sport toothers," replied the Stor}-- 
 teller, looking at his wife, " but I declare I don't 
 find it so enticing but I could put up with the 
 loss of it. You're a droll man, whoever you are. 
 Would it be asking an impertinent question to 
 knou^ from you who you are at all, or where you 
 came from, or what is 3^our trade, that you should 
 take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man of my 
 kind in that manner?" 
 
 ** Oh !" replied the stranger. *' I'm a very odd 
 kind of man — a sort of a walking good-for-little 
 fellow — one day in poverty, another day in plenty 
 — and so on — but if you wish to know anything 
 more about me or m}^ habits, come with me in 
 some of my rambles, and perhaps I might show 
 you more then you would be apt to make out if 
 you were to go alone." 
 
 '' I'm not my own master to go or stay," replied 
 the Stor3'-teller, with a resigned look. 
 
 When the stranger heard this, he put one hand 
 into the wallet which he carried at his side, 
 and drew out of it before their eyes a well- 
 lookiiig middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as 
 follows: 
 
 *' I command you by all you heard and saw 
 since I put you into my wallet to take charge of 
 this ladv, together with the carriage, and horses, 
 
The Story-Tcllcr at Fault. 9I 
 
 and all, and have them ready for me at a call 
 "whenever I shall require them." 
 
 He had scarcely said these words when ail 
 vanished from the Story-teller's sight, and he 
 found himself on a sudden transported, he knew 
 not how, to a place which he recognized as the 
 Fox's Ford, well known as the residence of Red 
 Hugh O'Donncll. On looking around, he saw 
 the old man standing near him in a dress still 
 more grotesque than before. His figure was 
 now erect, though tall and lank, his hair gra}^ 
 and his cars sticking up through his old hat. 
 The greater part of his sword was exposed 
 behind his liip ; he wore a pair of tattered brogues, 
 which, at every prodigious stride he made over 
 the marshy ground, sent the water in jets up to 
 his knees; and in his hand he carried three green 
 boughs. It happened on this very day that O'Don- 
 ncll and his followers and kinsmen were partaking 
 of a splendid banquet in his house. They were 
 very merry, feasting and drinking together, and, 
 as the Story-teller and his companion drew near, 
 they heard one of the guests exclaim in a loud and 
 commanding tone : 
 
 *' Who will say he ever heard fnier music than 
 that? Is it possible that twenty-two musicians 
 could be found from this to the shores of Greece 
 better skilled in their art than the twenty-two who 
 are here to-day — I mean Darby McGillagan, Cor- 
 mad O'Cregan, Timothy O'Cunningham, and many 
 more whom I do not mention nowby name ?" 
 
93 Half Hours li'ith Irish AiitJiors. 
 
 " We do not suppose," said several of his hear- 
 ers, " that any such thing- is possible." 
 
 At this moment, the Caol Riava (thin gray man) 
 and the Story-teller entered the house. 
 
 '' Save all here!" said the Caol Riava. 
 • ■' And you likewise," replied O'Donnell. 
 "Where do 3'Ou come from now?" 
 
 '' I slept last night," replied the stranger, '' in 
 the palace of the King of Scotland." 
 
 ''Call the door-keeper before me," said O'Don- 
 nell. 
 
 He was summoned accordingl3^ 
 
 " Was it you let in this man ?" asked O'Don- 
 nell. 
 
 *' I give you free lave to whip the head from 
 my two shoulders," replied the door-keeper, '' if 
 ever I laid eyes upon him before this present 
 moment." 
 
 *' Let it pass," said the Caol Riava, '' for it 
 would come just as easy to me to go out as to 
 come in, whether the door was open or shut." 
 
 Then turning to the musicians : 
 
 "Play something- for us," said he, "that I may 
 judge whether all that I have heard in 3^our 
 praise be merited or otherwise." 
 
 They began to play, first successively, and then 
 in full concert, all kinds of airs and elaborate 
 pieces of music, both on wind and stringed instru- 
 ments; and, when they had concluded, all looked 
 to the new-comer to learn his opinion of their 
 performance. 
 
The Story-TcHcr at Fault. 93 
 
 *' I assure you," said the Caol Riava, " that since 
 I first heard of Beelzebub, and Moloch, and Satan, 
 and the rest of their infernal compeers, and of the 
 hideous uoise and uproar compounded of rage 
 and lamentation which prevails in the dreary 
 region of the demons and in the court of the sable 
 princes of hell, I never could imagine worse 
 music than what you are just after playing." 
 
 '•■ Play something for us yourself, then," said 
 O'Donnell. 
 
 ^* May be I will, and may be I won't," replied 
 the Caol Riava; ''for 3'ou may be certain I \\\\\ 
 do exactly what I like myself, and nothing else." 
 
 " I don't doubt you," said O'Donnell. 
 
 The Caol Riava then took a harp, and began to 
 play in such a manner that the dead might have 
 come out of their graves to hear him without 
 occasioning any astonishment to those who knew 
 the cause they had for so doing. As to the com- 
 pany wdio were present, sometimes he would 
 make them weep, sometimes laugh, and at other 
 times he could lull them asleep with the power of 
 his enchanting strains. 
 
 '' You are a sweet man, whoever you are," said 
 O'Donnell. 
 
 '* Some days sweet, and some days bitter," replied 
 the Caol Riava. 
 
 " Go higher up, and sit in company with O'Don- 
 nell, and eat along with him," said one of the 
 attendants. 
 
 '' I will do no such thing," replied the Caol 
 
94 Half Hours ivitli Lish AiitJiors. 
 
 Riava, "for a pleasing accomplishment in an 
 Ligl}^ fellow like me is like honey in the body of 
 a man who is going to be hanged ; so I will go 
 no higher up than where I am ; but let me see his 
 goodness here, if he has a mind to show it at all." 
 
 He kept his place, and O'Donnell sent him by 
 the hands of an attendant a suit of attire, consist- 
 ing of a cloak of many colors, a fine tunic, and 
 other garments to match. 
 
 '' Here," said the attendant, " is a full suit that 
 O'Donnell sends you." 
 
 " I will not accept it," replied the Caol Riava, 
 *' for a good man shall never have to say that he 
 lost so much by me." 
 
 *' He is either an enemy or something more 
 than mortal," said O'Donnell, when he heard 
 that the stranger had refused his gifts. '' Let 
 twenty horsemen in full armor keep guard 
 outside of the house, and as many foot-soldiers 
 be stationed inside to v/atch his movements." 
 
 " What are 3'ou going to do with me ?" asked 
 the long gray man, Avhen he saw the soldiers 
 gathering round him. 
 
 " We mean to have a sharp eye on you, that 
 3'Ou may not give us the slip till dinner is over," 
 said O'Donnell. 
 
 *' You are very hospitable," replied the Caol 
 Riava, " but I give you my word, if you were as 
 good again, it is not with 3'Ou I'll dine to-day." 
 
 ''Where else will you dine?" asked O'Don- 
 nell. 
 
TJw Story •Tt'Ucr at Fault. 95 
 
 *' Far enough from you, you may be satisfied," 
 replied the Caol Riava. 
 
 " I pledge you my word," said one of the gallo- 
 glasses on guard, *' if I tind you attempting to stir 
 against O'Donnell's wish, I'll make pound pieces 
 of you Avith my battle-axe." 
 
 The Caol Riava made no reply, but took an 
 instrument, and began to play as before, in such a 
 mann'er that all within bewaring were enchanted 
 with his music. He then laid aside the harp, and 
 stood up in his place. 
 
 ''Now," he said, ''look to yourselves, you who 
 are minding me, for I am off!" 
 
 The instant he uttered these words, the soldier 
 Avho before had menaced him raised his battle- 
 axe, but, instead of wounding the stranger as he 
 intended, he struck a heavy blow on the harness 
 of the man who stood next him. The latter re- 
 turned the stroke with the best of his will, and in 
 a few moments the whole score of foot-guards 
 were hewing at each other's heads and shoulders 
 Avith their battle-axes, until the floor was strewed 
 with their disabled bodies. In the midst of this 
 confusion the Caol Riava came to the door-keeper, 
 and said to him : 
 
 " Go to O'Donnell, and tell him that, for a re- 
 ward of twenty cows and a large farm rent 
 free, you will undertake to bring his people to 
 hfe again. When he accepts your proposal (as 
 I know he will be glad to do), take this herb, 
 and rub a little of it to the roof of each man's 
 
g6 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 
 
 mouth, and he will be presently in perfect health 
 asrain." 
 
 The door-keeper did as he directed, and suc- 
 ceeded perfectly, but, when he returned to thank 
 his benefactor, to his great astonishment he could 
 discover no trace of either him or the Storj-teller. 
 
 It happened at this very time that a worthy 
 man named iNIacEocha, of Leinster, a doctor in 
 poetry, had been laid \ip with a broken leg more 
 than eighteen weeks without receiving the least 
 relief, although he had sixteen of the ablest 
 surgeons in Leinster in consultation upon it. 
 Happening to lift up his eyes as he sat before his 
 door, he saw the Caol Riava and the Story-teller 
 approaching, the former having only one large 
 garment around him, and an Irish book in his 
 hand, out of which he read aloud in one monoto- 
 nous humming tone. 
 
 " Save you, MacEocha," said the Caol Riava. 
 
 " And you likewise !" replied MacEocha. ** May 
 I ask you what is your profession?" 
 
 '' Why," replied the Caol Riava, '' I am what 
 vou may call the makings of a physician from 
 Ulster." 
 
 "■ And what is your name ?" 
 
 " Call me Cathal o Gein, and I will answer to 
 it," replied the stranger. *' I understand 3'ou are 
 of a very churlish and inhospitable disposition, 
 and, if you changed your conduct, I would be apt 
 to cure your leg for you." 
 
 ''I acknowledge my failing," said MacEocha. 
 
The Story- Teller at Fault. gy 
 
 * I am as niggardly as any miser until 1 take my 
 third cup, but from that out I am easy as to what 
 others may do. But I promise you if 3^ou cure 
 me that I will not be guilty of that fault again." 
 
 While he was speaking, the sixteen doctors 
 who were in attendance on hiui came up to en- 
 quire how he was getting on, upon which he told 
 them- of the offer made by the Caol Riava. 
 
 The doctors looked at the stranger and at the 
 Stor3'-teller, and then laughed immoderately. 
 
 *' 'Tis very well," said the Caol Riava, ** but 
 wait a little. Rise up, now," said he to Mac- 
 Eocha, " and let me see which can, 3^ou or your 
 sixteen physicians, run fastest." 
 
 Up started MacEocha, and away went the 
 sixteen doctors after their patient, but he left them 
 far behind, and came back in great spirits to his 
 house, while they remained panting and puffing 
 at a distance. 
 
 *' Now, you MacEocha," said the stranger, *' do 
 not be guilty of inhospitality or churlishness from 
 'this time forward, or, if you do, I'll come to you 
 again, and break your leg worse than it was be- 
 fore, and not only that, but the other leg also I'll 
 break in such a manner that all the surgeons in the 
 Fenian hosts will not be able to cure it for you. 
 As for these sixteen impostors that pretended to 
 treat it for you, not one of them shall ever walk 
 without a limp from this time forward." 
 
 *' I promise 3'ou I will remember what 3'ou 
 sa3%" replied MacEocha ; " and, to make a begin- 
 
98 Half Hours zvitli Irish Authors. 
 
 ning, come in now and partake of a magnificent 
 banquet which shall be prepared on the instant 
 for you and your companion." 
 
 They entered the house, and were followed by 
 the sixteen physicians, who shortly after came 
 limping across the threshold. However, while 
 MacEocha was ordering the banquet, an atten- 
 dant ran to tell him that the Ulster doctor was 
 running down the hill which sloped away from 
 the door, faster than a greyhound with a hare in 
 his eye. MacEocha was so much surprised at 
 his abrupt departure that he made these lines, 
 which were often repeated after him : 
 
 Though my trust in his skill and his learning is high, 
 I'd have lilvcd him the better for bidding good-by: 
 If the doctors of Ulster have all the same breeding, 
 'Twere fitter they stuck to their cupping and bleeding. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Story-teller and his strange 
 master found themselves in a wild heath in Sligo, 
 where they beheld O'Connor of Connaught, at 
 the head of a powerful army, with a vast herd of 
 cattle and other spoils which he had driven from 
 the bondsmen of Munster. The Caol Riava went 
 up and saluted him. 
 
 ** Save you, O'Connor," he said boldly. 
 
 " And you likewise," replied the monarch. 
 ^* What is your name ? " 
 
 ** Call me Giolla De," said the Caol Riava. 
 ** What is the cause of the confusion which I 
 observe amongst your forces? " 
 
 ■' We are expecting an attack from the Munster 
 
TJie Story-TcUc7' at Fault. 99 
 
 men," replied the king, ''and are at a loss how 
 to drive the spoils and repel the enemy at the 
 same time." 
 
 " What made you drive them at all ? " said the 
 Caol Riava. 
 
 *• You know," replied the king, " that a monarch 
 ought always to be ready to redress the slightest 
 grievance of his subjects. Now, it happened that 
 a Connaught woman lent a basket to a woman 
 of her acquaintance in Munster, who refused to 
 return it at the appointed time. I heard of the 
 injury, and immediately raised an army to avenge 
 it. I am now returning with the spoils, a portion 
 of which I intend to bestow on the poor woman 
 who lost her basket." 
 
 ''And what will you do with the rest?" en- 
 quired the GioUa De. 
 
 " I will keep them myself," said the king, '' to 
 signalize my victory, and enhance the national 
 glory, after the way of all great kings." 
 
 " I'm afraid it will give you enough to do," 
 replied the Caol Riava, ''for, before you leave 
 this heath, you will have more Munster men to 
 meet you than there are purple bells all over 
 it." 
 
 " That's what I fear," said the king. 
 
 " What will you give me if I help you?" said 
 the Caol Riava. 
 
 " You ! " cried one of O'Connor's men, with a 
 burst of laughter. " It cannot make much differ- 
 ence to O'Connor whether you go or stay." 
 
lOO Ihilf Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 ** What reward would you require?" asked 
 O'Connor. 
 
 '' A share, little or much, of anything you may 
 get while I am with you," replied the GioUa De. 
 
 *' Agreed," exclaimed the king. 
 
 " Very well," said the Giolla De ; *' do you hold 
 on )70ur journey, driving your spoils, while I coax 
 the Munster men home again." 
 
 The king proceeded, and saw nothing of the 
 men of Munster until he reached his own do- 
 main, where he arrived before any of his reti- 
 nue. As he did so, he perceived the Giolla De 
 and the Story-teller again by his side. Wearied 
 from the fatigue of the expedition, after wel- 
 coming them, he entered a sheiling by the \va)^- 
 side, and called for a drink. It was brought, 
 and he drank it off without even thinking of the 
 Giolla De. 
 
 '* I am sorry to see you forget your agreement," 
 said the latter. 
 
 *' Do 3^ou call that trifle a breach of my agree- 
 ment ?" said the king. 
 
 '- Ah !" replied the Giolla De, ''it is trifles that 
 show the mind. You went to war for a basket, 
 and you call a cup of wine a trifle." And he imme- 
 diately spoke these lines : 
 
 The wrong a king doth, were it huge as a mountain, 
 He weighs it no more than a drop from the fountain ; 
 The wrong a king suffers, though light as a bubble, 
 Sends fools to the slaughter, and kingdoms to trouble. 
 Thenceforth I'll not swear by the weight of a feather. 
 Nor the firmness of ice in the sunny spring Avcnther ; 
 
The Story-Tcllcr at Fdult. loi 
 
 But I'll swear by a lighter, more slippery thing, 
 And my troth shall be plight, by the word of a king. 
 
 The instant he had uttered these lines, the Caol 
 Riava and the Story-teller vanished from the eyes 
 of O'Connor, who looked around for them in vain 
 in all directions. But what astonished him still 
 more was that not a particle of all the spoils he 
 had driven from Munster remained with his host, 
 nor could anything be found throughout the whole 
 army but an old basket, which the Connaught 
 woman already spoken of recognized as the one 
 she had lent to the Munster woman. While all 
 were wondering at those strange events, the Caol 
 Riava and the astonished Story-teller approached 
 the house of a man named Thady O'Kell}^ who at 
 that moment happened to be sitting at his own 
 door, in the midst of his friends and depen- 
 dents. The Caol Riava drew near, dressed in the 
 same tattered garments as usual, and bearing a 
 white crooked wand in his hand. 
 
 "Save you, Thady O'Kelly," said the Caol 
 Riava. 
 
 *' And you likewise," replied Thad3\ '' From 
 whence do you come?" 
 
 " From the house of O'Connor, Sligo," answered 
 the Caol Riava. 
 
 " What is your occupation ?" asked Thady. 
 
 " I am a travelling juggler," replied the stranger, 
 " and if you promise to give me five pieces of sil- 
 ver, I will perform a trick for you." 
 
 *' I do promise you," said Thady. 
 
102 Half Hours luith Irish Authors. 
 
 The Caol Riava then took three small sivccns or 
 leeks, and placed them lengthwise on his hand, 
 and said he would blow out the middle one and 
 leave the two others in their places. All present 
 said that such a feat was perfectly impossible, for 
 the three siveens were so light and lay so close 
 together that the breath which carried away one 
 must necessarily take the two others also. How- 
 ever, the Caol Riava put his two fingers on the 
 two outside leeks, and then blew away that which 
 was in the middle. 
 
 *' There's a trick for you, Thady O'Kelly," said 
 the Caol Riava. 
 
 '' I declare to my heart," said Thady, " 'tis a 
 good one." And he paid him the five pieces of sil- 
 ver. 
 
 "- Why, then, that he may get good of your 
 money, himself, and his trick," said one of O'Kelly *s 
 men, '' if you gave me half what you gave him, I'll 
 engage I'd perform the same trick as well as he 
 did it." 
 
 '' Oh ! 'tis easy enough to do it," said Thady. 
 
 " Take him at his w^ord," said the Caol Riava. 
 '' I'd wager anything he fails, for I never saw a 
 boaster succeed in anything he attempted." 
 
 Thady commanded him to proceed, and the 
 fellow placed three siveens on his hand, and, laying 
 his two fingers on the outside ones, was about to 
 blow away that in the centre. However, he had 
 scarcely done so much, when his two fingers went 
 down through the palm of his hand in such a man- 
 
The Story-Teller at Fault, 103 
 
 uer that the tips appeared at the back, and would 
 have remained so in all likelihood to the day of his 
 death, if the Cleasaiye, or juggler, had not rubbed 
 an herb upon the place and healed it. 
 
 " Well," said he, "you perceive that everything 
 is not easy that looks so. But if you Thady 
 O'Kelly, will give me five pieces more, I'll do 
 another trick for you as good as the last." 
 
 "You shall have them," answered Thady, "if 
 you let us hear what it is to be." 
 
 "Do you see my two ears?" said the juggler, 
 thrusting his head forward. 
 
 " What a show they are ! " said Thady. " To 
 be sure we do." 
 
 " Well, will you give me five pieces if I stir one 
 of my ears without stirring the other?" 
 
 " Indeed I will," said Thady ; " that is impos- 
 sible, at all events, for you can only move the 
 ears by moving the whole scalp of your head, 
 and then both must move together." 
 
 The juggler put up his hand, and, catching hold 
 of one ear, stirred it. 
 
 " Upon my word," said Thady ; " you have won 
 my five pieces again, and that is a very good 
 trick. 
 
 " He's welcome home to us with his tricks," 
 said the same man who spoke before, " if he calls 
 that a trick. Only I was so hasty and so awk- 
 ward awhile ago, I could have done the trick 
 well enough, but there's no great art required 
 for this at all events." 
 
104 IJ<^U I'^oiirs luiih IrisJi Authors. 
 
 So saying, he put up his hand and stirred his 
 ear, but, to his astonishment and terror, it came 
 away between his fingers ! However, the juggler 
 rubbed an herb once more to the place, and 
 liealed it as before. 
 
 ''Well, Thady O'Kelly," said the juggler, "1 
 \vill now show you a more curious trick than 
 either of those if 3^ou give me the same money." 
 
 " You have my word for it," said Thad3^ 
 
 The juggler then took out of his bag a large 
 ball of thread, and, folding the end around his 
 finger, flung it slantwise up into the air. Up it 
 flew, unrolling as it proceeded, while all gazed 
 after it, lost in wonder, until it disappeared 
 amongst the clouds. He next took out of his 
 bag a fine hare, which he placed on the thread, 
 when, to the increasing astonishment of the be- 
 holders, the animal ran up the line with as much 
 dexterity as if she had been all her life at Astley's 
 or Vauxhall. He next took out a greyhound, 
 which he placed on the thread in like manner, 
 when the animal stretched away after the hare 
 with as much zest and security as if both were 
 on the Curragh of Kildare en a March morning. 
 
 *' Now," said the Caol Riava, " has any one a 
 mind to run up after the dog, and see the course? " 
 
 *' I will," said the man who had spoken twice 
 before. 
 
 *' You are always ready," said the juggler, 
 " but I fear you are lazy, for you are almost as 
 broad as you arc long, and I'm. afraid you'll 
 
Tlie Story-Teller at Fault. 105 
 
 fall asleep on the way and let the hound eat the 
 hare.*' 
 
 ^' There is not a more active man in the known 
 world than the ver}^ individual who is talking to 
 you now," said the fat man. 
 
 " Up with you, then," said the juggler, "but I 
 warn you, if you let my hare be killed, I'll cut off 
 your head when you come down." 
 
 The fat fellow ran up the thread, and all three 
 soon disappeared. After looking up for a long 
 time, the Caol Riava said : 
 
 '' I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare, and 
 that our fat friend has fallen asleep." 
 
 Saying this, he began to wind the thread, and 
 found the case as he had suspected it to be — the 
 fat man fast asleep, and the greyhound with the 
 last morsel of the hare betvvxen his teeth. He 
 immediately drew his sword, and cutoff the young 
 man's head at a blow. 
 
 At this Thady O'Kelly stood up, and said he 
 did not relish such conduct, and that it was not 
 a thing he could ever sanction to see a young man 
 murdered in that manner under his roof. 
 
 '' If it grieves you," said the juggler, " I think 
 as little of curing him now as I did before ; but I 
 must leave him some mark to make him remember 
 his rashness." 
 
 So saying, he placed the head upon the shoul- 
 ders again, and healed them, but in such a manner 
 that the countenance looked the wrong way, after 
 which he spoke these lines : 
 
io6 Half Hours with IrisJi AutJiors. 
 
 What I take at my ease, at my ease I restore ; 
 It becomes him much better, I'm sure, than before : 
 If any man says I have wronged him thereby. 
 Tell that man from me that I give him the lie ; 
 For an insolent braggart is odder to see 
 Than a fool with his face where his poll ought to be. 
 
 The Caol Riava had scarcely uttered those lines, 
 when he and the Story-teller disappeared, nor 
 could any person present tell whether they had 
 flown into the air, or whether the earth had swal- 
 lowed them. The next place the Story-teller 
 found himself with his whimsical master was in 
 the palace of the King of Leinster, where the cus- 
 tomary evening- banquet was on the point of being 
 prepared. The Story-teller was grieved and per- 
 plexed to hear the king continually asking for his 
 favorite Story-teller, while no one present was 
 able to give any account of him. 
 
 " Now," said the Caol Riava, turning to him, *' I 
 have rendered you invisible in order that 3'ou may 
 witness all that is about to take place here, with- 
 out being recognized by any of your daily acquaint 
 ances." 
 
 So saying, he sat down close to the musicians, 
 who were playing in concert at the time. Observ- 
 ing the attention which he paid, the chief musician 
 said, when they concluded : 
 
 *' Well, my good man, I hope you like our per- 
 formance ? " 
 
 *' I'll tell you that," replied the Caol Riava. 
 '' Were you ever listening to a cat purring over a 
 Dowl of broth ?" 
 
The Story-Teller at Fault. 107 
 
 " I often heard it," replied the chief musician. 
 
 " Or did you ever hear a parcel of beetles buzz- 
 ing- about in the dusk on a summer evening ?" 
 
 '' I did," said the chief musician. 
 
 " Or a bitter-faced old woman scolding in a 
 passion ?'' 
 
 *' I did often," said the chief musician, who was 
 a married man. 
 
 " Well, then," said the Caol Riava, *' I'd rather 
 be listening to any one of them than to your 
 music." 
 
 ''You insolent ragamuffin," said the chief musi- 
 cian, " it well becomes you to express yourself in 
 that manner." 
 
 *' You are the last that ought to say so," replied 
 the Caol Riava, " for though bad is the best of 
 the whole of you, yet, if I were to look out for the 
 worst, I should never stop till I lighted on your- 
 self." 
 
 At these words, the chief musician arose, and, 
 drawing his sword, made a blow at the Caol Riava, 
 but, instead of striking him, he wounded one of 
 his own party, who returned the blow forthwith, 
 and in a little time the whole band of musicians 
 were engaged in mortal conflict one with another. 
 While all this confusion prevailed, an attendant 
 came and awoke the king, who had been taking 
 a nap while the music played. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said the king. 
 
 " I'he harpers that are murthering one another. 
 please your majesty." 
 
lo8 Half Hours zvith Irish Aitthors. 
 
 " icase me!" cried the King of Leiiister, *' it 
 does not please me. Tiiey ought to be satisfied 
 with murdering all the music in my kingdom, 
 without murdering the musicians too. Who 
 began it ?" says his majest}'. 
 
 '* A stranger that thought proper to find fault 
 with their music," replied the attendant. 
 
 ** Let him be hanged," said the king, *'and do 
 not disturb me again about him." 
 
 Accordingly, some of the king's guards took 
 the Caol Riava, and carried him out to a place 
 where they erected a gallows, and hanged him 
 without loss of time. However, on returning to 
 the palace, they found the Caol Riava within sit- 
 ting among the guests, without having the least 
 appearances of having been ever hanged in his 
 life. 
 
 '''Never welcome you in !" cried the captain of 
 the guard. '' Didn't we hang you this minute, and 
 what brings you here?" 
 
 ''Is it me myself you mean?" said the Caol 
 Riava. 
 
 " Who else ?" said the captain. 
 
 " That the hand may turn into a pig's foot with 
 you when you think of tying the rope," said the 
 Caol Riava, " why should you speak of hanging 
 me." 
 
 They went out in alarm, and, to their horror, 
 found the king's favorite brother hanging in the 
 place of the Caol Riava. One of them went to 
 the king, and woke him up. 
 
TJie Scory-Tcllc]' at Fault, 109 
 
 *' What's the matter now ?" cried th( king, 
 yawning and stretching himself. 
 
 *' Please your majest}^ we hanged that vaga- 
 bond according to your majesty's orders, and he's 
 as well as ever again now in spite of us." He was 
 afraid of telling him about his brother. 
 
 ** Take him and hang him again, then, and don't 
 be disturbing me about such trifles," said the 
 King of Leinster, and he went off to sleep again. 
 
 They did as he recommended, and the same 
 scene was repeated three times over, and at each 
 time some near friend or favorite kinsman of the 
 king was hanged instead of the Caol Riava. By 
 this time the captain of the guard was fairly at 
 his wit's end. 
 
 *' Well," said the Caol Riava, "do you wish to 
 hang me any more ?" 
 
 " We'll have no more to say to you," said the 
 captain ; ''you may go wherever you like, and the 
 sooner the better. We got trouble enough by 
 you already. May be 'tis the king himself we'd 
 find hanging the next time we tried it." 
 
 *' Since you are growing so reasonable," said the 
 Caol Riava, *' you may go out now, and take your 
 three friends down again. They will not be so 
 much the worse for their experience but they 
 can thank you for finding them more comfortable 
 quarters ; and 1 give you a parting advice, never 
 while you live again to interpose between a critic 
 and a poet, a man and his Avife, or a mother and an 
 only child." After which he -spoke these lines: 
 
no Half Hours wit It Irish Authors. 
 
 He who censures a strain which a minstrel composes 
 Must lie upon something less grateful than roses ; 
 He who takes up a quarrel begun by a poet 
 May at bottom have wit, but lacks wisdom to show it ; 
 For than him a worse ninny will rarely be found 
 Who would peril his nose for a dealer in sound. 
 
 Immediately after he had uttered these verses, he 
 disappeared, and the Story-teller found himself in 
 company with him on the spot where they had 
 first met, and where his wife with the carriage 
 and horses were awaiting them, under the care of 
 the man to whom the Caol Riava had entrusted 
 them. 
 
 " Now," said the latter, *' I will not be torment- 
 ing you any longer. There are your carriage, 
 and horses, and your dogs, and your mone}^, and 
 your lady, and you may take them with you as 
 soon as you please, for I have no business in life 
 with any of them at all." 
 
 The Story-teller paused for some moments to 
 collect his thoughts before he made any reply. 
 
 *' For my carriage, and horses, and hounds," he 
 said at length, ** I thank you, but my lady and 
 my money you may keep." 
 
 *' No," replied the bococh, *' I have told yon 
 that I do not want either; and do not harbor 
 any ill-will against your lady on account of what 
 she has done, for she could not help it." 
 
 "Not help it!" exclaimed the Story-teller. 
 ** Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own 
 hounds! Not help casting me off, after all my 
 
The Story-Teller at Fault. in 
 
 kindness to her, in favor of a beggarly old — I 
 beg pardon," he said, correcting himself, " I ought 
 not to speak in that way, but a woman's ingrati- 
 tude will make a man forget his good manners." 
 
 ** No offence in life," said the bococh, *'for these 
 terms are very just, and apply not to my own real 
 form, but to that which I have assumed for the 
 purpose of befriending you. I am Aongus of 
 Bruff, for whom you obtained many a favor from 
 the King of Leinster. This morning I discovered 
 by my skill in things. hidden that you were in a 
 difficulty, and immediately determined to free you 
 from it. As to your lad}^ do not blame her for 
 what has passed, for, by the same power which 
 enabled me to change the form of your body, I 
 changed the affections of her mind. Go home, 
 therefore, as man and wife should do ; and now 
 you have a story to tell the King of Leinster when 
 he calls for it." 
 
 Saying this, he disappeared, and the lad}^ burst- 
 ing in tears, begged her husband's forgiveness, 
 and assured him that she would sooner die a 
 thousand deaths than act in such a manner, if 
 some extraordinary influence had not possessed 
 her. 
 
 This explanation proving entirely satisfactory 
 to the Story-teller, they proceeded homeward 
 happily together. Notwithstanding all the speed 
 they could make, it was so late when the Story- 
 teller arrived at the king's palace that his majes- 
 ty had already retired to his sleeping-chamber. 
 
112 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 When the Story-teller entered, the king enquired 
 the cause of his delay. 
 
 '' Please your majesty," said the Story-teller, 
 '' there is nothing like the plain truth, and I will 
 tell it to you if 3'ou desire it." 
 
 The king commanded him by all means to do 
 so. Accordingly, the Story-teller began, and 
 gave a detailed account of the adventures of the 
 day, his difficulty in trying to invent a story, the 
 benevolence of the friendly Draoidhe (or Druid), 
 and the ingratitude of his wife, remarkable in 
 itself, and still more so in the singular manner in 
 which it was explained. When it was ended, the 
 king laughed so heartil}^ and was so diverted with 
 his narrative, that he commanded him to com- 
 mence the whole again, and relate it from begin- 
 ning to end, before he went to sleep. The Story- 
 teller obeyed, and, when he had concluded, the 
 king commanded him never again to go to 
 the trouble of inventing a new story, but to tell 
 him that one every night, for he never would 
 listen to another story again as long as he lived. 
 
SAMUEL LOVER 
 
Samuel Lover. 
 
BARNY O'REIRDON 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OUTWARD-BOUND. 
 
 "Well, he went further and further than I can tell." — Nurseiy 
 Tale. 
 
 AVERY striking characteristic of an Irishman 
 is his unwiUingness to be outdone. Some 
 have asserted that this arises from vanity, but I 
 have ever been unwilling to attribute an unami- 
 able motive to my countrymen where abetter may 
 be found, and one equally tending to produce a 
 similar result, and I consider a deep-seated spirit 
 of emulation to originate this peculiarity. Phre- 
 nologists might resolve it by supposing the organ 
 of love of approbation to predominate in our Irish 
 craniums, and it may be so ; but, as I am not in 
 the least a metaphysician, and very little of a 
 phrenologist, I leave those who choose to settle 
 the point in question, quite content with the 
 knowledge of the fact with which I started, viz., 
 the unwillingness of an Irishman to be outdone. 
 This spirit, it is likely, may sometimes lead men 
 into ridiculous positions ; but it is equally proba- 
 
Ii6 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 
 
 ble that the desire of surpassing one another has 
 given birth to many of the noblest actions and 
 some of the most valuable inventions ; let us there- 
 fore not fall out with it. 
 
 Now, having vindicated the motive of my coun- 
 trymen, I will prove the total abstinence of na- 
 tional prejudice in so doing by giving an illustra- 
 tion of the ridiculous consequences attendant 
 upon this Hibernian peculiarity. 
 
 Barny O'Reirdon was a fisherman of Kinsale, 
 and a heartier fellow never hauled a net nor cast 
 a line into deep water ; indeed, Barn}^, independ- 
 ently of being a merry boy among his compa- 
 nions, a lover of good fun and good whiskey, was 
 looked up to rather by his brother fishermen as 
 an intelligent fellow, and few boats brought more 
 fish to market than Barny O'Reirdon's ; his opi- 
 nion on certain points in the craft was considered 
 law, and, in short, in his own little communit}^, 
 Barny was what is commonl}^ called a leading 
 man. Now, 5'our leading man is always jealous 
 in an inverse ratio to the sphere of his influence, 
 and the leader of a nation is less incensed at a 
 rival's triumph than the great man of a village. 
 If we pursue this descending scale, what a des- 
 perately jealous person the oracle of oyster- 
 dredges and cockle-women must be ! Such was 
 Barny O'Reirdon. 
 
 Seated one night at a public-house, the common 
 resort of Barny and other marine curiosities, our 
 hero got entangled in debate with what he called 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 117 
 
 a strange sail ; that is to say, a man he had never 
 met before, and whom he was inclined to treat 
 rather mag-isterially upon nautical subjects ; at 
 the same time, the stranger was equally inclined 
 to assume the high hand over him, till at last the 
 new-comer made a regular outbreak by exclaim- 
 ing, " Ah ! tare-and-ouns, lave afFyour balderdash, 
 Mr. O'Reirdon ; by the powdhers o* war it's 
 enough, so it is, to make a dog bate his father, to 
 hear you goin' an as if you war Curlumberus or 
 Sir Crustyphiz Wran, when every one knows the 
 divil a farthur you iver war nor ketchen crabs or 
 drudgen oysters." 
 
 *' Who towld you that, my Watherford Won- 
 dher? " rejoined Barny. '' What the dickens do 
 you know about sayfarin' farther nor fishin' for 
 sprats in a bowl wid your grandmother ? " 
 
 "■ Oh ! baithershin," says the stranger. 
 
 *' And who made you so bowld with my name ?" 
 demanded O'Reirdon. 
 
 '' No matther for that," said the stranger; '' but 
 if you'd like for to know, shure it's your own 
 cousin Molly MulHns knows me well, and may be 
 I don't know you and yours as well as the moth- 
 er that bore you, aye, in troth ; and sure I know 
 the very thoughts o' you as well as if I was inside 
 o' you, Barny O'Reirdon." 
 
 ** By my sowl thin, 5^ou know betther thoughts 
 than your own, Mr. Whipper-snapper, if that's 
 the name you go by." 
 
 " No, it's not the name I go by ; I've as good a 
 
ii8 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 name as your own, Mr. O'Reirdon, for want of a 
 betther, and that's O'SuUivan." 
 
 '' Throth there's more than there's good o' 
 them," said Barny. 
 
 " Good or bad, I'm a cousin o' your own twice 
 removed by the mother's side." 
 
 "■ And is it the Widda O'Sullivan's boy you'd 
 be that left this come Candlemas four years? " 
 
 '* The same." 
 
 "■ Throth, thin, you might know better manners 
 to your eldhers, though I'm glad to see you, any- 
 how, agin ; but a little thravellin' puts us beyant 
 ourselves sometimes," said Barny rather con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 ** Throth I nivir bragged out o' myself 3^it, and 
 it's what I say that a man that's only fishin' aff 
 the land all his life has no business to compare in 
 the regard o' thracthericks wdd a man that has 
 sailed to FingaL" 
 
 This silenced any further argument on Barny 's 
 part. Where Fingal lay was all Greek to him ; 
 but, unwilling to admit his ignorance, he covered 
 his retreat with the usual address of his country- 
 men, and turned the bitterness of debate into the 
 cordial flow of congratulation at seeing his cousin 
 again. 
 
 The liquor was frequently circulated, and the 
 conversation began to take a different turn, in 
 order to lead from that which had very nearly 
 ended in a quarrel between O'Reirdon and his re- 
 lation. The state of the crops, county cess, road 
 
Barny O^Reirdon. 119 
 
 jobs, etc., became topics, and various strictures as 
 to the utility of the latter were indulged in, while 
 the merits of the neighboring farmers were can- 
 vassed. 
 
 " Why, thin," said one, '' that field o' whate o* 
 Michael Coghlan is the finest field o* whate mor- 
 tial eyes was ever set upon — divil the likes iv it 
 myself ever seen far or near." 
 
 " Throth, thin, sure enough," said another, "• it 
 promises to be a fine crap anyhow, and myself 
 can't help thinkin' it quare that Mikee Coghlan, 
 that's a plain-spoken, quite (quiet) man, and sim- 
 ple like, should have finer craps than Pether Kelly 
 o' the big farm beyant, that knows all about the 
 great saycrets o' the airth, and is knowledgable 
 to a degree, and has all the hard words that ivir 
 was coined, at his fingers' ends." 
 
 ** Faith, he has a power o' blasthogue about him, 
 sure enough," said the former speaker, *' if that 
 could do him any good, but he isn't fit to hould 
 a candle to Michael Coghlan in the regard o' 
 farm in'." 
 
 " Why, blur-and-agers," rejoined the upholder 
 of science, "sure he met the Scotch steward that 
 the lord beyant has, one day, that I hear is a 
 wondherful edicated man, and was brought over 
 here to show us all a patthern ; well, Pether 
 Kelly met him one day, and, by gor, he discoorsed 
 him to a degree that the Scotch chap hadn't a 
 word left in his jaw." 
 
 ** Well, and what was he the better o' hav- 
 
130 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 
 
 ing- more prate than a Scotchman?" asked the 
 other. 
 
 '' Why,' answered Kelly's friend, " 1 think it 
 stands to rayson that the man that done out the 
 Scotch steward ought to know somethin' more 
 about farmin* than Mickee Coghlan." 
 
 " Augh ! don't talk to me about knowing," 
 said the other rather contemptuously. " Sure I 
 gev in to you that he has a power o' prate, and 
 the gift o' the gab, and all to that. I own to you 
 that he has the-o-ry^iXi^ cJie-mis-thery^ but he hasn't 
 the craps. Now, the man that has the craps is 
 the man for my money. 
 
 "■ You're right, my boy," said O'Reirdon, with 
 an approving thump of his brawn}- fist upon the 
 table, " it's a little talk goes far — doin is the thing." 
 
 " Ah, yiz may run down larnin' if yiz like," said 
 the undismayed stickler for theory versus practice, 
 '* but larnin' is a fine thing, and sure where Avould 
 the world be at all only for it; sure where would 
 the staymers (steamboat) be, only for larnin'?" 
 
 ''Well," said O'Reirdon, ''and the divil may 
 care if we never seen them ; I'd rather depind an 
 wind and canvas any day than the likes o' them ! 
 What are they good for, but to turn good sailors 
 into kitchen-maids, bilin' a big pot o' wather and 
 oilin' their lire-irons, and throwin' coals an the 
 fire? Augh! thim staymers is a disgrace to the 
 say ; they're for all the world like old fogies, 
 smokin' from mornin' till niirht and doin' no 
 
 good.' 
 
Barny OReirdon. 12 1 
 
 ** Do you call it doin' no good to go fasther nor 
 ships iver wint before?'* 
 
 '' Pooh ; sure Solomon, queen o* Sheba, said 
 there was time enough for all things." 
 
 ** Thrue for you," said O'Sullivan, " ^fair and 
 aisy goes far in a day, is a good ould sayin'." 
 
 '' Well, may be you'll own to the improvement 
 they re makin' in the harbor o' Howth beyant, 
 in Dublin, is some good." 
 
 " We'll see whether it'll be an improvement 
 first," said the obdurate O'Reirdon. 
 
 '* Why, man alive, sure you'll own it's the 
 greatest o' good it is, taken' up the big rocks out 
 o' the bottom o' the harbor." 
 
 '' Well, an' where's the wondher o' that ? Sure 
 we done the same here." 
 
 '' Oh ! yis, but it was whin the tide was out and 
 the rocks was bare ; but up at Howth, they cut 
 away the big rocks from undher the say intirely." 
 
 ^' Oh ! be aisy ; why, how could they do that?" 
 
 *' Ay, there's the matther, that's what larnin' 
 can do ; and wondherful it is intirely ! and the 
 way it is, is this, as I hear it, for I never seen it, 
 but heerd it described by the lord to some gintle- 
 min and ladies one da}^ in his garden where I was 
 helpin' the gardener to land some salary (celery). 
 You see the ingineer goes down undher the 
 wather intirely, and can stay there as long as he 
 plazes." 
 
 *' Whoo! and what o' that? Sure I heerd the 
 long sailor say that come from the Ay stern 
 
122 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 Ingees that the iiigineers there can a'most live 
 under wather, and goes down looking for dia- 
 monds, and has a sledge-hammer in their hand, 
 brakin' the diamonds when thej^'re too big to take 
 them up whole, all as one as men brakin' stones 
 an the road." 
 
 " Well, I don't want to go beyant that ; but the 
 way the lord's ingineer goes down is he has a 
 little bell wid him, and, \vhile he has that little 
 bell to ring, hurt nor harm can't come to him." 
 
 '' Arrah be aisy." 
 
 *' Divil a lie in it." 
 
 " May be it's a blissed bell," said O'Reirdon, 
 crossing himself." 
 
 '' No, it is not a blissed bell." 
 
 " Why thin, now, do you think me sitch a born 
 nathral as to give in to that ? As if the ringin' iv 
 the bell, barrin it was a blissed bell, could do the 
 like. I tell you it's unpossible." 
 
 "Ah ! nothin's unpossible to God." 
 
 '' Sure I w^asn't denyin' that; but I say the bell 
 is unpossible." 
 
 ''Why," said O'Sullivan, "you see he*s not 
 altogether complete in the demonstheration o* the 
 mashine; it is not by the ringin' o' the bell it is 
 done, but — " 
 
 "But what?" broke in O'Reirdon impatiently. 
 
 * There is a relic in the possession of the MacNamara family, in the county 
 Clare, called the "blessed bell of the MacNamaras," sometimes used to 
 swear upon in cases of extreme urgency, in preference to the Testament ; for 
 a violation of truth, "wljen sworn upon the blessed bell, is looked upon by the 
 peasantry as a sacrilege, placing the offender beyond the pale of salvation. 
 
Barny O' Reivdoii. 123 
 
 ** Do you mane for to saj^ there is a bell in it at all 
 at all?" 
 
 ^' Yes, I do," said O'Sullivan. 
 
 " I towld 3^ou so," said the promulgator of the 
 story. 
 
 "• Ay," said O'Sullivan, " but it is not by the 
 ringin' iv the bell it is done." 
 
 '* Well, how is it done, then?" said the other, 
 with a half offended, half supercilious air. 
 
 '^ It is done," said O'Sullivan, as he returned 
 the look Avith interest — *'it is done entirely by 
 jommethry.'' 
 
 *' Oh ! I understan' it now," said O'Rcirdon, 
 with an inimitable affectation of comprehension in 
 the '' Oh !" — " but to talk of the ringin' iv a bell doin' 
 the like is beyant the beyants intirely, barrin', as 
 I said before, it was a blissed bell, glory be to 
 God!" 
 
 *' And so you tell me, sir, it is jommethry," said 
 the twice discomfited man of science. 
 
 '' Yis, sir," said O'Sullivan with an air of 
 triumph, which rose in proportion as he carried 
 the listeners along with him — "jommethry." 
 
 " Well, have it your own way. There's them 
 that won't hear ray son sometimes, nor have belief 
 in larnin' ; and you may say it's jommethry if you 
 plaze ; but I heerd them that knows betther than 
 iver you knew, say — " 
 
 * " Whisht, whisht ! and bad cess to you both," 
 said O'Reirdon ; '' what the dickens are yiz goin' 
 to fight about now, and sitch good liquor before 
 
124 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 y'xz ? Hillo ! there, Mrs. Quigley, bring uz another 
 quart i' jou plaze ; ay, that's the chat, another 
 quart. Augh ! yiz may talk till yo're black in the 
 face about your invintions, and your staymers, and 
 bell ringin', and gash, and railroads ; but here's 
 Ions: life and success to the man that i'nvinted the 
 impairil (imperial) quarf^ ; that was the rail 
 beautiful invintion." And he took a long pull at 
 the replenished vessel, which strongly indicated 
 that the increase of its dimensions Avas a very 
 agreeable measure to such as Barny. 
 
 After the introduction of this and other quarts, 
 it would not be an easy matter to pursue the con- 
 versation that followed. Let us therefore trans- 
 fer our story to the succeeding morning, when 
 Barny O'Reirdon strolled forth from his cottage, 
 rather later than usual, with his eyes bearing eye- 
 witness to the carouse of the preceding night. 
 He had not a headache, however; whether it 
 was that Barny was too experienced a campaigner 
 under the banners of Bacchus, or that Mrs. 
 Quigley's boast was a just one, namely, "■ that, of 
 all the drink in her house, there was't a headache 
 in a hogshead of it," is hard to determine, but I 
 rather incline to the strength of Barny 's head. 
 
 The above-quoted declaration of Mrs. Quigley 
 is the favorite inducement held out by every 
 
 * Until the assimilation of currency, weights, and measures between Eng- 
 land and Ireland, the Irish quart was a much smaller measure than the Eng- 
 lish. This part of the assimilation pleased Pat exceedingly, and he has na 
 anxiety tb have that repealed. 
 
Barny O' Reirdon, 125 
 
 boon companion in Ireland at the head of his own 
 table. " Don't be afraid of it, my bo3^s, it's the 
 right sort. There's not a headache in a hogs- 
 head of it." 
 
 This sentiment has been very seductively 
 rendered b}^ More, with the most perfect uncon- 
 sciousness on his part of the likeness he was insti- 
 tuting. Who does not remember — 
 
 " Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 
 
 'Twill chase the pensive tear ; 
 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip 
 
 But, oh ! 'tis more sincere ; 
 Like her delusive beam, 
 
 'Twill steal away the mind ; ' 
 But, like aflfection's dream. 
 
 It leaves no sting behind." 
 
 Is not this very elegantly saying '' there's not a 
 headache in a hogshead of it" ? But I am forget- 
 ting my story all this time. 
 
 Barny sauntered about in the sun, at which he 
 often looked up, under the shelter of compressed 
 bushy brows, and long-lashed eyelids, and a 
 shadowing hand across his forehead, to see '' what 
 o' day " it was ; and, from the frequency of this 
 action, it was evident the day was hanging heavily 
 with Barny. He retired at last to a sunny nook 
 in a neighboring field, and, stretching himself at 
 full length, basked in the sun, and began "to 
 chew the cud of sweet and bitter thought." He 
 first reflected on his own undoubted weight in his 
 little community, but still he could not get over 
 
126 Half Hours ivith Irish Author s. 
 
 the annoyance of the preceding- night, arising 
 from his being silenced by O'Sullivan ; "a chap," 
 as he said himself, " that lift the place four years 
 agon a brat iv a bo}^ and to think iv his comin' 
 back and outdoin' his elders, that saw him runnin' 
 about the place a gassoon that one could tache a 
 few months before " ; 'twas too bad. Barny saw 
 his reputation was in a ticklish position, and began 
 to consider how his disgrace could be retrieved. 
 The very name of Fingal was hateful to him ; 
 it was a plague spot on his peace that festered 
 there incurably. He first thought of leaving Kin- 
 sale altogether; but flight implied so much of 
 defeat that he did not long indulge in that notion. 
 No, he zvould stay, ''in spite of all the O'SuUi- 
 vans, kith and kin, breed, seed, and generation." 
 But, at the same time, he knew he should never 
 hear the end of that hateful place, Fingal ; and, if 
 Barny had had the power, he would have enacted 
 a penal statute making it death to name the 
 accursed spot, ivherever it was; but, not being 
 gifted with such legislative authority, he felt Kin- 
 sale was no place for him, if he would not submit 
 to be flouted every hour out of the four-and- 
 twenty by man, woman, and child that w^ished 
 to annoy him. What was to be done ? He was 
 in the perplexing situation, to use his own words, 
 '' of the cat in the thripe shop " — he didn't know 
 which way to choose. At last, after turning himself 
 over in the sun several times, a new idea struck 
 him. Couldn't he go to Fingal himself? And then 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 127 
 
 he'd be equal to that upstart O'Sullivan. No 
 sooner was the thought engendered than Barny 
 sprang to his feet a new man ; his eye bright- 
 ened, his step became once more elastic, he 
 walked erect, and felt himself to be all over Barny 
 O'Reirdon once more — " Richard was himself 
 again." 
 
 But where was Fingal ? — there was the rub. 
 That was a profound mystery to Barny, which, 
 until discovered, must hold him in the vile bond- 
 age of inferiority. The plain-dealing reader 
 would say, ''Couldn't he ask?" No, no; that 
 Avould never do for Barny ; that would be an 
 open admission of ignorance his soul was above ; 
 and, consequently, Barny set his brains to v/ork to 
 devise measures of coming at the hidden know- 
 ledge by some circuitous route that would not 
 betray the end he was v/orking for. To this pur- 
 pose, fifty stratagems were raised and demolished 
 in half as many minutes in the fertile brain of 
 Barny as he strided along the shore, and, as he 
 was working hard at the fifty-first, it was knocked 
 all to pieces by his jostling against some one 
 whom he never perceived he was approaching, so 
 immersed was he in his speculations ; and, on look- 
 ing up, who should it prove to be but his friend, 
 '' the long sailor from the Aystern Injees." This 
 was quite a godsend to Barny, and much beyond 
 what he could have hoped for. Of all men under 
 the sun, the long sailor was the man in a million 
 for Barny's net at that minute, and accordingly 
 
128 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors, 
 
 he made a haul of him, and thought it the greatest 
 catch he ever made in his life. 
 
 Barny and the long sailor were in close com- 
 panionship for the remainder of the day, which 
 was closed, as the preceding one, in a carouse ; 
 but, on this occasion, there was only a duet per- 
 formance in honor of the jolly god, and the treat 
 was at Barny's expense. What the nature of 
 their conversation during the period was I will 
 not dilate on, but keep it as profound a secret as 
 Barny himself did, and content myself with saying 
 that Barny looked a much happier man the next 
 day. Instead of wearing his hat slouched, and 
 casting his eyes on the ground, he walked about 
 with his usual unconcern, and gave his nod, the 
 passing word of " civilittide,''* to every friend he 
 met ; he rolled his quid of tobacco about in his jaw 
 with an air of superior enjoyment, and, if disturbed 
 in his narcotic amusement by a question, he took 
 his own time to eject " the leperous distilment " 
 before he answered the querist, a happy com- 
 posure that bespoke a man quite at ease with 
 himself. It was in this agreeable spirit that 
 Barny bent his course to the house of Peter 
 Kelly, the owner of the " big farm beyant " before 
 alluded to, in order to put in practice a plan he 
 had formed for the fulfilment of his determination 
 of rivalling O'SuUivan. 
 
 He thought it probable that Peter Kelly, being 
 one of the *' snuggest men in the neighborhood, 
 would be a likely person to join him in a spec," 
 
Barny O'Reirdon. 129 
 
 as he called it (a favorite abbreviation of his for 
 the word speculation), and accordingl}^ when he 
 reached the " big farm house," he accosted the 
 owner with his usual ** Good save you !" '' God 
 save you kindly, Barny," returned Peter Kelly. 
 *' An' what is it brings you here, Barny," asked 
 Peter, '' this fine day, instead o' being out in the 
 boat?" — " Oh ! Pll be out in the boat soon enough* 
 and it's far enough, too, Fll be in her ; an' indeed 
 it's partly that same is bringin' me here to your- 
 self." 
 
 '* Why, do you want me to go along wid you, 
 Barny ?" 
 
 "Troth an' I don't, Mr. Kelly. You're a 
 knowledgable man an land, but Pm afeard it's a 
 bad bargain you'd be at say." 
 
 '* And what wor you talking about me and your 
 boat for?" 
 
 " Why, you see, sir, it was in the regard of a 
 little bit o' business, an', if you'd come wid me and 
 take a turn in the praty-field, Pll be behouldin' to 
 you, and may be you'll hear somethin' that won't 
 be displazin' to you." 
 
 *' An' welkim, Barny," said Peter Kelly. 
 
 When Barny and Peter were in the '* praty- 
 field," Barny opened the trenches (I don't mean 
 the potato trenches), but, in military parlance, he 
 opened the trenches, and laid siege to Peter Kelly, 
 setting forth the extensive profits that had been 
 realized at various " specs " that had been made 
 by his neighbors in exporting potatoes. " And 
 
130 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 
 
 sure," said Barny, ** why shouldn't you do the 
 same, and they are ready to your hand? As much 
 as to say, Why dont you profit by me, Peter Kelly ? 
 And the boat is below there in the harbor, and 
 I'll say this much, the devil a betther boat is 
 betune this and herself." 
 
 " Indeed, I b'lieve so, Barn}^" said Peter, " for, 
 considhering where we stand at this present, 
 there's no boat at all at all betune us." And Peter 
 laughed with infinite pleasure at his own hit. 
 
 *' Oh ! well, you know what I mane, any how ; 
 an', as I said before, the boat is a darlint boat, and 
 as for him that commands her — I b'lieve I need 
 say nothin' about that." And Barny gave a toss of 
 his head and a sweep of his open hand, more than 
 doubling the laudatory nature of his comment on 
 himself. 
 
 But, as the Irish saying is, ''to make a long 
 story short," Barny prevailed on Peter Kelly to 
 make an export; but in the nature of the venture 
 they did not agree. Barny had proposed pota- 
 toes ; Peter said there were enough of them 
 already where he was going; and Barny rejoined 
 that " praties were so good in themselves there 
 never could be too much o' thim anywhere." 
 But Peter, being a knowledgable man, and up to 
 .all "saycretso' the airth, and understanding the 
 the-o-ry and the che-mis-thery," overruled Barny's 
 proposition, and determined upon a cargo of seal- 
 peens (which name they gave to pickled mackerel) 
 as a preferable merchandise, quite forgetting 
 
Barny O'Reirdon. 131 
 
 that Dublin Bay herrings were a much better 
 and as cheap a commodity, at the command of the 
 Fingalians. But in many similar mistakes the 
 ingenious Mr. Kelly has been paralleled by other 
 speculators. But that is neither here nor there, 
 and it was all one to Barny whether his boat was 
 freighted with potatoes or scalpeeits, so long as he 
 had the honor and glory of becoming a navigator, 
 and -being as good as O'Sullivan. 
 
 Accordingly the boat was laden and all got in 
 readiness for putting to sea, and nothing was now 
 wanting but Barny 's orders to haul up the gaff 
 and shake out the jib of his hooker. 
 
 But this order Barny refrained to give, and, for 
 the first time in his life, exhibited a disinclination 
 to leave the shore. One of his fellow-boatmen at 
 last said to him : '* Why, thin, Barny O'Reirdon, 
 what the divil is come over you, at all at all? 
 What's the maynin' of your loitherin' about here, 
 and the boat ready, and a lovely fine breeze aff o' 
 the land?" 
 
 '' Oh ! never you mind ; I b'lieve I know my 
 own business anyhow, an' it's hard, so it is, if a 
 man can't ordher his own boat to sail when he 
 plazes." 
 
 "■ Oh ! I was only thinking it quare — and a pity 
 more betoken, as I said before, to lose the beauti- 
 ful breeze, and — " 
 
 "Well, just keep your thoughts to yourself, i' 
 you plaze, and stay in the boat as I bid you, and 
 don't be out of her on your apperl, by no manner 
 
132 Half Hours zuitJi Irish Authors, 
 
 Q manes, for one minit, for you see I don't know 
 when it may be plazin' to me to go aboord an* set 
 sail." 
 
 ''Well, all I can say is I never seen you afeard 
 to go to say before." 
 
 '' Who says I'm afeard ? " said O'Reirdon ; 
 "you'd betther not say that agin, or in troth I'll 
 give you a leatherin' that won't be for the good o' 
 your health — troth, for three straws this minit I'd 
 lave you that your own mother wouldn't know 
 you with the lickin' I'd give you ; but I scorn 
 your dirty insinuation ; no man ever seen Barny 
 O'Reirdon afeard yet, anyhow. Howld your 
 prate, I tell you, and look up to your betthers. 
 What do you know iv navigation? May be you 
 think it's as aisy for to sail on a voyage as to go 
 start a-fishin'." And Barny turned on his heel, 
 and left the shore. 
 
 The next day passed without the hooker sail- 
 ing, and Barny gave a most sufficient reason for 
 the delay, by declaring that he had a warnin' 
 givin' him in a dhrame (Glory be to God !), and 
 that it was given to him to understand (under 
 Heaven) that it wouldn't be lucky that day. 
 
 Well, the next day was Friday, and Barny of 
 course would not sail any more than any other 
 sailor who could help it on this unpropitious day. 
 On Saturday, however, he came running in a 
 great hurry down to the shore, and, jumped 
 aboard, he gave orders to make all sail, and, tak- 
 ing the helm of the hooker, he turned her head 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 133 
 
 to the sea, and soon the boat was cleaving the 
 blue waters with a velocity seldom witnessed in 
 so small a craft, and scarcely conceivable to those 
 who have not seen the speed of a Kinsale hooker. 
 
 ** Why, thin, you tuk the notion mighty sud- 
 dint, Barny," said the fisherman next in authority 
 to O'Reirdon, as soon as the bustle of getting the 
 boat under way had subsided. 
 
 " Well, I hope it's plazin' to you at last," said 
 Barny ; " troth, one 'ud think you were never at 
 say before, you wor in such a hurry to be off; as 
 new-fangled a'most as the child with a play-toy." 
 
 ^* Well," said the other of Barny' s companions, 
 for there were but two with him in the boat, " I 
 was thinkin' myself, as well as Jemm}'-, that we 
 lost two fine days for nothin', and we'd be there 
 a'most, may be, now, if we sailed three days agon." 
 
 '■'■ Don't b'lieve it," said Barny emphatically. 
 '' Now, don't you know yourself that there is 
 some days that the fish won't come near the lines 
 at all, and that we might as well be castin' our 
 nets on the dhry land as in the say, for all we'll 
 catch if we start on an unlooky day ? And sure I 
 towld you I was waitin' only till I had it given to 
 me to undherstan' that it was looky to sail, and I 
 go bail we'll be there sooner than if we started 
 three days agon, for, if you don't start with good 
 look before you, faix may be it's never at all to 
 the end o* your trip you'll come." 
 
 '' Well, there's no use in talkin' aboot it now, 
 anyhow ; but when do vou expec' to be there ?" 
 
134 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 ** Why, you see we must wait antil I can tell 
 how the wind is like to howld on, before I can 
 make up my mind to that." 
 
 " But you're sure now, Barny, that you're up to 
 the coorse you have to run ?" 
 
 " See now, lave me alone and don't be cross 
 crass-questionin' me — tare-an-ouns, do you think 
 me sitch a bladdherang as for to go to shuperin- 
 scribe a thing I wasn't aiquil to ?" 
 
 " No ; I was only goin' to ax you what coorse 
 you w^or goin' to steer." 
 
 " You'll find out soon enough when we get 
 there, and so I bid you agin' lay me alone — just 
 keep 3^our toe in your pump. Shure I'm here at 
 the helm, and a weight on my mind, and it's fit- 
 ther for you, Jim, to mind your ow^n business, and 
 lay me to mind mine ; away wid you there, and 
 be handy ; haul taut that foresheet there, we 
 must run close on the wind ; be handy, bo3'S, 
 make everything dhraw." 
 
 These orders were obeyed, and the hooker soon 
 passed to windward of a ship that left the harbor 
 before her, but could not hold on a wind with the 
 same tenacity as the hooker, whose qualities in 
 this particular render it peculiarly suitable for the 
 purposes to which it is applied, namely, pilot and 
 fishing boats. 
 
 We have said a ship left the harbor before the 
 hooker had set sail, and it is now fitting to inform 
 the reader that Barny had contrived, in the course 
 of his last meeting with the '' long sailor," to as- 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 135 
 
 certain that this ship, then lying in the harbor, 
 was going to the very place Barny wanted to 
 reach. Barny 's plan of action was decided upon 
 in a moment; he had now nothing to do but to 
 watch the sailing of the ship, and follow in her 
 course. Here was at once a new mode of navi- 
 gation discovered. 
 
 The stars, twinkling in mysterious brightness 
 through the silent gloom of night, were the first 
 encouraging, because visible, guides to the adven- 
 turous mariners of antiquity. Since then, the 
 sailor, encouraged by a bolder science, relies on 
 the tmseeji agency of nature, depending on the 
 fidelity of an atom of iron to the mystic law that 
 claims its homage in the north. This is one re- 
 finement of science upon another. But the beau- 
 tiful simplicity of Barny O'Reirdon's philosophy 
 cannot be too much admired, to follow the ship 
 that is going to the same place. Is not this navi- 
 gation made easy? 
 
 But Barny, like many a great man before him, 
 seemed not to be aware of how much credit he 
 was entitled to for his invention, for he did not 
 divulge to his companions the originality of his 
 proceeding ; he wished them to believe he was 
 only proceeding in the commonplace manner, and 
 had no ambition to be distinguished as the happy 
 projector of so simple a practice. 
 
 For this purpose, he went to windward of the 
 ship, and then fell off again, allowing her to pass 
 him, as he did not wish even those on board the 
 
136 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 ship to suppose he was following- in their wake ; 
 for Barny like all people that are full of one 
 scheme, and fancy everybody is watching them, 
 dreaded lest any one should fathom his motives. 
 All that day, Barny held on the same course as his 
 leader, keeping at a respectful distance, however, 
 "■ for fear 'twould look like dodging her," as he 
 said to himself; but, as night closed in, so closed 
 in Barny with the ship, and kept a sharp lookout 
 that she would not give him the shp. The next 
 morning dawned, and found the hooker and ship 
 companions still; and thus matters proceeded for 
 four days, during the entire of which time they 
 had not seen land since their first losing sight of 
 it, although the weather was clear. 
 
 ** By my sowl," thought Barny, *' the channel 
 must be mighty wide in these parts, and for the 
 last day or so we've been goin' purty free with a 
 flowing sheet, and I wondher we aren't closin' in 
 wid the shore by this time ; or may be it's farther 
 off than I thought it was." His companions, too, 
 began to question Barny on the subject, but to 
 their queries he presented an impenetrable front 
 of composure, and said, *^ It was always the best 
 plan to keep a good bowld offin'." In two days 
 more, however, the weather began to be sensibly 
 warmer, and Barny and his companions remarked 
 that it was *' goin' to be the finest say son — God 
 bless it ! — that ever kem out o' the skies for many a 
 long year, and may be it's the whate would not be 
 beautiful, and a great dale of it." It was at the 
 
Barny O' Reirdon, 137 
 
 end of a week that the ship which Barny had 
 hitherto kept ahead of him showed symptoms of 
 bearing down upon him, as he thought ; and, sure 
 enough, she did, and Barny began to conjecture 
 what the deuce the ship could want with him, 
 and commenced inventing answers to the ques- 
 tions he thought it possible might be put to him 
 in case the ship spoke him. He was soon put out 
 of suspense by being hailed and ordered to run 
 under her lee, and the captain, looking over the 
 quarter, asked Barny where he was going. 
 
 ** Faith, then, I'm goin' an my business,' said 
 Barny. 
 
 '' But where?" said the captain. 
 
 " Why, sure, an it's no matther where a poor 
 man like me id be goin'," said Barny. 
 
 ^* Only I'm curious to know what the deuce 
 you've been following my ship for the last week ?" 
 
 '' Follyin' your ship ! Why, thin, blur-an-a^ers, 
 do you think it's follyin' yiz I am ?" 
 
 *' It's very like it," said the captain. 
 
 " Why, did two people niver thravel the rame 
 road before?" 
 
 *' I don't say they didn't ; but there's a great 
 difference between a ship of seven hundred tons 
 and a hooker." 
 
 '' Oh ! as for that matther," said Barny, "• the 
 same highroad sarves a coach and four, and a 
 lowback car; the thravellin' tinker an* horse- 
 back." 
 
 " That's very true," said the captain, "■ but the 
 
138 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 cases are not the same, Paddy, and I can't con- 
 ceive what the devil brings j^?^ here." 
 
 " And who ax'd you to consayve anything about 
 it?" asked Barny somewhat sturdily. 
 
 " D — n me if I can imagine what j^ou're about, 
 my fine fellow," said the captain ; " and my own 
 notion is that you don't know V\diere the d — 1 
 3^ou're going yourself." 
 
 '' O baithcrshin !'' said Barny, with a laugh of 
 derision. 
 
 "Why, then, do you object to tell?" said the 
 captain. 
 
 " Arrah sure, captain, an' don't you know that 
 sometimes vessels is bound to sail under saycret 
 ordhersf said Barny, endeavoring to foil the 
 question by badinage. 
 
 There was a universal laugh from the deck of 
 the ship, at the idea of a fishing-boat sailing under 
 secret orders ; for, by this time, the whole broad- 
 side of the vessel was crowded with grinning 
 mouths and wondering eyes at Barny and his boat. 
 
 "• Oh ! it's a thrifie makes fools laugh," said 
 Barny. 
 
 " Take care, my fine fellow, that 3''Ou don't be 
 laughing at the wrong side of your mouth before 
 long, for I've a notion that you're cursedly in the 
 wrong box, as cunning a fellow as you think your- 
 self. D — n your stupid head, can't 3^ou tell what 
 brings you here ?" 
 
 " Why, thin, by gor, one id think the whole say 
 belonged to you, you're so mighty bowld in axin 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 139 
 
 questions an it. Why, tare-an-ouns, sure I've as 
 much right to be here as you, though I haven't 
 as big a ship nor as fine a coat ; but may be I can 
 take as good a sailin' out o' the one, and has as 
 bowld a heart under th' other." 
 
 '' Very well," said the captain, '* I see there's no 
 use in talking to you, so go to the d — 1 your own 
 wa}^" And away bore the ship, leaving Barny 
 in indignation and his companions in wonder. 
 
 ''An' why wouldn't you tell him ?" said they to 
 Barny. 
 
 "• Why, don't you see," said Barny, whose 
 object was now to bHnd them — '' don't you see, 
 how do I know but may be he might be goin' to 
 the same place himself, and may be he has a cargo 
 of scalpcens as well as uz, and wants to get before 
 us there ?" 
 
 '' True for you, Barny," said they. " By dad, 
 you're right." And their enquiries being satisfied, 
 the day passed, as former ones had done, in pursu- 
 ing the course of the ship. 
 
 In four days more, however, the provisions in 
 the hooker began to fail, and they were obliged to 
 have recourse to the scalpeens for sustenance, and 
 Barny then got seriously uneasy at the length of 
 the voyage and the likely greater length, for any 
 thing he could see to the contrary ; and, urged at 
 last by his own alarms and those of his compa- 
 nions, he was enabled, as the wind was light, to 
 gain on the ship, and, when he found himself along- 
 side, he demanded a parley with the captain. 
 
140 Half Hottrs zvitJi Irish Authors, 
 
 The captain, on hearing that the " hardy hooker," 
 as she got christened, was under his lee, came on 
 deck, and, as soon as he appeared, Barny cried 
 out — 
 
 " Why, thin, blur-an-agers, captain dear, do you 
 expec' to be there soon ?" 
 
 " Where ?" said the captain. 
 
 ** Oh ! you know yourself," said Barny. 
 
 *' It's well for me I do," said the captain. 
 
 " Thrue for you, indeed, 3'our honor," said 
 Barny, in his most insinuating tone; ''but whin 
 will you be at the ind o' 3^our voyage, captain 
 jewel?" 
 
 " I dare say in about three months," said the 
 captain. 
 
 '' O Holy Mother!" ejaculated Barny; ''three 
 months ! — arrah, it's jokein' you are, captain dear, 
 and only want to freken me." 
 
 " HoAV should I frighten you ?" asked the 
 captain. 
 
 " Why, thin, your honor, to tell God's truth, 
 I heard you were goin' tJiere, an', as I wanted to 
 go there too, I thought I couldn't do better nor 
 to folly a knowledgable gintleman like yourself, 
 and save myself the throuble iv findin' it out." 
 
 "And where do you think I am going?" said 
 the captain. 
 
 " Why, thin," said Barny, " isn't it to Fingal?' 
 
 " No," said the captain ; " it's to Bengal.'' 
 
 "Oh! Gog's blakey!" said Barny, " what'll I 
 do now at all at all?" 
 
Bar?iy O'Reirdon, 141 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HOMEWARD-BOUND. 
 
 " 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good." — 0!d Saying. 
 
 . The captain ordered Barny on deck, as he 
 wished to have some conversation with him 
 on what he very naturally considered a most 
 extraordinary adventure. Heaven help the cap- 
 tain ! he knew little of Irishmen, or he would not 
 have been so astonished. Barny made his appear- 
 ance. Puzzling question, and more puzzUng 
 answer, followed in quick succession between the 
 commander and Barny, who, in the midst of his 
 dilemma, stamped about, thumped his head, 
 squeezed his caubeen into all manner of shapes, 
 and vented his despair anathematically : 
 
 '* Oh ! my heavy hathred to you, you tarnal 
 thief iv a long sailor ! It's a purty scrape yiv led 
 me into. By gor, I thought it was Fingal he said, 
 and now I hear it is BingaL Oh ! the divil sweep 
 you for navigation, why did I meddle or make 
 wid you at all at all ? And my curse light on you, 
 Terry O'Sullivan, why did I iver come across 
 you, you onlooky vagabone, to put sitch thoughts 
 in my head ? And so its Bingal, and not Fingal, 
 you're goin' to, captain?" 
 
 ** Yes, indeed, Paddy." 
 
 " An' might I be so bowld to ax, captain, is 
 Bingal much farther nor Fingal?" 
 
142 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 " A trifle or so, Paddy." 
 
 " Och, thin, millia murther, weirasthru, how 'ill 
 I iver get there at all at all?" roared out poor 
 Barny. 
 
 '' By turning about, and getting back the road 
 you've come, as fast as you can." 
 
 *' Is it back ? O Queen iv Heaven ! an how 
 will I iver get back?" said the bewildered Barny. 
 
 '' Then j^ou don't know your course, it ap- 
 pears ?" 
 
 '^ Oh ! faix I know it, iligant, as long as your 
 honor was before me." 
 
 '' But you don't know your course back?' 
 
 " Why, indeed, not to say rightly all out, your 
 honor." 
 
 " Can't you steer ?" said the captain. 
 
 *' The devil a betther hand at the tiller in all 
 Kinsale," said Barny, with his usual brag. 
 
 '' Well, so far so good," said the captain. " And 
 you know the points of the compass — you have a 
 compass, I suppose ?" 
 
 ** A compass ! by my sowl an it's not let alone a 
 compass, but a /^air a compasses I have, that my 
 brother the carpinthir left me for a keepsake whin 
 he wint abroad ; but, indeed, as for the points o' 
 thim, I can't say much, for the childer spy It thim 
 intirel}^, rootin' holes in the flure." 
 
 "What the plague are you talking about?" 
 asked the captain. 
 
 ''Wasn't your honor discoorsin' me about the 
 points o' the compasses?" 
 
Barny C Reh'don. 143 
 
 '' Confound your thick head !" said the captain. 
 *' Why, what an ignoramus you must be, not to 
 know what a compass is, and you at sea all your 
 life? Do you even know the cardinal points?" 
 
 " The cardinals ! faix, an it's a great respect I 
 have for them, your honor. Sure, ar'n't they be- 
 longin' to the pope ? " 
 
 " Confound you, you blockhead ! " roared the 
 captain, in a rage ; " 'twould take the patience of 
 the pope and the cardinals, and the cardinal vir- 
 tues into the bargain, to keep one's temper with 
 you. Do you know the four points of the wind ?" 
 
 '' By my sovvl, I do, and more." 
 
 "Well, never mind more, but let us stick to 
 four. You're sure you know the four points of 
 the wind ?" 
 
 *' By dad, it would be a quare thing if a say- 
 farin' man didn't know somethin' about the wind, 
 anyhow. Why, captain, dear, you must take me 
 for a nath'ral intirely, to suspect me o' the like o' 
 not knowin' all about the wind. By gor, I know 
 as much o' the wind a'most as a pig." 
 
 " Indeed, I believe so," laughed out the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 ** Oh ! you may laugh if you plaze, and I see by 
 the same that you don't know about the pig, with 
 all your edication, captain." 
 
 " Well, what about the pig ?" 
 
 " Why, sir, did you never hear a pig can see the 
 wind?" 
 
 " I can't say that I did." 
 
144 Half Hours ivith Irish Atithors. 
 
 " Oh ! thin, he does, and, for that reason, who 
 has a right to know more about it ? '* 
 
 ** You don't, for one, I dare say, Paddy ; and 
 may be you have a pig aboard to give you infor- 
 mation." 
 
 *' Sorra taste, yer honor, not as much as a rasher 
 o* bacon ; but it's may be your honor never seen a 
 pig tossing up his snout consaited like, and run- 
 ning like mad afore a storm." 
 
 '' Well, what if I have ? " 
 
 '* Well, sir, that is when they see the wind 
 a-comin." 
 
 " May be so, Paddy, but all this knowledge in 
 piggery won't find j^ou your way home ; and, if 
 you take my advice, you will give up all thoughts 
 of endeavoring to find your way back, and come 
 on board. You and your messmates, I dare sa}^ 
 wall be useful hands, with some teaching; but, at 
 all events, I cannot leave you here on the open 
 sea, with every chance of being lost." 
 
 *' Why, thin, indeed, and Pm behowldin' to 
 your honor ; and it's the hoighth o' kindness, so 
 it is, you offer ; and it's nothin' else but a gintle- 
 man you are, every inch o' you ; but I hope it's 
 not so bad wid us yet as to do the likes o' that." 
 
 " I think it's bad enough," said the captain, 
 " w^hen you are without a compass, and knowing 
 nothing of your course, and nearly a hundred and 
 eighty leagues from land." 
 
 *' An' how many miles would that be, captain?' 
 
 " Three times as many." 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 145 
 
 " I never larned the rule o' three, captain, and 
 may be your honor id tell me yourself." 
 
 " That is rather more than five hundred miles." 
 
 '' Five hundred miles ! " shouted Barny. *' Oh ! 
 the Lord look down upon us ! How 'ill we ever 
 get back ? " 
 
 "That's what I say," said the captain; ''and, 
 therefore, I recommend you to come aboard with 
 me." 
 
 *' And where 'ud the hooker be all the time?" 
 said Barny. 
 
 "• Let her go adrift," was the answ^er. 
 
 " Is it the darlint boat ? Oh ! by dad, I'll never 
 hear o' that, at all." 
 
 *' Well, then, stay in her and be lost. Decide 
 upon the matter at once — either come on board or 
 cast off." 
 
 And the captain was turning away as he spoke, 
 when Barny called after him : '' Arrah, thin, your 
 honor, don't go jist for one minit antil I ax you 
 one word more. If I wint wid 3'Ou, v/hin would I 
 be home again ? " 
 
 " In about seven months." 
 
 ** Oh ! thin, that puts the wig an it at wanst. I 
 daren't go at all." 
 
 " Why, seven months are not long passing." 
 
 *' Thrue for you, in troth," said Barny, with a 
 shrug of his shoulders. '' Faix, it's myself knows, 
 to my sorrow, the half year comes round mighty 
 suddint, and the lord's agint comes for the thrifle 
 o* rent ; and, faix, I know by Molly that nine 
 
146 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 months is not long in comin' over either," added 
 Barny, with a grin. 
 
 '' Then, what's your objection as to the time ?" 
 asked the captain. 
 
 " Arrah, sure, sir, what would the woman that 
 owns me do while I was away ? And may be it's 
 break her heart the craythur would, thinking I 
 was lost intirely ! And who'd be at home to take 
 care o' the childher' and airn thim the bit and the 
 sup, whin I'd be away? And who knows but it's 
 all dead they'd be afore I got back ? Och hone ! 
 sure the heart id fairly break in my bod}^ if hurt 
 or harm kem to them through me. So say no 
 more, captain, dear, only give me a thrifle o' di- 
 rections how I'm to make an offer at gettin' home, 
 and it's m3^self that v/ill pray for you night, noon, 
 and mornin' for that same." 
 
 '' Well, Paddy," said the captain, '' as you are 
 determined to go back, in spite of all I can say, 
 you must attend to me well while I give you as 
 simple instructions as I can. You say you know 
 the four points of the wund, north, south, east, and 
 west? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 '' How do you know them ? for I must see that 
 you are not likely to make a m.istake. How do 
 you know the points ?" 
 
 '' Wh}^ you see, sir, the sun, God bless it, rises 
 in the aist, and sets in the west, which stands to 
 raison ; and, whin you stand bechuxt the aist and 
 the west, the north is forninst you." 
 
Barny O' Rcirdon. 147 
 
 ** And when the north is forninst you, as you 
 say, is the east on your right or your left hand ? " 
 
 *' On the right hand, your honor." 
 
 " Well, I see you know that much, however. 
 Now," said the captain, " the moment you leave 
 the ship you must steer a north-east course, and 
 you will make some land near home in about a 
 week, if the wind holds as it is now, and it is likely 
 to do so ; but, mind me, if you turn out of the 
 course in the sm.allest degree, you are a lost 
 man." 
 
 '■'■ Many thanks to your honor." 
 
 " And how are you off for provisions ? " 
 
 " Why, thin, indeed, in the regard o' that same, 
 we are in the hoighth o' distress ; for exceptin' 
 the scalpcens, sorra taste passed our lips for these 
 four daj^s." 
 
 *' Oh ! you poor devils ! " said the commander, 
 in a tone of sincere commiseration. '' I'll order 
 you some provisions on board before you start." 
 
 '' Long life to your honor ! And Fd like to drink 
 the health of so noble a gintleman." 
 
 '' I understand you, Paddy, you shall have grog, 
 too." 
 
 " Musha, the heavens shower blessins an you, I 
 pray the Virgin Marj^ and the twelve apostles, 
 Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, not forgittin' St. 
 Pathrick!" 
 
 ''Thank you, Paddy; but keep your prayers 
 for yourself, for you need them all to help you 
 home again." 
 
148 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 " Oh ! never fear; when the thing is to be done, 
 I'll do it, by dad, wid a heart and a half. And 
 sure, your honor, God is good, an' will mind des- 
 solute craythurs like uz on the wild oceant as well 
 as ashore." 
 
 While some of the ship's crew were putting the 
 captain's benevolent intentions to Barny and his 
 companions into practice, by transferring some 
 provisions to the hooker, the commander enter- 
 tained himself by further conversation w^ith 
 Barny, who was the greatest original he had ever 
 met. In the course of their colloquy, Barny 
 drove many hard queries at the captain respect- 
 ing the wonders of the nautical profession, and at 
 last put the question to him plump : 
 
 '' Oh ! thin, captain dear, and how is it at all at 
 all that you make your way over the wide says 
 intirely to them furrin parts ? " 
 
 " You would not understand, Paddy, if I at- 
 tempted to explain to you." 
 
 '' Sure enough, indeed, your honor, and I ask 
 your pardon, only I was curious to know, and 
 sure no wondher." 
 
 *' It requires various branches of knowledge to 
 make a navigator." 
 
 " Branches !" said Barny, '' by gar, I think it id 
 take the ivhole tree 0' knowledge to make it out. 
 And that place you are going to, sir, that ^/;/gal 
 (oh ! bad luck to it for a Bing2\, it's the sore Bin- 
 gal to me), is it so far off as you say ? " 
 
 ''Yes, Paddy, half round the world." 
 
Bariiy O' Reirdon. 149 
 
 ''Is it round in airnest, captain dear? Round 
 about?" 
 
 ** Aye, indeed." 
 
 " Oh ! thin, ar'n't you afeard that whin you come 
 to the top and that you're obleedged to go down, 
 that you'd go slidderhin away intirely, and never 
 be able to stop may be ? It's bad enough, so it is, 
 going downhill by land, but it must be the dick- 
 ens all out by wather." 
 
 '' But there is no hill, Padd}^ ; don't you know 
 that water is alwayslevel?" 
 
 '' By dad, it's very yf^^/, anyhow, and by the same 
 token it's seldom I throuble it ; but sure, your 
 honor, if the wather is level, how do you make 
 out that it is round you go ?" 
 
 '' That is a part of the knowledge I was speak- 
 ing to you about," said the captain. 
 
 " Musha, bad luck to you, knowledge, but you're 
 a quare thing ! And where is it Bingal, bad cess 
 to it, would be at all at all?" 
 
 " In the East Indies." 
 
 *' Oh ! that is where they make the tay, isn't it, 
 sir?" 
 
 "■ No ; where the tea grows is further still." 
 
 ''Further! Why, that must be the ind of the 
 world intirely; and they don't make it thin, sir, 
 but it grows, you tell me." 
 
 "Yes, Paddy." 
 
 " Is it like hay, your honor?" 
 
 " Not exactly, Paddy ; what puts hay in your 
 head?" 
 
150 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 
 
 ^' Oh! only bekase I hear them call it Bohaj.'* 
 
 '*' A most logical deduction, Paddy." 
 
 ''And is it a great deal farther, your honor, the 
 ^aj^ country is ?" 
 
 "Yes, Paddy; China it is called." 
 
 " That's, I suppose, what we call Chaynee, 
 sir?" 
 
 ''Exactly, Paddy." 
 
 " By dad, I never could come at it rightly 
 before, why it was nath'ral to drink tay out o' 
 chaynee. I ax your honor's pardon for bein* 
 troublesome, but I hard tell from the long sailor 
 iv a place they call Japan, in them furrin parts; 
 and zs it there, your honor?" 
 
 "Quite true, Paddy." 
 
 " And I suppose it's there the blackin' comes 
 from ?" ' 
 . " No, Padd}^ ; you are out there." 
 
 "Oh! well, I thought it stood to rayson, as I 
 heerd of Japan blackin', sir, that it would be there 
 it kem from ; besides, as the blacks themselves — 
 the naygers, I mane — is in them parts." 
 
 " The negroes are in Africa, Paddy, much near- 
 er to us." 
 
 " God betune us and harm ! I hope I would 
 not be too near them," said Barny. 
 
 " Why, what's 3^our objection ?" 
 
 " Arrah, sure, sir, they're hardly mortials at all, 
 but has the mark o' the bastes an thim." 
 
 " How do you make out that, Paddy ?" 
 
 " Why, sure, sir, and didn't Nature make thim 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 151 
 
 wid wool on their heads, plainly makin' it undher- 
 stood to Chrishthans that they were little more 
 nor cattle ?" 
 
 "■ I think your head is a wool-gathering now, 
 Paddy," said the captain, laughing. 
 
 ** Faix, may be so, indeed," answered Barny 
 good-humoredly ; " but it's seldom I ever went out 
 to look for wool and kem home shorn, anyhow," 
 said he, with a look of triumph. 
 
 '' Well, you won't have that to say for the future, 
 Paddy," said the captain, laughing again. 
 
 " My name's not Paddy, your honor," said Barny, 
 returning the laugh, but seizing the opportunity to 
 turn the joke aside that was going against him — 
 '* my name isn't Paddy, sir, but Barny." 
 
 '' Oh ! if it was Solomon, you'll be bare enough 
 when you go home this time ; you have not gath- 
 ered much this trip, Barny." 
 
 '' Sure Pve been gathering knowledge, an3^how, 
 3^our honor," said Barny, with a significant look 
 at the captain, and a complimentary tip of his 
 hand to his caubeen ; "and God bless you for 
 being so good to me." 
 
 '' And what's your name besides Barny ?" asked 
 the captain. 
 
 '' O'Reirdon, your honor — Barny O'Reirdon's 
 my name." 
 
 ''Well, Barny O'Reirdon, I won't forget your 
 name nor yourself in a hurr}^, for you are certainly 
 the most original navigator I ever had the honor 
 of being acquainted with." 
 
152 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 "■ Well," said Barny, with a triumphant toss of 
 his head, "■ I have done Terry O'SuUivan, at any 
 rate ; the devil a half so far he ever was, and that's 
 a comfort. I have muzzled his clack for the rest 
 iv his life, and he won't be comin' over us w^id the 
 pride iv his Fingal, while I'm to the fore, that w^as 
 a' most at Bingaiy 
 
 '* Terry O'SuUivan — who is he, pray?" said the 
 captain. 
 
 ''Oh! he's a scut iv a chap that's not worth 
 your axin for — he's not worth your honor's notice 
 — a braggin* poor crathur. Oh ! wait till I get 
 home, and the devil a more braggin' they'll hear 
 out of his jaw." 
 
 " Indeed, then, Barny, the sooner 3^ou turn your 
 face towards home, the better," said the captain ; 
 " since you w^ill go, there is no need of your los- 
 ing more time." 
 
 " Thrue for you, your honor ; and sure it's well 
 for me I had the luck to meet with the likes o* 
 your honor, that explained the ins and the outs 
 iv it to me, and laid it all down as plain as 
 prent." 
 
 "Are you sure you remember my directions?" 
 said the captain. 
 
 " Troth an* I'll niver forget them to the day o' 
 my death, and is bound to pra}^ more betoken, for 
 3^ou and yours." 
 
 '* Don't mind praying for me till you get home, 
 Barny; but answer me — how are you to steer 
 when you shall leave me?" 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. 153 
 
 "The nor'-aist coorse, your honor, that's the 
 coorse agin the world." 
 
 ''Remember that! Never alter that course till 
 you see land — let nothing- make you turn out of a 
 north-east course." 
 
 '' Throth an' that would be the dirty turn, see- 
 in' that it was yourself that ordhered it. Oh ! no, 
 I'll depend my life an the 7ior-aist coorse, and God 
 help any that comes betune me an' it ! — I'd run 
 him down if he was my father." 
 
 ''Well, good-by, Barny." 
 
 " Good-by, and God bless you, your honor, 
 and send you safe !" 
 
 " That's a wish you want for yourself, Barny 
 — never fear for me, but mind yourself well." 
 
 " Oh ! sure I'm as good as at home wanst I know 
 the way, barrin' the wind is conthi'ary ; sure the 
 nor'-aist coorse '11 do the business complate. 
 Good-by, your honor, and long life to you, and 
 more power to your elbow, and a light heart and 
 a heavy purse to you ever more, I pray the Bless- 
 ed Virgin and all the saints, amin !" And so say- 
 ing, Barny descended the ship's side, and once 
 more assumed the helm of the "hardy hooker." 
 
 The two vessels now separated on their oppo- 
 site courses. What a contrast their relative situa- 
 tions afforded ! Proudly the ship bore away un- 
 der her lofty and spreading canvas, cleaving the 
 billows before her, manned by an able crew, and 
 under the guidance of experienced officers ; the 
 finger of science to point the course of her prog- 
 
154 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 ress, the foithful chart to warn of the hidden rock 
 and the shoal, the long line and the quadrant to mea- 
 sure her march and prove her position. The poor 
 little hooker cleft not the billows, each wave lifted 
 her on its crest like a sea-bird ; but the three inex- 
 perienced fishermen to manage her ; no certain 
 means to guide them over the vast ocean they 
 had to traverse ; and the holding of the ''fickle 
 wind" — the only <://^;/(;^of their escape from perish- 
 ing in the wilderness of waters. By the one, the 
 feeling excited is supremely that of man's power. 
 By the other, of his utter helplessness. To the 
 one, the expanse of ocean could scarcely be con- 
 sidered '' trackless" ; to the other, it was a waste in- 
 deed. Yet the cheer that burst from the ship at 
 parting was answered as gaily from the hooker as 
 though the odds had not been so fearfully against 
 her, and no blither heart beat on board the ship 
 than that of Barny O'Reirdon. 
 
 Happy light-heartedness of my countr3^men ! 
 How kindly have they been fortified by nature 
 against the assaults of adversity ; and, if they blind- 
 ly rush into dangers, they cannot be denied the 
 possession of gallant hearts to fight their way out 
 of them. 
 
 But each hurrah became less audible ; b}^ degrees 
 the cheers dwindled into faintness, and finally were 
 lost in the eddies of the breeze. 
 
 The first feeling of loneliness that poor Barny 
 experienced was when he could no longer hear 
 the exhilarating sound. The plash of the surge 
 
Barny O' Rcirdon. 155 
 
 as it broke on the bows of his little boat was 
 uninterrupted by the kindred sound of human 
 voice ; and, as it fell upon his ear, it smote upon 
 his heart. But he replied, waved his hat, and the 
 silent signal was answered from those on board 
 the ship. 
 
 ''Well, Barn}^" said Jemm}^ "what was the 
 captain sayin' to 3'ou at the time you wor wid 
 him?" 
 
 "Lay me alone," said Barny; "I'll talk to you 
 when I see her out o' sight, but not a word till 
 thin. I'll look afther him, the rale gintleman that 
 he i§, while there's a top-sail of his ship to be seen ; 
 and then I'll send my blessin' afther him, and 
 pray for his good fortune wherever he goes, for 
 he's the right sort, and nothin' else." And Barny 
 kept his word, and, when his straining eye could 
 no longer trace a line of the ship, the captain cer- 
 tainly had the benefit of "a poor man's blessing." 
 
 The sense of utter loneliness and desolation had 
 not come upon Barny until now ; but he put his 
 trust in the goodness of Providence, and, in a fer- 
 vent mental outpouring of prayer, resigned him- 
 self to the care of his Creator. With an admir- 
 able fortitude, too, he assumed a composure to 
 his companions that was a stranger to his heart ; 
 and we all know how the burden of anxiety is in- 
 creased when we have none with whom to S3^m- 
 pathize. And this was not all. He had to affect 
 ease and confidence ; for Barny not only had no 
 dependence on the firmness of his companions to 
 
156 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 go through the undertaking before them, but 
 dreaded to betray to them how he had imposed 
 on them in the affair. Barny was equal to all 
 this. He had a stout heart, and was an admir- 
 able actor ; yet, for the first hour after the ship was 
 out of sight, he could not quite recover himself, 
 and ever}^ now and then unconsciously he would 
 look back Avith a wishful eye to the point where 
 last he saw her. Poor Barny had lost his leader ! 
 
 The night fell, and Barny stuck to the hehii as 
 long as nature could sustain want of rest, and 
 then left it in charge of one of his companions, 
 with particular directions how to steer, and 
 ordered, if any change in the wind occurred, that 
 they should instantly awake him. He could not 
 sleep long, however, the fever of anxiety was 
 upon him, and the morning had not long dawned 
 Vv^hen he awoke. He had not w^ell rubbed his 
 eyes and looked about him when he thought he 
 saw a ship in the distance approaching them. As 
 the haze cleared away, she showed distinctly 
 bearing down towards the hooker. On board 
 the ship, the hooker, in such a sea, caused sur- 
 prise as before, and in about an hour she was so 
 close as to hail and order the hooker to run 
 under her lee." 
 
 " The devil a taste," said Barny. *' I'll not 
 quit my nor-aist coorse for the King of Ingland, 
 nor Bonyparty into the bargain. Bad cess to 
 you, do you think I've nothin' to do but plaze 
 you ? " 
 
Barny O' Reirdon, 157 
 
 Again he was hailed. 
 
 ** Oh ! bad luck to the toe I'll go to you." 
 
 Another hail. 
 
 " Spake loudher, you'd betther," said Barny 
 jeeringly, still holding on his course. 
 
 A gun was fired ahead of him. 
 
 " By my sowl, you spoke loudher that time, 
 sure enough," said Barny. 
 
 ** Take care, Barny!" cried Jemmy and Peter 
 together. '' Blur-an-agers, man, we'll be kilt, if 
 you don't go to them." 
 
 '' Well, and we'll be lost if we turn out iv our 
 nor-aist coorse, and that's as broad as it's long. 
 Let them hit izif they like ; sure it ud be a plea- 
 sant death nor starvin' at say. I'll tell you agin, 
 I'll turn out o' my nor-aist coorse for no man," 
 
 A shotted gun was fired. The shot hopped on 
 the water, as it passed before the hooker. 
 
 '■'■ Phew ! you missed it like your mammy's 
 blessin'," said Barny. 
 
 "■ Oh ! murthur !" said Jemmy. " Didn't you see 
 the ball hop aff the wather forninst you ? Oh ! 
 murthur, what 'ud we ha' done if we wor there 
 at all at all?" 
 
 ** Why, we'd have taken the ball at the hop," said 
 Barny, laughing, '' accordin' to the ould sayin'." 
 
 Another shot was ineffectuall}^ fired. 
 
 ** I'm thinking that's a Connaughtman - that's 
 
 *This is an allusion of Barny'sto a prevalent sayinj? in Ireland, addressed 
 to a sportsman who returns home unsuccessful : " So vou've killed what the 
 Connaughtman shot at ?" Besides, Barny herein indulges a provincial pique 
 for the people of Munster have a profound contempt for Connaughtmen. 
 
158 Half Hours witJi Irish Authors. 
 
 shootin'," said Barny, with a sneer. The allu- 
 sion was so relished by Jemmy and Peter that it 
 excited a smile in the midst of their fears from the 
 cannonade. 
 
 Again the report of the gun was followed by 
 no damage. 
 
 ''Augh! never heed them!" said Barny con- 
 temptuously. *' It's a barkin' dog that never 
 bites, as the owld sayin* says." And the hooker 
 was soon out of reach of further anno3^ance. 
 
 '' Now, what a pity it was, to be sure," said 
 Bani}^, ''that I wouldn't go aboord to plaze them ! 
 Now, who's right ? Ah ! lave me alone, always, 
 Jemmy ; did you iver know me wrong 3^et ? " 
 
 *' Oh ! you may hillow now that you are out o' 
 the wood," said Jemm)^ ; ''but, accordin' to my 
 ida3^s, it was runnin' a grate risk to be conthrary 
 wid them at all, and they shootin' balls afther us." 
 
 " Well, w^hat matther," said Barn}^, " since 
 the}^ wor ov\\ blind gunners, an I knew it. Be- 
 sides, as I said afore, I won't turn out o' my nor- 
 aist coorse for no man." 
 
 " That's a new turn you tuk lately," said Peter. 
 " What's the raison you're runnin' a nor'-aist 
 coorse now, an we never heard iv it afore at all, 
 till afther you quitted the big ship ? " 
 
 " Why, thin, are you sitch an ignoramus all 
 out," said Barny, "as not for to know that in 
 navigation you must lie in a great many different 
 tacks before you can make the port you steer 
 for?" 
 
Barny O'Reirdon. 159 
 
 •' Only I think," said Jemmy, '' that it's back 
 intirely we're goin' now, and I can't make out the 
 rights o' that at all." 
 
 *' Why," said Barny, who saw the necessity of 
 mystifying his companions a little, " you see, the 
 captain towld me that I kum around, an' rekim- 
 minded me to go th' other way." 
 
 '' Faix, it's the first time I ever heard o' goin' 
 round by say," said Jemmy. 
 
 "• Arrah, sure, that's part o' the saycrets o' navi- 
 gation and the various branches o' knowledge 
 that is requizit for a navigator ; and that's what 
 the captain, God bless him ! and myself was dis- 
 coorsin an aboord ; and, like a ra-le gintleman as 
 he is, Barny, sa3'S he ; Sir, says I ; You've come 
 the round, says he. I know that, says I, bekase I 
 like to keep a good bowld offin', says I, in contrai- 
 ry places. Spoke like a good sayman, says he. 
 That's my principles, says I. They're the right 
 sort, says he. But says he (no offence), I think 
 you wor Avrong, says he, to pass the short turn 
 in the ladi-shoes,* says he. I know, says I, you 
 mane beside the three-spike headlan'. That's 
 the spot, says he, I see you know it. As well as I 
 knoAV my father, says I." 
 
 '' Wh}^, Barny," said Jemmy, interrupting him, 
 " we seen no head-Ian' at all." 
 
 " Whisht, whisht ! " said Barny,, '' bad cess to 
 rou, don't thwart me ! We passed it in the night, 
 ind you couldn't see it. Well, as I. was saying, I 
 
 * Some offer Barny is making at latitudes. 
 
l6o Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 knew it as well as I know my father, says I, but 
 I gev the preference to go the round, says I. 
 You're a good sayman for that same, says he, an' 
 it would be right at any other time than this 
 present, says he, but it's onpossible now, teeto- 
 tally, on account o' the war, says he. Tare alive, 
 says I, what war ? An' didn't you hear o' the 
 war ? says he. Divil a word, says I. Why, says 
 he, the Naygurs has made war on the king o' 
 Chaynee, says he, bekase he refused them any 
 more tay ; an' with that, what do they do, says 
 he, but they put a lumbago on all the vessels that 
 sails the round, an' that's the ray son, says he, I 
 carry guns, as you may see ; and I rekimmind 
 you, says he, to go back, for you're not able for 
 thim, and that's jist the way iv it. An' now, 
 wasn't it looky that I kem acrass him at all ? 
 Or may be we might be cotch by the Naygurs, 
 and ate up alive." 
 
 '' Oh ! thin, indeed, and that's thrue," said Jem- 
 my and Peter, '' and when will we come to the 
 short turn ? " 
 
 " Oh ! never mind," said Barny, '' you'll see it 
 when you get there ; but wait till I tell you more 
 about the captain and the big ship. He said, you 
 know, that he carried guns afeard o' the Naygurs ; 
 and, in troth, it's the hoight o' care he takes o' 
 them same guns ; and small blame to him, sure, 
 they might be the salvation of him. 'Pon my 
 conscience, they're taken betther care of than any 
 poor man's child. I heerd him cautionin' the 
 
Barny O' Reirdon, i6i 
 
 sailors about them, and givin them ordhers about 
 their clothes." 
 
 ''Their clothes !" said his two companions at 
 once in much surprise ; "■ is it clothes upon can- 
 nons ?" 
 
 '' It's thruth I'm tellin' j^ou," said Barny. " Bad 
 luck to the lie in it, he was talkin' about their 
 aprons and their breeches." 
 
 "Oh! think o' that!" said Jemmy and Peter, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " An' 'twas all iv a piece," said Barn}^, '' that 
 an' the rest o' the ship all out. She was as nate 
 as a new pin. Throth I was a'most ashamed to 
 put my fut on the deck, it was so clane, and she 
 painted every color in the rainbow ; and all sorts 
 o' curiosities about her ; and, instead iv a tiller to 
 steer her, like this darlin' craythur iv ours, she 
 goes wid a wheel, like a coach all as one ; and 
 there's the quarest thing you iver seen, to show 
 the way, as the captain gev me to understan', — a 
 little round rowly-powly thing in a bowl, that 
 goes waddlin' about as if it didn't know it's own 
 way, much more nor show anybody theirs. 
 Throth m37'self' thought that if that's the way 
 they're obliged to go, that it's with a great deal 
 o{ fear and thrimblin they find it out." 
 
 Thus it w^as that Barny continued most marvel- 
 lous accounts of the ship and captain to his com- 
 panions, and, by keeping their attention so engag- 
 ed, prevented their being too inquisitive as to 
 their own immediate concerns ; and for two days 
 
1 62 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 more Barnj and the hooker held on their respec- 
 tive courses undeviatingly. 
 
 The third da}^ Barny's fears for the continuity 
 of his nor-aist coorse were excited, as a large brig 
 hove in sight, and the nearer she approached, the 
 more directly the appeared to be coming athwart 
 Barny's course. 
 
 '' May the divil sweep you !" said Barny. '' And 
 will nothin' else sarve you than comin' forninst 
 me that away? Brig ahoy, there!" shouted 
 Barny, giving the tiller to one of his messmates, 
 and standing at the bow of his boat. '' Brig ahoy, 
 there ! — bad luck to you, go 'long out o' my nor- 
 aist coorse!'' The brig, instead of obeying him, 
 hove to, and lay right ahead of the hooker. " Oh ! 
 look at this !" shouted Ban\y, and he stamped on 
 the deck with rage — "look at the blackguards 
 where they're stayin'., just a-purpose to ruin an 
 unfortunate man like me. INIy heavy hathred to 
 you! Quit this minit, or I'll run down an yez, and, 
 if we go to the bottom, we'll haunt 3^ou for ever- 
 more — go 'long out o' that, I tell you ! The curse 
 o' Crummil on you, 3^ou stupid vagabones, that 
 won't go out iv a man's nor'-aist coorse !" 
 
 From cursing, Barny went to praying as he 
 came closer. '■' For the tendher marcy o' heaven, 
 an* lave my way. May the Lord reward you, 
 and get out o' my nor'-aist coorse ! Ma}^ angels 
 make your bed in heavin and don't ruinate me 
 this a way." The brig was immovable, and 
 Barny finished with a duet volley of prayers and 
 
Bai'uy O" Reirdon. 163 
 
 curses together, apostrophizing the hard case of 
 a man being '' done out d" his nor-aist coorse.'' 
 
 " Ahoy there !" shouted a voice from the brig. 
 '^ Put dov/n your helm, or you'll be aboard of us. 
 I say, let go your jib and foresheet — what are you 
 about, you lubbers ?" 
 
 'Twas true that the brig lay so fair in Barny's 
 course that he would have been aboard, but that, 
 instantly the manoeuvre above alluded to was put 
 in practice on board the hooker as she swept to 
 destruction towards the heavy hull of the brig, he 
 luffed up into the wind alongside her. A very 
 -pale and somewhat emaciated face appeared at 
 the side, and addressed Barny — 
 
 '' What brings 3^ou here ?" was the question. 
 
 *' Throth, thin, and I think I might betther ax 
 what brings j^?/ here, right in the way o' m}^ iior- 
 aist coorse^ 
 
 " Where do you come from?" 
 
 " From Kinsale ; and you didn't come from a 
 betther place, I go bail." 
 
 '* Where are you bound to ?" 
 
 ''To Fingal." 
 
 '' Fingal — where's Fingal ?"♦ 
 
 " Why, then, ain't you ashamed yourself an' not 
 to know where Fingal is ?" 
 
 '' It is not in these seas." 
 
 ''Oh! and that's all 3^ou know about it," says 
 Barny. 
 
 " You're a small craft to be so far at sea. I 
 suppose you have provisions on board?" 
 
164 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 "■ To be sure we have ; throth if we hadn't, this 
 id be a bad place to go a beggin'." 
 
 '' What have you eatable ?" 
 
 ** The finest o' scalpeens^ 
 
 " What are scalpecnsf' 
 
 " Why, )^ou're mighty ignorant intirely," said 
 Barny ; " why, i't:^^^^^-';?^' is pickled mackerel." 
 
 '* Then you must give us some, for we have 
 been out of everything eatable these three days ; 
 and even pickled fish is better than nothing." 
 
 It chanced that the brig v/as a West India trader, 
 which unfavorable winds had delayed much be- 
 yond the expected period of time on her voyage, 
 and, though her water had not failed, everything 
 eatable had been consumed, and the crew reduc- 
 ed almost to helplessness. In such a strait, the 
 arrival of Barny O'Reirdon and his scalpeens was 
 a most providential succor to them, and a lucky 
 chance for Barny, for he got in exchange for his 
 pickled fish a handsome return of rum and sugar, 
 much more than equivalent to their value. Barny 
 lamented much, however, that the brig was not 
 bound for Ireland, that he might practise his own 
 peculiar system of navigation ; but, as staying with 
 the brig could do no good, he got himself put 
 into his nor-aist coorse once more, and ploughed 
 away towards home. 
 
 The disposal of his cargo was a great godsend 
 to Barny in more w^aj^s than one. In the first 
 place, he found the most profitable market he 
 could have had : and, secondly, it enabled him 
 
Barny O'Rcirdon. 165 
 
 to cover his retreat from the difficulty which still 
 was before him of not getting to Fingal after all 
 his dangers, and consequently being open to dis- 
 covery and disgrace. All these beneficial results 
 were thrown away upon one of Barny's readiness 
 to avail himself of every point in his favor ; and, 
 accordingl}^, when they left the brig, Barny said 
 to his companions, *' Why, thin, boys, 'pon my 
 conscience, but I'm as proud as a horse wid a 
 wooden leg this rainit, that we met them poor 
 unfortinate craythers this blessed day, and was 
 enabled to extind our charity to them. Sure an' it's 
 lost they'd be, only for our comin' acrass them, 
 and we, through the blessin' o' God, enabled to 
 do an act o' marcy, that is, feedin' the hungry ; 
 and sure every good work we do here is before 
 uz in heaven — and that's a comfort anyhow. To 
 be sure, now that the scalpeens is sowld, there's 
 no use in goin' to Fingal, and we may as well jist 
 go home." 
 
 " Faix, Fm sorry myself," said Jemmy, ''for 
 Terry O'SuUivan said it was an iligant place in- 
 tirely, an' I wanted to see it." 
 
 '' To the divil wid Terry O'SuUivan !" said 
 Barny ; '' How does he know what's an iligant 
 place? What knowledge has he of iligance ! Fll 
 go bail he never was half as far a navigatin' as we 
 — he wint the short cut, I go bail, and never dar'd 
 for to vinture the round, as I did." 
 
 '' By dad, we wor a great dale longer anyhow 
 than he towld me he was." 
 
1 66 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 ''To be sure we wor/' said Barny ; " be wiiit 
 skulkin' in b}^ the short cut, I tell you, and was 
 afeard to keep a bowld offin' like me. But come, 
 boys, let uz take a dhrop o' the bottle o' sper'ts 
 we got out o' the brig-. By gor, it's well we got 
 some bottles iv it; for I wouldn't much like to 
 meddle wid that darlint little ka?- iv it antil we 
 get home." The rum was put on its trial by 
 Barny and his companions, and in their critical 
 judgment was pronounced quite as good as the 
 captain of the ship had bestowed upon them, but 
 that neither of'those specimens of spirit was to be 
 compared to whiskey. " By dad," says Barny, 
 " they ma}^ rack their brains a long time before 
 they'll make out a purtier invintion than pottcen ; 
 that rum may do very well for thim that has the 
 misforthin not to know betther ; but the whiskey 
 is a more nath'ral sper't, accordin' to my idays." 
 In this, as in most other of Barny's opinions, 
 Peter and Jemmy coincided. 
 
 Nothing particular occurred for the two suc- 
 ceeding days, during which time Barny most 
 religiously pursued his nor-aist coorsc^ but the third 
 day produced a new and important event. A 
 sail was discovered on the horizon, and in the 
 direction Barny was steering, and a couple of 
 hours made him tolerably certain that the vessel 
 in sight was an American ; for though it is need- 
 less to say that he Avas not very conversant in 
 such matters, yet, from the frequency of his see- 
 ing Americans trading to Ireland, his eve had 
 
Barriy O' Relrdon. 167 
 
 become sufficiently accustomed to their lofty and 
 tapering- spars and peculiar smartness of rig- to 
 satisfy him that the ship before him Av.as of transat- 
 lantic build ; nor was he wrong in his conjecture. 
 
 Barny now determined on a manoeuvre classing 
 him among the first tacticians at securing a good 
 retreat. 
 
 Moreau's highest fame rests upon his celebrated 
 retrograde movement through the Black Forest. 
 
 Xenophon's greatest glory is derived from the 
 deliverance of his ten thousand Greeks from 
 impending ruin, by his renowned retreat. 
 
 Let the ancient and the modern hero '' repose 
 under the shadow of their laurels," as the French 
 have it, while Barny O'Reirdon's historian, with 
 a pardonable jealousy for the honor of his country, 
 cuts down a goodly bough of the classic tree, be- 
 neath which our Hibernian hero may enjoy his 
 ^'' otiiun aim dignitatem 
 
 Barny calculated the American was bound foi 
 Ireland, and, as she lay almost as directly in the 
 way of ^xis '"'' iior -aist coorse" as the West Indian 
 brig, he bore up to and spoke her. 
 
 He Vv^as ansv/ered by a shrewd Yankee cap- 
 tain. 
 
 '' Faix, an' it's glad I am to see 3^our honor 
 again," said Barny. 
 
 The Yankee had never been to Ireland, and told 
 Barny so. 
 
 *' Oh ! throth I couldn't forget a gentleman so 
 aisy as that," said Barny. 
 
1 68 Half Hours vcith Irish Authors. 
 
 *' You're pretty considerable mistaken now, I 
 guess," said the American. 
 
 *' Divil a taste," said Barn}^, with inimitable com- 
 posure and pertinacity. 
 
 '' Well, if you know me so tarnation well, tell 
 me what's my name ?" The Yankee flattered him- 
 self he had nailed Barny now. 
 
 ''Your name, is it?" said Barny, gaining time 
 by repeating the question. '' Why, what a fool )^ou 
 are not to know your own name." 
 
 The oddity of the answer posed the American, 
 and Barny took advantage of the diversion in his 
 favor, and changed the conversation. 
 
 *' By dad, I've been waitin' here these four or 
 five days, expectin' some of you would be wantin' 
 me." 
 
 " Some of us! — how do you mean?" 
 
 '' Sure an' ar'n't you from Amerikay ?" 
 
 '' Yes; and what then?" 
 
 " Well, I say I was waitin' for some ship or 
 other from Amerikay that 'ud be wantin' me. It's 
 to Ireland you're goin ? ' 
 
 '' Yes." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you'll be wanting a pilot," 
 said Barn}^ 
 
 '' Yes, when we get in shore, but not )'et." 
 
 '' Oh! I don't want to hurry you," said Barny. 
 
 *' What port are you a pilot of'?" 
 
 " Why, indeed, as for the matther o' that," said 
 Barny, *' they're all aiquel to me, a'most." 
 
 ** All!" said the American. '' Whv, I calculate 
 
Barny O' Rcirdon. 169 
 
 you couldn't pilot a ship into all the ports of 
 Ireland." 
 
 " Not all at wanst (once)," said Barny, with a 
 laugh, in which the American could not help 
 joining. 
 
 "- Well, I say, what ports do you know best?" 
 
 " Why, thin, indeed," said Barny, '' it would be 
 hard for me to tell ; but, wherever you want to go, 
 I'm the man that'll do the job for you complate. 
 Where is your honor going ?" 
 
 ** I won't tell you that — but do you tell me the 
 ports you know best." 
 
 "' Why, there's Watherford, and there's You- 
 ghal, an' Fingal." 
 
 " Fingal — where's that?" 
 
 ^' So you don't know where Fingal is? Oh! I 
 see your a sthranger, sir — an' then there's Cork." 
 
 *' You'know Cove, then ?" 
 
 '^s it the Cove o' Cork?" 
 
 ^' Yes." 
 
 *' I was bred and born there, and pilots as 
 many ships into Cove as any other two min out 
 of it." 
 
 Barny thus sheltered his falsehood under the 
 idiom of his language. 
 
 ''But what brought you so far out to sea?" 
 asked the captain. 
 
 '' We wor lyin' out lookin' for ships that want- 
 ed pilots, and there kem an the terriblest gale o* 
 wind aff the land, an' blew us to say out intirely, 
 an' that's the way iv it, your honor." 
 
170 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 " I calculate we got a share of the same gale ; 
 'twas from the nor'-east." 
 
 " Oh ! directly !" said Barn3^ " Faith you're right 
 enough ; 'twas the nor-aist coorse we were an, sure 
 enough ; but no matther now that we've met wid 
 you — sure we'll have a job home, anyhow." 
 
 " Weil, get aboard then," said the American. 
 
 '' I will in a minit, your honor, whin I jist spake 
 a word to my comrades here." 
 
 " Why, sure it's not goin' to turn pilot 3^ou are ?" 
 said Jemmy, in his simplicit}^ of heart. 
 
 ''Whist, you omadhaun !" said Barny, " or Fli 
 cut the tongue out o' 3'ou. Now mind me, Pether. 
 You don't undherstan' navigashin and the varrious 
 branches o' knowledge, an' so all you have to do 
 is to folly the ship when I get into her, an' I'll 
 show you the way home." 
 
 Barny then got aboard the American vessel, 
 and begged of the captain that, as he had been 
 out to sea so long, and had gone through " a 
 power o' hardship intirely," that he would be 
 permitted to go below aiad turn in to take a 
 sleep; "for, in throth, it's myself and sleep that 
 is sthrayngers for some time," said Barny, " an', 
 if your honor '11 be plazed, I'll be thankful if 3'Ou 
 won't let them disturb me until Tm wanted, for 
 sure till you see the land there's no use for me in 
 life, an' throth I want a sleep sorely." 
 
 Barny's request was granted, and it will not be 
 wondered at that, after so much fatigue of mind 
 and body, he slept profoundly for four~and-twenty 
 
Barny O' Rcirdon. I'ji 
 
 hours. He then was called, for land v, /..' \\l olghtj 
 and when he came on deck the captahi rallied 
 him upon the potency of his somniferous qualities^ 
 and '' calculated " he had never met any one who 
 could sleep '* four-and-twenty hours at a stretch 
 before." 
 
 '' Oh ! sir," said Barny, rubbing- his eyes, which 
 were still a little hazy, '* whiniver I go to sleep, / 
 pay attintion to it.'' 
 
 The land was soon neared, and Barny put in 
 charge of the ship when he ascertained the first 
 landmark he was acquainted with ; but, as soon as 
 the Head of Kinsale hove in sight, Barny gave a 
 *' whoo!" and cut a caper that astonished the Yan- 
 kees, and was quite inexplicable to them, though 
 I flatter myself it is not to those who do Barny 
 the favor of reading his adventures. 
 
 " Oh ! there 3^ou are, my darlint ould head ! An' 
 Where's the head like o' you ? Throth it's little 
 I'd thought I'd ever set eyes an your good-look- 
 ing faytures agin. But God's good !" 
 
 In such half-muttered exclamations did Barny 
 apostrophize each well-known point of his native 
 shore, and, when opposite the harbor of Kinsale, 
 he spoke the hooker that was somev/hat astern, 
 and ordered Jemmy and Peter to put in there and 
 tell Molly immediately that he was come back, and 
 would be with her as soon as he could, after pilot- 
 ing the ship into the Cove. " But> on your apperl, 
 don't tell Pether Kelly o' the big farm, nor indeed 
 don't mintion to man or mortial, about the naviga- 
 
172 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 tion we done antil I come home m3^self and make 
 them sensible o' it, bekase, Jemmy and Pether, 
 neither o' yiz is equal to it, and doesn't undher- 
 stan' the branches o' knowledge requizit for dis- 
 coorsin' o' navigation." 
 
 The hooker put into Kinsale, and Barny sailed 
 the ship into Cove. It was the first ship he ever 
 had acted the pilot for, and his old luck attended 
 him ; no accident befell his charge, and, what was 
 still more extraordinary, he made the American 
 believe he was absolutely the most skilful pilot on 
 the station. So Barny pocketed his pilot's fee, 
 swore the Yankee was a gentleman, for which the 
 republican did not thank him, wished him good- 
 by, and then pushed his way home with what 
 Barny swore was the aisiest made mone}^ he ever 
 had in his life. So Barny got himself paid for 
 piloting t\\Q ship that shozucd Jiim the way home. 
 
 On reaching home, all w^ere ready to throw their 
 caps at his feet. None but an Irishman, I fear- 
 lessly assert, could have executed so splendid a 
 coup de finesse. 
 
 As some curious persons (I dont mean the ladies) 
 may wish to know what became of some of the 
 characters who have figured in this tale, I beg to 
 inform them that Molly continued a faithful wife 
 and time-keeper, as already alluded to, for many 
 years ; that Peter Kelly was so pleased with his 
 share in the profits arising from the trip, in the 
 ample return of rum and sugar, that he freighted 
 a large brig with scalpeens to the West Indies, 
 
Barny O' Reirdon. ly^i 
 
 and went supercargo himself. All he got in return 
 was yellow fever. 
 
 Barny profited better by his share ; he was 
 enabled to open a public-house which had more 
 custom than any ten within miles of it. Molly 
 managed the bar very efficiently, and Barny 
 " discoorsed" the customers most seductively ; in 
 short, Barny, at all times given to the marvellous^ 
 became a greater romancer than ever, and for 
 years attracted even the gentlemen of the neigh- 
 borhood who loved fun to his house, for the sake 
 of his magnanimous mendacity. 
 
 As for the hitherto triumphant Terry O 'Sul- 
 livan, from the moment Barny's ^/;/^<^/ adventure 
 became known, he was obliged to fly the country, 
 and was never heard of more, while the hero of 
 the hooker became a greater man than before, 
 and never was addressed by any other title after- 
 wards than that of The Commodore. 
 
THE PRIEST'S STORY. 
 
 I HAVE already made known unto you that 
 a 3^ounger brother and myself were left to 
 the care of my mother. Best and dearest of moth- 
 ers, said the holy man — sighing deeply, and 
 clasping his hands ferventl}^, while his hands were 
 lifted to heaven, as if love made him conscious 
 that the spirit of her he lamented had found its 
 eternal rest there — thy gentle and affectionate 
 nature sank under the bitter trial that an all-wise 
 Providence was pleased to visit thee with ! Well, 
 sir, Frank was my mother's darling; not that 
 you are to understand, by so saying, that she was 
 of that weak and capricious tone of mind which 
 lavished its care upon one at the expense of 
 others — far from it ; never was a deep store of 
 maternal love more equally shared than among 
 the four brothers ; but when the two seniors went 
 away, and I was some time after sent, for my 
 studies, to St. Omer, Frank became the object 
 upon which all the tenderness of her affectionate 
 heart might exercise the little maternal cares that 
 hitherto had been divided amongst many. In- 
 deed, my dear Frank deserved it all ; his Avas the 
 gentlest of natures, combined with a mind of sin- 
 
TJie Pricsfs Story, 175 
 
 giilar strength and brilliant imagination. In 
 short, as the phrase has it, he was " the flower of 
 the flock," and great things were expected from 
 him. 
 
 It was some time after my return from St. 
 Omer, while preparations were making for advanc- 
 ing Frank in the pursuit which had been selected 
 as the business of his life, that every hour which 
 drew nearer to the moment of his departure made 
 him dearer not only to us, but to all who knew 
 him, and each friend claimed a day that Frank 
 should spend with him, which always passed in 
 recalling the happy hours they had already spent 
 together, in assurances given and received, of 
 kindly remembrances that still should be che- 
 rished, and in mutual wishes for success, with 
 many a hearty prophecy from my poor Frank's 
 friends that he would one day be a great man. 
 
 One night, as my mother and m3^self were sit- 
 ting at home beside the fire, expecting Frank's 
 return from one of these parties, my mother said- 
 in an unusually anxious tone : 
 
 " I wish Frank was come home." 
 
 '' What makes you think of his return so soon ?" 
 said I. 
 
 '•'I don't know," said she, "but somehow I'm 
 uneasy about him." 
 
 ''Oh! make yourself quiet," said I, *' on that 
 subject ; vv-e cannot possibly expect Frank for an 
 hour to come yet." 
 
 Still my mother could not become calm, and 
 
iy6 Half Hours witJi Irish Authors. 
 
 she fidgeted about the room, became busy in 
 doing- nothing, and now and then would go to the 
 door of the house to listen for the distant tramp 
 of Frank's horse ; but Frank came not. 
 
 More than the hour I had named as the proba- 
 ble time of his return had elapsed, and my moth- 
 er's anxiety had amounted to a painful pitch, and 
 I began myself to blame my brother for so long 
 and late an absence. Still, I endeavored to calm 
 her, and had prevailed on her to seat herself again 
 at the fire, and commenced reading a page or two 
 of an amusing book, when suddenly she stopped 
 me, and turned her head to the window in the 
 attitude of listening. 
 
 " It is ! it is ! " said she ; " I hear him coming." 
 And now the sound of a horse's feet in a rapid 
 pace became audible. She rose from her chair, 
 and, Avith a deeply aspirated *' Thank God I " went 
 to open the door for him herself. 1 heard the 
 horse now pass by the window ; in a second oi 
 two more, the door was opened, and instantly a 
 fearful scream from my mother brought me 
 hastily to her assistance. I found her lying in the 
 hall in a deep swoon ; the servants of the house 
 hastily crowded to the spot and gave her imme- 
 diate aid. I ran to the door to ascertain the 
 cause of my mother's alarm, and there I saw 
 Frank's horse panting and foaming, and the sad- 
 dle empty. That my brother had been thrown 
 and badly hurt was the first thought that sug- 
 gested itself; and a car and horse were immcdi- 
 
71ie Priest's Story. I'jj 
 
 ately ordered to drive in the direction he had 
 been returning- ; but in a few minutes our fears 
 were excited to the last degree by discovering 
 there was blood on the saddle. 
 
 We all experienced inconceivable terror at the 
 discovery ; but, not to weary you with details, suf- 
 fice it to say that we commenced a diligent 
 search, and at length arrived at a small by-way 
 that turned from the main road and led through 
 a bog, which was the nearest course for my 
 brother to have taken homewards, and we ac- 
 cordingly began to explore it. I v/as mounted 
 on the horse my brother had ridden, and the ani- 
 mal snorted violently, and exhibited evident 
 symptoms of dislike to retrace this by-way, which, 
 I doubted not, he had already travelled that 
 night ; and this very fact made me still more ap- 
 prehensive that some terrible occurrence must 
 have taken place to occasion such excessive re- 
 pugnance on the part of the animal. However, I 
 urged him onward, and, telling those who accom- 
 panied me to follow with what speed they might, 
 I dashed forward, followed by a faithful dog of 
 poor Frank's. 
 
 At the termination of about half a mile, the 
 horse became still more impatient of restraint, 
 and started at every ten paces, and the dog be- 
 gan to traverse the little road, giving an occa- 
 sional yelp, sniffing the air strongly, and lashing 
 his sides with his tail, as if on some scent. 
 
 At length he came to a stand, and beat about 
 
178 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 within a very circumscribed space, yelping- occa- 
 sionally, as if to draw my attention. I dismount- 
 ed immediately, but the horse was so extremely 
 restless that the difficulty I had in holding him 
 prevented me from observing the road by the 
 light of the lantern which I carried. I perceived, 
 however, it was ver}^ much trampled hereabouts, 
 and bore evidence of having been the scene of a 
 struggle. 
 
 I shouted to the party in the rear, who soon 
 came up and lighted some fagots of bog-wood, 
 Avhich they brought with them to assist in our 
 search, and we now more clearly distinguished 
 the marks I have alluded to. 
 
 The dog still howled and indicated a particular 
 spot to us ; and on one side of the path, upon the 
 stunted grass, we discovered a quantity of fresh 
 blood, and I picked up a pencil-case which I 
 knew had belonged to my murdered brother — for 
 I now was compelled to consider him as such — 
 and an attempt to describe the agonized feelings 
 which at that moment I experienced would be in 
 vain. 
 
 We continued our search for the discovery 
 of his body for many hours without success, and 
 the morning was far advanced before we returned 
 home — how changed a home from the preced- 
 ing day ! 
 
 My beloved mother could scarcely be roused 
 for a moment from a sort of stupor which seized 
 upon her when the paroxysm of frenzy was over 
 
TJie Priesfs Story, 179 
 
 which the awful catastrophe of the fatal night had 
 produced. 
 
 If ever heart was broken, hers was. She linger- 
 ed but a few weeks after the son she adored, and 
 seldom spoke during the period, except to call 
 upon his name. 
 
 But I will not dwell on this painful theme. 
 Suffice it to say she died; and her death, under 
 such circumstances, increased the sensation which 
 my brother's mysterious murder had excited. 
 Yet, with all the horror which was universally 
 entertained for the crime, and the execrations 
 poured upon its atrocious perpetrator, still the 
 doer of the deed remained undiscovered ; and 
 even I, who of course was the most active in seek- 
 ing to develop the mystery, not only could catch 
 no clue to lead to the discovery of the murderer, 
 but failed even to ascertain where the mangled 
 remains of my lost brother had been deposited. 
 
 It was nearly a year after the fatal event that 
 a penitent knelt to me and confided to the ear of 
 his confessor the misdeeds of an ill-spent life ! I say 
 of his whole life, for he had never before knelt at 
 the confessional. 
 
 Fearful was the catalogue of crime that was 
 revealed to me — unbounded selfishness, oppres- 
 sion, revenge, and lawless passion had held unbri- 
 dled influence over the unfortunate sinner, and 
 sensuality in all its shapes, even to the polluted 
 home and betra3^ed maiden, had plunged him 
 deeply into sin. 
 
i8o Half Hours zvith Irish Aitiiiors. 
 
 1 was shocked — I may even say I was disgusted — 
 and the culprit himself seemed to shrink from the 
 recapitulation of his crimes, which he found more 
 extensive and appalling than he had dreamed of, 
 until the recital of them called them all up in fear- 
 ful array before him. I was about to commence 
 an admonition, when he interrupted me — he had 
 more to communicate. I desired him to proceed 
 — he writhed before me. I enjoined him in the 
 name of the God he had offended, and who 
 knoweth the inmost heart, to make an unreserved 
 disclosure of his crimes before he dared to seek a 
 reconciliation with his Maker. At length, aftei 
 man}^ a pause and convulsive sob, he told me, in a 
 voice almost suffocated by terror, that he had been 
 guilty of bloodshed. I shuddered, but in a short 
 tirpe I recovered myself, and asked how and 
 where he had deprived a fellow-creature of life. 
 Never, to the latest hour of my life, shall I forget 
 the look which the miserable sinner gave me at 
 that moment. His eyes were glazed and seemed 
 starting from their sockets with terror; his face 
 assumed a deadly paleness ; he raised his clasped 
 hands up to me in the most imploring action, as if 
 supplicating mercy, and, with livid and quivering 
 lips, he gasped out, ** *Twas I who killed your 
 brother!" 
 
 O God! how I felt at that instant! Even now, 
 after the lapse of years, I recollect the sensation — 
 it was as if the blood were flowing back upon my 
 heart, until I felt as if it would burst; and then a 
 
The Priest's Sio7y. i8l 
 
 few convulsive breathings, and back rushed the 
 blood again through my tingling veins. I thought 
 I was djdng ; but suddenly I uttered an hysteric 
 laugh, and fell back senseless in my seat. 
 
 When I recovered, a cold sweat was pouring 
 down my forehead, and I was weeping copiously. 
 Never before did I feel my manhood annihilated 
 under the influence of an hysterical affection — it 
 was dreadful. 
 
 I found the blood-stained sinner supporting me, 
 roused from his own prostration by a sense of 
 terror at my emotion ; for, when I could hear any- 
 thing, his entreaties that I would not discover 
 upon him were poured forth in the most abject 
 strain of supplication. *' Fear not for your miser- 
 able life," said I ; *' the seal of confession is upon 
 what you have revealed to me, and so far you are 
 safe ; but leave me for the present, and come not 
 -to me again until I send for you." He departed. 
 
 I knelt and prayed for strength to him who 
 alone could give it to fortify me in this dreadful 
 trial. Here was the author of a brother's murder, 
 and a mother's consequent death, discovered to 
 me in the person of my penitent. It was a fear- 
 ful position for a frail mortal to be placed in ; but 
 as a consequence of the holy calling I professed, 
 I hoped, through the blessing of him whom I 
 served, to acquire fortitude for the trial into which 
 the ministry of his Gospel had led me. 
 
 The fortitude I needed came through prayer, 
 and, when I thought myself equal to the task, I 
 
1 82 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 sent for the murderer of my brother. I officiated 
 for him as our church has ordained — I appointed 
 penances to him, and, in short, dealt with him 
 merely as any other confessor might have done. 
 
 Years thus passed away, and during that time 
 he constantly attended his duty ; and it was remark- 
 ed through the country that he had become a 
 quieter person since Father Roach had become 
 his confessor. But still he was not liked, and, in- 
 deed, I fear he was far from a reformed man, 
 though he did not allow his transgressions to be 
 so glaring as they were wont to be ; and I began 
 to think that terror and cunning had been his 
 motives in suggesting to him the course he had 
 adopted, as the opportunities which it gave him 
 of beinof often with me as his confessor were like- 
 ly to lull every suspicion of his guilt in the eyes 
 of the world ; and, in making me the depositary of 
 his fearful secret, he thus placed himself beyond 
 the power of my pursuit, and interposed the 
 strongest barrier to my becoming the avenger of 
 his bloody deed. 
 
 Hitherto I have not made you acquainted with 
 the cause of that foul act — it was jealousy. He 
 found himself rivalled by my brother in the good 
 graces of a beautiful girl of moderate circum- 
 stances, whom he would have wished to obtain as 
 his wife, but to whom Frank had become an 
 object of greater interest; and I doubt not, had 
 my poor fellow been spared, that marriage would 
 ultimately have drawn closer the ties that were so 
 
The Pries fs Story. 183 
 
 savasjely severed. But the ambuscade and the 
 knife had done their deadly work; for the coward- 
 ly villain had lain in wait for him on the lonely 
 boo--road he guessed he would travel on that fa al 
 night, and, springing from his lurking-place, he 
 stabbed my noble Frank in the back. _ 
 
 Well sir, I fear I am tiring you with a story 
 which you cannot wonder is interesting to me ; 
 but I shall hasten to a conclusion. 
 
 One gloomy evening in March, I was ndmg 
 along the very road where my brother had met 
 his fate, in company with his murderer. I know 
 not what brought us together in such a place, ex- 
 cept the hand of Providence that sooner or later 
 brin-s the murderer to justice; for I was not 
 wont to pass the road, and loathed the company 
 of the man who happened to overtake me upon it. 
 I know not whether it was some secret visitation 
 of conscience that influenced him at the time, or 
 that he thought the lapse of years had wrought 
 upon me so far as to obliterate the grief for my 
 brother's death, which had never been till that 
 moment alluded to, however remotely, since he 
 confessed his crime. Judge, then, my surprise 
 when, directing my attention to a particular point 
 
 in the bog, he said : , tu • 
 
 " Tis close by that place that your brother is 
 
 Tcould not, I think, have been more astonished 
 had my brother appeared before me. 
 *' What brother?" said I. 
 
1 84 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 "■ Your brother Frank," said he; '' 'twas there I 
 buried him, poor fellow, after I killed him." 
 
 '' JNIerciful God ! thy will be done." And, seiz- 
 ing the rein of the culprit's horse, I said, " Wretch 
 that you are ! you have owned to the shedding 
 of the innocent blood that has been crying to 
 heaven for vengeance these ten years, and I arrest 
 you here as my prisoner." 
 
 He turned ashy pale, as he faltered out a few 
 w^ords to say I had promised not to betray him. 
 
 *' 'Twas under the seal of confession," said I, 
 " that you disclosed the deadly secret, and under 
 that seal my lips must have been for ever closed ; 
 but now, even in the very place where your crime 
 was committed, it has pleased God that you 
 should arraign yourself in the face of the world, 
 and the brother of your victim is appointed to 
 be the avenger of his innocent blood." 
 
 He was overwhelmed by the awfulness of this 
 truth, and unresistingly he rode beside me to the 
 
 adjacent town of , where he was committed 
 
 for trial. . 
 
 The report of this singular and providential 
 discovery of a murderer excited a great deal of 
 interest in the country ; and, as I was known to be 
 the culprit's confessor, the bishop of the diocese 
 forwarded a statement to a higher quarter, which 
 procured for me a dispensation as regarded the 
 confessions of the criminal ; and I was handed this 
 instrument absolving me from further secrecy, a 
 few days before the trial. I was the principal 
 
TJie Pricsfs Story, 185 
 
 evidence against the prisoner. The body of my 
 brother had, in the interim, been found in the spot 
 his murderer had indicated, and the bog preserv- 
 ed it so far from decay as to render recognition a 
 task of no difficulty. The proof was so satisfacto- 
 rily adduced to the jury that the murderer was 
 found guilty and executed ten years after he had 
 committed the crime. 
 
 The judge pronounced a very feeling corYiment 
 on the nature of the situation in which I had been 
 placed for so many years, and passed a very flat- 
 tering culogium upon what he was pleased to call, 
 " my heroic observance of the obligation of the 
 secrecy by which I had been bound." 
 
 Thus, sir, you see how sacred a trust that of a 
 fact revealed under confession is held by our 
 church, when even the avenp-ins: of a brother's 
 murder was not sufficient warranty for its being 
 broken.* 
 
 * This story is a fact, and the comment of the judge upon the priest's fidelity, 
 I am happy to say, is true. 
 
PADDY THE PIPER. 
 
 Dogberry. — " Marr}^ sir, they have committed false reports ; 
 moreover, they have spolcen untruths ; secondarily, they are slan- 
 derers ; sixthly, and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they 
 have verified unjust things ; and, to conclude, they are lying 
 knaves." — MkcIl Ado about Nothing. 
 
 THE only introduction I shall attempt to the 
 following extravaganza^ is to request the 
 reader to suppose it to be delivered by a frolick- 
 ing Irish peasant, in the richest brogue and most 
 dramatic manner : 
 
 I'll tell you, sir, a mighty quare story, and it's 
 as thrue as I'm standin' here, and that's no lie. 
 
 It was in the time of the ''ruction,'''^ when the 
 long summer days, like many a fine fellow's pre- 
 cious life, was cut short by raison of the martial 
 law that wouldn't let a dacent boy be out in the 
 evenin', good or bad ; for, whin the day's work 
 was over, divil a one of uz dar to go to meet a 
 frind over a glass, or a girl at the dance, but must 
 go home, and shut ourselves up, and never budge, 
 nor rise latch, nor dhraw boult until the morning 
 kem again. Well, to come to m}^ stor3^ *Twas 
 afther nightfall, and wc wor sittin' round the fire, 
 
 * Insurrection. 
 
Paddy the Piper. 187 
 
 and the praties were boiling, and the noggins of 
 butthermilk was standin' ready for our suppers, 
 whin a knock kem to the door. 
 
 " Whist ! " sa3^s my father, *' here's the sojers 
 come upon us now," says he. ** Bad luck to them, 
 the villians, I'm afeerd they seen a glimmer of 
 the fire through the crack in the door," sa3^s he. 
 
 " No," says my mother; ** for I'm afther hang- 
 in' an ould sack and my new petticoat agin it, a 
 while ago." 
 
 " Well, whistht, anyhow," says my father, '' for 
 there's a knock agin." And Ave all held our 
 tongues till another thump kem to the door. 
 
 " Oh ! it's a folly to purtind any more," sa3^s my 
 father, '' thej^'re too cute to be put off that a' 
 way," says he. '' Go, Shamus," says he to me, 
 " and see who's in it." 
 
 *' How can I see who's in it, in the dark ? " 
 says I. 
 
 ''Well," says he, "light the candle, thin, and 
 see who's in it, but don't open the door for your 
 life, barrin' they brake it in," says he, " exceptin* 
 to the sojers, and spake thim fair, if it's thim." 
 
 So with that I wint to the door, and there was 
 another knock. 
 
 "Who's there?" says I. 
 
 " It's me," says he. 
 
 ** Who are you ? " says I. 
 
 '*' A frind," says he. 
 
 " Baithershin r says I. " Who are you at all ?" 
 
 " Arrah ! don't you know me ? " says he. 
 
1 88 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 ** Divil a taste/' says I. 
 
 '' Shure I'm Paddy the Piper," says he. 
 
 "■ Oh ! thunder-an'-turf," says I. '' Is it you, 
 Paddy, that's in it ? " 
 
 " Sorra one else," says he. 
 
 '' And what brought you at this hour?" says I. 
 
 '' By gar," says he, " I didn't like goin' the 
 roun' by the road," says he, " and so I keni the 
 short cut, and that's what delayed me," says he. 
 
 ^'Oh! bloody wars!" says I, *' Paddy, I 
 wouldn't be in your shoes for the king's ransom," 
 says I ; *' for you know it's a hangin' matther to be 
 cotched out these times," said I. 
 
 " Sur, I know that," says he, " God help me ! 
 and that's what I kem to you for," says he. '' And 
 let me in for ould acquaintance' sake," says poor 
 Paddy. 
 
 *' Oh ! by this and that," sa3^s I, "■ I darn't open 
 the door for the wide world, and sure you know 
 it; and troth, if the Husshians or the Yeos* 
 ketches you," says I, " they'll murthur you, as 
 sure as your name's Paddy." 
 
 ''Many thanks to you," saj-s he, "''for your 
 good intintions; but, plaze the pigs, I hope it's 
 not the likes o' that is in store for me, anyhow." 
 
 ** Faix, then," says I, ^' you'd betther lose no 
 time in hidin' yourself," says I ; '' for, throth, I 
 tell you it's a short thrial and a long rope the 
 Husshians would be afther givin' you, for they've 
 no justice, and less marcy, the villians ! " 
 
 * Yeomen. 
 
Paddy the Piper. 189 
 
 " Faith, thill, more's the raison you should let 
 me in, Shamus," says poor Paddy. 
 
 '* It's a folly to talk," says I ; " I darn't open the 
 door." 
 
 *' Oh ! thin, millia murthcr!" says Paddy. 
 ** What'U become of me at all at all ? " says he. 
 
 *' Go afif into the shed," says I, *' behin' the 
 house, where the cow is, and there's an illigant lock 
 o' straw that you may go sleep in," says I; "and 
 a fine bed it ud be for a lord, let alone a piper." 
 
 So off Paddy set to hide in the shed, and, troth, 
 it wint to our hearts to refuse him and turn him 
 away from the door, more by token when the 
 praties was ready, for sure the bit and the sup is 
 ahva3^s welkim to the poor traveller. Well, w^e 
 all wint to bed, and Paddy hid himself in the 
 cow-house ; and now I must tell you how it was 
 with Paddy. 
 
 You see, afthcr sleeping- for some time, Paddy 
 wakened up, thinkin' it was mornin', but it wasn't 
 mornin' at all, but only the light o' the moon that 
 desaved him ; but, at all events, he wanted to be 
 stirrin' airly, bekasc he was going off to the town 
 hard by, it bein' fair-day, to pick up a few ha'- 
 pence with his pipes, for the divil a betther piper 
 was in all the counthry round nor Paddy ; and 
 every one gave it up to Paddy that he was illi- 
 gant an the pipes, and played " Jinny bang'd the 
 Weaver" beyant tellin', and the '' Hare in the 
 Corn" that you'd think the very dogs was in it,, 
 and the horsemen ridin' like mad. 
 
190 II(-ilf J fours 10 it J I Iris J I AiitJurs. 
 
 Well, as I was savin', he set off to go to the 
 fair, and he went meandherin' along through the 
 fields, but he didn't go far, antil, climbin' up 
 through a hedge, when he was comin' out at 
 t'other side, his head keni plump agin somethin' 
 that made the fire flash out iv o' his eyes. So 
 with that he looks up, and what do 3'ou think it 
 was. Lord be merciful to uz ! but a corpse hang- 
 in' out of a branch of a three? 
 
 " Oh ! the top o' the mornin' to you, sir,'' 
 says Paddy ; '* and is that the way with you, 
 ni}- poor fellow? Throth you took a start out 
 o' me," sa3's poor Paddy. And 'twas true for 
 him, for it would make the heart of a stouter 
 man nor Paddy jump to see the like, and to think 
 of a Christian crathur being hanged up all as one 
 as a dos:. 
 
 Now, 'twas the rebels that hanged this chap ; 
 because, you see, the corpse had got clothes an 
 him, and that's the raison that one might know it 
 was the rebels — by raison that the Husshians and 
 the Orangemen never hanged anybody with good 
 clothes an him, but onl}^ the poor and definceless 
 crathurs like uz ; so, as I said before, Paddy 
 knew well it was the boys that done it. ** And," saj^s 
 Paddy, eyein' the corpse, " by ni}^ sowl, thin, but 
 you have a beautiful pair o' boots an you," says 
 he, "and it's what I am thinkin' you w^on't have 
 any great use for thim no more ; and sure it's a 
 shame to see the likes o' me," says he, " the best 
 piper in the sivin counties, to be trampin' wid a 
 
Paddy the Piper. 191 
 
 pair of ould brogues not worth three tranccns, and 
 a corpse with such an iligant pair o' boots that 
 wants some one to wear thim." So. with that, 
 Padd}^ lays hould of him b}^ the boots, and began 
 a puUin' at thim, but they were mighty stiff; and, 
 whether it was b}^ raison of their bin' so tight, or 
 the branch of the three a-giggin' up and down all 
 as one as a weighdee buckettee, an' not lettin 
 Paddy cotch any right hoult o' thim, he could 
 get no advantage o' thim at all ; and at last he gev 
 X up, and was goin' away, when, lookin' behind 
 him agin, the sight of the iligant fine boots was too 
 much for him, and he turned back, determined to 
 have the boots anyhow, by fair means or foul. 
 And I'm loath to tell you now how he got them ; 
 for, indeed, it was a dirty turn, and throth it was 
 the only dirty turn I ever knew Paddy to be guil- 
 ty civ ; and you see it was this a-way : 'pon my 
 sowl, he pulled out a big knife, and, by the same 
 token, it was a knife with a fine buck-handle, and a 
 murtherin' big blade, that an uncle o' mine that 
 was a gardener at the lord's made Paddy a prisint 
 av ; and, more by token, it was not the first mis- 
 chief that knife done ; for it cut love between thim 
 that was the best of friends before ; and sure 'twas 
 the wondher of every one that two knowledg- 
 able men that ought to know betther would do 
 the likes, and give and take sharp steel in friend- 
 ship ; but Pm forgettin' — well, he outs with his 
 knife, and what does he do but he cuts oft^'the legs 
 of the corpse. *' And," i^^ys he, '' I can take off the 
 
192 Half Hours zciih Iiish Authors, 
 
 boots at my convaynience." And throth it was, as I 
 said before, a dirty turn. 
 
 Well, sir, he tucked the legs under his arms, 
 and at that minit the moon peeped out from be- 
 hind a cloud. '' Oh ! is it there you are?" sa3^s he 
 to the moon, for he was an impident chap ; and 
 thin, seein' that he made a mistake, and that the 
 moonlight deceived him that it was the airly 
 darwn, as he conceived ; and bein' friken'd for fear 
 himself might be cotched and trated like the poor 
 corpse he was afther malthreating, \i Jie was found 
 walking the counthry at that time — by gar, he 
 turned about, and walked back agin to the cow- 
 house, and hidin' the corpse's legs in the sthraw, 
 Paddy went to sleep agin. But what do you 
 think ? The devil a long Paddy was there antil the 
 sojers came in airnest, and, by the powers, they 
 carried off Paddy-^and faith it was only sarvin' 
 him right for what he had done to the poor 
 corpse. 
 
 Well, whin the mornin' kem, my father says to 
 me, " Go, Shamus," says he, " to the shed, and bid 
 poor Paddy come in, and take share o' the praties ; 
 for, I go bail, he's ready for his breakquest by this 
 anyhow." 
 
 Well, out I wint to the cow-house, and called 
 out '' Paddy !" and, afther callin' three or four times 
 and getting no answer, I wint in, and called agin, 
 and divil an answer I got still. '' Blood-an-agers !" 
 says 1, " Paddy, where are you at all at all ?" And 
 so, castin' my eyes about the shed, I seen two feet 
 
Paddy the Piper. 193 
 
 sticking out from undher the hape o' stliraw 
 '* Musha ! thin," says I, '' bad luck to you, Paddj^, 
 but you're fond of a warm corner, and may be 3^ou 
 haven't made j^ourself as snug as a flay in a blan- 
 ket? But I'll disturb )^our dhrames, I'm thinkin'," 
 says I. And with that I laid hold of his heels (as I 
 thought, God help me !), and, givin' a good pull to 
 waken him, as I intinded, away I wint head over 
 heels, and my brains was a'most knocked out agin 
 the wall. 
 
 Well, whin I recovered m3^self, there I was 
 on the broad o' my back, and two things stickin' 
 out o' my hands like a pair o' Husshian's horse- 
 pist'ls, and I thought the sight id lave my eyes 
 whin I seen they were two mortial legs. 
 
 My jew'l ! I threw them down like a hot pra- 
 tee, and, jumpin' up, I roared out millia murther. 
 '* Oh ! you murtherin' villain," says I, shaking my 
 fist at the cow. *' Oh ! you unnath'ral baste,'' says 
 I, " you've ate poor Paddy, you thievin' cannibal. 
 You're worse than a naygar," says I ; '' and, bad 
 luck to you, how dainty you are, that nothin' 'id 
 sarve you for your supper but the best piper in 
 Ireland ! Weirasthrit ! weirasthrii ! What'll the 
 whole counthry say to such a unnath'ral murther? 
 And you lookin' as innocent there as a lamb, and 
 atin* your hay as quiet as if nothin' happened." 
 With that I run out— for throth I didn't like to be 
 near her — and, goin' to the house, I tould them 
 all about it. 
 
 '* Arrah! be aisy," says my father. 
 
194 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Attthors. 
 
 '* Bad luck to the lie I tell 3^ou," says I. 
 
 " Is it ate Paddy ?" says they. 
 
 *' Divil a doubt of it," sa3^s I. 
 
 '' Are you sure, Shamus?" says my mother. 
 
 '' I wish 1 was as sure of a new pairo' brogues," 
 sa3^s I. *' Bad luck to the bit she has left iv him 
 but his two legs." 
 
 *'And do you tell me she ate the pipes, too?" 
 says my father. 
 
 " By gor, I b'lieve so," sa^^s I. 
 
 *' Oh ! the divil fly away wid her," says he. 
 " What a cruel taste she has for music !" 
 
 ** Arrah !" says mother, '' don't be cursin' the 
 cow that gives milk to the childer." 
 
 " Yis, I will," says my father. " Why shouldn't 
 I curse sich an unnath'ral baste ?' 
 
 '* You oughtn't to curse any livin' thing that's 
 under your roof," says my mother. 
 
 '' By my soul, thin," says my father, '* she sha'n't 
 be undher my roof any more ; for I'll sind her to 
 the fair this minit," sa^'S he, ** and sell her for what- 
 ever she'll bring. Go aff," says he, *' Shamus, the 
 minit you've ate your breakquest, and dhrive her 
 to the fair." 
 
 " Throth I don't like to dhrive her," says I. 
 
 *' Arrah ! don't be makin' a gommach of your- 
 self," says he. 
 
 '' Faith, I don't," says I. 
 
 *' Well, like or no like," says he, " you must dhrive 
 her." 
 
Paddy the Piper. 195 
 
 " Sure, father," says I, *' you could take more care 
 iv her yourself." 
 
 " That's mighty good," says he, ^' to keep a dog 
 and bark myself" — and, faith, I rec'llected the say- 
 in' from that hour — '' let me have no more words 
 about it," says he, " but be afF with you." 
 
 So afif I wint, and it's no lie I'm tellin' when 
 I say it was sore agin my will I had anything to 
 do with such a villain of a baste. But, howsom- 
 ever, I cut a brave long whattle, that I might 
 drive the man-ather iv a thief, as she was, without 
 bein' near her at all at all. 
 
 Well, away we Avint along the road, and mighty 
 throng it was with the boys and the girls — and, in 
 short, all sorts, rich and poor, high and low, 
 crowdin' to the fair. 
 
 "" God save you !" says one to me. 
 
 *' God save you, kindly !" says I. 
 
 *' That's a fine baste you're dhrivin*,'' says he. 
 
 *' Throth she is," says I, though God knows it 
 wint agin my heart to say a good word for the 
 likes of her. 
 
 '' It's to the fair you're goin', I suppose," says he, 
 ** with the baste?" (He was a snug-lookin' farmer, 
 ridin' a purty little gray hack.) 
 
 " Faith, thin, you're right enough," says I. *' It's 
 to the fair I'm goin'." 
 
 "■ What do 3^ou expec' for her ?" says he. 
 ■' " Faith, thin, myself doesn't know," says I — and 
 that was thrue enough, you see, bekase I was be- 
 wildered like about the baste entirely. 
 
ig6 Half Hours with Irish Attthors. 
 
 " Och !" says I, not likin' to let him suspict there 
 was any thing wrong wid her — *' och !" says 1, in a 
 careless sort of a way, '* sure no one can tell what 
 a baste'U bring antil they come to the fair," says 
 I, *' and see what price is goin'." 
 
 *' Indeed, that's nath'ral enough," says he. " But 
 if you wor bid a fair price before you come to the 
 fair, sure you might as well take it," says he. 
 
 *' Oh ! I've no objection in life," says I. 
 
 " Well, thin, what'U you ax for her ? " says he. 
 
 *' Why, thin, I wouldn't like to be onraysona- 
 ble," says I (for the thruth was, you know, I 
 wanted to get rid iv her), ''and so I'll take four 
 pounds for her," sa3'S I, " and no less.' 
 
 " No less ! " says he. 
 
 " Why, sure, that's chape enough," says I. 
 
 ''Troth it is," says he; "and I'm thinkin it's 
 too chape it is," says he ; " for, if there wasn't 
 somethin' the matter, it's not for that you'd be 
 sellin' the fine milch cow as she is to all appear- 
 ance." 
 
 " Indeed, thin," says I, " upon my conscience, 
 she is a fine milch cow." 
 
 " May be," says he, " she's gone off her milk, 
 in regard that she doesn't feed well ? " 
 
 " Och ! by this and that," says I, " in regard of 
 feedin* there's not the likes of her in Ireland ; so 
 make your mind aisy, and, if you like her for the 
 money, you may have her." 
 
 " Why, indeed, I'm not in a hurr}^" says he, 
 " and I'll wait to see how they'll go in the fair." 
 
Paddy the Piper. 197 
 
 " With all my heart," says I, purtending to be 
 no ways consarned ; but, in throth, I began to be 
 afeerd that the people was seein' somethin* un- 
 nath'ral about her, and that we'd never get rid of 
 her at all at all. At last we kern to the fair, and 
 a great sight o' people was in it; throth you'd 
 think the whole world was there, let alone the 
 standin's o' gingerbread, and iligant ribbins, and 
 makin's o' beautiful gownds, and pitch-and-toss, 
 and merry-go-rouns, and tints with the best av 
 drink in them, and the fiddles playin' up t' encour- 
 age the boys and girls; but I never minded them 
 at all, but determint to sell the thieven' rogue av 
 a cow afore I'd mind any divarshin in life ; so an 
 I dhriv her, into the thick av the fair, when all of 
 a suddint, as I kem to the door av a tint, up 
 struck the pipes to the tune av '* Tatterin' Jack 
 Welsh," and, my jew'l ! in a minit, the cow cocked 
 her ears, and was makin' a dart at the tint. 
 
 "■ O murther !" says I to the boys standin' by, 
 ** hould her!" says I, "houldher! She ate one 
 piper already, the vagabone, and, bad luck to 
 her, she wants another now." 
 
 '' Is it a cow for to ate a piper? " says one of 
 them. 
 
 '* Divil a word o' lie in it, for I seen his corpse 
 myself, and nothin' left but the two legs," says I. 
 •' And it's folly to be strivin' to hide it, for I see 
 she'll never lave it aff, as poor Paddy Grogan 
 knows to his cost, the Lord be merciful to him ! " 
 
 " Who's that takin' my name in vain ? " says "a 
 
198 Half Hours ivitli Irish Authors, 
 
 voice ill the crowd ; and, with that, shovin' the 
 throng a one side, who the devil should I see but 
 Paddy Grogan to all appearance. 
 
 *' Oh ! hould him, too ! " says I ; '' keep him aff 
 me, for it's not himself at all, but his ghost," says 
 I ; '' for he was kilt last night to my sartin know- 
 ledge, every inch of him, all to his legs." 
 
 Well, sir, with that, Paddy, for it was Paddy, 
 as it kem out after, fell a-laughin' that you'd think 
 his sides ud split, and, when he kem to himself, he 
 ups and he tould us how it was, as I tould you 
 already ; and the likes av the fun they made av 
 me was bey ant tellin' for wrongfully misdoubtin' 
 the poor cow, and layin' the blame iv atin a piper 
 an her. So we all wint into the tint to have it 
 explained, and, by gor, it took a full gallon o' 
 sper'ts to explain it, and we dhrank health and 
 long life to Padd}^ and the cow, and Paddy played 
 that day beyant all tellin', and man}^ a one said 
 the likes was never heerd before nor sence, even 
 from Paddy himself; and av coorse the poor 
 slandered cow was dhruv home agin, and many a 
 quiet day she had wid us afther that ; and, whin 
 she died, throth, my father had sitch a regard jfor 
 the poor thing, that he had her skinned, and an 
 iligant pair of breeches made out iv her hide, and 
 it's in the family to this day ; and isn't it mighty 
 remarkable it is, what Fm goin' to tell you now, 
 but it's as thrue as Pm here, that, from that out, 
 any one that has them breeches on, the minit a 
 pair o' pipes sthrikes up they can't rest, but goes 
 
Paddy the Piper. 199 
 
 jiggin' and jiggin' in their sate, and never stops as 
 long as the pipes is playin' ; and there," said he, 
 slapping the garment in question that covered 
 his sinewy limb, with a spank of his brawny hand 
 that might have startled nerves more tender than 
 mine — *' there is the very breeches that's an me 
 now, and a fine pair they are this minit." 
 
THE WHITE TROUT. 
 
 A LEGEND OF CONG. 
 
 Oh ! I would ask no happier bed 
 Than the chill wave my love lies under ; 
 
 Sweeter to rest together, dead, 
 Far sweeter than to live asunder. 
 
 — Lalla Rookh. 
 
 THE next morning I proceeded alone to the 
 cave, to witness the natural curiosity of its 
 subterranean river, my interest in the visit being 
 somewhat increased by the foregoing tale. Leav- 
 ing my horse at the little village of Cong, I bent 
 my Avay on foot through the fields, if you may ven- 
 ture to give that name to the surface of this immedi- 
 ate district of the county Mayo, which, presenting 
 large flat masses of limestone, intersected by 
 patches of verdure, gives one the idea much more 
 of a burial-ground covered with monumental slabs, 
 than a formation of nature. Yet (I must make the 
 remark en passanf) such is the richness of the pas- 
 ture in these little verdant interstices that cattle 
 are fattened upon it in a much shorter time than on 
 a meadow of the most cultured aspect ; and though 
 to the native of Leinster this land {\i wc may be 
 
The White Trout. 201 
 
 pardoned a premeditated bull) would appear all 
 stones^ the Mayo farmer knows it from experience 
 to be a profitable tenure. Sometimes deep clefts 
 occur between these laminas of limestone i-ock, 
 which, closely overgrown with verdure, have not 
 unfrequently occasioned serious accidents to man 
 and beast ; and one of these chasms, of larger 
 dimensions than usual, forms the entrance to the 
 celebrated cave in. question. Very rude steps of 
 unequal height, partly natural and partly artificial, 
 lead the explorer of its quiet beauty, by an abrupt 
 descent, to the bottom of the cave, which contains 
 an enlightened area of some thirty or forty feet, 
 whence a naturally vaulted passage opens, of the 
 deepest gloom. The depth of the cave may be 
 about equal to its width at the bottom ; the mouth 
 is not more than twelve or fifteen feet across ; and 
 pendent from its margin clusters of ivy and other 
 parasite plants hang and cling in all the fantastic 
 variety of natural festooning and tracery. It is a 
 truly beautiful and poetical little spot, and par- 
 ticularly interesting to the stranger, from being 
 unlike anything else one has ever seen, and having 
 none of the noisy and vulgar pretence of regular 
 show places^ which calls upon you every moment 
 to exclaim '' Prodigious !" 
 
 An elderly and decent-looking woman had just 
 filled her pitcher w^ith the deliciously cold 
 and clear water of the subterranean river that 
 flowed along its bed of small, smooth, and many- 
 colored pebbles, as I arrived at the bottom ; and, 
 
202 half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 perceiving at once that I was a stranger, she 
 paused, partly, perhaps, with the pardonable pride 
 of displaying her local knowledge, but more from 
 the native peasant politeness of her country to be- 
 come the temporary cicerone of the cave. She 
 spoke some words of Irish, and hurried forth on 
 her errand a very handsome and active boy, of 
 whom she informed me she was the great-grand- 
 mother. • 
 
 '' Great-grandmother !' I repeated, in unfeign- 
 ed astonishment. 
 
 *' Yes, your honor," she answered, with evident 
 pleasure sparkling in her eyes, which time had 
 not yet deprived of their brightness, or' the soul- 
 subduing influence of this selftsh world bereft of 
 their kind-hearted expression. 
 
 '-'■ You are the youngest woman I have ever seen," 
 said I, '' to be a great-grandmother." 
 
 " Troth I don't doubt you, sir," she answered. 
 
 '' And you seem still in good health, and likely 
 to live many a year yet," said I. 
 
 '' With the help of God, sir," said she reverently. 
 
 '' But," I added, ''-I perceive a great number of 
 persons about here of extreme age. Now, how 
 long generally do the people in this country live ?" 
 
 *' Troth, sir," said she, with the figurative droll- 
 ery of her country, *' we live here as long as we 
 like." 
 
 " Well, that is no inconsiderable privilege," said 
 I ; '' but you nevertheless must have married 
 very young?" 
 
The White Trout. 203 
 
 ** I was not much over sixteen, your honor, 
 when I had my first child at my breast." 
 
 " That was beginning early," said I. 
 
 *'Thrue for you, sir; and, faith, Noreen (that's 
 my daughter, sir) — Noreen herself lost no time 
 either ; I suppose she thought she had as good a 
 right as the mother before her — she was married 
 at seventeen, and a likely couple herself and her 
 husband was. So you see, sir, it was not long be- 
 fore I was a granny. Well, to make the saying 
 good, ' As the ould cock crows, the young bird 
 chirrups,' and, faiks, the whole breed, seed, and 
 generation tuk after the ould woman (that's my- 
 self, sir); "and so, in coorse of time, I was not only 
 a granny, but a ^r^/^-granny ; and, by the same 
 token, here comes my darling Paudeen Bawn* 
 with what I sent him for." 
 
 Here the fine fellow I have spoken of, with his 
 long, fair hair curling about his shoulders, de- 
 scended into the cave, bearing some fagots of 
 bogwood, a wisp of straw, and a lighted sod of turf. 
 
 *' Now, your honor, it's what you'll see the 
 pigeon-hole to advantage." 
 
 " What pigeon-hole ?" said I. 
 
 "• Here, where we are," she replied. 
 
 " Why is it so called?" I inquired. 
 
 '' Because, sir, the wild pigeons often builds in 
 the bushes and the ivy that's round the mouth of 
 the cave, and in here, too," said she, pointing into 
 the gloomy depth of the interior. 
 
 * Fair little Paddy. 
 
204 ^^^^f Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 " Blow that turf, Paudeen." And Paudeen, with 
 distended cheeks and compressed lips, forthwith 
 poured a few vigorous blasts on the sod of turf, 
 which soon flickered and blazed, while the kind 
 old woman lighted her fagots of bogwood at the 
 flame. 
 
 " Now, sir, follow me," said my conductress. 
 
 " I am sorry you have had so much trouble on 
 my account," said I. 
 
 " Oh ! no throuble in life, your honor, but the 
 greatest of pleasure." And so saying, she proceed- 
 ed into the cave, and I loUowed, carefully choosing 
 my steps, by the help of her torch-light, along the 
 slippery path of rock that overhung the river. 
 When she had reached a point of some little eleva- 
 tion, she held up her lighted pine branches, and, 
 waving them to and fro, asked me could I see the 
 top of the cave. 
 
 The effect of her figure was very fine, illumined 
 as it was, in the midst of utter darkness, by the 
 red glare of the blazing fagots ; and, as she wound 
 them round her head, and shook their flickerins: 
 Sparks about, it required no extraordinary sketch 
 of imagination to suppose her, with her ample 
 cloak of drapery and a few straggling tresses of 
 gray hair escaping from the folds of a rather 
 Eastern head-dress, some sib^d about to com- 
 mence an awful rite, and evoke her ministering 
 spirits fron the dark void, or call some water- 
 demon from the river which rushed unseen along, 
 telling of its wild course by the turbulent dash ot 
 
The White Trout. 205 
 
 its waters, which the reverberation of the cave 
 rendered still more hollow. 
 
 She shouted aloud, and the cavern-echoes an- 
 swered to her summons. " Look !" said she ; and 
 she lighted the wisp of straw, and flung it on the 
 stream ; it floated rapidly away, blazing in wild 
 undulations over the protruded surface of" the 
 river, and at length suddenly disappeared alto- 
 gether. The effect was most picturesque and 
 startling ; it was even awful — I might almost say 
 sublime. 
 
 Her light being nearly expired, we retrace our 
 steps, and, emerging from the gloom, stood beside 
 the river, in the enlightened area I have described. 
 
 " Now, sir," said my old woman, *' we must thry 
 and see the white throut ; and you never seen a 
 throut o' that color yet, I warrant." 
 
 I assented to the truth of this. 
 
 " They say it's a fairy throut, your honor, and 
 tells mighty quare stories about it." 
 
 *' What are they ?" I inquired. 
 
 '* Throth it's myself doesn't know the half o' 
 them — only partly ; but sthrive and see it before 
 3^ou go, sir, for there's thim that says it isn't lucky 
 to come to the cave, and lave it without seeing 
 the white throut ; and, if you're a bachelor, and 
 didn't get a peep at it, throth you'd never get 
 married ; and sure that i'd be a marther."* 
 
 ^' Oh !" said I, *' I hope the fairies would not be so 
 spiteful — " 
 
 ♦ A great pity. 
 
2o6 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 "Whist — whist!" said she looking fearfully 
 around ; then knitting her brows, she gave me an 
 admonitory look, and put her fmger on her lip, in 
 token of silence, and then, coming sufficiently near 
 me to make herself audible in a whisper, she said, 
 ** Never speak ill, your honor, of the good people, 
 beyant all in sich a place as this ; for it's in the 
 likes they al\va3^s keep; and one doesn't know 
 who may be listenin'. God keep uz ! But look, 
 sir, look !" — and she pointed to the stream — " there 
 she is." 
 
 ''Who? What?" said I. 
 
 " The throut, sir." 
 
 I immediately perceived the fish in question, 
 perfectly a trout in shape, but in color a creamy 
 white, heading up the stream, and seeming to 
 keep constantly within the region of the enlight- 
 ened part of it. 
 
 " There it is, in that very spot evermore," con- 
 tinued my guide, " and never anywhere else." 
 
 " The poor fish, I suppose, likes to swim in the 
 light," said I. 
 
 " Oh ! no, sir," said she, shaking her head signi- 
 ficantly, " the people here has a mighty owld stor}*" 
 about that throut." 
 
 " Let me hear it, and you will oblige me." 
 
 " Och ! it's only laughin' at me you'd be, and call 
 me an owld fool, as the misthiss beyant in the big 
 house often did afore Avhen she first kem among 
 us ; but she knows the differ now." 
 
 '' Indeed, I shall not laugh at your story," said I, 
 
The White Trout. 207 
 
 " but, on the contrary, shall thank you very much 
 for your tale." 
 
 " Then sit down a minit, sir," said she, throwing 
 her apron upon the rock, and pointing to the seat, 
 "and* I'll tell you to the best of my knowledge." 
 And, seating herself on an adjacent patch of ver- 
 dure, she began her legend. 
 
 *' There was wanst upon a time long ago a 
 beautiful young lady that lived in a castle up by 
 the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to 
 the king's son, and they wor to be married ; when, 
 all of a suddint, he was murthered, the crathur, 
 ( Lord help us!), and threwn into the lake abow,"^' 
 and so, of coorse, he couldn't keep his promise to 
 the fair lady — and more's the pity. 
 
 "■ Well, the story goes that she went out iv her 
 mind bekase av loosin' the king's son — for she was 
 tinder-hearted, God help her! like the rest iv us 
 — and pined away afther him, until at last no one 
 about seen her, good or bad ; and the story wint 
 that the fairies took her away. 
 
 " Well, sir, in coorse o' time, the white throut, 
 God bless it ! was seen in the sthrame beyont ; and 
 sure the people didn't know what to think av the 
 crathur, seein' as how a white throut was never 
 heerd av afore nor sence : and years upon years 
 the throut was there, just where you seen it this 
 blessed minit, longer nor I can tell — ay, throth, and 
 beyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village. 
 
 " At last the people began to think it must be a 
 
 ♦Above. 
 
208 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 fairy — for what else could it be? — and no hurt nor 
 harm was iver put on the white throut, antil some 
 wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and 
 laughed at all the people, and gibed and jeered 
 them for thinkin* o' the likes ; and one o' them 
 in partic'lar (bad luck to him ! — God forgi* me 
 for sayin' it ! ) swore he'd catch the throut, and 
 ate it for his dinner — the blackguard ! 
 
 " Well, what would you think o' the villany of 
 the sojer? Sure enough he cotch the throut, and 
 away wid him home, and puts an the fryin'-pan, 
 and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The 
 throut squeeled all as one as a Christian crather, 
 and, my dear, you'd think the sojer id split his 
 sides laughin' — for he was a harden'd villain — and, 
 when he thought one side was done, he turns it 
 over to fry the other ; and what would you think, 
 but the divil a taste of a burn was an it at all at all, 
 and sure the sojer thought it was a qiiare throut 
 that couldn't be briled ; ' but,' says he, ' I'll give it 
 another turn by-and-by, little thinkin' what was 
 in store for him, the haythen. 
 
 '' Well, when he thought that side was done, he 
 turns it again, and, lo and behould you, the divil 
 a taste more done that side was nor the other. 
 * Bad luck to me,' says the sojer, * but that bates 
 the world,' says he ; * but I'll thry you agin, my 
 darlint,' says he, ' as cunnin' as you think yourself.' 
 And so, with that, he turns it over and over; but 
 the divil a sign av the fire w^as an the purty throut. 
 '* Well,' says the desperate villain — (for sure, sir, 
 
The White Trout. 209 
 
 he was a desperate villain entirely ; he might know 
 he Avas doing a wrong thing, seein' that all his en- 
 dayvors was no good) — ' well/ says he, '■ my jolly 
 little throut, may be you're fried enough, though 
 you don't seem over well dressed ; but you may 
 be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a 
 titbit, afther all,' says he. And, with that, he ups 
 with his knife and fork to taste apiece o' the throut; 
 but, my jew'l ! the minit he put his knife into the 
 fish there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd 
 think the life id lave you if you heerd it, and away 
 jumps the throut out av the fryin'-pan into the 
 middle o' the flure; and an the spot where it fell 
 up riz a lovely lad}^ — the beautifullest young 
 crathur that eyes ever seen, dressed in white, 
 with a band o* goold in her hair, and a sthrame o' 
 blood runnin' down her arm. 
 
 '' ' Look where you cut me, you villain,' says she, 
 and she held out her arm to him ; and, my dear, 
 he thought the sight id lave his eyes. 
 
 '' ' Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in 
 the river where you snared me, and not disturb 
 me in my duty ?' says she. 
 
 " Well, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, 
 and at last he stammered out somethin', and beg- 
 ged for his life, and ax'd her ladyship's pardin, and 
 said he didn't know she was an dut}^ or he was 
 too good a soger not to know betther nor to med- 
 dle wid her. 
 
 '' ' I zvas on duty, then,' sa3^s the lady ; ' I was 
 watchin' for my thrue love that is comin' by 
 
2IO Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 wather to me,' sa3^s she; 'an' if he comes while I 
 am away, an' that I miss iv him, I'll turn you into 
 a pinkeen,"^ and I'll hunt you up and down for 
 evermore, while grass grows or wather runs.' 
 
 " Well, the sojer thought the life id lave him at 
 the thoughts iv his bein' turned into a pinkeen, and 
 begged for marcy ; and with that says the lady, 
 * Renounce your evil coorses,' says she, 'you 
 villain, or you'll repint it too late; be a good 
 man for the futher, and go to your dutyf reg'lar. 
 And now,' says she, 'take me back, and put me 
 into the river agin where you found me." 
 
 " ' Oh ! my lad}^' sa3's the sojer, * how could I 
 have the heart to drownd a beautiful lady like 
 you ?' 
 
 " But before he could say another word, the 
 lady was vanished, and there he saw the little 
 throut an the ground. Well, he put it an a clane 
 plate, and away he run for the bare life, for fear 
 her lover would come while she w^as away ; and 
 he run and he run ever till he came to the cave 
 agin, and threw the throut into the river. The 
 minit he did, the wather \vas as red as blood 
 for a little while, by rayson av the cut, I sup- 
 pose, until the sthrame washed the stain away ; 
 and to this day there's a little red mark an the 
 throut's side, where it was cut.:}: 
 
 " Well, sir, from that day out the sojer was an 
 
 * stickleback. 
 
 + The Irish peasant calls his attendance at the confessicmal " going to his 
 duty." 
 
 X The fish has reall}' a red spot on its side. 
 
The While Trout. 21 1 
 
 althered man, and reformed his ways, and wint to 
 his duty reg'lar and fasted three times a week — 
 though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days, for, 
 afther the fright he got, fish id never rest an his 
 stomach, God bless us ! savin* your presence. 
 But, anyhow, he was an althered man, as 1 said 
 before ; and in coorse o' time he left the army, and 
 turned hermit at last; and they say he used to 
 pray evermore for the sowl of the white throut,'' 
 
William Carleton, 
 
THE DONAGIL 
 
 CARNMORE, one of those small villages that 
 are to be found in the outskirts of many pa- 
 rishes in Ireland, whose distinct boundaries are 
 lost in the contiguous mountain-wastes, was situ- 
 ated at the foot of a deep gorge or pass, overhung 
 by two bleak hills, from the naked sides of wdiich 
 the storm swept over it, without discomposing 
 the peaceful little nook of cabins that stood below. 
 
 * In reference to the precious reliquary mentioned in the following true 
 tale, the learned George Petrie wrote in the i8th vol. of the Transactions of 
 the Royal Irish Academy: 
 
 " On these evidences— and more might probably be procured if time had 
 allowed— we may, I think, with tolerable certainty, rest the following con- 
 clusions: 
 
 ''i. That the Domnach is the identical reliquary given by St. Patrick to 
 MacCarthen. 
 
 "2. As the form of the cumdach indicates that it was intended to receive a 
 book, and as the relics are all attached fo the outer and the least ancient 
 cover, it is manifest that the use of the box as a reliquary was not its original 
 intention. The natural inference, therefore, is that it contained a manuscript 
 which had belonged to St. Patrick ; and, as a manuscript copy of the Gospels, 
 apparently of that early age, is found within it, there is every reason to be- 
 lieve it to be that identical one for which the box was originally made, and 
 which the Irish apostle probably brought with him on his mission into this 
 country. It is, indeed, not merely possible, but even probable, that the ex- 
 istence of this manuscript was unknown to the monkish biographers of St. 
 Patrick and St. MacCarthen, who speak of the box as a scrinium^ or reliquary, 
 only. The outer cover was evidently not made to open ; and some, at least, 
 of the relics attached to it were not introduced into Ireland before the twelfth 
 century. It will be remembered, also, that no superstition was and is more 
 common, in connection with the ancient cumdachs, than the dread of their 
 being OF-aed." 
 
2i6 Half Hours zvith Irish AiitJiors. 
 
 About a furlong further down were two or three 
 farm-houses, inhabited by a family named Cas- 
 sidy, men of simple, inoffensive manners and con- 
 siderable wealth. They were, however, acute 
 and wise in their generation ; intelligent cattle- 
 dealers, on whom it would have been a matter of 
 some difficulty to impose an unsound horse, or a 
 cow older than it was intimated by her horn- 
 rings, even when conscientiously dressed up for 
 sale by the ingenious aid of the file or burning- 
 iron. Between their houses and the hamlet rose 
 a conical pile of rocks, loosely heaped together, 
 from which the place took it's name of Carnmore. 
 About three years before the time of this stor}^, 
 there came two men with their families to reside 
 in the upper village, and the house which they 
 chose as a residence was one at some distance 
 from those which composed the little group we 
 have just been describing. They said their name 
 was Meehan, although the general report went 
 that this was not true, that their name was an as- 
 sumed one, and that some dark mystery which 
 none could penetrate shrouded their history and 
 character. They were certainly remarkable men. 
 The elder, named Anthony, was a dark, black- 
 browed person, stern in his manner, and atro- 
 ciously cruel in his disposition. His form was 
 herculean, his bones strong and hard as iron, and 
 his sinews stood out in undeniable evidence of a 
 life hitherto spent in severe toil and exertion, to 
 bear which he appeared to an amazing degree 
 
TJie Donagh. 217 
 
 capable. His brother Denis was a small man, 
 less savage and daring- in his character, and con- 
 sequently more vacillating and cautious than 
 Anthony ; for the points in which he resembled 
 him were superinduced upon his natural disposi- 
 tion by the close connection that subsisted be- 
 tween them, and b}^ the identity of their former 
 pursuits in life, which, beyond doubt, had been 
 such as could not bear investigation. 
 
 The old proverb of Birds of a feather flock to- 
 gether" is certainly a true one, and in this case it 
 was once more verified. Before the arrival of 
 these men in the village, there had been two or 
 three bad characters in the neighborhood, whose 
 delinquencies were pretty well known. With 
 these persons, the strangers, by that sympathy 
 which assimilates with congenial good or evil, 
 soon became acquainted ; and although their in- 
 timacy was as secret and cautious as possible, 
 still it had been observed, and was known ; for 
 they had frequently been seen skulking together 
 at daybreak or in the dusk of evening. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that Meehan and his 
 brother did not mingle much in the society of 
 Carnmore. In fact, the villagers and the}^ mu- 
 tually avoided each other. A mere return of the 
 common phrases of salutation was generally the 
 most that passed between them ; they never en- 
 tered into that familiarity which leads to mutual 
 intercourse, and justifies one neighbor in freely 
 entering the cabin of another, to spend a winter's 
 
2i8 Half Hours zuith Irish AutJiors. 
 
 night or a summer's evening in amusing conver- 
 sation. Few had ever been in the house of the 
 Ivleehans since it became theirs ; nor were the 
 means of their subsistence known. They led an 
 idle life, had no scarcity of food, were decently 
 clothed, and never wanted money — circumstan- 
 ces which occasioned no small degree of conjec- 
 ture in Carnmore and its vicinity. 
 
 Some said they lived by theft ; others that they 
 were coiners; and there were many who imag- 
 ined, from the diabolical countenance of the 
 elder brother,^ that he had sold himself to the 
 devil, Avho, they affirmed, set his mark upon him, 
 and was his paymaster. Upon this hypothesis, 
 several were ready to prove that he had neither 
 breath nor shadow ; they had seen him, they said, 
 standing under a hedge-row of elder, that unholy 
 tree which furnished wood for the ci"oss, and on 
 which Judas hanged himself; yet, although it was 
 noonday in the month of Jul}^ his person threw 
 out no shadow. Worthy souls! because the man' 
 stood in the shade at the time. But with these 
 simple explanations superstition had nothing to 
 do, although we are bound in justice to the reve- 
 rend old lady to affirm that she v/as kept exceed- 
 ingly busy in Carnmore. If a man had a sick 
 cow, she was elf-shot ; if his chi-ld became con- 
 sumptive, it had been overlooked, or received a 
 blast from the fairies ; if the whooping-cough w^as 
 rife, all the afflicted children were put three times 
 under an ass ; or^ when they happened to have the 
 
The DonagJi, 219 
 
 " mumps," Avere led, before sunrise, to a south- 
 running stream, with a halter hanging about their 
 necks, under an obUgation of silence during the 
 ceremony. In short, there could not possibl}- be 
 a more superstitious spot than that which these 
 men of mystery had selected for their residence. 
 Another circumstance which caused the people 
 to look upon them with additional dread was their 
 neglect of Mass on Sundays and holidays, though 
 they avowed themselves Roman Catholics. They 
 did not, it is true, join in the dances, drinking- 
 matches, foot-ball, and other sports with which 
 the Carnmore folk celebrated the Lord's day ; 
 but they scrupled not, on the other hand, to 
 mend their garden ditch, or mould a row of cab- 
 bages on the Sabbath — a circumstance for which 
 two or three of the Carnmore boys were one Sun- 
 day evening, when tips}^ w^ell-nigh chastising 
 them. Their usual manner, however, of spending 
 that day was by sauntering lazily about the fields, 
 or stretching themselves supinely on the sunny 
 side of the hedges, their arms folded on their 
 bosoms, and their hats Ij^ing over their faces to 
 keep off the sun. 
 
 In the meantime, loss of property was becom- 
 ing quite common in the neighborhood. Sheep 
 w^ere stolen from the farmers, and cows and 
 horses from the more extensive graziers in the 
 parish. The complaints against the authors of 
 these depredations were loud 'and incessant; 
 watches were set, combinations for mutual secur- 
 
220 Half Hours zuitJi Irish AutJiors. 
 
 ity formed, and subscriptions to a considerable 
 amount entered into, with a hope of being able, 
 by the temptation of a large reward, to work 
 upon the weakness or cupidity of some accom- 
 plice to betray the gang of villains who infested 
 the neighborhood. All, however, was in vain ; 
 every week brought some new act of plunder to 
 light, perpetrated upon such unsuspecting per- 
 sons as had hitherto escaped the notice of the 
 robbers ; but no trace could be discovered of the 
 perpetrators. Although theft had from time to 
 time been committed upon a small scale before the 
 arrival of the Meehans in the village, yet it was 
 undeniable that since that period the instances 
 not only multiplied, but became of a more daring 
 and extensive description. They arose in a 
 gradual scale, from the hen-roost to the stable ; 
 and with such ability were they planned and exe- 
 cuted that the people, who in every instance 
 identified INIeehan and his brother with them, be- 
 gan to believe and hint that, in consequence of 
 their compact with the devil, they had power to 
 render themselves invisible. Common fame, who 
 can best treat such subjects, took up this, and 
 never laid it aside until, by narrating several ex- 
 ploits which Meehan the elder is said to have per- 
 formed in other parts of the kingdom, she wound 
 it up by roundly "informing the Carnmorians 
 that, having been once taken prisoner for mur- 
 der, he was caught by thcleg when half through 
 a hedge, but that, being most wickedly deter- 
 
TJie Doriagh. 221 
 
 mined to save his neck, he left the leg with the 
 officer who took him, shouting- out that it was a 
 new species of leg-bail ; and yet he moved away 
 with surprising speed, upon two of as good legs 
 as an}^ man in his majesty's dominions might wish 
 to walk off upon, from the insinuating advances 
 of a bailiff or a constable. 
 
 The family of the Meehans consisted of their 
 wives and three children, two boys and a girl; 
 the former were the offspring of the younger 
 brother, and the latter of Anthony. It has been 
 observed, with truth and justice, that there is no 
 man, how hardened and diabolical soever in his 
 natural temper, who does not exhibit to some 
 particular object a peculiar species of affection. 
 Such a man was Anthony Meehan. That sullen 
 hatred which he bore to human society, and that 
 inherent depravity of heart which left the trail of 
 vice and crime upon his footsteps, were flung off 
 his character when he addressed his daughter 
 Annie. To him her voice was like music ; to her 
 he was not the reckless villain, treacherous and 
 cruel, which the helpless and unsuspecting found 
 him, but a parent kind and indulgent as ever 
 pressed an only and beloved daughter to his 
 bosom. Annie was handsome ; had she been 
 born and educated in an elevated rank in society, 
 she would have been softened by the polish and 
 luxury of life into perfect beauty ; she was, how- 
 ever, utterly without education. As Annie ex- 
 perienced from her father no unnatural cruelty, 
 
222 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 no harshness, nor even indifference, she conse- 
 quently loved him in return ; for she knew that 
 tenderness from such a man was a proof of paren- 
 tal love rarel}'- to be found in life. Perhaps she 
 loved not her father the less on perceiving that 
 he was proscribed by the world — a circumstance 
 which might also have enhanced in his eyes the 
 affection she bore him. When Meehan came to 
 Carnmore, she was sixteen ; and, as that was 
 three years before the incident occurred on which 
 we have founded this narrative, the reader may 
 now suppose her to be about nineteen ; an inter- 
 esting country girl as to person, but with a mind 
 completely neglected, yet remarkable for an un- 
 common stock of good-nature and credulity. 
 
 About the hour of eleven o'clock one winter's 
 night in the beginning of December, INIeehan and 
 his brother sat moodily at their hearth. The fire 
 was of peat which had recently been put down, 
 and from between the turf the ruddy blaze was 
 shooting out in those little tongues and gusts of 
 sober light which throw around the rural hearth 
 one of those charms which make up the felicity of 
 domestic life. The night was stormy, and the 
 wind moaned and howled along the dark hills be- 
 neath which the cottage stood. Every object in 
 the house was shrouded in a mellow shade which 
 afforded to the eye no clear outline, except around 
 the hearth alone, where the light brightened into 
 a golden hue, giving the idea of calmness and 
 peace. Anthony Meehan sat on one side of it, 
 
The Donagh. 223 
 
 and his daughter opposite him knitting ; before 
 the fire sat Denis, drawing shapes in the ashes for 
 his own amusement. 
 
 '■'■ Bless me ! " said he, '' how sthrange it is !" 
 
 '•'■ What is ? " inquired Anthon}^ in his deep and 
 grating tones. 
 
 ^' Wh}^, thin, it is sthrange!" continued the 
 other, who, despite of the severity of his brother, 
 was remarkably superstitious. '■'' A coffin I made 
 in the ashes three times runnin' ! Isn't it very 
 quare, Annie? " he added, addressing the niece. 
 
 '' Sthrange enough, of a sartinty," she replied, 
 being unwilling to express before her father the 
 alarm which the incident, slight as it was, created 
 in her mind ; for she, like her uncle, was subject 
 to such ridiculous influences. '^ How did it hap- 
 pen, uncle ?" 
 
 '' Wh}', thin, no way in life, Anne; only, as I 
 was thryin' to make a shoe, it turned out a coffin 
 on my hands. I thin smoothed the ashes, and 
 began agin, an' sorra bit of it but was a coffin 
 still. Well, say^s I, I'll give you another chance — 
 here goes once more — an', as sure as gun's iron, 
 it was a coffin the third time. Heaven be about 
 us, it's odd enough !" 
 
 " It would be little matther you were nailed 
 dovv^n in a coffin," replied Anthony fiercely ; " the 
 world would have little loss. What a pitiful, cow- 
 ardl}^ rascal you are ! Afraid o' your own shad- 
 ow afther the sun goes down, except Fin at your 
 elbov/ ! Can't you dhrive all them palavers out o' 
 
224 Half Hours 7uith Irish Authors. 
 
 your head? Didn't the sargint tell us an' prove 
 to us the time we broke the guard-house an' took 
 Frinch lave o' the ridgment for good that the 
 whole o' that, an' more along wid it, is all priest- 
 craft?" 
 
 " I remimber he did, sure enough. I dunna where 
 the same sargint is now, Tony. About no good, 
 anyway, I'll be bail. Howsomever, in regard o* 
 that, why doesn't yourself give up fastin' from the 
 mate of a Friday?" 
 
 " Do you want me to sthretch you on the 
 hearth ?" replied the savage, whilst his eyes kind- 
 led into fury, and his grim visage darkened into a 
 Satanic expression. " I'll tache you to be puttin' 
 me through my catechiz about atin' mate. I may 
 manage that as I plase ; it comes at first-cost, any- 
 how ; but no cross-questions to me about it, if 3'ou 
 regard your health !' 
 
 *' I must say for you," replied Denis reproach- 
 fully, '' that you're a good warrant to put the 
 health astray upon us of an odd start ; we're not 
 come to this time o' day widout carryin' somethin* 
 to remimber you by. For my own part, Tony, I 
 don't like such tokens; an', moreover, I wish you 
 had resaved a thrifle o' larnin', espishily in the 
 writin' line ; for, whenever we have any difference, 
 you're so ready to prove your opinion by settin' 
 your mark upon me that I'd rather, fifty times 
 over, you could write it with pen an' ink." 
 
 ** My father will give that up, uncle," said the 
 niece; ''it's bad for anybody to be fightin', but 
 
TJie Donagh. 225 
 
 worst of all for brothers that ought to live in 
 peace and kindness. Won't you, father?" 
 
 " May be I will, dear, some o' these days, on 
 your account, Anne ; but you must get this 
 creature of an uncle of yours to let me alone, an' 
 not be aggravatin' me with his folly. As for your 
 mother, she's worse ; her tongue's sharp enough 
 to skin a flint, and a batin* a day has little effect 
 on her." 
 
 Anne sighed, for she knew how low an irreli- 
 gious life, and the infamous society with which, as 
 her father's wife, her mother was compelled to 
 mingle, had degraded her. 
 
 " Well, but, father, you don't set her a good 
 example yourself," said Anne; ''and, if she 
 scoulds and drinks iiow^ you know she was a 
 different woman when you got her. You allow 
 this yourself; and the crathur, the dhrunkest 
 time she is, doesn't she cry bittherly, remimberin 
 what ^Q, has been? Instead of one batin' a day, 
 father, thry no batin' a day, an' may be it 'ill turn 
 out betther than thumpin' an' smashin' her as you 
 do." 
 
 ** Why, thin, there's truth an' sinse in what the 
 girl says, Tony," observed Denis. 
 
 '' Come," replied Anthony, '' whatever she may 
 say, I'll suffer none of your interference. Go an' 
 get us the black bottle from XkiQ place ; it'll soon 
 be time to move. I hope they won't stay too 
 long." 
 
 Denis obeyed this command with great readi 
 
226 Hcilf Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 ness, for Avhiskey in some degree blunted the 
 fierce passions of his brother, and deadened 
 his cruelty ; or rather diverted it from minor 
 objects to those which occurred in the lawless 
 perpetration of his villany. 
 
 The bottle was got, and in the meantime the 
 fire blazed up brightly ; the storm without, how- 
 ever, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his 
 brother wish that it should. As the elder of 
 them took the glass from the hands of the other, 
 an air of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on 
 reflecting that the tempest of the night was favor- 
 able to the execution of the villanous deed on 
 which they were bent. 
 
 '' More power to you !" said Anthony, impious- 
 ly personifying the storm. *' Sure that's o?ie proof 
 that God doesn't throuble his head about Avhat we 
 do, or we would not get such a murdherin' fine 
 night as is in it, anyhow. That's it! blow an' 
 tundher away, an' keep yourself an' vis as black 
 as hell, sooner than we should fail in what we in- 
 tend ! Anne, your health, acushla. Yours, Dinny ! 
 If you keep your tongue off o' me, I'll neither make 
 nor meddle in regard o' the batin' o' you." 
 
 "■ I hope you'll stick to that, anyhow," replied 
 Denis; ''for my part I'm sick and sore o' you 
 every day in the year. Many another man would 
 put salt wather between himself and yourself, 
 sooner nor become a battin'-stone for you, as I 
 have been. Few would bear it when they could 
 mend themselves." 
 
ihe Donagh. 227 
 
 " What's that you say?" replied Anthony, sud- 
 denly laying down his glass, catching his brother 
 by the collar, and looking him with a murderous 
 scowl in the face. " Is it thrachery you hint at, 
 eh ? Sarpent, is it thrachery you mane ?" And, as 
 he spoke, he compressed Denis's neck between 
 his powerful hands until the other was black in 
 the face. 
 
 Anne flew to her uncle's assistance, and with 
 much difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from 
 the deadly grip of her father, who exclaimed, as 
 he loosed his hold, '' You may thank the girl, or 
 3'ou'd not spake nor dare to spake about crossin' 
 the salt wather or layin* me in a desateful way 
 agin. If I ever suspect that a thought of thrach- 
 ery comes into your heart, I'll do for you ; and 
 you may carr}^ your story to the world I'll send 
 you to." 
 
 '' Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my 
 uncle?" said Anne; ''sure he's a longtime livin' 
 with you, an* goin' step for step in all the danger 
 you meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas 
 agin you, he might a done it long agone ; not to 
 mintion the throuble it would bring on his own 
 head, seen' he's as deep in everything as you are/* 
 
 '' If that's all that's throubling you,** replied 
 Denis, trembling, ''you may make yourself asy on 
 the head of it ; but well I know 'tisn't that that's 
 on your mind ; 'tis your own conscience ; but sure 
 it's not fair nor rasonable for you to vent your 
 evil thoughts on me !" 
 
228 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 "Well, he won't," said Anne; ''he'll quit it; his 
 mind's throubled ; an', dear knows, it's no wondher 
 it should. Och ! I'd give the world wide that his 
 conscience was lightened of the load that's upon 
 it! My mother's lameness is nothin'; but the 
 child, poor thing ! An' it was only widin three 
 days of her lyin'-in. Och ! it was a cruel sthroke, 
 father! An' when 1 seen its little innocent face 
 dead, an' me widout a brother, 1 thought my 
 heart Avould break, thinkin' upon who did it!" 
 The tears fell in showers from her eyes, as she 
 added, '' Father, I don't want to vex you ; but 
 I wish you to feel sorrow for that, at laste. Oh I if 
 you'd bring the priest, an' give up sich coorses, 
 father dear, how happy v/e'd be, an' how happy 
 yourself 'ud be!" 
 
 Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, 
 and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit; his face 
 became ghastly ; and his eyes full of horror ; his 
 lips quivered, and he was about to upbraid his 
 daughter with more harshness than usual, when a 
 low whistle, resembling that of a curlew, was 
 heard at a chink of the door. In a moment he 
 gulped down another glass of spirits, and was on 
 his feet. " Go, Denis, an' get the arms," said he 
 to his brother, '' while I let them in." 
 
 On opening the door, three men entered, hav- 
 ing their great-coats muffled about them, and 
 their hats slouched. One of them named Kenny 
 was a short villain, but of a thick-set, hairy frame. 
 The other was known as the '' Big Mower," in con 
 
The DonagJi. 229 
 
 sequence of his following that employment every 
 season, and of his great skill in performing it. He 
 had a deep-rooted objection against permitting 
 the palm of his hand to be seen — a reluctance 
 which common fame attributed to the fact of his 
 having received on that part the impress of a hot 
 iron, in the shape of the letter T, not forgetting 
 to add that T was the hieroglyphic for Thief. 
 The villain himself affirmed it was simply the 
 mark of a cross, burned into it by a blessed friar, as 
 a charm against St. Vitus's dance, to which he had 
 once been subject. The people, however, were 
 rather sceptical, not of the friar's power to cure 
 that malady, but of the fact of his ever having 
 moved a limb under it ; and they concluded with 
 telling him, good-humoredly enough, that, not- 
 withstanding the charm, he was destined to die 
 " wid the threble of it in his toe." The third was 
 a noted pedlar called Martin, Avho, under pretence 
 of selling tape, pins, scissors, etc., was very useful 
 in setting such premises as this virtuous fraternity 
 might, without much risk, make a descent upon. 
 
 '' I thought yez would outstay your time," said 
 the elder Meehan, relapsing into his determined 
 hardihood of character. " We're ready hours 
 a-gone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew an' two 
 patrich calls to-day. Now pass the glass among 
 ye^, while Denny brings the arms. I know there's 
 danger in this business, in regard of the Cassidys 
 livin' so near us. If I see anybody afut, I'll use 
 the citrleiv call ; an', if not, I'll whistle twice on 
 
230 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 i\\Q patrich ^*one, an' 3'e ma}^ come an. The horse 
 is worth eighty guineas, if he's worth a shillin' ; 
 an' we'll make sixty of him ourselves." 
 
 For some time they chatted about the plan in 
 contemplation, and drank freely of the spirits, un- 
 til at length the impatience of the elder Meehan 
 at the delay of his brother became ungovernable. 
 His voice deepened into tones of savage passion 
 as he uttered a series of blasphemous curses 
 against this unfortunate butt of his indignation and 
 malignity. At length he rushed out furiously to 
 know w^hy he did not return ; but, on reaching a 
 .secret excavation in the mound against which the 
 house was built, he found, to his utter dismay, 
 that Denis had made his escape by an artificial 
 passage scooped out of it to secure themselves a 
 retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened 
 behind the house among a clump of blackthorn 
 and brushwood, and was covered with green turf 
 in such a manner as to escape the notice of all 
 who were not acquainted with the secret. Mee- 
 han's face on his return was worked up into an 
 expression truly awful. 
 
 " We're sould ! " said he. '' But stop, I'll tache 
 the thraithur what revinge is ! " 
 
 In a moment he awoke his brother's two sons, 
 and dragged them by the neck, one in each hand, 
 to the hearth. 
 
 " Your villain of a father's off," said he, ** to be- 
 tray us ; go an' folly him ; bring him back, an' 
 
 * Partridge. 
 
The Donagh, 231 
 
 he'll be safe from me ; but let him become a stag 
 agin us, and, if I should hunt 3^ou both into the 
 bowels of the airth, I'll send y^z to a short ac- 
 count. I don't care that" — and he snapped his 
 fino-ers — '' ha ! ha ! — no, I don't care that for the 
 law ; I know how to dale with it when it comes ! 
 An' what's the stuff about the other world but 
 priestcraft and lies ?" 
 
 '' May be," said the Big Mower, '' Denis is gone 
 to get the fore way of us, an' to take the horse 
 himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, at all 
 events ; so let us hurry, for fraid the night might 
 happen to clear up." 
 
 " He ! '* said Meehan, '' he go alone ! No ; the 
 miserable wretch is afeard of his own shadow. I 
 only wondher he stuck to me so long ; but sure 
 he Avouldn't, only I bate the courage in and the 
 fear out of him. You're right, Brian," said he, 
 upon reflection, '^ let us lose no time, but be off. 
 Do ye mind?" he added to his nephews. "Did 
 ye hear me ? If you see him, let him come back, 
 an' all will be berrid ; but, if he doesn't, you know 
 your fate ! " saying which, he and his accomplices 
 departed amid the howling of the storm. 
 
 The next morning, Carnmore, and indeed the 
 whole parish, was in an uproar; a horse Avorth 
 eighty guineas had been stolen in the most dar- 
 ing manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and- 
 cry w^as up after the thief or thieves who took 
 him. For several days the search was closely 
 maintained, but without success; not the slight- 
 
232 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 est trace could be found of him or them. The 
 Cassidys could very Avell bear to lose him ; but 
 there were many struggling farmers, on whose 
 property serious depradations had been commit- 
 ted, who could not sustain their loss so easity. It 
 was natural under these circumstances that sus- 
 picion should attach to many persons, some of 
 whom had but indifferent characters before, as 
 well as to several who certainly had never de- 
 served suspicion. When a fortnight or so had 
 elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that 
 might lead to discovery, the neighbors, including 
 those who had principally suffered by the robber- 
 ies, determined to assemble on a certain day at 
 Cassidy's house, for the purpose of clearing them- 
 selves, on oath, of the imputations thrown out 
 against some of them, as accomplices in the thefts. 
 In order, however, that the ceremony should be 
 performed as solemnly as possible, they deter- 
 mined to send for Father Farrell and Mr. Nichol- 
 son, a magistrate, both of whom they requested 
 to undertake the task of jointly presiding upon 
 this occasion ; and, that the circumstance should 
 have every publicity, it was announced from the 
 altar by the priest, on the preceding Sabbath, 
 and pubhshed on the church- gate in large legible 
 characters, ingeniously printed with a pen by the 
 village schoolmaster. 
 
 In fact, the intended meeting, and the object of 
 it, were already notorious ; and much conversa- 
 tion was held upon its probable result and the 
 
The DonagJi. 233 
 
 measures which might be taken against those who 
 refused to swear. Of the latter description there 
 was but one opinion, which was that their refusal 
 in such a case would be tantamount to guilt. The 
 innocent were anxious to vindicate themselves 
 from suspicion ; and, as the suspected did not 
 amount to more than a dozen, of course the whole 
 body of the people, including the thieves them- 
 selves, who applauded it as loudly as the others, 
 all expressed their satisfaction at the measures 
 about to be adopted. A day was therefore ap- 
 pointed, on which the inhabitants of the neighbor- 
 hood, particularly the suspected persons, should 
 come to assemble at Cassid3^'s house in order to 
 have the characters of the innocent cleared up, 
 and the guilty, if possible, made known. 
 
 On the evening before this took place were as- 
 sembled in Meehan's cottage the elder Meehan 
 and the rest of the gang, including Denis, who 
 had absconded on the night of the theft. 
 
 *' Well, well, Denny," said Anthony, who forced 
 his rugged nature into an appearance of better 
 temper, that he might strengthen the timid spirit 
 of his brother against the scrutiny about to take 
 place on the morrow — perhaps too, he dreaded 
 him — "■ Well, well, Denny, I thought sure enough 
 that it was some new piece of cowardice came 
 over you. Just think of him," he added, **shab- 
 bin' off, only because he made with a bit of a rod 
 three strokes in the ashes that he thought resem- 
 bled a coffin !— iia ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
234 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors, 
 
 This produced a peal of derision at Denis's pu- 
 sillanimous terror. 
 
 " Ay," said the Big- Mower, '' he was makin' a 
 coffin, was he ? I wondher it wasn't a rope you 
 drew, Denny. If any one dies in the coil, it will 
 be the greatest coward, an' that's 3^ourself." 
 
 "You may all laugh," replied Denis, ''but I 
 know such things to have a manin'. When my 
 mother died, didn't my father— the heaven's be his 
 bed ! — see a black coach about a week before it ? 
 An' sure from the first day she tuck ill the dead- 
 watch was heard in the house every night ; and 
 what was more nor that, she kept warm until she 
 went into her grave ;* an', accordingly, didn't my 
 sister Shibby die within a year afther ? " 
 
 '' It's no matther about thim things," replied 
 Anthony ; '' it's thruth about the dead-watch, my 
 mother keepin' warm, an' Shibby's death, any- 
 way. But on the night we tuk Cassidy's horse, 1 
 thought 3^ou were goin' to betray us; I was 
 surely in a murdherin' passion, an' would have 
 done harm, only things turned out as they did." 
 
 "Why," said Denis, "the thruth is I was 
 afeard some of us would be shot, an' that the lot 
 would fall on myself; for the cofhn, thinks I, 
 was sent as a warnin'. How-and-ever, I spied 
 about Cassidy's stable till I seen that the coast 
 was clear; so, when I heard the low cry of the 
 
 * It IS supposed in Ireland when a corpse retains, for a longer space of time 
 than usual, anything like animal heat, that some person belonging to the fam- 
 ily of the deceased will die within a year. 
 
TJie Donagh. 235 
 
 Patrick that Anthony and I agreed on, I joined 
 yez," 
 
 " Well, .about to-morrow," observed Kenny — 
 "ha! ha! ha! — there'll be lots o' swearin'. Why, 
 the whole parish is to switch the primer ; many a 
 thumb and coat-cuff will be kissed in spite of 
 priest or magistrate. I remimber once, when 1 
 was swearin' an alibi ior long Paddy Murray, that 
 suffered for* the IM'Gee's, I kissed my thumb, I 
 thought, so smoothly that no one would notice 
 it ; but I had a keen one to dale with ; so says he, 
 * You know, for the matther o' that, my good fel- 
 low, that you have your thitmb to kiss every day 
 in the week,' says he, ' but you might salute the 
 book out o' dacency and good manners ; not,' says 
 he, ' that you an' it are strangers, aither ; for, if I 
 don't mistake, you're an ould hand at swearin' 
 alibis.' 
 
 " At all evints, I had to smack the book itself, 
 and it's I, and Barney Green, and Tim Casserly 
 that did swear stiffly for Paddy, but the thing 
 was too clear agin him. So he suffered, poor 
 fellow, an' died right game, for he said over his 
 dhrop — ha ! ha ! ha ! — that he was as innocent o' the 
 murder as a child unborn ; an' so he was in one 
 sinse, bein' afther gettin' absolution." 
 
 ''As to thumb-kissin'," observed the elder Mee- 
 han, '' let there be none of it among us to-morrow ; 
 if we're caught at it, 'twould be as bad as stay in' 
 away altogether ; for my part, Fll give it a smack 
 like a pistol shot — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
236 H(-i^f Hours zuitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 '* I hope they won't bring the priest's book," 
 said Denis. " I haven't the laste objection ag-in 
 pa3'in' my respects to the magistrate s paper, but 
 somehow I don't like tastin' the priest's in a 
 falsity." 
 
 '' Don't you know," said the Big Mower, '' that, 
 whin a magistrate's present, it's ever an' always 
 only the Tistament by lazv that's used ? I myself 
 wouldn't kiss the Mass-book in a falsity." 
 
 '' There's none of us say in' we'd do it in a lie," 
 said the elder Meehan ; ^* an' it's well for thou- 
 sands that the law doesn't use the priest's book ; 
 though, afther all, aren't there books that say re- 
 ligion's all a sham ? I think myself it is ; for, if 
 what they talk about justice an' Providence is 
 thrue, would Tom Dillon be transported for the 
 robbery zve committed at Bantry ? Tom, it's 
 true, was an ould offender ; but he was innocent 
 of that, anyway. The world's all chance, boys, 
 as Sargint Eustace used to say, and whin we die 
 there's no more about us ; so that I don't see why 
 a man mightn't as well switch the priest's book as 
 any other, only that somehow a body can't shake 
 the terror of it oflTo' them." 
 
 ** I dunna, Anthony, but you an' I ought to 
 curse that sargint ; only for him we mightn't be 
 as we are, sore in our conscience, and afeard of 
 every fut we hear passin'," observed Denis. 
 
 '' Spake for your own cowardly heart, man 
 alive !" replied Anthony ; '' for my part, I'm afeard 
 o' nothin'. Put round the glass, and don't be 
 
The DonagJi. 237 
 
 nursin' it there all night. Sure we're not so bad 
 as the rot among the sheep, nor the blackleg 
 among the bullocks, nor the staggers among the 
 horses, anyhow ; an' yet they'd hang us up only 
 for bein' fond o' a bit o' mate — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " Thrue enough," said the Big Mower, philoso- 
 phizing ; '' God made the beef and the mutton, and 
 the grass to feed it; but it was man made the 
 ditches ; now we're only bringin' things back to 
 the right way that Providence made them in 
 when ould times were in it, manin before ditches 
 war invinted — ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 '* 'Tis a good argument," observed Kenny, 
 ''only that judge and jury would be a little deli- 
 cate in actin' up to it; an' the more's the pity. 
 Howsomever, as Providence made the mutton, 
 sure it's not harm for us to take what he sends." 
 
 '' Ay, but," said Denis — 
 
 'God made man, an' man made money ; 
 God made bees, and bees made honey; 
 God made Satan, an' Satan made sin ; 
 An' God made a hell to put Satan in.' 
 
 Let nobody say there's not a hell ; isn't there it 
 plain from Scripthur ? " 
 
 " I wish you had the Scripthur tied about your 
 neck ! " replied Anthony. " How fond o' it one 
 o' the greatest thieves that ever missed the rope 
 is! Why, the fellow could plan a roguery with 
 any man that ever danced the hangman's horn- 
 pipe, and yet he he's repatin' bits an' scraps of 
 ould prayers, an' charms, an stuff. Ay, indeed ! 
 
238 t'i(^if Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 Shure he has a varse out o' the Bible that he 
 thinks can prevent a man from bein' hung up any 
 day !" 
 
 While Denny, the Big- Mower, and the two 
 Meehans were thus engaged in giving expression 
 to their peculiar opinions, the pedlar held a con- 
 versation of a different kind with Anne. 
 
 With the secrets of the family in his keeping, 
 he commenced a rather penitent review of his 
 own life, and expressed his intention of abandon- 
 ing so dangerous a mode of accumulating wealth. 
 He said that he thanked Heaven he had already 
 laid up sufficient for the wants of a reasonable 
 man ; that he undeistood farming and the man- 
 agement oi sheep particularly well ; that it was his 
 intention to remove to a different part of the king- 
 dom, and take a farm ; and that nothing prevented 
 him from having done this before, but the want 
 of a helpmate to take care of his establishment; 
 he added that his present wife was of an intolera- 
 ble temper, and a greater villain by fifty degrees 
 than himself. He concluded by saying that his 
 conscience twitched him night and day for living 
 with her, and that by abandoning her immedi- 
 atel}^, becoming truly religious, and taking Anne 
 in her place, he hoped, he said, to atone in some 
 measure for his former errors. 
 
 Anthony, however, having noticed the earnest- 
 ness which marked the pedlar's manner, suspect- 
 ed him of attempting to corrupt the principles 
 of his daughter, having forgotten the inffuence 
 
The Donagh. 239 
 
 which his own opinions were calculated to pro- 
 duce upon her heart. 
 
 " Martin," said he, '' 'twould be as well 3-ou ped 
 attention to what we're sayin' in regard o' the 
 thrial to-morrow, as to be palaverin' talk into the 
 girl's ear that can't be good comin' from yoiu^ lips. 
 Quit it, I say, quit it ! Corp an duozvol''^ — I won't 
 allow such proceedin's ! " 
 
 " Swear till you blister your lips, Anthony," 
 replied Martin ; " as for me, bein' no residenthur, 
 I'm not bound to it; an' what's more, I'm not 
 suspected. 'Tis settin' some other bit o' work for 
 yez I'll be, while you're all clearin' yourselves 
 from stealin' honest Cassidy's horse. I wish we 
 had him safely disposed of in the mane time, an' 
 the money for him an' the other beasts in our 
 pockets." 
 
 Much more conversation of a similar kind passed 
 between them upon various topics connected with 
 their profligacy and crimes. At length they sep- 
 arated for the night, after having concerted their 
 plan of action for the ensuing scrutiny. 
 
 The next morning, before the hour appointed 
 arrived, the parish, particularly the neighborhood 
 of Carnmorc, was struck with deep consternation. 
 Labor became suspended, mirth disappeared, 
 and every face was marked with paleness, anxiety, 
 and apprehension. If two men met, one shook 
 his head mysteriousl}^, and inquired from the oth- 
 er, " Did you hear the news ? " 
 
 * My body to Satan, 
 
240 Half Hours "iviiJi Irish Authors. 
 
 '' Ay! ay! the Lord be about us all, I did ! an' 
 I pray God that it may lave the counthry as it 
 came to it." 
 
 " Oh ! an' that it may, I humbly make supplica- 
 tion this day ! " 
 
 If two women met, it was with similar mystery 
 and fear. " Vread,^' do you know what's at the 
 Cassidy's? " 
 
 *' Whisht, a-hagur, I do; but let what will hap- 
 pen sure, it's best for us to say nothin'." 
 
 ''Say! the blessed Virgin forbid! I'd cut my 
 hand off o' me, afore I'd spake a word about it ; 
 only that—" 
 
 " Whisht! woman — for mercy's sake — don't — " 
 
 And so they would separate, each crossing her- 
 self devoutly. 
 
 The meeting at Cassidy's was to take place 
 that da}^ at twelve o'clock ; but, about two hours 
 before the appointed time, Anne, who had been in 
 some of the other houses, came into her father's, 
 quite pale, breathless, and trembling. 
 
 '* Oh !" she exclaimed, with clasped hands, 
 while the tears fell fast from her eyes, '' we'll be 
 lost, ruined ! Did yez hear what's in the neigh- 
 borhood wid the Cassidys ? " 
 
 " Girl," said the father, with more severity than 
 he had ever manifested to her before, "I never 
 yet ris my hand to you, but ma corp an duoivol, if 
 you open your lips, V\\ fell you where you stand. 
 Do you want that cowardly uncle o' 3'ours to be 
 
 * Vread— ^«^//Vt\ Margaret. 
 
TJie DonagJi, 241 
 
 the manes o' hanging your father? Ma}^ be that 
 was one o' the lessons Martin gave you last 
 night?" And as he spoke he knit his brows at 
 her with that murderous scowl which was habit- 
 ual to him. The girl trenibled, and began to 
 think that, since her father's temper deepened in 
 domestic outrage and violence as his crimes mul- 
 tiplied, the sooner she left the family the better. 
 Every day, indeed, diminished that species of in- 
 stinctive affection which she had entertained 
 towards him ; and this, in proportion as her rea- 
 son ripened into a capacity for comprehending 
 the dark materials of which his character was 
 composed. Whether he himself began to con- 
 sider detection at hand or not, we cannot say ; 
 but it is certain that his conduct was marked 
 with a callous recklessness of spirit, which in- 
 creased in atrocit}^ to such a degree that even 
 his daughter could onl\^ not look on him with dis- 
 gust. 
 
 ''What's the matter now?" inquired Denis, 
 with alarm. " Is it anything about us, Anthon}^ ? " 
 
 *' No, 'tisn't," replied the other, '' anything 
 about us! What 'ud it be about us for? 'Tis a 
 lyin' report that some cunnin' knave spread, hop- 
 in' to find out the guilty. But hear me, Denis, 
 once for all; we're goin' to clear ourselv^es — now 
 listen — an' let my words sink deep into your 
 heart ; if you refuse to swear this day — no mat- 
 ther whafs put into your hand — you'll do harm — 
 that's all; have courage, man; but should you 
 
242 Half Hours ivitJi Irish AutJiors. 
 
 coza, your coorse will be short ; an' mark, even if 
 j'o?i escape me, your sons won't ; I have it all 
 planned; an' corp an dnozvol I thim you won't 
 know from Adam will revenge me, if I am taken 
 up through your unmanliness." 
 
 '' 'Twould be betther for us to lave the coun- 
 thry," said Anne ; ''we might slip away as it is." 
 
 '* Ay," said the father, " an' be taken by the 
 neck afore we get t\yo mile from the place ! No, 
 no, girl ; it's the safest way to brazen thim out. 
 Did you hear me, Denis?" 
 
 Denis started, for he had been evidently pon- 
 dering on the mysterious words of x\nne, to which 
 his brother's anxiety to conceal them gave addi- 
 tional mystery. The coffin, too, recurred to him, 
 and he feared that the death shadowed out by it 
 would in some manner or other occur in the fam- 
 ily. He was, in fact, one of those miserable vil- 
 lains with but half a conscience ; — that is to say, 
 as much as makes them the slaves of the fear 
 which results from crime, without being the 
 .slightest impediment to their committing it. It 
 was no wonder he started at the deep pervading 
 tones of his brother's voice, for the question was 
 put with ferocious energy. 
 
 On starting, he looked with vague terror on his 
 brother, fearing, but not comprehending, his 
 question. 
 
 '* What is it, Anthony? " he inquired. 
 
 " Oh ! for that matther," replied the other, 
 " nothin' at all ; think of what I said to you, any- 
 
TJie Donagh. 243 
 
 how ; swear through thick and thin, if you have 
 a regard for your own health, or for your chil- 
 dher. May be I had betther repate it agin for 
 you ? " he continued, e3^eing him with mingled 
 fear and suspicion. " Denis, as a friend, I bid yoxs. 
 mind yourself this day, an' see you .don't bring 
 aither of us into throuble." 
 
 There lay before the Cassidys' houses a small 
 flat of common, trodden into rings by the young 
 horses they were in the habit of training. On 
 this level space w^ere assembled those who came, 
 either to clear their ov\'n character from suspicion 
 or to witness the ceremony. The day was dark 
 and lowering, and heav}^ clouds rolled slowly 
 across the peaks of the surrounding mountains ; 
 scarcely a breath of air could be felt ; and, as the 
 countrj^ people silently approached, such v/as the 
 closeness of the da}^ their haste to arrive in time, 
 and their general anxiety, either for themselves 
 or their friends, that almost every man, on reach- 
 ing the spot, might be seen taking up the skirts 
 of his " cothamore," or '' big coat" (the peasant's 
 handkerchief), to wipe the sweat from his brow; 
 and as he took off his dingy woollen hat, or cau- 
 been, the perspiration rose in strong exhalations 
 from his head. 
 
 '' ^lichael, am I in time ?" might be heard from 
 such persons as they arrived : '' did this business 
 begin yit ? " 
 
 " Full time, Larry ; m3'self 's here an hour ago, 
 but no appe:irance of anything as yit. Father 
 
244 I'J<^if Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 Farrell and Squire Nicholson are both in Cas- 
 sidj's waitin* till they all gather, whin they'll be- 
 gin to put them through their facin's. You hard 
 about what they've got ? " 
 
 '' No ; for I'm only on my way home from the 
 berril of a cleaven of mine, that we put down this 
 mornin' in Tullyard. What is it? " 
 
 '' Why, man alive, it's through the whole parish 
 inreadyy He then went on, lowering his voice to 
 a whisper, and speaking in a tone bordering on 
 dismay. 
 
 The other crossed himself, and betra^^ed symp- 
 toms of avv'e and astonishment, not unmingled 
 with fear. 
 
 " Well," he replied, " I dimna whether I'd come 
 here, if I'd known that; for, innocent or guilty, I 
 wouldn't wish to be near it. Och, may God pity 
 thim that's to come acrass it, espishily if the}^ 
 dare to do it in a lie !" 
 
 '' The}^ needn't, I can tell yez both," observed 
 a third person, " be a hair afeard of it, for the 
 best raison livin', that there's no thruth at all 
 in the report, nor the Cassidys' never thought of 
 sindin' for an3'thing o' the kind ; I have it from 
 Larry Cassidy's own lips, an' he ought to know 
 best." 
 
 The truth is, that two reports were current 
 among the crowd ; one that the oath was to be 
 simply on the Bible ; and the other that a more 
 awful means of expurgation was resorted to by 
 the Cassid_ys. The people consequently, not 
 
The Doriagh. 245 
 
 knowing- which to credit, felt that most painful of 
 all sensations — uncertainty. 
 
 During the period which intervened between 
 their assembling and the commencement of the 
 ceremony, a spectator, interested in contemplat- 
 ing the workings of human nature in circumstan- 
 ces of deep interest, w^ould have ample scope for 
 observation. The occasion was to them a solemn 
 one. There was little conversation among them ; 
 for, when a man is wound up to a pitch of great 
 interest, he is seldom disposed to relish discourse. 
 Every brow was anxious, every cheek blanched, 
 and every arm folded ; they scarcely stirred, or, 
 wdien they did, only with slow abstracted move- 
 ments, rather mechanical than voluntary. If an 
 individual made his appearance about Cassidy's 
 door, a sluggish stir among them was visible, and 
 alow murmur of a peculiar character might be 
 heard ; but on perceiving that it Avas onl}^ some 
 ordinary person, all subsided again into a brood- 
 ing stillness that w^as equally singular and im- 
 pressive. 
 
 Under this peculiar feeling was the multitude, 
 when Meehan and his brother were seen ap- 
 proaching it from their own house. The eider, 
 with folded arms, and hat pulled over his brows, 
 stalked grimly forward, having that remarkable 
 scowl upon his face which had contributed to 
 establish for him so diabolical a character. Denis 
 walked by his side, with his countenance strained 
 to inflation ; — a miserable parody of that sullen 
 
246 Half Hours iviiJi Irish Authors. 
 
 effrontery which marked the unshrinking mis- 
 creant beside him. He had not heard of the 
 ordeal, owing- to the caution of Anthony : but> 
 notwithstanding his effort at indifference, a keen 
 eye might have observed the latent anxiety of a 
 man who vras habitually villanous and naturally 
 timid. 
 
 When this pair entered the crowd, a few secret 
 glances, too rapid to be noticed b}^ the people, 
 passed between them and their accomplices. Denis, 
 on seeing them present, took fresh courage, and 
 looked with the heroism of a blusterer upon those 
 who stood about him, especially whenever he 
 found himself under the scrutinizing eye of his 
 brother. Such was the horror and detestation in 
 which the}^ were held, that, on advancing into the 
 assembly, the persons on each side turned awa}^, 
 and openly avoided them ; eyes full of fierce 
 hatred were bent on them vindictivel}^ and 
 " curses, not loud, but deep," were muttered with 
 indignation which nothing but a divided state of 
 feeling could repress within due limits. Every 
 glance, however, was paid back by Anthony with 
 interest, from eyes and black shaggy brows tre- 
 mendously ferocious ; and his curses, as they 
 rolled up half smothered from his huge chest, 
 were deeper and more diabolical by far than their 
 own. He even jeered at them ; but, however 
 disgusting his frown, there was something truly 
 appalling in the dark gleam of his scoff, which 
 threw them at an immeasurable distance behind 
 
The Donagh. 247 
 
 him, in the power of displaying on the counte- 
 nance the worst human passions. 
 
 At length Mr. Nicholson, Father Farrell, and 
 his curate, attended by the Cassidys and their 
 friends, issued from the house ; two or three 
 servants preceded them, bearing a table and 
 chairs for the magistrate and priests, who, how- 
 ever, stood during the ceremony. When they 
 entered one of the rings before alluded to, the 
 table and chairs w^ere placed in the centre of it, 
 and Father Farrell, as possessing most influence 
 over the people, addressed them very impressive- 
 
 ''There are," said he, in conclusion, '' persons 
 in this crowd whom we know to be guilty ; but we 
 will have an opportunity of now witnessing the 
 lengths to which crime, long indulged in, can 
 carry them. To such people I would say, beware ! 
 for they know not the situation in v/hich they ar.e 
 placed." 
 
 During all this time there was not the slightest 
 allusion made to the mysterious ordeal which had 
 excited so much awe and apprehension among 
 them — a circumstance v/hich occasioned many a 
 pale, downcast face to clear up, and reassume its 
 usual cheerful expression. The crowd now were 
 assembled around the ring, and every man on 
 whom an imputation had been fastened came for- 
 ward, when called upon, to the table at which 
 the priest and magistrate stood uncovered. The 
 form of the oath was framed by the two clergy- 
 
248 Half Hours 'ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 men, who, as they knew the reservations and 
 evasions commonest among- such characters, had 
 ingeniously contrived not to leave a single loop- 
 hole through which the consciences of those who 
 belonged to this worthy fraternity might escape. 
 
 To those acquainted with Irish courts of justice 
 there was nothing particularl}^ remarkable in the 
 swearing. Indeed, one who stood among the 
 crowd might hear from those who were stationed 
 at the greatest distance from the table, such 
 questions as the following : — 
 
 '' Is the thing m it, Art?" 
 
 " No ; 'tis nothin' but the lazu Bible, the magis- 
 trate's own one/' 
 
 To this the querist would reply, with a satisfied 
 nod of the head, "Oh! is that all? I heard they 
 war to have it /' on which he would push himself 
 through the crowd until he reached the table, 
 where he took his oath as readily as another. 
 
 "Jem Hartigan," said the magistrate, to one of 
 those persons, ''zltq you to swear?" 
 
 " Faix, myself doesn't know, you honor ; onl}^ 
 that I hard them say that the Cassidys mintioned 
 our names along wid many other honest people; 
 an' one wouldn't, in' that case, lie under a false 
 report, your honor, from any one, when we're as 
 clear as them that never saw the light of anything 
 of the kind." 
 
 The magistrate then put the book into his hand, 
 and Jem, in return, fixed his gjq, with much 
 apparent innocence, on his face : '' Now, Jem 
 
The Donagh, 249 
 
 Hartigan," etc. etc., and the oath was accordingly 
 administered. Jem put the book to his mouth, 
 with his thumb raised to an acute angle on the 
 back of it ; nor was the smack by any means a 
 silent one which he gave it (his thumb). 
 
 The magistrate set his ear with the air of a man 
 who had experience in discriminating such sounds. 
 "Hartigan," said he, ''you'll condescend to kiss 
 the booky sir, if you please ; there's a hollowness 
 in that smack, my good fellow, that can't escape 
 me'' 
 
 '' Not kiss it, your honor? Why, by this staff in 
 my hand, if ever a man kissed — " 
 
 ''Silence! you impostor," said the curate; "I 
 watched you closely, and am confident your lips 
 never touched the book." 
 
 " My lips never touched the book! — Why, you 
 know I'd be sarry to conthradict either o' yez ; but 
 I was jist goin' to obsarve, wid simmission, that 
 my own lips ought to know best ; an' don't you 
 hear them tellin' yon that they did kiss it ?" And he 
 grinned with confidence in their faces. 
 
 "You double-dealing reprobate!" said the 
 parish priest, " I'll lay my whip across your jaws. 
 I saw you, too, an' you did 7iot kiss the book." 
 
 " By dad, an' may be I did not, sure enough," 
 he replied ; " any man may make a mistake un- 
 knownst to himself; but I'd give my oath, an' be 
 the five crasses, I kissed it as sure as — however, 
 a good thing's never the worse o' bein' twice 
 done, gintlemen ; so here goes, jist to satisfy yez.' 
 
250 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 And, placing the book near bis moutb, and alter- 
 ing bis position a little, be appeared to compl}^ 
 tbougb, on tbe contrary, be toucbed neitber it nor 
 bis thumb. '' It's tbe same thing to me," be con- 
 tinued, laying down tbe book with an air of con- 
 fident assurance ; '' it's tbe same thing to me if I 
 kissed it fifty times over^ which I'm ready to do 
 a that doesn't satisfy yez." 
 
 As every man acquitted himself of the charges 
 brought against him, tbe curate immediately took 
 down bis name. Indeed, before tbe '' clearing" 
 commenced, be requested that such as were to 
 swear would stand together within the ring, that, 
 after having- sworn, be mio:bt band each of them a 
 certificate of the fact, which they appeared to think 
 might be serviceable to them, should the}^ happen 
 to be subsequently indicted for the same crime in 
 a court of justice. This, however, was only a 
 plan to keep them together for what was soon to 
 take place. 
 
 The detections of thumb-kissing were received 
 by those who bad already sworn, and by several 
 in tbe outward crowd, with much mirth. It is but 
 justice, however, to tbe majority of those assem- 
 bled to state that they appeared to entertain a 
 serious opinion of tbe nature of the ceremony, and 
 no small degree of abhorrence against those who 
 seemed to trifle with tbe solemnity of an oath. 
 
 Standing on tbe edge of tbe circle, in tbe inner- 
 most row, were Meeban and bis brother. The 
 former eyed, with all tbe hardness of a stoic, tbe 
 
The DonagJu 251 
 
 successive individuals as they passed up to the 
 table. His accomplices had gone forward, and to 
 the surprise of many who strongly suspected 
 them, in the most indifferent manner '' cleared '* 
 themselves, in the trying words of the oath, of all 
 knowledge of, and participation in, the thefts that 
 had taken place. 
 
 The grim visage of the elder Meehan was 
 marked by a dark smile, scarcely perceptible ; 
 but his brother, whose nerves were not so firm, 
 appeared somewhat confused and distracted by 
 the imperturbable villany of the perjurers. 
 
 At length they were called up. Anthony ad- 
 vanced slowly but collectedly to the table, only 
 turning his eye slightly about to observe if his 
 brother accompanied him. *' Denis," said he, 
 '' which of us will swear first ? You may." For, as 
 he doubted his brother's firmness, he was prudent 
 enough, should he fail, to guard against having 
 the sin of perjury to answer for, along with those 
 demands which his country had to make for his 
 other crimes. Denis took the book, and cast a 
 slight glance at his brother as if for encourage- 
 ment ; their eyes met, and the darkened brow of 
 Anthony hinted at the danger of flinching in this 
 crisis. The tremor of his hand was not, perhaps, 
 visible to any but Anthony, who, however, did 
 not overlook this circumstance. He held the 
 book, but raised not his eye to meet the looks of 
 either the magistrate or the priest's ; the color 
 also left his face, as with shrinking lips he touched 
 
252 Half Hours ivith Irish AtitJiors. 
 
 the Word of God in deliberate falsehood. Hav- 
 ing then laid it down, Anthony received it with a 
 firm grasp, and, Avhilst his eye turned boldl}^ in 
 contemptuous mockery upon those who presented 
 it, he impressed it with the kiss of a man whose 
 depraved conscience seemed to goad him only to 
 evil. After " clearing" himself, he laid the Bible 
 upon the table with the affected air of a person 
 who felt hurt at the imputation of theft, and joined 
 the rest, with a frov/n upon his countenance, and 
 a smothered curse upon his lips. 
 
 Just at this moment, a person from Cassidy's 
 house laid upon the table a small box covered 
 with black cloth ; and our readers will be sur- 
 prised to hear that, if fire had come down visibly 
 from heaven, greater awe and fear could not have 
 been struck into their hearts or depicted* upon 
 their countenances. The casual conversation and 
 the commentaries upon the ceremony they had 
 witnessed, instantly settled into a most profound 
 silence, and every eye was turned towards it with 
 an interest absolutely fearful. 
 
 '' Let," said the curate, "none of those who 
 have sworn depart from within the ring, until they 
 once more clear themselves upon this ;" and as he 
 spoke, he held it up — " Behold," said he, '' and 
 tremble— behold The Donagh ! ! ! " 
 
 A low murmur of awe and astonishment burst 
 from the people in general, whilst those within 
 the ring, who with few exceptions were the worst 
 characters in the parish, appeared ready to sink 
 
TJie Donagh. 253 
 
 into the earth. Their countenances, for the most 
 part, paled into the condemned hue of guilt; 
 many of them became almost unable to stand ; 
 and altogether the state of trepidation and terror 
 in which they stood was strikingly wild and ex- 
 traordinary. 
 
 The curate proceeded : "■ Let him now who is 
 guilty depart ; or, if he wishes, advance, and chal- 
 lenge the awful penalty annexed to perjury upon 
 THIS ! Who has ever been known to swear falsely 
 upon the Donagh, without being visited by a tre- 
 mendous punishment, either on the spot, or in 
 twenty-four hours after his perjury ? If we our- 
 selves have not seen such instances with our own 
 eyes, it is because none liveth who dare incur 
 such dreadful penalty ; but we have heard of 
 those who did, and of their awful punishment 
 afterwards. Sudden death, madness, paralysis, 
 self-destruction, or the murder of some one dear 
 to them, are the marks by which perjury upon 
 the Donagh is known and visited. Advance now, 
 ye who are innocent, but let the guilty withdraw ; 
 for Ave do not desire to witness the terrible ven- 
 gance which would attend a false oath upon the 
 Donagh. Pause, therefore, and be cautious ! for 
 if this grievous sin be committed, a heavy punish- 
 ment will fall, not only upon you, but upon the 
 parish in which it occurs ! " 
 
 The words of the priest sounded to the guilty 
 like the death sentence of a judge. Before he 
 concluded, all except Meehan and his brother, 
 
254 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 and a few who Avere really innocent, had slunk 
 back out of the circle into the crowd. Denis, 
 however, became pale as a corpse, and from time 
 to time wiped the large drops from his haggard 
 brow ; even Anthony's cheek, despite of his natu- 
 ral callousness, was less red ; his eyes became dis- 
 turbed, but by their influence he contrived to 
 keep Denis in sufficient dread to prevent him 
 from mingling, like- the rest, among the people. 
 The few who remained along with them advanced, 
 and notwithstanding their innocence, when the 
 Donagh was presented and the figure of Christ 
 and the Twelve Apostles displayed in the solemn 
 tracery of its carving, they exhibited S3^mptoms 
 of fear. With trembling hands they touched the 
 Donagh, and with trembUng lips kissed the Cru- 
 cifix, in attestation of their guiltlessness of the 
 charge with which they had been accused. 
 
 "• Anthony and Denis Meehan, come forward," 
 said the curate, '' and declare your innocence of 
 the crimes with which you are charged by the 
 Cassidys and others." 
 
 Anthony advanced, but Denis stood rooted to 
 the ground ; on perceiving which, the former 
 sternly returned a step or two, and catching him 
 by the arm with an admonitory grip that could 
 not easily be misunderstood, compelled him to 
 proceed with himself step by step to the table. 
 DeniSj however, could feel the strong man trem- 
 ble, and perceive that, although he strove to lash 
 himself into the energy of despair, and the utter 
 
The Donagh. 255 
 
 disbelief of all religious sanction, 3^et the trial be- 
 fore him called every slumbering- prejudice and 
 apprehension of his mind into active power. This 
 was a death-blow to his own resolution, or, rather 
 it confirmed him in his previous determination 
 not to swear on the Donagh, except to acknow- 
 ledge his guilt, Vv^hich he could scarcely prevent 
 himself from doing, such was the vacillating state 
 of mind to which he felt himself reduced. 
 
 When Anthony reached the table, his huge 
 form seemed to dilate by his effort at maintaining 
 the firmness necessary to support him in this aw- 
 ful struggle between conscience and superstition, 
 on the one hand, and guilt, habit, and infidelity, 
 on the other. He fixed his deep, dilated ej^es 
 upon the Donagh, in a manner that betokened 
 somewhat of irresolution ; his countenance fell, 
 his color came and went, but eventually settled 
 in a flushed red ; his powerful hands and arms 
 tremxbled so much, that he folded them to pre- 
 vent his agitation from being noticed ; the grim- 
 ness of his face ceased to be stern, while it re- 
 tained the blank expression of guilt ; his temples 
 swelled out with the terrible play of their blood- 
 vessels, his chest, too, heaved up and down with 
 the united pressure of guilt, and the tempest 
 which shook him within. At length he saw 
 Denis's eye upon him, and his passions took a 
 new direction ; he knit his brows at him with 
 more than usual fierceness, ground his teeth, and, 
 with a step and action of suppressed fur}^ he 
 
256 Half Hours with Irish AtttJiors. 
 
 placed his foot at the edge of the table, and, bow- 
 ing down under the eye of God and man, took 
 the awful oath on the mysterious Donagh, in a 
 falsehood ! When it was finished, a feeble groan 
 broke from his brother's lips. Anthony bent his 
 eye on him with a deadly glare, but Denis saw it 
 not. The shock was beyond his courage — he had 
 become insensible. 
 
 Those who stood at the outskirts of the crowd, 
 seeing Denis apparently lifeless, tfiought he must 
 have sworn falsely on the Donagh, and exclaimed, 
 "He's dead! gracious God! Denis Meehan's 
 struck dead by the Donagh ! He swore in a lie, 
 and is now a corpse ! " Anthony paused, and 
 calmly surveyed him, as he lay with his head 
 resting upon the hands of those who supported 
 him. At this moment a silent breeze came over 
 where he stood ; and, as the Donagh lay upon 
 the table, the black ribbons with which it was or- 
 namented fluttered with a melancholy appear- 
 ance that deepened the sensations of the people 
 into something peculiarly solemn and preternatu- 
 ral. Denis at length revived, and stared wildly 
 and vacantly about him. When composed suffi- 
 ciently to distinguish and recognize individual 
 objects, he looked upon the gloomy visage and 
 threatening eye of his brother, and shrank back 
 with a terror almost epileptical. *' Oh ! " he ex- 
 claimed, " save me ! save me from that man, and 
 I'll discover all ! " 
 
 Anthony calmly folded one arm into his bosom, 
 
The Donagh. 257 
 
 and his lip quivered, with the united influence of 
 hatred and despair. 
 
 " Hould him ! " shrieked a voice which pro- 
 ceeded from his daughter. " Hould my father, or 
 he'll murdher him ! Oh ! oh ! merciful heaven ! " 
 
 Ere the words were uttered, she had made an 
 attempt to clasp the arms of her parent whose 
 motions she understood ; but only in time to re- 
 ceive from the pistol which he had concealed in 
 his breast the bullet aimed at her uncle ! She 
 tottered, and the blood spouted out of her neck 
 upon her father's brows, who hastily put up his 
 hand and wiped it away, for it had actually blind- 
 ed him. 
 
 The elder Meehan was a tall man, and, as he 
 stood elevated nearly a head above the crowd, his 
 grim brows red with his daughter's blood — Avhich, 
 in attempting to wipe away, he had deeply 
 streaked across his face — his eyes shooting fiery 
 gleams of his late resentment, mingled with the 
 wildness of unexpected horror — as he thus stood, 
 it would be impossible to contemplate a more re- 
 volting picture of that state to which the princi- 
 ples that had regulated his life must ultimately 
 lead, even in this world. 
 
 On perceiving what he had done, the deep 
 W'Orking of his powerful frame was struck into 
 sudden stillness, and he turned his eyes on his 
 bleeding daughter, with a fearful perception of 
 her situation. Now was the harvest of his creed 
 and crimes reaped in blood ; and he felt that the 
 
258 Ilcilf Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 stroke which had fallen upon him was one of 
 those by which God will sometimes bare his arm 
 and vindicate his justice. The reflection, how- 
 ever, shook him not; the reality of his misery 
 was too intense and pervading, and grappled too 
 strongly with his hardened and unbending spirit, 
 to waste its power upon a nerve or a muscle. It 
 was abstracted, and be3^ond the reach of bodily 
 suffering. From the moment his daughter fell, he 
 moved not ; his lips were half open with the con- 
 viction produced by the blasting truth of her 
 death, effected prematurely by his own hand. 
 
 Those parts of his face which had not been 
 stained with her blood assumed an ashy paleness, 
 and rendered his countenance more terrific by 
 the contrast. Tall, powerful, and motionless he 
 appeared to the crowd, glaring at the girl like a 
 tiger anxious to join his offspring, yet stunned 
 with the shock of the bullet which has touched a 
 vital part. His iron-gray hair, as it fsU in thick 
 masses about his neck, was moved slightly by the 
 blast, and a lock w^hich fell over his temple was 
 blown back with a motion rendered more distinct 
 by his statue-Hke attitude, immovable as death. 
 
 A silent and awful gathering of the people 
 around this impressive scene intimated their 
 knowledge of what they considered to be a judi- 
 cial punishment annexed to perjury upon the 
 Donagh. This relic lay on the table, and the 
 eyes of those who stood within view of it turned 
 from Anthony's countenance to it, and again back 
 
The Donagh. 259 
 
 to his blood-stained visage, Avith all the over- 
 whelming influence of superstitious fear. Shud- 
 derings, tremblings, crossings, and ejaculations 
 marked their conduct and feeling ; for though the 
 incident itself was simply a fatal and uncommon 
 one, yet they considered it supernatural and mi- 
 raculous. 
 
 At length a loud and agonizing cry burst from 
 the lips of Meehan — '^ O God ! God of heaven 
 an' earth ! — have I murdhered my daughter ? " 
 And he cast down the fatal weapon with a force 
 which buried it some inches into the w^et clay. 
 
 The crowd had closed upon Anne, but with 
 the strength of a giant he flung them aside, caught 
 the girl in his arms, and pressed her bleeding to 
 his bosom. He gasped for breath. ''Anne," said 
 he — " Anne, I am without hope, an' there's none 
 to forgive me except you — none at all ; from God 
 to the poorest of his creatures, I am hated an' 
 cursed by all, except you ! Don't curse me, Anne, 
 don't curse me ! Oh ! isn't it enough, darlin', 
 that my sowl is now stained v/ith your blood, 
 along with my other crimes? In hell, on earth, 
 an' in heaven there's none to forgive your father 
 but yourself! — none, none! Oh! what's com- 
 in' over me ! I'm dizzy an' shiverin' ! How cowld 
 the. day's got of a sudden! Flould up, avoiiriieen 
 machree! I zvas a bad man ; but to you, Anne, I 
 w^as not as I was to ever}^ one ! Darlin', oh ! look 
 at me with forgiveness in your eye, or, anyway, 
 don't curse me ! Oh ! I'm far cowlder now ! Tell 
 
26o Half Hours zuith Irish Aicthors. 
 
 me that 3^011 forgive me, acushla, age machreef — 
 Manhn asthce Jiu^' darlin', say it. I dar'n't Look 
 TO God ! But, oh ! do you say the forgiviii' word 
 to 3'our father before you die ! " 
 
 *' Father," said she, " I deserve this — it's only 
 just ; I have plotted Avith that divilish Martin to 
 betray them all, except yourself, an' to get the re- 
 ward ; an* then we intended to go — an' — live at a 
 distance — an' in wickedness — where we — might 
 not be known — he's at our house — let him be — se- 
 cured. Forgive me, father — you said so often 
 that there was no thruth in religion — that I began 
 to — think so. O — God ! have mercy upon me ! *' 
 And with these words she expired. 
 
 INIeehan's countenance, on hearing this, was 
 overspread with a ghastly look of the most deso- 
 lating agony ; he staggered back, and t-he body of 
 his daughter, Avhich he strove to hold, would 
 have fallen from his arms, had it not been caught 
 by the 'by-standers. His ej-e sought out his 
 brother, but not in resentment. '' Oh ! she died, 
 but didn't say, ' I forgive you !' Denis," said he, 
 ''Denis, bring me home — I'm sick — very sick — 
 oh ! but it's cowld — everj^thing's i-eeling — how 
 cowld — cowld it is ! " And, as he uttered the last 
 words, he shuddered, fell down in a fit of apo- 
 plexy, never to rise again ; and the bodies of his 
 daughter and himself were both waked and buried 
 together. 
 
 The result is brief. The rest of the gang were 
 
 ♦ Young pulse of my heart !— my soul is within thee ! 
 
TJie Donagh. 261 
 
 secured ; Denis became approver, by whose evi- 
 dence they suffered that punishment decreed by 
 law to the crimes of which they had been guilty. 
 The two events which we have just related of 
 course added to the supernatural fear and reve- 
 rence previously entertained for this terrible relic. 
 It is still used as an ordeal of expurgation, in 
 cases of stolen property ; and we are not wrong 
 in asserting that many of these misguided crea- 
 tures, who too frequently hesitate not to swear 
 falsely on the Word of God, would suffer death 
 itself sooner than commit a perjury on the 
 Donagh. 
 
LARRY MCFARLAND'S WAKE, 
 
 AS DESCRIBED BY TOM McROARKIN. 
 
 THE squire very kindly lent sheets for them 
 both to be laid out in, and mould candle- 
 sticks to hould the lights ; and, God he knows ! 
 'twas a grievous sight to see the father and mother 
 both stretched beside one another in their poor 
 place, and their little orphans about them ; the gor- 
 soons — them that had sense enough to know their 
 loss — breaking their hearts, the crathurs, and so 
 hoarse that they weren't able to cry or spake. 
 But, indeed, it was worse to see the two 3'oung 
 things going over, and wanting to get acrass to 
 waken their daddy and mamm}^ poor desolit 
 childher ! 
 
 When the corpses were washed and dressed, 
 they looked uncommonh- well, consitherin'. Larry, 
 indeed, didn't bear death so well as Sall}^ ; but 
 you couldn't meet a purtier corpse than she was 
 in a daj^'s travelling. I say, when they were 
 washed and dressed, their friends and neighbors 
 knelt down round them, and offered up a Father 
 and Ave apiece, for the good of their sowls ; when 
 this was done, they all raised the keena, stooping 
 over them at a half bend, clapping their hands, 
 
Larry McFarUnicV s Wak:. 263 
 
 and praising them as far as they could say an}^- 
 thing good of them ; and, indeed, the crathurs, 
 they Avere never any one's enemy but their own, 
 so that nobody could say an ill-word of either of 
 them. Bad luck to it forpotteen-work every day 
 it rises ! only for it, that couple's poor orphans 
 wouldn't be left wdthout father or mother as 
 they were ; nor poor Hurrish go the gray gate he 
 did, if he had his father living, may be : but, hav- 
 ing nobody to bridle him in, he took to horse- 
 riding for the squire, -and then to staling them for 
 himself. He v/as hanged afterwards, along with 
 Peter Doraghy C roily, that shot Ned Wilson's 
 uncle of the Black Hills. 
 
 After the first keening, the friends and neigh- 
 bors took their sates about the corpse. In a short 
 time, whiskey, pipes, snuff, and tobacco came, and 
 .every one about the place got a glass and a fresh ' 
 pipe. Tom, when he held his glass in his hand, 
 looking at his dead brother, filled up to the eyes, 
 and couldn't for some time get out a word ; at 
 last, when he was able to spake, " Poor Larrj^," 
 sa}' s he, '' you're h^ing there low before me, and 
 many a happy day we spint with one another. 
 When \ve were childher," said he, turning to the 
 rest, " we were never asunder ; he was oulder nor 
 me by two years, and can I ever forget the 
 leathering he gave Dick Rafiferty long ago, for 
 hitting me with the rotten ^gg, although Dick 
 was a great dale bigger than either of us ? God 
 knows, although 3'ou didn't thrive in life, either 
 
264 I^Gilf Hours zvith Irish AntJiors. 
 
 of you, as you might and could have done, there 
 wasn't a more neighborly or friendly couple in 
 the parish they lived in ; and now God help them 
 both and their poor orphans over them ! Larry, 
 acushla, your health, and Sally, yours ; and may 
 God Almighty have marcy on both your sowls !" 
 
 After this, the neighbors began to flock in 
 more generally. When any reJation of the corpses 
 would come, as soon, you see, as they'd get inside 
 the door, whether man or woman, they'd raise 
 the shout of a keena, and all the people about the 
 dead would begin along with them, stooping over 
 them and clapping their hands as before. 
 
 Well, I said, it's it that was the merry Avake, 
 and that was onl}^ the thruth, neighbors. As soon 
 as night came, all the young boys and girls from 
 the countrj^-side about them flocked to it in 
 scores. In a short time the house was crowded ; 
 and may be there wasn't laughing, and story-tell- 
 ing, and singing, and smoking, and drinking, and 
 crying — all going on, helter-skelter, together. 
 When they'd be all in full chorus this way, may 
 be some new friend or relation that wasn't there 
 before would come in and raise the keena ; of 
 coorse the youngsters would then keep quiet ; 
 and if the person coming in was from the one 
 neighborhood with any of them that were so 
 merry, as soon as he'd raise the shout the merry 
 folks would rise up, begin to pelt their hands 
 together, and cry along with him till their eyes 
 would be as red as a ferret's. That once over. 
 
Larry Mc Far land's Wake, 26$ 
 
 they'd be down again at the songs, and divarsion, 
 and divilment, just as if nothing of the kind had 
 taken place; the other would then shake hands 
 with the friends of the corpses, get a glass or two, 
 and a pipe, and in a few minutes be as merry as 
 the best of them. 
 
 " Well," said Andy Morrow, *' I should like to 
 knoAv if the Scotch and English are such heerum- 
 skeerum kind of people as we Irishmen are ? " 
 
 '^Musha, in throth I'm sure they're not," says 
 Nancy ; " for I believe that Irishmen are like no- 
 body in the wide world but themselves ; quare 
 crathurs that'll laugh, or cry, or fight with any 
 one, just for nothing else, good or bad, but com- 
 pany." 
 
 Indeed, and you all know that what I'm say- 
 ing's thruth, except Mr. Morrow there that I'm 
 telling it to bekase he's not in the habit of going 
 to wakes ; although, to do him justice, he's very 
 friendly in going to a neighbor's funeral ; and, in- 
 deed, kind fat/ier for fou,^ Mr. Morrow, for it's he 
 that was a real good hand at going to such places 
 himself. 
 
 Well, as I was telling you, there was great 
 sport going on. In one corner, you might see a 
 knot of ould men sitting together, talking over 
 ould times — ghost-stories, fairy-tales, or the great 
 rebellion of '41, and the strange story of Lamh 
 Dearg, or the bloody hand — that may be I'll tell 
 
 * That is, in this point you are of the same kind as your father ; possessing 
 that prominent trait in his disposition or character. 
 
266 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 
 
 yoM all some other night, plase God ; there they'd 
 sit smoking — their faces quite plased with the 
 pleasure of the pipe — amusing themselves and a 
 crowd of people that would be listening to them 
 with open mouth. Or, it's odds, but there would 
 be some droll young fellow among them taking a 
 rise out of them ; and, positivel}^ he'd often find 
 them able enough for him, particularly old Ned 
 INIangin that wanted at the time only four years 
 of a hundred. The Lord be good to him, and 
 rest his sowl in glory ! it's he that was the pleas- 
 ant ould man, and could tell a story with any 
 one that ever got up. 
 
 In another corner, there was a different set, 
 bent on some piece of divilment of their own. 
 The boys would be sure to get beside their sweet- 
 hearts, anyhow ; and, if there was a purty girl, as 
 you may set it down there was, it's there the 
 skroodging'-^ and the pushing, and the shoving, 
 and sometimes the knocking down itself would 
 be about seeing who'd get her. There's ould 
 Katty Duffy, that's now as crooked *as the hind 
 leg of a dog, and it's herself was then as straight 
 as a rush, and as blooming as a rose — Lord bless 
 us ! what an alteration time makes upon the 
 strongest and fairest of us ! — it's she that was the 
 purty girl that night, and it's m3^self that gave 
 Frank M'Shane, that's still alive to acknowledge 
 it, the broad of his back upon the flure when he 
 thought to pull her off my knee. The very gor- 
 
 ♦The pressure in a crowd. 
 
Larry McFarland' s Wake. 267 
 
 soons and girshas were coorting away among 
 themselves, and learning one another to smoke in 
 the dark corners. But all this, Mr. Morrow, took 
 place in the corpse-house, before ten or eleven 
 o'clock at night ; after that time, the house got 
 too throng entirely, and couldn't hould the half of 
 them ; so, by jing, off we set, maning all the 
 youngsters of us, both boys and girls, out to 
 Tom's barn that was redf^ up for us there, to com- 
 mence the plays. When we were gone, the ould 
 people had more room, and they moved about on 
 the sates we had left them. In the manetime, 
 lashings of tobacco and snuff, cut in platefuls, 
 and piles of fresh new pipes, were laid on the 
 table for any one that wished to use them. 
 
 When we got to the barn, it's then we took our 
 pumps off\ in airnest — by the hokey, such sport 
 you nev-er saw. The first play we began was 
 Hot-loof ; and may be there wasn't skelping then. 
 It was the two parishes of Errigle-Keeran and 
 Errigle-Truagh against one another. There was 
 the Slip from Althadhawan for Errigle-Truagh, 
 against Pat M'Ardle, that had married Lanty 
 Gorman's daughter of Cargach, for Errigle-Kee- 
 ran. The way they play it, Mr. Morrow, is this : 
 Two young men out of each parish go out upon 
 the flure ; one of them stands up, then bends him- 
 self, sir, at a naif bend, placing his left hand be- 
 hind on the back part of his ham, keeping it there 
 to receive what it's to get. Well, there he stands, 
 
 ♦ Cleared up— set in order. + Threw aside all restraint. 
 
268 Hcilf Hours with Irish AiUJiors. 
 
 and the other, coming behind him, places his left 
 foot out before him, doubles up the cuff of his 
 coat, to give his hand and wrist freedom ; he 
 then rises his right arm, coming down with the 
 heel of his hand upon the other fellow's palm 
 under him with full force. By jing, it's the 
 divil's own divarsion ; for you might as well get 
 a stroke of a sledge as a blow from one of them 
 able, hard-working fellows, with hands upon them 
 like lime^one. When the fellow that's down 
 gets it hot and heavy, the man that struck him 
 stands bent in his place, and some friend of the 
 other comes down upon him, and pays him for 
 what the other fellow got. 
 
 The next play they went to was the Sitting 
 Brogue. This is played by a ring of them sitting 
 down upon the bare ground, keeping their knees 
 up. A shoemaker's leather apron is then got, or 
 a good stout brogue, and sent round under their 
 knees. In the manetime, one stands in the mid- 
 dle ; and, after the brogue is sent round, he is to 
 catch it as soon as he can. While he stands there, 
 of coorse his back must be to some one, and ac- 
 cordingly those that are behind him thump him 
 right and left with the brogue, while he all the 
 time is trying to catch it. Whoever he catches 
 this brogue with must stand up in his place, 
 while he sits down where the other had been, and 
 then the flay goes on as before, 
 
 There'j another play called the Standing Brogue 
 — where jne man gets a brogue of the same 
 
Larry McFarland^ s Wake. 269 
 
 Kind, and another stands up facing him with his 
 hands locked together, forming an arch turned 
 upside down. The man that houlds the brogue 
 then strikes him with it betune the hands ; and 
 even the smartest fellow receives several pelts be- 
 fore he is able to close his hands and catch, it ; 
 but when he does, he becomes brogueman, and 
 the man who held the brogue stands for him until 
 he catches it. The same thing is gone through, 
 from one to another, on each side, until it is 
 over. 
 
 The next is Frimsy Framsy, and is played in 
 this manner: a chair or stool is placed in the 
 middle of the flure, and the man who manages 
 the pla}^ sits down upon it, and calls his sweet- 
 heart, or the prettiest girl in the house. She ac- 
 cordingly com.es forward, and must kiss him. 
 He then rises up, and she sits down. '' Come 
 now," he sa3^s, '' fair maid — Frivisy Franisy, who's 
 your fancy ? " She then calls them she likes best, 
 and, when the young man she calls comes over 
 and kisses her, he then takes her place, and calls 
 another girl — and so on, smacking away for a 
 couple of hours. Well, throth, it's no wonder that 
 Ireland's full of people ; for I believe they do 
 nothing but coort from the time they're the 
 hoight of my leg. I dunna is it true, as I hear 
 Captain Sloethorn's steward say, that the English- 
 women are so fond of Irishmen ? 
 
 " Well," said Andy Morrow, " have you any 
 more of their sports, Tom ? " 
 
270 Half Hotirs with Irish Authors. 
 
 ** Ay have I ; one of the best and pleasantest 
 you heard yet." 
 
 *' I hope there's no more coorting in it," says 
 Nancy. *' God knows, we're tired of their kissing 
 an* marrying." 
 
 " Were you always so ? " says Ned, across the 
 fire to her. 
 
 '' Behave yourself, Ned," says she; ** d.Qx\tyou 
 make me spake; sure you were set down as the 
 greatest brine-oge that was ever known in the 
 parish for such things." 
 
 " No ; but don't you make me spake," replies 
 Ned. 
 
 '' Here, Biddy," said Nancy, '* bring that uncle 
 of yours another pint; that's what he wants most 
 at the present time, I'm thinking." 
 
 Biddy accordingly complied with this. 
 
 ** Don't make me spake," continued Ned. 
 
 '' Come, Ned," she replied, " you've a fresh 
 pint now ; so drink it, and give no more gos- 
 thery^ 
 
 *' Shuid-urth ! " f says Ned, putting the pint to 
 his head, and winking slyly at the rest. 
 
 ''Ay, wink; in troth I'll be up to you for that, 
 Ned," says Nancy, by no means satisfied that 
 Ned should enter into particulars. " Well, Tom," 
 says she, diverting the conversation, " go on, and 
 give us the remainder of your wake." 
 
 Well, says Tom, the next play is in the mil- 
 
 * Idle talk— gossip. 
 
 t Shuid-urth— This to you, or upon you ; a form of drinking healths. 
 
Larry Mc Far land' s Wake. 271: 
 
 intary line. You see, Mr. Morrow, the man that 
 leads the sports places them all on their sates, gets 
 from some of the girls a white handkerchief, 
 which he ties round his hat as you would tie a 
 piece of mourning ; he then walks round them 
 two or three times singing — ■ 
 
 Will you list and come with me, fair maid? 
 Will you list and come with me, fair maid? 
 Will you list and come with me, fair maid, 
 And folly the lad with the white cockade ? 
 
 When he sings this, he takes off his hat, and puts 
 it on the head of the girl he likes best, who rises 
 up and puts her arm round him, and then they 
 both go about in the same way, singing the same 
 words. She then puts the hat on some young 
 man, who gets up and goes round with them sing- 
 ing as before. He next puts it on the girl he loves 
 best, who, after singing and going round in the 
 same manner, puts it on another, and he on his 
 sweetheart, and so on. This is called the White 
 Cockade. When it's all over, that is, when every 
 young man has pitched upon the girl that he 
 wishes to be his sweetheart, they sit down, and 
 sing songs, and coort, as they did at the marrying. 
 After this comes the Weds ox Forfeits, or what 
 they call putting round the button. Every one 
 gives in a forfeit — the boys a neck-handkerchief or 
 a pen-knife, and the girls a pocket-handkerchief 
 or something that way. The forfeit is held over 
 them, and each of them stoops in turn. They are 
 
2/2 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 then compelled to command the person that owns 
 that forfeit to sing a song, to kiss such and such 
 a girl, or to carry some ould man. with his legs 
 about their neck three times around the house, 
 and this last is always great fun. Or may be a 
 young, upsetting fellow will be sent to kiss some 
 toothless, slavering ould woman, just to punish 
 him ; or, if a young woman is any way saucy, 
 she'll have to kiss some ould, withered fellow, his 
 tongue hanging with age half-way down his chin, 
 and the tobacco-water trickling from each corner 
 of his mouth. 
 
 By jingo, many a time when the friends of the 
 corpse would be breaking their very hearts with 
 grief and affliction I have seen them obligated to 
 laugh out in spite of themselves, at the drollery 
 of the mock priest, with his ould black coat and 
 wig upon him • and, when the laughing-fit would 
 be over, to see them rocking themselves again 
 with the sorrow — so sad. The best man for man- 
 aging such sports in this neighborhood for many 
 a year was Roger M'Cann, that lives up as you 
 go to the mountains. You wouldn't begrudge to 
 go ten miles the coldest winter night that ever 
 blew, to see and hear Roger. 
 
 There's another play that they call the Priest 
 of the Parish, which is remarkably pleasant. One 
 of the bo3^s gets a wig upon himself, as before, 
 goes out on the flure, places the boys in a row, 
 calls one his ina?i Jack, and says to each, *' What 
 will you be ? " One answers, " I'll be black cap''; 
 
Larry McFarland' s Wahe. 273 
 
 another, ^'^ red cap'' ; and so on. He then says, 
 " The priest of the parish has lost his considhering 
 cap — some says this and some saj^s that, but I say 
 my man Jack ! " Man Jack, then, to put it off 
 himself, saj^s, " Is it me, sir?" ''Yes, you, sir! " 
 "You lie, sir!" "Who then, sir?" '•'Blackcap!" If 
 black cap then doesn't sa}^ " Is it me, sir ?" before 
 the priest has time to call him, he must put his 
 hand on his ham, and get a pelt of the brogue. A 
 body must be supple with the tongue in it. 
 
 After this comes one they call Horns, or the 
 Painter. A droll fellow gets a lump of soot or 
 lampblack, and, after fixing a ring of the boys and 
 girls about him, he laj^s his two fore-fingers on his 
 knees, and says, " Horns, horns, cow-horns !" and 
 then raises his fingers by a jerk up above his 
 head ; the boys and girls in the ring then do the 
 same, for the meaning of the play is this; the 
 man with the black'ning always raises his finger 
 every time he names an animal ; but if he names 
 any that has 710 horns, and that the others jerk up 
 their fingers, then they must get a stroke over the 
 face with the soot. " Horns, horns, goat-horns! " 
 then he ups with his finger like lightning ; they 
 must all do the same, bekase a goat has horns. 
 " Horns, horns, horse-horns ! " — he ups with them 
 again, but the bo3^s and girls ought not, bekase a 
 horse has not horns ; however, any one that raises 
 them thejiy gets a slake. So that it all comes to 
 this: any one, you see, that lifts his finger when 
 an animal is named that has no horns, or any one 
 
274 Half Hours ivith Irish Atithors, 
 
 that does 7iot raise them when a baste is mintioned 
 that has horns, will get a mark. It's a purty 
 game, and requires a keen eye and a quick hand ; 
 and may be there's not fun in straiking the soot 
 over the purty, warm, rosy cheeks of the colleens, 
 while their eyes are dancing with delight in their 
 heads, and their sweet breath comes over so plea- 
 sant about one's face, the darlings ! — och ! och ! 
 
 There's another game they call the Silly ould 
 Man that's played this way : a ring of the boys 
 and girls is made on the flure — boy and girl about 
 — holding one another by the hands ; well and 
 good. A young fellow gets into the middle of the 
 ring, as " the silly ould man." There he stands look- 
 ing at all the girls, to choose a wife, and, in the 
 manetime, the youngsters of the ring sing out — 
 
 Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone. 
 
 That lies all alone, 
 
 That lies all alone, 
 Here's a silly ould man that lies all alone, 
 He wants a wife, and he can get none. 
 
 When the boys and girls sing this, the silly 
 ould man must choose a wife from some of the 
 colleens belonging to the ring. Having made 
 choice of her, she goes into the ring along with 
 bim, and they all sing out — 
 
 Now, young couple, you're married together, 
 
 You're married together. 
 
 You're married together. 
 You must obey )^our father and mother. 
 And love one another like sister and brother — 
 I pray, young couple, you'll kiss together! 
 
Larry McFarlmid' s Wake. 275 
 
 And you may be s-ure this part of the marriage is 
 not missed, anyway. 
 
 " I doubt," said Andy Morrow, "that good can't 
 come of so much kissing, marrying, and coort- 
 mg. 
 
 The narrator twisted his mouth knowingly, and 
 gave a significant groan. 
 
 ''Be dhe Jmsth^^ hould your tongue, Misther 
 Morrow," said he. ** Biddy avourneen," he con- 
 tinued, addressing Biddy and Bessy, ** and Bessy, 
 alannah, just take a friend's advice, and never 
 mind going to wakes ; to be sure, there's plinty 
 of fun and divarsion at such places, but — healths 
 apiece !" putting the pint to his lips — *' and that's 
 all I say about it." 
 
 ** Right enough, Tom," observed Shane Fadh. 
 " Sure most of the matches are planned at them, 
 and, I may say, mosl of the riinaivays, too — poor 
 young, foolish crathurs, going off and getting 
 themselves married, then bringing small, help- 
 less families upon their hands, without money or 
 manes to begin the world with, and afterwards 
 likely to eat one another out of the face for their 
 folly ; however, there's no putting ould heads 
 upon young shoulders, and I doubt, except the 
 wakes are stopped altogether, that it'll be the 
 ould case still." 
 
 " I never remember being at a counthry wake," 
 said Andy Morrow. '' How is everything laid 
 out in the house?" 
 
 * The translation follows it above. 
 
276 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 Sure it's to you I'm telling the whole stor}^ 
 INIr. Morrow; these thieves about me here know 
 all about it as well as I do — the house, eh? Why, 
 you see, the two corpses were stretched beside 
 one another, w^ashed, and laid out. There were 
 long deal boords, w^ith their ends upon two stools, 
 laid over the bodies ; the boords v/ere covered 
 with a white sheet got at the big house, so the 
 corpses wern't to be seen. On these, again, v/ere 
 placed large mould candles, plates of cut tobacco, 
 pipes, and snuff, and so on., Sometimes corpses 
 are waked in a bed, with their faces visible ; when 
 that is the case, white sheets, crosses, and some- 
 times flowers are pinned up about the bed, except 
 in the front ; but when they're undher boord, a 
 set of ould women sit smoking and rocking them- 
 selves from side to side, quite sorrowful — these 
 are kceiicrs — friends or relations ; and when every 
 one connected with the dead comes in, they raise 
 the keene, like a song oi sorrovv^ Vv ailing and clap- 
 ping their hands. 
 
 The furniture is mostly removed, and sates 
 made round the walls, Avhere the neighbors sit 
 smoking, chatting, and gosthering. The best of 
 aiting and dhrinking that they can afford is pro- 
 vided ; and, indeed, there is generally open house, 
 for it's unknown how people injure themselves by 
 their kindness and waste at christening, weddings, 
 and wakes. 
 
 In regard to poor Larry's wake — we had all 
 this, and more at it ; for, as I obsarved a while 
 
Larry Mc Far land's Wake, 277 
 
 agone, the man had made himself no friends when 
 he was living, and the neighbors gave a loose to 
 all kinds of divilment when he was dead. Al- 
 though there's no man would be guilty of any 
 disrespect where the dead are, yet, when a person 
 has led a good life, and conducted themselves 
 dacently and honestly, the young people of the 
 neighborhood show their respect by going through 
 their little plays and divarsions quieter and with 
 less noise, lest they may give any offince ; but, as 
 I said, whenever the person didn't live as they 
 ought to do, there's no stop to their noise and 
 
 rollikinf'^ 
 
 When it drew near morning, every one of us 
 took his sweetheart, and, after convoying her 
 home, we went to our own houses to get a 
 little sleep. So that was the end of poor Larry 
 McFarland and his wife Sally Lowry. 
 
 '' Success, Tom !" said Bill M'Kinny; ''take a 
 pull of the malt now, afther the story, your soul ! 
 But what was the funeral like ?" 
 
 " Why, then, a poor berrin it was," said Tom 
 "a miserable sight, God knows— just a few of the 
 neighbors ; for those that used to take his thrate, 
 and while he had a shilling in his pocket blarney 
 him up, not one of the skulking thieves showed 
 their faces at it— a good warning to foolish men 
 that throw their money down throats that haven't 
 hearts anundher them. But, boys, / desarve 
 another thrate, I think, afther my story !" This, 
 
 * Uproariousness. 
 
278 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors, i 
 
 j 
 we need scarcely add, he was supplied with, and, ; 
 
 after some further desultory chat, they again ; 
 
 separated, with the intention of reassembling at ' 
 
 Ned's on the following night. 1 
 
CHARLES LEVER. 
 
Charles Lever. 
 
THE DOCTOR'S TALE; 
 
 IT is now fifteen years since — if it wasn't for 
 O'Shaiighnessy's wrinkles, I could not believe 
 it five — we were quartered in Loughrea ; there 
 were, besides our regiment, the Fiftieth, and the 
 Seventy-third, and a troop or two of horse-artil- 
 lery, and the whole town was literally a barrack, 
 and, as you may suppose, the pleasantest place 
 imaginable. All the young ladies, and indeed all 
 those that had got their brevet some years before, 
 came flocking into the town, not knowing but the 
 devil might persuade a raw ensign or so to marry 
 some of them. 
 
 Such dinner parties, such routs, and balls never 
 were heard of west of Athlone. The gaieties 
 were incessant ; and, if good feeling, plenty of 
 claret, short whist, country dances, and kissing 
 could have done the thing, there wouldn't have 
 
 * I cannot permit the reader to fall into the same blunder with regard to the 
 worthy "Maurice" that my friend Charles O'Malky has done. It is only 
 fair to state that the doctor, in the following tale, was hoaxing the dragoon. 
 A braver and a better fellow than Quill never existed; equally beloved by 
 his brother officers, as delighted in for his convivial talents. His favorite 
 amusement was to invent some story or adventure, in which, mixing up his 
 own name with that of some friend or companion, the veracity of the whole 
 was never questioned. Of this nature was the pedigree he devised in the 
 last chapter to impose upon O'Malley, who believed implicity all he told 
 him. H. L. 
 
282 Half Hotirs zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 been a bachelor with a red coat for six miles 
 around. 
 
 You know the west, O'Mealy, so I needn't tell 
 3^ou what the Galvvay girls are like ; fine, hearty, 
 free-and-easy, talking, laughing devils, but as 
 deep and as cute as a master in chancery ; ready 
 for any fun or merriment, but always keeping a 
 sly lookout for a proposal or a tender acknow- 
 ledgment, which — what between the heat of a 
 ball-room, whiskey-negus, white satin shoes, and 
 a quarrel with 3^our guardian — it's ten to one you 
 fall into before you're a week in the same town 
 with them. 
 
 As for the men, I don't admire them so much ; 
 pleasant and cheerful enough, when the3'''re handi- 
 capping the coat off your back and your new til- 
 bury for a spavined pony and a cotton umbrella, 
 but regular devils if you come to cross them the 
 least in life ; nothing but ten paces — three shots 
 apiece — to begin and end with soniething like 
 Roger de Coverly, when every one has a pull at 
 his neighbor. I'm not saying they're not agree- 
 able, well informed, and mild in their habits ; but 
 they lean overmuch to corduroys and coroner's 
 inquests for one's taste further south. However, 
 they're a fine people, take them all in all ; and, if 
 they were not interfered with, and their national 
 customs invaded with road-making, petty sessions, 
 grand-jury laws, and a stray commission now and 
 then, they are capable of great things and would 
 astonish the world. 
 
The Doctor's Tale. 283 
 
 But, as I was saying, we were ordered to 
 Loughrea, after being fifteen months in detach- 
 ments about Biri, Tullamore, Kilbeggan, and all 
 that country ; the change was indeed a delightful 
 one, and we soon found ourselves the centre of 
 the most marked and determined civilities. I told 
 you they were wise people in the west ; this was 
 their calculation ; the line — ours was the Ros- 
 common militia — are here to-day, there to-mor- 
 row ; they may be flirting in Tralee this week, 
 and fighting on the Tagus the next'; not that there 
 was any fighting there in those times, but then 
 there was always Nova Scotia, and St. John's, 
 and a hundred other places that a Gal way young 
 lady knew nothing about, except that people 
 never came back from them. Now, what good, 
 what use was there in falling in love with them, 
 mere transitory and passing pleasures that was ? 
 But as for us, there we were ; if not in Kilkenny, 
 we were in Cork. Save cut and come again, no 
 getting away under pretence of foreign service ; 
 no excuse for not marrying by any cruel pictures 
 of the colonies, where they make spatch-cocks of 
 the officers' wives, and scrape their infant families 
 to death with a small tooth comb. In a word, 
 my dear O'Mealey, we were at a high premium ; 
 and even O'Shaughnessy, with his red head and 
 the legs you see, had his admirers — there now, 
 don't be angr)^, Dan, the men, at least, were 
 mighty partial to you. 
 
 Loughrea, if it was a pleasant, was a very ex- 
 
284 Half Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 pensive place. White gloves and car-hire — there 
 wasn't a chaise in the town — short whist, too 
 (God forgive me, if I wrong them ! but 1 wonder 
 were they honest ?), cost money ; and as our pop- 
 ularity rose our purses fell, till at length, when 
 the one was at the flood, the other was something 
 very like low water: 
 
 Now, the Roscommon was a beautiful corps ; 
 no petty jealousies, no little squabbling among 
 the officers, no small spleen between the major's 
 wife and the paymaster's sister ; all was amiable, 
 kind, brotherly, and affectionate. To proceed. I 
 need only mention one fine trait of them — no man 
 ever refused to endorse a brother officer's bill. 
 To think of asking the amount, or even the date, 
 would be taken personally ; and thus we went on 
 mutually aiding and assisting each other, the 
 colonel drawing on me, I on the major, the sen- 
 ior captain on the surgeon, and so on, a regular 
 cross-fire of " promises to pa}^" all stamped and 
 regular. 
 
 Not but that the system had its inconveniences ; 
 for sometimes an obstinate tailor or bootmaker 
 would make a row for his money, and then we'd 
 be obliged to get up a little quarrel between the 
 drawer and accepter of the bill ; they couldn't 
 speak for some days ; and a mutual friend to both 
 would tell the creditor that the slightest impru- 
 dence on his part would lead to bloodshed ; and 
 — the Lord help him ! — if there was a duel, he'd be 
 proved the whole cause of it. This and twenty 
 
TJie Doctor s Tale, 285 
 
 other plans were employed, and finally the mat- 
 ter would be left to arbitration among- our brother 
 officers ; and, I need not say, they behaved like 
 trumps. But, notwithstanding- all this, we were 
 frequently hard pressed for cash ; as the colonel 
 said, " It's a mighty expensive corps." Our dress 
 was costly, not that it had much lace and gold on 
 it, but that, what between faUing on the road at 
 night, shindies at mess, and other devilment, a 
 coat lasted no time. Wine, too, w^as heavy on 
 us ; for, though we often changed our wine mer- 
 chant, and rarely paid him, there was an awful 
 consumption at the mess ! 
 
 Now, what I have mentioned may prepare you 
 for the fact that, before we were eight weeks in 
 garrison, Shaugh and myself, upon an accurate 
 calculation of our conjoint finances, discovered 
 that, except some vague promises of discounting 
 here and there through the town, and seven and 
 fourpence in specie, we were innocent of any pe- 
 cuniary treasures. This was embarrassing ; we 
 had both embarked in several small schemes of 
 pleasurable amusement — had a couple of hunters 
 each, a tandem, and a running account — I think it 
 galloped — at every shop in the town. 
 
 Let me pause for a moment here, O'Mealey, 
 while I moralize a little in a strain I hope may 
 benefit you. Have you ever considered — of 
 course you have not, you're too young and unre- 
 flecting — how beautifully every climate and every 
 soil possesses some one antidote or another to its 
 
286 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 own noxious influences? The tropics have their 
 succulent and juicy fruits, cooling and refreshing ; 
 the northern latitudes have their beasts with fur 
 and warm skins to keep out the frost-bites ; and so 
 it is in Ireland. Nowhere on the face of the habi- 
 table globe does a man contract such habits of 
 small debt, and nowhere, I'll be sworn, can he so 
 easily get out of any scrape concerning them. 
 They have their tigers in the east, their antelopes 
 in the south, their white bears in Norway, their 
 buffaloes in America ; but we have an animal in 
 Ireland that beats them all hollow — a country at- 
 torney. 
 
 Now, let me introduce you to Mr. Matthew 
 Donevan. Mat, as he was familiarly called by 
 his numerous acquaintances, was a short, florid, 
 rosy little gentleman, of some four or five and 
 forty, with a well-curled wig of the fairest imagin- 
 able auburn, the gentle wave of the front locks 
 which played in infantine loveliness upon his little 
 bullet forehead contrasting strongly enough with 
 a cunning leer of his eye, and a certain nisi prius 
 laugh that, however it might please a client, 
 rarely brought pleasurable feelings to his oppo- 
 nent in a cause. 
 
 Mat was a character in his way ; deep, double, 
 and tricky in everything that concerned his pro- 
 fession, he affected the gay fellow — liked a jolly 
 dinner at Brown's hotel, would go twenty miles 
 to see a steeple-chase and a coursing-match, bet 
 with any one when the odds were strong in his 
 
The Doctor s Tale. 287 
 
 favor, with an easy indifference about money that 
 made him seem, when winning, rather the victim 
 of good Juck than anything else. As he kept a 
 rather pleasant bachelor's house, and liked the 
 military much, we soon became acquainted. 
 Upon him, therefore, for reasons I can't explain, 
 both our hopes reposed ; and Shaugh and myself 
 at once agreed that, if Mat could not assist us in 
 our distresses, the 'case was a bad one. 
 
 A pretty little epistle was accordingly con- 
 cocted, inviting the worthy attorney to a small 
 dinner at five o'clock the next day, intimating 
 that we were to be perfectly alone, and had a 
 little business to discuss. True to the hour. Mat 
 was there, and, as if instantly guessing that ours 
 was no party of pleasure, his look, dress, and man- 
 ner were all in keeping with the occasion — quiet, 
 subdued, and searching. 
 
 When the claret had been superseded by the 
 whiskey, and the confidential hours were ap- 
 proaching, by an adroit allusion to some heavy 
 wager then pending we brought our finances upon 
 the tapis. The thing was done beautifully ; an easy 
 adagio movement — no violent transition — but hang 
 me if old Mat didn't catch the matter at once. 
 
 " Oh ! it's there ye are, captain," said he, with 
 his peculiar grin ; ** two and sixpence in the 
 pound, and no assets." 
 
 *' The last is nearer the mark, my old boy," said 
 Shaugh, blurting out the whole truth at once. 
 The wily attorney finished his tumbler slowly, as if 
 
288 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 giving himself time for reflection, and then, smack- 
 ing his lips in a preparatory manner, took a quick 
 survey of the room with his piercing green eye. 
 
 *' A very sweet mare of yours that little mouse- 
 colored one is, with the dip in the back; and she 
 has a trifling curb — may be it's a spavin, indeed — 
 in the near hind leg. You gave five and twenty 
 for her, now, I'll be bound ? " 
 
 ''Sixty guineas, as sure as my name's Dan!" 
 said Shaugh, not at all pleased at the value put 
 upon his hackney ; "■ and, as to spavin or curb, I'll 
 wager double the sum she has neither the slight- 
 est trace of one nor the other." 
 
 'Til not take the bet," said Mat dryly; 
 " money's scarce in these parts." 
 
 This hit silenced us both, and our friend con- 
 tinued : 
 
 '* Then there's the bay horse, a great strapping, 
 leggy beast he is for a tilbur}^ ; and the hunters, 
 worth nothing here ; they don't know this coun- 
 try — them's neat pistols — and the tilbury is not 
 bad—" 
 
 " Confound you ! " said I, losing all patience. 
 " We didn't ask you here to appraise our mov- 
 ables ; we want to raise the wind without that." 
 
 " I see — I perceive," said Mat, taking a pinch 
 of snufF very leisurely as he spoke — " I see. Well, 
 that is difficult, very difficult just now. I've 
 mortgaged every acre of ground in the two coun- 
 ties near us, and a sixpence more is not to be had 
 that way. Are you lucky at the races ? " 
 
The Doctor s Tale, 289 
 
 " Never win a sixpence." 
 
 " What can you do at whist ? " 
 
 " Revoke, and get cursed by my partner; devil 
 a more." 
 
 " That's mighty bad, for otherwise we might 
 arrange something for you. Well, I only see one 
 thing for it ; you must marry ; a wife with some 
 money will ^^t you out of your present difficul- 
 ties, and we'll manage that easily enough." 
 
 *' Come, Dan," said I, for Shaugh was dropping 
 asleep, " cheer up, old fellow ! Donevan has found 
 the way to pull us through our misfortunes. A 
 girl with forty thousand pounds, the best cock- 
 shooting in Ireland, an old family, a capital cel- 
 lar, all await ye — rouse up there ! " 
 
 'Tm convanient," said Shaugh, with a look in- 
 tended to be knowing, but really very tipsy. 
 
 " I didn't say much for her personal attrac- 
 tions, captain," said Mat ; '' nor, indeed, did I spe- 
 cify the exact sum ; but Mrs. Rogers Dooley, of 
 Clonakilty, might be a princess — " 
 
 '' And so she shall be. Mat ; the O'Shaughnes- 
 sys were kings of Ennis in the time of Nero ; and 
 I'm only waiting for a trifle of money to revive 
 the title. What's her name ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Rogers Dooley." 
 
 " Here's her health, and long life to her — 
 
 ' And may the devil cut the toes 
 Of all her foes, 
 That we may know them by their limping."* 
 
 This benevolent wish uttered, Dan fell flat 
 
290 Half Hours zuith Irish Authors. 
 
 upon the hearth-rug", and was soon sound asleep. 
 I must hasten on ; so need only say that, before 
 we parted that night, INIat and myself had finished 
 the half-gallon bottle of Loughrea whiskey, and 
 concluded a treaty for the hand and fortune of 
 Mrs. Rogers Dooley ; he being guaranteed a very 
 handsome percentage on the property, and the 
 lady being reserved for choice between Dan and 
 mj^self, which, however, I was determined should 
 fall upon m}^ more fortunate friend. 
 
 The first object which presented itself to my 
 aching senses the following morning was a very 
 spacious card of invitation from Mr. Jonas Malone, 
 requesting me to favor him with the seductions of 
 my society the next evening at a ball ; at the bot- 
 tom of which, in I\Ir. Donevan's hand, I read : 
 
 " Don't fail ; you know who is to be there. 
 I've not been idle since I saw 3^ou. Would the 
 captain take tv/enty-five for the mare ?" 
 
 So far so good, thought I, as, entering 
 O'Shaughnessy's quarters, I discovered him 
 endeavoring to spell out his card, which, however, 
 had no postscript. We soon agreed that Mat 
 should have his price ; so, sending a polite answer 
 to the invitation, we despatched a still more civil 
 note to the attorney, and begged of him, as a weak 
 mark oT esteem, to except the mouse-colored 
 mare as a present. 
 
 Here O'Shaughnessy sighed deeply, and even 
 seemed affected by the souvenir. 
 
 '' Come, Dan, we did it all for the best. O 
 
The Doctor s Tale, 291 
 
 O'Mealey, he was a cunning fellow^but no 
 matter. We went to the ball, and, to be sure, it 
 was a gfeat sight. Two hundred and fifty souls, 
 where there was not good room for the odd fifty ; 
 such laughing, such squeezing, such pressing of 
 hands and waists in the staircase ! And then such 
 a row and riot at the top — four fiddles, a key bugle, 
 and a bagpipe playing '' Haste to the wedding," 
 amid the crash of refreshment trays, the tramp of 
 feet, and the sounds of merriment on all sides ! 
 
 It's only in Ireland, after all, people have fun. 
 Old and young, merry and morose, the gay and 
 cross-grained — are crammed into a lively country 
 dance ; and, ill-matched, ill-suited, go jigging 
 away together to the blast of a bad band, till their 
 heads, half turned b}^ the noise, the heat, the 
 novelty, and the hubbub, they all get as tipsy as 
 if they were really deep in liquor. 
 
 Then there is that particularly free-and-easy 
 tone in every one about ; here go a couple caper- 
 ing daintily out of the ball-room to take a little 
 fresh air on the stairs, where every step has its 
 own separate flirtation party ; there a riotous old 
 gentleman, v/ith a boarding-school girl for his 
 partner, has plunged smack into a party at loo, 
 upsetting cards and counters, and drawing down 
 curses innumerable; here are a merry knot 
 round the refreshments, and well they may be ; 
 for the negus is strong punch, and the biscuit is 
 tipsy cake — and all this v/ith a running fire of 
 good stories, jokes, and witticisms on all sides, in 
 
292 Half Hours with Irish Authors, 
 
 the laughter at which even the droll-lookmg 
 servants join as heartily as the rest. 
 
 We were not long in finding out Mrs.'Rogers, 
 who sat in the middle of a very high sofa, with 
 her feet just touching the floor. She Avas short, 
 fat, wore her hair in a drop, had a species of 
 shining-yellow skin, and a turned-up nose, all of 
 which were by no means prepossessing. Shaugh 
 and myself were too hard-up to be particular, and 
 so we invited her to dance alternately for two 
 consecutive hours, plying her assiduously with 
 negus during the lulls of the music. 
 
 Supper was at last announced, and enabled us 
 to recruit for new efforts; and so, after an awful 
 consumption of fowl, pigeon-pie, ham, and bran- 
 died cherries, Mrs. Rogers brightened up con- 
 siderably, and professed her willingness to join the 
 dancers. As for us, partly from exhaustion, part- 
 ly to stimulate our energies, and in some degree 
 to drown reflection, we drank deep, and, when we 
 reached the drawing-room, not only the agree- 
 able guests themselves, but even the" furniture, the 
 venerable chairs, and the stiff'old sofa seemed per- 
 forming " Sir Roger de Coverley." How we con- 
 ducted ourselves till five in the morning let our 
 cramps confess ; for v/e were both bed-ridden for 
 ten days after. However, at last, Mrs. Rogers 
 gave in ; and, reclining gracefully upon a window- 
 seat, pronounced it a most elegant party and 
 asked me to look for her shawl. While I peram- 
 bulated the staircase with her bonnet on my head, 
 
TJie Doctor s Tale, 293 
 
 and more wearing apparel than would stock a 
 mag-azine, Shaugh was roaring himself hoarse 
 calling Mrs. Rogers's coach. 
 
 " Sure, captain," said the lady, with a tender 
 leer, ** it's only a chair." 
 
 " And here it is," said I, surveying a very port- 
 ly looking old sedan, newly painted and varnished, 
 which blocked up half the hall. 
 
 "You'll catch cold, my angel," said Shaugh, in 
 a whisper, for he w^as coming it very strong by 
 this; ''get into the chair. Maurice, can't you 
 find those fellows?" said he to me; for the chair- 
 men had gone down-stairs, and were making very 
 merry among the servants. 
 
 " She's fast now," said I, shutting the door to. 
 " Let us do the gallant thing, and carry her home 
 ourselves.' Shaugh thought this a great notion ; 
 and, in a minute, we mounted the poles, and sal- 
 lied forth, amid a great chorus of laughing from 
 all the footmen, maids, and tea-boys that filled the 
 passage. 
 
 " The big house v/ith the bow window and 
 the pillars, captain," said a fellow, as we issued 
 upon our journey. 
 
 " I know it," said I. '' Turn to the left after 
 you pass the square." 
 
 " Isn't she heavy ?" said Shaugh, as he meander- 
 ed across the narrow street with a sidelong 
 motion that must have suggested to our fair 
 inside passenger some notions of a sea voyage. I 
 truth, I must confess, her progress was rather a 
 
294 ^^'■'iJf Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 devious one ; now zigzagging- from side to side, 
 now getting into a sharp trot, and then suddenly 
 puUing up at a dead stop, or running the machine 
 chuck against a wall, to enable us to stand still 
 and gain breath. 
 
 " Which way now?" cried he, as we swung 
 round the angle of the street, and entered the 
 large market-place. *' I 'm getting terribly tired." 
 
 '' Never give in, Dan ; think of Clonakilty, 
 and the old lady herself" — and here I gave the 
 chair a hoist that evidently astonished our fair 
 friend, for a very imploring cry issued forth 
 immediately after. 
 
 "■ To the right, quick-step, forward — charge !" 
 cried I ; and we set off at a brisk trot down a 
 steep, narrow lane. 
 
 '' Here it is now — the light in the window ; 
 cheer up !" 
 
 As I said this, we came shortly up to a fine, 
 portly looking doorway "with great stone pillars 
 and cornice. 
 
 " Make yourself at home, Maurice," said he ; 
 *^ bring her in." And so saying, we pushed forward, 
 for the door was open, and passed boldly into a 
 great flagged hall, silent and cold, and dark as 
 the night itself. 
 
 <* Are 3^ou sure we're right?" said he. 
 
 '* All right," said I ; *' go ahead." 
 
 And so we did till we came in sight of a small 
 candle that burned dimly at a distance from us. 
 
 '' Make for the light," said I ; but, just as I* said 
 
The Doctor s Tale. 295 
 
 so, Shaugh slipped and fell flat on the flagway ; 
 the noise of his fall sent up a hundred echoes in 
 the silent building, and terrified us both dread- 
 fully ; and, after a minute's pause, by one consent, 
 we turned and made for the door, falling almost 
 at every step, and frightened out of our senses ; 
 we came tumbling together into the porch, and 
 out into the street, and never drew breath till we 
 reached the barracks. Meanwhile, let me return 
 to Mrs. Rogers. The dear old lady, who had 
 passed an awful time since she left the ball, had 
 just rallied out of a fainting fit when we took to 
 our heels ; so, after screaming and crying her best, 
 she at last managed to open the top of the chair, 
 and, by dint of great exertions, succeeded in forc- 
 ing the door, and at length freed herself from 
 bondage. She was leisurely groping her way 
 round it in the dark, when her lamentations being 
 heard without woke up the old sexton of the 
 chapel — for it was there we placed her — who, en- 
 tering cautiously with a light, no sooner caught a 
 glimpse of the great black sedan and the figure 
 beside it than he also took to his heels, and ran 
 like a madman to the priest's house. 
 
 *' Come, your reverence, come, for the love of 
 marcy ! Sure didn't I see him myself? O wirra, 
 wirra !" 
 
 "• What is it, ye ould fool ?" said M'Kenny. 
 
 '' It's Father Con Doran, your reverence, that 
 was buried last week, and there he is up now, coffin 
 and all, saying a midnight mass as lively as ever !" 
 
296 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 Poor Mrs. Rogers, God help her! It was a 
 trying sight for her, when the priest and the two 
 coadjutors, and the three little boys and the 
 sexton, all came in to lay her spirit ; and the shock 
 she received that night they say she never got 
 over. 
 
 Need I say, my dear O'Mealey, that our ac- 
 quaintance with Mrs. Rogers was closed ? The 
 dear woman had a hard struggle for it afterwards : 
 her character was assailed by all the elderly 
 ladies in Loughrea for going off in our company, 
 and her blue satin piped with scarlet, utterly 
 ruined by a deluge of holy water bestowed on 
 her by the pious sexton. It was in vain that she 
 originated twenty different reports to mystify the 
 world ; and even ten pounds spent in masses for 
 the eternal repose of Father Con Doran only in- 
 creased the laughter this unfortunate affair gave 
 rise to. As for us, we exchanged into the line, 
 and foreign service took us out of the road of 
 duns, debts, and devilment, and we soon reform- 
 ed, and eschewed such low company. 
 
THE ADJUTANT'S COURTSHIP. 
 
 IT is now about eight 3^ears, may be ten years, 
 since that we were ordered to march from 
 Belfast and take up our quarters in London- 
 derry. We had not been more than a few weeks 
 altogether in Ulster when the order came ; and 
 as w^e had been, for the preceding two years, 
 doing duty in the south and west, we concluded 
 that the island was tolei-ably the same in all parts. 
 We opened our campaign in the maiden city ex- 
 actly as we had been doing with " unparalleled 
 success " in Cashel, Fermoy, Tuam, etc.; that is to 
 say, we announced garrison balls, and private 
 theatricals ; offered a cup to be ru-n for in steeple- 
 chase ; turned out a four-in-hand drag, with mot- 
 tled grays ; and brought over two deal boats to 
 challenge the north. 
 
 "The i8th found the place stupid," said we. 
 
 To be sure they did ; slow fellows like them 
 must find any place stupid. No dinners ; but 
 they gave none. No fun ; but they had none in 
 themselves. In fact, we knew better ; we under- 
 stood how the thing was to be done, and resolved 
 that, as a mine of rich ore lay un worked, it Avas 
 reserved for us to produce the shining metal that 
 
298 Half Hours witJi Irish Aiithors, 
 
 others less discernins: bad failed to discover. Lit- 
 tie we knew of the matter ; never was there a 
 blunder like ours. Were you ever in Derry ? 
 
 *' Never," said the listeners. 
 
 Well, then, let me inform 3^ou that the place has 
 its own peculiar features. In the first place, all 
 the larg-e towns in the south and west have, be- 
 sides the country neighborhood that surrounds 
 them, a certain sprinkling of gentlefolk who, 
 though with small fortunes and not much usage 
 of the world, are still a great accession to societ}^ 
 and make up the blank which, even in the most 
 thickly peopled country, would be sadly felt 
 without them. Now, in Derry, there is none of 
 this. After the great guns — and, per Baccho ! 
 what great guns are they ! — you have nothing but 
 the men engaged in commerce — sharp, clever, 
 shrev/d, well-informed fellows ; they are deep in 
 flax-seed, cunning in molasses, and not to be ex- 
 celled in all that pertains to coffee, sassafras, cin- 
 namon, gum, oakum, and elephants' teeth. The 
 place is a rich one, and the spirit of commerce is 
 felt throughout it. Nothing is cared for, nothing 
 is talked of, nothing alluded to, that does not bear 
 upon this ; and, in fact, if you haven't a venture 
 in Smyrna figs, iNlemel timber, Dutch dolls, or 
 some such commodity, you are absolutely noth- 
 ing, and might as well be at a ball with a cork 
 leg, or go deaf to the opera. 
 
 Now, when I've told this much, I leave you to 
 guess what impressions our triumphal entry into 
 
TJie Adjtitant's Courtship. 299 
 
 the city produced. Instead of the admiring- 
 crowds that awaited us elsewhere, as we marched 
 gaily into quarters, here we saw nothing but 
 grave, sober-looking, and, I confess it, intelligent- 
 looking faces, that scrutinized our appearance 
 closely enough, but evidently with no great ap- 
 proval and less enthusiasm. The men passed 
 on hurriedly to their counting-houses and 
 the wharfs ; the women, with almost as little 
 interest, peeped at us from the windows, and 
 w^alked away again. Oh ! how we wished for 
 Galway, glorious Galway ! That Paradise of the 
 infantry that lies west of the Shannon. Little 
 we knew, as we ordered the band, in lively antici- 
 pation of the gaieties before us, to strike up 
 " Payne's first set," that to the ears of the fair 
 listeners in Ship Quay Street the rumble of a 
 sugar hogshead, or the crank, crank of a weigh- 
 ing-crane, was more delightful music. 
 
 " By Jove," interrupted Power, '' 3'Ou are quite 
 right. Women are strongly imitative in their 
 tastes. The lovely Italian, whose very costume 
 is a natural following of a Raphael, is no more 
 like the pretty Liverpool damsel than Genoa is 
 to Glassnevin ; and yet what the deuce have 
 they, dear souls, with their feet upon the soft car- 
 pet, and their eyes upon the pages of Scott or 
 Byron, to do with all the cotton or dimity that 
 ever was printed? But let us not repine; that 
 v^ery plastic character is our greatest blessing." 
 
 '* Fill not so sure that it always exists," said the 
 
300 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors, 
 
 doctor dubiously, as though his own experience 
 pointed otherwise. 
 
 *' Well, go ahead," said the Skipper, who evi- 
 dently disliked the digression thus interrupting 
 the adjutant's story. 
 
 Well, we marched along, looking right and left 
 at the pretty faces — and there was plenty of them, 
 too — that a momentary curiosity drew to the win- 
 dows ; but, although we smiled, and ogled, and 
 leered as only a newly arrived regiment can 
 smiie, ogle, or leer, by all that's provoking, we 
 might as well have wasted our blandishments 
 upon the Presbyterian meeting-house that 
 frowned upon us with its high pitched roof and 
 round windows. 
 
 '* Droll people these," said one. " Raythur rum 
 ones," cried another. ^' The black north, by Jove," 
 said a third ; and so we went along to the bar- 
 racks, somewhat displeased to think that, though 
 the 1 8th were slow, thc}^ might have met their 
 match. 
 
 Disappointed as we undoubtedly felt at the 
 little enthusiasm that marked our entree, we still 
 resolved to persist in our original plan, and, ac- 
 cordingly, early the following morning announced 
 our intention of giving amateur theatricals. The 
 mayor, who called upon our colonel, was the first 
 to learn this, and received the information with 
 pretty much the same kind of look as the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury might be supposed to as- 
 sume if requested b}^ a friend to ride for the 
 
The Adjutafif s Courtship. 301 
 
 Derby. The incredulous expression of the poor 
 man's face, as he turned from one of us to the 
 other, evidently canvassing- in his mind whether 
 we might not by some special dispensation of 
 Providence be all insane, I shall never forget. 
 
 His visit was a very short one ; whether con- 
 cluding that we were not quite safe corppany, or 
 whether our notification was too much for his 
 nerves, I know not. 
 
 We were not to be balked, however ; our plans 
 for gaiety, long planned and conned over, were 
 soon announced in aliform ; and, though we made 
 efforts alm.ost superhuman in the cause, our plays 
 were performed to empty benches, our balls were 
 unattended, our picnic invitations politely de- 
 clined, and, in a word, all our advances treated 
 with a cold and chilling politeness that plainly 
 said, " We'll none of you." 
 
 Each day brought some new discomfiture, and, 
 as we met at mess, instead of having, as hereto- 
 fore, some prospect of pleasure nnd amusement to 
 chat over it was only to talk gloomily over our 
 miserable failures, and lament the dreary quarters 
 that our fates had doomed us to. 
 
 Some months wore on in this fashion, and at 
 length — what will not time do? — we began by de- 
 grees to forget our woes. Some of us took to 
 late hours and brandy and water ; others got sen- 
 timental, and wrote journals, and novels, and 
 poetry ; some few made acquaintances among the 
 towns-people, and cut into a quiet rubber to pass 
 
302 Half Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 the evening, while another detachment, among- 
 which I was, got up a little love affair to while 
 away the tedious hours, and cheat the lazy sun. 
 
 I have already said something of my taste in 
 beauty. Now, Mrs. Boggs was exactly the style 
 of woman I fancied. She was a widow, she had 
 black eyes — not your jet black, sparkling, Dutch- 
 doll eyes that roll about and tremble, but mean 
 nothing — no ; hers had a soft, subdued, downcast, 
 pensive look about them, and w^ere fully as melt- 
 ing a pair of orbs as any blue ej^es 3^ou ever 
 looked at. 
 
 Then she had a short upper lip, and sweet 
 teeth ; by Jove, they were pearls ! and she showed 
 them, too, pretty often. Her figure was well 
 rounded, plump, and what the French call nette. 
 To complete all, her instep and ankle were unex- 
 ceptionable ; and, lastly, her jointure w^as seven 
 hundred pounds per annum, v/ith a trifle of eight 
 thousand more that the late lamented Boggs be- 
 queathed when, after four months of uninter- 
 rupted bliss, he left Derry for another world. 
 
 When chance first threw me in the way of the 
 fair widow, some casual coincidence of opinion 
 happened to raise me in her estimation, and I 
 soon afterward received an invitation to a small 
 evening party at her house, to \vhich I alone of 
 the regiment was asked. 
 
 I shall not weary you with the details of my 
 intimacy ; it is enough that I tell you I fell des- 
 perately in love. I began by visiting twice or 
 
The Adjutant's Courtship. 303 
 
 thrice a week, and in less than two months spent 
 every morning at her house, and rarely left it till 
 the " roast beef" announced mess. 
 
 I soon discovered the widow's cue : she was 
 serious. Now, I had conducted all manner of 
 flirtations in my previous life ; timid young ladies, 
 manly young ladies, musical, artistical, poetical, 
 anci hysterical. Bless you, I knew them all by 
 heart ; but never before had I to deal with a 
 serious one, and a widow to boot. The case was 
 a trying one. For some weeks it was all very 
 up-hill work ; all the red shot of warm affection I 
 used to pour in on other occasions was of no use 
 here. The language of love, in which I was no 
 mean proficient, availed me not. Compliments 
 and flatter}^, those rare skirmishers before the 
 engagement, were denied me ; and I verily think 
 that a tender squeeze of the hand would have 
 cost me my dismissal. 
 
 " How very slow all this," thought I, as, at the 
 end ot two months' siege, I still found myself 
 seated in the trenches, and not a single breach in 
 the fortress. " But, to be sure, it's the way they 
 have in the north, and one must be patient." 
 
 While thus I was in no very sanguine frame of 
 mind as to m}^ prospects, in reality my progress 
 was very considerable, having become a member 
 of Mr. M'Phun's congregation. I was gradually 
 rising in the estimation of the widow and her 
 friends, whom my constant attendance at meeting, 
 and my very serious demeanor, had so far im- 
 
304 Half Hours zviih Irish Authors. 
 
 pressed that very grave deliberation was held 
 whether I should not be made an elder at the 
 next brevet. 
 
 If the Widow Boggs had not been a very love- 
 ly and wealthy widow, had she not possessed the 
 eyes, lips, hips, ankles, and jointure aforesaid, 
 I honestly avow that not the charms of that 
 sweet man, Mr. M'Phun's eloquence, nor even 
 the flattering distinction in store for me, would 
 have induced me to prolong m}^ suit. However, 
 I was not going to despair when in sight of land. 
 The widow was evidently softened ; a little time 
 longer, and the most scrupulous moralist, the 
 most rigid advocate for emplo3^ing time wisely, 
 could not have objected to my daily S3'Stem of 
 courtship. It was none of your sighing, dying, 
 ogling, hand-squeezing, waist-pressing, oath- 
 swearing, everlasting-adoring affairs, with an in- 
 terchange of rings and lockets ; not a bit of it. 
 It was confoundedly like a controversial meeting 
 at the Rotunda, and I myself had a far gj-eater 
 resemblance to Father Tom Maguire than a gay 
 Lothario. 
 
 After all, when mess-time came, when the roast 
 beef pla3^ed, and we assembled at dinner, and the 
 soup and fish had gone rounds with the glasses of 
 sherry in, my spirits rallied, and a very jolly 
 evening consoled me for all my fatigues and exer- 
 tions, and supplied me ^^4th energy for the mor- 
 row ; for let me observe here that I only made 
 love before dinner. The evenings I reserved foi 
 
The Adjutanfs Courtship, 305 
 
 myself, assuring Mrs. Boggs that my regimental 
 duties required all my time after mess-hour, in 
 which I was perfectly correct ; for at six we 
 dined, at seven I opened the claret No. i, at 
 eight I had uncorked my second bottle, by half- 
 past eight I was returning to the sherry, and at 
 nine, punctual to the moment, I was returning to 
 my quarters on the back of my servant, Tim 
 Daly, who had carried me safely for eight years 
 without a single mistake, as the fox hunters say. 
 This was a way we had in the — th ; every man was 
 carried away from mess, some sooner, some later ; 
 I was always an early riser, and went betim.es. 
 
 Now, although I had very abundant proof, 
 from circumstantial evidence, that I was nightly 
 removed from the mess-room to my bed in the 
 mode I mention, it would have puzzled me sorely 
 to prove the fact in any direct way ; inasmuch as, 
 by half-past nine, as the clock chimed, Tim en- 
 tered to take me. I was very innocent of all that 
 was going on, and, except a certain vague sense 
 of regret at leaving the decanter, felt nothing 
 whatever. 
 
 It so chanced — what mere trifles are we ruled 
 by in our destinies ! — that, just as my suit with the 
 widow had assumed its most favorable footing, 
 old General Hinks, that commanded the district, 
 announced his coming over to inspect our regi- 
 ment. Over he came accordingly, and, to be 
 sure, we had a day of it. We were paraded for 
 six mortal hours ; then we were marching and 
 
3o6 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors, 
 
 counter-marching ; moving into line, back again 
 into column, now forming open column, then into 
 square; till at last we began to think that the 
 old general was like the Flying Dutchman, and 
 was probably condemned to keep on drilling us 
 to the day of judgment. To be sure, he enlivened 
 the proceeding to me, by pronouncing the regi- 
 ment the worst drilled and appointed corps in the 
 service, and the adjutant (me!) the stupidest dun- 
 derhead — these were his words — he had ever met 
 with. 
 
 " Never mind," thought I, " a few da3^s more, 
 and it's little I'll care for the eighteen manoeu- 
 vres. It's small trouble 3'our eyes right or your 
 left shoulders forward will give me. I'll sell out, 
 and with the Widow Boggs and seven hundred a 
 year — but no matter." 
 
 This confounded inspection lasted till half-past 
 five in the afternoon, so that our mess was delayed 
 a full hour in consequence, and it was past seven 
 as we sat down to dinner. Our faces were grim 
 enough as we met together at first ; but what will 
 not a good dinner and good wine do for the sur- 
 liest party ? By eight o'clock we began to feel 
 somewhat more convivially disposed ; and, before 
 nine, the decanters were performing a quick-step 
 round the table, in a fashion very exhilarating 
 and very jovial to look at. 
 
 " No flinching to-night," said the senior major ; 
 *' we've had a severe day, let us also have a merry 
 evening." 
 
The Adjutanfs Courtship. 307 
 
 *' By Jove, Ormond," cried another, '' we must 
 not leave this to-night. Confound the old hum- 
 bugs and their misty whist party, throw them 
 over!" 
 
 ** I say, Adjutant," said Forbes, addressing me, 
 *' you've nothing particular to say to the fair 
 widow this evening; you'll not bolt, I hope." 
 
 " That he sha'n't," said one near me ; '' he must 
 make up for his absence to-morrow, for to-night 
 we all stand fast." 
 
 '' Besides," said another, '' she's at meeting by 
 this. Old what-d'ye-call-him is at fourteenthly 
 before now." 
 
 '' A note for 3^ou, sir," said the mess waiter, 
 presenting me with a rose-colored three-cornered 
 billet. It was from la cJiere Boggs herself, and 
 ran thus : 
 
 " Dear Sir — Mr. M'Phun and a few friends are 
 coming to tea at my house after meeting; per- 
 haps 3^ou will also favor us with your compan}^ 
 '' Yours truly, Eliza Boggs.' 
 
 What was to be done? Quit the mess, leave a 
 jolly party just at the jolliest moment, exchange 
 Lafitte and red hermitage for a soiree of elders 
 presided over by that sweet man Mr. M'Phun? 
 It was too bad ; but then, how much Avas in the 
 scale ? What would the widow say if I declined ? 
 What would she think ? I well knew that the in- 
 vitation meant nothing less than a full-dress pa- 
 
308 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 rade of me before her friends, and that to decHne 
 was perhaps to forfeit all my hopes in that quarter 
 for ever. 
 
 *' Any answer, sir ?" said the waiter. 
 
 ** Yes," said I, in a half whisper, " I'll go; tell 
 the servant I'll go," 
 
 At this moment, my tender epistle was ab- 
 stracted from before me and, ere I turned round, 
 had made the tour of half the table. I never per- 
 ceived the circumstance, however, and, filling my 
 glass, professed my resolve to sit to the last, with 
 a mental reserve to take my departure at the very 
 first opportunity. Ormond and the paymaster 
 quitted the room for a moment, as if to give or- 
 ders for a broil at twelve, and now all seemed to 
 promise a very convivial and well-sustained party 
 for the night. 
 
 '^ Is that all arranged ? " inquired the major, as 
 Ormond entered. 
 
 ''All right," said he; ''and now let us have a 
 bumper and a song. Adjutant, old boy, give us a 
 chant." 
 
 " What shall it be, then ? " inquired I, anxious 
 to cover my intended retreat by an appearance of 
 joviality. 
 
 " Give us — 
 
 * When I was in the Fusileers, 
 Some fourteen years ago.' " 
 
 "No, no, confound it! Fve heard nothing else, 
 since I joined the regiment. Let us have the 
 Paymaster's Daughter." 
 
The Adjutant'' s Courtship, 309 
 
 "Ah! that's pathetic; I like that," lisped a 
 young- ensign. 
 
 " If I'm to have a vote," grunted out the senior 
 major, " I pronounce for West India Quarters." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said half a dozen voices together, 
 ** let's have West India Quarters. Come, give 
 him a glass of sherry, and let him begin." 
 
 I had scarcely finished off my glass, and cleared 
 my throat for my song, when the clock on the 
 chimney-piece chimed half-past nine, and the 
 same instant I felt a heavy hand fall upon my 
 shoulder; I turned and beheld my servant Tim. 
 This, as I have already mentioned, was the hour 
 at which Tim was in the habit of taking me home 
 to my quarters, and, though we had dined an 
 hour later, he took no notice of the circumstance, 
 but, true to his custom, he was behind my chair. 
 A very cursory glance at my " familiar " was 
 quite sufficient to show me that we had somehow 
 changed sides, for Tim, who was habitually the 
 most sober of mankind, was, on the present occa- 
 sion, exceedingly drunk, while I, a full hour be- 
 fore that consummation, was perfectly sober. 
 
 ** What d'ye want, sir? " inquired I, with some- 
 thing of severity in my manner. 
 
 ''Come home," said Tim, with a hiccup that 
 set the whole table in a roar. 
 
 " Leave the room this instant," said I feeling 
 wrathy at being thus made a butt of for his of- 
 fences — " leave the room, or I'll kick you out of 
 it." Now this, let me add in a parenthesis, was 
 
3IO i^cilf Hours ivith Irish Authors. 
 
 somewhat of a boast, for Tim was six feet three, 
 and strong in proportion, and, when in liquor, 
 fearless as a tio:er. 
 
 *' You'll kick me out of the room, eh ! will 3^ou ? 
 Try, only try it; that's all." Here a new roar of 
 laughter burst forth, while Tim, again placing an 
 enormous paw upon my shoulder, continued : 
 *' Don't be sitting there, making a baste of your- 
 self, when you've got enough. Don't you see 
 you're drunk? " 
 
 I sprang to my legs on this, and made a rush 
 to the fireplace to secure the poker ; but Tim was 
 beforehand .with me, and, seizing me by the waist 
 with both hands, flung me across his shoulders, 
 as though I were a bab}^ saying, at the same 
 time, '' I'll take 3'Ou away at half-past eight to- 
 morrow, av you're as rampageous again." I 
 kicked, I plunged, I swore, I threatened, I even 
 begged and implored to be set down ; but, wheth- 
 er my voice was lost in the uproar around me, or 
 that Tim only I'egarded my denunciations in the 
 light of cursing, I know not ; but he carried me 
 bodily down the stairs, steadying himself by one 
 hand on the bannisters, while with the other he 
 held me as in a vise. 1 had but one consolation 
 all this while : it was this, that, as my quarters 
 lay immediately behind the mess-room, Tim's 
 excursion would soon come to an end, and I 
 should be free once more; but guess my terror 
 to find that the drunken scoundrel, instead of 
 going, as usual, to tlie left, turned short to the 
 
TJie Adjutanf s Courtship. 311 
 
 right hand, and marched boldly into Ship Quay 
 Street. Every window in the mess-room was 
 filled with our fellows, absolutely shouting with 
 laughter. " Go it, Tim — that's the fellow — hold 
 him tight — never let go," cried a dozen voices, 
 while the. wretch, with the tenacity of drunken- 
 ness, gripped me still harder, and took his way 
 down the middle of the street. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in July, a soft sum- 
 mer night, as I made this pleasing excursion down 
 the most frequented thoroughfare in the maiden 
 city, my struggles every moment exciting roars 
 of laughter from an increasing crowd of specta- 
 tors, who seemed scarcely less amused than puz- 
 zled at the exhibition. In the midst of a torrent 
 of imprecations against my torturer, a loud noise 
 attracted me. I turned m^y head, and saw — hor- 
 ror of horrors ! — the door of the meeting-house 
 just flung open, and the congregation issuing 
 forth en masse. Is it any wonder if I remember 
 no more? There I was, the chosen one of the 
 Widow Boggs — the elder elect — the favored 
 friend and admired associate of Mr. INTPhun, 
 taking an airing on a summer's evening on the 
 back of a drunken Irishman ! Oh ! the thought 
 was horrible ; and, certainly, the short and pithy 
 epithets by which I was characterized in the 
 crowd neither improved my temper nor assuaged 
 my wrath ; and I feel bound to confess that mj- 
 own language was neither serious nor becoming. 
 Tim, however, cared little for all this, and pur- 
 
312 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 sued the even tenor of his way through the whole 
 crowd, nor stopped till, having made half the 
 circuit of the wall, he deposited me safe at my 
 own door, adding, as he set me down, '' Oh ! av 
 you're as throublesome every evening, it's a 
 wheelbarrow I'll be obleeged to bring for you." 
 
 The next day I obtained a short leave of ab- 
 sence, and, ere a fortnight expired, exchanged 
 into the — th, preferring Halifax itself to the ridi- 
 cule that awaited me in Londonderry. 
 
THE GHOST. 
 
 AS RELATED BY MICKEY FREE. 
 
 WELL, I believe your honor heard me tell long 
 ago how my father left the army, and the 
 wa}^ that he took to another line of life that was 
 more to his liking. And so it was ; he was happy as 
 the day was long ; he drove a hearse for Mr. Callag- 
 han, of Cork, for many years, and a pleasant place it 
 was ; for ye see, my father was a cute man, and knew 
 something of the world ; and, though he was a 
 droll devil, and, could sing a funny song when 
 he was among the boys, no sooner had he the big 
 black cloak on him, and the weepers, and he 
 seated on the high box with the six long-tailed 
 blacks before him, you'd really think it was his 
 own mother was inside, he looked so melancholy 
 and miserable- The sexton and grave-digger was 
 nothing to my father ; and he had a look about 
 his eye — to be sure there was a reason for it — that 
 you'd think he was up all night crying ; though 
 it's little indulgence he took that way. 
 
 '' Well, of all Mr. Callaghan's men, there was 
 none so great a favorite as my father ; the neigh- 
 bors were all fond of him. 
 
314 ^<^^f Hop.rs wkk Irish Auihars. 
 
 ^' * A kind crajture ever}^ inch of him, the 
 women would say. ' Did ye see his face at Mrs. 
 Delany's funeral ?' 
 
 '' * True for 3^ou,' another would remark ; * he 
 mistook the road with grief, and stopped at a 
 shebeenhouse instead of Kilmurry Church.' 
 
 *' I need say no more, only one thing-, that it 
 was principally among the farmers and the 
 country people my father was liked so much. 
 The great people and the quality— I ax your 
 pardon — but sure isn't it true. Mister Charles, 
 they don't fret so much after their fathers and 
 brothers, and they care little who's driving them, 
 whether it was a decent, respectable man like my 
 father, or a chap with a grin on him like a rat- 
 trap ? And so it happened that my father used to 
 travel half the country ; going here and there 
 whei-ever there was trade stirring; and, faix, a 
 man didn't think himself rightly buried if my 
 father wasn't there ; for, ye see, he knew all about 
 it ; he could tell to a quart of sperits what would 
 be wanting for a v%'ake ; he knew all the good 
 cryers for miles round; and I've heard it was a 
 beautiful sight to see him standing on a hill, 
 arranging the procession, as they walked into the 
 churchyard, and giving the word like a captain. 
 
 **'Come on, the stiff- — now the friends of the 
 stiff— \\o\N de pop'lace.' 
 
 " That*s what he used to say; and, troth, he 
 'vvas alwa3^s repeating it when he was a little 
 gone in drink — for that's the time his spirits 
 
The Ghost. 315 
 
 Avould rise — and he'd think he was burying half 
 Minister. 
 
 " And sure it was a real pleasure and a pride to 
 be buried in them times ; for, av it was only a 
 small farmer with a potato garden, my father 
 would come down w^ith the black cloak on him, 
 and three yards of crape behind his hat, and set 
 all the children crj^ing and yelling for half a mile 
 round ; and then the way he'd walk before them 
 with a spade on his shoulder, and, sticking it down 
 in the ground, clap his hat on the top of it, to 
 make it look like a chief mourner. It \vas a 
 beautiful sight!" 
 
 " But, Mike, if you indulge much longer in this 
 flattering recollection of your father, I'm afraid 
 we shall lose sight of the ghost entirely." 
 
 "No fear in life, your honor, I'm coming to him 
 now. Well, it was this w' ay it happened : In the 
 winter of the great frost, about forty -two or forty- 
 three 3^ ears ago, the ould priest of Tullough- 
 muray took ill and died ; he was sixty years- 
 priest of the parish, and mightily beloved by all 
 the people, and good reason for it ; a pleasanter 
 man and a more social crayture never lived : 
 'twas himself was the life of the whole country- 
 side. A wedding nor a christening wasn't lucky 
 av he wasn't there, sitting at the top of the table, 
 with as much kindness in his eye as w^ould 
 make the fortunes of twenty hypocrites, if they 
 had it among them. And then he was so good to 
 the poor ; the Prior}-^ was always full of ould men 
 
3l6 J^i-^U i^^^i''-^'^ ^ii'ith IrisJi Authors. 
 
 and ould women, sitting* around the big tire in the 
 kitchen, so that the cook could hardly get near it. 
 There they were eating their meals, and burning 
 their shins, till they were speckled like a trout's 
 back, and grum.bling all the time ; but Father 
 Dwyer liked them, and he would have them. 
 
 "'Where have they to go,' he'd say, 'av it 
 wasn't to me ? Give Molly Kinshela a lock of that 
 bacon, Tim, it's a cowld morning; will ye have a 
 taste of the ''dew" ? ' 
 
 ** Ah I that's the way he'd spake to them ; but 
 sure goodness is no warrant for living any more 
 than devilment ; and so he got cowld in his feet at 
 a station, and he rode home in the heavy snow 
 without his big coat — for he gave it away to a 
 blind man on the road — and in three daj'S he was 
 dead. 
 
 ** I see you're getting impatient ; so I'll not 
 stop to say what grief v/as in the parish wdien it 
 w^as known ; but troth there never was seen the 
 like before ; not a crayture would lift a spade for 
 two days, and there was more whiskey sold in that 
 time than at the whole spring fair. Well, on the 
 third day, the funeral set out, and never w^as the 
 equal of it in them parts : first, there was my 
 father; he came special from Cork with the six 
 horses all in new black and plumes like little 
 poplar trees; then came Father Dwyer, followed 
 by the two coadjutors in beautiful surplices, 
 walking bare-headed, v;ith the little boys of the 
 Prioiv school, two and two." 
 
The GJiost. 317 
 
 '* Well, Mike, I'm sure it was very fine ; but for 
 heaven's sake spare me all these descriptions, and 
 get on to the ghost !" 
 
 *' Faith, your honor's in a great hurry for the 
 ghost; may be you won't like him when ye have 
 him, but I'll go faster if you please. Well, Father 
 Dwyer, ye see, was born at Aghan-lish, of an ould 
 family, and he left it in his will that he Avas to be 
 buried in the family vault ; and, as Aghan-lish 
 was eighteen miles up the mountains, it was 
 getting late when they drew near. By that time, 
 the great procession was all broke up and gone 
 home. The coadjutors stopped to dine at the 
 ' Blue Bellows' at the crossroads; the little boys 
 took to pelting snow-balls ; there was a fight or 
 two on the way besides ; and, in fact, except an ouid 
 deaf fellow that my father took to mind the 
 horses, he was quite alone. Not that he minded 
 that same; tor, when the crowd was gone, my 
 father began to song, and tould the deaf chap that 
 it was a lamentation. At last they came in sight 
 of Aghan-lish. It was a lonesome, melancholy- 
 looking place, \vith nothing near it except two or 
 three ould fir-trees, and a small slated house with 
 one window, where 'the sexton lived, and even 
 that same was shut up, and a padlock on the door. 
 Well, my father was not over much pleased at 
 the look of matters ; but, as he was never hard 
 put to what to do, he managed to get the coffin 
 into the vestry ; and then, when he unharnessed 
 the horses, he sent the deaf fellow with them 
 
3 1 8 Half Hours with Irish A uthors. 
 
 down to the village to tell the priest that the 
 corpse was there, and to come up early in the 
 morning amd perform INIass. The next thing to 
 do was to make himself comfortable for the night; 
 and then he made a roaring fire on the old hearth 
 ^for there was plenty of bog-fir there— closed the 
 windows with the black cloaks, and, wrapping 
 two round himself, he sat down to cook a little 
 supper he brought with him in case of need. 
 
 " Well, 3'ou may think it w^as melancholy 
 enough to pass the night up there alone, with a 
 corpse in an old ruined church in the middle of 
 the mountains, the wind howling about on every 
 side, and the snowdrift beating against the walls ; 
 but, as the fire burned brightly, and the little 
 plate of rashers and eggs smoked temptingly be- 
 fore him, my father mixed a jug of the strongest 
 punch, and sat down as happy as a king. As long 
 as he was eating away he had no time to be 
 thinking of anything else ; but, when all was done, 
 and he looked about him, he began to feel very 
 low and melancholy in his heart. There was the 
 great black coffin on three chairs in one corner; 
 and then the mourning-cloaks that he had stuck 
 up against the windows moved backward and for- 
 vv^ard like living things ; and outside the wild 
 cry of the plover as he flew past, and the night- 
 owl sitting in a nook of the old church. ' I wish 
 it was morning, anyhow^* said my father; 'for 
 this is a lonesome place to be in ; and, faix, he'll 
 be a cunning fellow that catches me passing the 
 
The Ghost. 319 
 
 night this way again.' Now, there was one thing 
 distressed him most of all : my father used always 
 to make fun of the ghosts and sperits the neigh- 
 bors would tell of, pretending there was no such 
 thing; and now the thought came to him, 'May 
 be they'll revenge themselves on me to-night, 
 when they have me up here alone.' And with that 
 he made another jug stronger than the first, and 
 tried to remember a few prayers in case of need ; but 
 somehow his mind was not too clear, and he said 
 afterwards he was always mixing up ould songs 
 and toasts with the prayers, and, when he thought 
 he had just got hold of a beautiful psalm, it would 
 turn out to be ' Tatter Jack Walsh,' or * Limping' 
 James,' or something like that. The storm, mean- 
 while, was rising every moment, and parts of the 
 old abbey were falling, as the wind shook the ruin ; 
 and my father's sperits, notwithstanding the 
 punch, were lower than ever. 
 
 '■^ * I made it too v/eak,' said he, as he set to work 
 on a new jorum ; and troth this time that was not 
 the fault of it, for the first sup nearly choked him. 
 
 ** * Ah ! ' said he now, ' I knew what it was ; this 
 is like the thing ; and, Mr. Free, you are begin- 
 ning to feel easy and comfortable ; pass the jug; 
 your very good health and song. I'm a little 
 hoarse, it's true, but if the compan}^ will ex- 
 cuse — ' 
 
 " And then he beg'an knocking on the table 
 with his knuckles, as if there was a room full of 
 people asking him to sing. In short, my father 
 
320 IJalf Hours with Irish Authors. 
 
 was drunk as a fiddler; the last brew finished 
 him ; and he began roaring away all kinds of 
 droll songs, and telling all manner of stories, as if 
 he was at a great party. 
 
 " While he was capering this way about the 
 room, he knocked down his hat, and with it a pack 
 of cards he put into it before leaving home, for he 
 was mighty fond of a game. 
 
 *' * Will ye take a hand, Mr. Free?' said he, as he 
 gathered them up and sat down beside the fire. 
 
 " * I'm convanient,' said he, and began dealing 
 out as if there was a partner fornenst him. 
 
 " When my father used to get this far in the 
 story, he became very confused. He says that once 
 or twice he mistook the liquor, and took a pull at 
 the bottle of potteen instead of the punch ; and 
 the last thing he remembers was asking poor 
 Father Dwyer if he would draw near to the fire, 
 and not be lying there near the door. 
 
 *' With that he slipped down on the ground, 
 and fell fast asleep. How long he lay that way 
 he could never tell. When he awoke and looked 
 up, his hair nearly stood on end with fright. 
 What do you think he seen fornenst him, sitting 
 at the other side of the fire, but Father Dwyer 
 himself; there he was, divil a lie in it, wrapped 
 up in one of the mourning-cloaks, trying to warm 
 his hands at the fire. 
 
 ** ' Salve hoc 7iomine patri T said my father, cross- 
 ing himself. ' Av it's your ghost, God presarve 
 me!' 
 
TJie Ghost, 321 
 
 ** ' Good-evening t'ye, IMr. Free,' said the ghost; 
 'and, av I might be bould, what's in the jug?* 
 For, ye see, my father had it under his arm fast, 
 and never let it go when he was asleep. 
 
 '* ^ Pater noster qui es in — potteen, sir,* said my 
 father, for the ghost didn't look pleased at his 
 talking Latin. 
 
 *' ' Ye might have the politeness to ax if one had 
 a mouth on him,' then says the ghost 
 
 ' "■ Sure I didn't think the like of you would 
 taste sperits.' 
 
 '' * Try me,' said the ghost ; and with that he 
 filled out a glass, and tossed it oft' like a Chris- 
 tian. 
 
 *' * Beamish !' says the ghost, smacking his lips. 
 
 " * The same,' says my father ; ' and sure what's 
 happened you has not spoilt your taste ?' 
 
 '' * If you'd mix a little hot,' says the ghost, ' Fm 
 thinking it would be better ; the night is mighty 
 sevare.* 
 
 ** * Anything that your reverence pleases,' says 
 my father, as he began to blow up a good fire to 
 boil the water. 
 
 •' 'And what news is stirring?' says the ghost. 
 
 " * Devil a word, your reverence ; your own 
 funeral was the only thing doing last week. Times 
 is bad ; except the measles, there's nothing in our 
 parts.' 
 
 *' ' And we're quite dead hereabouts too,' says 
 the ghost. 
 
 '"There's some of us so, anyhow,' says my 
 
322 Half Hours zvith Irish Authors. 
 
 father, with a sly look. ' Taste that, your reve- 
 rence.' 
 
 " ' Pleasant and refreshing/ says the ghost. 
 *x\nd now, IMr. Free, what do you say to a little 
 spoil five, or beggar my neighbor ?' 
 
 "■ 'What will we play for?' says my father; for 
 a thought just struck him — * May be it's some 
 trick of the devil to catch my soul.' 
 
 '' ' A pint of Beamish,* sa3'S the ghost. 
 
 *' ' Done,' says my father ; * cut for deal — the 
 ace of clubs — you have it' 
 
 ** Now% the whole time the ghost was dealing 
 the cards my father never took his eyes off of 
 him, for he wasn't quite asy in his mind at all; 
 but when he saw him turn up the trump, and take 
 a strong drink afterwards, he got more at ease, 
 and began the game. 
 
 '' How long they played it was never rightly 
 known ; but one thing is sure, they drank a cruel 
 deal of spirits ; three quart bottles my father 
 brought with him were all finished, and by that 
 time his brain was so confused with the liquor 
 and all he lost — for somehow he never won a 
 game — that he was getting very quarrelsome. 
 
 "■ * You have your own luck of it,' says he at 
 last. 
 
 '* * True for you ; and, besides, we pla_^r a great 
 deal where I come from.' 
 
 '' ' I've heard so/ says my father. * I lead the 
 knave, sir, spades ; bad cess to it, lost again !' 
 
 *' Now% it was really very distressing; for, by 
 
TIic Ghost. 323 
 
 this time, though they only began for a pint of 
 Beamish, my father went on betting till he lost 
 the hearse and all the six horses, mourning-cloaks, 
 plumes, and everything. 
 
 " ' Are you tired, Mr. Free? May be you'd like 
 to stop ?' 
 
 '' ' Stop ! faith it's a nice time to stop ; of course 
 not.' 
 
 *' ' Well, what will ye play for now?* 
 
 *' The way he said these words brought a trem- 
 bling all over my father, and his blood curdled in 
 his heart. ' O murther !' says he to himself. ' It's 
 my sowl he is wanting all the time.' 
 
 '' ' I've mighty little left,' says my father, look- 
 ing at him keenly, while he kept shuffling, the 
 cards quick as lightning. 
 
 " * Mighty little ; no matter, we'll give you 
 plenty of time to pay, and, if you can't do it, it 
 shall never trouble you as long as you live.' 
 
 *' ' O you murthering devil!' says my father, 
 flying at him with a spade that he had behind his 
 chair. * I've found you out.' 
 
 ''With one blow he knocked him down; and 
 now a terrible fight began, for the ghost was very 
 strong too ; but my father's blood was up, and 
 he'd hav" ■"need the devil himself then. They 
 rolled over each other several times, the broken 
 bottles cutting them to pieces, and the chairs and 
 tables crashing under them. At last the ghost 
 took the bottle that lay on the hearth, and level- 
 led my father to the ground with one blow ; down 
 
324 ^^(^^f Hours luitJi Irish AntJio) s. 
 
 he fell, and the bottle and the whiskey were both 
 dashed into the lire ; that w^as the end of it, for 
 the ghost disappeared that moment in a blue 
 flame that nearl}^ set fire to my father as he lay on 
 the floor. 
 
 '' Och ! it was a cruel sight to see him next 
 morning, with his cheek cut open, and his hands 
 all bloody, Ij^ing there by himself; all the broken 
 glass and the cards all round him ; the coffin, too, 
 was knocked down off the chair ; may be the ghost 
 had trouble getting into it. However that was, 
 the funeral w^as put off for a day, for my father 
 couldn't speak ; and as for the sexton, it was a 
 queer thing, but when they came to call him in 
 the morning he had two black eyes, and a gash 
 over his ear, and he never knew how he got 
 them. It was easy enough to know the ghost 
 did it ; but my father kept the secret, and never 
 told it to an}^ man, Avoman, or child in them parts." 
 
SERVING A WRIT. 
 
 THE way of it was this, said Major O'Shaugh- 
 nessy : my father, who, for reasons registered 
 ill the King's Bench, spent a great many j^ears of 
 his life in that part of Ireland geographically 
 known as lying west of the law, was obliged for 
 certain reasons of family to come up to Dublin. 
 This he proceeded to do with due caution ; two 
 trusty servants formed an advance guard, and 
 patrolled the country for at least five miles in 
 advance ; after them came a skirmishing body of 
 a few tenants, who, for the consideration of never 
 paying rent, would have charged the whole Court 
 of Chancery, if needful. My father himself, in an 
 old chaise, victualled like a fortress, brought up 
 the rear ; and, as I said before, he was a bold man 
 who would have attempted to have laid siege to 
 him. As the column advanced into the enemy's 
 country, they assumed a closer order, the patrol 
 and the picket falling back upon the main body ; 
 and in this way they reached that most interesting 
 city called Kilbeggan. What a fortunate thing it 
 is for us in Ireland that we can see so much of the 
 world without foreign travel, and that any gen- 
 tlemen for six and eightpence can leave Dublin in 
 
326 Half I I ours zvitk Irish Author s. 
 
 the morning- and visit Timbuctoo against dinner- 
 time ! Don't stare ! it's truth I'm telling ! For 
 dirt, miser3% smoke, unaffected behavior, and black 
 faces, ril back Kilbeggan against all Africa. 
 Free-and-easy, pleasant people ye are, with a skin 
 as begrimed and as rugged as your own potatoes ! 
 But to resume. The sun was just rising in a deli^ 
 cious morning of June, when my father — whose 
 loyal antipathies I have mentioned made him also 
 an earlier riser — was preparing for the road. A 
 •stout escort of his followers were as usual under 
 arms to see him safe in the chaise, the passage to 
 and from which every day being the critical 
 moment of my father's life. 
 
 " It's all right, your honor," said his own man, 
 as, armed with a blunderbuss, he opened the bed- 
 room door. 
 
 "Time enough, Tim," said my father; "close 
 the door, for I haven't finished my breakfast." 
 
 NoAV, the real truth was that my father's atten- 
 tion was at that moment withdrawn from his own 
 concerns by a scene which was taking place in a 
 field beneath his window. 
 
 But a few minutes before a hack-chaise had 
 stopped upon the roadside, out of which sprang 
 three gentlemen, who, proceeding to the field, 
 seemed bent upon something which, whether a 
 survey or a duel, my father could not make out. 
 He was not long, however, to remain in igno- 
 rance. One, with an easy, lounging gait, strode 
 toward a distant corner, another took an opposite 
 
Sei'ving a Writ, 327 
 
 direction, while the third, a short, pursy gentle- 
 man, in a red handkerchief and a rabbit-skin 
 waistcoat, proceeded to open a mahogany box, 
 which, to the critical eyes of my respected father, 
 was agreeably suggestive of bloodshed and 
 murder. 
 
 ** A duel, by Jupiter ! " said my father, rubbing 
 his hands. " What a heavenly morning the 
 scoundrels have — not a leaf stirring, and a sod like 
 a billiard-table !" 
 
 Meanv/hile, the little man who officiated as 
 second, it would appear, to both parties bustled 
 about with activity little congenial to his shape ; 
 and, what between snapping the pistols, examin- 
 ing the flints, and ramming down the charges, had 
 got himself into a sufficient perspiration before he 
 commenced to measure out the ground. 
 
 ^' Short distance and no quarter!" shouted one 
 of the combatants from the corner of the field. 
 
 ** Across a handkerchief, if you like ! " roared 
 the other. 
 
 ** Gentlemen every inch of them ! " responded 
 my father. 
 
 "■ Twelve paces ! " cried the little man ; ** no 
 more and no less. Don't forget that I am alone 
 in this business! " 
 
 ** A very true remark," observed my father ; 
 "and an awkward predicament yours will be if 
 they are both shot ! " 
 
 By this time the combatants had taken their 
 places, and the little man, liaving delivered the 
 
328 Half Hours ivitJi Irish Authors. 
 
 pistols, was leisurely retiring- to give the word. 
 My father, however, whose critical eye was never 
 at fault, detected a circumstance which promised 
 an immense advantage to one at the expense of 
 the other ; in fact, one of the parties was so placed 
 with his back to the sun that his shadow extended 
 in a straight line to the very foot of his antago- 
 nist. 
 
 ''Unfair! unfair!" cried my father, opening 
 the window as he spoke, and addressing himself 
 to him of the rabbit-skin. '' I crave your pardon 
 for the interruption," said he, '' but I feel bound 
 to observe that that gentleman's shadow is likely 
 to be made a shade of him." 
 
 "And so it is," observed the short man; "a 
 thousand thanks for your kindness ; but the truth 
 is I am totally unaccustomed to this kind of 
 thing, and the affair will not admit of delay." 
 
 '' Not an hour ! " said one. 
 
 ** Not five minutes ! " growled the other of the 
 combatants. 
 
 '' Put them up north and south !" said my father. 
 
 "Is it thus?" 
 
 *' Exactly so ; but nov/ again the gentleman in 
 the brown coat is covered with the ash-tree." 
 
 "And so he is !" said rabbit-skin, wiping his 
 forehead with agitation. 
 
 '* Move them a little to the left," said he. 
 
 "That brings me upon an eminence," said the 
 gentleman in blue. " I'll be d — d if I'll be made a 
 cock-shot of." 
 
SiTvifig a Writ. 329 
 
 ** What an awkward little thing it is in the 
 hairy waistcoat ! " said my father. *' He's lucky 
 if he don't get shot himself." 
 
 *' May I never! if I'm not sick of you both ! " 
 ejaculated rabbit-skin, in a passion. *' I've moved 
 you round every point of the compass, and the 
 devil a nearer we are than ever." 
 
 ^* Give us the word ! " said one. 
 
 *' The word ! " 
 
 " Downright murder ! " said my father. 
 
 '* I don't care," said the little man ; " we shall 
 be here till doomsday." 
 
 " I can't permit this," said my father. '* Allow 
 me — " So sajdng, he stepped upon the window- 
 sill, and leaped down into the field. 
 
 *' Before I can accept of your politeness," said 
 he of the rabbit-skin, '' may I beg to know your 
 name and position in society ? " 
 
 ** Nothing more reasonable," said my father. 
 " I'm Miles O'Shaughnessy, Colonel of the Royal 
 Raspers; here is my card." 
 
 The piece of pasteboard was complacently 
 handed from one to the other of the party, who 
 saluted my father with a smile of most courteous 
 benignity. 
 
 *' Colonel O'Shaughnessy," said one. 
 
 " Miles O'Shaughnessy," said another. 
 
 " Of Killinahoula Castle," said the third. 
 
 •* At your service," said my father, bowing, as 
 he presented his snuff-box ; *'■ and now to business, 
 if you please, for my time also is limited." 
 
330 Half HoKf's zciih Irish Authors, 
 
 " V^ery true/' observed he of the rabbit-skin ; 
 ** and, as you observe, now to business ; in virtue 
 of which. Colonel Miles O'Shaughnessy, I hereby 
 arrest you in the king's name. Here is the writ ; 
 it's at the suit of Barnaby Kelly of Loughrea, for 
 the sum of ^1,583 19s. 7>^d., which — " 
 
 Before he could conclude the sentence, my 
 father discharged one obligation by implanting 
 his closed knuckles in his .face. The blow, well 
 aimed and well intentioned, sent the little fellow 
 somerseting like a sugar hogshead. But, alas ! it 
 was of no use ; the others, strong and able-bodied, 
 fell both upon him, and after a desperate struggle 
 succeeded in getting him down. To tie his 
 hands and convey him to the chaise was the 
 work of a few moments ; and, as my father drove 
 by the inn, the last object which caught his view 
 was a bloody encounter between his own people 
 and the mj^rmidons of the law, who in great num- 
 bers had laid siege to the house during his cap- 
 ture. Thus was my father taken ; and thus, in 
 reward for yielding to a virtuous weakness in his 
 character, was he consigned to the ignominious 
 durance of a prison. Was I not right, then, in 
 saying that such is the melancholy position of 
 our countr\', the most beautiful traits in our char- 
 acter are converted into the elements of ruin? 
 
.''.'"""^..^^ CONGRESS 
 
 017 037 474 5