UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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 YOURSELF 
 AND THE NEIGHBOURS
 
 Other Books by the Same Author 
 
 IN CHIMNEY CORNERS 
 
 DONEGAL FAIRY STORIES 
 
 THE RED POACHER 
 
 A LAD OF THE O'FRIELS 
 
 DR. KILGANNON 
 
 BALLADS OF A COUNTRY BOY 
 
 THE HARD-HEARTED MAN 
 
 WOMAN OF SEVEN SORROWS
 
 *Hp»*a r Fock-fx-rv- 
 
 HE ASKED THE MASTHER TO '"GIVE YOU MIMORY" 
 
 (page is)
 
 YOURSELF 
 
 AND THE NEIGHBOURS 
 
 BY 
 SEUMAS MacMANUS 
 
 Author of "A Lad of the O'Friels," "In Chimney Corners, 
 
 "The Red Poacher," "Donegal Fairy Stories," 
 
 "Ballads of a Country Boy," etc. 
 
 Illustrations By 
 
 THOMAS FOGARTY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE DEVIN-ADAIR COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 COPYRIGHT 1914, BY 
 
 THE DEVIN-ADAIR COMPANY 
 
 First Printing, September 26, 1914 
 
 Second Printing, December 7, 1914 
 
 Third Printing, Christmas Eve, I9'4 
 
 Fourth Printing, January, 1915 
 
 Fifth Printing, February, 1915 
 
 Sixth Printing, May, 1915 
 
 Seventh Printing, December, 1915 
 
 Eighth Printing, November, 1916 
 
 • * * 
 
 ,.••*••' • « ••• '• i • ' - « 
 
 «•••»*•' ••*••# • • , • * * * • • • 
 
 . •. ■•*,♦. .* •• • .* • •«•«•• • • • * • . 
 
 ., ..*,•»•• • •. •• . • •••
 
 T 
 <bO' 
 
 V. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Yourself and Herself page 
 
 I. In Barefoot Time n 
 
 II. Your Courtin' Days 29 
 
 III. Your Weddin' 46 
 
 IV. When A Man's Married 65 
 
 V. Evening's Quiet End 79 
 
 The Lore You Loved 95 
 
 The Priest's Boy 105 
 
 When Greek Meets Greek 112 
 
 But When Greek Meets Tartar . . . .118 
 
 Your Postmistress 126 
 
 The Bachelors of Braggy 134 
 
 The Masther 147 
 
 A Day in the Bog 171 
 
 The Bacach 178 
 
 The Conquest of Killymard 188 
 
 Denis a-Cuinn and the Grey Man . . . 196 
 
 The Come-Home Yankee 209 
 
 The Gentle People 232 
 
 Gentle — And Something Besides .... 247 
 
 When the Tinkers Came 262 
 
 The Tales You Told 270 
 
 When God Sent Sunday ...... 293 
 
 188611
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 He asked the Masther to "give you mimory" 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Your Weddin' 50 
 
 "I think m be a Masther" .... 148 
 
 "Spell bomber gladoflim flastif amnio quentiali- 
 
 ties" 164 
 
 You were the cynosure of all admiring eyes 222
 
 "The pages of this book you would make 
 musical by naming on the very first 
 the name of 
 
 Catalma 
 
 who once , from out of the wide un- 
 known beyond Cruach Ghorm s pur- 
 pled peaks, dawned on your grey 
 dream-world of Knockagar, laying a 
 magic light upon the moors, and rim- 
 ming the hills with a golden glow, and 
 for whom now moor and mountain 
 fondly yearn , crying: "Come, a run! 
 and be one of the blessed, the Neigh- 
 bours." 
 
 Donegal, Summer, f<? 13.
 
 OVER THE HALF-DOOR 
 
 IF a stranger looked over your half-door, he 
 would see something to interest and please, 
 even, maybe, to inspire and elevate him. For he 
 would find that your lives are not as barren as your 
 bogs, or your nature quite as rude as your hills. 
 Indeed, he might be led to think that — maybe in 
 obedience to the beautiful law of compensation — 
 an inverse ratio ruled these relations. 
 
 It is now a long time since first your people 
 were given choice of fertility of soil or of soul, — 
 and took the latter. And many times since were 
 they tested, but every time they chose what you 
 think was the wiser part. Owen a-Gallagher used 
 to say: "Cromwell commanded us to Hell or 
 Connaught. We took Connaught, and left Hell to 
 himself." 
 
 The Cromwells conquered your bodies only. 
 Among the moors and bogs to which your fathers, 
 — with their fellows, the wolves — were driven, 
 hunted and starving, they reared palaces of beauty 
 imperishable. And with humour from Heaven 
 God lightened their lives. In the head of the toad 
 they found the jewel — and handed it on to you, 
 their heir. If one lived your life for a day, one 
 would joyfully realize this. 
 
 Here you give the world a hasty glance over 
 
 [9]
 
 OVER THE HALF-DOOR 
 
 your half-door. But, let it bring sympathy to the 
 study, and it will see very much more than is shown. 
 And, if it like your homely life, let it come again 
 some other day, and learn more, and love more. 
 You will put before it fdilte a's fiche — a welcome 
 and twenty. And maybe lift the half-door. 
 
 [10]
 
 Yourself and the Neighbours 
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 I. IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 FROM the outshot bed adjoining the kitchen 
 fire — a bed that never contained less than 
 three or more than five — you, because you had 
 reached the care-burdened age of eight, tumbled 
 just at the screek o' day, when your mother, the 
 first in the house to stir, was poking last night's 
 coals from the ashes in which they had been raked, 
 building them on the hearth, and piling black turf 
 around them — to make a big, roaring, blazing fire 
 on which would boil the pot for your morning's 
 stirabout. When you had carried in a creel of turf 
 for your mother, and brought her a go of water 
 from the garden well, and she had rewarded you 
 with a fadge of unbuttered oaten bread — surrep- 
 titiously, because it would never do for either your 
 father, or the bunch who were still in the outshot 
 bed sleeping with one eye open, to know — you 
 took a grown man's stick in your fist and drove 
 
 [ii]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 Branny and Spreckly to the Daisy Park, there to 
 herd them from the corn patch till a late break- 
 fast hour. If the morning was a frosty one, 'twas 
 biting indeed for your poor bare feet ; and you must 
 be ever moving to keep the little feet from crying. 
 Or, if you dared rest a while, you had to do the 
 goose — one foot drawn under you, and one only 
 on the inhospitable ground. And you favoured 
 them turn and turn about. If it was a morning 
 that poured torrents of rain, or one that breathed 
 a stepmother's breath from the north, you brought 
 old sacks and a couple of sticks, and, with the aid 
 of a friendly whinbush on the fence side, made a 
 haven that was truly a heaven. What exquisite 
 joy to watch from your Elysian shelter, where you 
 hugged yourself in selfish comfort, the blackheads, 
 and cunnellans, and heather-tops and long grass- 
 tufts, bending and swaying fearfully beneath the 
 foot of the ravager! and Branny and Spreckly, 
 their shoulders to the wind that threatened to blow 
 tails and horns off them, sedulously cropping the 
 niggard blades to make milk for the stirabout 
 which, by anticipation, even now made the mouth 
 of the hungry boy water! Of course there were 
 magic mornings on the moors likewise, when, 
 standing by your cows' tails, you, with eyes widen- 
 ing in wonder, watched the red sun roll over the 
 shoulder of Barnes Mor and reveal an Eden that, 
 
 [12]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 you were falsely told, had long, long ago been lost. 
 But every kind of morning, of those that you 
 herded upon the great wild moor, had for you a 
 mystery, an awe, or a delight of its own. Some- 
 times, in fact, steeped in wonder, or lost in rapture, 
 you so far forgot yourself that you even ceased 
 counting the minutes till the call should come for 
 breakfast. 
 
 But what a raid you, savagely ravenous, did 
 make on the stirabout-pot then ! No prince or po- 
 tentate in all the wide world made such a luxuri- 
 ously gluttonous breakfast ! And sure in all the 
 wide world, there was no dish whose delights could 
 equal oaten stirabout with the small sup of new 
 milk that your mother granted you, and the big 
 bowl of freshly churned buttermilk — no dish at 
 all, at all! Except, of course, tea with buttered 
 farls of hard bread. But then, this was a feast 
 that you felt even princes didn't get from their 
 mothers except on extraordinary occasion as a re- 
 ward for service rare — maybe finding the nest of 
 the errant duck who had been laying abroad for 
 three weeks. And always, here with a little ache 
 at your heart, you recall that sad, sad morn on 
 which, just as you had concluded a more than us- 
 ually gluttonous gorge of a more than usually rav- 
 enous boy, your mother suddenly and unexpectedly 
 set before you a lake of tea and a mountain of but- 
 tered farls ! Tears throng your eyes again remem- 
 
 [13 J
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 bering how you laid your child-head on the impos- 
 sible banquet-board and sobbed heartbreakingly. 
 You travelled three miles to school every day — 
 if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, the school 
 was five miles from you, or six. But what, after all, 
 did a few miles less or more matter to you, who 
 could, like a hare, scud the moors and bogs and 
 hills and dales that lay between. The school was 
 even a bigger thatched house than your father's — 
 eight or nine steps long and four or five steps wide, 
 and the eaves higher than a man's head — into 
 which were packed ninety-nine other youngsters — 
 all of you, if the day was wet, drenched to the 
 skin, yet larking and light-hearted, and all of you 
 bawling together at the top of your voices, every- 
 one a different thing, and the master outbawling 
 the whole hundred of you. Even if it was your 
 first coming to school, there was no missing your 
 goal, for you heard it four hills away. At first 
 though, your elder brother, if you had one, or else 
 Michael Hegarty's son Denis, carried you most of 
 the way on his back, your two feet stuck into his 
 pockets — which made comfortable stirrups — and 
 your arms round his neck : except on your very, very 
 first day — when 'twas your father who carried you 
 thither, and soothed you, when perturbed natu- 
 rally at sight of the great big, big house with a 
 window for every day in the week, and a roof on 
 which even your great father could barely lay his 
 
 [14]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 hand, and who led you up to the awe-striking man 
 with spectacles, and requested him to make a 
 schoolmaster or a priest out of you, and assured 
 him that you had a great headpiece entirely, and 
 would confound him some day in front of his 
 scholars if he didn't be on his guard; and asked 
 him to "give you mimory," and besought him to 
 teach you Tare and Tret, and the Double Rule 
 o' Three, and finally patted you on the head, and 
 said "God bless ye, Johnneen, and be a good boy, 
 and learn your spellin's and your sums, and the 
 Masther '11 make a man out o' ye." The Master, 
 then, led you to the fire, dispersed at the point of 
 the cane half a score young rascals who, seated on 
 the bare floor around it, had been pommelling one 
 another, cracking their jokes and acting their an- 
 tics — and, seating you in solitary glory on a pile of 
 books by the hearth, told you to fetch under your 
 arm every morning two turf, your daily contribu- 
 tion to the fire, and in your hand every Monday a 
 penny, your weekly contribution to him. 
 
 Immediately the Master left you, your school 
 career began, for a gearsun came up the floor on 
 his stomach (so that the Master might not see 
 him) to know if you would fight Micky Turn- 
 money. To be sure, you never heard of Micky 
 Tummoney before, and knew not whether he was 
 the size of a house or a mouse; but long before 
 you came to school, you learned what manliness 
 
 [15]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 was: so you promptly signed articles to fight Micky 
 Tummoney — or, failing him, any taker — after 
 school in the Square Park. And then you saw the 
 apostle of sport continue his grovelling pilgrimage 
 under the desks, from one prospective pugilist to 
 another, arranging the daily battle list. 
 
 Your lunch you called your bit. It was a hunk 
 of oaten bread or, in poorer times, india-bread — 
 that your mother crammed into your pocket before 
 leaving home. This effeminacy of a lunch you fol- 
 lowed until you knew better — that is to say, for a 
 fortnight. After that you either ate it, for con- 
 venience sake, on the way to school, or used it as 
 ammunition in a pelting match. If your fellows dis- 
 covered you eating, above all, a bit of the despised 
 india-bread at school, or shamefully concealing it 
 on your person, they sarcastically sang at you : 
 
 "Paddy, Paddy, India-buck! 
 With his tail tied up I" 
 
 and the deadly satire of this, your first introduction 
 to English poetry, had quick and decisive effect. 
 
 The first thing, then, that you learned at school, 
 was to despise your bit — your own bit, that is, for 
 it was a different matter, of course, if you were 
 able to possess yourself of some other body's. The 
 next was to despise slaps. For the severest cut of 
 the cane that your delinquency earned, or the Mas- 
 ter could give, you held out your little red palm 
 
 [16]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 with a stoic expression which opened to you the 
 doors of the hearts of all the brave bold fellows 
 in Cornamona School. Your hardihood, however, 
 had to stand its final test in the Square Park after 
 school was loosed. There, while the other pairs of 
 listed knights waited their turn, you planted your 
 black bare foot opposite Micky Tummoney's very 
 black bare foot, and the two of you glared at each 
 other — all the more fearfully because neither of 
 you knew what he was glaring about. As both of 
 you were dilatory about leading unprovoked hostil- 
 ities, anyone of a dozen obliging friends (agents 
 provocateurs) , always prompt to further a good 
 cause, extended a horizontal arm between you, say- 
 ing, "Who dar' spit over that?" when both of you, 
 instantaneously and simultaneously daring, gave 
 and got glorious cause for battle. The salivial in- 
 sult must immediately be wiped out — in blood or 
 mud ! Maybe the agent provocateur adopted, in- 
 stead, the effective plan of demanding: "Who'll 
 say bread?" drawing from both yourself and 
 Micky, in the one breath, "Bread !" "Then," would 
 Intermediary continue, this time indulging in poet- 
 ry, "pull three hairs out of his head." As bread and 
 head make poetry that even Tom Moore couldn't 
 beat, no young man of spirit dare shrink the log- 
 ical consequence of having uttered the first mystic 
 word. Accordingly, yourself and Micky made 
 
 [i7]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 desperate simultaneous effort to put the command 
 into execution: but like the greedy boy, who (as 
 you heard read in class that day) failed to get a 
 nut at all out of the narrow-necked jar, because he 
 grabbed too many, both of you were unsuccessful 
 in your praiseworthy efforts to satisfy the demands 
 of Poetry. But, no matter, the sought-for-end was 
 attained: Micky and you pounded each other 
 gloriously, reddening mouths and noses and black- 
 ening eyes, and forty times rolling over each other 
 in the mud in vain effort to strangle one the other — 
 just to make a Cornamona holiday. 
 
 After the single combats were pulled off to the 
 satisfaction of everyone concerned (except, of 
 course, the subjects), the battle royal began. When 
 sixty of you reached the Crossroads — at which 
 point you, the Back-o'-the-Hill boys, must take the 
 east road, and the Glens' boys the west, it was al- 
 ways tacitly understood that you should treat your- 
 selves to a farewell stoning match. From long and 
 careful practice every man on both sides was a 
 crack stone-thrower, and sure marksman whose 
 missile if it missed your head, you heard B-r-r-r! 
 fearfully in passing: just like Thady the Soldier 
 told of the cannon balls of his acquaintance in the 
 American war! You Back-o'-the-Hill boys gener- 
 ally prevailed over your enemies, for you were in- 
 domitable fellows. Yet the Glens' boys, winning 
 
 [18]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 admiration even in defeat, stubbornly disputed 
 every inch of the ground they yielded — and often- 
 times the battle lasted an hour, and covered two 
 miles, before retreat was turned into a rout, and 
 you, Back-o'-the-Hill boys, faced homeward, riot- 
 ously cheering, and heaving rocks at the defence- 
 less doors, or down the chimneys, of isolated cab- 
 ins, thereby winning lively company on the way — 
 for one ranting, raging, wrathful man pursued and 
 passed you on to the next — and the time was thus 
 cheerily whiled away along your whole line of 
 march. 'Twas glorious ! Going to school, in fact, 
 might well have been intolerable to you, if it hadn't 
 been for the coming home. 
 
 You were due at home at four o'clock: you ar- 
 rived at six — if you weren't a very bad boy. In 
 the latter case you came at seven — or after. From 
 four onward your father, whose persistent sim- 
 plicity of mind was marvellous, quitted his work in 
 the field every half hour and journeyed to the 
 house to enquire if "that natarnal young scoundrel 
 hasn't come yet, or what new divilment is he up to 
 the day?" (It should be remarked that he has now 
 given up the idea of making a priest out of you.) 
 Probably, if you didn't make a detour with two 
 comrades for a raid upon Jaimsy McGrath's bean- 
 field, it was your day for robbing Maura Mana- 
 ghan's orchard in Magher-a-more — for the blae- 
 
 [i9]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 berries on Slieve Cullion were long ago eaten, and 
 the nuts and sloes in Glen-na-madha not yet ripe. 
 Of course, Maura's apples weren't ripe either — 
 but, if you didn't thoughtfully take time by the 
 forelock, the rascals of Meenagran, or the hungry 
 young natives who inhabited the upper end of the 
 parish would have garnered the green harvest be- 
 fore you. All the bean-fields and orchard lands lay 
 in a Land of Promise five miles away; hardly a 
 hawthorn flourished in your bleak, black, upland 
 country. When the early harvest came, it required 
 assiduous attention, and careful planning, and an 
 efficient Bureau of Information on the comings and 
 goings of the enemy — the orchard-owners — else 
 yourself and comrades ran the risk of being cheated 
 of your yearly tribute, while the over-fed Bodachs 
 of the valley might actually enjoy their own fruit. 
 If, not having had the good luck to rob an orchard 
 or raid a bean-field, you had only been indulging 
 in acts of general wickedness which were their own 
 mere reward, you carried home a ravenous appe- 
 tite for the stack of potatoes that (by grace of a 
 long-suffering mother) were toasting in the ashes 
 for you, and which you kitchened with salt — or, if 
 the gods (and your mother) were particularly pro- 
 pitious, as once in a while was the case, a luxurious 
 blend of pepper and salt. And so intent were you 
 on filling yourself with the blissful banquet that 
 
 [20]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 the storm of your father's rebukes and threats 
 broke over your busy head in vain. 
 
 However, if, for once heeding an unreasonable 
 father's rebukes and threats, you travelled the three 
 miles from school in two hours, your pitiable re- 
 ward for this remarkable feat was to be condemned 
 to the slave galleys, breaking sheuchs or kibbing 
 potatoes, herding Branny and Spreckly, or pick- 
 ing stones in the meadow-field during all those 
 glorious evening hours that were never meant for 
 slaves — those hours when the song-birds taunted 
 you to find their nests, and the moor fowl crowed 
 over you, for now their eggs would go untouched, 
 and contemptuous comrades, passing with caman 
 on shoulder ironically invited you to the game in 
 the Rushy Meadow, where the Back-o'-the-Hill 
 was to engage the Mountain-Foot for the caman 
 championship, and your ears were offended by the 
 tantalizing bip ! of the handball on the Widow Bro- 
 gan's gable-end or by the hated cries of other com- 
 rades who, in fields just hid from view, indulged in 
 the delights of "Duck," "Steal the Caps," "Bar- 
 ney, Barney, Buck-and-Doe," or "Of all the Birds 
 o' the Air and all the Fishes o' the Say." You set 
 your teeth and went to work faster and faster, and 
 tried not to think too bitterly upon tyrant fathers 
 and the trampled rights of the weak! 
 
 If, however, you heard from the Rushy Meadow 
 
 [21]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 the MountaJn-Foot's triumphant shouts ring out too 
 loud and too often, and those of the Back-o'-the- 
 Hill's grow fainter and less frequent, 'tis ten to one 
 that, after a brave struggle to yield filial obedience 
 to a tyrant, human nature triumphed ; you spat upon 
 slavery and, answering duty's call, bounded into the 
 midst of your fellows with a wild huzza that rallied 
 the weakening host and rolled them on to their as- 
 tounded opponents with such irresistible swoop as 
 not merely recovered them — in less time than it 
 takes to tell it — all the vantage ground they had 
 lost, but actually won the day for them in a trail of 
 swift and lurid glory! 
 
 After that ecstatic hour 'twas just bliss to suffer 
 the heavy stick and the heavier tongue of a mad, 
 mad father. 
 
 Of course there were in those days things far 
 more dreaded than unreasonable fathers. If, un- 
 luckily, night fell on you and your comrades when 
 not yet in sight of home, 'twas a hair-raising ex- 
 perience to cross the Ainey Steps, where, twenty- 
 five years before, the ghost appeared to Neill Mc- 
 Rory — and took a bottle of whiskey from him ; or 
 to have to pass the Bearna Dearg where some one 
 or other saw a ghost every week; or, above all, the 
 Fairy Fort where you ran the dread risk of seeing 
 the Gentle People at their revels. Sooner than 
 encounter the perils of the Fairy Fort you made 
 
 [22]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 a wide detour, so that you could only just see afar 
 the fairy lights, and faintly hear their fairy music 
 and laughter. But the passage of the Bearna 
 Dearg, which you must come through, and of the 
 Ainey Steps which you had to cross, stilled the heart 
 in your breast, froze the marrow in your bones, and 
 temporarily turned every hair on your head into a 
 tenpenny nail. And in this time of terror all mor- 
 tal sins that stained your soul, from orchard-rob- 
 bing to gambling for horny-buttons, and fifty other 
 equally fearful crimes, cried loud upon your trail, 
 till anguishedly you vowed never, never more to 
 walk in sin — after nightfall. 
 
 When, by assiduously pursuing your varied call- 
 ings, you had converted your clothes into what your 
 mother termed "flitterjigs," and that patient par- 
 ent had ten times rebuilt them till at last no trace 
 of the original remained, your father ordered her 
 one day she was preparing to go to "the Town" 
 (mysterious Town), to fetch you home (O joy!) 
 the makings of a new suit ! Your poor mother had 
 innocently asked "What stuff?" and the cynical par- 
 ent retorted, "Cast iron, if ye can get it." But 
 'twas corduroy she got. And you, proud man, 
 brought the bundle under your arm to Taig the 
 Tailor and got measured for a new investment, and 
 the finished suit promised — O tailor's promises ! — 
 for Sathurda' night. You thereafter learned, in 
 
 [23]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 soreness of spirit, the wherefore of the nickname 
 by which Taig was known to the countryside — 
 "Taig Sathurda' Night." For the seven weeks that 
 followed Taig's putting the tape on you, you might 
 be said to have been an inmate of his household; 
 for, if you weren't there in person (and 'twas rare- 
 ly you weren't), you were surely there in spirit. 
 And oh ! the bitter Sathurda' nights that were yours 
 ere yet that suit was begun, and the tedious, tedious 
 weeks, black days and dreary nights until, at last, 
 just when creation was on the verge of cataclysm, 
 your bundle of corduroy, grateful smelling, was 
 opened and spread upon Taig's board, and he 
 took chalk and shears and tape to aid him in the 
 mapping of your anatomy. During the making of 
 the suit, you watched every single stitch that Taig 
 drew, and every snip that he snipped. Never was 
 bridal raiment so ardently longed for, so sedulously 
 watched in development, or so ecstatically fondled 
 as was that suit of corduroys whose ravishing joys 
 put to shame the raptures of silk, or satin, or cloth 
 of gold. You invested yourself in the glorious 
 raiment then and there (making the change be- 
 hind a chair), just that Taig might satisfy himself 
 it was the best "shoot o' clothes" ever went from 
 his fingers. His wife Sally, with a prayer, sprinkled 
 it and you with holy water, and wished you your 
 health to wear it. "And," bitterly added your 
 
 [24]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 father, sotto voce, "tear it," as he counted down to 
 Taig four shillings for the making of it. Taig, 
 heartily wishing you health never to wear it, prayed 
 blessings on it and you, and, taking from the mis- 
 cellaneous collection of coins which formed your 
 father's payment a red penny, put it into the new 
 trousers' pocket — "just for luck." And for the 
 first time in all your life you swelled with that bliss- 
 ful feeling which only swells the breasts of bloated 
 capitalists. As you went home to your mother that 
 evening, only touching the ground in an odd place, 
 you knew not which was the greater joy — the sud- 
 den achievement of wealth or the new suit. The 
 new suit soon proved its surer claim, however; for, 
 like the spendthrift you were, the money was gone 
 in a week ! 
 
 You had heard of such a thing as a circus. Your- 
 self and comrades used to listen, awe-stricken and 
 fascinated, to the tradition that, a great number of 
 years before, when your fathers were boys, this 
 most wonderful and gorgeous thing, which it took 
 nine piebald horses to haul, and which was accom- 
 panied by a live camel with real humps, a learned 
 pig, and a monkey that was more than human, once 
 passed on the post-road seven miles away. Like 
 the comet, merely seen in passing, no one knew 
 whence it came or whither it went. Like the comet 
 too, it might some day re-appear, and again dis- 
 
 [25]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 appear into that mysterious space which repre- 
 sented the rest of the world to you. 
 
 On Sunday afternoons (for it was on a Sunday 
 afternoon, people said, the circus had before 
 passed) yourself and comrades frequently took the 
 seven miles' journey that brought you to the post 
 road. You travelled eagerly to the highest points 
 on that road, east and west, and strained your eyes 
 looking far off, and then knelt down and held your 
 ears to the ground — for Neill Moloney told you 
 that the rumbling of the great caravan was, in that 
 way, heard for two hours before it arrived and 
 for two hours after it passed ! Oftentimes, agree- 
 ing that you certainly did hear a great, distant, 
 rumbling, you sat down and waited and watched — 
 for hours and hours ! — even till fairy-time had 
 fallen, and finally even ghost-time, on a handful 
 of teeth-chattering heroes; but, alas! vain were the 
 sacrifice and suffering, for the circus never came! 
 Its rumbling must have come to your ears from 
 some more fortunate clime. And that reminded 
 you that you heard tell there were boys in America, 
 away over the sea — cousins of your own even — 
 who saw the circus passing almost every year of 
 their lives. Oh ! to have been your cousin in Amer- 
 ica then ! However, sure you had once again seen 
 the road where it passed. One cannot have the 
 universe. 
 
 [26]
 
 IN BAREFOOT TIME 
 
 And if you didn't see the circus, sure you saw 
 the Town — saw it when you were barely twelve 
 years of age. It would be literally correct for you 
 to say that you saw it at a little more than ten years 
 of age; for, yourself and the boys, after long talk- 
 ing about it, set out one Sunday after Mass, and 
 ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, — seeming to run 
 beyond the world entirely — till you reached the 
 crest of Killymard, and from there, sure enough, as 
 you had been advised, saw the sun glancing upon 
 a lot of things in the far distance — the roofs of the 
 Town-houses you were assured — roofs made of a 
 thing called slate on which the sun glimmered. 
 That was a thrilling sight; and it set some vague 
 thing stirring in your breast when later, away on 
 the lonely hills, you herded, and used to recall that 
 wonderful glancing and glimmering, like signals 
 beckoning you. Would you ever be in a town? 
 Would you ever live in a town? and be dressed in 
 shop cloth? and have shoes on your feet? and have 
 a hat? and a whole handful of pennies in your 
 pocket? Bah! that fancy of yours, wilful from 
 unbridled indulgence in those long, lonely hours 
 upon the hills and moors, badly needed curbing! 
 
 But, at twelve, your father let you go to the 
 Town with him one day, seating you on top of Jim- 
 miny Kelly's turf-cart. You didn't sleep any the 
 night before; and you were out of bed, and into 
 
 [27]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 your new suit, before the ring o' day showed in the 
 sky. It was going to be the day of your life. And 
 it was. On that day was lifted for you, as was not 
 yet for any of your comrades, the deep mystery 
 that had ever enveloped that wonderful thing, the 
 Town. There were houses and houses — and on 
 both sides of the road too! — not less than a hun- 
 dred houses you were sure! Fifty anyway. And 
 with upstairs in nearly every one of them. And 
 shops and shops. With windows, and things in the 
 windows — pipes and things — and balls, and sweets, 
 and tops, and things. Oh, to be a town-boy ! Every 
 day of one's life to come and stand all day looking 
 into the grand windows ! Maybe some day, like in 
 a story — and sure stories often have come true ! — 
 a great rich man or a prince would come along and 
 give you a penny, and you would buy balls and 
 sweets and tops with it, and marbles too. Without 
 your knowing it, your father came along, when 
 with hungry eyes you were devouring these treas- 
 ures, and he put his hand on your shoulder and 
 said: "Johnny a dhilis* I'm heart-sorry I haven't 
 a penny for to give you to buy marvels, or a ball, 
 but a dhilis, a dhilis, I cannot." Surprised at the 
 pitiful tenderness in his voice, you looked up quick- 
 ly, and saw there was something wet-like glinting in 
 his eye. You knew that his visit to the town was 
 
 ♦Pronounced a ycclish. 
 
 [28]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 for the purpose of begging the landlord (who lived 
 in the greatest, grandest house there) to grant him 
 sparin's for the rent till he should sell Spreckly 
 (poor Spreckly!) "Father, dear," you said while 
 some curious big raw thing got up in your throat, 
 "I wouldn't be bothered with balls, or marvels, or 
 them things." 
 
 A tear from your guardian angel, falling upon 
 the black lie's record, instantly transmuted it into a 
 shining golden truth ! 
 
 And that moment you ceased to be a child. 
 
 II. YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 Spreckley was not sold that time after all. 
 In the nick of time, by God's blessing, your 
 oldest brother Barney, who had been brought out 
 by Aunt Sheila to America — to Philadelphy — sent 
 home a monied letter with three pounds in it. And 
 Spreckly was saved. Then grateful hearts re- 
 joiced. 
 
 Nevertheless you had left childhood's dreams 
 behind. You were now in first grips with a grim 
 world. You had quitted school able to read, write, 
 and figure; and you were in the South Park plying 
 a spade between your father and your elder 
 brother, digging, foot for foot with each, man- 
 fully and well. You did all kinds of work on your 
 
 [29]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 father's little patch for three years — till younger 
 brothers were fit to take your place. 
 
 Then, on the morning of Old May Day* you 
 rose up very early, and took the hearty breakfast 
 which your mother had ready for you — tea and 
 bread and eggs on this momentous occasion. And 
 you tied up, in the large red handkerchief your 
 mother gave you, your sadly few little duds, shook 
 the hand of your father, who tried hard to say : 
 "God take care of you, boy!", took your mother's 
 blessing and the hot tear that she let fall on the 
 back of your hand, mumbled a promise not to for- 
 get her warnings or your prayers, reverently blessed 
 yourself as to a bountiful sprinkling of holy water 
 you crossed the threshold, set your bundle upon 
 your stick over your shoulder, and, too cowardly 
 to take even one backward glance at the mother 
 who, through mist of tears, watched you from the 
 door, faced the twenty mile tramp to the far town 
 of Donegal, where the Hiring Market was that 
 day held. 
 
 You were launched upon life now — at sixteen. 
 And many a long, long thought did your young 
 breast harbour on that memorable morning jour- 
 ney! And many and many a time did the longing 
 heart of you race back to the little thatched cabin 
 
 ♦Twelfth of May. We still observe the Old Calendar reckon- 
 ing for the more important of our local festivals. 
 
 [30]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 situated on the cold shoulder of Cornamona — race 
 back, and taking position in the chimney corner, 
 hungrily watch every move of father and mother, 
 sister, and little brothers ! 
 
 You found yourself in The Town — in the Mar- 
 ket Square — taking your place in the rows (which 
 lined both sides of the street) of boys and girls, all 
 with their little bundles in their hands, and each, 
 like yourself, an exile from his or her own loved 
 hillside or cherished glen. And men and women, 
 better dressed and fatter and rosier than you were 
 used to see, were walking back and forward in 
 front of you, viewing you up and down and at every 
 angle, and commenting pro bono publico upon your 
 possible virtues and certain defects. 
 
 These were your prospective masters and mis- 
 tresses — farmers and their wives from the rich 
 country beyond the hills. The town of Donegal 
 was built so close to the border line between hill 
 and plain that it naturally became the meeting 
 place and mart for mistress and maid, master and 
 man. 
 
 After critically viewing the whole line of boys 
 and girls, three or four times, and pausing in front 
 of you every time, a comfortable farmer and his 
 wife spoke to you at length, and invited you to 
 step out till they'd get a better look at you. And 
 when they had asked you what kinds of work you 
 
 [31]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 could do, and what was your ability (strength), 
 and whether you could milk twelve cows and churn 
 the produce, and mow and sow, and shear and 
 plough, set and dig, feed pigs and thresh the corn, 
 they requested your terms for the half-year till Old 
 Hallowday — with privilege of continuing the con- 
 tract, if you survived, and they liked you. You 
 asked six pounds, and they, professing shock, of- 
 fered four, and finally, after haggling for three 
 hours, and coming and going several times, and 
 getting a dozen different friends to help them pull 
 down your price, closed with you for five pounds 
 ten, with alternate Sundays and Holy Days free. 
 And on their car you, with your little bundle, were 
 borne that evening twenty miles further from the 
 home where your heart still stayed — the glad sight 
 of which could not greet your eyes for half a year 
 to come. 
 
 Weary was the work, and light the leisure, un- 
 der the roof of the stranger. You rose and began 
 your duties at five in the morning, and you ended 
 and went to bed at ten at night. You had mighty 
 few minutes to yourself in all that time. There 
 were no dances, no raffles, no weddings, no sprees, 
 no markets, no fairs, for you. Besides these 
 wealthy ones — worth a hundred pounds, if a penny 
 — who lived on the fertile plains, were not the same 
 at all as your own people of the stony hills. They 
 
 132]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 had mountains of money in the bank, but not a 
 mole-hill of merriment in their hearts. They wore 
 shop-cloth, and had a suit all for Sunday, and ate 
 great hearty meals, with either fish or meat to their 
 Sunday dinner always; but they never knew an idle 
 hour, nor could enjoy one if it was given them. 
 They were christened without sporting, married 
 without courting, and almost buried without wak- 
 ing. They were heathens — that was the short and 
 the long of it. Your time among them was a spell in 
 purgatory. You didn't feel yourself at all, and 
 groaned in bondage. But the five pounds ten helped 
 at home. And that made bondage bearable. Re- 
 joicing, you thanked Heaven with a full heart 
 when, at the end of two years, the call came for 
 you to return from captivity. Your two next- 
 younger brothers were now going to hire, your 
 elder brother had been taken away to the Land of 
 Promise — to Philadelphy — and your father needed 
 your help at home. 
 
 'Twas then the beginning of new life to you. 
 Everybody in all the countryside was poor enough 
 to be happy, and to take Sundays as days of peace, 
 and joy, and relaxation, and summer evenings and 
 winter nights for social intercourse and innocent en- 
 joyment. The poor boys and girls of home were 
 as merry-hearted as if money had never cursed the 
 world. Every boy of them had a Girl-of-his-heart 
 
 [33]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 — a cailin deas; and every girl had her Share-o'- 
 the-World. It was in the Spring — the glorious 
 Spring, when you came back from Babylon. And, 
 as if it were yesterday, you vividly remember those 
 glorious moonlight nights when, your day's work 
 done and your little supper dispatched, you walked 
 nightly with Nelly Caraban over the brow of 
 Knockagar to the boys' and girls' meeting-place on 
 the Glen Bridge — the Glen Bridge where three or 
 four roads casually came together, and, having 
 crossed it, just as casually wandered away again, 
 as though they had only come to see what the boys 
 and girls were about, anyhow. Though, you 
 sometimes thought they came there to give the boys 
 and girls who loved to saunter on them an excuse 
 for meeting at such a romantic spot as the Glen 
 Bridge. Trees grew there — both above and below 
 the bridge. A mysterious murmuring river that 
 you always heard crooning to itself some quaint 
 old tune ran far beneath, hidden for the 
 most part by the blackthorns and hawthorns, 
 and the hazels and hollies, which reached to one 
 another from bank to bank, trying to hide 
 it. But a glitter, a glance, and a gleam, here 
 and there, discovered the well-guarded one's where- 
 abouts. Pools by the Glen Bridge were trout- 
 ful, and the bushes were birdful, and all around 
 was a gentle charmed fairy haunt — fairies, the gen-^ 
 
 [34]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 tlest of the Gentle People, and most loving, who de- 
 lighted to see the boys and girls meet and mingle, 
 and the music of their merry hearts resound upon 
 the bridge. A fiddle or a flute was often in their 
 company. Sometimes a wandering bagpiper hap- 
 pened along, and underneath the arching trees, on 
 the moonlight mottled road, they danced the jig 
 and ran the reel to the magic of his piping. The 
 play of the moonlight on the rosy faces and black, 
 and fair, and red heads of the girls, was something 
 that might well entrance angels, let alone you and 
 the rest of the mountain mortals. Oh ! the beauty 
 of those moonlit evenings shining far down Mem- 
 ory's aisle with a light that can seldom be forgot- 
 ten and never effaced! The innocence of those 
 meetings and matings ! The joys of them ! Not 
 stingy was the world in bestowing delights on you 
 since then, but not all of these together — honey- 
 sweet though they have been — could equal the 
 charm unspeakable of those moonlight meetings on 
 the bridge of Glen Dreenan in the white, white 
 springtime — the springtime of your life and of 
 your love, as well as of the year. 
 
 The long, long summer gloamings that seemed 
 to have no ending were happy times for you upon 
 your hillsides. Especially happy was Midsummer 
 Night — Bonfire Night — when the boys and girls 
 from far and near gathered on the top of Drimag- 
 
 [35]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 ra and built a bonfire whose blaze was yearly seen 
 and praised by other bonfire companies fifty miles 
 afar. By the bonfire that night you danced with 
 the girl of your choice, sang songs to your heart's 
 content, and at midnight, taking up a burning 
 brand, described the charmed circle round the crops 
 and round the cattle, and round the houses where 
 Christians dwelt — a circle which for twelve months 
 was as wall of brass against all evil, ban and blight. 
 Often on the summer evenings you met the boys 
 at the cross roads, and tried leaps, and threw the 
 stone with them, till, after the cows were milked, 
 the bare-headed girls, in two's and three's, came 
 on the scene and the dance was begun. On Sun- 
 days, the moment Mass was over, with the breath- 
 less crowd you hurried to the handball court — 
 Peggy Quinn's gable — and you, the champion of 
 the upper end of the parish, engaged for the fifty- 
 fifth time Tim Griffin, the champion of the par- 
 ish's lower end; while all the parish ranged itself 
 around the three sides of the alley, alternately yell- 
 ing till you feared its lungs would crack, and hold- 
 ing its breath till there was danger of explosion, 
 and finally doing its endeavour to pull the arms out 
 of you under pretence of handshaking when you 
 had beaten Tim by a single ace. Or you produced 
 your caman, which, unregenerate that you were, 
 you had during Mass hidden in the long grass that 
 
 [36]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 grew on some poor devil's grave, and you joined 
 the team that was going to Glen Mor "to take the 
 consait out o' the Glen boys" who thought they 
 could play caman; though, maybe you returned 
 with the conceit clean knocked out of yourself — for 
 a week. You were fresh enough in the afternoon to 
 join the group of girls who gathered on the hillside 
 to bask in the sun and show their O-so-neat-and- 
 trig white linen dresses, and their O-so-beautifully- 
 combed-and-shining heads of hair, and sit and make 
 merry with these till the sun, who loved indulgently 
 to dally these summer Sunday evenings, felt com- 
 pelled at last to leave the scene. Across the valley 
 you heard the music of the young people's laughter 
 on the opposite hillside; and below, you could see 
 the courting pairs, like coupled sheep, sidling along 
 the path by the river's bank. When the gloaming 
 came, with a black-haired girl you took the path 
 yourself, and went down it as swift as a snail. Re- 
 turning again, alone, you walked briskly and 
 whistled light-heartedly. Another beautiful sum- 
 mer Sunday had ended, and you would have to be 
 afoot betimes in the morning, with the scythe on 
 your shoulder — for your father's meadow was now 
 ready for mowing. How is it anyhow, you won- 
 der, that thqre are now no Sundays like those 
 Sundays ! no Summers like those Summers ! or 
 Springs like those Springs ! How is it that the sun 
 
 [37] 
 
 18S611
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 does not shine so bright, or the moon so soft, any 
 longer, or that the gloaming does not fall so tar- 
 dily, or so soothingly, or so blissfully, or carry with 
 it the enchantment that those gloamings carried in 
 your courting days? You don't know how it is, of 
 course. But it is. 
 
 Well it cannot be helped ! I suppose sun and 
 moon and the world entire are all getting old and 
 careworn. 
 
 There was time for everything in those days — 
 time and to spare. Time enough for work and 
 plenty of time for play. You had for your enjoy- 
 ment not merely the spring evenings, and summer 
 twilights, and winter nights, and every one of the 
 fifty-two Sundays — and a dozen delightful Holy 
 Days; but you had — cream of them all ! — the Har- 
 vest Fair of Knockagar. That was a day looked 
 forward to by youthful humankind and girls for 
 eleven months ! — the greatest day of all the year 
 for all the world! There would be assembled all 
 the boys and all the girls, for miles and miles, and 
 miles more on top of that again, with their new 
 suits and dresses, and all their pocket money, the 
 hoarding of months; their heaviest purses and 
 lightest hearts; their gayest wiles and brightest 
 smiles. You had half-a-crown and a new homespun 
 suit yourself. And the girl who was now shining 
 in your heart, Molly Gilbride, had a new dress and 
 
 [38]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 a new bright ribbon in her shining fair hair; and 
 she would go home with another new ribbon — you 
 would answer for that. Yes, that was the whitest 
 and brightest and gayest great day of all the white, 
 bright year. For it the girls were preparing for 
 months and months beforehand, and of its won- 
 derful incidents they talked for months afterwards 
 — of what old boys they had seen, and new boys 
 whose acquaintance they had made; of the boys 
 who had nodded to them, and the boys who had 
 chaffed and chatted; and what boys had passed and 
 repassed them with hung heads and blushing 
 cheeks, fain, but fearful, to speak. Above all what 
 boys had walked them and treated them to fairlies, 
 and made them innocent merry company in the 
 tents, and seen them home by the light of the loveli- 
 est harvest-moon that ever shone on earth ! You 
 met and made merry with many bright mountain 
 girls on that blessed Harvest Fair Day of Knock- 
 agar. And you thought you never saw the girls 
 look so winsome, with such entrancing blushes, and 
 captivating shy looks, with hair so shiny and dresses 
 so neat, and colours so bright, and with oh ! such an 
 indescribable, fascinating, captivating Something 
 about them as still makes that great day so strik- 
 ingly stand out, haloed with golden glow in Mem- 
 ory's whitest vista ! Very distinct in your memory, 
 too, are the marvellously learned discourses of the 
 
 [39]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 great foreign doctor who, through pure love of 
 mankind, was bestowing on the multitude — for the 
 mere cost of bottling — his elixirs for the cure of 
 all human ills; and the hair-raising magic of the 
 Black-Art-Man; and the yelling of the apple-hux- 
 ters who pelted passers-by with fruit to convert 
 them into customers; and the bawling of the ballad 
 singers, whose absorbing epics drew dense crowds 
 open-mouthed around them; and the dilisc sellers; 
 and the great white-roofed tents in rows and rows, 
 some for the sale of fairlies to boys and girls, some 
 for eating, and some for drinking; and the forest of 
 blackthorns flashed in air where the joyous fever 
 of a fight ran wild ! You have still in memory the 
 Harvest Fair too, for that it was there you met 
 The Farmer's Boy — the Boy whose name was 
 known to none, though his envied fame was fa- 
 miliar to every brave fellow within a hundred 
 miles, whose heart warmed for suffering country; 
 the Boy who carried on his head a price that might 
 well have tempted the richest, yet never induced 
 the poorest, to betray him. Your eye brightened, 
 and your cheek flushed, and your figure straight- 
 ened, when you found suddenly whose hand you 
 were shaking! In a twinkling, you felt, the Boy's 
 wonderful gray eyes had searched the inmost cor- 
 ners of your soul. And you will never forget the 
 tide of pride that surged through your veins, when, 
 
 [40]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 dropping your hand, the Boy simply said, to those 
 who had introduced him: "He'll do." And that 
 afternoon in the gloom of a byre, among cows that 
 glanced over-shoulder wonderingly, you and five 
 other stout fellows knelt, and took from the Boy 
 the oath which ever since you have religiously kept 
 — the oath of love and loyalty to the Little Dark 
 Rose and of scorn and defiance to the Dark- 
 Haired-One's oppressor. It gave your heart a pang 
 to think that for a cause so noble and a purpose so 
 sacred you had to conceal yourself in a cow-house 
 — only a momentary pang, though. You strode 
 into the fair again a prouder man and more dar- 
 ing. Even Molly, wondering and admiring, re- 
 marked this. You just smiled, and bought her the 
 best ribbon the fair and your finances could afford. 
 But when, accompanying her home that evening, 
 you sat her down underneath the thorn, just a 
 stone-throw from her own house, and she had laid 
 her head on your strong shoulder, you told her the 
 beautiful secret (which brought to her eyes tears 
 of joy) that you were now one of The Boys. Molly, 
 without speaking, pressed your hand in both of 
 hers. It needed not her speech ; for you knew that 
 her soul said to your soul : "In Ireland all men who 
 are men must divide their hearts between two 
 loves." Stooping down, you kissed Molly's white 
 forehead. Then, looking away through the gloam- 
 
 [41]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 ing, as both of you sat silent, you saw the mysteri- 
 ous meetings in the Glen and on the hilltop and in 
 the solitude of crowds (as on this day), and you 
 heard mysterious glad tidings from the North and 
 from the South whispered at those gatherings, and 
 marvellous tidings from the greater Ireland far 
 to the West, where patiently watched and stren- 
 uously worked uncountable thousands of leal ones 
 whose hearts would never forget. You kissed 
 Molly again that night, as you went with her up 
 the cassey to her own door. 
 
 When you were shearing the golden corn on the 
 Whinny Hill next day, you were in a reflective 
 mood, your comrades noted. You were sweetly 
 pensive, for you • heard what the corn said, rust- 
 ling as you cut your way through it. It said 
 "Molly! Molly! Molly!"; and then "Molly Gil- 
 bride! Molly Gilbride!" Molly somehow stood 
 up before you in a new light. You used to chat and 
 chaff with her, and then with the next girl you 
 met; and you thought you knew her, and all of 
 them. But now you unreservedly agreed with the 
 corn when it said: "You didn't know Molly — 
 didn't know Molly!" The real Molly revealed 
 herself that time she pressed your hand last night. 
 
 You were learning to know her now, and the 
 study was sweet and all-absorbing. That very eve- 
 ning you must go for another lesson — and fre- 
 
 [42]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 quently after. It was a long study — but you were 
 not to be daunted. You found harvest moons 
 conducive to progress, and Autumn gloamings, and 
 the Bridge at Glen Dreenan. When the winter eve- 
 nings were on, you found it facilitated study to 
 drop into Cormac Gilbride's o' nights and sit by the 
 bright blazing fire, exchange pipes with Cormac, 
 and opinions with his good wife Sorcha — without 
 saying a word at all, at all, to Molly, who, with 
 eyes downcast and cheek flushed — you noted all 
 this with the tail of your eye — was absorbed in her 
 spinning wheel in the corner. You included her, 
 of course, in your incoming "God save all here !" 
 at seven, and heard her join, with father and 
 mother, in giving you an outgoing "God send you 
 safe!" at eleven. But nothing more had passed 
 between you — seemingly. Yet it is a question 
 whether these lessons were not the most profitable 
 and all-satisfying. 
 
 At the winter-night dances in everybody's house, 
 here and there among the hills, your study of the 
 new Molly steadily advanced. There you met many 
 bright-eyed girls — but none like Molly; and there 
 she saw many tall brave boys — but none like you. 
 You knew this, because, returning from every such 
 dance, you compared notes on the point. At last, 
 one night, going home from the best dance of them 
 all — the dance given by Farrell McKeown the fid- 
 
 [43]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 dler in Dominic Gallagher's big kitchen in Drim- 
 alusk — you both agreed, finally, that 'twas waste 
 of time for either to go further seeking the equal 
 of the other — it couldn't be found; and hencefor- 
 ward you'd give up trying. 
 
 Next day you spoke to your father, as you 
 wrought side by side with him in the potato field, 
 saying you believed you had come to the time o' 
 day when you ought to be thinking of settling down 
 and marrying a wife, and your father, after 
 a minute's silence, said: "Well, Johnny, a thaisge, 
 I'm thinkin' 't would be no sin. I'll give ye my 
 blissin' and the far end o' the farm — five acres o' 
 clay land — and help ye to rise a house on it. Have 
 ye a good girl in your eye?" 
 
 "Molly Gilbride isn't a bad girl," you insinu- 
 ated, with your head bent very low over an extra 
 tough bit of lea you had struck. 
 
 "Her father and mother's daughter shouldn't 
 be," your father replied. "They're dacent, in- 
 dustr'ous, right-livin' people, and everybody's good 
 word is on them. I'll never hang my head for a 
 son of mine marr'in' into that family." 
 
 Your mother — for sure there was nothing could 
 escape her — knew, as sure as there was a head on 
 her body, that there were carryin's-on between your- 
 self and Molly. But she supposed it was all right. 
 She never heard a word again' the girl. And she 
 
 [44]
 
 YOUR COURTIN' DAYS 
 
 had to confess that she was as neat-stepped-out a 
 cailin as walked to Killymard chapel ; she was well 
 "come-home," for her father and mother were both 
 of dacent stock. She ordered your father to step 
 over with you that night to Cormac Gilbride's and 
 fix up things, if they were willing. 
 
 You did chat Molly that night in the corner, 
 with both your backs to the company, while your 
 father, in the opposite corner, debated with Cor- 
 mac and his wife, compared the prestige of your 
 respective families, and insisted that, as his had the 
 more renowned pedigree, Cormac should balance 
 things by bestowing on Molly fifty pounds more 
 than he intended. 
 
 At length the match was fixed — Molly to have 
 a hundred pounds, a cow, a calf, and household 
 linen; and yourself the five acres promised, a trig 
 house built on it, and the venerable Spreckly into 
 the bargain. When you walked home alongside 
 your father that night, your step was very springy 
 and your head held very high, and you felt your- 
 self a great deal bigger and stouter and stronger 
 than ever you thought yourself before. It dawned 
 upon you that you were a man now. Your eyes 
 were looking far into the future. With five acres 
 and a hundred pounds, and, above all, with a girl 
 like Molly, small wonder your look was bright and 
 brave and hopeful. 
 
 [45]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 God bless the both o' you, and have ye in his 
 keeping! 
 
 III. YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 Thus you courted before you wedded. No 
 one did otherwise barring Big Patrick MacHugh 
 of the Hill-Head who, finding the season too 
 throng* to waste any of it courting, sent, as substi- 
 tute, little Terry MacMullen of the Alt. With 
 the result that Terry, putting in one word for Big 
 Patrick and three for himself, won the wife and 
 left Big Patrick as lonesome and as throng as he 
 deserved to be for the remainder of his days. 
 
 Yes, you courted before you wedded, and in 
 choosing your sweetheart chose wisely and taste- 
 fully as well. You did not, like Manus MacRoary, 
 merely look for a fine-looking father-in-law whom 
 you'd be proud to meet in the market under 
 the neighbours' eyes. And neither did you, like 
 the Braggy Bachelors, seek a girl who "had 
 good wear in her" — one modelled like the 
 milk-churn, same diameter all the way. No 
 more, on the other hand, had you any use for 
 the other pattern, the kind who'd keep you 
 breathless for fear she'd break in the middle. No, 
 you just chose Molly Gilbride because she was as 
 
 *Busy 
 
 [46]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 graceful as the mountain-ash, as blithe as a bird, 
 and had a countenance like a May-day's dawn — be- 
 cause she was a sweet simple mountainy girl, win- 
 some as a fairy, and full of goodness as an egg's 
 full of meat. And you wedded her just because she 
 was the finest and best and prettiest and dearest girl 
 in all the world. And your wedding, the greatest 
 ever was, deserves a chapter all to itself. 
 
 As the Day-of-your-life was only three weeks 
 away, you were the throngest man in the parish. 
 You had to travel the Barony "bidding" your 
 guests. And no one you dared to omit who carried 
 a drop's blood that cried "friend" to your family 
 — even if he disgraced that drop, for blood is 
 stronger than steel in Donegal. Moreover, in per- 
 son, you had to trudge to him on foot, though he 
 lived leagues away more than you could count — and 
 had to eat at his house — and at every house of 
 thirty in the same day — eat at each a meal that 
 would shame a mowster.* And you had to hearken 
 (but it was now no bother to hearken to anything 
 under Heaven) to the leagues-long advice of all the 
 wives in the parish, and write on your memory 
 their own prize prescription for married happiness 
 — all which prescriptions, with marvellous unanim- 
 ity, tallied in their constant ingredient: "Always 
 
 *Mowing hay is heavy work, and great entirely would have 
 to be the meal a mowster would shame at consuming. 
 
 [47 J
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 take your wife's advice." This unanimity was pos- 
 itive proof of the prescription's soundness. 
 
 You had to allot a considerable portion of your 
 time to Taig the Tailor — a day with him in Don- 
 egal Town while he chose the cloth for you, the 
 best ever cut off a web ; and a day with him getting 
 your measure; and many a night after, sitting on 
 his board watching the stitches as they went in. A 
 dissipation, maybe, cold-blooded people would call 
 this, instead of a duty; but you felt certain that 
 some stitch would run the wrong way on that suit 
 if you didn't watch the work fixedly for at least two 
 hours every night. And you never found the task 
 tiresome. But then of course the stress on you 
 was relieved by the compliments every incomer paid 
 you on the quality of the cloth (after he had fin- 
 gered it and tugged it and tested a thread in the 
 candle-flame), and the uniqueness of the pattern, 
 and the elegance of the cut, and assured you that 
 you wouldn't have a tooth inside your head or a 
 hair outside it, when that suit was worn out. It 
 was plain to be seen that there wasn't another suit 
 in the world like this was going to be. If ever you 
 had a shadow of a doubt that your wedding suit 
 was to be the first and finest ever left a tailor's lap- 
 board, it quickly vanished before the wand that 
 true friendship wielded. 
 
 No less than three houses were to be put under 
 
 [48]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 the wedding party. Molly's father's, and Maurice 
 Quigley's and Andy Hegarty's who neighboured 
 together — and her father's big barn, moreover, for 
 the dinner and the dance. And all three families 
 were scrubbing and painting and turning the house 
 inside out, day and night without ceasing. And the 
 chimneys of the countryside reeked (reminding 
 Yankee McGragh, he said, of Pittsburg) with 
 broiling and boiling and cooking and baking — 
 hams and lambs and chickens and geese — against 
 the famous appetites of the weddin'eers, till it 
 looked like there wouldn't be a living thing running 
 on two legs barring the weddin'eers themselves 
 when the wedding was over. 
 
 'Twas all needed — and more, if the truth were 
 told. There were a hundred and fifty couples at 
 that wedding, if there was a pair; and every one 
 of them seemed as if they'd been fasting a fort- 
 night. All the world was there in fact barring its 
 tailors and shoemakers, now dead from working 
 day and night. Not to mention its dressmakers, 
 who were past praying for entirely. For five miles 
 in every direction, at an early hour, the hillsides 
 began dotting with girls in their ribbons, and boys 
 in their brogues and best broadcloth, who, as blithe 
 as the larks above them and with hearts higher far, 
 were headed for your house or Molly's that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 [49]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 And what a morning it was! Sure, the like of 
 it never fell from the Heavens before — nor since. 
 You never saw the sun shine the same as it did that 
 morning. You never saw the cows in the meadow 
 nor the calves in the paddock so playful, nor the 
 colts on the hill kicking their heels so madly. 
 
 You never found the — the — the — oh, you 
 couldn't tell what it was ! — the something-or-other 
 in the air the same as it was that morning. And 
 there was a blue in the sky and a glimmer on the 
 river, and a shimmer on the lake, and a smile over 
 the hills that you never remembered seeing any 
 other morning of all your life. It was surely curi- 
 ous, but all the world somehow seemed to sense 
 that there was something extraordinary in the wind. 
 You yourself were terribly restless and fidgetty, 
 and your mother had a hard time entirely dressing 
 you properly and tying bow-knots, two on your 
 brogues and another on your neck, and trying to 
 make your new suit lie down on you properly. She 
 almost spent as much time on you this morning as 
 she spent on your father every morning he went to 
 Market or Mass. And a dozen times she said to 
 you just as she used to him : "Och, Och, but it's the 
 heartbreak you are entirely!" — every time adding, 
 "May the Lord look down on the woman who's 
 gettin' you !" But there was a something wet in 
 her eyes all the same; pity, it must have meant, for 
 
 [50]
 
 Q 
 Q 
 W 
 
 o
 
 if
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 the woman who was going to inflict herself with 
 you. 
 
 The Groom's Party had now collected — not one 
 couple less than five and fifty. The fiddlers, who 
 had slept at your house the night before — sleep 
 being a figure of speech on this occasion — headed 
 the gay procession, and their beat wasn't to be 
 found in the barony. Your mother showered you 
 with holy water, and after a vain effort to keep up 
 the sham of indifference, broke down and cried on 
 your shoulder; while your father thought he hid 
 his feelings behind a whack of his stick and a curt: 
 "God bless you !" before you took your place wit. 
 the Best Man, behind the fiddlers. And, two b" 
 two, the bravest Groom's Party the parish had seen 
 in seven years set off — to meet at the Bridge of 
 Aughrim the proudest Bride's Party seen in a cen- 
 tury. But, since Adam was a caddy, there never 
 was seen the like of the two together, when they 
 joined and headed for Frosses chapel with four 
 fiddlers' elbows going like steam-engines in front, 
 fetching from the fiddles the last note that was in 
 them, followed by upwards of a hundred couples of 
 the comeliest boys and winsomest cailins the coun- 
 tryside knew — led by the proudest boy (though 
 you say it yourself) and sweetest cailin ten times 
 over of the collection — every boy of them strutting 
 as if it was his day, and every cailin with tucked 
 
 [5i]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 skirts, and folded shawl, blushing and smiling like 
 a May morning, as wondering how soon she might 
 be walking to her own wedding. 
 
 The sun — the brightest, more betoken, that ever 
 shone — had come up over the shoulder of Barnes 
 Mor mountain in time to be with the party; the 
 primroses by the roadside were smirking, and the 
 daisies, shaking the dew off themselves, were let- 
 ting on to look surprised (as if they'd never 
 noticed the carryings-on between Molly and your- 
 self) , and the whin flower, running like a fire across 
 the moor, was laughing for the fun of the thing. 
 The larks above the heather were bursting their 
 little breasts trying which of them would spill most 
 joy on you, while the black-bird in the bush (the 
 rascal!) did nothing that morning but twit you 
 with "Molly! Molly! Molly Gilbride!" And 
 when the party crossed the Ainey River by the step- 
 ping stones (the boys helping their girls to jump 
 from the one big rock to the other) , behold even 
 the river had got hold of the black-bird's joke! 
 
 But you didn't mind ! 
 
 Over the brown moors and down the green hill- 
 sides and along the stony lanes and casseys, and 
 across the black bogs (where cean-a-bhans nodded 
 a million white heads), trooped the glad country- 
 side — the rheumatic old woman racing with the 
 barefoot boy — to get close view of you and tell you 
 
 [52]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 it was the purtiest party, and the bravest (God 
 bless it!) the heather had ever bent to, and to 
 shower the pair of you with prayers that gave the 
 angels an ache in their arm putting upon record. 
 Though more than half the crowd, dumbfounded 
 with dint of admiration, could only shake their 
 heads and cluck their tongues for wonder beyond 
 words. The open-mouthed onlookers, lining the 
 route, had wonderful taste, for they one and all 
 agreed that radiant Molly was the winsomest bride 
 and you the comeliest groom they'd ever seen walk 
 the way! But after all, sure how could they help 
 acknowledging it? 'Twas a picture worth walking 
 forty miles on one's bare knees to see. With folded 
 skirts showing neat ankles and striped petticoat, 
 her grandmother's cashmere shawl on her arm, and 
 no covering whatsoever to hide her handsome head 
 and keep the light of morning from her eyes, 
 Molly had no peer. And as for yourself — well, 
 you modestly tie your tongue. Only, you'll not call 
 the neighbours liars. But you will say that when 
 he tied the knot, Father Dan (who was never sore 
 on compliments) in the hearing of all confessed 
 that he'd given his blessing to more than one uglier 
 pair. 
 
 If there was anything ever equalled the beauty 
 of that morning, it was the joy of the evening. It 
 wasn't the young in years alone collected at the 
 
 [53]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 house, chatting and story-telling and leaping and 
 boxing and boasting, but the young-hearted like- 
 wise, and the bulk of them younger than the young, 
 as they proved before morning. For the youths 
 of three and four score who came to your wedding 
 ranged themselves with Long John Mac Ardle, 
 a sprightly youth of eighty-eight, when he stated 
 that the only man he wouldn't knock down for call- 
 ing him old would be the man who'd put sods on 
 his coffin. And women young and old were there 
 in flocks, wondering at the splendour of the wed- 
 ding arrangements, admiring the linens, and mar- 
 velling at the delft, and "tchuck-tchucking!" in ad- 
 miration of the knives and spoons, fingering 
 Molly's dress, praising it, and so ceaselessly wor- 
 shipping the blushing girl's beauty that 'twas a 
 God-send she wasn't given to apoplexy. 
 
 Three houses were under the party — not to men- 
 tion the barn ; and you'd wonder where under the 
 stars the two mothers could collect so many assist- 
 ants with white aprons as were darting hither and 
 thither with a fork or a spoon or a bowl of milk 
 in their hands, and a look on their face as if the 
 world's wheels would stop whirling unless they did 
 their duty — and tripping one another up and knock- 
 ing one another down and upsetting everyone else 
 who came in their way. And Molly's mother and 
 yours indulged themselves with the luxury of the 
 
 [54]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 most care-worn faces they could accommodate, and 
 heartily agreed in the hearing of every one that 
 weddings were bothersome, and 'twould be well for 
 the world if there was a stop put to them entirely. 
 Haystacks of hams and lambs and sides of bacon 
 were built on seven tables in the barn, balanced 
 by back-burdens of chickens and ducks and geese, 
 not to mention mountains of potatoes laughing 
 through their jackets, and seas of sauce you might 
 swim in. The sight of lashin's and leavin's of all 
 eatables and drinkables made the party feel as hun- 
 gry as if they'd been fasting a fortnight. Father 
 Dan, poor man, who held the head of the table, 
 worked like a warrior tryin' to serve them fast 
 enough. And, poor man, himself fared the worst 
 that day, and must have fattened on his fun. Not 
 less than nineteen women were piling plates on him 
 at the same time; and the sweat-drops on his fore- 
 head were bigger than the rosary beads in his 
 pocket while he carved meat by the mile for half 
 the world. But double the work wouldn't hinder 
 Father Dan from hailing his jokes on all corners 
 of the house. And in such merry uproar did he 
 keep the tables that Reddy Hanlon, trying to man- 
 age a laugh without missing a mouthful, choked 
 three times before the dinner was done; and Ned 
 the Thrasher had to flail him like a flounder on the 
 back to drive the bite up or down — half killing him 
 
 [55]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 in order to cure him. But 'twas only another joke 
 from Father Dan that made Reddy every time con- 
 sent to cough up the mouthful. And the good 
 man's jokes were so clever that the man who was 
 hit hardest always laughed the heartiest, and held 
 higher his head for the night's remainder, since he 
 was now honoured forever. But sure his jokes fell 
 — as himself said — like the rain of Heaven, on 
 both the just and the unjust, so that at the night's 
 end not a soul could ask: "How was Father Dan 
 spited that I should be slighted." And, och sure 
 what would a weddin' dinner be — the best o' them, 
 even yours — without the delightful Father Dan 
 whose peer you couldn't find from Farramore to 
 California ! 
 
 The Masther to be sure — Masther O'Doherty 
 of the Eskar School, who had the second post of 
 honour facing Father Dan — did the brunt of what 
 work Father Dan didn't find time for. And in his 
 own learned way, he did no small part to make 
 yourself proud and everyone happy. It was a 
 priceless privilege to see him play with the appall- 
 ingest words in the dictionary as airly as if they 
 were so many children's marbles. And when 
 Father Dan cracked a joke on him, he almost gave 
 back better than he got. Leastwise, each word of 
 his reply was as big as five of Father Dan's. For 
 even the littlest children that crowded the door and 
 
 [56]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 squatted on the floor, and packed the barn's waste 
 spots, could understand Father Dan's jokes. To 
 crown it all the Masther was a born poet and a 
 singer — suffering since childhood (he used to daz- 
 zle all the old women and you by declaring) from 
 a curious complaint he named furor poeticus, from 
 the grips of which he never failed to come out 
 without a new and very learned song. And he 
 delighted the house, and dazzled yourself, and 
 dumbfounded poor Molly by arising in his place, 
 the dint of the dinner being over, and singing a 
 song he said he had prepared for the occasion (in 
 the course of his last attack), "Sweet Molly Ma- 
 chree." 
 
 THE MASTHER'S SONG 
 
 "All for recreation, and sweet meditation, 
 
 And perambulation, one mornin' in May, 
 As bright Sol ascended, my footsteps I wended 
 
 Where's hawthorn's suspended, and mantled my 
 way: 
 On my eyes dawned a vision — an angel Elysian, 
 
 All fairer than Helen, it was that met me; 
 Supremely more modest than princess or goddess — 
 
 Her appellation was Molly, sweet Molly 
 Machree ! 
 
 "In the luxuriant bushes harmonious thrushes, 
 And gay birds of passage did guilelessly sing; 
 
 [57]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 Their incense and fragrance, in odorous radiance, 
 The flowers circumambient did gorgeously fling. 
 
 Said I : 'Is this Hebe, or Venus' self maybe? 
 Or some other potentate of high degree?' 
 
 But, no 'twas a maiden, sublunar, love-maiden — 
 Her appellation was Molly, sweet Molly 
 Machree ! 
 
 "It's my affirmation, her cheeks were carnation, 
 
 Her bosom's inflation a bower of bliss; 
 The robin's adjoining were longing and pining, 
 Their pretty beaks watering, her sweet lips to 
 kiss. 
 Her step all so stately, her form so sedately, 
 
 Contiguous she drew, and advanced unto me; 
 My heart loudly trembled, my tongue it dis- 
 sembled — 
 Her appellation was Molly, sweet Molly 
 Machree! 
 
 "Great Sol in his lustre, the stars in a cluster, 
 
 The Emperor Augustus compare not at all 
 With the intoxication, amaze, and elation, 
 
 And the consternation that did me befall. 
 And that fair enslaver of renowned behaviour, 
 
 And be-at-ific visage contiguous to me, — 
 This vision resplendent — my peace of mind ended! 
 
 Her appellation was Molly, sweet Molly 
 Machree!" 
 
 [58]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 And when the beautiful song was sung, and the 
 rafters rang to the cheering of the enchanted com- 
 pany, Molly, blushing like a sunset, hid her head 
 with dint of confusion, while you took her hand, 
 and, acting for her, said: "May God forever bless 
 you, Masther O'Doherty." All through the fes- 
 tivities, it was Molly's endeavour and your own 
 (which, more betoken, both of you very nearly 
 succeeded in) to keep the quietest in the house, act- 
 ing as if you'd dropped into somebody's wedding. 
 And, indeed, with Father Dan and the Masther 
 guiding the fun, and the father and mother of both 
 o' you well seconding them, there was little left for 
 you to do but look on and be glad-hearted. 
 
 But surely everyone did his part, and the part of 
 five besides, even before the dancing began. And 
 for the dancing, after fifty handy fellows had flung 
 the tables and chairs from the barn and strung 
 ready-made seats of fir-logs around it, the fiddlers 
 and pipers were perched upon home-made ped- 
 estals, where they resined their bows, and scraped 
 their fiddles, and squeaked their chanters, and en- 
 quired what was wanted — till the Masther himself, 
 taking the floor with the comliest cailin he could 
 find, demanded the reel, "The Ladies o' Carrick," 
 the first rousing bar of which set something dinn- 
 ling in the heels of every mortal present. And 
 sixty brave couples were on the floor, curtseying 
 
 [59]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 to each other before you'd say "Whack!" and next 
 minute, to the finest music ever flowed from fid- 
 dler's box or piper's bag, were running the finest 
 reel ever delighted the eye of an Irishman. 
 
 And that began the fun that didn't find its end 
 till morning. 
 
 But 'twasn't on the dance alone the mirth and 
 merriment depended. Light hearts were as plenty 
 there as light heels — and Terry Mac Gowran was 
 ready to swear that every soul present must have 
 been whetting his wits for a fortnight. 'Twas like 
 the corn stalks to the shearing hook on September 
 day the way those jokes cracked thick and fast. 
 Like so many princes scattering their gold, the fid- 
 dlers and pipers on their thrones were flinging their 
 jokes broadcast to the joysome crowd. Only, faith, 
 this crowd, proving itself not poverty-stricken 
 either, returned as good as it got. Wit in fact was 
 in the air, and terribly catching. It smote the dull- 
 est dunce — if a dunce was there — and made wags 
 of the gravest, while the real wits were trans- 
 formed to wonders. Billy the Blade, doubled up 
 in one corner, with a tongue like a razor, and Phil 
 the Fiddler, whose humour, like the Well of Warra 
 Mor, never ran dry, and Larry-come-lately, in the 
 other end of the house, who'd never met his match 
 in sconcing (bantering) yet, kept the fun-ball fly- 
 
 [60]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 ing, and every one in the house gave it a push as 
 it passed him. 
 
 There were as pretty dancers there as ever beat a 
 floor, and to watch them was a treat worth trav- 
 elling for. This pair and that won words of com- 
 mendation plenty, and hearty shouts of praise 
 raised high above the din; but final judgment 
 wasn't to be given till, after the choicest pairs had 
 proved themselves in the general dance, they'd, 
 pair by pair, get fair play and a free floor to show 
 to all which was the best. Then the excitement 
 ran so high all round the house that, when the 
 fanciest couples of them took the floor and curtseyed 
 to the fiddlers, 'twas well no onlooker was ac- 
 quainted with heart-disease. The thunders of de- 
 light each well-danced brace drew from their back- 
 ers at sitting down, should shake the stars you'd 
 think. But each pair footed it so beautifully that 
 all confessed their peers were far to find, and pairs 
 that could outmatch them nowhere — till the next 
 two took the floor and, curtseying to the fiddlers, 
 called their tune, and started in to shame them 
 that had sat down. And every other couple won 
 such cheering as made the rafters crack, till it 
 would take cooler-headed, colder-hearted people 
 than any there that night to say which pair was 
 beaten. 
 
 And 'twas then yourself and Molly, both of you 
 
 [61]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 mighty shy indeed, and Molly blushing like a 
 poppy-field, stood up, and, hand in hand, bowed to 
 the fiddlers, while the house caught its breath. And, 
 to the notes of "The Geese in the Bog," both of 
 you were next minute footing it so fleetly that 
 there wasn't any more doubt who should win the 
 night's laurels. Though you tell it yourself, who 
 maybe shouldn't, you will say that you with your 
 own proud steps and Molly with her unmatchable 
 dainty ones, her feet twinkling like the wimples in 
 the river, cut a copy which the boys and girls of 
 Knockagar would long remember. And down you 
 sat, happy-hearted both, beneath your load of fame. 
 Little you dreamt that there was better dancer 
 than you in the barn — just waiting to shame you 
 — and a fleeter foot than Molly's. 'Twas little at 
 that moment any mortal there suspected it. But 
 you weren't well seated, and everyone wringing the 
 arms of the two of you, when a shout of delight 
 went up that startled you, and you beheld your 
 father leading out Molly's mother — the pair o' 
 them beginning with a bow to the fiddlers that 
 hadn't been beaten that night ! And when, to the 
 tune of "Tatther Jack Walsh," they ran the reel 
 like youngsters, and leathered the floor like nine- 
 teen, your father grown lithe as a rowan tree and 
 with head every inch as high, and Molly's mother's 
 eyes star-bright while her feet went twinkle ! twin- 
 
 [62]
 
 YOUR WEDDIN' 
 
 kle ! the way they used to forty years ago, and the 
 barnful roared their delight, the old ones crowing 
 for triumph, and shaking their sticks in the air 
 ready for a scrap — you had to confess (and no 
 thanks to you) that the palm had gone from you, 
 and that this night after all was the night of the 
 youths of three score. They who had congratulated 
 you now sympathized with you. And they wrung 
 the hands of your father and Molly's mother till 
 their wrists ached, and slapped them on the backs 
 till they nigh broke their hearts. And your father 
 and Molly's mother proclaimed to the house: 
 
 'Twould be a low-come-down day with us when 
 we'd sit by and see our own childer best us." Add- 
 ing, to the exultation of the old and the resignation 
 of the young: "But sure small blame to the young- 
 sters: there's no dancin' nowadays like the dancin' 
 used to be," while everyone of their compeers said, 
 as they shook their gray hairs: "Faith, and them's 
 true words." Still you were only too pleased to 
 give the palm publicly to them who'd proved them- 
 selves your betters by leagues. 
 
 Both Molly and yourself were mighty proud of 
 this, the wqnderfulest wedding that ever was wit- 
 nessed. Peadar Dall, the blind piper, in all serious- 
 ness told you that he'd never played over a finer- 
 looking floorful. And Phil the Fiddler said that, 
 though he had been scraping the fiddle strings for 
 
 [63]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 nigh sixty years, he never looked over a prouder 
 lot of boys and a modester, winsomer gathering of 
 girls, or a creditabler crowd of old and young alike, 
 than he now had the privilege and pleasure of ob- 
 serving. 
 
 " 'Tis a proud pair you ought to be in troth," 
 said Terry MacGowran. "If I was guaranteed such 
 a weddin', I'd marry the morra meself, nor bother 
 who'd be the bride." And the youngsters of four 
 score, sitting around the walls, and thrilling like 
 two and twenty, assured you that, though they 
 went to weddings since they were that high, bound 
 they were to confess that they'd never known a rale 
 wedding before. And the youngest in the room 
 told you he'd brag of this night to his grand- 
 children. 
 
 The gray of the morning had come and gone be- 
 fore your friends, after blessing the both of you, 
 and praying more prayers for your future than 
 would consecrate a church, set out for their homes 
 happy-hearted, and singing against the birds of the 
 morning. 
 
 But the song of the birds of the morning, 
 though it was never sweeter, was like the crows' 
 cawing compared with the song that was sing- 
 ing in your heart and Molly's, now that you faced 
 the world as one. 
 
 [64]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 IV. WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 On the next Sunday — Bride's Sunday — a throng 
 of the girls whom your bride had bidden, and 
 a throng of the boys whom you had asked 
 to the wedding, came to do their duty by ac- 
 companying you to Frosses chapel. Yourself and 
 your bride, and the best man and the best maid 
 walked in front, and your gathered friends brought 
 up the rear. In the flagged chapel yard all the 
 world waited to see you. And under all the world's 
 eyes you walked very straight and proud, and 
 Molly walked modest and blushing and shy. And 
 all the world praised the pair o' ye again — and 
 agreed that no comelier pair had ever walked the 
 flags o' Frosses. 
 
 After chapel the bridesmaid brought you to her 
 house for her treat — dinner, tea, and the spending 
 of the evening. And from that time forward you 
 were as busy as nailers attending treats given in 
 your honour by all the nearer friends and relations 
 of you both. The pair of you were now the pets of 
 the parish, and your outgoings and incomings 
 formed the fashionable intelligence of the country- 
 side. 
 
 Three months afterwards, however, there was 
 another wedding — a new bride and groom were 
 given the parish to play with — and Molly and you, 
 
 [65]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 almost petted beyond usefulness and feasted to sur- 
 feit, were now relegated to the ranks of the old 
 married couples, and settled down, thankfully 
 enough indeed, to the new life and new conditions. 
 
 You worked your little farm early and late, and 
 came home in the evenings to a happy fireside. 
 You had peace, plenty, and content — and a wife 
 beyond compare. By-and-bye, when there was mul- 
 tiplication in the mouths that had to be fed, you 
 felt for the first time the limitations of your farm. 
 Then, to supplement its profits, you began taking 
 an occasional day's work from some farmer in the 
 neighbourhood — a large farmer who owned twelve 
 or fifteen acres. Returned from doing his work, 
 you stole a couple of hours of the night to devote 
 to your own little patch. 
 
 By-and-bye, again, when the increase in mouths 
 was putting the multiplication table out of 
 joint, and you began getting more and more 
 deeply into the books of the meal-man — a pound 
 or even more in his debt, — you felt the time 
 had now come when you must go and cut the 
 Scotch harvest. So, after leaving everything trig 
 and snug, and all your crops growing grandly, 
 and taking from Molly the red bundle she 
 had done up for you, and kissing her good-bye, 
 and putting a hook (sickle) under your arm, you 
 joined the throng of men who came down the road 
 
 [66]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 one summer morning early, and with them walked 
 the forty Irish miles to the port of Derry. A few 
 shillings brought you to Scotland, where the har- 
 vest, so much earlier than yours, was already wait- 
 ing for you, and where the big Scotch farmers had, 
 for ten days past, been watching for you — for the 
 thousands of you who reaped the harvest for them 
 every year. All of your squad were engaged by 
 one big farmer, passably well fed, and given plenty 
 of clean sweet straw to sleep on in his empty barns. 
 And, after five weeks' reaping of Scotland's har- 
 vest, you faced home again with four pounds in 
 your pocket, over and above the few shillings neces- 
 sary to pay your fare. 
 
 While you were away, Molly and the children 
 had tended the crops at home and done to them 
 everything that was needed. So, your own harvest 
 was waiting for your sickle when you returned. As 
 Molly and you were unaccustomed to the ways of 
 correspondence, no letters whatsoever had passed 
 between you while you were among the black stran- 
 gers. But, because of the big gulf of silence, all 
 the gladder was your greeting. You paid off your 
 debts, and bought a calf for the balance. And 
 Molly and you thanked God, saying you would 
 never more be poor. 
 
 It was on the night of your return from the 
 Scotch harvest that you discussed with Molly a sub- 
 
 [67]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 ject that had much occupied your mind during the 
 weary weeks you walked among the alien corn — 
 namely, what you were going to do with the chil- 
 dren, God bless them ! At present five of them 
 were attending school in the little thatched school- 
 house to which yourself had gone; but it was pain- 
 fully plain to you both that, as soon as they could 
 profitably help at home or be hired abroad, their 
 school days must come to a close. The prospect 
 wasn't a pleasant one — but there it was! One hope 
 which your hearts had cherished — even before the 
 first arrived — was that one of the priceless ones 
 God gave you might be consecrated to Him, and 
 that your last years might be lightened and your 
 grey heads held high, for that a son of yours, from 
 God's altar, spread his hands in blessing over 
 bowed congregations. And when the first boy 
 came, both of you had fervently besought God to 
 aid you in what would be, for the time to come, 
 your one great ambition — the making of a priest 
 out of Patrick. On this night in question Molly 
 and yourself, clasping hands, looked up to God and 
 said that, with His holy help, your great hope 
 should surely be fulfilled. You agreed that care, 
 attention and solicitude should be centred upon Pat- 
 rick; that he should never miss a day from school; 
 and that, on getting home again, when the remain- 
 der of the children would go to do their part in 
 
 [68]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 the fields, no coarse work should fall to Patrick's 
 lot: books and the comfort of the chimney corner 
 should be his. It would be a tough struggle, you 
 knew, to put him through college and find the great 
 sum of money that would be wanted to finance him 
 there — full fifty pounds a year, you were sure. But, 
 with God's help always, it would be done. Molly 
 would rear more hens and ducks and geese, and 
 strive to keep another cow, and all of you would 
 go without the luxury of butter henceforth, and the 
 extravagance of eggs — except, of course, on Easter 
 Sunday. Herself would work extra hard, early and 
 late, and in spare moments spin another hank of 
 yarn, or take up her sprigging-hoops and embroider 
 a robe or a bed-cover that would win her several 
 shillings. You, too, would double your working, 
 and cut down your tobacco and manage a few 
 weeks more of each season at cuttin' the Scotch 
 harvest. And little Jimmy, Johneen Og and Larry 
 would, in another couple of years, be fit for hiring 
 out as herds in the rich country thirty miles away, 
 and, a few years later, as able-bodied servants to 
 the big farmers. So, when the time should come 
 for Patrick to begin his colleging, Molly would 
 have a brave penny in the stocking indeed. Thence- 
 forward, too, the boys would be earning more and 
 more. So that, please Heaven, the ambition of 
 your lives was certain of fulfilment. 
 
 [69]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 Molly was a capital housekeeper, anyhow. It 
 was her proud boast that she was the best butter- 
 maker in the parish. The parish had to agree with 
 her: for they all knew that she got a ha'penny a 
 pound more for her butter than any other woman 
 entering Donegal market. And, off the two cows 
 which she used to keep, she was able to bring to the 
 market more butter than most women who kept 
 three. She was frugal and taught her frugality to 
 the children. Yet did you all get your fill of good, 
 nourishing, appetizing food — oatmeal stirabout 
 with lashings and leavings of buttermilk for break- 
 fast, and for dinner a pot of fine floury potatoes 
 that, when spread steaming on the table, were 
 laughing through their jackets at you, and calling 
 to you to come on. Sometimes Molly could afford 
 you even a fine bowl of buttermilk to kitchen the 
 potatoes, and always plenty of salt — oftentimes 
 pepper too. At Christmas and Easter you had 
 fowl. You still, in fact, ate just as well as several 
 of the neighbours, and yet managed to save money. 
 At night, for supper, you had potatoes again — the 
 sweetest ever a man put tooth in, lashings and leav- 
 ings of them. On Sunday evenings you got a tea 
 supper — and maybe, for each, a slice of white bread 
 from the town. For a rarity you got that greatest 
 gift of God to epicurean man — boxty-bread, made 
 from the ever-loved potato by a tedious and labori- 
 
 [70]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 ous process. It was a longed-for luxury, beside 
 which even the charms of baker's bread sank into 
 insignificance. By spinning, knitting, and sprigging 
 in her spare hours, Molly was able herself to pro- 
 vide the little flour, tea, sugar, and other small 
 items that must be purchased from the shop. The 
 potatoes, oatmeal and milk, the staple foods, were 
 provided by yourselves; the butter and the eggs, 
 and the pig and the calves that were sold, not 
 merely paid the rent, the cut, and the poor-rate, 
 and the priest's Christmas stipend (a small four 
 shillings) and supplied you with clothes and boots, 
 but also periodically furnished an important incre- 
 ment for the hoard in the stocking. All the wage- 
 income went into the stocking unbroken. And 
 when at last came that great day of mingled sor- 
 row and joy when Patrick, with his lean carpet-bag, 
 set out for college, the stocking was bursting. 
 
 Of clothes and shoes you didn't need much. But 
 at the beginning of every winter you had the tailor, 
 with his goose and lapboard, come to your house 
 for a week, and fit the family in what they needed. 
 And you had the shoemaker for a week, too. These 
 you usually fetched to your house after your year's 
 work was ended, and the haggard filled with hay, 
 and your mind filled with peace. As the neigh- 
 bours had idle-set then also, your house was the 
 country's great gathering-place while tailor and 
 
 [7i]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 shoemaker worked in it. It emptied not from ten 
 in the morning till midnight. There were seldom 
 less than sixteen or more than sixty of the neigh- 
 bours with you. Seated in a circle around the tail- 
 or's board or the shoemaker's bench, they discussed 
 all subjects under the sun — in particular, the new- 
 est hopes for poor Ireland. The shoemaker and 
 the tailor were the politicians, of course, of the 
 countryside. They bought The Nation every week, 
 and read it from the first word at the top left-hand 
 corner of the front page to the last word at the bot- 
 tom right-hand corner of the back page — and could 
 almost repeat by heart the Leader's latest magnifi- 
 cent speech. For the shoemaker and the tailor had 
 most marvellous memory, particularly for matters 
 patriotic. 
 
 The houses of the shoemaker and the tailor, too, 
 when these worthies were not working for you or 
 your neighbour, were the great gathering-places of 
 the countryside. During the day the cheery forge, 
 maybe, outdid them. The ring of the anvil, the 
 glow of the flying sparks, the roar of the fire, and 
 the sight of someone else sweating while you lolled 
 in lazy luxury — were all most sweet to a man who 
 seldom tasted sweets. After night, though, the 
 sociability and neighbourliness and delightfulness 
 of the circle of "Rakers" who foregathered in the 
 tailor's and in the shoemaker's enticed you. That 
 
 [72]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 was your chief recreation. On Sunday, of course, 
 for the three-mile journey to chapel, through bog 
 and moor, you relaxed with the group of neigh- 
 bours with whom you walked — or ran when you 
 found the last bell ringing, and you not yet past 
 Paddy McNeely's mearin'. 
 
 And the neighbours were neighbourly in the tru- 
 est sense. In fact, you were all the one family. 
 You sorrowed together, one with another, if a poor 
 man's cow died; and again you all rejoiced for 
 the joy of one. Any implement or convenience that 
 you had for facilitating farm work was always at 
 the call of any neighbour who needed it. And 
 when a big day's work must be done — the taking 
 in of your hay, or the getting home of your turf — 
 you just put out the word in a general sort of way, 
 and a dozen kindly neighbours came with the day- 
 break, and everyone of them worked for two. That 
 was one of the times at which Molly was lavish — 
 gave tea after breakfast, a fish dinner, and tea and 
 baker's bread after supper. To the poor widow- 
 woman who was left with large care on her hands, 
 and with small means, you all gathered occasion- 
 ally, in a tneithil, to give a great day's work — set- 
 ting or sowing, turf-cutting or reaping. 
 
 When dread Death visited Cornamona and 
 claimed one or other of you, all men dropped their 
 spades in reverent sympathy with the family that 
 
 [73]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 was afflicted, and, however pressing were the crops' 
 needs, none lifted spade or rake again till you had 
 seen the green sod drawn over poor Micky, or 
 little Mary, as the case might be. The ties of 
 neighbourly love that bound you all were worthy 
 of a better world. 
 
 The neighbours all rejoiced with you, of course, 
 in the wonderful speed little Patrick was making at 
 college. And when they said the Rosary at night, 
 they always put up a prayer — one of many trim- 
 mings — for God to bless the brave boy and keep 
 him in His care and speed him towards the grand 
 goal for which he bravely struggled. Never-end 
 ing were the prayers of Molly and yourself for the 
 same object. Your Rosary was never wound up, 
 during years and years, without five Paters and 
 Aves being chorused for God's blessing on the 
 young hero sixty miles away. 
 
 In your house, as in all the houses, the Rosary 
 was recited nightly by the whole household, kneel- 
 ing in a circle. Molly made you lead it, while she 
 and the children devoutly chorused response. The 
 Rosary hour was a peaceful hour, and it brought 
 you all very near indeed to God. The hum of the 
 Rosary was sweet and beautiful to those who, pass- 
 ing the way, uncovered their heads in reverence, 
 and felt they were treading sacred ground while 
 still that music was in their ears. Although you 
 
 [74]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 led the Rosary, Molly could never trust you with 
 the trimmings. These, Herself always did take 
 charge of. For 'twas she, and she alone, who 
 knew how to pour out the heartfelt poetic petition 
 which prefaced each Pater and Ave asking for 
 benefits spiritual and temporal for yourselves and 
 your friends and neighbours, and for all the world 
 — and an especial petition for all poor sinners who 
 had no one to pray for them. Lucky, indeed, was 
 the mortal who was particularized in Molly's pray- 
 ers. Blessed were all who shared with your house- 
 hold the fruits of the nightly Rosary. 
 
 Molly had a deal of concern caring for the 
 children; but with a heart-broken sigh she had 
 to confess that you were ten times more 
 bother than the helpless baby. You were a 
 great worry to her, entirely. It took a deal 
 of trouble and pains on her part to keep 
 you neat, and trig, and a credit to her house- 
 wifery — especially when she was trigging you up 
 for fair or market, or fitting you out for chapel. 
 It took a deal of time and trouble to brush your 
 coat and to shine your brogues so that you might 
 see yourself in them (for 'twas a disgrace how you 
 did your shoes) ; to button the white shirt front 
 and fix it and the shirt-cuffs, so that every other 
 man's wife in the parish might marvel at your 
 wife's skill in starching; to put on your collar for 
 
 [75]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 you, and tie under your chin that flowing bow- 
 knot whose manipulation was always an unfath- 
 omable mystery to you, and whose ends ever threat- 
 ened to trip you. And when, at length, she turned 
 you out of doors dressed, she took care to let you 
 know you were a heart-scald. Yet you, callous fel- 
 low, smiled — for you knew that, if you were so 
 mean as to look over-shoulder, you would catch her 
 watching after you with a pride that glowed in her 
 eyes. 
 
 If 'twas going to the market or fair you were, 
 she overtook you before you were half a mile gone, 
 herself now dressed — and looking a picture too, — 
 and took charge of you thenceforward. She 
 guided you to every place where you had business 
 to do and, with the exception of buying and selling 
 animals, did it for you. For, of course, you could- 
 n't be trusted to do the triflingest thing for yourself 
 without bungling. Or, if you didn't bungle, then 
 at least the sharp ones were sure to take you in. 
 She heaved a sigh of relief only when, untying her 
 bonnet-strings and enumerating the pitfalls and 
 swindles from which she had snatched you, she saw 
 you safely seated in your own chimney corner — 
 from which you should never stir without guidance. 
 You inwardly thanked Heaven for the wonderful 
 woman entirely it had given you, while you dis- 
 tributed fairlies from your pockets to the strug- 
 
 [76]
 
 WHEN A MAN'S MARRIED 
 
 gling mass of young humanity and hu-woman-ity 
 who, in desperate battle around your knees, almost 
 threatened to tear you limb from limb. 
 
 Yourself and Molly religiously observed, and in 
 your children put respect for all the old customs 
 and all the old festivals. On the fifth day of Jan- 
 uary you feasted the children in honour of Old 
 Christmas Eve. On the first day of February you 
 observed the feast of St. Brigid, bringing in with 
 pious and dramatic ceremony the bundle of rushes, 
 placing them under the table while the family 
 supped a special supper, and then plaiting from 
 them beautiful St. Brigid's Crosses which were 
 stuck above every bed and every door in your dwell- 
 ing house, and above the doors of your cattle- 
 houses, to keep from ban and blight, for twelve 
 months to come, all living things that slept or 
 passed beneath. On May Eve you taught the chil- 
 dren to gather the May flowers and with them 
 strew the door-steps and window-sills in festive of- 
 ferings; and you took great care upon that day to 
 give no offence direct or indirect to the Gentle 
 People, who, all invisible, were then plentifully 
 around you. On Bonfire Night, with the sacred 
 fire you circled cattle and crops. On Hallow Eve 
 night you enjoyed the greatest feast of the year. 
 And, two nights later, on All Souls' Night, the one 
 night during which the souls of your dead kith 
 
 [77]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 and kin who suffered in Purgatory were allowed to 
 come again to the homes and haunts and the dear 
 ones they loved, your household at bedtime recited 
 the Long Rosary for the relief of their suffering. 
 And when the children went to bed, Molly cleaned 
 and swept and tidied the house, as she would 
 against the coming of any honoured visitor — 
 brushing up the hearth and piling high a bright- 
 blazing fire, and setting chairs and stools in circle 
 around it, for them who would come at midnight, 
 and be gladdened to see that the living were still 
 lovingly mindful of them. 
 
 You had no dowry to put on your one daughter 
 Una ; yet when Neill McGrath, a brave boy from 
 the next parish, owning a comfortable farm, came 
 to ask her and got her with your blessing and 
 Molly's, he considered that he got great dowry 
 with her in the gifts and graces that God and na- 
 ture had given her, and in the skill in spinning, 
 knitting, butter-making and housekeeping which 
 Molly, the best manager in the parish, had culti- 
 vated in her. And Neill was right, too. Your 
 son Larry, now come to young manhood, had 
 placed his affections on a next-door neighbour's 
 daughter and got a farm and fortune with her, 
 though he, on his part, had nothing to offer only a 
 clean heart, a fine frame, and a pair of brave and 
 willing hands, 
 
 [78]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 Jimmy would very soon take passage for Amer- 
 ica ; while Johneen Og, who helped you at home, 
 would heir the farm and wouldn't marry for five 
 or six years yet — till all the others were settled 
 and "done for." Patrick, brave boy, was now 
 nearing the goal for which he had so long striven, 
 and to which you had so long looked forward, and 
 for which you had so well, and worthily, and un- 
 tiringly worked. 
 
 At last, on that blessed and memorable morn- 
 ing on which, in Frosses chapel, you saw him in his 
 golden, gleaming robes, turn to the congregation, 
 and, a light from heaven shining on his fair young 
 face, spread his arms above the bent multitude, 
 saying solemnly "Dominus Vobiscum," yourself 
 and Molly, kneeling amid hundreds of other 
 hushed ones, took hands underneath her shawl, 
 and, your eyes running tears, together bowed 
 heads and hearts before God in soulful gratitude 
 for that this day had crowned your married life 
 with its crowning joy. 
 
 V. EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 But 'tis now a long cry back to that glorious 
 day of Patrick's ordination, when your married 
 life was crowned with its crowning joy — yours and 
 Molly's. 
 
 [79]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 You were only just in your prime at sixty — 
 both Yourself and Herself. And, even at seventy 
 you were still a brave, hardy couple, every bit 
 as young as the youngest of them. And 
 you showed it to them, too, the pair of you, 
 at the christening at Parrah Mor's, when, dis- 
 gusted with looking at the young people of 
 nowadays thinking they were dancing, you swept 
 the loiterers from the floor in your righteous 
 wrath, and leading out Molly as cavalierly as you 
 had done on that very same floor half a century 
 before, showed them what real dancing was, and 
 only sat down when the fiddler, crying "mercy," 
 let his paralyzed arm drop to his side. The speed 
 of the dance brought the blush to Molly's cheek 
 again and the gleam to her eye; and, looking at 
 her, with her head tossed back and skirts held 
 gracefully, while her feet went twinkle, you just 
 saw the fresh-lipped cailin who half a century be- 
 fore had proudly paraded with you the Harvest 
 Fair of Glenties. And when the fiddler collapsed, 
 you took young Molly Gilbride in your arms and 
 gave her a hearty kiss, while the thunderous ap- 
 plause threatened to bring the rafters down! By 
 the hand, again cavalierly, you led the radiant 
 Molly to her seat, and made her your best bow, 
 and announced for the benefit of the nervous, beard- 
 less boys: "There's a copy cut for ye, lads. Fol- 
 
 [80]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 low it, first and last !" But they daren't do either, 
 for the house now scorned them, unworthy of the 
 traditions of their fathers. Thenceforward it was 
 a night jubilant and boisterous for the frisky young- 
 sters of three and four score. And you and 
 Molly, having done your part, sat around the walls 
 with old-time comrades comparing historical notes, 
 enthusing over long-gone days and deeds that were, 
 and lamenting the pitiable little men and women 
 whom Providence had now provided for filling 
 your shoes — the tops of which they could barely 
 see over! 'Twas sad and sad! But, somehow, it 
 was a sort of sadness that brought with it inward 
 elation, even if outward depression. 
 
 No matter. Yourself and Herself, as I said, 
 were a brave, handsome couple at seventy. And 
 no one ever even mentioned age to you till you 
 passed your four-score mark. Indeed you had 
 never dreamt that age could come to you : for both 
 of you, somehow, as you did your share of work at 
 seventy-five and seventy-eight, unwittingly took it 
 for granted that you were children of Tir nan 
 Oig* Molly still spun, and milked, and washed, 
 carried great pots of potatoes to and from the fire, 
 and tripped like the gayest of them six miles to the 
 market with her basket of eggs on Saturday. You 
 
 *The Land of Everlasting Youth — the Gaelic paradise. 
 
 [81]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 were yet able to give a lead to the most conceited 
 young fellow of them all at the potato-setting or 
 the turf-cutting or mowing of the hay. 
 
 Curious it was how the old age called on you at 
 last. 'Twas on a Saturday night, after you had 
 returned from your twelve Irish miles' walking 
 and jumping to and from the Donegal market. 
 You had got up extra early that morning, of course, 
 and done your day's work back-loading manure to 
 the South Park before you gaily took the hills for 
 the town. There was a bit of a "halt" on you, you 
 thought, as you returned from the market; but 
 when you sat down in your own chimney-corner you 
 stiffened entirely. Neill Moran was there to learn 
 from you how the markets went; and to Neill you 
 remarked that you didn't know from Adam what 
 the stiffness was in your legs the night. Says Neill, 
 says he: "I'll hould you a bad ha'penny 'tis 'the 
 age,' Johneen. You know you turned the frosty 
 side of four-score a while back." Your first im- 
 pulse was to grip hold of your stick, and smash a 
 handful of Neill's ribs for him. But that wouldn't 
 have been hospitable in your own house. You only 
 said some caustic things, and let him know 'twas 
 ill his coming to your own house to insult you. 
 And poor Neill went away much mortified, and all 
 apology. 
 
 But when you thought it over as you tossed 
 
 [82]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 sleepless through the night, and found yourself, on 
 getting up in the morning, far from as nimble as 
 you used to be, it struck you that there might be 
 something in what Neill said after all. Molly, that 
 night, confessed to you as you talked the matter 
 over that, in troth, she had been feeling a bit stiff ish 
 herself after coming home. Old Terry McMullan 
 dropped in on Sunday night for to borrow from 
 you the loan of a harrow, which he and his little 
 grandson were going to pull the next day on the 
 hazel-brae (because it was too steep and difficult 
 for a donkey). With Terry's aid you plunged 
 into chronology, and calculated that, as you were 
 just five years of age the Night of the Big Wind, 
 and as Molly was born midway between the Day 
 of the Straws and the night the Sickymoor-tree fell 
 at Tom Kerrigan's, you must be all of four-score 
 years and five, and Molly just three more than 
 four-score — barring a month more or less. "Well ! 
 well!" you at length conceded, "I suppose myself 
 and Molly must be wearin' on in years, after all." 
 And Terry McMullan sided: "Faith, Johneen, 
 'tisn't younger either of you'll be gettin' from this 
 out." Both Molly and yourself nodded grave 
 acquiescence. When you closed the door on Terry 
 that night, and went back with a sigh and took 
 your seat and your pipe in the chimney corner, op- 
 posite to Molly, who was gazing into the fire, you 
 
 [83]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 were an old man looking across at an old woman, 
 sure enough ! 
 
 Well, God be thankit for His blessings and His 
 mercies ! Sure you had your day, and it was a 
 good day and a full one. Why should you not now 
 make way for your youngers and betters? Molly 
 and yourself, brave hearts ever, were quickly recon- 
 ciled to the new aspect of things. Moreover, Old 
 Age, when ye got used to the thought, wasn't such 
 a terror after all as it had looked at the first blush, 
 the night Neill Moran threw it in your face. It 
 had its compensations — its own joys and gratifica- 
 tions. Henceforward, extra care was bestowed on 
 you, extra respect tendered to you. You had your 
 pipe and your ease in your own chimney corner 
 when you chose; and Molly her ease and her snuff- 
 box in the opposite corner. But you didn't always 
 choose this. For the most part, you fought Old 
 Age a good, stiff, stand-up fight, for you weren't 
 the build of a man who could bear to drop his 
 hands to his side while still a splank of the old fire 
 remained unquenched. You still went to the field, 
 spade over shoulder or scythe on arm, and worked 
 foot for foot with the youngest of them. Only, 
 you didn't now go out till after breakfast, and 
 during the day you had more frequent occasion to 
 light your pipe and sit to smoke. Very soon they 
 half-dissuaded, half-coerced you into dropping both 
 
 [84]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 the spade and the scythe, and wielding instead a 
 shovel and a rake. You didn't know why they 
 should do it, and strenuously objected; but the 
 weight of public opinion broke your resolution. 
 By-and-bye, to your disgust, they took the shovel 
 and rake from you, and gave you a stout hazel- 
 staff, with which implement the cleverest of them 
 couldn't work wonders in a hay-field or a potato- 
 patch. After experimenting for months with the 
 stick you discovered that its use was to herd and 
 drive cattle — and help a man climb over a fence, 
 too. Little by little, it dawned upon you that you 
 were in the way in the work field, both because 
 you were too old and the world was too new. 
 Modern ideas, which did not harmonize with yours, 
 were creeping in there, and at your time of life, 
 where was the use raising a row about it? Any- 
 how, you were needed for nursing at the fireside 
 now; for there was none could better soothe and 
 please Larry's little children, and none they were 
 fonder of than yourself and Molly. You had rid- 
 dles and guesses unending to keep them amused and 
 amazed for the length of a summer's day and a 
 winter's night, and sweet, crooning old songs and 
 ballads which were in esteem when you were young ; 
 and stories — oh, such stories! — stories of ghosts 
 and of fairies and of the wonderful giants of old — 
 entrancing stories that the spellbound children 
 
 [85]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 could listen to for a lifetime, and with their last 
 breath be still begging for more ! Yes, your stories 
 were both inimitable and inexhaustible. You were 
 now one of the great Shanachies* of the country- 
 side. It was not little children alone who loved 
 to listen to your stories, but big children likewise, 
 some of them six feet high. You fascinated the 
 gray children as easily as the green. Those were 
 wonderful tales that you had in your repertoire 
 surely, and it was well known that you could never 
 tell yourself out. Besides, none of your stories ever 
 knew what it was to be coffined between the two 
 covers of a book. Neither were they made yester- 
 day. Through your father, and his father's father, 
 and so on backward for some thousands of years, 
 had been handed down to you this rare heritage of 
 grand old tales. A thousand times on a winter's 
 night, when they knew you would be story-telling, 
 the neighbours, both young and old, gathered from 
 far and near, crowding your house to listen once 
 again to the astounding adventures of the brave 
 King of Ireland's Son, or to the side-splitting tricks 
 of tricksome Jack, the lucky, witty son of the 
 poor widow woman, or to the magic romance 
 (which it took three of the longest nights in winter 
 to tell) of the wonderful wanderings of the King 
 of Connacht's Thirteen Sons. The whole house 
 
 ♦Story-tellers. 
 
 [86]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 held their breath as you came to your climax, till 
 the wonder was that some of the more excited 
 of them didn't burst entirely. 
 
 To add to the charm of your story-telling every 
 single word of every single tale, as both yourself 
 and your audience well knew, was real truth. And 
 every single happening, just as you had heard it 
 from your grandfather and retold it, actually and 
 really happened — in the wonderful, mystical, magi- 
 cal old, old times. Therein lay the great value of 
 your stories. On a night when the bacach (wan- 
 dering beggarman) arrived at your house, and 
 made himself at home there till morning, the word 
 went like moor-fire over the country-side, and your 
 kitchen was quickly crowded with the crowd that 
 came to hear the pair of you tell stories one against 
 the other, till either exhaustion or daybreak put 
 an end to what seemed an unendable contest. 
 
 Your power as a Shanachie was always invoked 
 at wakes in the kitchen, when the night needed 
 cutting; for time always went on wings, they said, 
 when you were story-telling. You were great at 
 wakes, anyhow, and you never missed one within a 
 radius of five miles. When you entered the wake- 
 house, sympathetically shaking the hand of the 
 bereaved one, you said, as customary, with down- 
 cast eyes: "Mary" (or "Neill," as the case might 
 be), "I'm sorry for your trouble," getting reply: 
 
 [87]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 "Thanky, Johneen, I know it. But it's a trouble 
 that must meet all of us, God prepare us for it!" 
 Then, proceeding to the door of the room where 
 the corpse was stretched, you knelt down and with 
 bowed head prayed three Pater-and-Aves for the 
 soul of the departed one. A flutter now ran around 
 the gathering, for all knew now that they would 
 be treated to something more than usually inter- 
 esting. When you had prayed your prayer, and 
 had taken your seat among the young men and 
 women of only sixty, who envied you for your ma- 
 ture years, you were called on to reckon the age 
 of him that was dead. That set the wheels of 
 memory working; and, as on all such occasions it 
 worked aloud, rambling over a deal of mighty 
 fascinating ground, all the house hung on your 
 soliloquy. Having calculated the age of the de- 
 ceased, synchronizing the various crises and phases 
 in his life with other notable parish events, you 
 then, at the instigation of some of the cronies pres- 
 ent, calculated the ages of every one in the country- 
 side whose age had heretofore seemed incalculable, 
 and entrancing reminiscence became the order of 
 the night. Reminiscence ran riot round the house, 
 and young and old were whirled into the 
 Maelstrom. Every doubt, however, was referred 
 to you — or to yourself and Molly, in case Herself 
 was also present — and your verdict was unques- 
 
 [88]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 tioned. Your position was an enviable one. You 
 were a proud man, and no wonder. "Yes," you 
 acknowledged, in your vainglory forgetting the 
 stiffening body on the bed, " 'tis a grand thing to 
 be an old man." 
 
 A very grand thing — the proof is being forced 
 on you at every turn. The young reverence you, 
 the middle-aged venerate and admire you. At your 
 own fireside, or at the fireside of the stranger, at 
 the cross-roads or in the chapel-yard, every ear is 
 pricked to get your comment on the subject under 
 discussion. Your views on politics and politicians 
 must be the correct views. You can by your slight- 
 est word exalt the fallen man, and by a mere shake 
 of the head tumble from his tuppenny pedestal the 
 hero of the hour. You quickly convince your audi- 
 ence that politics are not what they used to be; 
 there's too little do and too much say in Ireland 
 now. In your day you aimed to argue politics in 
 a different fashion. To "the pathos of a pike and 
 the logic of a blow" you pinned your faith. Young 
 men sigh and vainly wish that old days and old 
 ways would come again. 
 
 When Dan Timoney and Conal Moohan dispute 
 about the possession of a turf bank, or Condy Dor- 
 rian claims a right-of-way which Mattha Cannon 
 denies, or Murty Molloy asks additional dowry for 
 his wife when he discovers — too late — that she's 
 
 [89]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 a bad butter-maker; it is to you the disputants come 
 tor decision. And your word is law — as much be- 
 cause of the honour due to age, as the superiority 
 of wisdom that must accompany it. All questions 
 of genealogy, chronology, and history are referred 
 to you for settlement. If a stranger, purporting 
 to be learned, comes into the parish, it is artfully 
 contrived to bring him through the fire of your 
 presence, and the neighbours watch you narrowly 
 to see how he has stood the test. If friends quar- 
 rel, or there be a family fall-out, it is of course 
 your duty to go to them, hear both sides, gently 
 reprove all parties, and make them shake hands in 
 your presence and promise to be henceforth nearer 
 and dearer than ever to one another. When you 
 speak at a gathering, all pause to listen — the very 
 young watching their elders to see how they take 
 your words, and their elders watching you with the 
 utmost reverence. Against the spirit of scepticism, 
 that, even in your remote world, would, if it dared, 
 lift its head, you bravely and scathingly do battle. 
 You vindicate tradition, and uphold beliefs that 
 came to you sanctified by the centuries. If, at one 
 of your astonishing illustrations, any cynic in the 
 company so far forgets himself as to smile, the 
 elder most convenient to him forthwith knocks him 
 down. The slighted ghost has reason to be grate- 
 ful to you ; the fairy has in you a champion indomi- 
 
 [90]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 table; and all the beautiful old beliefs of your peo- 
 ple are secure while you walk abroad. 
 
 And the fairies recompensed you. All men saw 
 that. For you were lucky in everything you turned 
 your hand to. The world went well with you. 
 And your children's children were bringing honour 
 to your gray hairs, and joy to your soul. That 
 you had never known pain or ache was of course 
 not a personal fairy favour, for there wasn't a 
 couple, lucky or unlucky, in the country-side, who 
 couldn't say the same of themselves. There was 
 indeed a family over the border of the parish, 
 whose grandfather the doctor had attended three 
 times, and the tongue of scandal told it against 
 them yet. And yet you had worked out in the 
 fields, summer and winter, wet and dry, and had 
 often come home from a day's work in the ditches 
 with the seven streams of Egypt running from 
 your clothing, sat down to a hearty supper, and 
 then gone "raking" to a neighbour's house, sitting 
 in his corner for the lee-long night with a reek 
 like that of a burning turf-stack ascending the 
 chimney from your rain-sodden clothes, causing the 
 bean-a-tighe* to remark that you were damp, and 
 yourself slightingly to reply that you'd be dry be- 
 fore the new day. And the man who would have 
 suggested changing your clothes would have been 
 
 •Woman of the house. 
 
 [91]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 looked at by everyone as if he had two heads on 
 him ! Thanks be to Heaven, even now in your 
 old age, you knew very little of pain or ache either 
 — barring, maybe, the distant rumble of the 
 rheumatiz in your bones, which made your son 
 Larry and his wife insist that neither Herself nor 
 yourself should get up in the morning. You had 
 first laughed at this preposterous proposal, and then 
 stormed. But Molly consented to take breakfast 
 in bed. By-and-bye you were seduced to the luxury 
 also, and actually found it good. You would have 
 your breakfast and a draw of the pipe, and then 
 turn over for another snooze, before getting up and 
 getting into your duds, and beginning to nurse and 
 croon to the children, or potter about the house 
 and the haggard. You turned up, though, for all 
 the other meals, whereat the tit-bits were singled 
 out for you. You now helped to break Molly's 
 spirit, inducing her to accept coddling, and thus 
 paved the way for your own downfall. You were 
 being coddled yourself directly, and were luxuriat- 
 ing in it. Without putting it into words, yourself 
 and Herself — each nursing one of Larry's littlest 
 children — acknowledged to each other across the 
 fire that slipping into age wasn't such an unpleasant 
 thing after all. At bedtime, as usual, you led the 
 Rosary. That was a prerogative you never re- 
 signed. But the nearer you approached dissolu- 
 
 [92]
 
 EVENING'S QUIET END 
 
 tion, the longer did you draw out the trimmings 
 and the more plentiful were the petitions you put 
 up, not for yourself and Molly alone, but for 
 God's protection and blessing on all the dear and 
 loved ones who must very soon be left without your 
 protection. 
 
 You had well turned four-score and ten when at 
 length you dissolved, leaving behind you Herself, 
 on whom you bestowed the last lingering, loving 
 look — a look, too, that plainly said: "Come soon, 
 a cuisle mo chroidhe.*" 
 
 A great wake you had surely. Your thousand 
 friends came from far and near to smoke a friendly 
 pipe at your house, and to pray a prayer over you, 
 and sit for some hours by your bier, lamenting that 
 the parish would never see your likes again. 
 And the funeral was something that would 
 have delighted the heart of you, had you only 
 been able to see it. In relays of four, the finest 
 men of the parish shouldered you over bog and 
 moor, hill and dale, road and river, to your final 
 field, with five hundred footing it behind. And 
 when you were lowered to your long home, and 
 Father Peter, in shaky tones, had committed you : 
 "Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes," 
 the boys who filled your grave and scrawed it, said 
 with the last sod: "With all our sorrow, we're 
 
 *0 Pulse of My Heart! 
 
 [93]
 
 YOURSELF AND HERSELF 
 
 proud. For from this day out 'twill be our boast 
 that we planted the best man Killymard ever knew. 
 God rest you, Johneen !" 
 
 And a hundred bowed heads muttered a deep 
 and fervent "Amen!" 
 
 [94]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 IN all the world again was no lore so lovely, 
 belief so beautiful, or faith so powerful, as 
 that of you and yours at Knockagar, where the 
 spirit world touched earth, and its people mingled 
 with men. 
 
 Not only were the Gentle People with you every- 
 where and always, but your affectionate dead, 
 grown homesick in Heaven, came back to see and 
 feel, to advise and to console. And among your 
 holy hills the old saints, scattering blessing, often 
 walked again. And sometimes the Angels passed 
 as shuilers; and even the Christ himself in beg- 
 gar's rags leant over your half-door — asking alms 
 or your roof's shelter — just to find for Himself 
 whether you were forgetting. 
 
 Your homely lore a learned world would prob- 
 ably despise. But well you know that whatever 
 of solid work is in you, you owe to that lore 
 whereon you were suckled, and on which, through 
 time of youth and riper manhood, your soul as 
 well as your fancy fed. Whether it was of love, 
 or faith, or humour, or beauty, or just simply joy, 
 from every one of the lovely legends that were 
 
 [95]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 as thick as caoran-berries on the hills, you learnt 
 some lesson, little or big. 
 
 How could you help it ? Sure they were, every- 
 one of them, as delightful and as useful as, say: 
 
 The Return of Raftery 
 
 'Twas a man Raftery was, as well as a fiddler, 
 and the first and best of both that ever stepped 
 in shoe leather. And there never walked the 
 world a man with manlier notions in his heart. 
 And och, sure the wailin' o' the wind was in his 
 fiddle, and the sighin' o' the sae, and the whisperin' 
 o' the Sidhe* among the sallies, and the mire- 
 snipes complainin' on the moor. The loneliness 
 o' the bogs was in it, and the loveliness o' the 
 sky and the whistlin' o' the blackbird and the sing- 
 in' o' the lark, the throopin' o' the fairies and the 
 beat of their ten times ten thousand little feet at 
 the moonlit dance on the rath. 
 
 Like the wind among the reeds, his music bent 
 and turned what way it liked the crowds that al- 
 ways followed. And the lowest heart was lifted, 
 and the proudest was made meek, and the hardest 
 he could melt like snow in May. Men would 
 tramp from Ireland's ends to hear him play; for 
 his fame filled every foot of ground between the 
 Four Saes — and they forgot hunger and thirst and 
 
 ♦The Gentle People. 
 
 [96]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 hot and cold, while the spell of his music was 
 on them and the ring of his fiddle echoin' and re- 
 echoin' down the stairways of their hearts. 
 Though the richest in the land he well might be, 
 a tattered coat was the best he wore. Money he 
 despised. "Love, love," his one great theme, was 
 all he saw and all he cared for, all that filled the 
 "world star high" for him. 
 
 And Love it was, his soul's delight, that brought 
 him from beyond the grave to the weddin' of Jack 
 MacDermott and Mary. 
 
 And they had love and only love, brave Jack 
 and winsome Mary, that night they married. 
 Four bare walls they returned to from the chapel, 
 and the cold water and the misty outlook entirely. 
 But sure 'twas little they minded that, when marry 
 for love they did. Miser MacGroarty of the 
 Hillhead, Mary had refused — with all his lands 
 and strands and cows galore. And Nancy Moore 
 of Murvagh, with her hundred pounds and seven 
 heifers and two chests of linen, who'd come at 
 the raisin' of his little finger, Jack bravely turned 
 his back upon to marry Mary. 
 
 So here they were alone and lonely in their lit- 
 tle cabin this weddin' night, when 'twas making 
 merry with them all the worl' should be. Alone 
 and lonesome aye — for all the wise ones were dis- 
 gusted with them both for that they threw away 
 
 [97]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 the God-sent chance of wealth and comfort — the 
 heifers and gold of Nancy Moore, and the miser's 
 lands and strands and score o' cows; for throwin' 
 away these splendid chances as if they mattered 
 not, and marryin' in haste like the fools they must 
 be, without even a month's potatoes at their back. 
 The truth was what the wise ones wouldn't see and 
 couldn't see that, for fear the world's wisdom 
 would make them marry gold, they flew the temp- 
 tation quick, and married love — which disgusted 
 all the wise ones, and left the lovers as they were, 
 lonesome but lovingful, on this their weddin' night. 
 
 The latch was lifted and into the floor to them 
 stepped a bent old man with a fiddle under his 
 greeny-black coat, wishin' them God's blessin' and 
 takin' the seat that Jack pulled to the fire for him. 
 
 "A long way I've come," said the fiddler. "It's 
 hungry I am and I'll thank you good people for 
 a bite of supper." 
 
 "Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed both of them to- 
 gether. "Is it supper ye want? Why, though 
 we're just married this day ourselves, we've to 
 sup upon love. Yet, in troth, if we'd anything 
 more fillin' for the stomach, welcome you or any 
 other stranger would be with a heart and a half 
 to a big share o't." 
 
 "What!" said the stranger. "Is it marry for 
 love you did, and nothin' to put in the pot?" 
 
 [98]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 "That same," says they. "Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 And now we'll pay for it." 
 
 "But it's cheap at the price," said Mary. 
 
 "It's cheap at the price," said Jack. 
 
 "God bless you," said the fiddler, who was 
 watchin' under his brows. "Then you mustn't 
 be the losers. Did you ever hear tell of Raftery?" 
 says he. 
 
 "Raftery! Sure, 'tisn't jokin' us you are! For 
 there's not one in the world exceptin' the deaf 
 and dead who didn't hear tell of the great 
 Raftery." 
 
 Then the old fiddler laid the fiddle and bow 
 across his knees, and he said: "Send word to the 
 neighbours to come and bring their marriage pres- 
 ents — the best of everything — for Raftery's here 
 to play for the weddin'." 
 
 "Raftery!" they both shouted together when 
 their speeches returned to them. 
 
 "Raftery, I'm he," said the fiddler, resuming 
 his fiddle. The world's wants melted like the 
 mists off the mountains, and the hearts o' them 
 were lifted to the roof tree! Like moor afire, the 
 news swept the countryside that Raftery, the 
 great Raftery, of whom even the babies in the 
 cradle had heard, and a few of the fortunate ones 
 had seen, was at Jack MacDermott's and Mary's 
 to play for the weddin' ! And the country- 
 
 [99]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 side lost its head and left its work, and, forgetting 
 its grudge, gathered up wedding presents the best, 
 and hied itself to the weddin'-house. Barney 
 Brian brought a side of bacon, and Jimmy Mac- 
 Daid a leg of mutton. Eamonn Og came bent 
 two-double under a bursting sack of potatoes, and 
 Mrs. McCailin like a mountain, her arms filled 
 with beddin'. The linens that Molly MacArdle 
 brought were outmatched only by the flannels of 
 Sorcha Ruadh, the firkin of butter from Paddy 
 the Ghost, and oat-cakes to use it on from little 
 Roisin Higgarty. Even the Bacach Beag brought 
 his present of sugar and tea. And to the world's 
 wonder, the niggard, Mattha Mac-a-Nirn, came on 
 the scene crawlin' under a creel of quackin' ducks 
 and geese. 
 
 It's a warm farmer's biggest barn 'twould take 
 to hold the heaps and piles, the mixterum- 
 gatherum collection of weddin' presents that were 
 piled upon Jack and Mary that night. And 
 Raftery for them thanked every man and woman 
 with just a nod, and every soul knew they'd never 
 have wealth enough to return him his change. At 
 the weddin' supper — the greatest ever spread, 
 'twas agreed, in that part of the country — the peo- 
 ple almost feared to munch a mouthful, lest 
 they'd miss a word of Raftery's wit cracked by 
 him from the head of the table — the wit that 
 
 [ ioo]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 scored and scarred and sizzled, every word of it, 
 but still even made him laugh on whose back it 
 was risin' biggest blisters. 
 
 A proud man and woman were Jack and Mary, 
 of the best and bravest and merriest, maddest 
 weddin' supper the country ever witnessed ! And 
 'tis well they might be proud — and, moreover, 
 every children's child that was there would tell 
 his children's children who it was that graced 
 the head of Jack MacDermott's table his weddin' 
 night. And when supper was done with, and the 
 floor cleared, Raftery took his seat on a chair upon 
 a table in the corner and, puttin' his fiddle under 
 his chin, drew his bow upon it. And the people 
 held their breaths, for sure the wailin' of the wind 
 was in that fiddle, and the sighin' o' the sae and 
 the whisperin' of the Sidlie among the sallies, and 
 the heather-bleat's complainin' on the moor. The 
 loveliness of the skies and the loneliness o' the 
 bogs were there, and the whistlin' o' the black- 
 bird and the singin' o' the lark and the marchin' 
 o' the fairies on the moor, and the beat of their 
 ten times ten thousand little feet at the moonlit 
 dance upon the rath. Like the wind among the 
 reeds, his music bent and turned what way it listed 
 the breathless crowd that listened. And the low- 
 est heart he lifted, and the hardest he melted like 
 snow in May, and a soul there wasn't in all that 
 
 [ioi]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 gatherin' but, hearing, was put under fairy spells 
 so sweet that they wished they might never be let 
 free again. 
 
 And when it was due to lift the fiddler's fee, 
 Raftery took his hat and went round the house 
 himself, a thing no fiddler ever did before. 
 
 They who vowed, under the music's spell, to 
 give sixpence, gave a shilling, and he that prom- 
 ised himself to give a shilling, gave a crown, till, 
 when the house was finished, the hat was full and 
 flowin' o'er. 
 
 And when every soul of them, still under their 
 spells, had shook the hand of Jack and kissed the 
 mouth of Mary, prayin' God to prosper their mar- 
 riage, and pushed for their homes, Raftery, put- 
 ting his fiddle under his old greeny-black coat, 
 shook stunned Jack, and kissed Mary, and prayin' 
 God to send them His blessin's, went his ways, 
 leavin' both of them open-mouthed, wide-eyed and 
 speechless. 
 
 The sight of the old man's hat upon the table, 
 with silver runnin' o'er it, 'twas that fetched 
 Mary back her speeches again in two minutes. 
 "The creature's forgot his hat and his money!" 
 cries she. 
 
 "Wait, wait, till I call him !" says Jack, 
 boundin' for the door. But ere he reached it, it 
 
 [ 102]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 opened and in stepped Pat the Pedlar, with his : 
 "God save all here!" 
 
 "Throw down your pack, Pat," says Jack, 
 "and fetch back here quick the old man with the 
 fiddle that met you on the boreen." 
 
 "Who the — do you mean?" says Pat. 
 
 "Raftery — no other," says Jack. "The great 
 Raftery himself! He's been playin' at our wed- 
 din' and forgot his hatful of silver. Run after 
 him." 
 
 "Raftery," repeats Pat. "Is it the ravin' is 
 come over ye? Raftery I helped to turn the sod 
 on three weeks ago beyont in County Galway — the 
 dead vagabone!" 
 
 "And Raftery," then says he to himself with 
 a sad headshake, while Jack and Mary, open- 
 mouthed, were struck speechless in the middle of 
 the floor — "Raftery, the miserable spendthrift, 
 who might have died a millionaire, went away with 
 just three ha'pence in his pocket, and not a whole 
 shirt to his back. Raftery ! Pagh !" 
 
 'Twas a man Raftery was, as well as a fiddler, 
 and the first and best of both. And there never 
 stepped on shoe leather nor walked the world 
 a man with manlier notions in his mind. And 
 och, sure the wailin' o' the wind was in that fiddle 
 and the sighin' o' the sae and the whisperin' o' the 
 Sidhe among the sallies, and the heather-bleat's 
 
 [ 103]
 
 THE LORE YOU LOVED 
 
 complainin' on the moor. The loneliness o' the 
 hogs was in it, and the loveliness of the skies and 
 the whistlin' o' the blackbird and the singin' o' 
 the lark and the marchin' o' the fairies and the 
 beat of their ten times ten thousand little feet at 
 the moonlit dance on the rath. 
 
 Like the wind among the reeds, his music bent 
 and turned what way it liked the crowds that al- 
 ways listened. And the lowest heart was lifted, 
 and the proudest was brought down, and the hard- 
 est heart he could shape like clay. Though the 
 richest in the land he might be, the tattered coat 
 was the best he wore. For money he despised, and 
 "Love, Love," his one great theme, was all he saw 
 and all he cared for, all that filled the "world star- 
 high" for him. Music, Beauty and Love, they 
 were the wealth he should bring with him when 
 he died. So, with three ha'pence in his pocket and 
 half a shirt on his back, he died a millionaire, did 
 Raftery. 
 
 [ 104]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 AS the Priest's Boy he was perhaps more fa- 
 miliarly known to you, and certainly more 
 widely known to all the world. Under Father 
 Tom and two less famous priests gone before him, 
 Barney was Priest's Boy, as he was likewise under 
 Father La'rence, and still so under Father Dan. 
 Priests, in fact, might come and priests might go, 
 but the Priest's Boy went on forever. As a 
 bouchal of eighteen, he received the distinction, 
 "becoming the Priest's Boy of all-work"; and 
 now, a hale and hearty lad of sixty years and six, 
 he was Priest's Boy still — and that to all but the 
 complete eclipse of his own right name, which, to 
 rescue it from oblivion, we may here state was 
 Barney Meehan. 
 
 In courting days, when more thoughtless youths 
 went rambling, Barney, an ambitious boy ever, at- 
 tended Micky Rufus's night school for three whole 
 winters, and, finding himself then possessed of a 
 toothful or two of reading and writing, capable 
 (without danger of dislocating his tongue) of 
 copying a headline if it was written big enough, 
 and able to read "aisy prent," cast about him his 
 active left eye — a notably active eye that could 
 
 [105]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 leave the other in limbo and make a living for it- 
 self — and, with characteristic pluck, aspired to be 
 Priest's Boy. And it wasn't six months later till 
 he found himself clothed with the proud dignity he 
 had so daringly coveted. 
 
 Yet, truth to tell, between Barney and his of- 
 fice honours were reciprocated; for, if the office 
 conferred dignity on Barney (and it did), Barney 
 carried new dignity to it, and, the manners of his 
 time considered, almost lifted Priest's Boy into 
 a profession, and its duties into an art. Ere 
 Barney lifted the rod of power, the Priest's Boy 
 ranked in the Parish next only to the Masther 
 (who, of course, was next to the priest) ; but under 
 Barney the Priest's Boy was never next man to 
 the Masther; in general, perhaps, consenting to 
 place himself under reverential constraint, the 
 Priest's Boy was next to the priest; but many, 
 many times the Priest was only next man to the 
 Priest's Boy. 
 
 To the first few priests he served, indeed, Bar- 
 ney was boy in deed and name. But, noblesse 
 oblige; under Father Tom, realizing his position 
 as part of that great structure against which not 
 even the gates of Hell shall prevail, be began to 
 shoulder what he considered his due share of the 
 parish cares. Over Father La'rence he first as- 
 serted parental authority, which naturally devel- 
 
 [106]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 oped into affectionate despotism, so that poor 
 Father La'rence, a man of magnificent humility, 
 eventually became the Priest's Boy's boy. Father 
 Dan, of sterner mould, did not at first kiss the 
 rod. This waywardness Barney tolerated, but 
 none the less endeavoured to reform, feeling con- 
 fident that it only required time and temper, and 
 even he would yet know his place. And the event 
 justified his theory — Barney in due time finding 
 himself master of the situation and of Father Dan, 
 so that he had no occasion to discontinue the use 
 of a certain care-burdened first person plural, 
 which in the era of Father Tom had come unto 
 him, bearing with it, in the eyes of you all new 
 laurels for Barney's brow. 
 
 In those days to know how to serve Mass was 
 an indispensable accomplishment for all who as- 
 pired to the office of Priest's Boy. Barney, when 
 first his ambitious eye was turned on the position, 
 travelled five miles of bog every night to get in- 
 ducted into the mysteries of reading Latin by that 
 expert scholar and historian, old Jamie Briany 
 Mor of Lis-na-mrog. And this accomplishment 
 was by no means the least factor in elevating him 
 to the altitude he attained in the eyes of the world. 
 The easy nonchalance with which, after a ten 
 months' course and a twelve months' practice, he 
 could acquit himself at Mass-serving made an ad- 
 
 £ 107 1
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 miring congregation feel that Barney had been 
 born into the world to fill this office. His Latin, 
 it is true, might sometimes have puzzled a pro- 
 fessor of the language, for, besides displaying a 
 lofty disregard for the pedantic trivialities which 
 garnish the syntax, Barney followed a quite origi- 
 nal and highly euphonic pronunciation invented by 
 the aforesaid Jamie Briany Mor. But then the 
 style in which he rattled out the sentences, and 
 made the language spin about him, as he ran the 
 priest neck and neck, was something that compelled 
 your awed admiration. 
 
 But he was a benevolent despot to you, so long 
 as you deserved benevolence. But no longer. 
 Some acts of yours could not be condoned even 
 by Barney — as, for instance, to die yourself, or 
 have one of your family or friends die, at an im- 
 proper hour. And if you did make up your mind 
 to die at an obstinate hour, you did so in fear and 
 trembling for the view the Priest's Boy would 
 take of your misconduct. And you had to choose 
 the bravest, most reckless man in the townland 
 to go for the Priest for you. And the task often- 
 times daunted the most daring. 
 
 "What's that, Condy Molloy?" the Priest's Boy 
 would thunder. "Is it for to go on a sick-call to 
 the toplans of Eglish ! At three o'clock of a 
 mornin' would freeze the words in your throat! 
 
 [108]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 Your brother's wife's stepmother is at death's 
 doore, is she? Och, the sorra die with ye, wan and 
 all! (An' may the Lord forgive me for say in' 
 it!) But it was only the night afore last, an' it 
 rainin' cats an' dogs, we had to go within' a hen's 
 race o' the same contrairy townlan', an' give the 
 last rites to oul' Pether Phad. From afore cock- 
 screech this mornin' — or yestherday mornin', I 
 should say, for it's nixt mornin' now — we were on 
 the road; first to Camlaragan, where we had to 
 say a Mass for Molshie Hude (God rest her 
 soul!), who was undherboord* from the night 
 afore. Then hot-foot to Cron-na-nyass, where we 
 had called a Station on Barney Jamie Managhan. 
 From there to Dhrimanairy to see afther the ap- 
 pairance that they put out on it has been ha'ntin 1 
 Hughie Dinnion's barn since the Scotchman hung 
 himself in it. An' from that, without givin' us 
 time to say 'The Lord bliss ye' or 'The divil miss 
 ye,' off we were dhragged to the shouldher of 
 Croaghan-Airgid till we'd anoint another crature 
 (God guide her on her cowl journey this night!), 
 who was laivin' farewell with hardships an' pov- 
 erty. Hard-'arned, Condy Molloy, was the half- 
 wink o' sleep we were tryin' to stale, when here 
 slam bang came yourself with a tindherary at the 
 doores an' windies as would make the dead curse 
 
 *A figurative equivalent for dead. 
 
 [ IO9]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 in their coffins, wantin' us off to the toplan's of 
 Eglish to see your brother's wife's stepmother! 
 The sorra die with ye wanst an' forever, Condy 
 Molloy, say I again — an' may Heaven forgive 
 both you an' me ! — me for bad prayers and you for 
 provokin' them ! But sure, ever an' always 
 Eglish was notorious for contrairiness; ye wouldn't 
 die like common Christians, at a raisonable an' 
 saisonable hour! Oh, no! if the day was seven 
 months long, an Eglish woman 'ud wait till she'd 
 get the middle o' the night, an' she was sure the 
 Priest's Boy — an' the priest — was asleep, to take 
 it intil her head to die. The back o' me hand 
 to you Eglish ! An' the sole o' me foot, too ! 
 Come, Father Dan ! Father Dan ! FA-ATHER 
 DA-AN ! Shake yourself and throw on your 
 duds! Eglish no less! Glory be to goodness! 
 Three o'clock in the mornin' an' fit to freeze a 
 mill-race ! The curse o' the crows on you, Condy 
 Molloy, but ye've a dale to answer for!" 
 
 Ere he returned the bravest quailed. Nor did 
 Father Dan's most wrathful remonstrances avail 
 to reform Barney. "Arrah, musha, and Heaven 
 sees, Father Dan, ye have as much gumption as 
 them. Small wondher they'd act on ye" — which 
 is to say, die at night — "when this is the way 
 ye take to encourage them! Be aisy with 
 them! Be aisy with them! It's small consarn it 
 
 [no]
 
 THE PRIEST'S BOY 
 
 gives your reverence in throth. But only ye have 
 me to speak to them, be me sawnies, ye'd whistle 
 another tune. An' the price o' ye it 'ud be, if I'd 
 laive it atween you's. There's not an oul' woman 
 from en' to win' of the parish — from Doorin 
 Point to Lachty Ban — consarned with a corn on 
 her wee toe but 'ud have post haste for ye at 
 midnight, if she foun' the rain comin'. Ay, aisy 
 with them, aisy with them, indeed! Ye ought 
 to give out that ye'll toast chickens for them'll 
 come latest an' want ye farthest. Me soul, I'd like 
 to be dressin' some o' them down with a black- 
 thorn plasther! I'll tell your reverence what it 
 is — for it's as well to speak plain — either I'm the 
 Priest's Boy, or I'm not. If I'm not, say so. If 
 I am, then be the laive o' your Reverence's coat, 
 ye'll plaise allow me to know me own business." 
 
 Mentally, Father Dan put his own interpreta- 
 tion on the meaning of the word Boy there; but, 
 on reflection, he kept the lore to himself, and shak- 
 ing his head retired — defeated. Deep down in his 
 heart he had come to realize that he was indeed 
 the Priest's Boy's boy. 
 
 [in]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 IN the course of time Father Dan, by long years' 
 pinching of himself and by Herculean efforts, 
 raised a new chapel, rude but accommodating, in 
 the upper end of the parish, thus saving hundreds 
 of you a seven miles' trudge on Sundays. 
 
 But with the Chapel came a new curate — and 
 trouble. 
 
 When Father Luke had been presented to the 
 Priest's Boy, and questioned and quietly studied, 
 a blind man could see that his qualifications were, 
 at least, questionable. Father Luke had three 
 large defects that the Priest's Boy, however well 
 disposed he might be, could not overlook. He 
 was young, genteel, and of a new school. Barney 
 gravely shook his head, and confided to Father 
 Dan that the Bishop had made a mistake. Father 
 Luke might make a very good curate, indeed, for 
 townspeople, but he would never rise to the re- 
 quirements of Knocknagar. 
 
 Still, if his superior, the Bishop, had ordered 
 Barney to put his foot in the fire, it was his duty 
 to do so — and he'd have done it. So with like 
 heroism in this painful case here, he saw his duty 
 and would do it. He would tolerate this reverend 
 
 [112]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 young gentleman, and unmurmuringly submit to 
 be Priest's Boy over him. 
 
 However, when the new curate began turning 
 the parish upside down and the Chapel inside 
 out, the Priest's Boy's heroic resolve was put to 
 the pin of its collar. But when Father Luke an- 
 nounced his intention of training a band of young 
 Mass-servers — "acolytes !" he styled them — re- 
 bellion was let loose. Father Dan, fearfully recog- 
 nizing the crisis in the Church, hurried from 
 Barney to Father Luke, and reasoned and remon- 
 strated. But he found his curate as obstinate as 
 his Boy. "He must have his way, I suppose, 
 Barney," Father Dan resignedly confided to the 
 Priest's Boy later. "The dicken's grandfather 
 wouldn't move him." 
 
 Barney's wrath was red. "So sure," he vowed, 
 "as he fetches his pressgang of acrobats on that 
 altar, so surely will I either march off it or brake 
 their necks for them afore they go on." 
 
 Father Dan admitted that, certainly, it was an 
 innovation. "But, new kings, new laws, Barney. 
 I suppose you and I have fallen out of the race. 
 The world has gone on and left us behind. Father 
 Luke assures me he's only doing things as they're 
 done everywhere now." 
 
 "An' upon my word, Father Dan, it'll not sur- 
 prise me — an' I don't know if I'll not feel that it's 
 
 [113]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 your desarvin' — if this new pntleman would, the 
 very next move, ax the Bishop to have the both 
 of us suspended, bekase you haven't got the latest 
 way of savin' sowls, nor me the newest improve- 
 ments in Priests' Boys!" 
 
 If it was to save his life, poor harassed Father 
 Dan could not hold in the hearty burst of laughter 
 that seized and shook him. But Barney turned 
 short and marched off in disgust. 
 
 The new curate selected half a score of the 
 brightest parish youths, and in the chapel sacristy, 
 in the evenings, inducted them into the mysteries 
 of Mass-serving. And whenever Barney, on lawful 
 business bent, came into the sacristy on such occa- 
 sions, the students eternally got in his way — with 
 undesirable results for them. The Priest's Boy 
 discovered that the most convenient way cf 
 handling acolytes was by the neck, and no words 
 wasted. And after a few weeks' practice he ac- 
 quitted himself with admirable deftness in the new 
 business. 
 
 The Priest's Boy, too well realizing the respect 
 he owed the Church, dutifully refrained from 
 handling a curate as he would an acolyte. Digni- 
 fiedly, he maintained towards Father Luke an atti- 
 tude of armed neutrality. At Mass, instinct with 
 proper religious feeling, he shut his mind to the 
 individual and served Father Luke with the like 
 
 [114]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 precision, deftness, and dazzling nonchalance he 
 would Father Dan. Great, then, was his pained 
 amazement when, one day that he thought he 
 had acquitted himself with even more brilliancy 
 than usual (if that were possible), Father Luke 
 presumed to point out to him how he might im- 
 prove his methods 1 He, who had served Mass 
 for priests and Bishops — ay, and a Primate ! — 
 when Father Luke MacMinamin was little known 
 and less worth ! He, who, during five and forty 
 years' daily serving of Mass, had never once be- 
 fore had priest or dignitary need to say: "Barney, 
 you did it ill," till his path was crossed by this 
 young gentleman to whom the College cobwebs 
 were still clinging. 
 
 The Priest's Boy, too dumbfounded for utter- 
 ance to speak, listened mechanically: "Go grace- 
 fully, gently, quietly on the altar. Don't stagger 
 up and down it as if you were coming from a fair." 
 
 Barney gasped. "What'U it be next, I dunno?" 
 he thought to himself. 
 
 Now, if there was one point in the serving of 
 Mass, upon his style in which the Priest's Boy 
 particularly prided himself, it was the ringing of 
 the altar-bell. For Barney, after patient practice, 
 had acquired the art of making the bell a pleasure 
 to hear. He began the ringing in a quick, sharp, 
 business-like tone, which gradually dropped lower 
 and lower, then suddenly and startlingly leapt 
 
 [115]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 higher and higher, and as quickly again fell down, 
 down, down, dying away in a softly dreamful, 
 far-off cadence, till more startlingly than ever it 
 suddenly shot up loud, short, and sharp — and 
 abruptly stopped. Barney was well aware that he 
 had reduced bell-ringing to an art; and the thought 
 now crossed his mind: "I wonder when he's tired 
 tellin' me my faults, will he at laist have the good 
 breedin' to compliment me on my ringin' o' the 
 bell?" 
 
 "Then," the new curate went on, "when it is 
 necessary to ring that bell, I want you to do away 
 with the eternal and nonsensical clattering you 
 carry on, give the bell two or three little tips, and 
 have done with it." Barney was so surely para- 
 lyzed that the coup de grace was cruelly super- 
 fluous: "One would think you were ringing for 
 an auction!" 
 
 After Barney's spirit had been thus insidiously 
 sapped, the task of getting his acolytes actually on 
 the altar was made easier for Father Luke. Yet 
 he proceeded with caution. At first they just kept 
 their places there, and joined in the responses, 
 leaving the active duties to Barney. The Priest's 
 Boy, though he never tried to hide his contempt 
 for his unbidden helpers, still did nothing more 
 aggressive than merely stepping on their toes when 
 passing opportunity invited. But when, after a 
 few weeks, one of them (so inspired by Father 
 
 [116]
 
 WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK 
 
 Luke, who thus insinuated the wedge) attempted 
 to ring the bell, Barney drew him such a whole- 
 hearted slap on the ear as awakened from his sleep 
 in a remote corner of the chapel Parra Beag, who 
 had been sitting up for two nights with a sick 
 cow, and caused the presumptuous fellow to drop 
 the bell with a clang, whereupon Barney, seizing 
 it, bravely rang it out to his old tune, fixing the 
 squirming aggressor with his most fearful look, 
 while he did so. 
 
 Father Luke, feeling sorely the ignominy that 
 had been put upon him and his servitor, sought 
 Father Dan that very evening, and spent a solid 
 two hours closeted with his parish priest. Then 
 Barney was sent for, and after a further two hours, 
 a treaty was concluded whereby the Priest's Boy 
 was to suffer Father Luke to bring upon the altar 
 what creatures he liked — even the Bacach Ruadh 
 if he wished, Barney declared — and train them to 
 be a parish laughing-stock, if he liked. Barney 
 was not to be asked to aggravate himself by lend- 
 ing them the colour of his company. But, on the 
 other hand, he and he alone was, as heretofore, 
 to serve Mass for Father Dan — and continue to 
 dazzle the parish. 
 
 And the Priest's Boy, prophesying ills unspeak- 
 able, washed his hands of all responsibility hence- 
 forward for the new curate and his "clan-jaffrey 
 of acrobats." 
 
 [117]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 BUT a thorn in the postmistress's side was the 
 Priest's Boy. Partly because of his exalted 
 office, but chiefly, perhaps, because it was born 
 in him, Barney was a domineering fellow who 
 could tolerate no tryanny except his own. He was 
 the one reckless hero in the parish who dared, in 
 broad daylight, and with the full knowledge that 
 an incensed postmistress's eye was on him, walk 
 forward to Nancy Kelly's window with exasperat- 
 ing self-possession, and coolly drop his letters one 
 by one into the slot, calling through the hole after 
 them: "There's two o' them letters for Belfast, 
 an' wan for Letterkenny, an' wan for Amerikay — 
 see that ye send them off quickly, Nancy, if ye 
 plaise." 
 
 Plain human flesh and blood was never meant 
 to stand that. 
 
 Ere relations had become too strained between 
 the postmistress and the Priest's Boy, Nancy had 
 occasionally condescended to question Barney 
 anent Father Dan's correspondence. "Barney, 
 that letter I give ye for his Riverence the other 
 day was from furrin' parts, an' still it wasn't an 
 Amerikay stamp was on it?" "That letter," 
 
 [«8]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 Barney gravely replied, "was from the Imp'ror of 
 the Yalla Say, wantin' to know how ducks was 
 sellin' here be the pair in Donegal, bekase that 
 he was goin' to send his youngest son to Timbuc- 
 too to dail in that commodity." This uncalled- 
 for insolence on Barney's part put Nancy on her 
 dignity for months. But at length the arrival of 
 a letter with the Rome postmark so far excited 
 Nancy's curiosity that she deigned to stoop again 
 to the fellow. "That," Barney coolly informed 
 her, "was a letter from no less nor our Holy 
 Father himself, the Pope (may Heaven bliss him, 
 an' prosper his pratie-garden!), informin' Father 
 Dan that the En' o' the Worl' starts Chewsday 
 come eight days in the County Wicklow, an' may 
 be expected to work round here within three weeks 
 at the fartherest." 
 
 Nancy Kelly never after demeaned herself by 
 questioning the low fellow on such subjects; and, 
 for Barney's sake, you hope that he realized his 
 punishment as keenly as he should. 
 
 Often, this anarchist (sure he was little better!) 
 had the impudence to walk in on the heels of 
 Jimmy the Post, and stand by till he got his share 
 of the mails. And if, by awkward mismanage- 
 ment, Nancy permitted him a glimpse of the di- 
 rections on other letters, he made it his business 
 to send word to the fortunate parties that there 
 
 [119]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 was a letter lyin' at Nancy's for them, and so send 
 them trooping down on the postmistress before she 
 had had time to examine their letters with the 
 leisure necessary to proper enjoyment of the work. 
 
 He lost no opportunity, too, of aggravating 
 Nancy. When, once, she handed him no less than 
 four letters for Father Dan, all at one time, Bar- 
 ney, repressing all outward signs of excitement, 
 remarked that he thought "this day might houl' 
 up, an' be a gran' hay day, if the wind didn't 
 work back at twelve," slipping the letters into the 
 pocket of his long blue coat with the dazzling care- 
 lessness of a personage inured to the receipt of 
 extraordinary mails. 
 
 For Barney, who was used to dominate, couldn't 
 bring his neck to bend beneath any woman's rod; 
 but, on the contrary, considered that Nancy Kelly, 
 instead of expecting, should be giving him and 
 his office homage. Nancy's irreverent, but very 
 expressive, comment on this was just "Tir- 
 oodlum !" accompanied by an aggravating finger- 
 snap. And then the war was on. 
 
 But, though Nancy had the advantage in good 
 staying powers, Barney's dignified reserve was too 
 aggravating for any woman to stand. And it 
 looked as if poor Nancy must let go her temper 
 and lose the day. But good luck came to her aid. 
 There was a son of Johnnie Brodbin's, who went 
 
 [ 120]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 to the States; and, having a taste for dabbling in 
 water-colours, used to decorate the envelopes of 
 his letters to Father Dan with a mani-coloured 
 eagle, bearing in its beak a scroll (also elaborately 
 variegated), on which the address was penned. 
 Altogether, this decorative envelope was a dazzling 
 work of art to all of you, and set the parish 
 marvelling at the genius of Johnnie's son, God 
 bless him ! But, very often, Barney was sorely 
 puzzled to know why the envelope, when handed 
 to him, was disfigured with dirt — a problem which 
 remained unsolved till one day, walking unex- 
 pectedly into Nancy's, he found her youngest 
 squat upon the floor, amusing itself with a recently 
 arrived work of Manis Brodbin's art, which 
 served the purpose of keeping the baby out of mis- 
 chief whilst Nancy went to the well! 
 
 Barney forgot the Priest's Boy's dignity that 
 day! Nancy retailed to the neighbours how fero- 
 ciously he had snatched the letter out of the inno- 
 cent creature's hand, and glared at the helpless in- 
 fant as if he would like to wither it up on the 
 spot; and how, towards herself, he behaved like 
 "an onnatural, oncultivated bear." 
 
 Barney, when he regained control of himself, 
 returned to threaten the postmistress with all the 
 terrors of the Church of which, as Priest's Boy, 
 he was a humble representative, and vowed to 
 
 [121]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 bring down upon her head the vengeance of Father 
 Dan. But to Barney's dumbfounding, Nancy 
 again snapped her fingers at him — snapped her 
 fingers! — and said: "That for both you an' 
 Father Dan!" 
 
 Little was the grass that grew under Barney's 
 heels then, till he was at home and imparting 
 to Father Dan the startling intelligence. When 
 Barney had unburdened himself, Father Dan 
 helped himself generously from his snuff-box, of- 
 fered it to Barney, as he said: "Barney, me boy, 
 I'm afraid Nancy Kelly's past prayin' for." 
 "But," Barney remonstrated, waving the snuff-box 
 away, "aren't ye goin' for to punish her as she 
 desarves?" "Indeed, and I am that, Barney. Do 
 take a snuff, man ; it'll do ye good. I mean to leave 
 that woman to the torments of her own con- 
 science." 
 
 As Barney whisked himself out of Father Dan's 
 presence, he cried: "If every varago in the parish 
 takes to snappin' their fingers at both of us, it'll 
 be your desarts !" 
 
 He next threatened to invoke upon Nancy's 
 doomed head the powers of the Postmaster Gen- 
 eral. But Nancy brazenly laughed this threat to 
 scorn: Barney didn't know that gentleman's ad- 
 dress; and, besides, even if he did — if Barney Mee- 
 han had the impidence to dhrop into her post- 
 
 [ 122]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 office a letter containing barefaced insinuations 
 about herself — she would light the fire with said 
 letter! And then she "would just like to see him 
 dare to darken her doore with his forbidden counte- 
 nance, after!" 
 
 So Barney was checkmated there. He then 
 tried to stir up sedition against Nancy, and talked 
 treason all round. Finally, when he thought he 
 had the country ripe for it, he went to Ned Carra- 
 bin's wake of Glen Coagh to raise the standard 
 of rebellion. With the exception of half a dozen 
 of those old wiseacres, let-well-enough-alone creat- 
 ures, who exist in every parish, Barney here found 
 he had the country with him. Accordingly it was 
 agreed that six selected men, with Barney Mee- 
 han as spokesman, should wait upon Nancy, at her 
 post-office after Mass on the following Sunday, 
 and respectfully but firmly state their grievances, 
 and demand redress. In case of the non-success 
 of the embassy, or in case that — as many were 
 pessimistic enough to conjecture — the ambassadors 
 were repelled with assault, insult and contumely, 
 it was not exactly clear what the subsequent pro- 
 cedure would be; but the people were given the 
 distinct impression that something awful would fol- 
 low; possibly even (it was hinted) Jimminy the 
 Tailor, who constituted himself Barney's lieuten- 
 ant on the occasion, would himself order in a large 
 
 [123]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 and varied assortment of postage stamps, and de- 
 prive Nancy Kelly of every vestige of her trade. 
 Barney was elated; he had hot dreamt there was 
 so much genuine and admirable spirit in the parish; 
 and he gave Jimminy and his fellow-conspirators 
 to understand that they were the stuff heroes were 
 made of. 
 
 Poor Barney had not allowed for the pot-valour 
 which, he should have known, always is at social 
 gatherings. Next morning, the heroes were trip- 
 ping over each other to find who would be first to 
 gain immunity by disclosing the design to Nancy. 
 Jimminy, who, Barney thought, should have 
 flourished in the days of chivalry, and borne a lance 
 in brave but hopeless causes, was first though, 
 And, as Barney himself, in the timid mood that 
 will possess the greatest and most daring of men 
 on the verge of a great crisis, called on Nancy 
 that day for his letters, his breath was taken away 
 when Nancy, looking him full in the eye, said, with 
 that awful calm that precedes a tornado: "Bar- 
 ney Meehan, I'm toul' ye were at Ned Carrabin's 
 wake o' Glen Coagh last night?" Barney could 
 only gasp. Nancy waited long enough to let her 
 dire meaning sink into his soul. Then she said: 
 "Barney Meehan, ye're a swindlin' imposthure, an' 
 an intherfarin' vagabone I" And she followed him 
 
 [ 124]
 
 BUT WHEN GREEK MEETS TARTAR 
 
 with her terrible eye, as he, dumbfounded, slunk 
 out of the door. 
 
 On the Sunday after, the Priest's Boy, having 
 found his nerve again, descended upon the boys, 
 when they had gathered before Mass, outside the 
 Chapel gate. He turned upon them the bitter 
 vials of his wrath, and denounced them as "crawl- 
 ers," rolling the word with sweet relish on his 
 tongue. "You's is cr-r-rawlers," he said, "cr-r-r- 
 rawlers, and you's '11 never be anything but 
 cr-r-r-rawlers ! An' you, Jimminy" (the pinch- 
 faced Jimminy winced), "you're the pr-r-rince of 
 cr-r-rawlers !" 
 
 But storm at these people as he might, and cow 
 them as he might and did, he had to confess to 
 himself in the anguish of his heart that he feared 
 — feared to meet Nancy Kelly's terrible eye, and 
 return her defiant glance again. 
 
 For Barney's spirit was broken. Temporarily, 
 of course, that is. 
 
 [125]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 IN having a lady like Nancy Kelly so suited for 
 filling the office of Postmistress at Knockagar, 
 you and yours were signally blessed. 
 
 Of course, in formal compliance with the Regu- 
 lations, Nancy had a slot in the window, ostensi- 
 bly for the purpose of posting your letters. But 
 hardly any of you had the hardihood — the bare- 
 faced impidence, Nancy styled it — to make use of 
 a convenience, which manifestly implied distrust 
 of the inmate. Under cover of night, or taking 
 mean advantage of Nancy's temporary absence 
 (perhaps she had run over to Jamie Mor's to ask 
 the time on the clock, or down to Toal a-Gal- 
 lagher's to learn the designs of Neil Mulrinny, 
 who went up the road like a whirlwind an hour 
 ago, without tellin' man or mortal where he was 
 going), unprincipled people among you had 
 dropped letters into the slot in the window. But 
 these people invariably lived to regret the insult 
 offered to an unoffending woman. Nancy held 
 over such a letter, till, by linking bits and scraps 
 of circumstantial evidence and calling in experts 
 upon handwriting, she ran the rascal to earth, and 
 compelled confession and abject apology — when, 
 
 fl26]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 however, both were too late to mitigate her scath- 
 ing denunciation. 
 
 "There's a doore to me house, built big enough 
 to let in both the letter an' the letter-carrier; an' 
 if I'm good enough to send off their letters to the 
 other en' o' the worl' an' further, I'm surely fit 
 for to have them handed into me hand." Thus 
 Nancy expounded the ethics of letter-posting. 
 "There's no plague to me house. An' I'm sartint 
 there's none can cast up to me that I ever quesk- 
 ened them what was on the insides of their let- 
 ters." This last statement was strictly true. 
 Nancy never did ask anyone of you concerning 
 the contents of your letter — yet, strange to say, 
 there were few of you brave enough to hand Nancy 
 Kelly a letter, and meet her eye unflinchingly, and 
 then turn and walk out without volunteering infor- 
 mation which Nancy would "sooner put her fut in 
 the fire than ax." 
 
 When you, who knew your business, went in to 
 Nancy's post-office with a letter, you first swapped 
 salutations with Nancy, and then accepted the prof- 
 fered chair, and gave and got the news of 
 your respective parts of the parish before remark- 
 ing that you were thinking of posting a letter. If 
 Nancy then nodded approbation — as almost al- 
 ways she graciously did — you produced your let- 
 ter, in the leisurely manner becoming a gentleman, 
 
 [127]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 turning it round and over, informed her that it 
 was to be sent to Ioway in the States, to Dubuque, 
 to young Jimmy. Nancy, by repeated nods of the 
 head, signified that she noted all this, and would 
 remember it. You then handed it to her, inquiring 
 how much the damage would be to bring it to 
 Ioway. And you went on to enlighten Nancy upon 
 Jimmy's affairs — in particular how he stood finan- 
 cially — and informed her of the subject-matter of 
 the present epistle. 
 
 You made sure to thank her and express your 
 sense of gratitude for the obligation she put you 
 under, before taking your leave. 
 
 There was not any use trying to equivocate con- 
 cerning the contents of a letter, for Nancy could 
 read any man "like a ha'penny book," as she said 
 herself, though he were as deep as a tailor's 
 thimble. 
 
 Jimmy the Post brought out the mails (often 
 a whole dozen, and sometimes as many as sixteen 
 and even eighteen letters) to Nancy's post-office 
 from Donegal, once a week. None of you, of 
 course, had the impertinence to go looking for a 
 letter on arrival day; and, indeed, if you did, your 
 journey would be deservedly fruitless. 
 
 The right of one day's grace wherein Nancy 
 might scrutinize the superscription and post- 
 marks, and speculate upon the probable contents 
 
 [128]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 of letters, was a prerogative which not even the 
 most punctilious of you would dream of denying 
 your postmistress. You well remember, though, 
 how Charlie the Nudger one time, looking for his 
 letter, walked in on the heels of Jimmy the Post. 
 And how Nancy withered him up with one look, 
 and dismissed him with the query: "A letter? 
 Musha, who the dickens do ye think would send 
 the likes o' you a letter?" And by way of ad- 
 monition to Charlie, and to all the precipitate in 
 the district, she very properly (as you think) de- 
 livered him his letter fourteen days after its ar- 
 rival. It contained his passage money to the 
 States. And Charlie thanked Heaven from the 
 bottom of his heart that he was soon to be beyond 
 Nancy Kelly's jurisdiction. 
 
 When Nancy did gracefully bestow a letter on 
 an enquirer, common politeness, of course — not to 
 mention Nancy's eye — required that the letter 
 should there and then be opened, and its contents 
 discussed. Pathrick Martin of the Mullens, 
 though, was an unprincipled man, and when he 
 got the letter one time from Annie, from Cincin- 
 nati (which, as he anticipated, contained confi- 
 dences about Annie's trials with her Dutch hus- 
 band, who drank), he slipped the missive into his 
 pocket with an assumption of unconsciousness that 
 would, in an honourable cause, have done him 
 
 [ 129]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 credit; and then made a bold attempt to retire 
 under cover of an irregular fire of remarks upon 
 indifferent subjects. And as, despite Nancy's dry, 
 monosyllabic replies, he still continued to edge 
 towards the door, she finally brought her cold gray 
 eye to bear upon him, with such deadly precision, 
 that Pathrick in another moment, alive to the ex- 
 tent of his meanness, dropped into a provincial 
 chair, remembered the letter with suspicious sud- 
 denness, drew it out, and implored Nancy to do 
 him the particular favour of reading it for him. 
 And the case of poor Dan Mac a-Nirn, 'tis 
 well you recall. Dan made a sweetheart for 
 himself when he was hired up the Pettigo 
 way. As she was both wise and well-to-do, 
 Dan, when he returned home, resolved to corre- 
 spond with her with matrimonial intentions. Un- 
 der protest, Nancy Kelly despatched two of poor 
 Dan's love missives, and delivered to him two re- 
 plies. But she put down her foot when Dan came 
 along with a third — an epistle upon which he had 
 had Jimminy the Tailor working for three nights, 
 and which had been by the proud author pro- 
 nounced "a triumph of jaynius." She got Dan 
 seated in the corner, and stood over him with arms 
 akimbo. And, "I'll tell ye what it is, Dan 
 Mac-a-Nirn," she said, "ye're only makin' a play- 
 sham of both me and me post-office. I'll neither 
 
 [130]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 take nor give any more blatherskiten' letters. If 
 every other fool in the parish begun takin' afther 
 you, every time they're in a coortin' way, my six 
 poun' a year would be hard-'arned money. Go 
 away about your business now, Dan Mac-a-Nirn, 
 go home with ye; and post that letther that's in 
 your fist behind the fire. An' if ye want a wife 
 (though, in troth, when ye have your oul' mother 
 an' your two sisthers and your aunt and your 
 grandmother to look afther, ye're marri'd enough) 
 — but if ye must have a wife, look about ye in 
 your own neighbourhood, 'an' ye'll get wan be 
 waggin' your finger. There's Hughie Shan's 
 daughter Marg'et — why don't ye take her? 
 Or Shusie Doherty of the Roadside — why don't 
 ye marry Shusie? Away with ye now; an' take 
 a good advice when it's given ye for nothin' !" 
 Dan, poor fellow, sighed, and went home, and 
 married Hughie Shan's daughter, Marg'et. And 
 a poor girl above at Pettigo probably for long 
 and long walked away heartless from her post- 
 office, and doesn't know to this day that 'twas the 
 tyranny of Nancy Kelly, and not the fickleness of 
 Dan, that left her pining. 
 
 Of course, to open and read all newspapers with- 
 out the necessity of the addressee's presence was 
 a prerogative assumed by Nancy naturally. Like- 
 wise the privilege of giving the perusal of them to 
 
 [131]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 favoured neighbours, before it was sent to your- 
 self, for whom the sender designed it. 
 
 Michael Meehan when he went to the Far 
 West used to send home The Rocky Mountain 
 Lightning Streak to his father Teddy with a regu- 
 larity that was particularly gratifying to the post- 
 mistress. She did not usually detain The Light- 
 ning Streak more than three or four days on its 
 way. But, on one week it •contained an uncon- 
 cluded article upon that great Irish-American 
 General, Thomas Francis Meagher, which so whet- 
 ted Teddy Meehan's appetite for the remainder 
 that he brushed his coat and put on a clean collar, 
 and took his stick in his fist and travelled three 
 times in the following fortnight all the way from 
 his home in Tullyfinn into Nancy's post-office in 
 Knockagar to enquire for the subsequent issue. 
 On the third occasion, though Teddy observed 
 with the corner of his eagle eye that Nancy's whole 
 soul was engrossed in an article in no other than 
 The Lightning Streak, she hurriedly replied to him 
 that it hadn't come, and buried herself in the 
 paper again. Teddy, poor man, sat him down for 
 a while, torn by inward conflict. His anxiety for 
 the paper, however, got the better of his discre- 
 tion, and, desperately nerving himself, he said: 
 "But, Nancy, a chara, isn't that The Lightnin' 
 Streak that ye're readin' ?" Nancy, lowering the 
 
 [132]
 
 YOUR POSTMISTRESS 
 
 paper, looked at Teddy for a full minute with an 
 outraged look. "Teddy Meehan," she then said, 
 "let me tell ye — what ye don't seem for to know — 
 that it's the height of ill-breedin' to look over any 
 wan's shouldher when they're readin'l" 
 
 And as Teddy, all abashed, gathered himself 
 away, she added, by way of parting salute : 
 
 "Small wondher that ye're ashamed o' your- 
 self." She watched after him scornfully till he had 
 slunk round the bend of the road; and then, with 
 a pained and injured look on her countenance, re- 
 sumed perusal of The Lightning Streak. 
 
 [ U3]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 NOT a long way from your heathery, happy 
 Knockagar lay the fruitful valley of 
 Braggy, where toiled like slaves the thrifty 
 descendants of those Scotch for whose benefiting 
 your ancestors were, long ago, driven to the moors. 
 But if you supplied them with fat lands once, they 
 have supplied you and yours with no stint of funny 
 incident, anecdote and character ever since — mak- 
 ing windy hearths warm and cold nights com- 
 fortable. 
 
 In your own day, for example, they gave you 
 for your delectation the Bachelors of Braggy — the 
 brothers Peter, Paul and Richard Lowry. 
 
 While their old mother lived, of course, the 
 idea of bringing any other woman into the house 
 was as far from them as the far-lands of Brenter. 
 For they had all the plenitude of niggardliness 
 and lack of poetry that their Scotch ancestors 
 brought over (their only belongings) to Ireland. 
 
 When the neighbours, on a rare occasion, caught 
 the Bachelors of Braggy at a wake or festivity in 
 Knockagar, they, in waggish mood, would match- 
 make for them. 
 
 "Arrah, Pether Lowry, isn't it the shame for 
 
 [134]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 yourself, and for Paul, and for Richard, there be- 
 side ye, that wan of you's hasn't yet put the word 
 to a woman!" 
 
 Peter and Paul and Richard would all hissle in 
 their chairs for the uncomfortableness of the 
 topic. But all eyes in the wake-house were now 
 on them quizzically, so Peter would answer 
 snarlingly : 
 
 "What the divil do we want with a woman?" 
 
 "Ay?" from Paul and "Ay?" from Richard. 
 
 "Well, ye know, it's a wee waikness some men 
 has — to be fond of the girls." 
 
 "Well, we aren't fond o' them, and wouldn't 
 give a barleycorn there wasn't a girl atween here 
 and Halyfax." 
 
 "Yis!" "Yis!" from Richard and Paul. 
 
 "But ye know yourself, Pether, and can't deny, 
 a woman's an oncommon handy thing about a 
 house?" 
 
 "Handy? Ah ! as a conthrairy pig (not mainin' 
 any comparishon) that'll go every way but the 
 way ye want. Besides, haven't we our oul' 
 mother?" 
 
 "Right, Pether!" "Right, Pether!" from the 
 other brothers. 
 
 "Still and all, a mother, ye know, isn't every- 
 thing to a man?" 
 
 "If a man depends on anyone else nor himself 
 
 [i35]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 to be the remainder, he'll depend on a rotten rush. 
 And a wife and a mother in the wan house 'ud be 
 as pleasant company as spittin' cats." 
 
 "But the wife 'ill be with a man, Pether, when 
 the mother's gone." 
 
 "Then God help the man!" 
 
 "God help him !" from Paul, and "God help 
 him !" from Richard. 
 
 "Now, there's Marg'et McClane above in 
 Altidoo, and she'd jump at the offer of any wan of 
 the three of you's." 
 
 "It's thankful we are to both yourself and 
 Marg'et; but, as ye seem to have an inth'rest in 
 her, better not let her jump for feerd she might 
 miss." 
 
 "For feerd she might miss — yis!" choired 
 Richard and Paul. 
 
 "A fine, stout, sthrappin' girl, on the aisy side 
 of fifty-five; and a fine hand at beetlin' praties and 
 carin' calves." 
 
 But poor Peter's temper would, despite des- 
 perate efforts, give out: 
 
 "Och, to the divil with Marg'et McClane and 
 her calves ! We don't want her ! We don't want 
 no woman ! And if we did want wan, we wouldn't 
 ax you to make her for us !" 
 
 "Right ye are, Pether!" "Right ye are!" say 
 the brothers. 
 
 [136]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 As predicted, it came to pass that the mother 
 died. Then, Richard, as he was the youngest, 
 was voted into the mother's place, and had to milk, 
 wash, cook and make the butter. After a time, 
 however, he discovered that they were not far 
 astray who had suggested that a woman was a 
 mortial handy convenience around a house, and 
 he dumbfounded his brothers by announcing his 
 discovery — under his breath — one night. 
 
 So persistent, however, became Richard in push- 
 ing his propaganda that Peter and Paul, after 
 many secret consultations, consented that, even at 
 the cost of their peace of mind, Richard must be 
 humoured. 
 
 So they said to Richard: "It's a poor thing 
 that we must fetch in any man's daughter to sup- 
 port her." 
 
 "No man's daughter comes in here," Richard 
 said, "unless she fetches her support with her." 
 
 "Humm! Then fire away, Richard; since ye 
 must have your way. Where are ye goin' to rise 
 your woman?" 
 
 "Mv woman? Faith it's not me's goin' to take 
 her, but wan o' yourselves. / don't want her." 
 
 "Faith and I'm very sure it's not me that 'ill take 
 her," said Peter. 
 
 "And I'll give me davy it isn't me," quoth Paul. 
 
 So Richard made the whistling sound of a man 
 
 [i37 3
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 who has found a cul de sac where he was certain of 
 a free passage. 
 
 "And what then?" said Richard. 
 
 "Richard a stoir, it's often ye heerd our poor 
 mother (God rest her!) say: 'Let him calls for 
 the tune pay the piper!' " 
 
 "I'm young and green, boys" (Richard would 
 be forty-seven by Hallowmass night), "and I'm 
 no ways suited to manage a woman," he said 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "Well, there ye are." For neither Peter nor 
 Paul was anxious to help them out of a dilemma 
 into which stubbornness had led him : 
 
 "But, boys " 
 
 " 'As ye made your bed, ye must lie on it,' " 
 said they, quoting again from their mother's store 
 of saws. 
 
 There was nothing left to Richard but to ac- 
 cept the inevitable; and he reluctantly resolved 
 to bear it, for the benefit of the house, with what 
 grace he could. 
 
 As the next step was to find a suitable woman 
 for Richard, the brothers agreed to take counsel 
 with the Bacach* Gasta (the swift-footed beggar- 
 man.) So the next time the Bacach Gasta came 
 that way and dropped his wallets in Lowrys' for 
 his usual night's sojourn, he was taken into confi- 
 
 [138]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 dence after supper, and asked to procure a good 
 wife for Richard. And the requirements were 
 catalogued for him. 
 
 "The notion o' marryin' is sthrong on Richard," 
 Paul informed the Bacach. 
 
 He looked Richard up and down, then said: 
 
 "Well, that's neither shame nor blame. He's 
 come to the time o' day." 
 
 "In troth it's wan of ourselves he wanted to 
 take the woman." 
 
 "Which wasn't wan bit fair," said the beggar- 
 man. "The young heart always for the hard 
 road." 
 
 "In your travels do ye think ye could pick up 
 a suitable wife for us?" 
 
 "I haven't a doubt of it." 
 
 "Ye know just the kind of wife we want?" 
 
 "I have a brave guess." 
 
 "A fine, sthrong, sthrappin', agricultural 
 woman," said Peter. 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 "No frills or foldherols," said Paul. 
 
 "No figgery-foys whatsomiver," said Peter. 
 
 "She must be 'holsome' (wholesome)," said 
 Richard. 
 
 "And as hardy as a harrow-pin," said Peter. 
 
 "No objection if her countenance is well- 
 favoured," said Richard. 
 
 [i39]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 <(\ 
 
 'Bacach," said Peter with indignant warmth, 
 "she may be as ill-lookin' as the divil's 
 gran'mother." 
 
 "Don't send any chiny doll here," said Paul. 
 
 Said Richard: "I mean, for ins'ance, Bacach, 
 if ye are in swithers about two weemen, both 
 equally good in every other way, but wan of them 
 havin' the advantage of the other in looks " 
 
 a r 
 
 Then," said Peter, "sen' us the ugliest o' the 
 two, by all manner o' mains." 
 
 "The uglier the woman, the better the house- 
 keeper," Paul added. 
 
 "And the more savin', and the less she'll throw 
 out upon fine clothes," quoth Peter. 
 
 "If she's shapely," hazarded Richard to the 
 envoy, "don't hold that again' her." 
 
 "Shapely," snapped Peter. "Ay, let her be 
 shapely as the milk churn — a dependable pat- 
 thern." 
 
 "None o' these ornaments for us," said Paul, 
 "that laive ye tremblin' lest they'd break in the 
 middle." 
 
 "The woman ye pick must have money — a good 
 penny of it," said Peter. 
 
 "Or Ian'," said Paul. "Of course," said Peter. 
 
 " 'Tis good worldly wisdom," said the Bacach, 
 with an arch look that was lost on the boys, "to 
 marry the money, and bid the wife to the weddin'." 
 
 [ Ho J
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 "She must be come to years of discretion," said 
 
 Paul. 
 
 "And have the most of a couple of score years 
 of work in her still," said Peter. 
 
 "She must be able and willin' to work," said 
 Paul. 
 
 "To work like a nigger," said Peter. 
 
 "If she's a bit youngish, she'll be the com- 
 panionabler," said Richard. 
 
 "A bit ouldish, Bacach, and she'll be the sensi- 
 bler," said Peter tartly. 
 
 The Bacach Gasta was nodding assent to all. 
 
 "She must be as wise as a fox." 
 
 "And as close as a male-chist." 
 
 "She must understand all about bringin' up 
 young calves and pigs," said Peter. 
 
 "And about doctorin' sick cattle," said Paul. 
 
 "She can't be too sthrong," Paul added. 
 
 "Sthrong enough to toss a bull," said Peter. 
 
 "And kindly," interpolated poor Richard. 
 
 "Kindly! Pagh !" said Paul. 
 
 "Sevair enough to sour crame, if ye like," said 
 Peter. 
 
 "Now do ye know what we want?" said Paul. 
 
 "Yis, to the nail on her little finger," said the 
 Bacach Gasta, passing the pipe to Peter. 
 
 "Well, keep your eyes open then," said Peter, 
 "when ye're up in the Dhrimholm parish. Out 
 
 [Hi]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 of there comes the best scantlin' of weemen I 
 know." 
 
 "They're companionabler down the shore side 
 o' the parish," said Richard. 
 
 "They're hardier back the mountain way," said 
 Paul. 
 
 "The worst woman in Dhrimholm is worth her 
 mait," said the Bacach. "This is Chewsday. I'll 
 be up here again Sathurday. I have a likely couple 
 or three in me eye, and I'll see if I can't fix you's 
 up in wan." 
 
 The Bacach Gasta picked out for them, in 
 Dhrimholm, three women, one after the other; 
 but the first of these was rejected as unsuitable, 
 because, when they went to see her and she set 
 about making tea for them, she cast out the old 
 tea-leaves, which, as they observed, "would have 
 taken a lovely grip o' the second water." So, 
 after an adjournment to the end of the house, for 
 consultation, poor Richard was unwillingly dele- 
 gated to carry in to her the verdict that, while 
 they considered her an uncommon good woman, 
 they regretted she would not suit them. And they 
 passed on to the next. 
 
 This second was rejected because Paul, having 
 taken a stolen glimpse into a band-box in her house, 
 saw that she owned a hat with feathers — which 
 
 [142]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 signified that "she'd let consait fly away with her 
 cash." 
 
 The third woman, however, Sarah Bell Baskin, 
 ingratiated herself with them; for she carried pots, 
 and fed pigs and cows, and carded wool, and 
 brought in a creel of turf whilst they interviewed 
 her in snatches. And she baked bread at one end 
 of the table, chatting them, whilst they drank tea 
 at the other. So, upon a short consultation, Sarah 
 Bell, with her hundred-pound fortune, was 
 accepted. 
 
 Of course, Richard had objected that she did 
 not look as "quate" (quiet) as should the ideal 
 he sought. But Peter and Paul frowned him down. 
 "She'll be quate enough, in throth, after we've 
 taken twelve months' work out of her," Paul as- 
 sured him. 
 
 "We've consented to have a wife to humour 
 ye, and taken the divil's own throuble to pick her 
 for ye. If ye don't take Sarah Bell Baskin, the 
 sarra a wife ever ye'll see, by our consent, if there 
 was a hurrycane of them hailed again' the door." 
 
 "Oh, then, if she plaises you's, she'll plaise me," 
 Richard sighed. 
 
 And so she should after all. For when the 
 marriage license was procured by the three, and 
 brought home by the three, Jemmy Managhan dis- 
 covered that 'twas Peter's name was therein re- 
 
 [Hi]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 corded: for Peter, having acted as spokesman, his 
 name was asked and given without thought, and 
 entered. 
 
 "This is a nice how-d'-ye-do," said Peter. 
 
 "Well, we can't be goin' back another seven- 
 mile journey, and then, as likely as not, pay for a 
 new license," said Paul. 
 
 "Sure it's all the same," said the magnanimous 
 Richard. 
 
 So Peter, heaving a sigh, resolved to abide by 
 his own blunder. And Sarah Bell, for her 
 part, did not mind. She was marrying into a good 
 sittin' down. 
 
 Though on the wedding-day people said the 
 Lowrys had never been known to go to church 
 before, they themselves said that was untrue. For 
 they had been to church on the day they were 
 christened. And Paul, moreover, had gone into 
 it one evening Sam Coulter, the sexton, had it 
 open, in hope of raising sport with his rat-terrier. 
 
 As, while they were in the vestry consulting and 
 getting instructed for the ordeal, it was found a 
 crowd of the unregenerate ones of the parish had 
 assembled outside with the certain intention of giv- 
 ing the Bachelors of Braggy a warm reception 
 when they should emerge one Bachelor less, the 
 Minister advised them that the ceremony be post- 
 
 [ 144]
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 poned for peace sake. The Bachelors thought well 
 of the wisdom of this. 
 
 But Sarah Bell was not in procrastinating mood. 
 She knew the proverb about a bird in the 
 hand. "I tell ye what it is, boys," said she, "either 
 the marriage is to be now or niver. If it's to be 
 now, it'll be now; and if it's to be niver, it'll be 
 niver!" After launching the ultimatum, she 
 paused for their decision. 
 
 "Then it'll be now," said the Bachelors. 
 
 And, by taking the near-cut across fields with 
 his bride, the strategical Peter disappointed the 
 rascals who, for a full hour after, were keeping a 
 reception warm, outside the church gate. 
 
 Richard had not been altogether wrong when 
 he said he did not consider Sarah Bell "quate" 
 enough for him. He had proved this experiment- 
 ally. Paul discovered it. Peter, alas, discovered 
 it. It took three days to bring it home to them 
 with force. Sarah Bell, herself, with the aid of 
 a three-legged stool, supplied the necessary force. 
 In a week the peace of the Lowry household was 
 irretrievably wrecked — also most of the crockery- 
 ware, and the more portable articles of furniture 
 likewise, and Richard's right arm, some of Paul's 
 teeth, and poor Peter's head. 
 
 In three weeks Sarah Bell Baskin, leaving them 
 her left-handed blessing, took her hundred pounds 
 
 [I45l
 
 THE BACHELORS OF BRAGGY 
 
 and her departure, and returned to the house of 
 her father. 
 
 On the night after she left, the three brothers 
 sat around the fire, smoking in turn. And, after 
 a long silence, Peter spoke, looking severely at 
 Richard, who cowered. Peter said: 
 
 "Now, that chapture's over and done with 
 (from the depth o' me soul, God be thankitl), and 
 let us hope — let us hope — we'll niver again hear 
 another such schame." 
 
 "Niver 1" said Paul emphatically. "Niver, we 
 hope I" and he gazed at Richard with a sidelong 
 look of scathing rebuke. 
 
 Poor Richard looked into the fire and sighed. 
 
 [146]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 THE first time that you ambitioned being a 
 schoolmaster was when, on a Sunday morn- 
 ing before Mass, taking your ease with the 
 crowds on the green sward of the chapel yard, you 
 saw Masther Maguire chatting Father Dan up 
 and down the yard — and not the least bit nervous. 
 'Twas then was brought home to you with thunder- 
 bolt suddenness the great man a schoolmaster must 
 be entirely. And as suddenly you resolved: 
 " Tis a Masther I'll be." 
 
 You were six, rising seven, then. When you 
 were thirteen, you smiled resignedly at the temerity 
 of youth. Maturity of judgment and knowl- 
 edge of the world had now taught you that the 
 schoolmaster, climax of all human ambition — bar- 
 ring the priest, of course, which was a touch above 
 the climax — was far as the apples of Eden be- 
 yond the reach of common mortals like yourself, 
 who, although usually holding head of the class, 
 were but a herder of sheep, digger of potatoes and 
 shearer of corn. 
 
 But as you shore your corn or herded your sheep 
 on the hills of Donegal on wonderful mornings 
 when you watched the great, red sun roll over the 
 
 [i47]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 shoulder of Cruach Gorm, your mind was con- 
 stantly reverting to that wild dream of the irre- 
 sponsible youth of six, rising seven. Excusing him 
 on account of his youth, you, all the same, found 
 his dream rather a seductive one to play with. 
 And a young man of thirteen, shearing the yellow 
 corn when the sunrise is flooding the valley, or 
 sitting on a spink of rock at the same stimulating 
 hour and listening to the liquid harmony that is 
 pouring from the lark's breast high in the sky, 
 and excitedly looking afar over a magic world, 
 must be pardoned if his fancy will take wild 
 flights. 
 
 It was pleasing then to play at your being twenty 
 and a schoolmaster — "The Masther" ! The 
 parish looking up to you with mingled awe and 
 admiration, addressing you as Masther, seeking 
 advice and information from you on all subjects 
 under the sun — and over it — making you reader 
 and writer of their letters, their wills, their agree- 
 ments (free of charge), inviting you to face the 
 priest at the station-house breakfast, to grace their 
 feasts, to lead their fun, to add the necessary im- 
 portance and adornment to all their functions, and 
 (it was little wonder that you grabbed your spink 
 of rock at this one) drawing the, oh! so dizzy 
 salary of thirty pounds a year! Princes and em- 
 perors, go hide your little heads! It gave you 
 
 [148]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 renewed confidence, when, having taken days and 
 weeks to screw your courage to it, you, sitting by 
 the fireside on a night when the harvest was all 
 in, sprang upon your father, who smoked in one 
 chimney corner, and your mother, who spun in the 
 other, the bomb: "I think I'll be a Masther like 
 Masther Moroney beyont !" And neither of them 
 fainted or stampeded with fright. 
 
 But your mother, releasing a hand from her 
 work, stroked your red head affectionately and 
 said : "God prosper the thought, a enisle mo 
 chroidhe." And your father, after continuing his 
 steady gaze into the flames for some tense mo- 
 ments — they were tense to you — took his pipe 
 from his mouth and said: "Well, a mine, 'tis a 
 bould thought, God bless it ! But I do be thinkin' 
 there's a grain o' brains knockin' about some- 
 wheres in the back o' your head. 'Twill be a big 
 day for Ireland, Moira," he then said to your 
 mother across the fire, "the day Dinny becomes a 
 Masther." And your mother in reply just turned 
 her eyes to Heaven. 
 
 Your father went with you himself the very 
 next day to Masther Moroney and gave you in 
 special charge to him, informing him that a 
 Masther was to be made out of you. "Give him 
 mim'ry," your father said. "The boy has all the 
 brains he needs," and was not going to draw on 
 
 [ 149]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 Masther Moroney's stock, "but give him mim'ry 
 and teach him al-j^v-bra, and the rule o' three 
 frontways and back, and give him all you have 
 yourself and charge it to me." Masther Moroney 
 faithfully promised to execute all your father's 
 orders. And your mother sent him the next day 
 by you a fine, big meascdn of yellow butter. 
 
 And when Masther Moroney had given you all 
 he had himself, you travelled to finish your edu- 
 cation. More correctly speaking, you "trotted" 
 for knowledge — sometimes galloped. For in those 
 long, seven-mile journeys that you then began 
 making every morning to the great town of Done- 
 gal, where there were houses on both sides of the 
 street, to sit under the far-famed Masther Mac- 
 Rory, who built his big reputation on his astound- 
 ing knowledge of "Jackson's Bookkeeping" and 
 "Vosther's Arithmetic," you most frequently had 
 to cross the hills and the dales at full speed to over- 
 take the "early lesson." 
 
 Very autocratic was this Masther MacRory, too, 
 as was only to be expected from a man famed 
 for knowing not only "Vosther's Arithmetic" and 
 "Jackson's Bookkeeping," but also the dizzy peaks 
 of mensuration, reaching up to the solution of his 
 renowned poetic problem which, it was admitted, 
 no scholars in the world other than his could solve : 
 
 [150]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 "One day with a tinker I happened to sit, 
 Whose tongue ran a great deal too fast for 
 
 his wit. 
 He talked of his art with abundance of mettle, 
 So I asked him to make me a flat-bottomed kettle. 
 Let the bottom and top in diameter be 
 In just such proportion as five is to three. 
 Twelve inches the depth I proposed, and no more, 
 And to hold in ale gallons seven less than a score. 
 
 "He promised to do it and straight to work went, 
 But when he had made it, he found it too scant; 
 He altered it then, but the way he had done it 
 Although it held right the diameters failed it. 
 Thus making it often too big and too little, 
 The tinker at last had quite spoiled the kettle. 
 
 !|S 3ft 3fS "P *F 
 
 "Now he swears he will bring his said promise 
 to pass 
 Or else he will spoil every ounce of his brass. 
 Then to keep him from ruin I pray find him out 
 The diameters' length, for he'll ne'er do it, I 
 doubt." 
 
 To have attended the school of such a man was 
 in itself a passport to local fame; to have been led 
 by him through the labyrinths of knowledge and 
 turned out of the Golden Gate with the Tinker 
 Problem an open page to you, assured your being 
 
 [i5i]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 mentioned at the Avedding and the wake and in 
 the chapel-yard with Masther MacRory himself, 
 Boney-party, and Daniel O'Connell. 
 
 You indeed appreciated to the full your ex- 
 traordinary privilege, and made the most of it 
 during those three winters' and two summers' at- 
 tendance at his school. The long journey every 
 morning and every afternoon had its advantages. 
 For as you ran to school in the lovely summer 
 dawns, or in the magic moonlight or beauteous 
 starlight of the winter mornings, you had a mag- 
 nificent chance — denied the poor unfortunate fel- 
 lows living too near the school — to memorize your 
 tasks. And, in galloping home over the hills in 
 the evening, you had a grand opportunity of re- 
 peating over and over, and fixing forever in your 
 memory, every golden word from the Book of 
 Knowledge that the great man had that day re- 
 vealed to you. And, reaching home, you had such 
 a roaring appetite for the mouth-watering dinner 
 of tatties toasting for you by the blazing fire, and 
 the grand pandy of milk which your mother had 
 sitting on the table for you! But to tell the joys 
 of that steaming-hot bowl of tea, with yellow- 
 cappered, crisp oat-bread, which came on the 
 heels of the tatties and milk, words fail you ! 
 
 And then the telling your father and mother, 
 to their awe and amazement, the wonderful won- 
 
 [152]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 ders you had learned that day! And after- 
 wards, the glorious stretching by the side of the 
 big, blazing fire of turf and fir to learn your tasks ! 
 And your well-earned, sound, deep and dreamless 
 sleep ! And up before screek o' day in the morn- 
 ing again, and, after a big, hearty breakfast, away 
 like the whirlwind on the road to greatness and 
 glory once more ! Och, there's sorrow a doubt 
 about it, 'twas grand entirely ! 
 
 In spite of your sleeved waistcoat, which paid 
 the double debt of coat and vest, marking you 
 as from the mountains and drawing upon you the 
 jokes and jeers of the town-boys — who must have 
 been millionaires' sons, for they all had regular 
 jackets — you were springing into prominence 
 as Masther MacRory's crack scholar and 
 were usually selected by him when, for the aweing 
 of visitors, he wanted a genius to do the prob- 
 lem of the Horse-Shoe Nails or to spell Antitrini- 
 tarian and Transubstantiation. 
 
 Till one day — a beautiful September afternoon 
 it was — trotting home over the top of Altidoo, 
 you were stopped by Father Pat, who, staff in 
 hand, was returning from a sick-call in the remote 
 mountains. In his own abrupt fashion, he hailed 
 you: "Can you sing, sir?" And you hung your 
 head and blushed and said you thought you could 
 — a little. "Get up on that wall there and sing 
 
 [i53]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 me 'O'Donnell Abu!'" And you mounted the 
 rickety stone wall — it was the mearin' between 
 Long Andy Meehan's land and Red Charley's — 
 and sang a verse of "O'Donnell Abu !" as best 
 you could for your nervousness. 
 
 Over the next field a lark with his liquid mel- 
 ody was making you ashamed of your every note, 
 and a stray curlew, flying past, circled several 
 times over the heads of yourself and your audi- 
 ence, wondering what it was all about, anyhow. 
 You couldn't keep your mind off that lark and 
 curlew while you sang, so that you thought you 
 were surely making a botch of it. "That'll do!" 
 Father Pat said curtly, when you had finished one 
 verse. "Come down !" You came down — in 
 every sense of the word. 
 
 But you were exalted to Heaven the next mo- 
 ment when he said to you: "How'd you like to 
 teach a school !" You don't remember what you 
 answered him at all; you only recollect his part- 
 ing words : "Then come down to my house the 
 morrow night for the key of Cloch Corr School." 
 And three days after, still trembling lest you'd 
 wake up, you found yourself actually a Masther, 
 in charge of a great school with five windows and 
 a splendidly thatched roof, and three-score-and- 
 ten bright boys and girls, from a five-mile radius, 
 in attendance. 
 
 [i54]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 That was a great day entirely for you. When 
 these three-score-and-ten pupils addressed you as 
 Masther, you were past yourself with pride ! And 
 when they came up and laid their weekly penny 
 upon your desk you swelled like a plutocrat ! And 
 when you had divided them into their eight classes, 
 and started the Mill of Knowledge grinding (with 
 more terrible din than you'd ever heard from 
 any other mill in creation), and when you were 
 commanding and running all eight classes at the 
 one time, you realized that Napoleon Bonaparte 
 was an overrated man, after all ! 
 
 But when, at the quarter's end, you came home 
 and made your father and mother speechless by 
 counting down to them seven bright yellow pounds 
 and pocketed for yourself ten whole shillings, you 
 were on the ridge of the world, and wouldn't call 
 a king your cousin. Old Earth was a good place 
 and gay to live upon, and you saw no reason what- 
 ever why every man upon it shouldn't be his own 
 emperor. 
 
 Empire, of course, is not without its draw- 
 backs — its responsibilities. If you did not keep 
 both eyes and ears and feet terribly active, and 
 hands active sometimes, too, the playing of 
 Crossy-Crowny and Willy- Wan was, in one class, 
 apt to be substituted for mathematics; and in an- 
 other, the telling of the wonderful story of the 
 
 [i55]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 King of Ireland's Son's Journey to the Well of 
 the World's End was likely to replace the more 
 scientific style of geography; and the matching of 
 featherweights for pre-prandial combats to dis- 
 place Christian Doctrine in a third. 
 
 Hardly a week passed in which your mental 
 activities were not taxed by the solicitous parent, 
 frieze-coated and blustery, who held up all school 
 business while you should calculate and inform 
 him whether he should put wee Johnny on for 
 priest, lawyer or doctor — the object of his solici- 
 tation, just then, though supposedly wrestling with 
 the abstruse mysteries of "a-n an, o-x ox," being 
 surreptitiously engaged in inserting a crooked pin 
 in the under-fiesh of his big toe, for purpose of 
 stimulating the young mathematician in front, who 
 was in the throes of absorbing the "Threeses" 
 tables. 
 
 On winter days you had the added tax of com- 
 pelling every aspirant to carry, for the school fire, 
 his daily contribution of two turf. And of watch- 
 ing, too, that Dinny the Dodger did not, by sleight 
 of hand and strength of wrist, convert his single 
 turf into two, just at the school door, and then 
 enter with an assumption of innocence and up- 
 rightness which might well deceive the unsophisti- 
 cated. And in guarding that none of the delin- 
 quents who failed to bring their contribution 
 
 [156] 
 
 
 »w
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 should warm bare feet and dirty hands at 
 the fire for ten minutes — the special privilege and 
 reward of everyone who dutifully carried turf 
 tribute. 
 
 And you had to reckon, moreover, with Larry 
 O'Connell in his rage and Madgie Mulhearn in 
 her righteous wrath, when, like a whirlwind, 
 they descended upon your little school, vowing 
 vengeance sure and sudden on the very next 
 natarnal rascal of your pupils who should violate 
 their cherished turf-stacks. But when, on a cruel, 
 sleety January morning, Johnny Tummony and 
 his fellows had trotted five miles of mountain all 
 the way from Shanveen, with the seven streams 
 running from their scanty duds, and, finding them- 
 selves wanting in the pair of passports which 
 could bring them to Heaven, in the shape of the 
 big blazing school fire, beheld Larry the Niggard's 
 big turf-stack crying aloud to the universe "Come 
 and steal I" — human nature would, you knew, as- 
 sert itself. 
 
 And while you, to the appeasing of Larry the 
 Niggard, threatened awful threats upon the cower- 
 ing Johnny and his confederates in crime, it 
 is greatly to be feared that in your sinful heart 
 you condoned highway robbery. And, after you 
 had frightened the life and soul out of the Shan- 
 veen Ali Baba and Band of Thieves and sent 
 
 [i57]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 Larry home rejoicing, you went back to the band 
 of rascals and spoke angrily, commanding them to 
 go to the fire that instant and dry themselves out, 
 and let the blaze of the stolen turf burn shame 
 into their bones. Maybe it did ! 
 
 You took your proper place in the parish now 
 — next to the priest. And all the world brought 
 you reverence. You were gay as befitted one on 
 whom greatness sat easily, and sporty as became a 
 millionaire drawing a salary of thirty pounds a 
 year — not to mention weekly school-pennies. You 
 went through the world with open heart and hand. 
 You had a penny to lend and a penny to spend; 
 you gave a penny to the beggar, and a penny to 
 the fiddler, and you bought ribbons for the girls 
 at the fair. 
 
 You walked a pleased and flattered man among 
 the great schoolmasters of the countryside; and 
 a proud and envied man, when, some time later, 
 you had a monitor appointed to assist you with 
 your eight classes. The world was your football. 
 You were honoured everywhere; you were in- 
 vited everywhere. At the feast your place was 
 the head of the table; the bridegroom was only 
 next man to you at the wedding; at the wake you 
 divided honours with the poor man (God rest 
 him !) who was underboard. An accession of easy 
 dignity came to you and a very pleasurable air 
 
 [158]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 of importance, and infinite wisdom and knowledge, 
 so that it was no wonder your presence was coveted 
 to grace all gatherings; and all parties consented 
 that, if they lived to the age of Methuselah, they 
 could not repay you for the honour you did them. 
 In the chapel-yard an admiring group always sur- 
 rounded you, hanging upon your words and 
 treasuring the slightest as if it were golden. 
 
 On Saturday night, when The Nation was 
 brought to you by Neil MacDermott, coming out 
 from the Market, your house filled with neigh- 
 bours hungering to hear the latest that concerned 
 their poor country's checquered fortunes. And, 
 from the top of the first left-hand column to the 
 bottom of the last right-hand one, you read aloud 
 every word and expounded each thing as you 
 read it. 
 
 They shook their heads in speechless wonder at 
 your facility in reading, without pause or stumble, 
 the biggest words that the greatest orator of 
 them all had used. And in the hearts of the old 
 ones here at your house, just as in the minds of 
 the youth at your school, you implanted something 
 of that deep love for your suffering country that 
 had burned in your own soul since in childhood 
 you had first read the story of her wrongs. Yes, 
 you were worthy master and teacher in that field. 
 
 But noblesse oblige. On a raging, December
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 night about twelve, when you were sitting by the 
 fire in your stocking soles preparatory to bedding, 
 Denis Ruddy was likely to lift the latch and walk 
 in and command you to stroll six miles with him 
 over the bogs to Cruach-na-Copal to draw up the 
 will of old Paddy Murrin, who had got "onaisy 
 in his mind" in the middle of the night, and 
 wouldn't rest or sleep till he had made his will. 
 And, as likely as not, you might, three months 
 after old Paddy's death, have to stand the brunt 
 of Denis's anger because he, a full third cousin 
 to Paddy's wife's niece, hadn't been mentioned in 
 the will. Cormac Gildea pulled you from your 
 sleep on the wildest night that ever fell from the 
 Heavens to go three miles up the mountain to 
 Cronna-Nyas and put the finishing touches to the 
 final settlement of the ninety-year-old dispute about 
 the march-ditch between the MacGinley Dubhs 
 and the MacGinley Ruadhs. When March with 
 its razor edge was skinning the snipes, Billy 
 O'Boyle of Gleneany accorded you the privilege of 
 surveying Carnaween mountain for him. 
 
 And, when you finished it alive, he got you to 
 close your school for three days while you tramped 
 with him over three mountain ranges and two 
 glens into the heart of the County Donegal to ask 
 the wife for him — a fine girl, by the way, with 
 two hundred head of sheep and five two-year-olds, 
 
 I160]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 and a chest of linen, and plenishing for a new 
 home — and he repaid you handsomely by the 
 promise that you'd stand for his first. 
 
 You were grand correspondent for the parish, 
 especially inditing letters to Amerikay, at the 
 writing of which you were expected to take down 
 in long hand five hundred and twenty-seven words 
 a minute — Nancy Hannigan's rate when she spoke 
 slowly, as in dictating to you — and on one sheet 
 of paper set down the history of the parish during 
 the twelve months that were gone, including the 
 biography of every second person in it. 
 
 You must overlook the unintentional reflection 
 on your scholarship when Shusie Gallagher, run- 
 ning out of both words and wind, wound up her 
 dictation with "Please excuse haste and poor 
 spellin'. — From your lovin' mother." But your 
 humiliation, if you were foolish enough to feel 
 such, was cured by the meascdn of Shusie's loveliest 
 golden butter, by crisp cakes of her bread, by 
 beastings, socks, linen shirts, knitted underwear, 
 bags of potatoes, melders of meal, and every other 
 tribute paid you that a king could expect. 
 
 And when you wanted your handful of hay, or 
 your lock of turf, or grain of corn home, horses, 
 asses and mules, carts and barrows, boys, men and 
 children thronged the roads around as if a Caesar 
 had bid them in. And remember, in this enumera- 
 
 [161]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 tion of your rewards, I have taken no account of 
 the heart-felt prayers put up for you in the course 
 of a hundred nightly Rosaries, and the old 
 women's blessings piled on your head Heaven- 
 high. The Recording Angel's credit books surely 
 overflowed in your days, giving him grievance 
 against the Masther of Cloch Corr for having to 
 invest in a brand-new set, all on the Masther's 
 account. 
 
 But, even though you had now won the undis- 
 puted distinction of being among the greatest men 
 in the world, you, unlike most great men, dared 
 not for a day rest upon your laurels. You had 
 ever to be on your guard to maintain your su- 
 premacy, for you knew not when, like a thief in 
 the night, Fate should overtake you — at the 
 school, at the wake, on the flags of the chapel- 
 yard, or amid the festivities of christening or 
 wedding. 
 
 If the Doorin men, who came from old 
 Masther Maguire's district in the very lower end 
 of the parish, and passed your school with their 
 turf carts on the way to the bog, failed to floor 
 you with the mathematical poser they carried to 
 you from him : "Good morrow to you, neigh- 
 bour and your twenty geese," then Masther 
 McLoon's three crack scholars, who, in their va- 
 cation time, went like roaring lions over the hills 
 
 [162]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 seeking what poor unfortunate Masther they 
 might devour, sprang at you their latest: 
 
 "On a circular lot, rich with various grasses, 
 Which contained just one acre, I tied up three asses 
 In three equal circles, and the largest that's found 
 Within the circumference of an acre of ground. 
 Now I want you to tell me the length of the string 
 That attached each ass to his circle or ring. 
 Also the space occupied by each ass 
 And how much there remains of the acre of 
 grass;" 
 
 — or: "If we gave you, Masther, an eight-gallon 
 keg filled with whiskey, and a five-gallon keg and 
 a three-gallon keg both empty, and no other 
 measure, instrument or implement whatsoever, 
 how will you measure us out four gallons of that 
 whiskey, not a drop more and not a drop less?" — 
 all work in your school being that day suspended 
 until you, by superhuman effort and at loss of 
 much perspiration, wrung out the solution — to the 
 uncontrolled joy of your scholars and the complete 
 down-casting of the lions, who, with drooped tail 
 and no more roaring, took their departure. 
 
 But still in danger are you to meet your 
 Waterloo when the Bacach Ruadh (red-haired 
 beggarman), audacious as he is ignorant, 
 challenges you in the chapel-yard to spell 
 
 [163]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 bombergladoflimflastifamuloquentialities, to the 
 awe and wonder of the open-mouthed multitude 
 who marvel at the extraordinary brains the 
 Bacach's uncombed crop of red hair conceals. And 
 indeed a real Waterloo it might have been the 
 night of Corney Heggarty's wake, when the same 
 ignorant, impudent fellow publicly challenged you 
 across the floor: 
 
 "Masther, my learned and honourable friend, 
 take Joe-ology, Al-j^v-bra, Trigonometry, Flux- 
 ions, Joe-graphy, Jurie's Prudence, the Con- 
 fluxion of the Systems, Di-sec-tations, Sequestra- 
 tions, Disquisitions, Mathematics or the Influen- 
 tial carcases — on which of all these larned things 
 is it your prefermentation that I should test your 
 eruditional accomplishments?" 
 
 To which you suitably replied : "Sirrah ! From 
 my rare intellectual altitudes I gaze with infinite 
 contempt alloyed with despicable commiseration 
 on the pitiable accumulation and aggregation of 
 unmitigated balderdash with which you have the 
 audacious temerity to address me!" 
 
 Whereupon he retorted: 
 
 "Let no charlatanical fop presume to dispute 
 the atrocious voracity of my achromatical qualifi- 
 cations, for I'm a heterogeneous cosmopolite 
 perambulating and differentiating intricate prob- 
 lematics throughout the circumambient localities 
 
 [164]
 
 SPELL BOMBERGLADOFLIMFLASTIFAMUL( (QUENTIALITIES
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 which I have mesmerized into a conglomerate 
 catastrophe!" 
 
 And you rejoined: "Sirrah! of all subjects in 
 the educational curriculum of the universe from 
 the Alpha to the Omega of the same, select and 
 indicate one and I shall instantaneously proceed to 
 expose your accumulated ignorance to the gaze of 
 a commiserating public!" 
 
 Then he — the neighbours now having been 
 aroused to a tremendous pitch of excitement : 
 
 "Having given the paralysis of the hypotenuse, 
 can you calculate, enumerate and dimonstrate for 
 me, by the square and kibe roots of Joe-ometry 
 and Trigonometry, how many fathoms of wind 
 blew through the chancel windy of Donegal's ould 
 abbey last Janiary was a twelve month?" 
 
 And finally poor you, your whole name, fame, 
 fortune and prestige trembling in the balance as 
 you heard the breathless neighbours whisper: 
 "Faith, that's a tarror!" your good angel com- 
 ing to your aid with a flash of inspiration, drew 
 from your vest pocket a bit of chalk, cleared the 
 center of the floor and on the flag there drew a 
 right-angle triangle A, B, C, and, courageously 
 looking the Bacach in the eye, said : 
 
 "Let A B C be a right-angled triangle, having 
 the right angle at B. I say that the squares on 
 the base and perpendicular, AB and BC, are to- 
 
 [165]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 gether equal to the square on the hypotenuse AC. 
 Prove it, or forever after hold your tongue I" 
 With which you flung the chalk, like glove of 
 gallant knight, at the scoundrel's feet. 
 
 The confounded Bacach held his tongue, and, 
 next morning, a broken man, quitted forever the 
 parish where now his great prestige was gone. 
 And you were henceforth taller by his prestige 
 added on to your own — a dizzy height indeed. 
 
 Yes, you had great love for fine language, for 
 those beautiful, long words that, like a child with 
 toffy string, one might knot upon his tongue and 
 feel for a sweet, long time under his palate. 
 Father Pat had delight in hearing you use your 
 fine language and loved, too, to have the Bishop 
 hear it when he came on his rounds. Yet it nearly 
 betrayed you into difficulty that day you ac- 
 companied His Reverence to Drimgarman Barr, 
 to Michael MacCallion's, where he was going to 
 give the last rites to poor old Peggy. 
 
 You, presuming that Peggy's hearing was not 
 as good as it used to be, unfortunately whispered 
 to Father Pat, as you entered the door: "Sir, I 
 believe she is a nonogenarian," and Peggy, who 
 for all her four-score and ten (and some more) 
 could still hear the grass growing, lifted her head 
 in the bed that was in the kitchen outshot, wailing: 
 "Och-och-a-neel Och-och-a-nee ! O, Masther! 
 
 [i66]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 that I should live to this time o' day to hear you 
 say that of me. Och-och-a-nee ! Your Reverence, 
 darlin', surely wouldn't believe it o' me !" 
 
 Father Pat saved the situation. "Is it believe 
 it, Peggy? Not if the Bishop of the diocese him- 
 self stood there on the floor and told it to me." 
 And you breathed again, and Peggy, serene in a 
 saved reputation, settled herself to crown a spot- 
 less life by an exemplary death. 
 
 You never married, because you never found a 
 girl in the countryside who could properly appreci- 
 ate the sublime passages of Homer with which 
 you tried to win her heart. But your old father 
 and your old mother were care enough for you, 
 and care well for them you did. As became a 
 man of great income, you lavished money on them, 
 giving them not only of comforts but of luxuries 
 likewise. Their days were smooth and their nights 
 restful. Their hearts were happy; their souls 
 were always swelled with pride for you. They 
 passed away, calling down the blessing of God 
 on the best son (they said) that father or mother 
 ever knew. 
 
 You not only did your duty to your father and 
 mother, but you did your duty to your country 
 likewise. For poor Ireland always had a warm 
 corner in your warm heart. You made your pupils 
 not scholars only, but patriots likewise. Of course, 
 
 [167]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 it was against the rules laid down for school- 
 masters by a paternal government that the name of 
 Ireland should be mentioned in the school out- 
 side the geography lesson. You strictly observed 
 the rule, to be sure, but the title "Geography" got 
 a generous interpretation from you; and the in- 
 ventor of the science would have had his eyes 
 opened, had he, rising from his grave, wandered 
 into the little thatched schoolhouse of Cloch Corr, 
 and felt the fire and saw the red blood that you 
 put into a subject which he had thought to be as 
 dry as Adam's dust; and witnessed pairs of child- 
 ish eyes fill with tears, and little mouths set hard, 
 and little fists clench under inspiration of a sub- 
 ject that he had never dreamed had a soul! 
 
 Yes, you did your duty by your pupils, your 
 parents and your country. In doing so you grew 
 old gracefully, and the years were mellow, and 
 still more and more honour came with your gray 
 hairs. In your own large-hearted way you looked 
 down with leniency on a new class of — not 
 Masthers — but just school-teachers that the 
 colleges were turning out, as a sausage machine 
 turns out sausages; smart, pert youngsters, dressed 
 in shop-clothes, riding bicycles, swallowing certain 
 books, teaching how to swing the arms and how 
 to fill the lungs to children who hungered to have 
 their minds filled and the joints of their intellects 
 
 [168]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 suppled. School-teachers who, moreover, are 
 salaried like Caesars, with sixty pounds a year and 
 perquisites; just twice what lavishly remunerated 
 Men in your salad days. 
 
 The world is surely rushing to ruin : and 'tis 
 well, after all, that your years in it are short. 
 However, except to crack an occasional classic joke 
 on them (which, of course, they do not under- 
 stand), whenever they presume to raise their 
 squeak in your presence, you are tolerant with 
 them. As becomes a giant among pigmies, you 
 extend to them a real and sincere pity. 
 
 The men, the old-timers, the Masthers, on Pen- 
 sion Saturday meet in Donegal Market and with- 
 draw to Larry MacCue's to have a social glass, 
 and talk of the days when there were giants, and 
 to tell for the ten thousandth time the biting re- 
 joinder (unequalled by anything outside the 
 classics) that Masther MacGlinchey gave the 
 officious inspector; and to recite the eighteen 
 poems, each of two hundred lines, more or less, 
 which embody the learned controversy carried on 
 (via the Long Beggarman) between Masther 
 Corrigan of Killaghtee and the unseen genius, 
 Masther Mulvanny, who lived somewhere up in 
 County Mayo; to put again, one to the other, some 
 of the old posers that in these degenerate days are 
 falling into disrepute; and to saunter home in the 
 
 [169]
 
 THE MASTHER 
 
 evening, stopping at this house and that and re- 
 newing your learned controversies and cause the 
 old ones in the chimney corner to shake their 
 heads and say: "Ay, this is the last of the rale 
 ones, and more's the pity!" 
 
 Yes, soon the green quilt will be drawn over 
 you, and sure 'twould be some consolation to you 
 that day if you could see how the gray-headed 
 ones will look in and drop a tear on the lowered 
 coffin and say: "Well, his like will never walk 
 the world again. The Heavens be his bed!" 
 
 [170]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 DO you mind the turf-cutting? The turf-cut- 
 ting in Donegal ! the turf-cutting in the lone 
 bogs, away among the far hills, in the merry May 
 time, when the sun was bright and the air was 
 balmy, and the first flowers were showing on the 
 slopes, and the marsh-mallows by the wayside; and 
 the milky-white cean-a-bhans were broidering the 
 bogs; and the bee was humming, and the water- 
 wagtail twittering; and the lark spilling his mel- 
 ody from above — when the bog, at most times 
 lonely, was at length lively with the quick-working 
 little groups that dotted it — the men and bigger 
 boys fast plying the spade, and slinging the clean- 
 cut turf high up into the eager hands that waited 
 to catch it soft and sodden, and bear it back to 
 the clear, dry ground behind, where the sun, and 
 the wind, and the air would win the peat that 
 should serve to feed a fine fire. Oh, the turf- 
 cutting ! the glorious turf-cutting ! the happy turf- 
 cutting! the turf-cutting in the bogs of Ireland! 
 
 But, to be sure, 'twasn't all merriment, and 
 'twasn't all poetry, the same turf-cutting in your 
 lovely, lonely bogs. It ever meant a long day's 
 work, and a strong day's work and hard — 
 
 [171]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 bracingly begun before the sun rolled above the 
 rim of the bog, and ended, with aching back and 
 raging appetite, after he had gone to rest again, 
 and was pulling black curtains between him and 
 the world. 
 
 At four o'clock in the morning your father, 
 who never seemed to sleep when there was any- 
 thing to do, was already afoot in the little 
 mountain cabin, and noisily awaking every mother's 
 son and daughter of you, and hastening you 
 from your beds before you got the gates of dream- 
 land shut. By five o'clock the clan-jaffrey of you 
 have stowed away a breakfast of oaten stirabout 
 that would provision a privateer, and with bottles 
 of new milk, and fadges of well-hardened, thickly- 
 buttered oatcake, and pocketsful of hard-boiled 
 eggs, leave behind you the little house with the 
 candle in its little window, and, in the breaking 
 dawn, are treading an uncertain way down the un- 
 even cassey that leads from your door to the road, 
 cheerily chattering and heartily laughing at one 
 another's mishaps as you go. On the road, your 
 father is impatiently holding a donkey by the head, 
 waiting for the girls to take their place in the high- 
 caged cart. The cage swings open; the girls 
 bounce in; the donkey is released, and off along 
 the hard, white road it trots, click-clack, click- 
 clack, the girls laughing gleefully, while your 
 
 [172]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 father and yourselves, by long and hasty strides, 
 kill yourselves trying to keep up to the mighty 
 wise little animal, which knows well, since such 
 early start is made, that a big day's work lies ahead, 
 and extraordinary haste is called for. 
 
 On the way you fall in with many another hurry- 
 ing party. So, in the bog, the round red sun 
 rises upon a lively scene — a pleasant contrast with 
 the usually dreary aspect of the white-patched, 
 great and wide stretches of waste. Here and there 
 over the vast surface of it you see high-caged 
 carts, little and big, up-ended; and the animals 
 that drew them, the donkeys and horses, picking 
 stray blades of grass and soft tops of heather, 
 as they wander wide. Reeks of blue smoke are 
 mounting on the morning air from a hundred 
 small fires built nigh the carts, and a hundred 
 family parties, bareheaded and barefooted, each 
 upon a turf-bank near their own fire, are hard at 
 work plying the spade, or catching, or throwing, 
 or carrying, or wheeling the fresh turf, or set- 
 ting drier ones on end, four or five together — 
 "footing" them. The father's spade, or elder 
 brother's, works mortal fast indeed; carving its 
 way through the soft bank, sharp and quick, the 
 bright blade, for a second deep-buried, is flashing 
 aloft the next instant, and a clean turf is flying 
 from it into the waiting hands that quickly pass 
 
 Li73]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 it far from its bed. Four, or five, or six sweating 
 people, father, and sisters, and brothers, take little 
 time — you'd think — to hearken to the lark's song 
 or the bees' hum, to enjoy the blue sky, or the 
 bright hills beyond the bog, or the white sunshine 
 that is frisking upon them, or the sweet-smelling 
 smoke that is curling above. Keeping hands and 
 eyes close upon their labour, they work hard and 
 still harder as the sun mounts high and still higher. 
 But, for all that, don't conceit yourself that the 
 beauty is lost on them. It is in their hearts as they 
 work, their blood leaps the quicker for it; the 
 lively tune, and glad song, and merry joke, come 
 lightly from their lips. The black bog is bright, 
 and the lone bog full of life, and the silent bog 
 filled with music, with whistle and song, with 
 laughter, chat and cheery hail. 
 
 Till the white sun has reached its height, and 
 passed it, there is neither cease nor pause. Many 
 a suddenly-sprung turf-cutting contest has been 
 hotly fought out, and many a victor loudly ac- 
 claimed. "Patrick's Andy walked his floor* at the 
 rate of a weddin', but Manis Gildea swept his like 
 a blaze o' whins.", But, then, "The match of 
 Manis wasn't within the five baronies, and his 
 bate couldn't be got though you screenged Ireland 
 with a herrin' net; and as for Andy, his aiqual was 
 *A "floor" is a strip or bog-bank cleaned for cutting, 
 
 [174]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 far to find." For the champion turf-cutter is a 
 hero not without honour in his own country, and 
 in his own way he may gather to himself nigh as 
 much glory as the schoolmaster. His name is 
 spoken proudly at wedding, wake and fair, and 
 he holds a high place in the councils of his neigh- 
 bours. He toils hard for the fame that finally 
 comes to him, and has the consolation of knowing 
 that for a generation after the "daisy quilt" is 
 pulled over him his name will be passed with pride, 
 and his deeds paraded by the wondering ones he 
 leaves behind. 
 
 After midday, when appetites are keen as a 
 March blast, your father, to the joy of all, says: 
 
 "That'll do, childer. Let us in God's name have 
 food to eat, and rest for our limbs." And turf 
 and turf-barrows are instantly dropped, and, with 
 a rousing cheer, you all rush for the cart where 
 the coveted things are stored. Close to the fire 
 the Cloth of Plenty is untied, and stacks of but- 
 tered oatcake, mounds of eggs, and mountains of 
 milk-bottles disclosed to hungering eyes. Into the 
 fire the eggs are put for roasting. Down on the 
 bog-floor, by the piles of eatables and drinkables, 
 you all squat. Your father, taking off his hat, 
 blesses himself, and you all follow the good ex- 
 ample. With hearty good-will you then "fall to," 
 and the carnage begins. 
 
 [i75]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 Notwithstanding the ravenous hunger that each 
 of you brings to the feast, there is always time 
 for a joke between bites, and the gay laughter goes 
 forward without cessation. At the tail of the feast- 
 ing your father draws out his pipe, and fills and 
 lights it, stretches his legs from him, gets his 
 back against a pile of turf and smokes, in high 
 content with himself and the world. You and 
 your brothers step across to the neighbouring 
 parties, and have your whispers with the blush- 
 ing cailini there; while, just to strike a balance, 
 the boys from there cross over to tell your girls 
 what sort the weather is going to be to-morrow. 
 But there's only little time for intercourse just 
 now. The call of a dozen fathers: "To your 
 work, brave boys!" soon rings out. And, with 
 brightness in your eyes and merry music on your 
 lips, tripping you come to your task once more, 
 and in a few minutes' time the bog is again busy 
 with a toiling multitude. 
 
 When, after a long day and a glad day, the 
 sun has at last left the pearly sky, and the shad- 
 ows, waving their dark wands, come after you all, 
 now tired and songless, but still merry, you drop 
 spade and barrow, gather your alls, pursue, bring 
 back and harness the donkey, get the girls into the 
 cart, and, wearing a pleasant cloak of fatigue, 
 set your steps on the homeward way. A supper 
 
 [176]
 
 A DAY IN THE BOG 
 
 fit for a king is before you as you burst into the 
 warm kitchen of your cabin, nigh to bedtime — a 
 mountain of flowery potatoes, still steaming, and 
 laughing through their jackets, hillocks of yellow 
 butter flanking it, and lochs of thick-milk — for, 
 surely, little less than lochs are the great bowls 
 of it that are set down, one for each man, and 
 boy, and girl. The envy of a king would be the 
 appetites that each of you brings home with you 
 from the bog; and the envy of a king might well 
 be the relish with which you attack the mountain 
 of laughing potatoes; and certainly the envy of 
 a king would be the happy hearts and the sleep- 
 filled heads, and glad, tired limbs, which, when 
 Rosary is said, you stretch upon welcome beds. 
 
 Before yet the turf is fully won, and dragged 
 home, and stacked in the garden, there's many an- 
 other long and toilsome, joyous, bright day in the 
 bog still ahead of you. And after the turf is won, 
 and safely stacked at home, on many a winter's 
 night will the high-leaping, bright-blazing turf 
 fire warm you and cheer you, as you propound 
 riddles, and sing songs, and hearken to the old, 
 old, beautiful tales and laoidhs that happily while 
 away the surly, gurly, rainy, stormy, blowy, snowy 
 winter nights, and repay you, happy-hearted chil- 
 dren of all ages, for many a sore, toilsome, glorious 
 day in the bog! 
 
 [ 177]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 THOSE individuals who affect genteel English 
 might call him Beggar — an impolite name, 
 as well as an unworthy one, for such a personage. 
 You, and all of you, knew him as the Bacach. He 
 was usually a sturdy, big fellow, whose soul long 
 ago rose above menial and manual labour. Yet 
 he tolerated those drudges amongst you who 
 grubbed in the earth for an existence. But he 
 himself always held his head to heaven, and let 
 you pay him tribute — not alms. His territory ex- 
 tended over long leagues. As he took to the roads, 
 he wore his alms-bags, half a dozen of them, gaily, 
 and swung his staff, whistling as he went. 
 
 He knew himself monarch of the multitude, and 
 carried himself as a sovereign should, moving 
 amongst subjects whom he did not altogether 
 despise. 
 
 There was warm welcome for him always when 
 he thrust in his head at your door, hurling bless- 
 ings at herself, and yourself, and the children. 
 You welcomed him for many reasons. In the first 
 place, because he was one of God's poor — even 
 
 *The bacach, or beggarman, is a great power and tyrant 
 among the charitable, good-hearted people in the mountainous 
 parts of Ireland. 
 
 [178]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 though he lived more luxuriously than yourself, 
 and never needed to take thought for the morrow. 
 And, again, because you knew that he was a man 
 of great qualities, well worth cultivating. And, 
 still further, because he was your newspaper. Any 
 single one of these was sufficient in itself to make 
 his welcome; but all three were overwhelming. 
 
 While Molly emptied her tribute (potatoes or 
 meal or good bake-bread) into his bags, he in- 
 formed you of all the happenings, not merely of 
 the countryside, but of the world. 
 
 Even if he had not the world's news literally 
 correct, at least it lost nothing in the carrying. 
 If he told you of a battle in which ten thousand men 
 were reported killed and fifty thousand fatally 
 wounded, you had the consolation of knowing that 
 at least you were not denied any part of the sensa- 
 tion that was rightly your due. He never gave 
 short measure. And the most contemptible 
 stickler for prosaic facts could not, anyhow, deny 
 that, in the foregoing instance, there was at least 
 a horse killed, and several human beings seriously 
 injured. His news, like the old-time novels, was 
 always founded upon strict fact. 
 
 As was not merely pardonable but proper, in a 
 genius, he made his own of all news he had heard, 
 supplied its shortcomings, cast it in dramatic 
 shape, and retailed it, not necessarily in the crude 
 
 [i79]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 way in which it did occur, but in the finished way 
 in which it should have occurred. And in doing 
 this he was never untruthful, only artistic — and 
 wishful, too, to satisfy the natural cravings of hu- 
 manity (which in the remote mountains was the 
 same as in the city) . 
 
 When he quit your house, bearing away 
 heavier bags, he left you under a weighty sense 
 of obligation to him, and wishing ardently that 
 tribute time came thrice a week instead of once. 
 He had the knack of striking the warmest houses 
 of the parish at meal time, when he honoured them 
 all by consenting to partake of the best that was 
 being provided. On a brisk day he covered a deal 
 of ground. He stuck not prosaically to any high- 
 way, but footed it by field and flood, hill and dale, 
 mountain and moor, as he met them. For he was 
 in all things a scorner of the paths beaten by you, 
 little men. As he managed to reach at meal time 
 the house noted for its lavish board, so likewise 
 night had the habit of overtaking him by the most 
 comfortable hearth in the townland — where, by 
 his own invitation, he shed his bags and made 
 himself at home till morning. Any one of God's 
 poor was, of course, welcome to quarter himself 
 where he would, because you knew that the home- 
 less were equally entitled with yourself to the roof 
 that God raised over you and to a share of the 
 
 [180]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 bite that you struggled for. Any of God's poor 
 were welcome to this (which you always, and 
 rightly, referred to as "their share"), but the 
 royal bacach had a welcome and twenty to it. 
 Moreover, where he stopped, he received no 
 honour, but only conferred one. And, keenly 
 alive to this fact, you treated him accordingly. 
 The best in the house was at his behest; and, 
 though for a bed he had only the usual wandering 
 one's couch, a straw shake-down, this was given 
 him by the hearth, so that he slept more warmly 
 and more comfortably than did you, his honoured 
 host. 
 
 To be sure he ruled you — as you deserved — 
 with a rod of iron, and, while he honoured your 
 house by his presence, exacted the respect that was 
 his due and your loyal submission that was some- 
 thing short of slavish. 
 
 After a luxurious supper he, of course, occupied 
 the bean-a-tighe's seat in the chimney corner, 
 and, there indulging in a post-prandial pipe, 
 held the house spellbound as he unfolded to 
 you his own narrative of the world's doings 
 and misdoings, enriching the narration with 
 pungent comment and confident prediction. He 
 arbitrated between the Great Powers, if they 
 were at variance, and in princely fashion trans- 
 ferred whole slices of geography from one to the 
 
 [181]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 other for justice' sake — or for peace. The Irish 
 Question he settled nightly, bestowing upon our 
 distracted country a generous measure of Home 
 Rule — to be followed in a few years by total in- 
 dependence under a king of his own choosing. 
 
 When Rosary time arrived, he drew forth his 
 beads and ordered the household upon their knees, 
 whilst he then — still usurping the bean-a-tighe's 
 place — led you all in prayer. To the crack 
 prayers of the parish this was ever a treat. But 
 not quite so enthusiastic were those of more tem- 
 perate devotional instincts. For the bacach was 
 vain of his praying powers — and with good rea- 
 son, too, as you who so often (and long) knelt 
 under him must readily confess. 
 
 Molly herself was no mean hand at the praying, 
 as the groaning children will testify; but even she 
 freely admitted that the bacach's prayers were 
 only well begun where hers left off. Accordingly, 
 it was an eminent spiritual treat when the bacach 
 led the Rosary. Yet you very much fear that the 
 unregenerate of the younger generation did not 
 derive from his devotional exercises the invigorat- 
 ing spiritual refreshment that they should. The 
 grip of the world, the flesh and the devil was felt 
 even in your remote mountains; so the minds of 
 many youngsters were upon the aches that racked 
 their knees when, in harmony with the bacach's, 
 
 [182]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 they should have been lifted to things celestial. 
 In the tone of their response, you fear, there was 
 sometimes exasperation, when there should be de- 
 votion ; and a groan oftentimes was heard from 
 these grovelling sinners, when a note of joy was 
 expected. And the bacach, well knowing the hold 
 which the Prince of Darkness has upon the way- 
 ward hearts of youth, usually, as his prayers pro- 
 ceeded, turned towards them a stern — not to say 
 wrathful — face, and prayed at them in fast, and 
 all but furious, tones. He would ask for "one 
 Pather-a-Navvy for the slothful of body and soul, 
 that their eyes may be opened to the wickedness 
 of their ways, and their flintsomeness of heart 
 moderated by the penetrating warnings of grace." 
 It is in these trimmings (as you called them) to 
 the Rosary that the bacach pre-eminently shone. 
 And the trimmings were, with him, always far 
 and away more extensive than the piece. And it 
 is these trimmings that, straw by straw, seemed to 
 break both back and knees — and heart, too — of 
 the sinful youth. "Let us offer up one Pather-a- 
 Navvy for our friends and re-al-atives far and 
 near, and abroad in the worl'." "Another Pather-a- 
 Navvy for the houseless and homeless, and all poor 
 wanderers on God's earth that has no roof over 
 their heads this night — that the Lord may yet lead 
 them to everlasting shelter in under the dazzling 
 
 [183]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 roof of heaven!" "For all who are in sickness, 
 soreness, or sorrow, want or advarsity, trials or 
 troubles — one Pather-a-Navvy from our hearts." 
 "For sojers and sailors, and all who are at say on 
 the ocean, with no rush bush to hould by, that 
 God may preserve them from watery graves, and 
 unprovided-for daiths — wan Pather-a-Navvy." 
 "For our poor boys and girls in Amirikay, and 
 foreign parts, that God may strengthen their arms, 
 and lighten their troubles, and soften to them the 
 hearts of the stranger, and that they may never 
 do nothing to bring sin, shame, sorrow nor dis- 
 grace on them or theirs, or anyone belongin' to 
 them — one Pather-a-Navvy from our hearts." 
 "For the poor sufferin' souls in Purgatory — for 
 our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, kith 
 and kin, and likewise for the poor souls who are 
 killed in wars, and have no one to pray for them 
 — one Pather-a-Navvy." "One other Pather-a- 
 Navvy to the merciful Lord to preserve this house, 
 and everyone in it from the doleful death of 
 cholera morbis — that the good Lord may lighten 
 its terrors, and weaken its ravages, and keep it 
 far from us, and from all poor sinners on the face 
 of this earth." And this latter good prayer he 
 fervently clung to, notwithstanding the fact that 
 the ravages of the dread disease had, fortunately, 
 been unknown in the land for some generations. 
 
 [184]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 As he was great upon prayer, the bacach was 
 likewise great upon prophecy, and could fascinate 
 you a thousand times by reciting from beginning 
 to end the prophecies of your great and much- 
 loved St. Colm Cille. And he could interpret them 
 to the meanest understanding, making clear what 
 was meant by the black pig which, belching fire, 
 was to run through Barnes Gap, and the white rod 
 that was to pass round Ireland; likewise explain 
 the three black taxes, which, before the coming 
 of the final great troubles, were to be levied and 
 lifted with steel hands. He could calculate, al- 
 most to a day, the period which was to fulfil that 
 part of the prophecy foretelling that the seed 
 should rot beneath the sod and the crops be in 
 mourning; and also when the cow should bring 
 the full of her horn of money, and the black cloud 
 come up in the east, and the red wind blow out 
 of the west. Furthermore, he could assure his 
 marvelling listeners that the strongest, surest sign 
 which was to precede the final act in poor Ireland's 
 tragedy was now with them — for in the Rosses 
 there lived the red-headed miller with two thumbs 
 on one hand, the wheel of whose mill, as fore- 
 told, should turn three times with the blood that 
 was to flow, before our freedom was won. 
 
 Finally, before the family retired, and the 
 bacach couched him on his shake-down, he con-
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 sidered it his duty to test the educational progress 
 of the youth of the household. 
 
 "In mudeelis, in clanonis; 
 In firtaris, in oaknonis, 
 
 — that's a little thrifle of Greek; could you 
 consther it for me, Johneen?" But as it was surely 
 Greek to poor Johneen, who had, the Wednesday 
 before, been promoted to reading words of two 
 syllables, the trembling little student shook his 
 head. Whereupon the bacach, shaking his head, 
 would proceed to "take him on the Scriptures." 
 "Can you tell me, me fine young New-o-phyte, the 
 connection between the Bloody Wars and the Com- 
 ics seen in the sky — referred to in Holy Write, 
 eighteenth and nineteenth Revolutions, thirteenth 
 chapture, nine-and-twentieth and followin' varses?" 
 But Johneen was just as shamefully deficient in 
 Holy Writ as in Greek. "Well, then, an aisier 
 wan, more shooted to your sarcumscribed intellectu- 
 ality : From the Canine laws of the Holy Romans, 
 can you prove to me that the time, and times, 
 and half a time, predicted by Colm Cille for the 
 landin' of the Spaniards in Donegal must occur 
 in the present reign of the thirteenth queen and 
 king of haresy in England, Victoria being both 
 king and queen — Queen of England and Imp'ror 
 of India? Ye can't? Very well, then just a 
 thrifle in Coney-Sections. 
 
 [186]
 
 THE BACACH 
 
 'As I was goin' to sweet Kildives, 
 I met a man with seven wives; 
 And every wife had seven sacks; 
 In every sack was seven cats, 
 And every cat had seven kittens. 
 Now, kittens, cats, sacks and wives, 
 How many went to sweet Kildives?' " 
 
 But little Johneen, dumbfounded by the mighti- 
 ness of a brain-racking mathematical problem that 
 was fitted to floor a College President, fled for the 
 shelter of his mother's skirts — and in his heart re- 
 solved never after to set up for a scholar. 
 
 And all of you went to sleep that night marvel- 
 ling once again at the mightiness of the intellect 
 of him who had deigned to do you the honour of 
 breaking bread, and sheltering for the night, be- 
 neath your pitiably humble roof. 
 
 [187]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 YOUR parish — and in this sure it was only like 
 any other mountain parish in Ireland — had 
 done homage to kindly despot after kindly despot 
 as bacach succeeded bacach in imposing sway upon 
 the charitable-hearted. But the Bacach Mor (Big 
 Beggarman) maybe reigned longer and held a 
 heavier rod over you, his worshippers, than did 
 any who preceded him. His knightly figure was 
 to be seen, and his grave commanding voice heard, 
 and awe-inspiring presence felt, in the chimney- 
 corner of one or other of the warmest houses in 
 the parish for many a long year, till he was as 
 much of an institution as the Lazy Bush or Garrow- 
 meena Crossroads. He was kindly always — 
 while you were good. But when you needed it, 
 and it was salutary for your souls, he could be as 
 punitive as the potato-blight. And to both these 
 merited scourges you bowed your head unmurmur- 
 ingly. 
 
 He had entered Killymard a comparatively 
 young man, and taken it for his own — by his 
 splendid personality vanquishing the two bacachs 
 who had been laying it under tribute ere his ad- 
 vent. In it he grew fat, and indolent, and (you 
 
 [188]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 must confess) sometimes ill-tempered, as cannot 
 be helped by one spoilt by too absolute and too 
 worshipful submission of his subjects. And lazily 
 content, he here resigned himself to rest on his lau- 
 rels, and wear out his remaining days lording it 
 over you, unworthy of the honour though you 
 oftentimes proved yourselves. 
 
 But God will still dispose even though bacachs 
 propose. And it was so in this case. For when 
 the Bacach Mor was lulled into a sense of false 
 security a knight-errant suddenly appeared in the 
 parish, in the person of the Bacach Fada. He 
 was a muscular, lithe, jaunty, tall fellow, who car- 
 ried his myriad bags just like that dandy they 
 called Beau Nash might carry his ball-clothes. He 
 was a superior fellow entirely, who, somehow, in- 
 spired you all with respect and awe immediately 
 he dawned on you. He must have only risen into 
 the fifties, while the Bacach Mor was dropping 
 into the seventies. And the Bacach Mot's soul 
 was troubled the first minute he heard of this de- 
 tested invader. 
 
 The Bacach Fada laid everyone of you under 
 the most abject allegiance to him in every house 
 in which he struck his staff; and, when demand- 
 ing the parish charity, in the tone of his voice was 
 a bark that meant business. So you knew that he 
 
 [189]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 must be a great fellow entirely, must this Bacach 
 Fada. 
 
 On the very first day on which he arrived, from 
 the-Lord-only-knows-where, Father Dan, who right 
 heartily disliked what he daringly called "sturdy 
 vagabonds," met up with him on the road, and, 
 reining in his sorry grey mare, and rickety car, 
 shouted at him, "Heigh, fellow! what business 
 brings you into this parish?" 
 
 "The same business as yourself," the Bacach 
 Fada replied, taking a start out of his Reverence 
 — "the same business as yourself, your Reverence 
 — trying to take all I can from innocent people. 
 If you say nothin'," said he, with exasperating con- 
 fidentiality, "I'll say nothin'. Good-bye!" And 
 before poor Father Dan recovered from his dumb- 
 foundedness the bacach strode past him, his oak 
 staff gaily swinging, his tatters flying, and his bags 
 dangling airily, going oft with the honours of war. 
 
 Unanimously, as you fell in with the Bacach 
 Fada, you assented that the Bacach Mor was 
 eclipsed. And the Bacach Mor, as he heard story 
 after story of the newcomer, felt the sceptre shake 
 in his grasp, and — you are afraid — mortally hated 
 the fellow ere yet he had encountered him. 
 
 'Twas in Padeen MacMullans' that they met 
 for the first time. You mind it well. You were 
 there. The whole world was there — for you all 
 
 [ 190]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 expected the meeting and mental combat. The 
 Bacach Mor, enthroned in the chimney-corner, had 
 been acting the autocrat over the household — 
 trembling children and all. He gasped — it was 
 plain to be seen — when the Bacach Fada suddenly 
 entered the door, casting at the household a "God's 
 blissin' on all here, barrin' the cat. An' on you, 
 too, sir," to the scowling Bacach Mor, who was 
 now mustering all his latent scorn for the pur- 
 pose of withering the fellow. But, alas, the 
 Bacach Fada seemed to mind his scowl no more 
 than he did his smile. He planted his staff, and 
 shed his bags, commanding the household in super- 
 cilious tone as he did so; and then enthroned him- 
 self in the chimney-corner opposite him whose seat 
 he had come to usurp. 
 
 The Bacach Mor waited impatiently for the 
 opening fire from the enemy. But he was bitterly 
 disappointed. The Bacach Fada crushingly ig- 
 nored him. He bore himself with a calmness and 
 a seeming unconsciousness of the former's pres- 
 ence that was more terribly effective than could 
 have been the fiercest frontal assault. He had a 
 look and a command for every individual in the 
 house, except the ignored one, who would have 
 parted with half his kingdom for a deliberate at- 
 tack from this marauder. The cool, calculating 
 knavery of the interloper struck a chill to the heart 
 
 [191]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 of the Bacach Mor, and dumbfounded him. The 
 Bacach Facia demanded supper, chatted away with 
 lofty ease while it was in preparation, and ate it, 
 when ready, with the indifference of one who was 
 used to sup in kings' courts. When the meal was 
 finished, he ordered the abashed children around 
 his knee, and, audaciously usurping what was the 
 universally-acknowledged privilege of the Bacach 
 Mor, began putting them "through their facin's" 
 in grammar, arithmetic and history, both sacred 
 and profane — with the nonchalant ease of a scholar 
 who had taken all knowledge for his province. 
 He propounded to them posers that even took 
 away the breath of the Bacach Mor. When he 
 had riddled the children, and exposed their utter 
 ignorance of the most elementary knowledge that 
 his great mind could take notice of, he suddenly 
 turned full face upon the Bacach Mor and hurled 
 at that individual a string of questions that, in 
 their dazing incomprehensibility (to common 
 minds like yours and the neighbours'), completely 
 eclipsed the most admirably astounding that the 
 latter had himself ever propounded. The Bacach 
 Mor gasped for breath — and, having got it, bent 
 upon the Bacach Fada his heaviest artillery, which, 
 however, now seemed to you like so much toy-gun 
 play opposed to the real thing. The unequal duel, 
 which you followed with breathless suspense, con- 
 
 [192]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KJLLYMARD 
 
 tinued for maybe half an hour. At the end of that 
 time the Bacach Mor, for whom you were now 
 feeling the most painful sympathy, had spent all 
 his ammunition, whilst it was easily seen that his 
 opponent had not yet well broken upon his stock. 
 
 "To your knees for the Rosary!" The Bacach 
 Fada drew out and jangled at the family a rosary 
 of the largest beads that had ever dazzled you. 
 
 The fellow was making free with the first fruits 
 of his victory. With the Bacach Mor present, 
 not the most courageous had ever before dared to 
 usurp his unquestionable prerogative of leading in 
 prayer. Now all, tacitly acknowledging the new 
 despot, sank like one man upon their knees. Even 
 the Bacach Mor, after some moments' hesitation, 
 rolled from his chair with a groan of disgust, and 
 assumed a kneeling posture likewise. The Bacach 
 Fada led the Rosary in a manner that was inspir- 
 ing and impressive to everyone of you who heark- 
 ened and meekly followed. His calm, strong, as- 
 sertive voice, as it swung along through Pater and 
 through Ave, searched the very corners of the house, 
 terrorizing even the Bacach Mor. He found his 
 voice, though, when, after everyone else had led 
 in a decade, his opponent invited him to add his ! 
 Then, remembering that his place was to order, 
 not to be ordered — to lead instead of being led — 
 the Bacach Mor, stung into his sharpest retort, 
 
 [ 193]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 replied: "I put no spoon into this hippie-critical 
 hash." The Bacach Fada did not annihilate him 
 by replying in kind; but, picking up the decade 
 himself, prayed at the Bacach Mor with look and 
 tone that certainly awed the house, and must have 
 made the rude one shiver in his soul. 
 
 The Rosary finished, and the children put to bed 
 in the outshot, and your pipes lighted, the Bacach 
 Mor bravely entered the lists for the final and de- 
 ciding joust. Before him, no man had been known 
 with such store of ancient lays and tales, and old- 
 world lore. In this field he would surely put his 
 hated enemy out of combat. But, to his confound- 
 ing, and the amazement of all, this newcome King 
 met lay after lay, and capped story with story, 
 as far as the Bacach Mor would or could go. 
 And when far in the night, the Bacach Mor^s store 
 being exhausted, and he himself in like case, he 
 thought strategically to cover his retreat by quot- 
 ing precedent from ancient story, and time long 
 gone. 
 
 "The hairoes of old," he said, "gave a third 
 of the night only to stories and lays, and the re- 
 hearsal of wonderful adventures." 
 
 "The hairoes of old," the Bacach Fada retorted, 
 "gave a third o' the night only to stories and lays, 
 and the rehearsal of wonderful adventures, but 
 you an' me are goin' to exemplificate to our audi- 
 
 [194]
 
 THE CONQUEST OF KILLYMARD 
 
 ence that the hairoes of the present day takes the 
 win' out o' the sails of them of old. We'll give 
 the whole of the night to the same things. I'm 
 now goin'," said he, as he shook the ashes out of 
 his pipe and proceeded to refill it, "to reharse 
 the wonderful adventures of the King of Ireland's 
 Thirteen Sons, every one of which undaunted 
 champions we'll follow individually from start to 
 finish of his career." The Bacach Mor, when he 
 heard this, rolled over with a groan. 
 
 And when the Bacach Fada, after cantering 
 through the preliminary history, began upon the 
 starting away from home of the First Son the 
 Bacach Mor rolled over upon his other side, and 
 groaned again with a groan that went to all your 
 hearts. And ere the Second Son was turned to 
 rock by the stroke of the wizard's rod the Bacach 
 Mor snored deafeningly. 
 
 The Bacach Mor was missed when, in Padeen 
 MacMullen's house, they arose the following 
 morning. The next you heard of him he had 
 pitched his tent on the other side of the hills, in 
 the far-away Glenties parish. 
 
 The Masther, when he heard the news, said: 
 "The Lord has delivered you from Nairo. But 
 Satan has sent you Caligula." 
 
 Whatever he meant by that. 
 
 [i95]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY 
 
 MAN 
 
 HAUNTING mystery and magic were in the 
 world then. And magicians, too — some 
 good, some bad. You never did meet any of them 
 yourself, though you longed to. But you heard 
 of them in plenty. Many men who were old when 
 you were young had encountered them. Fasci- 
 nated, spellbound, sometimes thunderstruck, you 
 sat open-mouthed, with your heels in the ashes, 
 hearing the wise old ones tell either their own 
 adventure, true as it was wonderful, or the astound- 
 ing adventure of one whom they had the pride 
 of knowing. And it was a rare pride, surely. 
 
 Many's the one of them had known Denis 
 a-Cuinn in his day. And no one of them ever for- 
 got him or could forget his extraordinary his- 
 tory the time he travelled to Dublin with the Grey 
 Man. Many a time you listened, entranced, to 
 the telling: 
 
 In me grandfather's day Denis a-Cuinn lived 
 at the back of Glencoagh hill. The family was 
 small and helpless and plenty of them in it; so 
 Denis had a struggle to live at all, let alone pay 
 a rack rent. Denis "fell behind" three or four 
 
 [196]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 years with the rent, and the agent noticed him to 
 quit — which meant downright ruin, or the Work- 
 house, for the poor fellow, out and out. He 
 didn't know what to do, but God put it into his 
 head to go to Dublin to see the landlord himself, 
 and lay his case before him. It was small stock 
 he owned, but he had one snug little calf that he 
 took out and sold and got a pound and a shillin' 
 for. And puttin' the pound and the shillin' in 
 his pocket, he started for Dublin next mornin' 
 early, after Peggy, his wife, shook the holy water 
 on him and bid God speed him. He didn't go 
 far on the way — only somewhere this side of 
 Barnesmore Gap — when a tall man, dressed all in 
 grey frieze, with a high hat, cutaway coat, knee 
 breeches, and brogues, and a staff in his hand, 
 overtakes him. 
 
 "Ye look like a man would be goin' a journey?" 
 says Denis a-Cuinn, says he, to the sthranger. 
 
 "It's what I'm doin'," says the sthranger; "I'm 
 makin' for Dublin." 
 
 "Throth then, that's very lucky," says Denis, 
 "for it's where meself's goin', too. I was never 
 there afore, an' don't know the road." 
 
 "Well," says the sthranger, "I'm familiar with 
 every foot o' the road; an' there isn't a turn or a 
 twist in Dublin I don't know besides, nor a pavin' 
 stone on the streets." 
 
 [i97]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 "That's very lucky entirely," says Denis 
 a-Cuinn. 
 
 So they thravelled on together. The Grey Man 
 complained of the drooth, but he sayed he didn't 
 like drinkin' from the streams by the roadside. 
 "And don't mind, either, dhrinkin' from them," 
 says Denis. 
 
 So the first public-house they come to Denis 
 took him in and ordered two good glasses of 
 whiskey for them both. When the Grey Man 
 drunk his, he sayed: "That's good all through, 
 and it's bad all through." Denis didn't say any- 
 thing, but paid for the drinks and drunk his own. 
 And right good whiskey it was, too. 
 
 But when they were on the road again, making 
 good speed and chattin' as they went, says Denis, 
 says he: "What did ye mean, when ye drunk the 
 whiskey, by sayin' 'it was good all through, and 
 it was bad all through'?" 
 
 And says the Grey Man: "It was very good, 
 indeed, to be drinking that glass — but it was bad 
 to be thinkin' that we couldn't have two more 
 glasses — because I haven't wan penny in me com- 
 pany," says he. 
 
 "Oh," says Denis, "as for that, don't worry. I 
 have a pound unbroken. We'll go into the very 
 next public-house we meet, and have two more 
 
 [198]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 glasses. And afther that, as far as my money 
 goes, ye won't want." 
 
 Accordingly, into the very next public-house they 
 went, and Denis a-Cuinn changed his pound, and 
 paid for two glasses out of it. And after that 
 they took the road again, and thravelled on till 
 they come to a farmer's house by the roadside, 
 with a stack of turf built up against the gable, 
 an' a sthream crossin' the road a bit beyont it. 
 The Grey Man went up to the turf stack, and took 
 two big black turf out of it; and when they passed 
 on a bit, and crossed the sthream, he laid down 
 the two turf on the road, and they changed into 
 two black pigs. Poor Denis a-'Cuinn blissed him- 
 self, for he was frightened to death, and he said: 
 "God and the Bliss'd Virgin between me an' harm ! 
 You must be the divil himself." 
 
 "I'm not," says the Grey Man; "I'm as honest 
 a man as yourself." 
 
 The two of them then walked on together, the 
 Grey Man dhrivin' the pigs before him; and it 
 wasn't long till they met three jobbers coming 
 from a fair. "How much will ye take for the 
 pigs?" says they. "I'll take five poun'," says the 
 Grey Man. And the jobbers paid him down the 
 money and took the pigs with them. 
 
 "Now," says the Grey Man, "we'll have money 
 enough and to spare." 
 
 [ 199]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 "No," says Denis a-Cuinn, "I wouldn't touch 
 your money. It isn't honestly come by." 
 
 "There you're wrong," says the other, "for 
 them jobbers rogued our people out of a good deal 
 more than live pound, the day at the fair." 
 
 But, behold ye, when the jobbers had driven the 
 pigs as far as the farm-house, and the stream 
 crossin' the road, doesn't the two pigs, the minute 
 they touched water, turn ins'antly into two black 
 sods of turf, and float out of sight down the 
 stream ! And back the jobbers turned at full 
 speed after the Grey Man. When they overtook 
 the two thravellers they demanded their money 
 back, and begun haulin' and pullin' and draggin' 
 the Grey Man, till doesn't he fall stiff dead upon 
 the road. And when the jobbers seen that, they 
 turned and made off for their lives. And a crowd 
 gathered about the dead man; and Denis a-Cuinn 
 made off then, and thravelled on ahead. When 
 he got safely three or four miles away, he went on 
 his knees under a bush to thank God for gettin' 
 separated from such a man, who must surely be the 
 Devil, when who should he see coming up till him 
 but the Grey Man himself! 
 
 He told Denis that when the jobbers had gone, 
 and most of the crowd scattered, too — for fear 
 they would get mixed in the affair — he rose up, 
 and the couple of old women that were round him 
 
 [ 200 ]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 fell over in a dead faint; and he hurried after 
 Denis. There was nothing for it but for Denis to 
 thravel on with him. So on they went, the Grey 
 Man insistin' on payin' all expenses. 
 
 Next day, in the middle of the day, they were 
 passin' through a wood. At a little house at the 
 commencement of the wood, the Grey Man took 
 up an old creel and carried it with him on his 
 back, and when they were well in the heart of 
 the wood, where there was a great lot of fairy- 
 thimbles (fox-glove) growin', an' fir-cones lyin' 
 on the ground, an' spider-webs on the branches of 
 the trees, the Grey Man put down the creel and 
 says he to Denis, "Help me fill me creel with all 
 these things." An' the ins'ant they went into the 
 creel, the fir-cones were changed into boots and 
 shoes, and the fairy-thimbles into beautiful hats 
 and caps, and the spider-webs into webs of fine 
 silk! 
 
 Says Denis: "Ye surely must be the Divil out- 
 an'-out." 
 
 "No," says the other, "I'm as honest a man as 
 you." 
 
 Then he hoisted on his back the creel ful, an' 
 the two of them stepped out again. When they 
 got clear of the wood they met a pedlar, and says 
 the Grey Man to him: "Good morra, brother!" 
 
 "Good morra," says the pedlar; "how is trade?" 
 
 [201 ]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 "Very poor entirely," says the Grey Man. "If 
 I got any wan to take this creel ful off my hands, 
 a bargain, I'd curse the trade an' quit it." 
 
 "How much are ye wantin' for it?" says the 
 pedlar. 
 
 "Only five poun'," says the other. There an' 
 then the pedlar paid him down the five poun', and 
 got the creelful on his back, and went off with it. 
 "We'll not want for money, now, anyhow," says 
 the Grey Man to Denis. 
 
 "I wouldn't take or meddle with your money," 
 says Denis, "for it isn't honestly come by." 
 
 "Isn't it?" says the other. "There you're 
 wrong, for in wan week past that pedlar has 
 cheated our poor people out of twicet that." 
 
 But, behold ye, the pedlar had gone on with his 
 creel, till he came to a farm-house, an, goin' in, 
 he asked them could he sell them anythin' that 
 day. 
 
 "What have ye got?" says the bean-a-tighe. 
 
 "The best o' brogues," says the pedlar, "grand 
 hats an' caps, and the finest of silk" — throwin' the 
 creel on the floor. 
 
 But when they looked into it they all burst out 
 laughin' at him — for there wasn't anythin' to be 
 seen there but fir-cones, fairy-thimbles, and cob- 
 webs ! 
 
 Well, to make a long story short, the mad ped- 
 
 [202 ]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 lar set out after the Grey Man, and, overtakin' 
 him, the very same thing happened that happened 
 with him and the jobbers the day before. And 
 when Denis a-Cuinn was on his knees, three or 
 four miles ahead, thankin' God for his deliverance 
 from the Divil's company, who came up to him 
 but the Grey Man himself, and told Denis the 
 same story over again. 
 
 Then Denis and him pushed ahead, and they 
 came into Dublin the evenin' of the next day; and 
 the Grey Man took care of Denis till he left him 
 at his landlord's hall door. And there they 
 separated. 
 
 When the landlord heard Denis's case through, 
 he sat down and wrote a letter to the agent, for- 
 biddin' him to put Denis out of his place, and 
 gave the letter to Denis, and a pound-note more- 
 over, to pay his way back again. Poor Denis 
 thanked him from the bottom of his heart, and, 
 when he left, went in search of lodgin's in the 
 most backward and out-of-the-way lane he could 
 find in the city. "For," says he to himself, "I 
 don't want the Grey Man to find me till I get 
 safe away from Dublin." 
 
 Denis got lodgin's in a very out-of-the-way 
 place entirely, and, when he had his supper taken 
 — and a hearty wan it was — and was in bed snug 
 and warm, and huggin' himself into a good sleep, 
 
 [203]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 what does he hear but a knock at the outside door, 
 and when it was opened who should he hear but 
 the Grey Man steppin' in and askin' for Iodgin' — 
 which he got. 
 
 There was but wan bed for rent; so the Grey 
 Man was put in along with Denis. 
 
 "Oh, is this yourself, me friend?" says the Grey 
 Man — all as if he hadn't known Denis was there 
 at all. "And how did ye come on with your land- 
 lord?" says he. 
 
 Denis told him all ; and the Grey Man said he 
 was glad of it. 
 
 In the mornin', when they got up, says the Grey 
 Man: "I want ye to do me an oblidgment?" 
 
 "What is it?" says Denis. 
 
 "I want ye," says he, "to go to Dublin Bridge, 
 where you'll see a man and a woman with a pile 
 of earthenware crocks, sellin' them. If the man's 
 in it, as well as the woman, you're to come back 
 to me again, as ye went. But if there's only the 
 woman, you're to buy a crock and she'll charge ye 
 ninepence for it. Pay her a shillin' and, while 
 she's gettin' the change, take this hemp knot," 
 says he, giving him about an inch or two of knot- 
 ted hemp, "and drop it quietly into another of the 
 crocks. Stand by, then, and see what'll happen." 
 
 Denis said he would. He set out, and when he 
 came to the bridge, right enough there was a pile 
 
 [204]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 of crocks there for sale; and, as luck would have it, 
 the woman was only with herself with them. 
 "How much for the crocks?" says Denis, says he, 
 walkin' up. 
 
 "Ninepence," says the woman. 
 
 "I'll take wan," says Denis, says he, liftin' a 
 crock and handin' her a shillin'. 
 
 And while she was fishin' up the change out 
 of her petticoat pocket, doesn't Dennis quietly 
 slip the piece of knotted hemp into another crock. 
 When he got his change, he stood off a piece on 
 the bridge, to watch. And he seen the knot of 
 hemp had turned into a rat, and was leapin' from 
 wan crock into another. 
 
 There was a crowd of idlers — as always there 
 is — standin' upon the bridge, and "Look!" says 
 wan o' them, "look at the rat!" liftin' a stone at 
 the same time and lettin' bang at the rat, and 
 breakin' a crock. 
 
 Every fellow of them then stooped for stones, 
 and begun peltin' at the rat that skipped safe from 
 wan crock, as soon as it was smashed, into another. 
 And the rat jumped in and out through the 
 crocks, and the fellows yelled, and pitched and 
 smashed afore them, without heedin' the poor 
 woman's cries and roars that owned the crockery 
 — till, in five minutes' time, when her man come 
 tearin' up, and got hold of the rat be the cuff 
 
 [205 J
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 of the neck, and threw him into the river, there 
 wasn't a sound crock left out of all the pile but 
 what was in smash and smithereens. 
 
 And the man and woman began to lament and, 
 "There," says the man, says he — "there's me 
 whole twenty-five pounds' worth of crocks gone 
 to smash! But I know the meanin' of all this," 
 says he to the woman — "the Boyo must be in 
 Dublin. If I get me eye on him," says he, "it's 
 me that will make him sup sorra with the spoon 
 o' grief." 
 
 Denis, when he had seen and heard all this, set 
 off for his lodgin's. There the lad was waitin', 
 and axed what news. Denis told him from be- 
 ginnin' to end what happened; and, when he heard 
 it all, the Grey Man was right well plaised. 
 
 "I'm sorry for the poor man an' woman," says 
 Denis, "that lost all their crockery-ware, and 
 truble sorry that meself had anything to do 
 with it." 
 
 "Then," says the Grey Man, "ye needn't be 
 sorry, for that's the biggest vagabon' in all Dub- 
 lin. Twelve months ago he took me into a public- 
 house here to treat me; and what do you think 
 did he do but change me into a goat with me horns 
 out o' the windows, so that I couldn't move in or 
 out, and kept me that way for three whole days, 
 a speck-tackle for all Dublin! I swore I'd pay 
 
 [206]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 him for it; and now I have done it I'll go home 
 happy. The sooner, too, I'm out o' Dublin the 
 better for me; for he'll not leave a mousehole in 
 the city he won't search to find me." 
 
 So the both of them started and hurried out of 
 Dublin by a by-road, and, afore night, were well 
 on their way back. 
 
 They thravelled on without adventures, the 
 Grey Man payin' their way, till they come near 
 Donegal town. "Now," says the Grey Man, 
 "we'll have to separate here. But before we part, 
 I'll give ye wan piece of advice. If ye ever meet 
 a stranger again, and you goin' to journey with 
 him, never show your money or tell that you have 
 any. But," says he, "because by good luck you 
 met a gentleman this time, and showed yourself 
 such a generous fellow, and whole-hearted, tors't 
 one ye thought penniless, ye'll be nothin' the poorer 
 for it. Moreover," says he, "you've done me an 
 obligement that I have waited long and thravelled 
 far to find one who would do it. Accordingly," 
 says he, "when ye reach home, go to the ruins of 
 Micky the Miser's old house in the upper end of 
 Altidoo, search well under the hearthstone, and see 
 what you'll see." 
 
 The Grey Man then, biddin' Denis good-bye, 
 went off in the Tyrone direction, and Denis thrav- 
 elled on home. But he didn't lay his head on a 
 
 [207]
 
 DENIS A-CUINN AND THE GREY MAN 
 
 pillow till he took a pick and spade and went off 
 to Micky the Miser's old house, who had died 
 without lavin' wan belongin' to him. And under 
 the hearthstone, sure enough, he found a nest of 
 goold guineas, the full of your two hands 1 "If 
 ye were the Divil," says Denis, says he, "ye aren't 
 half as bad as they give out on ye." 
 
 And from that day forward, as all the worl' 
 knows, there was few more prosperous people or 
 happier than Denis a-Cuinn, and all his family. 
 
 Though him, or his, or one in the country, never 
 after seen or heerd tell of the Grey Man. 
 
 [208]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 IT was only when, on the seventh day out, you 
 were awakened at four in the morning by furi- 
 ous commotion among your fellow second-cabiners, 
 routed out of your berth, swirled up the gangway 
 by a crazy mob, and, in the cold gray dawn, swept 
 across the sloppy deck till, with glad eyes, you 
 beheld for yourself the old Head of Kinsale shov- 
 ing up the curtains of night with his shoulder, 
 and heard Danny O'Flaherty, as if he were at a 
 meeting of the Friendly Sons, in Fall River, re- 
 citing to the wide-eyed, tear-dimmed multitudes : 
 
 "Oh, m'anam le Dhia* but there it is! the 
 
 dawn on the Hills of Ireland ! 
 God's angels liftin' the night's black veil from 
 
 the fair, sweet face of my Sireland ! 
 Och Ireland, isn't it grand you look, like a 
 
 bride in her rich adornin' I 
 With all the pent-up love o' my soul, I bid 
 
 you the top o' the mornin' !" 
 
 that you realized you were really and truly that 
 wonderful being on whom, in your earlier days, 
 
 *My Soul to God. 
 
 [209]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 you used to gaze from afar with awe and admira- 
 tion — a Come-Home Yankee ! 
 
 And what a cheer you all raised at sight of the 
 jaunting car at the Customs' House gable! And 
 what a long, loud and ringing chorus of hearty 
 laughter when you saw the ass-and-cart driven by 
 a lad of fifty (whose legs dangled to the ground) 
 come tearing down the wharf. 
 
 "Boys," said Larry Sullivan, "if you saw that 
 sight on FiP Avenoo!" And then again you all 
 laughed long and loud at the real wit of the idea. 
 
 "Or on Jackson Boulevard!" said Chicago Pat, 
 causing another outburst. 
 
 "Or at Golden Gate Park, by crickey !" said Tim 
 O'Donnell, evoking a laugh not less hearty. 
 
 All wit tokens were generously accepted that 
 morning without any boor's pausing to ring them 
 on the counter. And the dullest among you were 
 passing counterfeits in bushels, and swelled to 
 bursting with the returns. 
 
 The jaunting car and ass-and-cart were glimpses 
 into a far-gone era, an antediluvian world — a 
 world that you, wet-eyed, left behind five years and 
 seven months before, while yet you were poor and 
 untravelled and had hardly learned to look at a 
 wonder with your mouth closed. 
 
 That was a lee-and-long time ago, indeed ! And 
 you shook your head sympathetically at the vision 
 
 [210]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 of the poor shy boy in homespuns and lob-sided 
 cap and hesitating speech, who, in that remote era, 
 masqueraded as you, Dan Mulhearn — you with 
 your independent air and your Nassau Street suit 
 and your ten hundred and fifty-six dollar draft on 
 the Derry and North- Western Bank in your breast- 
 pocket ! You, who now knew Brooklyn from the 
 Fulton Ferry to Jamaica and from Flatbush to the 
 confines of Greenpoint; who had learned to cross 
 the Brooklyn Bridge without trembling; had seen 
 the Singer Building; had gone twice through the 
 World's Renowned Waxworks on Twenty-third 
 Street; had marched up Fifth Avenue in a Pat- 
 rick's Day procession, and even seen Boss Croker 
 himself pass in his automobile one day! 
 
 Yes, as you hurried northward on your train, 
 you sat back with folded arms in the corner of your 
 carriage and thought of that poor You of the 
 dark ages and smiled again — quite sympathetically, 
 however. But the boys and girls, your com- 
 rades, did not leave you long to your reflections. 
 At every station you had to jam your head out 
 of the same window with thirteen others, help 
 the girls chaff the shy stay-at-home boys who had 
 come down to see the train pass, and help the 
 boys to badger the haughty railway aristocrats — 
 much to the deep alarm and trepidation of the 
 gaping stay-at-homes, who had never before seen 
 
 [211]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 anarchists in real life. And when Johnny 
 Moroney, who was going to Galway, made in- 
 quiry of the gold-braided duke who governed 
 Limerick Junction: "Say, boss, what kind of gol- 
 dinged one-horse shay is this rickety-rackety, dead- 
 march-in-Solomon box of tricks anyhow?" that 
 bloated aristocrat utterly failed to find utterance 
 for his outraged feelings, but blossomed in the 
 face, and bloated more and more, till it became 
 a toss-up whether he or your laughter-shaken com- 
 panions should have the first apoplectic fit. 
 
 These people deserved a shaking-up anyhow, 
 for the train that carried you North was a slow 
 old cart, sure — at best, going not more than forty 
 miles an hour — and you didn't know how you had 
 put up with it at all, at all, before you left Ire- 
 land long ago. Though, of course (you then recol- 
 lected), you had travelled by train only three times 
 in that far-away former life of yours, and those 
 times, ha ! ha ! you were saying your prayers 
 all the way! Well! Well! Well! Wonders 
 will never cease ! 
 
 As yourself, Yankee Dan Mulhearn, with your 
 sister-Yankee, Susie Covenay, and your two big 
 American trunks, found yourself on Charlie 
 Kardy's jaunting car driving home to Knockagar 
 from the Donegal station, and saw each old fa- 
 miliar hill and burn and bush arise before your 
 
 [212]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 eyes, a something strange began stirring in your 
 breast that you'd often found struggling and kick- 
 ing there when you were stoking your engine in 
 the Fulton Street power-house or stretching to 
 sleep in your lonely little room on Underhill Ave- 
 nue. Even amid the roar of revelry on Coney 
 Island these same pictures had, unbidden, arisen 
 before your mental eye. 
 
 When, after a while, people in the houses and 
 on the hillsides, noticing the Amerikay trunks, 
 came running out and rushing down to put CeaJ 
 Mile Fdilte before the Come-Home Yankees — 
 whoever they might be — it dawned on you that, 
 after all, though Ireland was antediluvian and 
 slow and funny, it held a something-or-other that 
 did a man's soul good — a something which the gal- 
 loping greater world had long ago bumped out 
 of its cart and which you now acknowledged was 
 worth a world in itself. Teague Kennedy, set- 
 ting potatoes half a mile up the hill, stuck his 
 spade in a ridge and shouted to his neighbours 
 across the march-ditch to run, for there was 
 Charlie Kardy driving two Come-Home Yankees 
 from the station ! And he ran, and his neighbours 
 beyond the march-ditch ran, as if they'd break their 
 necks, all to intercept you and put welcome before 
 you. 
 
 And Denis, the tailor, leaping from his table 
 
 [213]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 when he got a glimpse of the car rounding the 
 bend of the road, ran out in his stocking soles, 
 followed by Nelly and the children, everyone; 
 and Toal a-Gallagher, the cobbler, forgetting the 
 angry customers who were storming at him, the 
 arch-procrastinator, threw from him his last and 
 brogue, and, tucking back his apron, ran a race 
 with customers who had forgotten their wrath, 
 the yellow dog at their heels trying to drown their 
 chorused welcomes by its three-ha'penny bark. 
 You took their demonstrations with the smiling 
 calm becoming to a great man and a travelled, and 
 you recognized every individual of them, of course 
 — after the proper few moments' hesitation. 
 
 "Why, if this isn't Toal a-Gallagher!" Toal 
 straightens himself for pride that a Yankee re- 
 members him. "And I guess this is your wife, 
 Susie?" Adding, to Toal, "Susie, we used to call 
 her, before I left home." 
 
 "Susie herself it is then, sure enough," Manus 
 replied for his overcome better-half. "What an 
 ojious great mimory ye have entirely, Dan." 
 
 "Oh! you bet. And if I don't mistake me, this 
 person I calculate is Denis Connolly, who used to 
 spoil my clothes long ago." 
 
 "God bliss ye, it's what's left o' him," Denis 
 replies for himself, and wrings your hand with 
 both of his. "An' it's right hearty welcome ye 
 
 [214]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 are back again to ould Ireland ! And it's hale and 
 hearty ye are lookin', God bliss ye, over again ! 
 And I'm sure a mortial sight of money ye have 
 in that terrible big trunk of yours — may the 
 Heavens increase it to ye!" 
 
 But your poor mother's joy at your unantici- 
 pated arrival was almost too much for her. And 
 your father was so past himself with delight that 
 he could only smile idiotically, mutter the most 
 ludicrous commonplaces, go trotting around the 
 house lifting everything out of its right place and 
 setting it down in its wrong place, under pretense 
 to himself that he was tidying up in honour of 
 the Come-Home Yankee. 
 
 And you hadn't your coat oft till the house was 
 crammed with breathless ones who ran hither from 
 all points of the compass when the news — even, 
 it seemed, before you had arrived — went on the 
 wind's wings that Yankee Dan Mulhearn was 
 home from Amerikay — and your poor confused 
 father was intercepting the welcomes under the 
 temporary delusion that it was he who was the re- 
 turned Yankee. 
 
 And when Long John Meehan reminded him 
 that he was only a stick-in-the-mud who had never 
 hardly been out of sight of his own dunghill, he 
 ran to your mother and nearly wrung the arm 
 off her, welcoming her home. And your poor 
 
 [215]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 mother, as confused as your father, thought for 
 a moment that the big Amerikay trunk in the mid- 
 dle of the floor, which everybody was fingering 
 and admiring, must be hers. But when calm 
 reason resumed its throne in the brains of both, 
 they united in admiring the fine, brave-looking 
 boy you were, entirely — and praising the grand 
 turn-out, God bless you, you had made — "though, 
 to be sure, it ought to be in you anyhow, from 
 both sides o' the house" — and then chey nodded 
 wisely to each other. 
 
 Your mother carried around your black over- 
 coat with the "near-fur" collar for everyone to 
 see and feel and test and admire. And your 
 father made you walk up the floor and down, till 
 the neighbours could see the strong, fine, manly 
 shape you'd got to be, and carrying your head like 
 the King of Ireland ! And the magnificent Yankee 
 suit of clothes you'd on — particular attention to 
 which he bespoke from Denis, the tailor, who, 
 observing it with critical look which would do 
 credit to Fifth Avenue's greatest clothes-artist, 
 agreed that it was dandy indeed — barrin' a defect 
 in the stomach, a want of proper hang about the 
 trousers, a somethin'-or-other a little awk'ard 
 about the waist, and just-what-you'd-know too 
 much of a fullness in the collar. And the neigh- 
 bours in chorus agreed that it was a beautiful suit 
 
 [216]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 of clothes, beautiful entirely, and a credit to Ameri- 
 can tailors — but that, to be sure, one couldn't ex- 
 pect to find Denis Connollys everywhere. 
 
 When your poor mother led the Rosary that 
 night there was a tremble in her voice, but you're 
 sure the Angel never marked it against her; and 
 when she came to the trimmings, and, through 
 force of habit, had begun unthinkingly to call for 
 the usual "Pater-and-Ave for our poor son Dan 
 wandherin' in the Lan' o' the Sthranger," she sud- 
 denly remembered and broke down entirely — and 
 your father raised a whillalew ! — and — and — well 
 — ye were a fool yourself as well as any of them. 
 
 All that night and the next day, and the night 
 after, your father's house was like a cow-market. 
 To mention that there was no sleep in it would 
 be painting the primrose. The whole townland of 
 Knockagar, with numbers of contiguous town- 
 lands, slept not. No door was closed for three 
 days and three nights. The neighbours' feet rested 
 never, their tongues seldom. The whole world 
 held jubilee, because the Yankee was come home. 
 
 All the more joyful was that jubilee, since you 
 had with you — for they all made it their business 
 to know this — a draft for a thousand and fifty-six 
 dollars on the Derry and North Western Bank. 
 More than two hundred and sixteen pounds! A 
 fabulous sum that set people's fancies busy wondcr- 
 
 [217]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 ing how you ever got it anyhow, and planning 
 whatever under the sun you could with it all, at 
 all! Oh! what estates they could buy, what 
 castles they could build, what new worlds they 
 could create, if Heaven had only put such unim- 
 aginable wealth their way ! 
 
 Not that they envied you your good fortune. 
 Far from it. In the depths of their deep hearts 
 they wished, if such were possible — and if you 
 could hear it without your reason getting un- 
 settled — that the good Lord had doubled your 
 enormous wealth to you. "Sure, God bliss him! 
 and bliss the poor old father and mother that he 
 has made proud and happy and indepindint for 
 the remainder of their days — sure, it's desarvin' 
 of it all he is!" So they with fervent sincerity 
 said. And they made your heart very happy, for- 
 getting for the moment that you were a cold 
 Yankee — and you wished in your soul they were, 
 everyone of them, millionaires like yourself. 
 
 At least a dozen women sat around while you 
 unpacked your trunk — not merely those who knew 
 that you bore them presents from their daughters 
 in Brooklyn and Jersey and Philadelphia, but like- 
 wise those few poor ones who had been in attend- 
 ance at the coming home of every Yankee for 
 the past fifteen years, gambling with the hope that 
 
 [218]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 their daughters, from whom alas ! they had never 
 heard, might at last have remembered them. 
 
 And there were women who had no daughters 
 abroad and could expect nothing, but who, in 
 their woman's way, thirsted to see the wonders. 
 And every dress and pair of boots and bonnet and 
 book and bit of finery, handed out to one or other 
 overjoyed recipient, was accorded a clasping of 
 hands and a turning-up of eyes. Wondered at 
 and enthused over, it was handled and tested, 
 viewed before the light and against the light, pro- 
 nounced perfect, and: "Well, just like what you'd 
 expect out of Amerikay." And the lucky one was 
 overpowered with expressions of envy. 
 
 America, its wonder, its greatness, its grandeur, 
 its unimaginable wealth, was the topic of conver- 
 sation nightly at every fireside, at every wake, on 
 the way to Mass. With the groups that stood 
 in the chapel-yard, you were the observed of all 
 observers — you and Yankee Susie Covenay. It 
 made you feel still prouder and walk still straighter 
 and throw your head still further back when, 
 on passing every group, you heard them whisper: 
 "There goes Yankee Mulhearn!" In fact, you 
 had never quite realized till now how wonderful 
 and great and grand and wealthy America was, 
 and how mighty proud every Yankee like yourself 
 should be. 
 
 [219]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 The boys all envied you. There was sorrow a 
 doubt of it — glory be to goodness ! The girls all 
 admired you — still less doubt was there (in your 
 mind) of this. When with your own grand air, 
 but also your own graciousness, you addressed 
 these, they blushed becomingly and cast down eyes 
 that they had little need to be ashamed of, and 
 spoke very soft and low in reply. And if you 
 suddenly turned when you had passed the shawled 
 group of them, you surprised them in the guilty act 
 of casting after you glances of unrestrained admira- 
 tion. At the dance and at the wedding and at 
 the fair, the stay-at-home boys, knowing their 
 place and their worth, backed away from the girls 
 and left you a free field, and every girl of them 
 found her innocent heart beat with joy when you 
 claimed a walk or a dance with her. 
 
 Yes, where all the girls gave you admiration 
 all the boys gave you reverence — except, of course, 
 the Satirist. And, sure, every countryside had its 
 Satirist. He was the one thorn in the Yankee's 
 bed of roses. Nothing dazzled, let alone dumb- 
 founded, him. The flower of reverence could never 
 be coaxed from the arid soil of that soulless one. 
 By one little word, or one little dry remark ut- 
 tered in a cruelly casual way, from his own remote 
 corner of the dance house, this rascally fellow hurt 
 Yankee feelings considerably. And were not you 
 
 [ 220 ]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 a person of extraordinarily great faith, he might 
 have undermined your confidence that a Come- 
 Home Yankee was the greatest, the most dazzling, 
 thing the world ever knew. 
 
 But your great faith was at length justified; for 
 when, on the third Sunday after you had come 
 home, you marched down the chapel-yard, not 
 merely linking Cassie McGarry and helping her 
 pick her steps through the dirt, but, to crown your 
 audacity, holding her own umbrella over her head, 
 not only were the weak-kneed, whose faith had 
 been shaken by the Satirist, strengthened, but the 
 Satirist himself was in sight of all dumbfounded. 
 And, his villainous presence of mind forsaking 
 him, he was heard to exclaim despairfully, after 
 his speech returned: "Well, Amerikay is the divil, 
 and Yankees bate the divil out an' out!" 
 
 Yes, Dan, your name was AUDACITY with 
 every letter in it a capital — and the same was the 
 name of every mother's son of your brother 
 Yankees-Come-Home ! As cool as a trout in a 
 pool, the astounded boys saw you step up to the 
 Masther in the fair, Masther Gallagher of the 
 Gortmore school, and shake his hand with an ease 
 and familiarity that took away their breath and — 
 ask him to have a drink with you ! The thunder- 
 struck ones were hardly surprised — nothing would 
 surprise them after — when the Masther not only 
 
 [221 ]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 smiled on the lese-majeste, but actually complied! 
 
 In that Fair of Glenties the second week after 
 the raft of you Yankees came home, sure you were 
 every man of you kings. And every Yankee girl 
 a queen. Not merely were you the cynosure of 
 all wondering, envying, admiring eyes, but you 
 were the suns round which the Fair rotated. 
 Rather, maybe, you were Jupiters — everyone of 
 you with his little group of satellites revolving 
 round him and turning on your own orbits at the 
 same time. And the gold you threw about ! flung 
 abroad like dirt in fistfuls! treated with contempt! 
 till the boys really did believe that you Yankees 
 tramped the glittering thing underfoot on the 
 streets of Philadephia and Brooklyn ! It's a cer- 
 tainty that fifteen shillings didn't excuse you that 
 reckless day. 
 
 And when Yankee brother met Yankee sister 
 in the Fair of Glenties, Solomon and the Queen 
 of Sheba, had they come, would have sulked un- 
 minded in a corner. And when Yankee brother 
 met Yankee brother and spoke offhandedly of 
 Myrtle Avenue and Prospect Park and Coney, 
 you owned the world ! Or it was like the con- 
 junction of the suns of two systems. And you 
 didn't seem to mind your greatness at all, at all. 
 You were light-hearted, light-minded, debonair as 
 people on whose shoulders lay no load that would 
 
 [ 222 ]
 
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 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 sink the Jap navy. Therein, in fact, your dazzling 
 greatness lay. In the Fair that day were scores 
 of poor boys from the mountains in caps and flan- 
 nel jackets that their mothers had made, who 
 would have pawned anything but their souls to be 
 one of you. And the Yankees at the Fair were 
 the one topic of conversation in the mountain val- 
 leys for a month after. 
 
 It is true that the soulless satirist of the moun- 
 tain valley guessed that surely one must have to 
 look at the President of the United States him- 
 self through a smoked glass. But the profane 
 fellow was met by a nipping frost which stimulated 
 him to put his pipe in his pocket and go to his neg- 
 lected home. 
 
 Even when the great throng, of your reception 
 was over, your home was no night devoid of 
 visitors. Through six and seven and ten and 
 twelve miles of bog and mountain, in rain, hail 
 or sun, poor men and women trudged to inquire 
 with tears in their eyes whether you saw their 
 little Johnny, who was in Galveston, and Annie 
 in Portland, Maine, and La'rence, in Keokuk, and 
 Neil, who, the last news was from him, was Lord 
 Mayor of Rahway, New Jersey. There was a 
 feeling of disappointment and surprise if you had 
 neither met nor heard of Mrs. Carney's little 
 Peter, who lived at 57V2 Stave Street, Chicago, 
 
 [ 223 ]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 and was boss over a street squad — because, "God 
 bliss ye, there isn't a chile in Jee-cago town but 
 knows Pether, I'm towld." Your sojourn in 
 America hasn't profited you as much as Mrs. 
 Carney expected. 
 
 Nevertheless, you had yet seen scores and scores 
 of their boys and girls. And, to the comforting 
 of their fathers and mothers, they learn that they 
 are, every soul of them, doing well and a credit to 
 those who reared them and the country they came 
 from. 
 
 And it was indeed a true pleasure to you, 
 though you do not know Mrs. Carney's Peter even 
 by repute, to be able to tell Mrs. O'Lynn that her 
 son Andy, who picked up his only little learn- 
 ing at the Drimore night school during parts of 
 two hard winters, is now earning five thousand dol- 
 lars a year and bidding fair soon to be the big- 
 gest man in the biggest dry-goods concern 
 in Philadelphia. And to tell Red Nahor 
 MacHugh of the Bog that his boy, Pat- 
 rick, who was the swiftest shearer of corn 
 that the Parish of Inver ever knew, was made 
 Appellate Judge in Boston the Wednesday before 
 you sailed. And to tell Maurice Managhan that 
 Michael, his boy, is the whole Law and the 
 Prophets to the Brooklyn Ninth Ward. 
 
 An easy and pleasant task it was to you to tell 
 
 [224]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 Sheila McGrady all about her little Norah, whom 
 her employer on Long Island wouldn't part with 
 for gold — Norah, who is a model to the Ameri- 
 can girls, and who, by work of her little hands 
 in American kitchens, had paid all the rent and 
 lifted the cart load of debt off her father's farm, 
 built her father and mother a new house p stored 
 and stocked it warmly within and without, and 
 had her parents go the best-dressed, warmest-clad, 
 lightest-hearted pair that walked to Frosses chapel 
 on a Sunday. 
 
 Yet, to be sure, it was hard and very hard on 
 you when the Widow Conaghan, unexpectedly 
 dropping in, besought you to tell her how the 
 child of her heart, Corney, was making out in the 
 States, and that you, taken off your guard, had 
 to hem and haw and spar for wind, till you found 
 words to inform her that, "Oh, yes, yes, Corney? 
 To be sure, Corney — yes — Corney. Oh, Corney ! 
 He's making out bravely, I guess. Yes, Corney, 
 he's — you see, Mrs. Conaghan, the times in Amer- 
 ica aren't what they used to be — that is, for a little 
 while — they're going to pick up again immedi- 
 ately, though — and Corney, meanwhile, is doing 
 as well as can be expected, all things considered — 
 Corney, the reason you didn't hear from him, 
 of course — he was just out of a job for a little 
 while and was lazy to write, till he'd have more 
 
 [225]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 cheery news — but — but — there's no telling how 
 soon a job will turn up — maybe, please God, he 
 has one now — and you'll — maybe — get a good 
 letter from Corney very soon." 
 
 For a Yankee so audacious as you, it was a poor 
 blundering effort, and you despised yourself as 
 you tried to swallow your spittle at the conclu- 
 sion, even though the pathetic eyes of the neigh- 
 bours who sat around the wall looked pride on 
 you for what they thought was a situation well 
 saved. And as you looked into the beautiful, pa- 
 tient, sweet, deep-lined face of the Widow 
 Conaghan, framed in its white cap, you cursed 
 the wastrel Corney in your heart. And you had to 
 lie like the Father of Lies again when old Manny 
 McGragh came in from Edrigol Mountain to ask 
 how was his poor boy Francis doin' — and what was 
 the raison he wouldn't write his poor oul' father. 
 Francis had been killed by a trolley car six years 
 before, and the black tidings had been hidden 
 from his father ever since. The Come-Home 
 Yankee's bed wasn't all of roses. 
 
 Tea parties go leor from the top to the bottom 
 of the parish you were, of course, invited to. Tea 
 parties especially in your honour, or in honour of 
 all the Yankees. Tea parties to the decking of 
 which came, in rushing streams, tributary loans — 
 spoons and forks and knives and linens and china — 
 
 [226]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 the pick of the parish. Tea parties where you 
 were treated not merely to cappered oat bread, 
 but white bread from the town also, and currant 
 bread, and bread with raisins in it. Tea parties 
 where Nabla MacMullan made her husband 
 Teddy (nick-named "The Rooshian," because of 
 his roughness) reverse the usual order of things 
 with him and sit down to table with his hat off 
 and his coat on, letting the saucer go to waste, 
 too, while he drank his tea from the cup — and 
 that, too, without daring to blow into it — unless, 
 of course, on occasion when he saw Nabla's atten- 
 tion otherwise absorbingly occupied. 
 
 You brought, of course, your choicest Yankee 
 accent to these parties. To be sure, it is not sug- 
 gested that your Yankee accent was not at all times 
 choice, for, indeed, it ever fascinated all hearers. 
 But there are degrees even in perfection, and you 
 talked Pennsylvanian which you had acquired from 
 a seamstress on Underhill and Park at tea 
 parties for the delectation of the company. And 
 you talked the wonders of America, too. 
 
 When you told how American trains went so 
 swiftly as to make the mile-stones like paling posts, 
 Teddy MacMullan, opening both mouth and 
 eyes, absorbed it fascinatedly. Yet, when you said 
 there were houses in New York twenty-three 
 stories high, "more than your house, Teddy, which 
 
 [227]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 is seven feet to the eave, piled twenty-three times 
 on top of itself," Teddy closed his mouth firmly 
 and looked at you out of very narrow eyes indeed. 
 And when you capped the climax by saying that 
 the Dutchmen could speak to each other in Dutch 
 and understand! Teddy, utterly ignoring the rain 
 of deadly daggers that Nabla's eyes were hurling 
 at him, clapped his hat hard down upon his head, 
 gave a savage grunt and took his departure — mad, 
 of course, but yet with morals unsmirched ! 
 
 To the credulous ones who remained at the 
 Arabian Nights Entertainment, you told of 
 bridges above the tops of the houses, trains fly- 
 ing over your head as you walked the streets, 
 horses and wagons and their loads, and carriages 
 and cars, driving right straight into a boat and 
 being boated across rivers, and railroads not only 
 under the foundations of houses, but under the 
 beds of rivers also ! Jimminy Heggarty from the 
 Long Bog gave vent to the suppressed feelings of 
 the tea party when he said: 'Thank God, childer, 
 that we have Irelan' to live in!" — "And," said 
 Black Patrick Carney, "that we're allowed to die 
 natural daiths." 
 
 Which latter remarks suggested to you, who 
 knew how, here, the news of a child's death was 
 immediately flashed over twelve miles square, 
 drawing to wake and funeral representatives from 
 
 [228]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 all families, that you tell them of hearses driving 
 up to houses in the same street with you — once 
 actually to the house next door — and taking away 
 one, whose death, let alone whose life, though 
 you lived in that street for three years, you had 
 never heard of! And you recollect how a thick 
 silence, which one might have turned with a 
 plough, thereupon fell on the company, and Black 
 Patrick, to save your feelings, asked Mrs. Nabla 
 to plaise give him a cup o' tay strong enough for 
 a duck to walk on, adroitly turned the conversa- 
 tion to politics, and, marvelling that a human 
 was permitted to shake hands with the President, 
 inquired: "What's the raison, anyhow, your 
 Prisident o' the United States doesn't order the 
 London Parlymint to free Ireland?" 
 
 You may as well confess that when you came 
 home you had, in the back of your head, the idea 
 that you might settle down with yellow-haired 
 Bridie Brennan and be happy ever after, like they 
 are in the stories. But, to the dashing of your 
 Yankee audacity, you found that Bridie preferred 
 Taigue Dornan, who had never travelled farther 
 than to Donegal in his life — except once when he 
 went to Ballyshamy, eleven miles beyond, with a 
 load of plenishing for Minister Stewart. And 
 the little shock steadied you. 
 
 You re-roofed your father's house while you 
 
 [229]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 were at home and put slates on it instead of straw, 
 and limed it and added a new room. And you 
 put extra stock on his land and employed men to 
 drain it and bought fresh seed and artificial 
 manure for it, and put up a new hay-barn and a 
 pump, till people, in despair, stopped straining 
 their imaginations in vain conjecture what was 
 the next thing the Yankee would take it into his 
 head to do, anyhow. 
 
 You paid off all the debt, of course. And you 
 laid in a fine supply of meal and flour and flitches 
 of bacon. And you had a carpenter for three 
 weeks making chairs and tables and doors and 
 putting up a ceiling. And you gave a tidy little 
 sum, indeed, to your father and mother and put 
 a nice penny in the bank. And you then said 
 in God's name you'd face the water again and 
 wouldn't think of settling down till you'd come 
 back in five years more with your little pile in- 
 creased. Your father and mother were both silent 
 when they heard this ; but they didn't like to gain- 
 say you, so you took your passage to sail from 
 Derry on Friday-come-eight-days. And then you 
 began at leisure to travel all the countryside, say- 
 ing good-bye again, just as you did at the first 
 going-off long ago, to every man, woman and child, 
 from the top to the bottom of the parish. 
 And of the band of seven of you that had come. 
 
 [230]
 
 THE COME-HOME YANKEE 
 
 home, you found that three were going back. 
 Susie Covenay and another of them had married 
 and found happiness and content and never wanted 
 to leave Ireland more. Two of them hadn't mar- 
 ried, but hoped to, and had their eye upon likely 
 mates — and had opened country shops meanwhile. 
 
 There was a convoy, of course. The three of 
 you, for the convenience of your mutual friends, 
 who otherwise would have found it too strenuous 
 to enjoy three convoys in the one night, blended 
 your convoys into one, which was held in Long 
 John McGinty's big barn. There was eating and 
 dancing and revelry go leor — the very best way 
 to beguile sad hearts at parting — to lift your mind 
 oft your going and your father's and mother's and 
 friends' minds also. 
 
 But that heartrending cry of your mother's that 
 you stuffed your two ears against, when in the 
 cold, gray dawn you hurried up the hill on your 
 way to Derry, still rings in your ears, as you now 
 rush your car down Vanderbilt Avenue, and crash 
 with it through Fulton Street, or sweep with it 
 like a bird over the Bridge — rings in your ears 
 and calls in your heart, and gives you peace, nor 
 night nor day, till you make up your mind (as fast 
 you are doing) once more, and soon, to be again, 
 and evermore to remain, till the Day of the Dark 
 Harvester, a Come-Home Yankee ! 
 
 [231 ]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 THERE are more neighbours at Knockagar 
 than are on the priest's books. On the 
 green hillsides of Ireland, as yourself knows well, 
 and you surely ought to know, there's hardly a 
 foot of ground without its fairy. In your grand- 
 father's time, to be sure, there were five against 
 the one that now is. 
 
 But, alas I like the strapping boys and sweet 
 catlini of the Emerald Isle, the fairies, too, are 
 fast becoming fewer. At least they show them- 
 selves less — to punish a generation that knows too 
 much. Your grandfather, and even your father 
 before you, could scarcely walk out of a Summer 
 evening or by a harvest moonlight without meet- 
 ing troops of them. Now you might ride a race- 
 horse from candle-light to cock-crow and count 
 yourself lucky if you met one. As often as not, 
 you'd meet maybe none at all, at all. Yourself 
 and your age hardly merit such honour. But even 
 the one or two or the few you might be so fortu- 
 nate as to find are far from being as frolicsome, 
 and are not a hundredth as good-hearted as the 
 fairies with whom your grandfather was familiar. 
 Your grandfather's fellows, however, whom he 
 
 [232]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 left behind (and who are coming to the conclu- 
 sion that Death is absent-minded), can yet see 
 more in a mile's walk than could you if you 
 searched for a month. And your grandfather's 
 survivors when they meet at a wake, and for the 
 thousand and first time conclusively prove that 
 the world is retrograding, consent that even the 
 fairies, who always were the friends of man, are 
 on the edge of giving up for hopeless a world 
 that's become unworthy, and a people more un- 
 worthy still. And, as you listen, you and your 
 comrades, who had good conceit of yourselves, feel 
 yourselves grow small enough to crawl through 
 keyholes. 
 
 It is only by comparison with more favoured 
 times, however, that you can call the fairies now 
 few. You very well know that their numbers are 
 far from what they used to be, when, as old Conal 
 MacCallig informed you, they hung in the air as 
 thick as haws on the thorn-bush — not visible, 
 though, except to a rare and favoured few. But 
 from your own knowledge, and the knowledge of 
 hundreds whom you know well among the hills, 
 they are far from few in Ireland yet. To be sure, 
 they are much more seldom seen; and Conal Mac- 
 Callig assures you that is the punishment and loss 
 of people of little faith. Conal — and he ought 
 to know, for there wasn't in his day a man more 
 
 [233]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 knowledgable in fairy-lore — informs you that 
 there are still enough fairies in the Emerald Isle 
 to colonize the world. And you are very certain 
 of it. You are in the faithless generation, but, 
 thank Heaven, not of it. 
 
 To conclude that the fairies are dying like 
 Hughie Haughie — who thought he owned the 
 world's wisdom because he read the Dublin 
 Weekly News — is too absurd entirely for anyone 
 but him who has his head turned reading the 
 papers. The fairies can no more die, even if they 
 wished it, than can the devil himself — or the 
 angels. Because, like both of them, they are 
 spirits from Heaven, where they were all fellows 
 at first. The time when you were sixteen and 
 gave a day's shearing of corn to Eamonn Mac- 
 Daid of the Long Brae, you got many a fascinat- 
 ing fairy-tale from him that carried you from end 
 to end of the corn-hint without knowing that you 
 and your hook had been going at a gallop, and 
 that Eamonn was getting double day's work out 
 of you. (The same Eamonn was a clever rogue !) 
 But there wasn't any of all Eamonn's stories half 
 so wonderful as that of the way the fairies first 
 came. 
 
 When the great battle was in Heaven — when 
 Lucifer, in his pride wanting to have equal say 
 with God in all things, arose in rebellion because 
 
 [234]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 God wouldn't give him his way, and the Archangel 
 Michael took up the cudgels for God — the angels 
 divided themselves into three parts, one wing of 
 them fighting with Lucifer, and one with Michael, 
 and the third remaining without prejudice till 
 they'd see how the war went, taking neither side 
 at all. Michael, behold you, when he won out 
 and overcome Lucifer and his rebels and cast them 
 into Hell, turned his attention to them that hadn't 
 chosen to be either fish, flesh, or good red-herring. 
 "By reason you didn't actually raise hands against 
 God," Michael announced, "you don't deserve 
 Hell with the clan-jaffry I've sent there. But be- 
 cause you didn't do your duty and stand for God 
 when His will was rebelled against, neither should 
 you have Heaven. So," he says, "from Heaven 
 you must begone!" And they were downcast at 
 the sore sentence given them. 
 
 "And where is it you'll exile us to?" says they. 
 
 "In pity for you," says Michael, who, like all 
 Irishmen, had a kindly spot in his heart, "I'll let 
 you make choice of all places in the world, outside 
 Heaven and Hell." 
 
 "Then," says they with one voice, without pause 
 or hesitation, "if we must lose Heaven, we want 
 to go to the delightfullest place in all the world, 
 and the place that is nearest to Heaven. Send us 
 to Ireland." 
 
 [235]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 'Tis no wonder then that you and all your peo- 
 ple are gentle and kindly with them ever. Sure 
 you couldn't be otherwise, and be human — con- 
 sidering all that's been lost to these unfortunates. 
 And you and all your people never would, and 
 never will, do anything to harm or hamper the 
 little exiles from Heaven who honoured Erin's 
 Isle by choosing to abide in its raths and on its 
 green hillsides, on its heathery moors and in its 
 bosky dells and wooded glens, which should al- 
 ways remind them of the Heavenly home they 
 long ago lost. You and your people wouldn't even 
 hurt their feelings by calling them Fairies — a 
 name they naturally don't like — whenever they are 
 likely to be within hearing. "The Gentle People," 
 you thoughtfully call them. 
 
 And they pay you back in kind. For they are 
 gentle and genial with you. Only tricksome at 
 their worst — for, when they left Heaven, they 
 didn't leave love of fun behind. And many's the 
 pardonable prank the creatures have played, and 
 many's the lightsome frolic they have had, at many 
 a man's expense whom you yourself knew. Robin 
 Porter of Edrim Glibe, you well remember their 
 carrying off with them around the world on a 
 May evening, when you were still a youngster. 
 There wasn't any doubt about Robin's strange ad- 
 venture, because, as often as there are fingers and 
 
 [236]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 toes on you, you listened to the story from his 
 own lips. And Robin died less than a dozen years 
 ago. 
 
 Robin that evening was returning from the Fair 
 of Donegal with five pounds in his pocket, the 
 price of a heifer he'd sold. And when he reached 
 the bottom of the lane, nigh to the Fairy Knowe 
 that you know well, just a gun-shot below his own 
 house on the hillside, he was startled to see the 
 size of a funeral of little people running hither 
 and thither in the Rowan Park, every one of them 
 crying out: "Fetch me a horse!", and getting it 
 as fast as it was ordered! Robin, saying to him- 
 self: "Faith, a horse would be a handy thing for 
 meself," shouted : "Fetch me a horse, too 1" And 
 the next minute he was mounted on the dashingest 
 steed between here and there. And when every 
 one of his little comrades, putting on a red cap 
 that hung on the horn of the saddle, cried out: 
 "I wisht I was in Paris!" Robin, throwing off his 
 own old caubeen, clapped the red cap on his head, 
 and cried: "I wisht I was in Paris, too!" Whiff! 
 and away with himself through the skies at a hun- 
 dred mile a minute he found himself flying. 
 And in less time than it would take you to cross 
 the Bridge of Brackey, Robin, with his com- 
 panions, found himself alighting in Paris, the most 
 dazzlin' city, he said, he'd ever seen or heard tell 
 
 [237]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 of. They walked the streets and viewed all its 
 beautiful castles (for in Paris, of course, no one 
 lives in anything less or lower than a castle), and 
 marvelled at all its wonders. And when they'd 
 dined and wined to their heart's content at a 
 castle that must have been the King's — so grand 
 was it, with the very mortar on the walls a mixture 
 of gold and silver — every man mounted his steed 
 and clapped on his cap and cried out: "I wisht 
 I was in Jee-cago!" And Robin clapped on his 
 cap, too, and cried out: "I wisht I was in Jee- 
 cago!" And, puff! and away with them through 
 the skies, over lands and over seas, till, behold you, 
 in less time than I tell it, they were planked on 
 the streets of a city more wonderful far than 
 Paris was — a city whose houses went story after 
 story all the way to Heaven and with trains going 
 helter-skelter, running and rattling in the air 
 above your head (God save us, and bless us!) 
 — and the President of America himself and Con 
 MacGuire's son of Meen-a-hurn, and several 
 others from home, walking the streets plain to be 
 seen. And the President gave Robin a hearty 
 hand-shake, and bade him a good Irish Cead mile 
 faille* to his country, and chided him for not com-' 
 ing oftener, and asked him how was Lanty Mac- 
 Cann getting on, who had gone home five years 
 
 ♦Hundred thousand welcomes. 
 
 [ 2 3 8 ]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 before with a power of Yankee money and bought 
 a farm in Farramore. And he said to tell Lanty 
 America missed him. And altogether Robin was 
 mightily taken with the American President, who 
 was as plain a man and as easy spoken to as Billy 
 the Beggar. And when the fairies had transacted 
 the business that took them to Chicago, and 
 Robin had seen enough of that extraordinary city 
 to make him shy of America all his life after, each 
 man mounted his steed and clapped on his cap and 
 cried out: "I wisht I was in Rome !" And Robin, 
 too, clapped on his cap and said: "I wisht I was 
 in Rome!" and five minutes more found them 
 standing on the streets of Rome, nigh blinded by 
 the splendour of the Pope's palace. The sight 
 of it reminded Robin how he'd oftentimes heard 
 Father Peter, his loved old sagart at home, be- 
 wailing that his one comfort in the world, the 
 pipe, was denied him by the bishop's orders not 
 to smoke in public. So, giving his horse to one 
 of his comrades to hold, my brave Robin marched 
 right up and knocked on the door, asked to see 
 His Holiness, and introduced himself, requesting 
 the Holy Father as a favour to dispense Father 
 Peter in regard to the pipe. And the Pope re- 
 plied: "Well, my poor fellow, if you've travelled 
 all the way from Donegal to put up this petition, 
 it would ill become me to send you back broken- 
 
 [239]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 hearted or empty-handed. Tell Father Peter from 
 me," says he, "that from this time out he has my 
 permission to snap his fingers at bishops and smoke 
 when he pleases. For, more by the same token," 
 says he, " 'tis a decent man is that same Father 
 Peter. And 'tis many's the good account I've heard 
 of him — a friend to the poor and a father to his 
 flock, and says the Prayers before Mass without 
 skippin'. Take this pouch and this pipe to him," 
 says he, "they'll be his right and title for disre- 
 garding the bishop's orders. May the one never 
 go out and the other never get empty. And my 
 blessing go with them, to both him and you." 
 And, pocketing pouch and pipe, a pleased man and 
 proud was Robin, as he left the Pope's palace. 
 His friends were all waiting for him without, and 
 every man now mounted his horse and clapped on 
 his cap and cried out: "I wisht I was home in 
 Edrim Glibe again!" And, piff! off through the 
 air with them, steed and man at the rate of a 
 wedding, and never stopped or stayed till they were 
 in Edrim Glibe again. And sure enough all the 
 world knows that the break o' day on May morn- 
 ing Thomas Managhan of the Alt and Larry 
 Friel of the Shore, getting home from the wake 
 of Neill Durneen, found Robin astride the cross- 
 sticks which answer for a gate at the entrance to 
 his own lane, and just within a hen's race of the 
 
 [240]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 Fairy Knowe. Robin's old hat, they can sweat, 
 was lying on the ground, the same place he had 
 cast it the night before, when he took the red cap 
 in its stead. The cap, to be sure, had disappeared. 
 And the pipe and the pouch, alas ! he'd lost upon 
 the jaunt. The fairies, the rogues, had plainly 
 picked his pocket before they parted with him, 
 for they very well suspected that the Pope kept 
 a piece of good tobacco, and his judgment in pipes 
 wasn't to be scorned neither. Robin was mortal 
 sorry for Father Peter's sake; and it's a well- 
 known fact in proof, that till the day of his death, 
 the good man, wanting the tokens for defying the 
 bishop's orders, was never seen to smoke a pipe in 
 public. 
 
 That might have been a prank they played upon 
 Robin; but a sadder deed was what they did to 
 little Rosie Devlin, whom they coveted for her 
 loveliness. And it is often and often yourself and 
 many another child of the hills cried at hearing 
 Rosie's story told the thousandth time. 
 
 Rosie was just a child of ten and pretty as a 
 primrose. Her people used to send her to the 
 hill every morning to herd sheep. Two or three 
 times she came home, her eyes as big as apples, 
 telling them of the lovely children like herself 
 whom she had met upon the hill, and played and 
 danced and sung with. Her people only laughed 
 
 [241 ]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 at the foolish child, whose head, they said, was 
 full of foolish fancies. But one evening she came 
 home crying, and told that the lovely children who 
 played with her now said they'd made up their 
 minds to keep her altogether next time she came 
 on the hill. And her people just said, angrily: 
 "Hold your babbling tongue and give us no more 
 such silly stories." But she cried when they or- 
 dered her to the hill next morning, and clasping her 
 mother, and then her father, about the knees, be- 
 sought them, "Oh, mammy! Oh, daddy! don't 
 send me to the hill or I'll never see you more." 
 And they, right angry with her now, took a rod 
 and, scudding her little bare legs, drove her out. 
 Many people that morning met Rosie bitterly cry- 
 ing and looking longingly back every few minutes 
 as she went up the hill; but no one ever met her 
 coming down. For she never returned. Nor was 
 trace or track of her found. But every little boy 
 and girl among the hills cries for her still. 
 
 But, barring harmless little jokes like that they 
 had with Robin, and a rare coveting and carrying 
 away a lovely mortal child to make her Queen 
 among the fairies, the Gentle Folk, you well know, 
 are genial and kindly and have been helpful to 
 you and yours and the neighbours a hundred thou- 
 sand times. They have double reason, too, for 
 helping man. Not only are they kind and kindly 
 
 [242]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 by their angel nature, but they know it is their 
 interest to keep you on their side, and encourage 
 your interceding with God for them. For they 
 think, with you, that through your prayers and 
 the prayers of all the mortal neighbours, God's 
 heart will melt to them, and on the Long Day, 
 when He comes to judge the world, He'll maybe 
 agree that they have been enough punished by 
 their long, long exile from the glorious land that 
 was theirs, and take them back with Him again 
 to Heaven. 
 
 You remember how, as you sat with your bare 
 toes in the ashes of a hundred chimney corners 
 of the mountain side, you heard ten thousand times 
 old Father Phil's reply to the fairies on this point. 
 Of course, Father Phil lived far before your day, 
 but the old men and women who told the story 
 knew him well, and loved him much. In thou- 
 sands beyond count, the Little People once met 
 up with him at midnight on a lonely mountain 
 road, one beautiful, bright November night when 
 the good man was returning from giving the last 
 rites to one of the MacClune's of Croaghan, who, 
 at the age of a hundred, had taken it into his 
 head to die. Father Phil, on his old gray mare, 
 was riding home along the white mountain road, 
 and saying his Rosary as he rode — for it had been 
 a busy day with him, between welcoming people 
 
 [243 ]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 into the world and helping them out of it. And 
 when he found the old mare suddenly stop with 
 a jerk, he lifted his head and, lo and behold you ! 
 away before him on the moonlit road as far as 
 eye could carry, were thousands and thousands of 
 little people mounted on horseback. And, when 
 the old man got his speeches, he asked them in 
 God's name who they were and what was 
 a-trouble to them, for he well knew they weren't 
 of this earth. A spokesman, stepping out from 
 the front rank, said: "Good Priest, we are the 
 Gentle People, this night gathered in our thou- 
 sands of thousands from all ends of Ireland to 
 put to you one question." 
 
 "And what is the question?" asked Father Phil. 
 
 "We want to know from you," said the spokes- 
 man, "finally, once and for all, whether there is 
 ever any hope of our redemption." 
 
 Father Phil, when he heard this, waved his 
 hand, saying with a tremble in his voice: "Go 
 away, good people, and do not ask me any 
 question." 
 
 And that instant up from all the ranks of all 
 the thousands upon thousands there arose a 
 murmurous "NO !" that swept over him and 
 shook him on his horse like a hurricane. "No!" 
 said the spokesman to him then. "We'll not go 
 away and you'll not go away from this spot till 
 
 [244]
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 you have answered our question." Then the old 
 man bowed his head in prayer, and prayed in 
 silence for a good while, and there wasn't a stir 
 in that multitude nor a sound from the moor bar- 
 ring one pee-weet that had been put up and was 
 circling above the priest's head, complaining lonely 
 to the night. And when Father Phil lifted his 
 head again, "Good people," said he, "you have 
 asked me a question and you have insisted 
 on its being answered. Hear then my answer: 
 If in the veins of all the thousands of thousands 
 of you that I see here to-night, there be as much 
 blood as would sit on the point of a pin, there is 
 a chance for you." 
 
 And the instant he said that, up from all the 
 ranks of all of them thousands there arose a wail 
 the most heart-rending he'd ever heard in his life, 
 and a gust of wind swept past him, and the road, 
 which an instant before had been covered by thou- 
 sands and thousands of little people, was now, as 
 far as his eye could see, white and deserted. 
 
 And the old man who told you this story al- 
 ways took care to explain that as our Saviour 
 had died for human beings — for people with blood 
 in their veins — then if in the veins of all these 
 thousands there had been the slightest trace of 
 blood, for them, too, had He died, and for them 
 was there chance of redemption. But they knew 
 
 [245 1
 
 THE GENTLE PEOPLE 
 
 they were spirits and bloodless! May the kind 
 Lord forever pity them ! And amen ! amen ! 
 
 Many was the head that was shaken for them 
 and many was the heart melted in the circle around 
 the fireside when the doleful tale was told. And 
 many is the old woman who that night mixed a 
 pitying prayer for them among the trimmings to 
 the Rosary. Father Phil, though the holiest man 
 that ever was — none of all of you ever doubted 
 that — was still human and might have been mis- 
 taken in his verdict. You all hoped he was wrong 
 for once in his life. Anyway, God's mercy is be- 
 yond bounds ! Thanks be to Him ! 
 
 L246J
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 AND 'tis plain to be seen that the Fairies were 
 hopeful themselves. For they got over the 
 fright Father Phil's answer gave them. And 
 'twasn't long till they were just as jokesome and 
 pranksome as ever again. When Brian O'Hart, the 
 merriest lad on the mountain-side and the pride 
 of the parish for singing, was returning home from 
 Johnny Ward's wedding in Carrig-a-cleava — in 
 the small hours of the morning, crossing the bog 
 just below his own house, didn't he find himself 
 suddenly surrounded by troops of the little people, 
 who caught hands and danced and sang in a ring 
 around him while my brave Brian stood there 
 dumbfounded, like Tom-fool-in-the-middle. And 
 when they'd danced their dance and laughed 
 heartily at poor Brian's nonplusment, they told 
 him the fame of his singing had reached Fairyland 
 and they'd come there that night to hear his best 
 song. "Give us," they said, " 'An cailin deas 
 cruidhte na mho.' (The Pretty Girl milking her 
 cow) ." And my brave Brian, in the ring of fairies, 
 in the middle of the bog, at two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, sang them the rare old Irish song — sang it far 
 finer and sweeter than he'd ever sung it in his life 
 
 [247 ]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 before, and to the most delighted audience he'd 
 ever met with. They loaded him with praises, 
 told him if they could ever be of use to him to 
 command them, and, releasing him, sent Brian 
 home a happy man. It's often and often you 
 heard Brian himself — a gray-haired man in your 
 young days — tell the story. And again and again, 
 as Brian told the story, at wedding or wake, you 
 heard many another old man, sitting by, claim his 
 share of the glory by corroboration — boasting 
 that he was at Johnny Ward's wedding the same 
 night, and saw Brian there. 
 
 But there was a sad one among the glad fairies 
 — the banshee. The banshee was the saddest of 
 all the fairy clan, and the most affectionate like- 
 wise. Your mother's family, like all the true old 
 Irish families, had its faithful banshee, the little 
 white woman who, in the middle of the night, on 
 the eve of a family death, seated herself on the limb 
 of a tree close by the home, and there, combing 
 her long black locks, raised the three heart-rending 
 wails that ?ent a deathly shiver to the hearts of 
 all within hearing, and apprised them that death 
 was coming to claim another toll. Not once, but 
 five times your own mother had heard the banshee. 
 Though few they are who ever saw the banshee, 
 your mother was privileged once, but only got a 
 waft of her though, as she flitted from a tree. 
 
 [248]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 She had an eerie appearance, like a very little 
 hunch-backed woman all in white, but with a great 
 mass of long black flowing locks. And many a 
 night when you hurried home alone from the story- 
 telling at Padraig O'Hegarty's, you thought a 
 thousand times you caught a glimpse, or heard 
 the stirring, of the same little white woman sit- 
 ting in the sycamore tree that hangs overhead 
 where the road is doubly dark by the Bridge of 
 Brackey. And, with your heart in your mouth, 
 you flew like a swallow the rest of the way home. 
 But it always wasn't the banshee after all — but 
 only a night bird sometimes. No matter for that. 
 That same Bridge, at night, seldom wanted for 
 something uncanny. 
 
 Yet you wouldn't run like that if you met a 
 leprechaun. Leastways you wouldn't run like 
 that from him. He's the luckiest lad to meet of 
 all the fairy tribe. Because he's not only the fairy 
 cobbler, but their treasure-keeper likewise. It is 
 the leprechaun who knows where all the crocks 
 of gold in Ireland are. And you know, in Ireland, 
 there are crocks of gold galore — only unfortu- 
 nately they're all hidden. But you knew that, if 
 you only came on the leprechaun unawares in the 
 gray twilight, when he was cobbling the fairy 
 shoes under the fairy thorn, and took him by the 
 scruff of the neck and kept your eyes firmly fixed
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 on him, there was no way for him to escape till 
 he'd confessed to you (which he must always do 
 truly) where the nearest crock of gold was hidden. 
 To be sure, he, being the trickiest of all the fairy 
 tribe, puts his wits to work to get your eye off 
 him for a fraction of an instant that he may 
 vanish — which the spell of mortal eye prevents 
 him doing. If you are wise and wary and 
 won't be surprised into lifting your eye off him 
 on any account, he'll have to purchase his free- 
 dom by truly telling the hiding-place of the crock. 
 You knew many a man in the countryside who'd 
 grown suddenly rich, and all the world as well as 
 you knew that it was because he had caught his 
 leprechaun. Owen a-Kieran was long years look- 
 ing for his leprechaun, however, before he caught 
 him. Owen had often boasted that he'd let no 
 leprechaun trick him as they had tricked many a 
 man of your acquaintance, who thereby lost the 
 wealth that was within his grasp. Accordingly 
 the clever Owen, when he at length found his 
 leprechaun cobbling under the fairy thorn one 
 lovely Autumn twilight, gave him to understand 
 in few words that there wasn't any use in all his 
 tricks, for Owen's eagle eye would never budge 
 from off him, till he'd shown where the gold was 
 hidden. So the outgeneralled lad at last had to 
 tell that the crock was buried twenty feet beneath 
 
 [250]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 a tall bouchaillin-buidhe* that grew by Owen's 
 toe. The happy Owen could then afford to let his 
 leprechaun vanish — which he did. But, before 
 going home to get his men and picks and spades 
 and shovels, Owen took care to tie his red hand- 
 kerchief on the particular bouchaillin-buidhe under 
 which his fortune lay; for on this same hill, more 
 by token, there were ten thousand bouchaillins, 
 each of them the pattern of the other. And 
 Owen — with good reason — chuckled again for his 
 own cleverness. And, ha ! ha ! — it's a thousand 
 times you've heard and laughed over it — when 
 Owen with twenty neighbours and twenty picks 
 and spades and shovels came back on the hill at 
 break o' day to dig up the gold that would make 
 him a millionaire forevermore, lo and behold 
 you ! wasn't there a red handkerchief tied on every 
 bouchaillin-buidhe on all the hill ! 
 
 And till the day of his death Owen a-Kieran 
 couldn't hear the word leprechaun mentioned with- 
 out flying into a passion. No wonder ! 
 
 It was no leprechaun Denis Gastha met — but 
 a lad more serious. On one Hallow Eve 
 Denis and his son Nealis were fishing off 
 Loughross. They not only wanted a little luxury 
 for supper on that feast, but hoped also to 
 earn a few shillings. With the long lines they 
 
 *Ben\veed. 
 
 [251]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 were fishing; and the "take" was pretty good. 
 But suddenly, though the sky had been clear and 
 settled and the sea likewise, a mist began to roll 
 out from the land, and the sea got troubled as the 
 mist came over it. Very soon the mist had envel- 
 oped the boat, which now began to rock and toss 
 in a way that terrified Nealis greatly. Down in 
 the bottom of the boat he got on his hands and 
 knees, and prayed silently and fervently. 
 
 Denis Gastha was both troubled and puzzled 
 by the strange happening. He remembered then 
 how on the evening before, when he was return- 
 ing home — in a bad enough temper, for he had 
 caught only three flukes, which he carried with 
 him on a withy — a strange young man, very small, 
 whom he met on the road, asked to have one of the 
 fish, and he had given the queer stranger a surly 
 answer, and passed on. Recalling this, Denis now 
 asked Nealis if he had the clasp-knife with him. 
 
 "Yes," Nealis said, "I have." 
 
 "Then take it out and open it," said Denis 
 Gastha. Nealis did so. 
 
 "Now," Denis said, "you're young and strong, 
 stand up and face the mist, and with all the veins 
 of your heart throw the knife, point foremost, 
 into it." Nealis stood up, and, taking strong foot- 
 ing in the boat and gathering all his strength, 
 
 [252]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 plunged the knife into the mist. A great shriek 
 that made Nealis's heart tremble came back. 
 
 "Thank God! It's well," Denis Gastha said, 
 and, in a few minutes, there was no more any mist, 
 and the sea settled down as calm as it had been. 
 
 Early on the next morning, that is Hallow Day, 
 which is the day of the great Fair of Ardara, 
 Thady Brennan of Altcor was on his way to the 
 Fair, when, at the Garran Ban, he overtook a small 
 young man, who was lamenting to himself. 
 
 "God save you, young stranger," Thady said, 
 "and what is it is troublin' you?" 
 
 The young man didn't say: "God save your- 
 self" in return, but he looked at Thady sorrow- 
 fully, and then raised his right hand, through the 
 centre of which a big clasp-knife was stuck, and 
 said: "Will you pull out that clasp-knife from 
 me?" 
 
 "Oh, God protect you, my poor young 
 stranger," Thady said, "I will that." And there 
 and then he drew it out. And Thady was aston- 
 ished to find that no blood flowed from the wound. 
 
 "Now," the young man said, "I am forever 
 grateful to you. May you always prosper, and 
 everything ever you put your hand to. I ask your 
 pardon for doing this," and he rubbed his hand 
 over Thady's eyes and then disappeared. When 
 Thady looked around and could not see him, he 
 
 [253]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 went away in wonder, and was concluding with 
 himself that he had met a fairy. 
 
 But lo, ere Thady had got near Ardara, he 
 began to see the Little People in drifts and droves, 
 and singly and in pairs, some riding and some walk- 
 ing, some driving cattle and some without, com- 
 ing down off the hills and the moors, and com- 
 ing by cassies, lanes, and by-ways, on to the main 
 road, and flocking to the fair likewise. They 
 were all dressed out very neatly and cleanly. The 
 men had pure white shirt-fronts and black ties tied 
 with flowing bow-knots, and wore shining black 
 clothes of the best home-made, and their boots, 
 too, shone so that they might see themselves in 
 them. Of the women, some rode on pillions be- 
 hind their men (with an arm clasped round the 
 men's waist to steady them in their seats), and 
 some of them walked; and all of them were more 
 handsomely dressed than the men. They had many 
 ribbons, of the colours of the rainbow, plaited in 
 the long plaits of hair that fell down their backs to 
 the waist and below it, and they had many more 
 ribbons decorating different parts of their dress, 
 which was made of fine wool, and looked as rich 
 as silk. 
 
 All were very light-hearted, as people will be, 
 going to a fair: they chatted, and bantered, and 
 laughed right heartily, so that Thady could hear 
 
 [254]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 the musical ring of it floating away up the valleys. 
 Those that were on horseback smiled and kissed 
 back their hands to those whom they passed walk- 
 ing; and those that walked laughed up to them, 
 and tripped dancingly as if it was merrier to walk 
 than to ride. The cows and stircs they drove were 
 very small, and very sleek and nice, and they went 
 at a slinging pace, snapping a bite of sweet green 
 grass now and again, tossing their heads, and 
 whisking their tails with pleasure, as if they, too, 
 highly enjoyed going to a fair. Thady also saw 
 several little fairy-women taking to the fair the 
 drollest-looking little pigs mortal ever set eyes on 
 — very knowing-looking little fellows, smaller far 
 than bonniveens (sucking pigs). The women had 
 a string tied to the pig's hind leg, by which they 
 kept it under control — or, rather, tried to — for, 
 more tricky little pigs Thady never saw. They 
 pretended to mistake for the right road every 
 way they knew surely was the wrong; and they 
 showed a lot of stubborn persistence and squealed 
 frightfully when the women tugged at the strings 
 with all their force to coax them to come right 
 again. This made much merriment for all who 
 went untroubled with pigs themselves; and the 
 fun was furious, if the pig, convinced by force that 
 it took the wrong way and coming back on the 
 road, coolly started towards home again — and, 
 
 [ 2.55 ]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 with much struggle and noise, debated the point 
 with its driver — sometimes getting itself and its 
 driver and the rope all mixed up, and, when extri- 
 cated, dashing away with all its speed and drag- 
 ging after it an unwilling mistress, who, however 
 badly she felt her ridiculous position, found it bet- 
 ter to put the best face on matters, and pretend to 
 enjoy the joke herself. 
 
 Thady came to the fair, and in the market-place 
 saw ten times more Little People than Christians. 
 They were buying and selling, haggling, and 
 "splitting the differ," just like mortals; and some 
 of them going about in pairs, with sticks under 
 their arms, looking with cunning eyes at various 
 stock, drawing their sticks and hitting a beast here 
 and there to put it for view in a new position, 
 pricing it and walking on if not satisfied to bargain 
 for it. He saw beasts bought and prices counted 
 out in small golden pieces about the size of fish- 
 scales; and the seller generally spat on the last 
 golden piece and gave it back as luck' s-penny ; and 
 all adjourned to a tent, where they drank to the 
 health and success of buyer and seller, and of the 
 beast. 
 
 Thady, hearing much and loud laughter coming 
 from the pig-market, hurried there to find what 
 was the cause. He found that one particularly 
 perverse little pig, which had created much amuse- 
 
 [256]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 ment coming to the fair, was at its tricks again. 
 She was a fat wee woman who owned it; and she 
 was now sweating, and very red in the face; for 
 the pig (which had a very knowing eye, Thady 
 noted, and seemed to see more behind than be- 
 fore) wished to go in any and every direction 
 now its mistress wanted it to stand still. It jumped 
 clean over another pig's rope, and then squealed 
 enough for five pigs because one hind leg didn't 
 get over, but was caught and strained; and when 
 its mistress relieved it, it tried to dive through 
 the wheel of a fairy cart in which fairy bonniveens 
 were for sale, where it got its head jammed, and 
 began to squeal enough for eleven pigs. Then it 
 dashed pell-mell through a lot of boxes of 
 brooches and fairlies that were exposed for sale, 
 and the owner of these, very angry, hastened to 
 slap it sharply with her open hand drawn with all 
 her might; whereupon its vexed mistress, unde- 
 servedly enough, took the pig's part, and scolded 
 the fairin woman, who, on her part, scolded back 
 with interest. And it was only the pig's going 
 off on a new path of destruction, and dragging its 
 panting owner with it, that averted active 
 hostilities. 
 
 Half the fair of the Little People were gathered 
 around in hearty enjoyment of the funny scene, 
 for what heightened the amusement was that, not 
 
 [257]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 only was the owner of the pig in a hot, bad 
 temper, but all who had pigs or carts, or any sort 
 of goods, in her neighbourhood, were out of 
 temper likewise, over the annoyance given them 
 by her and her perverse pig. So they scolded 
 loudly, and beat the pig smartly — making it still 
 more cantankerous. And the owner of the pig 
 scolded back as best she could for the running, 
 the tugging, and the panting, and the choking 
 wrath the wicked animal was causing her. And 
 when at length the pig ran between the feet of 
 a scolding woman who guarded an apple-stand, 
 and twisted around, and caught the woman's leg 
 in the rope, while the woman, not waiting to free 
 herself, struck out at the pig's owner, who struck 
 back, and both fell to the boxing, the pig, him- 
 self, squealing and screaming, ran round and round 
 till he had fairly entangled the two combatants 
 in the rope; and both of them fell over against 
 the apple-stand, which went down along with 
 them, scattering the apples in every direction, 
 while the pig, standing on top of the mixed heap 
 of mortals and apples and apple-stand, screamed 
 at the top of his voice. Such of the crowd as 
 were not entirely overcome with the laughter began 
 jostling for the fruit, till, in another minute, a 
 heap of the bystanders, mixed heels and heads, were 
 thrown on top of all, and nothing was distinguish- 
 es]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 able but the fearful squealing of the pig from 
 under the ludicrous heap ! 
 
 Thady Brennan, he could hold in no longer, 
 but burst into a great, loud and hearty fit of 
 laughter. Instantly, all the Little People, silenced, 
 turned upon Thady surprised and wrathful looks. 
 On the moment there came up the same young man 
 out of whose hand Thady had drawn the knife 
 that morning: and to him Thady nodded fa- 
 miliarly and spoke. The wrathful looks of the 
 gathering were instantly turned from Thady to 
 the young man. "Is it you ?" they said, "who have 
 done this?" 
 
 A real mortal pig running at this moment across 
 Thady tripped him up with its rope. He capsized, 
 and a little old gray fellow of the fairies, running 
 up, rubbed his hand across Thady's eyes, and lo ! 
 all the Little People and their pigs and their cattle 
 and apples and apple-stands, and everything be- 
 longing to them, instantly vanished — and Thady 
 Brennan lost his gift forever! 
 
 But everything that Thady put his hand to 
 afterwards prospered, in accordance with the 
 fairy's blessing. As it should. 
 
 No matter for the fairies' tricks, the Gentle 
 People love all Irish folk — and Ireland herself 
 likewise. Oftentimes, when footing it all the way 
 over the hill of Mullinashee when you were 
 
 [259]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 going to the bog on a May day, you thought upon 
 the cave beneath your feet under the green hill- 
 side, where the fairies hold in fairy sleep Red 
 Hugh, the dauntless warrier who warred so long 
 for Ireland's rights — hold him and his thousand 
 followers, lying each man with his hand on his 
 sword by the side of his steed, waiting for the hour 
 when Erin calls them to ride boldly forth and lead 
 the van in the glorious final fight for Ireland's 
 freedom. And you often thought with a thrill 
 of that strange happening nearly a hundred years 
 ago now when a Bally-ma-Cahill man, riding home 
 from the Fair of Donegal, had his horse purchased 
 from him by a tall, soldierly-looking, dark man, 
 who asked him to lead the animal into a cave on 
 the side of the hill of Mullinashee. And far 
 within, they reached the great gates of a beautiful 
 castle; and in the court-yard were a thousand men 
 stretched by the side of a thousand steeds, both 
 men and horses slumbering. And when the Bally- 
 ma-Cahill man accidentally struck a great gong 
 with his toe, every sleeper of the thousand was 
 on one knee in an instant, one hand on his sword 
 and the other on his horse's mane, and a man 
 asked: "Is the time come?" The tall stranger, 
 waving his hand to them, answered: "Not yet. 
 Sleep on !" And every soldier of them dropped 
 in sleep by the side of his steed again, while the 
 
 [260]
 
 GENTLE— AND SOMETHING BESIDES 
 
 Bally-ma-Cahill man was quickly conveyed from 
 the cave, the entrance to which he or any other 
 mortal never could find after, and never knew be- 
 fore. For the fairies (Heaven bless them!) keep 
 these men guarded and concealed, till comes THE 
 TIME! God hasten it! 
 
 And when THE TIME has come, and Ireland 
 has won her long, long fight, she'll ten times more 
 fondly cherish the Gentle People who helped her 
 in her hour of need, and hold them ten thousand 
 times nearer and dearer. And meantime you and 
 all belonging to you will never cease to pray, as 
 you have been praying, that a kind God will look 
 kindly on the Gentle Outcasts and bring them to 
 their own again. 
 
 [261]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 THIS is how they came. After you had your 
 hay harvested, and your potatoes stored, 
 and your turf home, and Long Michael of the 
 Moor bid to the thrashin' of the corn, you were 
 sitting by your roarin' hearth-fire of a night, smok- 
 ing the pipe of content, and hearkening to the first 
 wail of the winter's wind; little Patsy, Johneen Og 
 and Una, stretched on the floor, were striving 
 (both mentally and physically) with their lesson- 
 books by the fire-light ; and Herself was setting 
 in a neat row upon the white dresser the bowls 
 from which the household had been supping stir- 
 about (food for princes!), and you were feeling 
 at peace with yourself and the whole world, when 
 there came a rattle on the latch and the door 
 opened, and a head, under an ill-conditioned cau- 
 bin, was shoved in, hailing: "God's blessin' on all 
 here!" drawing from yourself and Herself the 
 prompt response, "On yourself, stranger, likewise. 
 Won't ye step in?" 
 
 "Thank ye, thank ye, good woman; and thank 
 you, good man. I just put in my head for to know 
 if you had any objection to a lock of us shelterin' 
 here the night? I have a couple of asses without, 
 
 [262]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 and I have the woman herself an' a grain o' 
 childer. We're travellin' people, ma'am," adroitly 
 appealing to woman's sympathy. 
 
 "Och, surely, God help you creatures, ye can," 
 Molly herself said. And you took your pipe from 
 your mouth, and said likewise. 
 
 "Certainly, certainly. Turn the asses into the 
 field beyont, and come in here yourselves. There's 
 little room; but what there is, you're hearty wel- 
 come to." 
 
 For, of course, wanderer was never yet turned 
 from your door. The houseless and homeless and 
 the penniless poor had always the warm word and 
 the welcome smile by your hearth. 
 
 This time, however, you knew not what you had 
 brought on yourself, till it was too late. In three 
 shakes of a lamb's lug your kitchen was crammed 
 with myriads of tinkers, great and small, while a 
 multitude of asses were turned into your choice 
 field of after-grass, that you had been stingily sav- 
 ing up to coax milk from the mooly cow round the 
 winter. You were forced far from the heat of 
 your own hearth; your amazed children swept to 
 the wall-side, and Molly driven for refuge to the 
 room; while the tinkers — there were many families 
 of them, and yet they all seemed one family! — 
 made their own of your kitchen, and its accommo- 
 dations, its seats, its mugs, its bowls, its plates and 
 
 [263]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 knives and spoons, and brought in, too, burden 
 after burden of your turf, piling them stack-high 
 on your hearth, till in dread alarm you most hum- 
 bly begged them not to burn your house down — 
 and in response got kindly and gracious re-assur- 
 ance. In your pans they boiled their tea — boiled 
 it! — upon the roaring fire, and served it round in 
 all the vessels that they could commandeer, from 
 Una's milking-noggin to Molly's four fancy tea- 
 cups, which she prized as the apple of her eye, and 
 which she used only twice a year (when Father 
 Michael came round upon Stations), but which 
 half a score of embryo tinkers now fished out from 
 their secret place, and then fought for, till you 
 trembled for their fate — the fate of the cups, I 
 mean — whilst to your own three awe-stricken chil- 
 dren very little drops of tea were tendered in very 
 large porringers. 
 
 Night was turned into day, and the gabble of 
 voices, rarely less than thirteen speaking at one 
 time, ceased not till a welcome winter sun dawned 
 in the morning. You had comparative quiet then, 
 you thanked Heaven. For several hours the gab- 
 ble died down. The tinkers only lay and sat 
 drowsing around the fire, and occasionally drop- 
 ing into it, preventing you getting to your own 
 hearth to cook your breakfast, except by exceeding 
 effort and skilful piloting, and plentiful apologizing 
 
 [264]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 — which apologies they, waking up, always gra- 
 ciously accepted, assuring you it was all right, hitch- 
 ing their seats into yet more inconvenient positions, 
 drooping their heads, and sleeping the sleep of the 
 just again. 
 
 After noon their new day began, and they were 
 very much alive once more. The women, in haste 
 for a weapon to whack recalcitrant children, 
 snatched down your picture of Saint Patrick driv- 
 ing out the serpents, and with it effectively re-en- 
 acted the amazing miracle. To encourage the dila- 
 tory kettle they took Molly's valued pot-stick which 
 Conal the Carpenter had made her as a favour, 
 broke it over their knee, and stuck it in the fire; 
 whilst the children played leap-frog from your 
 kitchen into the one grand room on which Molly 
 had expended untold thought and trouble, and (at 
 the lowest calculation) seventeen shillings and six 
 pence in hard cash ; and the men w r ent out to look 
 at the asses, and drive them into a better field if 
 you had such. That day, too, they made a tour 
 of inspection of the neighbours' houses, and bil- 
 leted their legion in such residences as w r ere ap- 
 proved of — taking care, however, to do particular 
 honour to your hospitable self, by making your 
 house their headquarters and bestowing on you 
 double the number allotted to the next most-fa- 
 
 [265]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 voured one — so that you were left no excuse for 
 jealousy. 
 
 In a few days' time your roof-tree was ringing 
 to the music of tinkers' honest toil; and they whis- 
 tled and sang light-heartedly, as in the very middle 
 of your floor, where they could cause most obstruc- 
 tion, they industriously tinkered all day. When 
 you barked your shins upon their tins, or smashed 
 your toe against their soldering iron, or tripped 
 and fell and broke your bones over their out- 
 stretched legs, they gave you no ill-word for your 
 stupidity, but instead assured you, with the gen- 
 erosity of the great-hearted, that it was all right 
 and no harm done. They gave you the impression 
 that they earnestly desired you to make yourself 
 completely at home in the house, and not stand 
 upon forms with them. Yet you began painfully 
 to realize that you were an impertinent intruder in 
 this house; and, whenever you got in their way — 
 and sure you were for ever blundering into their 
 way, — you were abjectly grateful that the forbear- 
 ing fellows refrained from flinging things at your 
 head. 
 
 They were fiddlers, of course — fiddlers and 
 fifers and pipers. Music and tinkering were sister 
 graces with them always, and there wasn't any of 
 their men who couldn't play upon some instrument, 
 complex or simple. They were charming singers, 
 
 [266]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 too, and enchanting whistlers. The fame of your 
 house under control of its new masters spread fast 
 and far. The boys and girls of the barony began 
 gathering to you every night. Very soon, the tink- 
 ers, who were ever princely, announced that they 
 would entertain the countryside to a grand dance. 
 And the countryside was duly grateful to them for 
 placing your kitchen at its service. And on the 
 eve of the dance, under kind direction of the tin- 
 kers, you, with much groaning both of body and 
 spirit, bore out of doors everything portable in 
 your home that was not an absolute necessity in a 
 dance-house. And the countryside came in its num- 
 bers and its Sunday clothes, cramming and jam- 
 ming your house from hearth-stone to threshold, 
 dancing and enjoying itself to the tinkers' piping 
 till morning, leaving silver and thanks to the gen- 
 erous fellows who had given it this most enjoy- 
 able treat and had promised it another soon, and 
 bidding a perfunctory good morning to yourself, 
 who felt like an interloper graciously tolerated in 
 the house of mirth. 
 
 It was a merry and a lively winter indeed, all 
 that winter in which you and your wife and three 
 little children lodged in your own house by the 
 grace of the tinkers — a very lively, pleasant win- 
 ter, truly! You didn't enjoy it, of course — you 
 somehow never do enjoy the good things God 
 
 [267]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 sends you — for you had a load of some kind over 
 your heart, and Herself, strange to say, looked 
 care-worn; and your children somehow or other 
 got a frightened appearance which it took them five 
 years to wear oft again ; and one of you seldom saw 
 your own fire. Your best grass-fields were bare as 
 a table ere winter was half through; and your hay- 
 stack fell a victim to galloping consumption. But 
 still it was a merry and a lively winter. There's 
 no denying that — everyone said so. 
 
 When winter's back was broken, and the longed- 
 for Patrickmas sun danced in of your door, the 
 tinkers stretched themselves and considered it was 
 time to be jogging a bit. You did your best of 
 course to persuade them that it was only young 
 in the year yet, and they shouldn't be in a hurry. 
 These great-minded fellows smiled at your sim- 
 plicity — or selfishness. They had wasted a whole 
 winter upon you, and now that the sun of spring 
 had come, it was little enough to ask that you 
 should learn to lean on yourself. So you had to 
 thank them profusely, and wring their hands 
 warmly and long as you wished them good-bye, 
 earnestly begging to know when they would come 
 again. They couldn't satisfy you on this, but to 
 your consternation promised that, whenever they 
 should return to the neighbourhood, you might 
 
 [268]
 
 WHEN THE TINKERS CAME 
 
 rest assured no slight would be put upon your 
 house. 
 
 Then they were gone — I rather mean going. 
 For it took some time from the starting of the 
 head of the caravan, till, having unfolded itself to 
 its tedious extent, the tail was in motion. You, 
 when the procession had disappeared, turned into 
 your house, very thoughtfully smoking your pipe. 
 Molly had gone in before you. Ye sat down 
 one on each side of the hearth, and both of ye 
 looking into the fire; but neither of ye said any- 
 thing. Ye were too full for utterance. 
 
 When in the early afternoon of that bright day 
 — it was a very bright day, one of the brightest 
 you ever remember — people, passing, observed the 
 tinkers camping in the shade of a high hedge five 
 miles farther on, the women boiling tea, and the 
 men beating out tins, they said: "The tinkers have 
 left Long Johneen's — the more's the pity!" 
 
 But both of ye said, down in your hearts: 
 "Thanks be to God for all His mercies !" 
 
 [269 ]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 THEY were the old, old tales that had come 
 down to you ripened and sweetened, like 
 your pipe, with the ages — barring that the years 
 of the tales were as the days of the pipe. And 
 men and women were like little children listening, 
 even for the thousandth time, to the same tale; 
 and could go without food or drink for fondness 
 of hearing you tell them. 
 
 And you told them — sometimes going to Mass 
 or Market, when the neighbours needed the weary 
 miles cut; or at the wake-house, when the night 
 was long and the company wanted cheering; but, 
 more often and better, seated in your own corner, 
 by the big blazing turf fire, pulling your pipe, and 
 watching the queer shadows of the spellbound 
 ones, like listening ghosts, leaping on the walls 
 and bobbing over the brown rafters. And all 
 the more magical was it when the soft stillness 
 without told you that the snow-weaver, shooting 
 his silent shuttle, wove its mantle of white peace 
 for the slumbering world — or when you felt the 
 winds, like Pookas from the hills, leaping upon 
 the little cabin, making the rafters groan and the 
 
 [270]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 foundation rock, and your audience shiver with the 
 bliss of shelter and security. 
 
 And your tales were all beautiful — whether they 
 chanted the noble deeds of the immortal Fionn, 
 the fascinating adventures of Mac Ri na nEireann 
 (the King of Ireland's son) detailed the irresistible 
 rogueries of the matchless vagabond Jack, or fol- 
 lowed the fortunes of the poor Widow Woman's 
 Three Sons — or even when they exalted country 
 wisdom — tickling the fancy, and flattering the in- 
 nocent vanity, and calling down the loud- 
 murmured encomiums of the delighted circle, just 
 as in 
 
 The Will of the Wise Man 
 
 The time that the Wise Man lived was far 
 longer ago than I could tell you, and twice longer 
 ago than you could tell me. It was a time when 
 wise men were as common as wattle sticks in Ire- 
 land, and a man couldn't wind his elbow without 
 striking one. When wise men were so plentiful 
 he must have been an extraordinary one entirely 
 who would be called "The Wise," as was an old 
 Prince by the name of Phelim, who had for his 
 possession the wooded lands of Ardloe, and whose 
 name and fame were mighty indeed, and went to 
 the ends of the then known world. He was named 
 The Wise during his lifetime; and has been known 
 
 [271 ]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 as such ever since, barrin' for one twelve months 
 during which people called him Phelim the Fool — 
 the reason for which makes my story. 
 
 And 'twas this was the way of it. 
 
 Phelim had four sons, Conal and Donal, and 
 Manis and Phelimy Og (or young Phelim). 
 The three eldest, Conal and Donal and Manis, 
 were harum-scarum lads — gamesters and wastrels 
 who never knew God's grace, and were of no ac- 
 count to king or country. They hunted, sported 
 and spent, and the world gave in it was their mis- 
 doings that brought their poor old father's gray 
 hairs in shame to the grave before God's good 
 time. 
 
 The fourth and youngest son, Phelimy Og, was, 
 on the other hand, the model of what a brave 
 boy and a good son ought to be, but possessed what 
 was better — a good heart and God's grace. And 
 he was the stay and comfort of the old man. 
 
 That is what made the Wiseman's Will, when 
 he died, so strange and such a puzzle to the peo- 
 ple, who concluded that, after all, the old say- 
 ing was a true one: "You ought to call no man 
 a wise man till the worms have done with him." 
 
 Many's the man minded this old saw, and 
 wagged his head over it when, Phelim being dead 
 and slipped under the sod, his will was opened and 
 read. 
 
 [272 ]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 For this was the wonderful way that the Wise 
 Man's will went: 
 
 "To my eldest son, Conal, I bequeath and be- 
 stow all that's green and all that isn't green on 
 the wooded lands of Ardloe. To my second son, 
 Donal, I bequeath and bestow all that's crooked 
 and all that's straight on the wooded lands of 
 Ardloe. To my third son, Manis, I bequeath and 
 bestow all that moves and all that stands still on 
 the wooded lands of Ardloe. And to my young- 
 est son, Phelimy Og, I bequeath and bestow the 
 remainder." 
 
 The world, when it heard the will read, was 
 dumbfounded, and said that the dead man must 
 surely have taken leave of his senses before he 
 wrote anything so silly. It was bad enough for 
 him, people thought, to leave all of his property 
 to each one of the three sons at the same time; 
 but when, after willing away all he owned three 
 times over, to say he bequeathed to Phelimy Og 
 what remained was a sorry joke and a cruel one 
 to crack at the expense of the poor boy who was 
 his only credit, and who loved and cared him, and 
 so bravely stuck to him through thick and thin. 
 It passed all comprehending, they said. And they 
 got so mad with the man who was dead that to 
 make up for the favour they had shown him in 
 life, when they miscalled him Phelim the Wise, 
 
 [273]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 they then and there christened him Phelim the 
 Fool. 
 
 Now, the wooded lands of Ardloe were the 
 finest game preserve in Ireland; and, on that ac- 
 count, drew the sports and gamesters from Ire- 
 land's ends to hunt and shoot there. And it was 
 why the dead man, Phelim, had come to call these 
 woods a curse to him instead of a blessin', since 
 the gamesters and sports that they gathered, and 
 the game that they offered, were the very means 
 of spoilin' and makin' good-for-nothin' his three 
 eldest boys. And it was often he prayed God 
 that a hare or a deer might never shake a foot, 
 nor a wood-cock call, within their bounds again — 
 prayers that were, to be sure, sadly in vain; for 
 so long as the birds and the animals got here the 
 widest range and closest cover to be found in Ire- 
 land, they thronged them and bred like beetles. 
 
 'Twas only a few months ere the old man died 
 that he discovered the lands of Ardloe were be- 
 coming of rare value, gold being discovered in 
 them, and the engineers pronouncing that it only 
 wanted the clearing away of the woods which 
 crowded every foot of them for miners to get to 
 work, and make them the richest resource that Ire- 
 land ever knew. 
 
 Well and good. Phelim, the Fool, as we may 
 now call him, wasn't cold in his clay when the 
 
 [274]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 wastrels that he left behind him, Conal and Donal 
 and Manis, were at one another's throats, fightin' 
 like devils for a property whose every foot was 
 now a fortune — the Wooded Lands of Ardloe — 
 which each of them claimed had been willed to 
 him and him alone. 
 
 Phelimy Og, poor fellow, as he conceived he 
 had no claim whatsomever in the matter, left the 
 three good-for-nothings to settle the dispute 
 among themselves; and went to the King, who 
 had been a good friend of his father's, to apply 
 for a job by which he could feed and clothe him- 
 self an' live in modest decency. And the King, 
 takin' pity on him, gave him the post of under- 
 groom in his stables, to which Phelimy went grate- 
 ful and thankful, not worryin' the world with 
 any complaint he had against it, but prepared to 
 spend, from that day forward, a hard-working, in- 
 dustrious life. 
 
 Conal and Donal and Manis, when they had 
 long enough disputed with small signs of their 
 agreein', came at last into the city of Armagh, 
 where the King had his palace, and put their case 
 before him, and asked him to decide what was 
 just between them. But, when he read the will, 
 he was a sore, nonplussed man. He shook his head 
 and told them to go further, for that it flabber- 
 gasted him out-an'-out, though he was a King. 
 
 [275]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 "And what are we to do?" they asked. 
 
 "If you's don't divide into three equal parts, 
 an' share an' share alike," says the King, says he, 
 "the Wooded Lands of Ardloe, I don't know what 
 else you can do." 
 
 "I'll not share an' share alike with anyone in 
 a property as you see set down in black and white 
 has been willed to me, entire," says Conal. 
 
 "I'll not share an' share alike with man or mor- 
 tal in a property that has been entirely willed to 
 me — as a blind man may see for himself," says 
 Donal. 
 
 "An' I'm very sure," says Manis, says he, "that 
 I'm not such a fool as to share an' share alike with 
 soul or sinner in the Wooded Lands of Ardloe 
 that have by that written parchment been put into 
 my whole, sole, an' complete possession. It's in 
 a lunatic asylum an' not at large I ought to be," 
 says he, "if I turned such a trick." 
 
 "Well! well!" says the King, says he, "there's 
 nothin' for it but to take your case afore the judges. 
 As they're wiser than all other men in these mat- 
 ters, an' accustomed to clearin' up contrairy wills, 
 if there's any readin' of the riddle, they'll read it." 
 
 Now, the King, he sent out messengers to the 
 first and greatest judges in his dominions, sum- 
 moning them to come into Armagh immediately, 
 and sit upon an extraordinary case which had come 
 
 [276]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 up for decision. An' in short time the judges were 
 crowdin' into the city, walkin', runnin', and ridin'. 
 An' the King, himself, went down to the Courts 
 when they sat, an' all the people of the city of 
 Armagh that could find standin' room crowded 
 the Courts, also; for all of them had learnt of 
 the comical will of Phelim the Fool, and came in 
 wonderment to watch what the judges would make 
 out of it. An' Conal an' Donal an' Manis were 
 there, every one of them, to state his case — 
 with dozens of witnesses and councillors by the 
 score, ready to prove that black was white, and 
 white was gogram gray — or anything else that was 
 needful. And on the case the great an' noble 
 judges of the Kingdom of Armagh, with the 
 great, wise High Chief Judge himself over them 
 all, sat for seven days, an' seven nights, hearin' 
 an' deliberatin' an' argufyin', sleepin' in relays 
 where they sat, and takin' their meals from their 
 fists without quittin' the Bench. An' the excite- 
 ment in the Court an' in the city of Armagh, an' 
 over all the country, for miles an' miles around, 
 was tremendous, an' grew greater an' greater as 
 the case proceeded, till at last the people threat- 
 ened to mutiny, an' rebel, an' rise out, an' kill 
 an' slaughter all before them, if the Judges of the 
 High Court with the High Chief Justice of them 
 all, over them, didn't soon come to a decision, an' 
 
 [277]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 a proper one, an' one that would satisfy every- 
 body. An' the very King himself got mightily 
 afraid. 
 
 But, lo and behold ye ! at the end of the seven 
 days and seven nights, when everything that could 
 be said in the case, an' that couldn't be said in it, 
 everything that bore on it, an' everything that 
 didn't bear on it, was heard an' proven, the dis- 
 tracted judges asked for an hour's peace to con- 
 sider their final decision, which was granted to 
 them. An' the people waited without drawin' 
 their breaths to hear what would come of it. But, 
 behold ye, before the half of an hour was up, the 
 officer who was at the door of the room where the 
 judges had retired had to send for the sojers, to 
 rid the judges out of one another! An' no two 
 of them could be allowed to lodge in the same 
 street that night. 
 
 The people got into a terrible way entirely. An' 
 it took all that the King and his councillors could 
 do to soothe them, an' keep them from breakin' 
 out an' slayin' all comin' their way. Many of 
 them didn't go to bed at all, at all, an' couldn't 
 sleep if they did go to bed. But they marched 
 the streets up an' down, cursin' the law an' the 
 lawyers, an' singin' rebellious songs, an' kickin' up 
 the frightfullest hullabaloo that had been heard in 
 the city of Armagh since the day it was christened. 
 
 [278]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 Towards break o' day, they gathered in the 
 market square, an' to mark their aggravation at 
 the judges, agreed that the first man to enter the 
 city gates in the morning, though he might be a 
 lunatic, or a travelling tinker, should be made 
 High Chief Judge over the city, an' the King- 
 dom of Armagh, for a year an' a day. An' they'd 
 put him in the High Judge's robes, an' set him in 
 the High Judge's place, an' bring all their cases 
 before him. 
 
 The King, who was sorely piqued against the 
 judges himself, right heartily gave his consent, 
 which mollified them one and all, and restored or- 
 der, an' gave the soldiers control of the eity again 
 before day dawned. 
 
 At break o' day they were one an' all assembled 
 at the city gate, watchin' for the first wayfarer 
 who'd be lucky enough to come along — or un- 
 lucky. An' the sun had only begun to get his 
 shoulder over the hill when, in the far distance 
 along the white road, they saw a speck comin' an' 
 gettin' larger an' larger, till, at length, they made 
 a man out o' it. The excitement grew great as he 
 came nearer, they waitin' an' watchin' an' tryin' 
 to make out his appearance an' features, an' to 
 guess what he was at all, at all. An' when he had, 
 at length, come so close that they could make out 
 a little dark countryman, dressed in homespuns, 
 
 [279]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 an' with his belongin's done up in a red handker- 
 chief hangin' from the stick over his shoulder, 
 they put up such a cheer an' laugh as made the 
 gates rattle, an' brought the little dark country- 
 man to a standstill, wondering what was the joke 
 in the city. 
 
 And when he reached the gates they questioned 
 him who he was, and what, and where he was trav- 
 ellin' to. 
 
 He answered them that he was only a poor man 
 from Donegal, his name was Patrick, and, by rea- 
 son of his very black head and beard and dark 
 features, he went among his neighbours by the 
 name of Dark Patrick; an' he was pushin' to 
 Armagh, he said, to see the King, regarding a 
 little bit of bog that he had always depended upon 
 for his winter's fire, and which a rich and greedy 
 grabber, to whom the whole bog was of small ac- 
 count, wanted to deprive him of. 
 
 "Well," says they, "though you've come to beg 
 for a bit of bog, the King's been waitin' for you 
 to put you in the place of his High Chief Judge, 
 dress you in silk and satin robes, and let you sit 
 for a year an' a day in his High Court, dispensin' 
 justice between man an' man." 
 
 Dark Patrick replied to them that he was weary 
 and worn after his long tramp from Donegal, an' 
 not in spirits for jokin', an' that, moreover, the 
 
 [280]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 citizens of the King's own city should be more 
 honourable and hospitable than to poke fun at 
 the poor and the stranger. "Let me get on," he 
 said, "to see the King, an' start for home again; 
 for I'm a simple countryman, not used to city 
 ways. It's seldom I ever lose sight of my own 
 chimney, an', when I do, I'm ill at ease till I see 
 it again." 
 
 They laughed hearty at this, an' said he was the 
 man of all men they were lookin' for. An' a 
 couple of big fellows of them hoisted Dark Pat- 
 rick on their shoulders an' started off, with a tre- 
 mendous crowd roarin' an' cheerin' behind, an' 
 two men in front, carrying a banner on which was 
 written in large letters, "Welcome, welcome, to 
 our new Chief Judge!" The King ordered him 
 to be lodged in the Head Inns of the town, an' 
 treated to the best, an' restored after his long 
 journey, an' then put upon the Bench to fill the 
 space that all the other judges, now in disgrace, 
 showed themselves unfit to fill. "This poor man 
 from the mountain," the King said, "mayn't be 
 much of a lawyer, nor have half a head, nor aver- 
 age wisdom about him, but I'll guarantee he's no 
 worse than the dunderheads that have disgraced 
 the Bench." An' they were one an' all that hour 
 dismissed from his service. 
 
 Patrick was whisked off then, an' showed into 
 
 [281]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 the Head Inns, an' the King's orders given to 
 the landlord how he was to treat him as if he was 
 a gentleman. An' on the very next mornin' the 
 crowd — who'd now got into good humour again 
 — came early to carry the countryman back to the 
 Courts, an' have their fun with him. There 
 wasn't a bit o' use in Patrick's protestin'. They 
 hoisted him on their shoulders, an' away with a 
 mighty multitude cheerin' behind. 
 
 The King had come down to the Courts himself 
 to enjoy the fun, also. An' he had a front seat 
 on the gallery, an', when Patrick was put upon 
 the Bench, an' the Court was jammed, crammed, 
 an' rammed with every soul that it could hold with- 
 out bursting, the Court Crier called out and asked 
 if there was anyone had any case to bring for- 
 ward, an' put before their new High Chief Judge. 
 An' it struck the King that it would be a grand 
 joke for to put before the poor mountain man the 
 will of Phelim the Fool, an' asking him to decide 
 upon it. 
 
 So, he spoke out, an' asked why shouldn't the 
 will case that the disgraced judges had failed to 
 settle be put before their new High Chief Judge, 
 to find what would be his verdict? The crowd 
 cried with delight at the grand idea, an' shouted 
 out: "The Will Case! The Will Case! Bring 
 Phelim the Fool's Will Case before him !" 
 
 [282]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 Now, the little dark man upon the Bench had 
 been fidgettin' and feelin' bad. But when Phelim 
 the Fool's will was produced, an' the chief lawyer 
 in the Court below began to read it to him, it 
 was noticed, all of a sudden, he got interested, and 
 soon leant over very attentive. And as the lawyer 
 went on with the readin', Patrick shoved off him 
 the ridiculous robes they had put him into, an' 
 sat so sedately, an' listened with such intelligence, 
 that the crowd in the Court, an' even the King 
 himself, stopped their laughin' an' their jokin', 
 an' began to get interested themselves, watchin' 
 the face of the simple countryman who sat on the 
 Bench in homespuns. An' when the will was done 
 readin', there was silence in the Court, everyone 
 holding his breath to hear what Dark Patrick 
 would say. 
 
 An' he asked: "Are the contestants of this will 
 here?" 
 
 "They are," says the people, an' they pushed 
 forward Conal and Donal and Manis. Everyone 
 of them stated his case solemn and brave, an' par- 
 ticularly pointed out how ten times more valuable 
 the property now was by reason of the gold mines 
 discovered under it; and proved, each to his own 
 satisfaction, that the Wooded Lands of Ardloe 
 belonged to him, an' him alone. An' the little man 
 upon the Bench was watchin' everyone of them 
 
 [283]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 very sharply entirely, as they gave their evidence 
 — never sayin' one word or askin' one question, but 
 lettin' them ramble on till they were finished. And 
 the people were wondering mightily at Patrick's 
 self-possession — as was also the King. 
 
 "My three good boys," says Dark Patrick, says 
 he, when the three brothers had finished their 
 statement, "I should like to ask ye one question?" 
 
 "Surely," says they, politely, for in spite of 
 themselves, like every other body in the Court, 
 they had got a mighty respect for the little dark 
 mountainman sittin' on the Bench. "Surely," says 
 they, "a hundred if you like." 
 
 "Thank you," says the little man on the Bench; 
 "one will be sufficient for me. Tell me," says he, 
 "how have you three fine, brave, able-lookin' boys 
 been leadin' your lives, an' supportin' yourselves, 
 an' helpin' your father since you came to years of 
 sense and discretion?" 
 
 The three lads, a good deal staggered, hemmed 
 an' hawed, an' said a good deal without sayin' 
 anythin'; till the little man, when he was tired 
 listening to their mumbling, spoke out, an' asked 
 if any dependable person in the Court would come 
 forward an' answer for him the question that these 
 lads seemed so tedious about replyin' to. The 
 King himself, no less, got on his legs, and told 
 Patrick the truth of the matter, an' the sort of 
 
 [284]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 gamesters, an' hunters, an' spendthrifts these lads 
 had ever been, an' that it was the world's wonder 
 why their poor father, whose heart they had 
 broken, ever willed them anything. But since he 
 did will it so, law was law, an' not people's likin'. 
 So the silly will must be administered. 
 
 "Humph!" says Patrick, says he, that way. "I 
 see. Tell me," says he, "where's the fourth party 
 named in this will? Phelimy Og, if I don't mis- 
 take the name." 
 
 "Oh," says the King, says he, "he is earnin' 
 his day's wage as under-groom in my stables. 
 Don't bother about him, since his father be- 
 queathed him nothing. Decide the case," says he, 
 "if you can, as between these three men that have 
 claims on it; for it's too much time an' temper has 
 been wasted over it already." 
 
 "That's very good," says Dark Patrick, says 
 he, "but I'm a peculiar kind of a man, an' when 
 I take a notion I like to be humoured in it. I'm 
 anxious to hear the character of this Phelimy Og — 
 what sort of a son he was, and how he spent his 
 time." 
 
 "Oh," says the King, says he, "so far as that 
 goes, the poor fellow was all right." An' he 
 went on to tell about the good son Phelimy was, 
 an' to lament that his unnatural father left to him 
 nothin' but a joke. 
 
 [285]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 "Will you please send for Phelimy Og, then, 
 till he, too, hears my verdict," says Dark Patrick, 
 says he. The King was getting impatient, but 
 someone advised him it was better to humour the 
 little man on the Bench, anyway. 
 
 So, Phelimy Og was sent for, an' came into 
 Court breathless, gettin' his arms into his coat as 
 he came an' runnin' his fingers through his hair 
 to look decent — for Phelimy was working like a 
 nigger at his new job. Dark Patrick ordered him 
 to stand up at the bar on a line with his three 
 brothers. An' Phelimy, not knowin' what was to 
 happen, did as he was bid. An' the three brothers, 
 dressed an' done up in the smartest and finest, with 
 their hair shining, cast scornful glances down at 
 Phelimy, who was too much ashamed an' too bash- 
 ful to look up at them, but cast his eyes on the 
 ground. 
 
 There was a terrible silence entirely in the Court 
 now, an' every man was listening to his own heart 
 beatin'. An' the King, himself, was the most eager 
 an' anxious man there, was the King's own 
 self, as he leant so far forward out of the seat 
 on which he sat that a couple of people neighbour- 
 ing him put out their hands to keep him from fall- 
 ing over. 
 
 Dark Patrick sat back in his seat on the Bench, 
 an' lookin' an' speakin' as collected as if he was 
 
 [286]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 sittin' among the neighbours by his own fireside, 
 begun to give his verdict. 
 
 He said: "Your Majesty an' good people all, 
 I have read this will made by him that you have 
 nicknamed Phelim the Fool, an' that I call Phelim 
 the Very Wise. I have read this will, an' heard 
 this case, which is as plain as the meadows o' 
 Meath, and have come to the decision that no man 
 can dispute." 
 
 "What is it?" says the King, terribly eager. 
 
 "That's what I'm comin' to, your Majesty," 
 says Dark Patrick, very coolly but very respect- 
 fully. And the King looked small for a minute. 
 "My decision," says Dark Patrick, "is that the 
 Wooded Lands of Ardloe have been most de- 
 servedly willed into the whole, sole, and complete 
 possession of you, Phelimy Og." 
 
 Everyone in the Court started — from the King 
 down to Phelimy Og himself. 
 
 "It's a lie!" says a hundred angry voices, all at 
 once. "It's a lie ! Throw him down !" 
 
 Says Dark Patrick, without moving an eyelid: 
 "Since I've been appointed High Chief Judge by 
 the King settin' there, I, in my capacity as High 
 Chief Judge, will take insult from no man — 
 crowned or uncrowned," he added. "I'll order 
 the soldiers here to put under arrest the first man 
 
 [ 287 1
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 guilty of contempt of Court, and I defy dis- 
 obedience." 
 
 Even the King, he bowed his head to this. Un- 
 less he scouted and flouted his own laws, he had 
 to acknowledge that the little dark mountainman 
 on the Bench had the upper hand even of himself. 
 
 "On your peril, keep quiet," says the King, says 
 he, to all his subjects in the Court. 
 
 Dark Patrick, no way affected, took up his 
 speech again. 
 
 "To you, Phelimy Og," says he, nodding his 
 head at Phelimy, "is willed, as I said, all the lands 
 of Ardloe. Now, Conal, this document here says 
 that to you belongs all that is green and all that 
 is not green on the Wooded Lands of Ardloe. 
 Very good. And to you, Donal, this document 
 wills all that is crooked, and all that is straight, 
 on the Wooded Lands of Ardloe. Very good 
 again. And to you, Manis, I here see willed all 
 that moves, and all that stands still, on the 
 Wooded Lands of Ardloe. That is to say, every 
 blade of grass, and every stick of timber, and 
 every fin of fish, and every feather of bird, and 
 every foot of animal on the Wooded Lands of 
 Ardloe is the property of you, Conal, Donal and 
 Manis — and for them everyone of you is by law 
 individually responsible. Since your poor father 
 died, the three of you have been trespassers, and 
 
 [288]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 lawbreakers, in leaving your grass and your trees 
 growing, your fish swimming, your birds flying, 
 and animals running on the Wooded Lands of 
 Ardloe, the property of your youngest brother, 
 Phelimy Og, to whom is here willed all your 
 father's possessions, barring the living and grow- 
 ing things thereon." 
 
 There was a great silence entirely in the Court. 
 
 Says Dark Patrick: "As the Woods of Ardloe, 
 with all the sporting they supplied, have been so 
 long the ruination of the three of you, your more 
 than wise father decided that they would be your 
 ruination no longer. But wisely willed that you 
 shall profit by being yourselves the instruments 
 for their destruction. Every hour, henceforth, that 
 you allow one of your sticks to stand, or one of 
 your hares to run, upon Ardloe, you are liable to, 
 and must receive, imprisonment, for being delib- 
 erate and malicious trespassers. He has wisely 
 willed, too, that you shall have healthful work to 
 do in clearing these lands, and opportunity to re- 
 flect upon your useless lives, and that you'll serve 
 the good brother and the faithful son whom you 
 dispossessed — clearing the way for his prospectors 
 and miners to get to work and unearth his wealth. 
 Go," he said; "on your peril, lose no single day 
 till you have begun this useful work, that the 
 
 [289]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 will and the law now commits you to. What's the 
 next case?" says Dark Patrick. 
 
 But the furore that instantly got up in that 
 Courthouse, and the deafening cheer after cheer 
 that was raised, forbade anyone thinking of any 
 other case. The King himself got up in his box 
 and led the cheer, and cheered louder than any 
 man there. And as soon as things calmed down, 
 which wasn't for a long time, and during all of 
 which Dark Patrick sat patiently and quietly and 
 humbly, the King spoke out in the presence of all, 
 an' he said to Dark Patrick: "I here now name 
 you as my High Chief Judge, not for a year and 
 a day, but for all the years ever you live, and 
 may they be many. Moreover, I here and now, 
 in the presence of all witnesses, offer you any three 
 requests you choose. Name them." 
 
 "Your Majesty," says Dark Patrick, getting to 
 his feet, and leaning upon the Bench, and speak- 
 ing very respectfully, "your Majesty," says he, 
 "is very, very kind, indeed, to a poor ignorant man 
 from the hills of Donegal, and I feel accordingly 
 grateful. As you have made me such a handsome 
 offer in asking me to name any three requests I 
 choose, I shall take you at your word. My first 
 request," says he, "is that you will here and now 
 relieve me of an office that I'm not fitted for, and 
 that has been put upon me without my consent. 
 
 [290]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 My second, that you will instil into your people 
 that it is unmanly and unworthy to make fun at 
 the expense of the poor and the stranger coming 
 within your gates. And the third is that for which 
 I travelled to see you all the way from Donegal — 
 namely, that you'll put me in the possession of a 
 little patch of bog from which I every year cut 
 my winter's fire, and which a rich man now covets, 
 and strives to grab from me. If you grant me 
 these three requests — and I know you will, for an 
 houourable King like you never breaks his word — 
 I'll be grateful to you while I live." 
 
 Both the King and the crowd were consternated 
 when they heard the three requests, and the peo- 
 ple called upon the King to break his word. But 
 Dark Patrick only shook his head, no matter what 
 remonstrances were made, and the King saw that 
 he was concerned, an' that there was no way of 
 getting out of it, and that he must grant the three 
 requests. Which he did. And Dark Patrick, re- 
 spectfully refusing all offers of wealth and costly 
 presents that the King and people wanted to 
 shower upon him, said to them that these things, 
 while they were of value to the generous givers, 
 were of no value whatsoever to him, who lived 
 plainly and humbly in a little cabin upon a patch 
 of land where he always got enough to eat and 
 sufficient to clothe him, and was now, too, always 
 
 [291 ]
 
 THE TALES YOU TOLD 
 
 assured of plenty of fire to keep him warm be- 
 tween summer and summer. 
 
 "And I have there," he said, "peace, content, 
 and love of my neighbours. These, with a hill- 
 side of my own, health, and a spade, make me the 
 wealthiest man in the world. Good-bye! God's 
 blessin' be with you all, always!" 
 
 And, tying his bundle upon his staff, the little 
 dark countryman, in his homespuns, passed out of 
 their gates, and headed him along the white road 
 that pointed for the mountains of Donegal. 
 
 [292]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 YOU always felt there could be no scene more 
 cheering, inspiring, and impressive than that 
 of Sunday morning among the mountains, when 
 the neighbours — bouchal, cailin, man, woman, and 
 child — in their cleanest, in their brightest and best, 
 wound down the green hillsides and over the brown 
 moors, and streamed along the white country 
 roads to Mass. It was surely a refreshing sight, 
 and a joyous one. The sun was in these people's 
 hearts, and in their souls, as well as on their faces. 
 The girls wore their brightest ribbons, the women 
 their bluest cloaks, the boys and men their fresh- 
 est frieze, or richest broadcloth. Neighbour 
 stepped out with neighbour, and friend with 
 friend, couples gravitating to groups, and groups 
 dissolving again in constituent couples as you went, 
 the hearts of all going lightly as your feet. 
 Though the distance, for many of you, was long 
 miles, and the road — if you had a road at all — 
 rough, you never knew it. Your journey was all 
 too short for the many, many absorbing topics that 
 must be discussed. 
 
 When you reached the chapel-yard, the first 
 thought of every one of you was to pray a Pater- 
 
 [293]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 and-Ave, kneeling by the graveside of a dear one 
 departed. After which, since it was not yet Mass- 
 time, you mingled with the many already there 
 assembled, met friends from the farthest end of 
 the parish, whom you had not seen for seven days 
 or fourteen, swapped the news of your respective 
 districts, learnt the state of the markets, the do- 
 ings of Parliament, the latest pronouncements of 
 the politicians, discussed wars and rumours of 
 wars, criticised Prime Ministers and Poor Law 
 Guardians, and foretold the fate of Kings and 
 cattle-dealers. 
 
 Father Dan (the Heavens be his bed, this 
 day!) had thoughtful consideration for his flock. 
 Knowing that, owing to the long parish distances, 
 some of you must be late, he granted a generous 
 margin beyond the announced time for beginning 
 Mass — oftentimes, after every one else had ar- 
 rived, sending his boy, Barney, up to the head 
 of the risin' ground "to see if he could see any 
 sign of Eamonn Og" (usually the last man in at- 
 tendance), and, if so, to make him lift his legs 
 and not keep Mass waiting. 
 
 Indeed, on one Sunday morning, as the group 
 in which you yourself travelled en route for Mass, 
 and already much belated, passed the gable of the 
 confirmed old bachelor, Eamonn Og's cottage, you 
 discovered he had only reached the laundry stage 
 
 [294]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 of his preparations. On his door-step he was de- 
 voting to the washing of his collar as much vim 
 and energy as were needed for laundering a pair of 
 trousers. 
 
 "Eamonn darlin'," one of you, astonished, re- 
 marked, "you can't overtake Mass the day!" 
 
 "Make your mind aisy," said Eamonn; "I've 
 caught it many's a day, an' been further behind 
 than this. With the help o' Heaven I'll not miss 
 it this day, either." 
 
 And he didn't. For, when you got within a 
 mile of the chapel, Eamonn triumphantly swept 
 past your hurrying group — with the collar (which 
 would be donned ere he reached the chapel) 
 pinned to dry upon the shoulder that neighboured 
 the sun! "If there's anywan goin' to be late the 
 day," he reflected aloud in his gravest tones, 
 " 'tisn't me." 
 
 During the wait before Mass, and while the 
 male portion of you were gathered in the chapel- 
 yard and graveyard settling the affairs of nations, 
 the women, having gone inside, were doing the 
 Stations of the Cross; or offering prayers for the 
 dead, and prayers for the living, prayers for the 
 present, prayers for the absent, and an occasional 
 toothful of prayer for themselves — the great 
 majority of them praying silently, devoutly, 
 earnestly, in a manner touching and impressive. 
 
 [295]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 Always, however, Shiela the Shuiler in one corner 
 of the chapel vied with the Bacach Beag in an 
 opposite corner, in the interest of their benefactors 
 supplicating the saints as though they were stone- 
 deaf; whilst, collected around the altar-rails, a 
 gathering of bacachs, and professional veteens, 
 led to the assault by the Bacach Fada, unmistaka- 
 bly testified their faith in the doctrine that the 
 Kingdom of Heaven was to be taken by 
 violence. 
 
 The most important and imposing personage of 
 all the gathering at Mass — not excepting even 
 the priest himself — was Barney, the Priest's Boy; 
 a boy long since turned three-score, who wore an 
 air of gravest responsibility that inspired awe into 
 the souls of all, and of the old women around the 
 altar-rails especially. The priest had on his shoul- 
 ders only the cares of the parish, but on the 
 shoulders of the Priest's Boy were piled both 
 priest and parish. It was little wonder, then, that 
 his back was bent. 
 
 When you listened, fascinated, to Barney clerk- 
 ing Mass, you never ceased to marvel at the 
 felicity and facility with which he gave back to the 
 priest as good as he got, making the learned Latin 
 spin about him, and the dry bones of that dead 
 language rattle as though it would leap to life 
 again. 
 
 [296]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 You felt that there could be no other spot in 
 the whole wide world where people showed so 
 much true piety and earnest devotion as did this 
 congregation, kneeling upon this bare, hard floor, 
 their minds concentrated upon the solemn office 
 proceeding, their souls uplifted to God, and their 
 lips pleading in prayer. The dilatoriness of 
 Father Cormac — when Barney Brian (in some 
 soreness of spirit) accurately enough described as 
 "a mortal good Summer priest" — gave them no 
 concern, no thought. They only reflected that, 
 while the holy prayers proceeded, it was their 
 privilege, as well as their duty, to keep their hearts 
 with God throughout — which they did in a man- 
 ner that was surely pleasing to Him beyond 
 pleasure given in greater churches, with more 
 gorgeous surroundings, which you afterwards at- 
 tended, with more richly dressed people, who, 
 though they were possibly as sincere, certainly 
 came not nearer to God than did these pure- 
 hearted, faithful-souled worshippers of the moun- 
 tain-moors. 
 
 Of course, you knew that, as a set-off to the 
 edifying spectacle within, there was, just outside 
 the chapel-door, upon one knee, and with cap in 
 hand, awaiting the last word of blessing from the 
 old priest's lips, a band of vagabonds from the 
 Eskeragh, young in years, but old in crime, the 
 
 [297]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 parish-outcasts, who, at the Easter Stations, had 
 shamefully to drag themselves to the dreaded con- 
 fessional, and plead guilty to pipe-smoking, 
 tobacco-chewing, throwing rocks down Bid Mon- 
 aghan's chimney to hear her curse, and, blackest 
 of all, playing -cards for horny buttons at the 
 back of a ditch on Sundays ! And in the very 
 midst of these Eskeragh reprobates, grievous to 
 relate, was always to be found Eamonn Og, wor- 
 ried with thought of his deserted little house and 
 farm, and cattle that cried for drink and fodder 
 (he could hear them through his most heartfelt 
 prayer), eager to be the first man away as he 
 was the last to arrive. These double-eyed 
 Eskeragh scoundrels were the Priest's Boy's heart- 
 break. Only two things could compel them inside 
 the chapel proper — Father Dan's stick or the 
 breaking of the weather. But the vagabonds in- 
 variably adjourned again under Heaven's canopy 
 immediately the weather cleared or Father Dan 
 disappeared. And perhaps, indeed, it were profit- 
 able to the good priest, and you the earnest con- 
 gregation, if these ruffians should remain in outer 
 darkness (so to speak). For, when they were 
 coerced recipients of grace within the chapel, they 
 had an awkward habit of mistaking each new turn 
 of Father Dan's sermon for the final exhortation, 
 which always brought the sighing, sobbing congre- 
 
 [298]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 gation to its knees, supplicating guidance on the 
 righteous path eternally. 
 
 The Eskeragh ruffians, when they considered 
 that Father Dan had spoken long enough for 
 them, would at the first convenient turn in his 
 discourse, with mighty coughing and shuffling of 
 feet and some sighing and groaning, suggestive 
 of the multitude going on its knees, prostrate 
 themselves as hungering to make their pious re- 
 solve. And thus, more than once, they stamped 
 poor Father Dan into his powerful peroration, ere 
 the body of his much-needed, long-studied dis- 
 course had been well broached. 
 
 Only, one Sunday they made the grave mistake 
 of trying their vile ruse in too close proximity to 
 the stout arm of Nabla MacCailin — to whom 
 every rascal's heart of these was like a draper's 
 window. Oiney Ciotach, the ringleader of the 
 gang, as he chafed an inflamed ear outside the 
 chapel, could only recall that he had struck the 
 side of his head against a thunder-clap, and that 
 the chapel, the congregation and Father Dan 
 began a pir'uetting manoeuvre, the apparent levity 
 of which he could not for some time reconcile with 
 the spirit of the time and the place. 
 
 But 'tis well you remember the Sunday that 
 Father Dan tried the plan of putting two guards 
 upon the door, after he had driven in the grace- 
 
 [299]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 less ones (and big Eamonn, of course) — yourself 
 and Phelim McGrath being the trusty ones se- 
 lected — the angels with flaming swords guarding 
 the gate for purpose of holding the happy ones 
 in. Now the fretting Eamonn — who could never 
 afford the luxury of dallying in chapel to get the 
 benefit of the trimmings — unconcernedly started 
 for the door as the Last Gospel was ending. You 
 two brave guardians at the exit undauntedly 
 planted yourselves in the doorway. Your duty was 
 unpleasant, but, like the true heroes that you 
 were, you determined to perform it. 
 
 "Eamonn," you began apologetically, as the 
 big man bore down on you, "Father Dan, on our 
 
 paril, warned us " But Eamonn, impolitely 
 
 interrupting your announcement, just gripped each 
 of you, guardian-angels, by the back of the neck; 
 one in each hand, he lifted you through the door- 
 way, and, laying you down undamaged on either 
 side, gravely set out homeward. He had wasted 
 no word. 
 
 So keenly did Phelim and yourself feel the ig- 
 nominy of the affair that you slunk away from 
 your posts; and the imprisoned Eskeragh repro- 
 bates, who had thought themselves condemned to 
 sermon and small prayers, thanked Heaven with 
 their hearts — some of them with their lips, too — 
 as they made a joyous burst to freedom, 
 
 [300]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 When all the devotional exercises had con- 
 cluded, and Father Dan had counselled, blessed 
 and dismissed the congregation, many women re- 
 mained. Some wanted to say the Stations of the 
 Cross, led again by the Bacach Faciei, who, though 
 himself beyond need of extra prayer, in spiritual 
 generosity performed every Sunday this meritori- 
 ous task for the benefit of the sinful. Some 
 waited to pray privately — for their poor girl in 
 America, or their unfortunate boy at home, beat- 
 ing their breasts in retired corners of the chapel. 
 Some who, like Eamonn Og, heard their cattle 
 calling, started hastily for home. A knot of 
 shawled and white-capped women, demanding 
 audience of the Father, charged the Sacristy door, 
 and were valiantly held at bay by the Priest's 
 Boy, while the starving priest should swallow an 
 egg and a cup of tea, both of which Barney had 
 boiled for him within. Barney fought off the as- 
 sailants with tongue and fist — weapons moral 
 (sometimes) and physical. One of these women 
 wanted an Office for wee Mary in Philadelphy; 
 one, advice what to do with her sick cow; another, 
 to inform his Reverence that the Agent had 
 served an "injection process" because young 
 Danny wouldn't pull his forelock to him; one 
 woman wanted him to cure her tooth-ache; one 
 needed the loan of a pound till she'd sell her pig; 
 
 [301 ]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 another, that Father Dan would keep the Bal- 
 rithery boys from trespassing on her Nor'aist 
 Park; and one, more clamorous than all the rest, 
 insisted that he'd put her son Johnnie from talk- 
 ing to a daughter of the Donnellans. 
 
 You with the men gathered in the yard and 
 continued discussions that the announcement of 
 Mass had interrupted. You hearkened, en- 
 thralled, to Jimminy the Tailor, ascetic enthusiast, 
 as he descanted upon the greatness of the great 
 old Irish leader whom he adored — Butt, who 
 made both houses of the Foreigner's Parliament 
 tremble. Jimminy held in his hand a copy of The 
 Nation, which he waved as he spoke. 
 
 And you will recall how Mattha MacAnrin, the 
 rank materialist of the parish, drawing upon the 
 group, listened in silence for some time, till he 
 gathered that Jimminy MacCailin was merely in- 
 dulging in a political rhapsody, and then spoke 
 at inopportune time just as Jimminy, enwrapt 
 with the spell of his own eloquence, and reaching 
 a climax that held you all breathless, was thunder- 
 ing: "Says the undaunted Butt, shakin' his fist 
 in the face of the Prime Minister of all England, 
 says he " 
 
 "Jimminy MacCailin, will ye stop your 
 blatherskite, an' tell us out o' that paper in your 
 fist how bullocks went at Ballinasloe?" 
 
 [302]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 Jimmy, paralyzed to silence, fixed Mattha with 
 a look of holy indignation, blended with wither- 
 ing contempt. All of you looked swords and guns 
 at the sordid man — who, however (just like the 
 hardened wretch he was), didn't seem one bit 
 abashed. 
 
 "Sir," Jimminy thundered, when he found his 
 speech, "this paper concerns itself — not with the 
 truckin' and hucksterin' of bullocks, but with some- 
 thin' your miserable poor soul knows nothin', 
 and cares less, about. I refer to the risin' of 
 Freedom's gloryus sun over a Freeman's Parlia- 
 ment in Dublin's College Green!" 
 
 Mattha, instead of withering up under Jim- 
 miny's scorching words, just gazed with some 
 scorn at Jimminy's spare form and ascetic counte- 
 nance, as he answered: "Hach ! you'd have big- 
 ger fat on yer bones, then, if ye gave more thought 
 to bullocks and less to Butt." And having fired 
 his embarrassing shot, the earthy creature con- 
 temptuously turned on his heels and went home 
 to herd his brother-bullocks. 
 
 "That worm," said Jimminy, with quivering 
 finger, dramatically indicating the retiring Mattha, 
 and speaking with such luxurious wealth of con- 
 tempt as made you smack your lips — "that grovel- 
 ling worm is the granite millstone tied round Ire- 
 land's neck, and till, like Jonah, we cast him an' 
 
 [303]
 
 WHEN GOD SENT SUNDAY 
 
 his like to hungerin' whales, we never need expect 
 to sail in safety to the gloryus harbour of 
 Freedom." 
 
 And with heavy hearts, you all clerked "Amen!" 
 
 But Jimminy's grief, and yours, for the un- 
 worthy ones with whom poor Ireland was still 
 burthened and bowed — and all the griefs of all 
 of you — were certain to melt quickly away before 
 the sunniness and joyousness of the easeful, care- 
 free, happy, holy afternoon and evening of your 
 Sunday at Knocknagar. 
 
 But ah ! sure always, night and noon, you were 
 invoking God to send and hold His holy Sabbath 
 peace and rest, and joy and beauty, in the brave 
 hearts of the neighbours, and on the bright hills 
 and shadowy glens of your, and His, beloved and 
 lovely Knockagar. 
 
 And He will. 
 
 END 
 
 L 304 J
 
 "Histories make men wise; poets witty'* — Bacon 
 
 Twenty-five Years' 
 Reminiscences 
 
 By Katharine Tynan 
 
 Author of "Her Ladyship," "Alary Gray," "Men and Maids," 
 
 etc. 
 
 This "Notable Book" is Strikingly Opportune 
 
 Because of Home Rule Success 
 
 No book of recent years has been given so much space and 
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 Fifty half-tone pictures. Photogravure frontispiece from the 
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 She writes, as always, in an interesting strain, and tells of 
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 all of Irish birth. . . . The polished carelessness of her 
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 to every paragraph, add to her book an irresistible ap- 
 peal. — The Irish American. 
 
 There is in it something for those who are of to-day and 
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 of the "Parnell times," written, without restraint, as inti- 
 mately as a diary, wherein great and small, tragic and trivial, 
 mingle and jostle as in a crowd. — The Nation. 
 
 Political events, the picturing of critical episodes in mod- 
 ern Irish history, are chronicled in Miss Tynan's fascinating 
 volume of reminiscences. — The Boston Transcript. 
 
 8vo, Cloth, $3.50 net Postpaid $3.65
 
 The Eighth Year 
 
 By PHILIP GIBBS 
 
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 Mr. Gibbs' book will certainly be read with great inter- 
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 12mo, Cloth, $1.25 net $1.35 postpaid
 
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 By HUGH FRANCIS BLUNT 
 
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 12mo, Cloth, 85c. net Postpaid 95c. 
 
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 "Life is too short for reading inferior book'" — fBrycc. 
 
 MY UNKNOWN CHUM 
 
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 Foreword by HENRY GARRITY 
 
 "Unquestionably the best book m the English Language" 
 
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 THE DEVIN-ADAIR CO., Publishers 
 437 Fifth Avenue, New York
 
 The Light of Men 
 
 By REYNES MONLAUR 
 
 Author of "The Jewess," "The Seal," etc., etc. 
 Translated by Thomas J. Kennedy 
 
 An evangelical romance of absorbing interest, describing 
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 of dialect that bring home to one with almost appalling force 
 the historical truth of the picture. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, $1.25 net Postpaid $1.40 
 
 Keystones of Thought 
 
 By AUSTIN O'MALLEY, M.D., Ph.D., LL.D. 
 
 A collection of aphorisms, keen, witty and humorous. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, $1.00 net Postpaid $1.10 
 
 Your Pay Envelope 
 
 By JOHN R. MEADER 
 
 Editor of The Common Cause 
 
 A book that tells the reasons why Socialism cannot be 
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 If you want to expose the soap-box orators' arguments; 
 
 If you want to see how our industrial evils may be rem- 
 edied without Socialism — 
 
 This is just the book you want. 
 
 12mo, Cloth, $1.00 net Postpaid $1.10
 
 MAY 2 1988 
 
 i 
 
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